The Lives of the Novelists – John Sutherland

Yesterday was my birthday – I spent the day working which is something I’m going to try and avoid next year because the result has been vaguely depressing, it turns out that a lovely weekend doesn’t make up for nine hours of hard graft lugging heavy boxes around, a freezing wait for a bus that’s late (at my age getting in from work after 9pm feels too late), and finally home alone for a sandwich before bed. I can, and do, do that at least twice a week anyway, it didn’t make the day feel special.

What has made me feel special though is presents and I’ve had some lovely ones. Most intriguing is from my friend L who’s given me a pot of soil filled with mystery bulbs – it’ll be months before I know what’s in there but that isn’t going to stop me from looking everyday anyway. Another gratefully received gift (from my sister who received some pretty heavy hints) was John Sutherland’s ‘Lives of the Novelists’ – a history of fiction in 294 lives. I’ve not been able to resist it (and only partly because I’ve had my eye on it for what feels like an age) and have been dipping in and out whenever I’ve had the opportunity over the last 48 hours.

I’m not the biggest fan of biography but this book suits me perfectly because each writer is delineated with admirable brevity – on average two or three pages each – in which space Sutherland manages to pack in the salient facts along with a few more salacious/gossipy details; it’s more than enough to be going on with. So far I’ve been reading about authors I already know but look forward to being informed and possibly tempted by a whole lot that I don’t.

294 seems like a fairly arbitrary number (surely he could have found 300?) but then this is also an unashamedly personal view of literature – presumably the history of one man’s reading journey, which makes it all the more intriguing. I wanted it for reference, am already quite inspired by it, and wonder now where else it might take me and what else it might prove to be. Doubtless I’ll let you know.  

Jane Eyre – What’s it all about then?

A couple of weekends ago I went to see the latest film version of ‘Jane Eyre’ with the blonde, I quite enjoyed it, she fell asleep. Twice. Which was a shame because she could have translated the French bits that I couldn’t quite decipher because the captions on the screen (and this was a specifically captioned for the hard of hearing showing – our presence there was coincidental) where actually below the screen with only the tops of the letters visible. Nobody complained which is shame on us really because I’m sure we could have found a cheaper venue in which to nap and be confused in.

I’ve read Jane Eyre a couple of times, first as an abridged version when I was really quite young, and the full version maybe ten years ago. In-between there have been countless film versions and TV adaptations which have made another re read unattractive. I struggle a bit to be truly enthusiastic about any of the Brontë’s ‘The Tenant of Wildfell Hall’ annoyed me when I read it (I was 17, it may be that I’d have more empathy for the heroine now), ‘Wuthering Heights’ was a good read whilst reading but Heathcliff is hardly the ideal romantic hero for a modern woman. ‘Jane Eyre’ was also a good read whilst I read it but it’s easy to feel you know the plot to well what with all the aforementioned adaptations and critical gubbins about the book, and there ends my Brontë reading.

Part of my Brontë problem, and this is especially the case with ’Jane Eyre’ are the critical evaluations I’ve read about it. On the whole I try and avoid works of literary criticism as experience has taught that they reduce me to indignant dribbling incoherence – which would be okay in itself, but I also feel the need to share my anger with all sorts of people regardless of whether they share my passion for the topic or not. So it was when I read Elaine Showalter’s assessment of Jane full of feminist and Freudian interpretations. I’m not convinced that it’s fair to assess a pre Freud writer by post Freudian standards. All well and good to make what you will of Charlotte through her writing but another thing altogether to assume that she meant her words to be interpreted in such a way.

Post film and during a half hearted tidy I picked up John Sutherland’s ‘Can Jane Eyre Be Happy’ and read the title essay again. I was indignant first time (of course she could be happy) and still indignant now but this time because I can’t see Rochester as a Bluebeard character, if there has to be a comparison with a fairy tale I see Jane Eyre as the story of Beauty and the Beast. It seems to me that if Rochester had wanted to dispose of Bertha there would have been a couple of easy ways out – incarceration in a foreign asylum under a false name (which is Lady Audley’s fate) or a discreet ‘accident’ which should be simple enough to arrange given her predilection for roof tops and fire setting. Because of this I believe that his motives are kind enough. The same with Adele – apart from having to have a child in the house to need a governess without whom the plot would be nowhere, it also suggests that on some level he wants the family life that his wife’s malady prevents.

I also think too much is made of Bertha’s madness in a feminist kind of way. Nothing else would quite fit but mental illness still carries quite a stigma, nothing to what it would have done when Charlotte wrote her book – it’s the only thing I can think of that makes Rochester’s proposed bigamy at all sympathetic. I can forgive the madwoman in the attic (we all come with baggage) I find the dressing up as a gypsy woman and the whole Blanche Ingram episode rather harder to understand (the gypsy bit was wisely dropped from the film in favour of some strenuous gardening which certainly made Rochester look more attractive.) I can’t help but feel that it’s this rather than Bertha that Rochester has to be punished for.

Happily the introduction to my ‘Jane Eyre’ - written by Michael Mason seems remarkably sensible, if a little opaque at times, it’s a definite relief to read something I can agree with even if it doesn’t make me think as deeply as the ones I believe are wrong do.