Tag Archives: 1940s

The Resolution Project Season Two: Lolita (1955)

“My choice, however, was prompted by considerations essence was, as I realized too late, a piteous compromise. All of which goes to show how dreadfully stupid poor Humbert always was in matters of sex.” (p. 25)

The Resolution Project Season Two: For my New Year’s resolution last year (2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I got almost halfway through. I’ve decided to bull-headedly push on through and try and finish the challenge, continuing with the same caveat as before: I’ve exempted myself from reading books I’ve already read, leaving eighty-six or so left to go. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned if you’re the type to be bothered by that. It’s not really worth getting that angry about though.

Lolita cover 2005 US Random House (Vintage), New York

The Elevator Pitch: “Humbert Humbert” is a recent emigré to New England following a failed marriage in Europe. Humbert’s obsession is with the species he calls “nymphets”, girls aged between nine and fourteen who have yet to be ravaged at all by age. Dolores Haze, the eventual target of his fatal attraction, is a girl obsessed with movie magazines, comic books and ice cream bars. What follows next is probably one of the loveliest depictions of something we the readers know deep down is absolutely abhorrent.

What I knew about this book, its subject and its author going in: Lolita‘s probably one of the most famous books on the entire Time 100 list. It’s been made into two movies, the good one of which was done by auteur director supreme Stanley Kubrick. I’m going to watch it some time this week, hopefully.

As for the author, Vladimir Nabokov, I waxed philosophical about how much I liked his other entry on the list, Pale Fire, here. Suffice it to say, I was pretty excited for this one, given its impressive pedigree.

Thoughts: This has been a bit of a tough one for me to review, as I really did enjoy it, but I don’t have a lot to say about it. It’s like The Great Gatsby or The Grapes of Wrath, just a classic awesome novel that has been accordingly analysed to death over the years. It’s really good, and if the subject matter doesn’t creep you out too much to touch it, you should definitely read it.

One of the things I guess I should have guessed about Lolita from having read Pale Fire first was that it was at times going to be pretty hilarious. Once you are able to distance yourself somewhat from the, yes, disgusting goings-on between Humbert and his captive nymphet over the course of their “romance”, you have to think about the what the reality of a relationship between a middle-aged man and a precocious young girl would be like. Obviously they have nothing in common: Humbert would have us believe that in addition to his matinee idol looks, he’s also incredibly intelligent, where Lolita’s not much more than a typical movie magazine-reading little girl.

He essentially (and legally) becomes Lolita’s parent over the course of the story, and while that gives him a bit of a delightful frisson for breaking the incest tattoo, it also forces him to come to terms with the reality of his situation. Some of my favorite bits of the story are when even Humbert takes a break from lusting after Lolita to call her a brat or something, like you would a normal child. While Nabokov occasionally alludes to Lolita’s childish love of movie magazines, current music, etc., it’s an interesting experiment to think about what the story would look like nowadays. There would definitely be a lot of Justin Bieber listened to on the road, I’ll tell you that much.

Nabokov, in his afterword, speaks of wanting to write a quintessentially American novel, one that takes the landscape of the country as seriously and allusively as European writers do their own climes. So in addition to being amazingly transgressive, even to a modern-day reader as myself, the book is also a great road novel, in addition to a sort of female bildungsroman. I was also sort of shocked to find that the book is also an excellent critique of the schooling of young women; when Humbert takes Lolita to a private school, he’s appalled by the curriculum, which teaches “useful” skills like:

“[t]he four D’s: Dramatics, Dance, Debating and Dating. We are confronted by certain facts. Your delightful Dolly will presently enter an age group where dates, dating, date dress, date book, date etiquette, mean as much to her as, say, business, business connections, business success, mean to you, or as much as [smiling] the happiness of my girls means to me. Dorothy Humbird is already involved in a whole system of social life which consists, whether we like it or not, of hot-dog stands, corner drugstores, malts and cokes, movies, square-dancing, blanket parties on beaches, and even hair-fixing parties!” (p. 177)

It is at once a little quaint and nice to see hot-dog stands and square dancing brought up as a system of culture for teens as it is condescending to see that a young girl’s education should not extend beyond these things. And really, is this school much different from the applied math courses and life-skills management classes kids who do not plan on going to college take in school these days? At least when she was stuck with Humbert Lolita became somewhat worldly, not that it makes up for essentially being a hostage in sex slavery though.

It’s also interesting to think of the book as a collision between Worlds Old and New. Humbert’s tastes extend towards chess, French literature and gin, while Lolita loves movies, soda pop and jukeboxes. I’ve heard the book described as both “Europe lusting after American youth and joie de vivre” and “America subverting and changing European tastes in pursuit of cultural hegemony”. I’d probably have to agree with the former statement more, but you could look at the way Humbert himself changes during the course of the novel as a gradual lifting of the European out of him to be replaced with a hollow American shell. You know, if you felt like it.

I found the cover picture up there at an awesome website called “Covering Lolita“, which is a repository of all the known covers the book has had over the years, in as many countries as they can find. While looking through the covers and enjoying the typography on display, I was struck as to how difficult it must have been, and continue to be, to market such a strange and beautiful book as Lolita.

Lolita cover 1958 US Putnam, New York

I like this one the most; the one I grabbed for this post up top is just what my copy looks like. There’s a lot of plain, text-based covers, impressionist paintings, and when we get to the first movie era, tie-in stills featuring the iconic heart-shaped glasses.

Lolita cover 1998 FIN Gummerus (BB), Jyväskylä

Weirdly, some of the covers try to sex up the book, this Finnish one (from 1998!) being particularly egregious. I think that the variety of approaches used to demonstrate the book’s importance speaks to just how interesting and unique Lolita is, and how the issues it raises still resonate, maybe even more nowadays.

Honestly, the fact that a TV show like Toddlers and Tiaras exists in a post-Lolita world is awe-inspiringly strange to me. On the one hand, young girls are to be protected and kept safe, this is obvious to people who are not evil. But sometimes, marketers and fashion types still toe the line with regards to how young girls’ youth and beauty can be used for more nefarious purposes.

“But every once in a while I have to remind the reader of my appearance much as a professional novelist, who has given a character of his some mannerism or a dog, has to go on producing that dog or that mannerism every time the character crops up in the course of the book.” (p. 104)

Similar books on the Time 100 list: Humbert’s narration, which is prone to hyperbole and bouts with madness, begrudgingly reminded me of An American Tragedy, which I won’t recommend that hard though because I hated it so much. If for some reason you’re into books where children are raised very very poorly, you might also like reading Housekeeping. Finally, I’ll recommend Pale Fire again, because it’s really good, and deserves to be as well-known as Lolita.

Total pages read since January 1st 2011: 16242 pp. (1783 this year)

Total books on the Time 100 list read: 57/113, or 50% complete.

Next up on the Resolution Project: A Dance to the Music of Time Book Four: At Lady Molly’s (1957), by Anthony Powell.

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The Resolution Project Book Fifty: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (1950)

“Everyone agreed to this and that was how the adventures began. It was the sort of house that you never seem to come to the end of, and it was full of unexpected places.” (p. 4)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned if you’re the type to be bothered by that.

The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe cover

The Elevator Pitch: Peter, Susan, Edmund and Lucy are four children who have been evacuated to the English countryside during World War II. They live with an old Professor, who lets them spend their days idly exploring the strange house. When Lucy happens upon a magic wardrobe that escorts her to the land of Narnia, the children will be forced to fight for what is right against an ancient evil.

Okay, confession time: before this year, I was a complete Narnia neophyte, a noob, a Neanderthal even, with regards to this book series and associated media property. I work in a comic store, so I’ve seen some of the merchandise prepared for each of the films I guess, but until now I’ve never actually experienced the world first-hand. And you know what? I really liked it.

To be honest, it was a little tough going for me early on in the two hours or so of straight reading it took to finish, though. The subtitle of the book is “A Story for Children”, and as such the writing style is very simple and direct, which takes a little getting used to as opposed to the other stuff I’ve subjected myself to this year. Lewis continually reminds the reader who’s talking and when, which got on my nerves a little at first, but this simple storytelling technique soon faded away once I got into the engaging narrative. And, to be fair, I much prefer being explicitly told who is speaking at all times to something like Blood Meridian (now there’s a wildly disparate set of books if I’ve ever seen one), which never feels the need to inform you as to any of these facts, much less why anyone would be talking as opposed to constantly raping and murdering. Score one for Lewis.

The characters are all quite plain and simple, easy for a child to insert their own personalities or those of their friends into and experience the story vicariously through in that way. I’m still not absolutely clear as to what Susan’s role was, other than to be more interesting in future volumes I guess? Edmund, that little douchebag, was characterized pretty well, once I realized that the “Turkish Delight” he was continually asking for from the White Witch was actually DRUGS (joke). I thought at first that the main thrust of the story was very similar to Poul Anderson’s Three Hearts and Three Lions, but upon looking it up, I actually found out that Wardrobe predates that book a number of years. Maybe Anderson was a fan too?

Lev Grossman and I

Actually speaking of drugs, another hurdle I had when initially getting into this book, and I know he’d probably hate to hear it, was Time 100 list curator Lev Grossman’s awesome reimagining of the fantasy narrative The Magicians.

The Magicians cover

I’m sure Mr. Grossman would be a little sad to hear this, but having read his Bret Easton Ellis-influenced and brilliant inversions of Wardrobe‘s tropes first made it a little more difficult to accept the original at face value. As such, though, I can say now I enjoyed both of them a lot, but probably should have read Lewis first. Moving on.

I was struck early on by the Professor’s insistence that the Wardrobe was, once admitting of all the available data with regards to the character of the child that first found it, a real dimensional portal. The Professor, who’s got to be an avatar of Lewis, if I’m reading this correctly, kind of posits this assumption in terms of quantum mechanics:

“‘I mean, there was nothing there when we looked; even Lucy didn’t pretend there was.’

“What has that to do with it?’ said the Professor.

‘Well, Sir, if things are real, they’re there all the time.”

‘Are they?’ said the Professor; and Peter did not know quite what to say.” (p. 45-46)

It’s almost like they’re living in Professor Schrödinger’s house or something. I love that. It’s too easy for children’s authors to score cheap points from their intended audience by having authority figures

a. be an obstacle to the child protagonists and

b. never listen to anything they say, even though they’re obviously correct.

The Professor can easily accept the existence of alternate realities and travel between such, and his ownership of the house the kids are fostered in never in any way hinders them from having sweet-ass adventures. I hope that it never really gets confirmed later on in the series whether or not the Professor knows of Narnia, is from there, etc, because it’s so much better for him to be from the real world and yet accommodating of others. in my mind anyway.

The Princess Bride cover

Lewis’s writing style is also quite conversational at times, in addition to the aforementioned easiness of reading. I really enjoyed his casual asides about the culture of giants, and how he related magical events to things kids would understand, for example how paper sets on fire, or the colour of fresh strawberries. You really get the feeling that this book was tested out on real children before getting printed, as that’s exactly the sort of great stuff you’d tell a kid while reading them a bedtime story. This reminded me a lot of William Goldman’s The Princess Bride, actually, minus all the postmodern talk about “editing” the original text and all that. The more I think about this, the more I wish I’d read this book when I was little.

Holy Crap it's Aslan!

The big elephant in the room, or rather the lion in the room, when speaking critically about Wardrobe is the obvious Christ metaphors. That was one of the few things I’d obviously known about going in, and in my dual ignorance of both Narnia and Christianity, I thought it was going to be a lot more explicit than it turned out to be. Sure you get the whole death and rebirth thing, but what really interested me was how the kids found it really difficult to look the lion square in the face. Sure, it would be somewhat disconcerting to stare down a magical talking lion, but his inherent goodness being awe-inspiring enough to make you have to look away? That’s a little different. That’s almost like losing SAN points by reading the Pnakotic Manuscripts or something to me, I figured everyone would just love Aslan right off the hop! This is obviously something for readers far more versed in theology and/or felinology to talk about.

“Once a King in Narnia, always a King in Narnia.” (p. 186)

Who would I recommend this book to?: Kids, definitely kids. Fans of fantasy worlds that lurk just on the outer edges of our comprehension. People who enjoy the more jovial fantasy stuff, and also talking animals.

Total pages read since January 1st: 14240 pp.

Total books on the Time 100 list read: 50/113, or (still) 44% complete.

Next up on the Resolution Project: Housekeeping (1981), by Marilynne Robinson

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The Resolution Project Book Forty-Two: The Heart of the Matter (1948)

“They had been corrupted by money, and he had been corrupted by sentiment. Sentiment was the more dangerous, because you couldn’t name its price. A man open to bribes was to be relied upon below a certain figure, but sentiment might uncoil in the heart at a name, a photograph, even a smell remembered.” (p. 45)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned if you’re the type to be bothered by that.

The Heart of the Matter cover

Elevator Pitch: Major Henry Scobie is the closest thing to an honest cop left in an unnamed town in British West Africa during the Second World War. While his compatriots routinely take bribes and abuse the local populace, Scobie adheres to a strict moral compass, driven by his Catholic upbringing and the intense pity in his heart for the wife he no longer feels anything for but pity. When a young woman comes into Scobie’s life after a traumatic accident, he had to deal with new feelings that grow inside of him, and see whether or not he can reconcile what he wants with what his faith would dictate of him.

This was a pretty solid book. The only real exposure I’d had to Graham Greene before reading it was mostly through movies he was involved in, ie. The Third Man (one of my favorite films noir) and the funny Our Man in Havana. I’d also read The Destructors in high school, I guess, but I don’t really remember too much about it now.  So I didn’t really have any preconceptions upon going in to The Heart of the Matter other than he seems to enjoy setting stories in far off locales, which I learned later kind of comes from his having served in MI6 during the Second World War. He was stationed in Sierra Leone for much of it, which was supposedly the inspiration for the area Scobie polices.

While Heart does descend into lots of philosophical meandering and religious guilt in a matter almost reminiscent of Go Tell It on the Mountain and Call It Sleep it also has the decency to attach an interesting story to all the moaning about God and what he thinks of the protagonist, which I appreciated unlike those other two books. To me, the main message behind Heart is that we can never fully understand or empathize completely with another person. Everyone in the book is an island of sadness, nostalgia, emptiness and pain, and everyone wants desperately for someone else to get what led them to become this way. Scobie feels he’s done his wife wrong by making her spend 15 years in a foreign hellhole, and hates the people at the club who disdain her love of reading and literature  for whatever reason. Wilson, a new transplant to the colony, falls in love with Scobie’s wife, and attempts to reach her through that love of literature and poetry, but to no avail. Yusef, a Syrian crime kingpin, just wants to be Scobie’s friend, and to have meaningful discussions with him about life, which is something he cannot get from the mostly local boys he uses as informants and assassins.

As a side note, the more I read about the English sort of clubs and the culture contained therein, the more they seem absolutely abhorrent. Granted, most of the books I’ve read with these kinds of organizations have them as representations of colonial/patriarchal power, although perhaps not intentionally in every instance. It is certainly the case here in Heart, and also in A Passage to India; whereas in A Handful of Dust, and to a lesser extent the American equivalent in Appointment in Samarra, the club is more a symbol of wealth, conspicuous consumption and prestige. I wonder if these organizations still exist nowadays, I mean here in Canada we’ve got things like the Elks and the Rotary Club, but those seem to be more “fraternal” than the classical English-style? Maybe I’ll look into it more, my grandfather was apparently a Mason, so maybe I have an in there. I’ve seen the instructional video on how to shake hands.

Greene’s writing style is not exactly florid, which I really appreciate. He’s able to distill complicated concepts like what it must feel like to be an average, run of the mill Catholic person down with incredible ease:

“When he  thought about it at all, he regarded himself as a man in the ranks, a member of an awkward squad, who had no opportunity to break the more serious military rules. ‘I misses Mass yesterday for insufficient reason. I neglected my evening prayers.’ This was no more than admitting what every soldier did – that he had avoided a fatigue when the occasion offered.” (p. 103)

He’s also great at the police procedural type stuff. Scobie eventually does something really bad, and has to cover it up, and we the reader are privy to his inner monologue as the policeman’s brain thinks through every avenue of investigation and makes up evidence to cover holes. It’s interesting in that we start to see this happen even before Scobie has made a conscious effort to do so, like the back of his mind is working faster than he even realizes.

Overall, this is an excellent book. It delves into the psyche of a deeply conflicted man, takes place in an exotic and interesting locale, has the paranoid backdrop of World War II spy-catching and smuggling, and has some essential truths to impart about the frailty of the human condition, and our relative inability to ever understand one another.

“‘When we say to someone, “I can’t live without you,” what we really mean is, “I can’t live feeling you may be in pain, unhappy, in want.” That’s all it is. When they are dead our responsibility ends. There’s nothing more we can do about it. We can rest in peace.”" (p. 143)

Who would I recommend this book to?: People who are fans of Graham Greene’s work in film. People who are interested in life in the British African colonies during the war, and have a high tolerance for moaning about the “white man’s burden.” People who are interested in the precepts of Catholicism, and wish to see them pushed to the absolute limit by desire and shame.

Total pages read since January 1st: 14054 pp.

Total books on the Time 100 list read: 49/113, or 44% complete.

Next up on the Resolution Project: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (1950), by C.S. Lewis

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The Resolution Project Book Fourteen: The Blind Assassin (2000)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned.

“The average working man wouldn’t read that kind of thing, though – the working man the comrades think is so inherently noble. What those guys want is his stuff. Cheap to buy, value for a dime, fast-paced action, with lots of tits and ass. Not that you can print the words tits and ass: the pulps are surprisingly prudish. Breasts and bottom are as far as they’ll go. Gore and bullets, guts and screams and writhing, but no full frontal nudity. No language. Or maybe it’s not prudishness, maybe they just don’t want to be closed down.” (p. 280)

The Blind Assassin cover

As I am myself a purveyor of pulp fiction’s closest children, comic books, I have a lot of respect for what has come to be termed the pulp style, even if I don’t have much first-hand knowledge of it. I know it’s like a cinephile who claims to love movies and yet doesn’t like black and white, or worse, silent movies, but you have to admit, pulp was made for its era, an era that we no longer live in. Pulp was a cheap, disposable sort of entertainment which has become irrelevant now, as we are continually bombarded with cheaper, even more disposable fun. Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin is a brilliant book, which uses pulp tropes and style marvelously in an attempt to ingratiate the reader into the world of Canada in the 1930s and 1940s. The pulp-ish sections of the book are where we can find the eponymous blind assassin, who is himself the fictional creation of a fictional author found in a scandal-making novel. But I’m getting ahead of myself here.

The Blind Assassin is told to us by Iris Chase Griffen, a woman who was an heiress to her father’s button and underwear factories in 1930s Ontario. She relates to us the story of her life from then until the present day, showing how her family’s factories went under during the Great Depression and how she’s now become a somewhat decrepit and penniless old lady just playing out the string in her hometown of Port Ticonderoga. She also wants to tell us about her sister, Laura, who committed suicide at the close of the Second World War by crashing her car into a river. The fictional tale “The Blind Assassin” is also imparted to the reader in the book, through passages that comment on Iris’ main narrative, as well as the social mores and taboos of the time, showing us the illicit rendezvous of a hacky pulp writer and a wealthy young woman. These two narratives mix together into a lovely stew by giving us Iris’ version of events as they unfolded, as well as the lives of the book’s doomed lovers, who create the world of Zycron where an assassin blinded from birth and a sacrificial maiden with her tongue cut out attempt to flee their decaying city of Sakiel-Norn.

What I really liked about this book, in addition to the lovely writing style and attention to period details, is how it treats the matter of pulp fiction. Most modern-day treatments of pulp’s heady mix of jingoism, titillation and violence just present themselves to us fully formed, with no attempt to place the reader in the headspace of the genre’s intended audience of eighty years ago. True, pulp was pretty trashy, but in some ways it was also kind of quaint, as the above quote discusses. What Atwood does is to give us an epic generational saga to make us understand the way one lived at that time (with Iris’ story), then gives us a small rebellion against that stifling world (in the story of the nameless lovers who tell us the pulp stories as pillow talk), and only then introducing the spaceships, temple priestesses and lizard-men that we would characterize as being “pulp” fiction (in the story of the Blind Assassin’s mission in Sakiel-Norn). With the addition of these three layers of context, we are able to see why people were driven to read this sort of book, why they wanted an escape from the Depression that surrounded them every day.

A tangent: It doesn’t really irk me when people say comic books are for kids. While for the most part they aren’t anymore (which is a damn shame, as kids could potentially be missing out on a whole art form they’d be able to enjoy for the rest of their lives, with current market trends), the bright colours and over-the-top storylines of many books could easily lead the ignorant into believing as such, as they have no way of knowing better. What really bothers me is when people who should know better, ie. the middle-intelligentsia who dictate the critical discourse on film and literature, use the word “comic book” to describe instances when other, “better” art forms discard character development for fight scenes and exciting visuals. Anyway, this is all in describing how I felt a connection here to how Atwood here redeems the idea of pulp fiction, by proving it can be just as nuanced and layered as the “higher” art forms, if done well enough. And yes, I do realize that the “Blind Assassin” sequences are just one facet of this great book, but they were one that I really identified with, so there. The rest of the book is even better, but I’m sure many people have gone on at length about that in greater spheres than my humble blog.

“Back at home, they drew the curtains and read, with disapproval, with relish, with avidity and glee – even the ones who’d never thought of opening a novel before. There’s nothing like a shovel full of dirt to encourage literacy.” (p, 39)

The List:

1. The Adventures of Augie March

2. All the King’s Men

3. American Pastoral

4. An American Tragedy

5. Animal Farm (read before 2011)

6. Appointment in Samarra

7. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

8. The Assistant

9. At Swim-Two-Birds

10. Atonement (read before 2011)

11. Beloved

12. The Berlin Stories

13. The Big Sleep (read before 2011)

14. The Blind Assassin

15. Blood Meridian

16. Brideshead Revisited

Total pages read since January 1st: 4823 pp

Next up on the Resolution Project: Cormac McCarthy’s Blood Meridian (1986)

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The Resolution Project Book Sixteen: Brideshead Revisited (1946)

The Resolution Project: For my New Year’s resolution this year (that being 2011), I decided to try and read all one hundred of the novels picked by Time Magazine as the best since their inception in 1923 to the list’s publication in 2005. I exempted myself from reading ones I’ve already read, leaving some eighty-six or so to read before the end of this year. Some spoilers may lie ahead, so be warned.

“Just the place to bury a crock of gold,” said Sebastian. “I should like to bury something precious in every place where I’ve been happy and then, when I was old  and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember” (p. 20)

Brideshead Revisited Cover

In comparison to the stilted language and melodrama that permeated the last book I read on the Time Magazine list, Theodore Dreiser’s An American Tragedy, Brideshead Revisited by Evelyn Waugh was a refreshing stroll down memory lane, a look at the way a geographical location can mean so much to so many people. Charles Ryder is an undergraduate at Oxford in the early 1920s when he meets the flamboyant and extravagant Lord Sebastian Flyte, with whom he begins a friendship that change both of their lives. Flyte introduces Ryder to his eccentric English Catholic aristocratic family at their estate Brideshead, a location Ryder returns to much later during the Second World War as a member of the armed services, at which he embarks backwards through his own history with the family.

I really loved this book, so much so that I read it a lot slower than I could have, in order to remain in its thrall as long as I possibly could. It is probably closest in form to Ian MacEwan’s Atonement, to name a more recent (and Time magazine-approved) work, as it deals with the lives and loves of English aristocrats in the dimming light between the two World Wars. Like Atonement, the protagonist is not a member of that esteemed group, and as such is not ruled by the dogma and feudal obligations the Flyte family are bound by. “Dogma” is definitely the appropriate word to use in relation to this wonderful book. The Flytes are, for the most part, members of the Catholic minority in England, and as such, live their lives in relation to the Church, whether it is the rebellion against it as personified by Sebastian and his expatriate father Lord Marchmain, or the devout worship of Lady Marchmain and her young daughter Cordelia. Indeed, Waugh was an actual convert to Catholicism, and much of the book is devoted to the idea of “divine grace”, which I took to mean the way in which belief in God as prescribed by Catholic rites pulls characters towards it. I don’t want to say much more about this concept, for fear of spoiling it for people who haven’t read it yet, but the allure of religion works upon each of the characters in their own special, and often surprising way.

The actual house called Brideshead is a singular location in my experience. While exact geographical details are never explicitly laid out, it is implied to be absolutely massive, containing multitudes of rooms with decorating styles spanning centuries. The closest I suppose I’ve gotten to seeing such a place in my life would have to be Warwick Castle in the Midlands of England, but the different eras shown in its decorating scheme were absolutely essential as they showed how life operated in the building over the years. Brideshead, though, is almost described as being more of a mausoleum at times, a place where the weight of centuries imposes itself on the current occupants, who are only beginning to sense the oncoming darkness and the end of their way of life. It also brought me to mind of the film La règle du jeu ( The Rules of the Game), by director Jean Renoir. That film also shows the end of the aristocratic era, in France of course, but with more of an “upstairs/downstairs” point of view, with the hired help also playing a big role.

I also really enjoyed the first big sequence of the book, Ryder and Sebastian’s days at Oxford, which seemed to consist primarily of drinking, going to boring parties, and etc. It reminded me a lot of my time in residence, complete with the old before your years feeling you get after second year. Many theorists believe that Waugh was subtly hinting at a homosexual relationship between Ryder and Flyte during this sequence, which could very easily be true, but it could also just be one of those English “romantic friendships”, sort of like between Samwise Gamgee and Frodo Baggins. I liked that it was ambiguous.

Brideshead Revisited movie poster

There have been quite a few adaptations of Brideshead Revisited into other media, most recently a 2008 film adaptation, which apparently paled in comparison somewhat to the release of the aforementioned Atonement. I’d very much like to see it, or the ’80s TV adaptation when I get a chance, but as ever, duty calls.

“These men must die to make a world for Hooper; they were the aborigines, vermin by right of law, to be shot off at leisure so that things might be safe for the travelling salesman, with his polygonal pince-nez, his fat wet hand-shake, his grinning dentures.” Charles Ryder, on the decline of the aristocracy in England (p. 125)

The List

1. The Adventures of Augie March

2. All the King’s Men

3. American Pastoral

4. An American Tragedy

5. Animal Farm (read before 2011)

6. Appointment in Samarra

7. Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret

8. The Assistant

9. At Swim-Two-Birds

10. Atonement (read before 2011)

11. Beloved

12. The Berlin Stories

13. The Big Sleep (read before 2011)

14. The Blind Assassin

15. Blood Meridian

16. Brideshead Revisited

Total pages read since January 1st: 4302 pp

Next up on the Resolution Project: Margaret Atwood’s The Blind Assassin (2000)

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