Austen on seeing nothing

In Volume II, chapter IX of Emma, Emma and Harriet Smith got shopping Highbury. When simple, pliable Harriet takes too long over her muslin purchase, Emma gets bored:

Emma went to the door for amusement.—Much could not be hoped from the traffic of even the busiest part of Highbury;—Mr. Perry walking hastily by, Mr. William Cox letting himself in at the office-door, Mr. Cole’s carriage-horses returning from exercise, or a stray letter-boy on an obstinate mule, were the liveliest objects she could presume to expect; and when her eyes fell only on the butcher with his tray, a tidy old woman travelling homewards from shop with her full basket, two curs quarrelling over a dirty bone, and a string of dawdling children round the baker’s little bow-window eyeing the gingerbread, she knew she had no reason to complain, and was amused enough; quite enough still to stand at the door. A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.

This is a striking moment to me, because Austen includes few such slice-of-life moments in her novels. And yet here we have the ordinary goings-on in the village of Highbury. I can easily imagine this scene painted by George Caleb Bingham, who was five years old when Emma was published or, if he could rein in his instincts for meanness and satire, Hogarth.

So there’s the surprising social realist note to the passage, and the affectionate homeliness of the scene, but it was the last line that struck me:

“A mind lively and at ease, can do with seeing nothing, and can see nothing that does not answer.”

I read that three times and my wife and I stopped to talk about it. I had struggled earlier in the day to express some of what I worry about as a generation raised on constant technological stimulation ages. What will those lulled by constant noise do with the long final silences of their lives? What will those with no attention span do with endless inactivity? Will they have anything of their own to fill that time?

Here Austen sums up the best alternative: a mind sufficiently self-furnished to be comfortable in “boredom,” a mind capable not only of encountering but of embracing and enjoying “nothing.”

Because Emma is not really bored watching her neighbors in Highbury, and what they are doing is not really nothing. Per Chesterton, “There is no such thing on earth as an uninteresting subject; the only thing that can exist is an uninterested person.” My fear is that modern technology and our culture of content consumption and ceaseless stimulation will render many minds void even of the ability to be interested. And what happens then?

I have recently grown uncomfortable even with my own habit of listening to podcasts on my commute. Ages ago I used this time to think. I got ideas and worked on them later. Now I fill it with other people’s talk—good talk, talk I engage with and learn from, but still other people’s talk. I’ve begun to suspect that more silences would be good for my mind and imagination.

Emma famously starts with a list of the heroine’s strengths—“handsome, clever, and rich.” She can’t really take credit for these things, and she also has significant flaws. Part of the point of the novel is her growth in maturity and virtue, which brings her character into alignment with her natural gifts. And I think she owes no small part of that growth to the formation of her mind—not book-smart, as Mr Knightley points out early on, but sharpened and receptive, even when “at ease.”

Badly written, Emma

The early chapters of Emma concern Emma Woodhouse’s efforts to manipulate people into relationships, most prominently Mr Elton, the vicar, who is not as obliging as he seems, and her friend Harriet Smith, who is a pleasant dope with nothing going for her. When Harriet receives a surprise proposal from Robert Martin, a man held in high regard for his character, intelligence, and work ethic by everyone but who is—gasp!—a farmer, Emma casts about for reasons to tell Harriet to refuse.

When she reads Martin’s letter of proposal she discovers

not merely no grammatical errors, but as a composition it would not have disgraced a gentleman; the language, though plain, was strong and unaffected, and the sentiments it conveyed very much to the credit of the writer. It was short, but expressed good sense, warm attachment, liberality, propriety, even delicacy of feeling.

In otherwords, it is the kind of writing anyone who cares about writing strives for.

Emma tries to spin this quality as a bad thing. At first she tries to suggest that, because Mr Martin doesn’t speak as well as he writes (heaven help all of us of whom this is true) that his sister must have helped him or written it for him, but by the end of the chapter she is dismissing the letter as merely “tolerable” and has convinced Harriet that it is of no importance because it is “short.”

A few chapters later, she has so warped the pliable Harriet’s perceptions that Harriet explicitly compares Mr Martin’s earnest letter to Mr Elton’s dumb riddle and finds the letter wanting:

“It is one thing,” said she, presently—her cheeks in a glow—“to have very good sense in a common way, like every body else, and if there is any thing to say, to sit down and write a letter, and say just what you must, in a short way; and another, to write verses and charades like this.”

Emma could not have desired a more spirited rejection of Mr. Martin’s prose.

The comedy of these chapters lies in Emma’s blinding self-deception (Mr Elton wants her, not Harriet), snobbery (highlighted most clearly by Mr Knightley’s account of talking to Mr Martin in the next chapter), and her monumental hypocrisy (she counsels Harriet to reject Mr Martin in… a brief and direct letter, which she also ends up writing herself). But it’s striking that Austen chose the art of writing to express so much about Emma’s moral character. Mr Martin’s letter reflects his personal virtue and Emma’s reaction to it—most especially her continued doubling down, trying to will her opinion into reality—reflect her immaturity and selfishness.

Writing style is not an infallible guide to moral character, but deliberately rejecting good writing is always revealing. A certain kind of writer likes to pretend that form, style, and the basic rules of grammar and storytelling don’t matter, that they are free to write in whatever way they want. They scoff at the seasoned writers of yesteryear who have tried to lay out some of what works. George Orwell and Elmore Leonard are common targets, but you can best gauge their commitment by how violently they attack Strunk and White. And, like Emma, they work hard to sway others to embrace their error.

The rules usually find them out. Good writing is good writing wherever you find it, but one writes well by seeking it outside of oneself and conforming to it, not by trying obstinately to will one’s writing into excellence—just as Emma has to learn with regard to character, friendship, and love.

Mr Bennet’s library

I’m currently reading Pride and Prejudice out loud to my wife every night before bed. Though I know the story well, this is the first time I’ve actually read it since college probably eighteen years ago. As much as you can appreciate Austen’s wit, goodness, and insight, there is nothing like actually reading her work to blow you away.

It’s also easy to forget, in a world full of imitators that feature the trappings of Austen’s world but not the wit, goodness, and insight—and are increasingly skanky, to boot—how fantastically funny Austen is. It’s hard for me to get through a chapter because I’m constantly laughing.

Last night we read some of the choicest early chapters featuring Mr Collins. After finding Mr Collins “as absurd as he had hoped,” Mr Bennet is stuck with a living, breathing, rapidly aging joke in his house. Specifically his library. This is bothersome to Mr Bennet, because, as Austen tells us:

“In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the house, he was used to be free from them there.”

Sarah and I agreed to have that made into a nice sign for our own office/library door.

2017 in Books

For the inaugural post of this new blog, I want to highlight a few of the best books I’ve read in the last year. I’ve selected five favorite books from a few broad categories in which I do a lot of reading. I’ve cheated a little, as you’ll see, since it’s always hard to limit myself to a set number, especially when it comes to a really good reading year.

These are just a handful of the books I’ve read this year. You can see the rest in my Goodreads reading challenge summary here.

Keep in mind that these are my favorites from each category, not necessarily the best—although the two mostly overlap.

Fiction

Sword of Honour, by Evelyn Waugh—The first Waugh I’ve read. Sword of Honour is a trilogy of novels about Guy Crouchback, scion of a failing English Catholic family. Despite already being in his thirties, Guy signs up for service in the British army at the outbreak of World War II, inspired by crusader forebears and a keen, traditional sense of duty. The trilogy is the story of his disillusionment in the face of modern warfare, the totally amoral pragmatism of even the good guys in modern war, and ideology—from Nazism to Communism. It’s magnificent and heartbreaking.

The Prisoner of Zenda, by Anthony Hope—One of the most enjoyable adventure stories I’ve ever read, a classic swashbuckler with a clever plot, fascinating setting (Ruritania, the forerunner of every vaguely central or eastern European state from Durmstrang to Elbonia), and enjoyable characters. I also found its old-fashioned sense of duty, honor, and obligation refreshing; if Zenda were written today, it’s ending would be totally different, and inferior. (I’ve since watched both classic film versions, and love the 1937 adaptation starring Ronald Colman.)

Emma, by Jane Austen—Jane Austen’s reputation as a master of manners, motivation, and understanding of the human heart is well earned. To read her is to despair of ever writing anything witty or insightful again. Emma is my wife’s favorite, and I can see why, though I’m still partial to Pride and Prejudice.

News of the World, by Paulette Jiles—A beautifully written novel set in a fascinating time and place: Reconstruction-era Texas, with the miasma of the Civil War still pervading the air and intermixing with the threat of Indian attack. Jefferson Kyle Kidd, an itinerant newsreader, finds himself saddled with delivering a young girl, the survivor of an Indian massacre and years of captivity, to her nearest living relatives. Brilliantly evocative of its time and place, and it also avoids romanticizing any aspect of Western life. 

The Black Flower, by Howard Bahr—A magnificent Civil War novel taking place over approximately twenty-four hours at the Battle of Franklin in 1864. The Black Flower follows Bushrod Carter, a young Mississippi infantryman, his comrades, and Anna Hereford, a cousin staying at the McGavock house, destined to become a Confederate field hospital. The battle both unites and separates them in profoundly moving ways. One of the best Civil War novels I’ve read. Bahr has two related novels that I also recommend: The Year of Jubilo and The Judas Field.

Runners Up:

A Friend of Mr. Lincoln, by Stephen Harrigan—An imaginative story set during Abraham Lincoln’s less well-known early years as a striving lawyer in frontier Illinois.

Nutshell, by Ian McEwan—A weird but clever reimagining of Hamlet, in which the melancholy Dane is Claude and Trudy’s unborn child.

The Mark of Zorro, by Johnston McCulley—Zorro has been a favorite of mine since childhood, and this is his highly entertaining—and very pulpy—debut. The 1940 film version starring Tyrone Power is also excellent.

Duel: Terror Stories, by Richard Matheson—A bit of a cheat, since I haven’t quite finished this book yet, but it’s a great collection of short fiction by an underappreciated master of the genre. The title story is excellent, the this collection includes several other really good ones, including four or five that served as the basis of “Twilight Zone” episodes.

History

The Fall of Berlin 1945, by Antony Beevor—A deeply depressing but necessary study of the last two or three months of World War II in Europe, the nearest I believe we’ve ever come to literal hell on earth. 

Brand Luther, by Andrew Pettegree—A view of Luther through his relationship with print. Turns out Luther was persnickety about more than indulgences, Zwingli, rebellious peasants, and the Jews—he demanded quality printing and exercised tight control over not just the content but the presentation of his books. I was more genuinely interested and learned more from this book than many others I’ve read in the last few years. Outstanding.

The Earth is Weeping: The Epic Story of the Indian Wars for the American West, by Peter Cozzens—An excellent narrative history of the Indian Wars that presents all sides fairly, good and bad, and avoids ideological axe-grinding. It’s also a thrilling read, which isn’t necessary in a work of history but is always appreciated—especially as rare as it’s become today.

The Second World Wars: How the First Global Conflict Was Fought and Won, by Victor Davis Hanson—An engrossing topical history of World War II. Hanson analyzes the war from a variety of angles—command, leadership, armor, siege warfare, naval power, air power, industrial production, and many more—rather than chronologically, and pulls on some fascinating threads in order to approach the war from a fresh angle. I had the chance to interview Hanson just before Thanksgiving and hope to post a link soon.

The Autobiography of Frederick Douglass—Justly regarded as a classic. Douglass’s spare, unadorned prose, his brutal narrative, and his unflinching moral lucidity should be a challenge to any reader.

Runners Up:

Summer of Blood: England’s First Revolution, by Dan Jones—An excellent short look at the Wat Tyler rebellion, a brutal peasant uprising from the south of England crushed by a young Richard II in 1381.

Communism: A History, by Richard Pipes—An excellent short history of Communism. Pipes does not back away from pointing out what should be obvious—the problem with Communism is, and always has been, Communism.

Children’s and Picture Books

Shooting at the Stars, written and illustrated by John Hendrix—A beautifully illustrated account of the 1914 Christmas truce, one of the few bright spots in the miserable opening act of history’s bloodiest century.

The Silver Chair, by C.S. Lewis—A classic that should need no introduction. For all the Lewis I’ve read, I still haven’t read all of the Chronicles of Narnia. I’m one step closer to fixing that. Puddleglum should rank as one of the great characters of twentieth century fiction.

The Tale of Troy, by Roger Lancelyn Green—Excellent distillation and adaptation of the myriad Trojan War legends. Several passages, for all their brevity in this form, are still quite moving. 

Twenty and Ten, by Claire Huchet Bishop—A favorite from fourth or fifth grade, the story of twenty French Catholic school children who come together to protect ten Jewish children from the Nazis during World War II. 

Pompeii: Buried Alive! by Edith Kunhardt Davis, illustrated by Michael Eagle—A very good account of the destruction of Pompeii suitable for young readers. What attracted me to this book was the illustrations by Michael Eagle, who also illustrated The Trojan Horse, one of my favorite books as a child.

Runners Up:

The Princess and the Goblin, by George MacDonald
The Shakespeare Stealer and Shakespeare’s Scribe, by Gary Blackwood
Found, by Sally Lloyd-Jones, illustrated by Jago
Medallion, by Dawn L. Watkins

Classics

How to Grow Old, by Cicero—A translation of De Senectute (On Old Age), one of a batch of philosophical treatises Cicero produced in his last two years of life. A very good meditation on aging—not just consolation as one grows older, but encouragement to embrace the changes and positives of age in accordance with the Stoic principles of Reason and Nature. Excellent.

The Saga of the Volsungs, translated by Jackson Crawford—An excellent new translation of one of the great pieces of Norse literature, the source of most of our stories about Sigurd, the dragon-slayer, and his violent family. This edition includes a sequel of sorts, The Saga of Ragnar Lothbrok, which I had never read before. If you haven’t subscribe to Crawford’s excellent YouTube channel and follow him on Twitter. He’s one of the best academic social media presences out there.

Jason and the Argonauts, by Apollonius of Rhodes—A fun adventure from the Hellenistic Age, combining subversion of literary convention with real excitement and pathos. It’s also short compared to something like the Iliad, so if you’re trying to read some classics but you’re on a tight schedule, check it out.

Beowulf, translated by Stephen Mitchell—A good new translation of one of my favorite books. I still prefer those of Seamus Heaney or Michael Alexander, but this is a solid new one and was good excuse for me to reread it over Christmas.

The Aeneid, by Virgil, translated by David Ferry—My second cheat of this list. I got this acclaimed new translation with my Christmas money and have been enjoying it since. It’s been better than a decade since I read the Aeneid, and that’s too long. This coincided with my grandfather’s passing at the age of ninety, and so fathers, leadership, and honor have been on my mind. Virgil is excellent food for the soul under those conditions.

* * * * *

I planned to cover a few books I reread this year, but this piece is quite long enough already.

I’d be remiss if I let this opportunity pass to plug a book I read and reread several times this year as I prepared it for publication—Dark Full of Enemies. Please do check it out if you’re interested, and let me know if you do. I hope it’ll be an entertaining and thought-provoking adventure for you.

I’m looking forward to the new year, to new projects of my own, and to new books to discover and read. I hope you’ve all had a merry Christmas and that you have a happy new year!