Half a Year, twenty Books and a whole new Person

It is the first week of July and halway-through-the-year-posts are mushrooming everywhere over the blogging community. Of course I meant to join the general trend anyway with an update on my reading challenges, my progress in personal life as well as in reading and plans for the rest of the year, but until last night I had no idea how much this past half-year really changed me.

Yesterday I was sitting on the balcony and reading Wuthering Heights when my sister came by in a very bad mood and asked how I could read such boring books. Needless to say, she never read Wuthering Heights or any other Brontë, in fact the only classics she ever touched were a few German and Austrian books she absolutely had to read for school. Never did she read or even want to read an English classic, she knows nothing of Dicken's adorable characters apart from what she saw in the Mickey Mouse adaptation of A Christmas Carol, she never stayed up until the early hours of the morning to finish a case with Sherlock Holmes and if you mentioned the name Wilkie Collins in her presence I'm sure she would think you were talking about a woman. More than anything, she never read a thought which so essentially mirrored the depths of her soul that the author must have known her, must have written these sentences about her because surely no one else in the world could feel exactly the same, just to be reminded that those thoughts were published hundreds of years before she was born.

How dare she call the classics boring and stupid when she has never read them? To say it with her own words: because they are old, and old books cannot be interesting. She is not able to imagine that maybe even when an author wrote his book by hand and had never heard of a thing like the telephone he may have felt the same feelings as she does and captured them in his writings. She cannot envision that she will feel less alone because in Jane Eyre there is a girl who thinks exactly the same way she does and who is entirely so like herself that the fact that she never lived matters little. She knows nothing of kindred spirits.
And, despite my angry attempt to explain all this to her, she can't waste her time trying to read something which she knows to be absolutely boring when there are so many good, i.e. new (fantasy) books out there.

After our argument I was furious because she condemned something I love without knowing anything about it, without giving it a chance and without listening. A little later I was sad, because I realised that most people think like my sister and that in fact I don't know anyone in real life who reads the way I do. While I love the blogging community and find it wonderful to exchange thoughts and opinions with all of you I cannot help feeling lonely at times because I can never have a face-to-face discussion about the books I read with anyone. Anyway, right now I'm feeling neither sad nor lonely, but happy and thankful for this past half-year.

I started reading the classics and simultaneously blogging in December, so now I am looking back on the first half-year of reading classic literature in my life. Not counting a few non-classic titles, I have read twenty books until now. That is not much, but you cannot imagine how much those twenty titles have changed me. Half a year ago I would have shrugged and wondered a little about it if someone had told me that all books written before 1900 were boring, now I am starting a fiery argument because those twenty books turned me into someone else. They changed me because A Tale of Two Cities made me turn pages quicker than the finale of Harry Potter could and because the love story in Jane Eyre captivated me more than the one in Twilight. Even though I am still a raw beginner, have not read a tenth of what I would like to have finished by now and in all honesty know virtually nothing about literature, I feel like I have progressed immensely. I may not be doing too well in my reading challenges, which is rather I am failing them epically, but I am not worried at all. Firstly, I have two months of holidays before me to catch up and will probably read from sun-up to sun-down and secondly I feel that I have already learned that which is most important and which so many never do because they are either too lazy or to prejudiced: to love the classics with all my heart.

The Woman in White: Initial Thoughts

The Woman in White Readalong is starting today and before we dive into the book we are supposed to record what we already know about it.
Well...Frankly it's pretty miraculous just how little I know about this book. I thought it was some kind of ghost story, but obviously I'm a Philistine since it's not (but come on: The Woman in Black is about a ghost and The Woman in White is not? That's neither fair nor logic). My only comfort is that spying on looking at the other participants' posts they don't have much knowledge ahead of me. This book is a mystery!
Anyway, I am just going to summarise what I know about the author and you should not be surprised that most of it is Dickens-related since it all comes from a Dickens biography:

• Wilkie Collins wass no woman (you might think this information is unnecessary, but trust me, it's not. I am experienced.)
• He was obviously a very close friend of Charles Dickens, which is more or less the reason I am interested in him
• He wrote a play about an Arctic expedition called The Frozen Deep. In this play two men fall in love with the same woman and the one who is not chosen by her ultimately sacrifices his life so that the other one can survive. Does this sound familiar? Exactly, because it was what influenced Dickens so heavily that he wrote A Tale of Two Cities and created the character of Sydney Carton.
•  Dickens and Collins appeared in the two starring roles of The Frozen Deep.
•  The play was so successful that they took it on tour and Queen Victoria demanded a special performance.

And that's it. Next monday I will have read everything until the end of Hartright's Narrative, though presently I have no idea who that is and you, my dear readers will be enlightened with me. Let's find out whether good old Wilkie deserves to be mentioned in the same sentence with Dickens.

Revolution and Turmoil, Uproar and War

Peace is onle the time between two wars. This German proverb seems very appropriate to me considering that I currently seem to be haunted by riots and rebellion, literary at least.
Coincidentally everything I have been reading recently deals with these themes in all variations, from the French Revolution in A Tale of Two Cities and Les Misérables over World War II and a nameless uproar in The Caucasian Chalk Circle to the American Civil War in Little Women.
War and violent conflicts are of course something horrible, but it is very interesting to observe how different authors use them differently in their works.

Dickens for example is a clear pacifist and describes the terror of the French Revolution so vividly that I cried not only for Sydney Carton but for all the other innocent and nameless people who were murdered in reality.
He uses the novel to warn his readers of what can happen if anger wins over reason and self-administered justice rules over pity.
Victor Hugo in contrast seems not to fully share Dickens's view of the revolution as a series of inhuman crimes, from what I have read until now he apparently regards it as a necessary evil. In my opinion he thinks the revolution was essential for creating a better society, but perhaps I am mistaken because Les Misérables starts after Napoleon's reign, when the terror is long over.
Later in the book Hugo will also focus on the June rebellion, so maybe my impression of his political position changes completely once I have read that.

In The Caucasian Chalk Circle the motive of the uprising is mainly character development. Brecht follows the rule that we only show our true selves in extreme conditions, so the riots are simply his device of putting his characters under pressure. His noblemen act mostly cowardish as soon as they are threatened whereas some of his poor, oppressed people prove their courage and their wits.

The portrayal of the Civil War was in fact the only thing about Little Women I didn't like because it rather unsettled me. All the characters seem to regard the war as something thoroughly positive although Mr March is severly wounded and thousands of other soldiers die. I don't know if that was simply the spirit of that time, but for a modern reader this tolerant representation is pretty shocking, especially visible in the following excerpt:

“I think you would if you had Laurie for a pupil. I shall be very sorry to lose him next year,” said Mr. Brooke, busily punching holes in the turf.
“Going to college, I suppose?” Meg’s lips asked the question, but her eyes added, “And what becomes of you?”
“Yes, it’s high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is off, I shall turn soldier. I am needed.”
“I am glad of that!” exclaimed Meg. “I should think every young man would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who stay at home,” she added sorrowfully.

Perhaps this truly was the general opinion, but I would find it very upsetting (and rude) if someone told me they were glad I went to war!

On the whole, reading so much about killing and rebellion I am indeed thankful to live in a country which doesn't even have a real army and hasn't needed one in half a century. Oh, and I am looking forward to reading something more peaceful soon, a really kitschy romance would be fine!

 

Sydney Carton, my hero - February Prompt

This is my entry for the February Prompt of November's Autumn's Classic Challenge and since I have just finished Dickens's amazing A Tale of Two Cities and have tons to say about a certain drunkard, I'll devote this post to one of the most impressing characters ever: Sydney Carton.

Those are the questions, but I am only going to follow them roughly:
Level 1
What phrases has the author used to introduce this character? What are your first impressions of them? Find a portrait or photograph that closely embodies how you imagine them.

Level 2
How has the character changed? Has your opinion of them altered? Are there aspects of their character you aspire to? or hope never to be? What are their strengths and faults? Do you find them believable? If not, how could they have been molded so? Would you want to meet them?

Level 3
Try writing a short (four sentences +) note or letter as the character, addressed to you, another character, the author, anyone.
Sydney Carton is first introduced during the trial of (innocent) Charles Darnay, he is his attorney, together with Mr. Stryver. While Mr. Stryver does most of the talking and Sydney appears to not even pay attention, he is the one who ultimately turns the case around and saves the accused.

Mr. Carton, who had so long sat looking at the ceiling of the court, changed neither his place nor his attitude, even in this excitement. While his teamed friend, Mr. Stryver, massing his papers before him, whispered with those who sat near, and from time to time glanced anxiously at the jury; while all the spectators moved more or less, and grouped themselves anew; while even my Lord himself arose from his seat, and slowly paced up and down his platform, not unattended by a suspicion in the minds of the audience that his state was feverish; this one man sat leaning back, with his torn gown half off him, his untidy wig put on just as it had happened to fight on his head after its removal, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes on the ceiling as they had been all day. Something especially reckless in his demeanour, not only gave him a disreputable look, but so diminished the strong resemblance he undoubtedly bore to the prisoner (which his momentary earnestness, when they were compared together, had strengthened), that many of the lookers-on, taking note of him now, said to one another they would hardly have thought the two were so alike. Mr. Cruncher made the observation to his next neighbour, and added, "I'd hold half a guinea that he don't get no law-work to do. Don't look like the sort of one to get any, do he?"
Yet, this Mr. Carton took in more of the details of the scene than he appeared to take in; for now, when Miss Manette's head dropped upon her father's breast, he was the first to see it, and to say audibly: "Officer! look to that young lady. Help the gentleman to take her out. Don't you see she will fall!"

So, although he appears to be simply a good-for-nothing, we are quickly shown that there is much more behind his reckless manner than visible at first.

Mr. Carton, lonely to the right

Mr. Carton initially hates Charles Darnay because he sees in him everything he could have been. He sees his life as irredeemably wasted and although he drinks to forget what a miserable life he is leading, he insists that he cannot change it. Sydney Carton is convinced that there is nothing good or honourable in him and therefore he does not interfere when Lucie Manette and Charles Darnay marry, even though he is madly in love with her. He is convinced that he as a melancholy, wasted drunkard would only bring her down and he loves her too much to burden her with him. So when he finally breaks down and confesses her his love, he does not expect (not even hope) that Lucie returns his affection, he says:  "I have known myself to be quite undeserving. And yet I have had the weakness, and have still the weakness, to wish you to know with what a sudden mastery you kindled me, heap of ashes that I am, into fire--a fire, however, inseparable in its nature from myself, quickening nothing, lighting nothing, doing no service, idly burning away."

If you find no other reason to read this book, do it for Sydney's confession. It is one of the most beautiful and saddest declarations of love in the whole of literature at the same time.

At the end of the book Sydney willingly sacrifices his own life through switching places with Charles Darnay and going to the guillotine instead of him. He does it out of his love for Lucie, but what impressed me the most is that he does it without telling anyone. His beloved Lucie doesn't learn of his heroic deed until after his death, she cannot even thank him or tell him good bye. In the last days of his life the hero he has been at his heart all the time finally shows, because through sacrificing himself he proves his own conviction of being worthless wrong.

This is a letter Sydney Carton could have written before being executed, I know it won't be as good as Dickens's style of writing, but don't judge me too harshly.

My beloved Lucie,

I wish you to know that these last breaths I take are the happiest I have taken since I grew to manhood. I am walking to the doom of my body knowing that my soul will live on in your life, and in the lives of all those who are dear to your heart and for whom I shall cease to breathe joyously.

I hold a desire in my heart which burns even though my mind knows it to burn needlessly; the desire to ask you to never forget me. It is needless because I know you, most graceful creature whose feet have ever touched this impure ground, to be a loyal and unwavering soul and I foresee that you will weep more for my soon uncaged spirit than I could ever have the honour to deserve.

One last thought, my dear: Even though I lay down my life for yours and your husband's and your children's (for who knows if little Lucie shall not be blessed with an infant brother soon?), it is really you who is my saviour.
For your sake I have perhaps not lived my life in vain despite all my wandering and it is only through my love for you that I will find resurrection. It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.

For ever your devoted servant,
Sydney Carton

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way.

This. Everyone knows these words, or at least the beginning of them and yet I have to point them out, because firstly they are obviously heartbreakingly beautiful and secondly: Did you notice what Dickens is doing here? After finishing A Tale of Two Cities, my second one of his novels, I feel already surprisingly familiar with his writing and have come to notice a certain pattern in it.
In this specific passage Mr Dickens does what he can best: he creates an atmosphere which is so tense that you are immediately sucked into the
book.
While reading Dickens's tale of love and hate, of uproar and peace, I felt as if I was standing in the bloodstained streets of Paris myself. I smelled the smoke and watched dizzily the silhouettes of the loathed nobility's burning palaces against the dark night sky. I wept for the tragedy of a hero whom no one would recognise as one until the very end and I am not afraid to say that I had to pause reading to get a handkerchief before I read the final scenes.

So, did I like A Tale of Two Cities? I think it is enough to say that my adoration of it even surpasses my love for Great Expectations. I cannot remember when I last looked forward to re-reading a book so much; but, to get my thoughts in order, why did I love it so much?

A huge part of the answer to this question is a name: Sydney Carton.
To be honest, I already knew roughly how the novel would end, so my perception of him was perhaps altered from the beginning, but I think he would have impressed me anyway. I cannot do my love for this constantly drunk, lazy, discourteous, honourable and lion-hearted man justice in a post about the book in general (or else I would have to neglect all other amazing aspects of it and this would become mere swooning), so I intend to do the February Prompt of November's Autumn's Classic Challenge about him.
Until then, let's focus a little on the historical side of Dickens's story.

Of course I had known before how horrible the French Revolution was, but not until now did I realise that it was in fact the most senseless, cruel, indescribable, stupid, incomprehensible bloodshed one can possibly imagine. It is beyond words how the long oppressed people reacted to their new freedom; yes, they had been treated like mangy dogs for decades, but why didn't they use their recaintly gained power to truly build up a state of liberty, equality and fraternity instead of introducing a new form of terror? Through the horrible Madame Defarge, Dickens, the great judge of human nature, has made me understand these people better, although I am still convinced I would act differently (but probably even Madame Defarge was before her family was destroyed by the ancien régime).
Perhaps the most shocking thing in the whole parade of cruelties called the Revolution, is how normal citizens, peasants, tradesmen and mothers transform into inhuman monsters, incapable of pity or sympathy.
The following conversation takes place after the arrest of Charles Darnay, Lucie's innocent husband.

"As a wife and mother," cried Lucie, most earnestly, "I implore you to have pity on me and not to exercise any power that you possess, against my innocent husband, but to use it in his behalf. O sister-woman, think of me. As a wife and mother!"

Madame Defarge looked, coldly as ever, at the suppliant, and said, turning to her friend The Vengeance:
"The wives and mothers we have been used to see, since we were as little as this child, and much less, have not been greatly considered? We have known their husbands and fathers laid in prison and kept from them, often enough? All our lives, we have seen our sister-women suffer, in themselves and in their children, poverty, nakedness, hunger, thirst, sickness, misery, oppression and neglect of all kinds?"
"We have seen nothing else," returned The Vengeance.
"We have borne this a long time," said Madame Defarge, turning her eyes again upon Lucie. "Judge you! Is it likely that the trouble of one wife and mother would be much to us now?"

Does this make anyone else shiver? I have to admit that I was relieved when Madame Defarge was killed, for her revengefulness and dangerous patriotism knew no limits. It almost physically hurts to imagine the hundreds and thousands of citizens like her who really lived and all the innocent people they slaughtered.

But, Dickens offers a counterweight to all the terror and as corny as it may sound; this counterweight is love. And while the word "liberty" will forever leave a bad taste in my mouth fom now on, even though I am not religious, there are some other words I will never be able to forget:
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die."