Villette

The protagonist of Villette, Lucy Snowe, is like that friend you have whom you know needs Prozac, but you can’t think of a polite way to tell her. Lucy is the embodiment of an introvert and would probably be diagnosed with social anxiety disorder today. She is depressed and depressive; often acerbically witty in thought, but rarely able to transform this wit into action. When it comes to social interactions she freezes like a bucket of water in a January snowstorm.

She sounds dreary, doesn’t she? The truth is, all of the Bronte’s were dreary women and you either love them for it or run as fast as you can to the Austen section and pick out a book that doesn’t make you want to hurl yourself onto the desolate moor and bemoan the wicked unfairness of life and the inconsistency of men.

So, why should you read this novel? Because even though Lucy may need anti-depressants, the portrait Bronte writes of her is one of intense believability. Her feelings are real. When she talks about being forgotten or being alone or what it feels like to love someone and know that they would never even think twice about you in the same way – you get it. You understand her when she describes what it feels like to know that you aren’t impressive, that you don’t fit in, and that you will never be like the popular girls. Despite herself, Lucy Snowe is likable - she just doesn’t know it.

And the prose … wow! Bronte’s genius drips from her pen in a series of similes and metaphors that will transform the way you see the world. One of my favorite passages was this description of the moon:

“Where, indeed, does the moon not look well? What is the scene, confined or expansive, which her orb does not hallow? Rosy or fiery, she mounted now above a not distant bank; even while we watched her flushed ascent, she cleared to gold, and in a very brief space, floated up stainless into a now calm sky” (208).

If that doesn’t give you goose bumps, you probably don’t want to attempt the 555 pages of this novel.

The Kitchen House

Vivid and fast paced, The Kitchen House transports readers to antebellum Virginia, where the good and evil of humanity plays out in epic style on a sprawling tobacco plantation.

The story mainly focuses on the Irish orphan, Lavinia, who for much of the book exists in a no-man’s land of race and class. An indentured servant on the plantation, she lives, works, and loves the slaves whom she resides with, yet her skin color means that she can’t fully assimilate into their world. As we follow Lavinia’s story, we witness the intricacies of friendship, familial bonds, and, of course, racial prejudice.

Overall, I really liked this book and would recommend it; however, I don’t think it touched on any issues involving slavery, race, or the politics of plantation life that haven’t already been gone over in other books and movies. For the most part, the author wrote her characters into comfortable stereotypes: the steadfast black matriarch who calls almost everyone her “child,” the nutty plantation owner’s wife who goes crazy from grief and lack of society, the naïve woman turned victim wife who stupidly marries a monster and then can’t figure out how her life went so wrong, and, of course, the evil slave master and drunken, sadistic slave owner who impregnates nearly every woman who happens to be within a ten-foot radius of his unquenchable predatory ways.

Wait … now I sound like I didn’t like the book. I did. It’s just that the last third of the book was like a tragedy on steroids. While the conclusion was mostly satisfactory, I would have liked to see a little less melodrama and a lot more character development.

The Summer Before the War

This story had so much potential –an unexpectedly pretty Latin teacher is cast out upon the world after her father’s death and meets a young, dashing, too serious doctor. Their story begins in the lazy Edwardian “summer before the war” and despite differences in rank and privilege, they are intellectually suited for each other. I was really into it for the first 150 pages or so. Then, like a literary titanic, the next 350 pages slowly sunk under the weight of a swarm of Belgian refugees, a pouty poet, an aging nudist, and page upon page of please-poke-my-eyes-out dialogue.

I feel as though Helen Simonson experienced an identity crisis in this novel. Her first novel, Major Pettigrew’s Last Stand, was cute, verging on the ridiculous, and while I don’t fault her for wanting to write something more serious, the problem in this novel was that she couldn’t decide whose story she wanted to write. In the end, she tried to give too many characters space, which resulted in everyone falling flat. I expected something light, but ended up reading a heavy-handed, unoriginal elegy about the travails of war. Simonson needs to decide whether she wants to write Chick-Lit, thinly disguised as quality literature, or whether she wants to be the next Ernest Hemingway.

The Gathering of Zion: The Story of the Mormon Trail

It is rare for a writer to obtain greatness in two genres, but as an author of history and as a novelist, Stegner demonstrates the depth of his talent in The Gathering of Zion: The Story of the Mormon Trail (1964). In recounting the mass exodus of the Mormons from Nauvoo, Illinois to the Salt Lake valley, Stegner writes with the liveliness of a novelist, but with the integrity of a historian.

Much of what Stegner wrote made me laugh (a rare occurrence when I read a history book, I assure you). For instance, in writing about one optimistic pioneer woman, Ursulia, he says that she “had a knack for making the best of things. If it had hailed stones as big as baseballs she would have come out from shelter wondering if it wasn’t a good time to make up a nice freezer of ice cream” (72). And in describing the ordeal of 20 men who stayed behind during a bleak winter to guard cached freight at Devil’s Gate, where they nearly perished from an inadequate food supply, he states, “One kind of script, at this point, calls for them to draw straws to see which should first be killed and eaten, but the Mormons, whatever their other capabilities, never showed any talent for cannibalism” (263).

As a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, I imagine that Stegner’s tone and views could prove to be offensive to some members, especially when he talks about Joseph Smith or Brigham Young, both of whom get slightly roasted on the spit of his acerbic wit. Yet, I think Stegner’s position as a non-Mormon enabled him to write with a perspective that at its worst distorts, but at its best allows Stegner to inject a humor and honesty into his writing that those carried away by the sincerity of their faith may not be able to do. Oftentimes, members of the church get caught up in a certain rhetoric concerning the pioneers, which reduces them to convenient object lessons, rather than complex people.

Whatever his prejudices may be against the leaders of the church, Stegner does not have a hidden agenda. He states that, “I write as a non-Mormon but not a Mormon-hater. Except as it affected the actions of the people I write of, I do not deal with the Mormon faith: I do not believe it, but I do not quarrel with it either” (314).

I came away from this book with a better appreciation not just for the Mormons who traveled the hard trail west, but also for pioneers in general. There was something incalculably different about the Mormons who traveled this trail though, about these people who were willing to leave everything behind, who fled persecution, and who were asked to sacrifice so much, yet who remained faithful to their beliefs.

In a recent General Conference talk, Refuge from the Storm, Elder Patrick Kearon drew a moving parallel between the worldwide refugee crisis and the persecution of the early Church members. He said, “As members of the Church, as a people, we don’t have to look back far in our history to reflect on times when we were refugees, violently driven from homes and farms over and over again. Last weekend in speaking of refugees, Sister Linda Burton asked the women of the Church to consider, “What if their story were my story?” Their story is our story, not that many years ago.”

Kearon’s talk, as well as the recent call from the LDS church for its members to aid in the refugee crises added another dimension to my reading of this book. To reflect on the story of the Mormon trail is to reflect not just on what is past, but what is taking place in our world right now.

Blackmoore

Sometimes, I feel like delving into a great work of Literature. I want to take my time as I turn the page of a George Eliot novel, for example, so I can really understand the intricate workings of her characters’ minds, appreciate her clever aphorisms, and contemplate the social and historical backdrop of the story.

And then, there are times I feel so checked out from reading that I would rather binge watch a whole season of Fuller House than crack open a book (I’m still reeling from that decision). There are times when I can't get a moment to myself, when the thought of trying to read Proust or Dickens while listening to Frozen for the five billionth time is beyond my mortal strength. When one of these black moods of intellectual indolence and despair befalls me, I look for a book that will keep me interested enough to look forward to reading it, but one that isn’t going to require me to keep track of too many characters, figure out complicated motives, or plow through pages of antiquated language. Julianne Donaldson’s, Blackmoore, is just that sort of book.

Blackmoore would probably be categorized as a “beach read” – it’s fun, light, and you can finish it in a weekend of dedicated reading. Donaldson freely borrows relationship motifs from Jane Austen novels (the embarrassing mother, the checked out father, the out-of-control hussy of a sister, and the imperiously disapproving potential family-to-be). She also works in a good portion of teen angst and “proper” romantic fantasies, which usually involve a lot of blushing, heart pounding, and standing too close to one another. What do most teenage girls want? Freedom from their tyrannical parents so they can make their own decisions and to be noticed, admired, nay, worshiped, by the man of their dreams. Oh, and to triumph over the more beautiful, but obviously less substantial, romantic adversary. Donaldson delivers.

Now, let’s talk about what this book is not. This is not literature with a capital “L.” There is every possibility you will grow tired of the caged bird symbolism. It is unlikely that any of the characters will surprise you. Most likely you will predict the ending. Still, if you’re not feeling stodgy and pedantic, there is every possibility that you will enjoy a trip across the moors to a grand manor, complete with secret passageways, where your most ardent and long-treasured teenage romantic fantasies will finally be fulfilled in the most proper way.

Gift from the Sea

Gift from the Sea is not the sort of book I would have picked up on my own. My book club is reading it this year though and it is a brief 138 pages, so I initially decided to “just get through it” and be done with it. Imagine my surprise when I began reading and found that much of what Anne Lindbergh wrote over 60 years ago still rings true.

I must admit that I hadn’t realized Anne was Charles Lindbergh’s wife until I looked her up after reading this book. I’m glad I didn’t know as I was reading though because instead of placing Anne on a pedestal of preconceived notions – famous aviator’s wife, famous aviator herself, daughter of a foreign diplomat, rich, privileged, etc – I was able to read her words as though she were just an average 1950’s housewife who happened to have a writing career.

Much of what Lindbergh wrote in the beginning of Gift from the Sea resonated with me as both a woman and a writer. Like Virginia Woolf, Morrow advocates that women need to find a way to detach themselves from daily distractions so that they can have a space of their own to create and be. “Women’s normal occupations run counter to creative life, or contemplative life, or saintly life” (29). How true this is! Morrow touches on the fact that women are by nature givers and nurturers and that they don’t resent the giving, so much as the feeling that they often give to no purpose. She writes, “no longer fed by a feeling of indispensability or purposefulness, we are hungry, and not knowing what we are hungry for, we fill up the void with endless distractions, always at hand – unnecessary errands, compulsive duties, social niceties. And for the most part, to little purpose.”
I can’t tell you how often I’ve made a mile long “To Do” list and driven myself nearly mad to get it done, only to find as I put the last checkmark in the last checkbox that many of the items weren’t really important at all – they were merely filler for my day, items to conquer in my quest for purposefulness.

What is Lindbergh’s answer to this search for purpose? It is two-fold: eliminate the unnecessary and seek solitude. When we do that, she believes we will find our “center” and begin filling it up with activities and relationships that sustain and renew us.

In what she calls, “the art of shedding” she states that we need to learn “how little, not how much can I get along with. To say – is it necessary? – when I am tempted to add one more accumulation to my life, when I am pushed toward one more centrifugal activity” (35). I was struck at how closely her thoughts resonate with the modern minimalist movement, which isn’t just about cleaning out your closet, but about eliminating internal clutter as well.

If we succeed in eliminating physical, internal, and emotional clutter we will be able to seek solitude in order to feed the “inner-life.”

Over sixty years ago Lindbergh wrote that the world does not understand people’s need for solitude and that is probably truer today. You run the risk of being labeled antisocial if you don’t have a Facebook page or Instagram account. Tell your children to turn off the TV because the noise is bothering you and they’ll probably think you’re in a bad mood. Imagine telling a friend that you can’t attend their party because it conflicts with your alone time! Most likely they would think you were not only rude, but in need of anti-depressants. In our society, one’s desire to be alone has been relegated to the status of a mental health issue. If only they understood what Lindbergh, and most introverts, understand: that “there is a quality to being alone that is incredibly precious. Life rushes back into the void, richer, more vivid, fuller than before. It is as if in parting one did actually lose an arm. And then, like the star-fish, one grows it anew; one is whole again, complete and round- more whole, even than before, when the other people had pieces of one” (42).

I can see why women were drawn to this book 60 years ago when the cult of domesticity raged and the idea that women deserved lives of their own was probably a bit foreign. Now, we live in an age when it’s not uncommon to go to a restaurant with music so loud you can hardly speak to the person across the table, which perhaps makes little difference when most everyone is on their iPhone texting, Facebooking, or playing a game. In this age of distraction, social isolation, and personal fragmentation, Lindbergh’s profoundly simple reflections from the sea still have the capacity to make us stop, think, and reevaluate our lives.

The House at Riverton

It almost seems unfair to say that I was disappointed in this book because it was Morton’s first novel and I still thought it was a fairly good story, but I did have a hard time getting through it the first time and it was even more difficult the second time (I reread it for book club).

The descriptions in this story were rich and textured, like a delicious piece of chocolate cake. The characters and plot, on the other hand, were more like vanilla pudding: sweet and edible, but unsubstantial.

The main character and narrator, Grace Bradley, whose job as a servant is unarguably dull, lacked the rich inner life to counter her profession. The other characters were similarly flat or became so within the course of the story. The descriptions of Grace in her old age reached a melodramatic pitch on her deathbed, “Finally, after ninety-nine years my end has come for me. The final thread that tethered me has released and the north wind blows me away. I am fading at last to nothing.” I could almost hear fake gasping noises and violin music swelling in the background as I read this.

I think the character that disappointed me the most was that of Hannah, whose rebellious and adventurous nature seemed so provocative at the beginning. I expected great things from her, but she became more and more spineless as the story went on.

I’m used to Morton’s explosive and unexpected endings, but this ending was more like a 4th of July firework that fizzles in the night sky. I got a few sparks and a poof of smoke when I expected a showy and colorful display.

The more interesting aspects of the novel were left unexplored. For instance, what exactly is “The Game” that is played between the Hartford siblings? What about the whole affair between Grace’s mother and her employer? Why is Grace’s daughter so bitter?

My other issue with this novel cannot really be blamed on Morton. Because of the time period and upstairs/downstairs drama, I kept picturing the Downton Abbey characters. This book was published in 2006 and Downton Abbey didn’t come out until 2010, so I know Morton wasn’t trying to copy the show, but because her characters were lacking in intensity, it was hard to give them a space and identity of their own.

Despite my complaints, I think this novel will be interesting to Morton fans, if only to see how well she has honed her craft within the past ten years.