If you are like me, you have friends with whom you love to talk about books. Each gets excited about something he recently read and wants to share this experience with you. Often, you know how they think, and you respect their judgment. Sometimes they give you the book because they really want you to read it — and you feel an obligation to do so.
I still cuss Jay Spruill for recommending Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. He said, “It’s a beautiful book about a father’s love for his son.” We’ve been great buds since we were eight. Even though he went to that lady’s school in Chapel Hill, I still (or at least I did) trust his literary judgment. Damn that Spruill! That was positively the most depressing book I’ve ever read.
Not long ago, I was having coffee with the usual group of fellas who roll into the coffee shop around 6 a.m. My buddy Troy Arnold and I were talking about British literature, and he mentioned that Middlemarch was considered the greatest English novel of all time. I knew that Virginia Woolf had stated it was “one of the few English novels written for grown-up people.” I thought, How can I, Rob Smith, a man of letters, not have read the greatest English novel of all time?
So I did, but halfway through it, I was cussing Troy. I thought he had “Spruilled” me. He went to that obnoxious cheater school 10 miles northwest of UNC. Why I would trust anyone who went to Carolina or Duke is beyond me, but I am, regrettably, a trusting and charitable soul — one who feels great empathy for those that didn’t go to schools founded by Thomas Jefferson.
Middlemarch takes place in a fictional English village around the time of the great Reform Bill debates of the early 1830s, even though it was not written until 1871. George Eliot, the author, was actually a chick named Mary Ann, which conjures up in my mind one of the greatest debates of our modern age: Mary Ann or Ginger? I’ve always been perplexed on this issue, as depending on my mood, the setting, and how much bourbon I’ve had, I could go for either one. However, I fancy that Mary Ann Evans was not a Hollywood babe, but she had a keen insight into how real babes think, including my favorite character, Rosamond Vincy. More on Rosy later.
There were 12–15 principal characters in the book, all of whom are interconnected. Mary Ann’s genius is her in-depth and detailed reporting of each character’s inner thinking — the ruminations of their thought processes leading to whatever they say or do. You and I might answer a question with a one-word answer, but in the split second before we speak, hundreds of thoughts and linguistic calculations go through our head. This is big-time heroic character development, the likes of which are seldom seen in even the greatest works of literature. We humans are complex individuals, and Mary Ann does a masterful job letting us know this.
All of this makes me wonder. These characters were obviously based on real people and experiences she witnessed, and I wonder if in 1871, Brits felt like she absolutely nailed certain character types as I felt reading Tom Wolfe’s Bonfire of the Vanities and A Man in Full. Sherman McCoy, the X-ray ladies, Maria Ruskin, Charlie Coker, and Raymond Peepgas — I was stunned by how extraordinarily well Wolfe painted certain character types that I knew intimately. My guess is she did the same.
Human nature never changes. Despite the setting and the 150 years in the past, the residents of Middlemarch feel deeply familiar. Money and status then and now are embedded in most people’s consciousness. This isn’t criticism — it’s just a fact. Gossip then, as now, is a currency that many, perhaps folks without a nobler purpose, trade. As in Pride and Prejudice and other works of this period, I am attracted to the civility, the gracious manners, and the pleasant use of elevated language among not just the uppers, but also the lower echelons. I despise many elements of our boorish culture and wonder, in appreciation, at the way things once were.
Middlemarch gave me pause for self-examination. I didn’t like the people I should have liked. Dorothea Brooke was an extremely handsome woman, but she was a do-gooder, wanting to change the world — but of course, she knew nothing about the world. I’m a very superficial man, attracted to good-looking women, but Dorotheas do nothing for me. Now, the aforementioned Rosamond Vincy — a different story. Blonde, pretty, gracious, cultured, fun. My friend Kenny Paciocco once opened my eyes with a very telling observation. He said some women have a superpower. That’s Rosy. Just born with the natural ability to coast through life, not really aware that her beauty and charms weaken men’s sensibilities so they become submissive to the spell she casts. Rosy likes luxuries and status among the glitterati and higher orders. Had I been in Middlemarch, I would’ve married her, and I would’ve been miserable. This thought scared the hell out of me!
Mr. Casaubon, Dorothea’s much older husband, was a cold stone prig. He fancied himself to be a great academic, but despite his pretentious knowledge, he was a subpar thinker and actor and would never accomplish his dream of being a recognized scholar. I disliked him the most.
I know you must know Mr. Brooke, Dorothea’s uncle. His character reminded me of a quip my friend Bob Henley once made when we were getting dressed in the locker room. F_____ told a long-winded tale. We all had places to go. When he had finished and walked out of the room, Bob said, “Someone should tell F____ that the whole reason for telling a story is to have a point!”
Everybody in Middlemarch, even the most noble of characters, had flaws — which, of course, mirror the way we all are. Some flaws are endearing. I didn’t enjoy the first 200 pages because there was nobody I could identify with. Dorothea and her husband bored me to death, but then Mary Ann introduces us to Fred. At first, he was a minor character, but I liked him right away. He was a 20-year-old dilettante and a fu#k-up who had to drop out of university. He was aimlessly living under his parents’ roof with no job and being waited on by his mother and the staff. He possessed 20-year-old tastes that appealed to me — boozing, gambling, and fast horses — but I detected a better person with a bigger heart than all the near-perfectly adorned sanctimonious holier-than-thous in town. I sensed he was going to turn out alright, and he did.
I finished the book a week ago while sitting in Central Park on a very pleasant day. There’s a certain satisfaction — perhaps a smugness and pride — after finishing an acclaimed piece of literature. While in this mood, I took a long walk and thought about all the characters Mary Ann introduced. I’m still thinking about them and chuckling to myself about why we often like people who are a bit off or nutty, as opposed to the “near-perfect” types. Some books linger with you — they almost become imbued inside of your soul. Sometimes, a good thing. Sometimes, like Spruill’s book, not so good. Damn that Spruill! I think Middlemarch will hang around awhile in a semi-conscious state of self-reflection and make me contemplate why I identify with certain characters and why I’m not particularly fond of others.
In conclusion, I hope the Skipper can find a way to get Mary Ann off that island to write another book, because I would probably read it.
