Though rightfully praised as children's literature of the highest quality, it's misleading at best and downright wrong at worst to say that it intentiThough rightfully praised as children's literature of the highest quality, it's misleading at best and downright wrong at worst to say that it intentionally avoids morals. As the Duchess says, "everything's got a moral if only you can find it." Dodgson aimed to exalt childhood, and to view it through a metaphysical lens. He gets Alice's speech and reactions to everything down pat. Sure, her Victorian mannerisms are a barrier to her ability to relate to the contemporary child, but the first reaction of a seven-year-old after falling down the rabbit hole to Wonderland is not incredulity, but just that—wonder. Words, numbers, and "common sense" are all bent through the lens of looking at the world as a miracle. Dodgson's nonsense is indicative of the mysteries of inhabiting the place in which we find ourselves, and he offers child-like faith as a means by which we may approach these mysteries rather than trying to solve them like foolish philosophers. For a child, existence is something not to be questioned, but to be relished with unconfined gusto at every corner. But more importantly, reading Dodgson's work, I laugh out loud repeatedly because he crafted an interpretation of reality that resonates for everyone. He is somehow able to look at life through juvenile eyes and hence introduce young readers to the concept of mimesis—poeticizing the world as one experiences it—as well as summoning up all the paradoxes, intimations, and promises of youth for those of us who love to ask the big questions. And along the way, he shows us how delightful is a pure outpouring of the fantastic imagination which we have been gifted to employ. Never let it be forgotten that Dodgson and George MacDonald—the two greatest fantastic writers of the 19th century—were both ordained clergymen....more
A useful resource that is sometimes unduly restrictive and sometimes delightfully common-sense. It can be quite fun to read out loud due to the frequeA useful resource that is sometimes unduly restrictive and sometimes delightfully common-sense. It can be quite fun to read out loud due to the frequent deadpan humor and entertaining sentence examples. Though I sometimes disagree with the assertions and am wont to use language in slightly more protean ways than Strunk and White advocate for, I certainly have kept many of these principles in mind, striving (and most of the time failing) to apply its wisdom ever since I first read it in high school. If nothing else, it demonstrates brilliantly that creativity cannot truly operate outside of firm boundaries. ...more
This is a pretty good, but certainly not stellar, introduction to the wondrous world of classical music from a Christian perspective. The essays/biogrThis is a pretty good, but certainly not stellar, introduction to the wondrous world of classical music from a Christian perspective. The essays/biographies of the composers are well-written and fascinating, and much of the authors’ analysis of the composers’ worldviews gives a clear lens through which to view their art. However, there are legions of historical inaccuracies and much personal bias in this book. For one, the authors repeat several dubious legends of classical music as fact (Napoleon and Beethoven’s Third, quoting “Testimony” on Shostakovich, etc.) And many of the evaluations are either totally unfair, unnecessarily gushing, or try to force Christian elements in. For example, the excessive praise lavished on Bruckner. They do however; do a good job at highlighting how one cannot enjoy beautiful music without understanding the consequences of its philosophical foundations, as highlighted through Mahler and Debussy (though if Mahler is criticized, then why isn’t Berlioz' Symphonie Fantastique?). Also, the “Recommended Listening” sections need to be pared down significantly. However, these things are really only of consequence to the classical music enthusiast, and carry no bearing on the novice who reads this as a solid introduction. ...more
This is my introduction to ancient literature, and a spectacular one at that. I did not expect to be engaged in Socrates’ flawless arguments, repetitiThis is my introduction to ancient literature, and a spectacular one at that. I did not expect to be engaged in Socrates’ flawless arguments, repetitive yet ingenious questioning, and shockingly relevant message about the duty of the authentic rhetorician and politician- to make people better and lead communities with virtue and self-discipline instead of indulging their audience in flattery. Although that is the main thread of the dialogue, the “rabbit trail” arguments about justice, self-restraint, and the definition of rhetoric were fascinating, as well. Every person who aspires to become proficient in rhetoric or who wishes to run for public office needs to read this. And although I don’t want to get into politics here, by considering Plato’s definition of a good politician, it really shouldn’t require deep thinking to know that, ahem… today’s politicians across all spectrums don’t meet that definition....more
When I first read this in high school, it was my introduction to Western cultural history; and all the research and thinking that I subsequently did wWhen I first read this in high school, it was my introduction to Western cultural history; and all the research and thinking that I subsequently did was filtered through Schaeffer's lens. In retrospect, I highly regret that, because it took me a long time indeed to shed the extremely tinted views that I picked up from him. On revisiting this book having actually read or experienced most of the thinkers and artists he mentions, I find it to be quite shallow and unfair, even as I can applaud Schaeffer for his admirably succinct writing and frequent penetrating insights. Though it's hard to disagree with his overall thesis, he tends to badly oversimplify certain things, and his upper/lower stories dichotomy is limited in applicability. Though I am a firm believer in the inextricability of message and medium, he also goes overboard with conflating aesthetics with morals (i.e. Michelangelo's David represents "heroic, autonomous man" and thus is not morally beautiful. He completely misreads the Renaissance on the whole, actually: he should have reserved those criticisms for the Enlightenment).
Sweeping generalizations are unavoidable in a small-scale work like this, but so many of them are flat-out irresponsible; and it surprises me that such a well-read person as Schaeffer could make these claims. Sure, I can see why the Radical Orthodox folk like to pinpoint Scotus and Ockham as Fathers of the Decline of the West, and Eastern Orthodox do the same with Augustine. But to label Aquinas as such, as Schaeffer does here, is flabbergasting. It's simply one of the most misguided interpretations of anything that I've ever read. It just sounds like he has an anti-Catholic bee in his bonnet that he needs to discharge on the Angelic Doctor. This is no more or less absurd than the standard papist argument that Luther is the father of secularity. It's pure propaganda with close to zero basis in reality. If Schaeffer could actually get in the habit of citing or at least quoting the people he paraphrases, this would be a lot easier to swallow because at least he would be twisting words, not making them up out of thin air. Another brief yet telling example of his dismissiveness is when he says that Huxley advocated for hallucinogenic drugs in Brave New World. Anyone who's actually read that novel will tell you that it's a portrayal of a dystopia, not a prescription for a utopia. Although Huxley did indeed turn later in life to this idea, it shows that Schaeffer perhaps has not actually read many of the thinkers he dissects and thinks he can slip these generalizations past unsuspecting readers. I could go on and on with these.
Still, it's 2.5 stars rounded up because I retain more than a grain of fondness for Schaeffer's insight. Its influence in the field of "worldview apologetics" can't be overstated, and much of what it says is dead true. But I highly urge you to look to other of modernity's profoundest doctors (MacIntyre, Weaver, Scruton, Pieper) and other voices in the conversation about Christianity and culture rather than letting your presumptions be shaped by Schaeffer. Better yet, engage with the people and movements that he discusses.
P.S. It seems most people who read this have also seen the video series. If you have, please know that the scene in one of the later episodes where a guy is sprinkling LSD into the public water supply (charmingly, with SIMULATION flashing across the screen) positively terrified me at the time, and I still think about it whenever I use tap water. Scaremongering at its finest. ...more
Is this book worth defending or not? It's a worthy question for those who, like myself, value a life of learning oriented toward transcendence. For itIs this book worth defending or not? It's a worthy question for those who, like myself, value a life of learning oriented toward transcendence. For it was composed as a field guide for those who would be faithful, and this is precisely why it affected me so much as a teenager. But I am afraid that there is nothing about its literary merit that I can envision as a successful source of revelation for the secularist. I am convinced that Bunyan must not be rated alongside Donne, Herbert, Hopkins, T.S. Eliot, Milton, O'Connor, Dostoevsky, Augustine, Dante, et al.—doctors of the beautiful who proselytize at times, but whose forms and functions are so ravishing that one cannot help but be drawn toward the beatific vision when encountering them. Rather, Bunyan is his day's equivalent of an inspirational writer of popular Christian books. There is nothing wrong with this; there are some inspirational books that I value, this among them. But it's hard to see it as a literary work. But even though I ultimately reject that label for it (and, admittedly, it's definitely not in the "Uncle Tom's Cabin" category of "bad good book"), I still was able to pick up on some of the elements that could potentially qualify it for that title on this reading (which included Part II for the first time): the images that are not lifted straight from Scripture are often vividly imaginative, and the allegory often works on multiple levels as some of the pilgrim characters are a bit more complex than their monikers would imply (Mercy in Part II is the roundest character in either part).
So I read this book as a nonfiction treatise with sermon illustrations, and in so doing, I am able to look past the fact that I do not delight in the language or in rich and unexpected ideas, but with this sacrifice I bask in the radiant, incendiary view of life offered by the imprisoned convert who had slammed headfirst into a grace brimming with ecstasy, and blazed with a fervor for freeing his fellow former spiritual prisoners by dreaming up this endlessly expansive pilgrims' terrain within the sight only of bars. Like the early English allegory Piers the Plowman, it is a celebration of the sainting of everyman in a world enchanted by divine signs. It is true that Bunyan's work is a "popular" one. But this does not mean that it is cheap or sentimental—only simple. It is the apotheosis of both the medieval and Protestant modes of thinking, and though it may not tell the believer anything new, it serves the traditional Protestant function of the Word when spoken in the service—to hammer home familiar, indelible truths with blissful repetition. Hence the rhythm of the allegory takes on a hypnotic, liturgical tread, beating out the pulse of the journey like Otto Klemperer's orchestra playing a German symphony. Though I am not a Calvinist, I can imagine no stronger discursive case for the system than what Bunyan offers here, though I must say that the proto-evangelical, intensely individualistic, non-sacramental, pietistic theology, of the "heaven"-centered type which N.T. Wright criticizes so much in Surprised By Hope, is one with which I disagree strongly and which I think has done a lot of harm. Yet I can look past it. Though Part II adds little to the story, I actually preferred it for its occasional yet treasured additional images and for the treatment of Christiana as the embodiment of the Church. Ultimately, Bunyan aims to fill you with unspeakable joy at the end of both Parts, and if he hasn't done that, you may not be able to look past the coarse, unpolished surface. But if you turn your mind to the telos of the Celestial City, and consider the journey as a revelation of what Bunyan believes with all his heart is necessary to get there, then you just may find yourself freed from the pedantry of the soulless scholar and filled with the authentic stuff of sainthood....more
I love Forster's writing—his descriptive passages are some of the most effective I know—and his evocative explorations of divides are compelling, but I love Forster's writing—his descriptive passages are some of the most effective I know—and his evocative explorations of divides are compelling, but much of what he does here is hampered by vapid, skeptical Bloomsbury ideas. His treatment of religion is particularly problematic in this regard. Like Shaw and Woolf, he tends to portray it in a flippant and irrelevant manner as a childish trifle with little potential to do good. However, there are a couple superb one-line zingers about Western Christianity that I appreciated, and Forster's merciless satirical takedown of Ronny is unfair but admittedly hilarious ("Ronny's religion was of the sterilized Public School brand, which never goes bad, even in the tropics"). I do think this is a good and meaningful book about important issues, but more potential was definitely on the table if Forster would have been able to approach the issues from a richer perspective. As it stands, he comes across as not understanding either side and settling for the opinion that the two can never really understand each other. In this way, he is exemplary of contemporary secular pseudo-religious discourse about injustice. But it is a realistic, sympathetic, and mostly fair portrayal. I prefer Howards End for its symphonic, prophetic power....more
Hard to criticize. Even harder to refute. Honestly, its satire has limited applications—after all, one need not read this book to know that Stalinist Hard to criticize. Even harder to refute. Honestly, its satire has limited applications—after all, one need not read this book to know that Stalinist totalitarianism is bad. Yet its critique can be applied to any attempt to institute centralized social planning, and provides a penetrating portrait of the archetypal characters of any society in turmoil. Orwell was such a clever writer. As much as I think he's overrated in some aspects, some of the parodies and one-liners he cooks up here and in 1984 are just so witty and irresistible. In this regard he can be kind of like Chesterton in that the central ideas of his books start to wear thin after a few chapters since he just tries to keep it running on cheeky Orwellianisms. I think if I would have read this as a kid, I would have been terrified. It's kind of like a surrealist nightmare that starts in jocular vein and descends into utter blackness. Reading it now, I almost shudder at how sad and baleful it is. There's a cognitive dissonance between the humor and the meaning of the allegory that disturbs me. Still, I inexplicably revisit it often. Don't ask me why....more
One of my favorite works of medieval literature, and a lovely single-sitting read. A classic example of a book that flummoxed me in high school, but wOne of my favorite works of medieval literature, and a lovely single-sitting read. A classic example of a book that flummoxed me in high school, but which one really needs the tools of criticism in order to truly understand. It is, essentially, a golden paradigm of the worldview of the High Middle Ages, best read alongside Lewis's Discarded Image. The ending is a high ideal of the purest literary comedy, and the green knight is one of the great vindications of archetypal analysis. Though far from being an allegorical representation of Christ, his qualities and actions allow us to reflect on some of the most beautiful and mysterious attributes of the Savior—everything from his unconventional, unexpected initial appearance on Christmas, to his veiled orchestration of everything in the poem, to his levying of forgiveness and revelation of identity at the end contribute to the icon-like effect of the work as an object of sacred contemplation. Gawain himself represents everything rich and glorious about the chivalric code as well as the subversive questioning of it. All great epochal literature does both these things, and Gawain is a great epochal character. Strange miracles and earthy yet profound theology fills the poem. I still need a new translation though—the Bernard O'Donoghue one for Penguin is pretty disappointing as it doesn't keep any of the original features (not even the rhyming bob and wheel) and sounds like second-rate contemporary poetry. The Tolkien is on my endless to-buy list. And the Middle English of this is simply deliriously fun to read—something like a cross between Chaucer, Hopkins, Tennyson, and Dr. Seuss; an absolute marvel of poetic diction....more
This is an extraordinarily advanced and accomplished piece of literature, and I can't for the life of me comprehend why so many slam it as archaic, baThis is an extraordinarily advanced and accomplished piece of literature, and I can't for the life of me comprehend why so many slam it as archaic, backward, and simplistic compared to the great classical works (I don't know if this attitude is still that common, but I have some older books of criticism that are very unkind toward this work). I suspect this is primarily due to a combination of received antipathy against the "dark ages" and the fact that it is repeatedly assigned and studied in high schools and universities as more of a historical document than a Great Book. Of course, its historical importance shouldn't be underplayed considering it's the most valuable window we have into Anglo-Saxon England, but I have a tough time seeing how anyone could honestly dismiss its heady, mythical, resonant beauty that bridges the gap between the primal heroic ethic and the medieval code of virtue. I actually recommend reading it before Homer to get a taste of the epic genre which seems to be an uncanny commonality across most developing cultures (surely no one is going to make the argument that the society that produced Beowulf knew the works of Homer?) I side with Tolkien in that the Christian elements far outweigh the pagan ones and it is quite clearly the work of a single poet retelling Germanic legends, but there are some incongruous things—i.e. the lack of mention of Christ (Beowulf himself is the salvation archetype, at least for 3/4 of the poem), biblical connections that seem hastily applied, strength and honor being largely prioritized over love and temperance, the final section being very different in quality to reflect a more Christian ethos—that prevent a wholehearted adoption of this view.
But even if the work were to lack any such references, the joy of the Christian exegete is that he can hear the familiar, universal tones that resound across the entire plane of humanity's writings, and, as C.S. Lewis would say, he is liberated to appreciate the fundamental power of myth and its inseparable roots in the One True Myth. The secularist scoffs at myths and must view fiction as having no concrete connection with objective truth, but the Christian is permitted to discern reality in all paradigms. Even if one is skeptical about whether Beowulf is a truly "Christian" poem, its sense of myth is unmistakably rich, and ultimately it is its painfully tender awareness of life's dangers and felicities; and its deep sympathy toward the complexity of our responses to them, that gives me upon every reread that signature endorphin rush known to all literature lovers who know they are experiencing art as it is meant to be.
I can’t stack up Heaney’s translation to others, but I can say that it is moving, well-worded, and just quirky enough in the right places to give it a sense of folk-tale color. I have a soft spot for Heaney's poetry and it may be more Heaney than Beowulf, but I have the bilingual edition and from what I can make of the Old English, I like what he does with it. Someday I wouldn't mind learning enough of the language to attempt a translation of my own. ...more
Imaginative and entertaining, as Lewis's fiction always is. But, also as always, rather dull and heavy-handed. As a more learned reader this time arouImaginative and entertaining, as Lewis's fiction always is. But, also as always, rather dull and heavy-handed. As a more learned reader this time around I enjoyed the allusions to medieval cosmology (it's helpful to read The Discarded Image alongside this) and the wise mythologizing. I agree with others that the story moves too slowly, but I do think Ransom is one of Lewis's better characters, as he clearly served as a mouthpiece for the author and the "baptism of his imagination" instigated by both MacDonald and his conversion. Lewis is clearly on a screed against progressive materialism, but Chesterton demolished Wells and Shaw in much less blunt and didactic than the frankly dull climactic scene with the caricatured Weston. A fairly distant second in the trilogy after Perelandra....more
Lewis makes bold, truthful assertions about facts and looks beyond the basics of the faith. To read this book with the intention of actually gleaning Lewis makes bold, truthful assertions about facts and looks beyond the basics of the faith. To read this book with the intention of actually gleaning truth out of it is to gain a startling wealth of insight. I would recommend approaching it as an inspirational/devotional read instead of fiction or theology (though the theology is solid) in order to do this. Excellent and important stuff for Christians of all persuasions. "Screwtape Proposes a Toast" is an amusing and worthwhile addendum that jives well with "The Abolition of Man." ...more
This is not a nail-biting thriller of a mystery novel. Pargeter (Peters) develops strong, intriguing characters and sketches good conflicts in order tThis is not a nail-biting thriller of a mystery novel. Pargeter (Peters) develops strong, intriguing characters and sketches good conflicts in order to create a sense of enigma in the reader’s mind, instead of relying mainly on suspense and cliffhangers. The result may not be engaging for all readers, but it is entertaining and enjoyable historical fiction. I felt that there were too many elements (the motivation of the murderer, etc.) that the author felt didn’t need backstory or fleshing out, and that really detracted from the story for me. The writing is also oftentimes strangely ambiguous. However, I did enjoy the general mood of the story, and really liked the character of Brother John, who brings comic relief pretty much every time he is mentioned. A good piece of atmospheric storytelling, but the elements that most readers are looking for in a work of this sort will leave much to be desired. ...more
I have to admit that I prefer Swift's merciless satire of Defoe's ilk in Gulliver. If all those who want to cancel the canon of dead white men base thI have to admit that I prefer Swift's merciless satire of Defoe's ilk in Gulliver. If all those who want to cancel the canon of dead white men base their judgment only upon this book, then I can see why. This has not aged well upon revisiting, primarily due to the fact that Defoe's prose simply isn't very exciting. Then there's the sheer punchability of Crusoe's character (I'm not the kind of person to dislike a book because I personally dislike a character, but sometimes I swear that Defoe is trying to poke fun at Crusoe even though he's probably not) and the cringeworthy elitist colonialist attitude throughout, which, once more, Swift demolished a decade later through his satire. I would certainly be able to look past all that if there were rich ideas at play, but there really aren't. The theological interpolations seem pretty superficial and utilitarian to me, even though they make for good discussion on whether Crusoe's portrait of God is correct. We have to keep in mind that this was popular fiction, and it is commonly only considered literary because it is an important milestone in the development of the English novel. What's left, then? Well, it certainly is a darned good story—full of suspense, high adventure, and the sheer intrigue of a man stripped down to his barest needs forced to devote his life to survival. But I'm afraid it isn't much more than that. In that sense, it reminds me of Stevenson or Kipling—fun, rollicking, high-spirited escape fiction with problematic attitudes that one can easily look past for the sake of entertainment. But also, let's not embrace Crusoe's shallow theology and facile worldview just because it is "Christian."...more
This is one of those that it's simply downright impossible to grasp even 50% of if you read it in high school. When I did so, I was too distracted by This is one of those that it's simply downright impossible to grasp even 50% of if you read it in high school. When I did so, I was too distracted by the dirty jokes, surrealist fantasy, and deeply disturbing implications of Part IV to think much further than that. But now I see it as a sort of anti-Enlightenment Candide (yes, it preceded Voltaire, but it's very similar in what it's trying to do) and potentially the last great work in the English Puritan tradition that aims to help us understand who we are, what we're up against, and what our ultimate destination is; Milton and Bunyan being the two main representatives of that mode. Sure, the misanthropy is over the top and arguably informed by misguided expectations about man, but Swift is diligent about forcing us to wallow in our own muck in the same way that Milton's Satan is meant to force us to reflect on the exceedingly attractive nature of evil. This time around, I was particularly struck by Gulliver's preposterous blathering and comically skewed judgments—he's an unapologetic parody of the average Eurocentric colonialist.
Part IV is, of course, the most interpretatively problematic, but I see it as an unshakable allegory of materialism/secularism in the face of evil. If one rejects a transcendent basis to existence, then one is forced to confront the depravity of man. There are two possible reactions to this: you can either believe in Enlightenment fantasies about universal brotherhood, power of pure reason, and that humanity is basically good and able to solve all its own problems; and end up like the Houyhnhnms, who apparently have a utopia but who practice a form of eugenics and are not even human. Or you can let yourself be totally embittered by what you see in the world and choose Darwinian nihilism (or total-depravity Calvinism!), rolling around in filth and viewing everyone as a degenerate Yahoo with no dignity or hope at all. Gulliver, as a nominal Christian who can't believe in anything besides the optimistic progress of the West, is driven to despair by his love for the disembodied Enlightenment ideals as opposed to his acknowledgement that he and everyone he loves will forever remain a Yahoo. He is unable to reconcile these positions, and becomes insane. The secularist, or he who places trust in anything besides the divine, cannot achieve the Christian middle ground of recognition of catastrophic fallenness and embracing of unspeakable joy while remaining logically consistent. The very absence of theology in the satire speaks volumes. Swift's schtick gets a bit tiresome past a certain point, but this is a Great Book because it doesn't shy away from telling us the things we all know but hate to admit, and its ultimate genius is that its fire will sting conservatives and progressives, evangelicals and atheists, virtue ethicists and utilitarians, rationalists and empiricists—because anyone who believes that they are good enough is less than human—they are either an animal or a Yahoo....more
Like many, I was blown away beyond all reason when I first read this in high school. To this day I still don't think I've read a story (besides maybe Like many, I was blown away beyond all reason when I first read this in high school. To this day I still don't think I've read a story (besides maybe Les Miserables) with such an intricate plot, so much delirious suspense, and so many disparate elements that manages to tie itself up into such a satisfying whole. It is certainly not characteristic of Dickens and objectively it may not be his best novel (that'd be Great Expectations or Bleak House), but it is perhaps his most fun. The rare literary treat that leaves you both heartily satisfied and entertained. I can never help getting goosebumps and dropping a tear or two at the last few paragraphs even though it's clearly sentimental emotional manipulation....more
This occupies a unique position in Victorian literature due to the intriguing confluence of modes that clash and conflict throughout. Everyone knows hThis occupies a unique position in Victorian literature due to the intriguing confluence of modes that clash and conflict throughout. Everyone knows how Brontë subverts the sentimental morality tale as well as the presence of proto-psychological and Realist tones, but much of the novel's interest for me stems in how Brontë pits these strains against the odd Gothic and Romantic intrusions. In both this and Wuthering Heights, I detect a tentative and waffling spirituality that is "daemonic" in the classical sense; not that real demonic power is necessarily involved, but that the novels are populated with "spirits" in the background that reflect the passions and vicissitudes of the characters. But although I wouldn't call Wuthering Heights a great formal achievement—it's a bizarre short story idea that Emily somehow ballooned into an astonishing, expressionist operatic tragedy—Charlotte produced a masterful and individual narrative voice, sharply etched characters, and a nearly perfect plot with just enough convenient melodrama to allow for scarcely a lull in the entire story. It has well deserved its status in that regard.
But this was also a prime example of college-student/lit major me being able to identify and grapple with some of the more vague and problematic ideas in the novel rather than the high-school me who just gobbled up the story and ranted against those who called it a feminist novel (which I suppose it is if you just define "feminist" as "attention to issues of concern to women", but I find it unhelpful to categorize it as such since I stay away from anything that smacks of postmodern criticism rather than the human experience in ipso). Partially, this meant that I was able to recognize the sexual tension that undoubtedly plays a role in Jane's bildungsroman (though not to the extent that some would want to make it). What about the religious elements? Surely it would be wrong to say that Brontë is challenging Christian orthodoxy, but it would be much easier to say this if not for the ending. The process of conversion to love, with divine undertones, is illustrated by Austen in Pride and Prejudice as a sacramental duty capable of inferring sainthood upon the thirsty pilgrim. Previously I had thought of Jane and Rochester's reconciliation (fueled by his "purge" by fire and having to face up to his sins, etc.) as being in a very similar vein, but now I don't see how that interpretation is valid. Rochester never really "owns up" in any meaningful way that isn't blandly conventional compared to the rest of the novel (not to mention that his entire character is extremely romantic and quite implausible in many regards—though the story can definitely be read as one of him being awakened to the meaning of true love). But more importantly, what is there in him that makes Jane think that her union with him would be the fully Christian marriage and the true consummation of purpose for which she longs? What's changed, really, besides his superficial outward condition? This seems to be a major fault in Brontë's conception, and perhaps this is only to be expected from a young writer who did most other things superbly. But it still bothers me—perhaps to an irrational degree.
Unlike the problematic case of Rochester, we know why she rejects St. John (whose name is actually pronounced "sin-jin"—a fact that less than 1% of the novel's readers probably know, including myself until I listened to a podcast on it), and we know that she craves a solidarity between her faith and her desire for happiness in the here and now. But here's the thing: she differs from Austen's heroines in that her "conversion" consists not in anchoring herself to a transcendent narrative but, to put it crudely, in "following her heart." She is not joining a moral community and pledging to inhabit and reform it, as Austen would have her do; nor does she base her love on anything other than subjective feeling. That's not as bad as some might like to think, since Christians have to admit that there is a mystical, magnetic side to romantic love that can't be anchored in reason or even ethics (never ignore Song of Songs!) Yet Austen—and the other great comic novelists of love like George Eliot and Tolstoy—are able to affirm this without neglecting the larger frame in which love dwells. I can't escape the feeling that Jane's piety comes across as more of an afterthought, even as she also bases all her moral decisions on standards outside of her immediate circumstances. It's certainly a difficult paradox, but in summary, I don't feel comfortable branding Jane as either a saint or a free-love crusader. I can't quite put my finger on why her character, for all its brilliance, doesn't satisfy me; and I know that it's all due to the problems and ambiguities of those last couple chapters, especially the fact that the book ends with a quasi-ironic reflection on St. John. It truly surprises me that so many people see Jane as the epitome of a patient Christian heroine. So much of the novel requires such a large suspension of disbelief that I have a hard time seeing it as anything other than ironic. But maybe Brontë has simply taken it upon herself to demonstrate the wonder of a joyful comic ending. And, sincere or not, if you don't smile during the last couple chapters, you are immune to joy.
I know it sounds as if I'm trying to talk myself out of my initial love for the novel, but that's not the case. It still contains a great deal of lovely things, and it's still one that is very much preoccupied with the Classical Conception of Man; Truth, Beauty, and Goodness, &c. Yet there are startling incongruities at play here—there are passages that could be lifted from Shelley's Frankenstein (especially the great proposal scene in the garden, which reads like a luxurious operatic duet) but also moments of classical purity and a great restrain on undue pathos throughout. Perhaps Brontë intentionally structured her novel around unsolvable dichotomies such as this. And though I admire her mastery, this leads me to view her more as a step toward modernism than I had previously thought. Again, there is nothing necessarily wrong with this—modern fiction tells us many worthwhile things. Yet one cannot read Jane's story without struggling, to some degree, with the moral dilemmas that populate the Brontës' battle with—and lack of resolution of—our transcendent stature vis-a-vís our vacuous waywardness....more
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