Monday, April 20, 2009
Close Reading, My Own Thoughts
In reviewing for the Roundtable discussion, I have been reviewing particular critics and have identified what interests me most. I am intrigued by the historical examination of the moment such as wit Said or Barthes, but I am also intrigued by this idea of consciousness - perhaps with Lowes and his desire for unconscious process and privileging the experience of poetry, or perhaps Auerbachs fascination with a multi-personal representation of consciousness. I guess I am most fascinated by it because I don't enirely grasp it, I understand wanting to situate a text within it's time period but what's to be said of the author's intention for the piece? My own proposal for a method of close reading will surround something that examines this - perhaps having to do with the process of poetry. I sometimes wish I could examine a piece from the authors eyes, was there a political masking that was intentional? Of conservatism? Was the piece merely a moment and the interpretations fell in later? I know I couldn't possibly answer these questions on my own but I am hoping my own method, in examining a writers conscious v. unconscious state, will help me come to better conclusions about close reading. I have also wondered how a particular place in a moment would affect this. If there were ways to determine where an author was in their writing state - outdoors, inside their bedroom - how would placement in a moment affect the conscious (or unconscious) state? This is a brainstorm.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Reflections on Close Reading
Having completed the requirements for an English major at Penn, for me, reading Rabinowitz made a lot of sense because I’ve experienced most of it. It’s true that we are taught that “good reading is slow, attentive to linguistic nuance and [especially] suspicious of surface meanings” (230). At some point, we are conditioned to believe that the best papers are the most subversive to an author’s intention, if that intention is clear, or at least subversive to the norms of the historical period. Also, the idea that close reading can allow a student to reclaim a work to conform to their beliefs is absolutely true. Part of the temptation of being a critic, both in class discussions and in papers, is to make your own soap box and espouse your personal philosophies on life. Interpreting literature is not like math where there is only one right answer.
Two musings on possible ways to go beyond close reading:
1) What does it mean to “read” a text? From Rabinowitz’s observation that the New Critics’ assume the production of texts comes the idea that the physical text is infallible—the words on the page are not to be questioned. We merely assume “that the text we have are the texts the authors wrote, thus conveniently ignoring the interference of publication as an economic and cultural institution” (231). Questioning intentionality, historical context, and the instability of language itself is fair game, but not the materiality of the text. What if we began to think about the meaning behind the print as a way to construct new meanings about a text? What if instead of the relevant literature of the time, we looked at the history of printing and publishing? Thinking specifically about the plays of Shakespeare, and the idea of publisher as author, there are material constraints that limit plot and drastically affect the text we take for authority. There is meaning in the physical process that is often overlooked.
2) In the Well Wrought Urn, Cleanth Brooks argues that all good poetry, preconditioned by an ability to close read it, is not only paradoxical but meta-poetry. What if we used that same theory to think about epistolary novels as intrinsic commentaries about modes of reading? Without the benefit of narrative voice, a novel comprised entirely of letters necessitates that everyone is a reader. Can parallels be drawn between reading and hermeneutic practice and the way we conceive personal character? Whether it is a detective novel or an early novel of sentiment, how does reading the very act of reading incriminate a plot outside of the one the author may or may not have intended?
Two musings on possible ways to go beyond close reading:
1) What does it mean to “read” a text? From Rabinowitz’s observation that the New Critics’ assume the production of texts comes the idea that the physical text is infallible—the words on the page are not to be questioned. We merely assume “that the text we have are the texts the authors wrote, thus conveniently ignoring the interference of publication as an economic and cultural institution” (231). Questioning intentionality, historical context, and the instability of language itself is fair game, but not the materiality of the text. What if we began to think about the meaning behind the print as a way to construct new meanings about a text? What if instead of the relevant literature of the time, we looked at the history of printing and publishing? Thinking specifically about the plays of Shakespeare, and the idea of publisher as author, there are material constraints that limit plot and drastically affect the text we take for authority. There is meaning in the physical process that is often overlooked.
2) In the Well Wrought Urn, Cleanth Brooks argues that all good poetry, preconditioned by an ability to close read it, is not only paradoxical but meta-poetry. What if we used that same theory to think about epistolary novels as intrinsic commentaries about modes of reading? Without the benefit of narrative voice, a novel comprised entirely of letters necessitates that everyone is a reader. Can parallels be drawn between reading and hermeneutic practice and the way we conceive personal character? Whether it is a detective novel or an early novel of sentiment, how does reading the very act of reading incriminate a plot outside of the one the author may or may not have intended?
Translational Close Reading
The problem with many recent close reading methods is their excessive reliance on extrinsic practices. If we are to follow Jameson's methodology we set ourselves up to read into the text with our ideological precondition, an act the I.A. Richards warned against with the onset of New Criticism. In focusing on a particular interpretive procedure, that of analyzing the narration of metaphorical translation, we would be able to simultaneously historicize the given text while also considering the intention of the author. This method depends upon the breaking down of the modes of translation (idiomatic or literal) in contrast to aspects of Jameson's work. Unlike the political UNconscious, an understanding of moments in which characters relied upon idiomatic rather than literal interpretation would reveal something of the Political Conscious. As Marcus relies on what is on the surface of the text rather than what is absent, this method of dissecting the narration of translational processes could reveal how a character's modes of interpretation/performance correlate with those of the time. For example, Fanny's dependence (as the most moral character) on the literal in contrast to Sir Thomas' dependence (as the most "proprietous" character) on the idiomatic enables interpretation on varying degrees and levels, rather than only what is absent/unconscious. For we can understand the characters themselves in terms of their adherence to the necessity of dependence on idiom, we can say something regarding the mores of the time of setting/composition via what the characters feel needs to be idiom-ized, and we can hypothesize about the author's views on propriety/cultural morality by checking which characters are successful and correlating this success with their method of translation.
Reading Too "Close": Invading Other People's Personal Space
There are so many methods of reading, each of which will produce a unique and different reading from a single text. While I by no means am advocating the school of thought which says "You're reading too much into it," I think we need to take a step back as readers.
We carry around our own messages to project onto our readings of texts, a collection of all our personal experiences and our knowledge base. This sort of reading can be valuable on a personal level because you, as an individual, are finding something you value within the text from your own life.
However, when we study close reading through the medium of literary criticism, we are being given readings secondhand. D.A. Miller's book is an enjoyable read and highly thought provoking, but is it too close in a personal sense to be taken as a good model for future readings? The personalization that such an essay projects onto an analysis can be misleading.
When Said capitalizes on the casual references to Antigua of Mansfield Park, he is passing over the reference to the Quarterly Review that allows for a reading of opposite political leaning. His personal history led him to ignore certain facts when historicizing.
Since we all do have histories, we need to recognize that we carry them with us in our writing and reading. As such, close reading cannot be universalized, it needs to be acknowledged as an intensely personal form of analysis. That being the case, when we read criticism we must keep in mind that it is a personal perspective on a written work and not a reading at large. It is a work of art in its own right.
We carry around our own messages to project onto our readings of texts, a collection of all our personal experiences and our knowledge base. This sort of reading can be valuable on a personal level because you, as an individual, are finding something you value within the text from your own life.
However, when we study close reading through the medium of literary criticism, we are being given readings secondhand. D.A. Miller's book is an enjoyable read and highly thought provoking, but is it too close in a personal sense to be taken as a good model for future readings? The personalization that such an essay projects onto an analysis can be misleading.
When Said capitalizes on the casual references to Antigua of Mansfield Park, he is passing over the reference to the Quarterly Review that allows for a reading of opposite political leaning. His personal history led him to ignore certain facts when historicizing.
Since we all do have histories, we need to recognize that we carry them with us in our writing and reading. As such, close reading cannot be universalized, it needs to be acknowledged as an intensely personal form of analysis. That being the case, when we read criticism we must keep in mind that it is a personal perspective on a written work and not a reading at large. It is a work of art in its own right.
The Boat in the Bottle; The Ancient Tree
Initially, the formalist studies from the first half of the course excited my intellect a great deal. I saw poetry as a linguistic form of music, carrying its own unique flavor of resonance. This is how I thought...
Looking back on 2nd-half-of-the-semester dive into historicist criticism, I see no coincidence that our studies shifted from the poem to the novel. The novelist does something different than the poet: he plants a seed in the soil of his culture, and from this original act of creation, a tree grows forth. If the novelist worked closely with the rigorous exigencies of his cultural clime, and if critics continually cultivate the trees growth through canonization and criticism, then the tree will break nature's threshold and live into sustenance. Every harvest will then bring new seeds that resemble the first seed, and so the original intent is preserved paradoxically as the tree grows and transforms in real time. A valuable novel will thus give readers a window into another time. Readers must put forth much effort in order to draw out the novel's reward, because, like with a tree, the novel's conception is hidden behind countless layers of opacity.
However, if readers have the right tools, they can peel back the layers and gain a view upon a world that is not their own. This is why continual criticism is so important for the novel: the novel was planted using different instruments than the ones available today, and so we have to keep re-inventing new interpretive instruments in order to receive the novel's ever-expanding meaning.
While the poem carries a timeless experience forward in the formalist vessel--maybe like a miniature boat in a bottle--the good novel preserves the feeling of an age by working its materials into fruition. This is to say that the intentions of a poem or a novel--represented by the boat and the seed, respectively--are protected by materials that are durable and fragile at the same time. Glass is hard but breaks if abused; trees stand tall but are susceptible to fire.
As the written composition or the digital recording leads to certain resonances in a specific and unique pattern, so the words on the page leads to a specific imaginative experience. The poetic experience is neither higher nor lower than the musical experience; it just uses different materials and excites different cerebral components. We might assume that no one person experiences a recording in exactly the same way; likewise, we can say that no recording/composition is ever heard the same way twice because it always resonates in a different environment. So the poem probably affects each person differently, and these differences are probably related to the setting of experience. Musicians who listen to other compositions will here the different elements clearer and will have a deeper appreciation along with the more immediate emotional resonances; likewise the poet/student of poetry will have his poetic experience enhanced by paying close attention to the individual elements working in concert.
So the formalist would say that with music and poetry, these materials were used together in this way/in this pattern, and afterwards, this work was the result. Poets, given that they must work with a language bound by time and space, mean to make timeless works, and so they use their time-bound language in a struggle against itself. This is not so different from music: musicians struggle to draw forth beautiful sounds from an otherwise chaotic array of physical vibrations.
So the formalist would say that with music and poetry, these materials were used together in this way/in this pattern, and afterwards, this work was the result. Poets, given that they must work with a language bound by time and space, mean to make timeless works, and so they use their time-bound language in a struggle against itself. This is not so different from music: musicians struggle to draw forth beautiful sounds from an otherwise chaotic array of physical vibrations.
Looking back on 2nd-half-of-the-semester dive into historicist criticism, I see no coincidence that our studies shifted from the poem to the novel. The novelist does something different than the poet: he plants a seed in the soil of his culture, and from this original act of creation, a tree grows forth. If the novelist worked closely with the rigorous exigencies of his cultural clime, and if critics continually cultivate the trees growth through canonization and criticism, then the tree will break nature's threshold and live into sustenance. Every harvest will then bring new seeds that resemble the first seed, and so the original intent is preserved paradoxically as the tree grows and transforms in real time. A valuable novel will thus give readers a window into another time. Readers must put forth much effort in order to draw out the novel's reward, because, like with a tree, the novel's conception is hidden behind countless layers of opacity.
However, if readers have the right tools, they can peel back the layers and gain a view upon a world that is not their own. This is why continual criticism is so important for the novel: the novel was planted using different instruments than the ones available today, and so we have to keep re-inventing new interpretive instruments in order to receive the novel's ever-expanding meaning.
While the poem carries a timeless experience forward in the formalist vessel--maybe like a miniature boat in a bottle--the good novel preserves the feeling of an age by working its materials into fruition. This is to say that the intentions of a poem or a novel--represented by the boat and the seed, respectively--are protected by materials that are durable and fragile at the same time. Glass is hard but breaks if abused; trees stand tall but are susceptible to fire.
According to this model, then, I posit four types of artistic works:
The Good Poem: provides the raw materials for a super-rational experience by juxtaposing otherwise disparate mental shades and timbres. The project of superseding rationality coordinates with the desire to step outside cultural limits. Incredible attention is payed to making "the boat" so that future generations will be careful with its glass case.
The Bad Poem: pines for a state of affairs without making it explicit that its language of pining is exactly the thing to be shirked. The glass will break from neglect.
The Good Novel: planted in fertile cultural soil; tilled by the author in his final stages of editing; continually protected, expanded, and altered by critics of the future who preserve the tree in order to look into the past.
The Bad Novel: planted in rocky, culture-less soil. Either overly-schematic to the point of cultural blind faith, or else so explicitly satirical that critics had no desire to protect the tree using constructive/deconstructive criticism. It gets cut down; either forgotten or chopped to pieces by evil super-intendents with a capitalist agenda.
Musings on Close Reading
It was only in my senior year of high school in AP English Literature that I learned about close reading. In fact, my teacher was shocked that we hadn’t learned about it sooner. Hitherto, I was expected to read for plot detail and perhaps obvious themes. It was only after I learned how to close read that I appreciated poetry because I was easily frustrated by my inability to immediately glean the poem’s “message” (I assumed that all poems had a moral, or message). In high school, close reading a poem meant identifying all of the literary devices and discussing how they all contribute to the poem’s “purpose”. To argue that a poem was in fact, metapoetry was considered a “cop out,” what English students argued when they didn’t understand the poem. Even in my poetry class last year at my old school (I transferred as a sophomore this year to Penn), this metapoetry argument was laughable and there was such a thing as “reading too closely” to the point of making things up and seeing what you wanted to see in the text for the sake of a paper.
I think that with all works of art, including literature, sometimes the meaning that we derive from the text and how the text is used is more important than those that the author intends. I remember hearing from an ethnomusicology lecture that Aretha Franklin’s song “Respect” was used in some Women’s Rights movements despite the lyrics’ references to prostitution. The point was that the people paid attention to the word “respect” of the chorus and derived their meaning from it, independent of its lyrics or of the composer’s intention. In the end, it didn’t matter what the song actually said, but how it was used/how it was read by its audience. Similarly, while Uncle Tom’s Cabin was intended to be an abolitionist novel, “Uncle Tom” is now used to describe blacks that sympathize with whites. But this method of reading/or understanding music is obviously specific to the reader. In my case, I don’t listen to the lyrics of a song and its significance to me comes from its rhythm/mood, if I can dance to it. I suppose that I approach some literary texts in the same manner. While I can objectively see the value in all literary texts (I can appreciate the author’s experimentation with a new sort of narration, for instance), I am particularly fond of texts in which I have discovered a personal significance, at least initially. Deriving personal meaning from a text is especially useful when attacking a dense work of fiction—it becomes less intimidating and has helped me examine the text more critically without qualms. This personal approach to reading is how D.A. Miller approaches Austen. He finds that he, like Austen herself, is a master of Style for he does not subscribe to societal norm of heterosexuality and of a man disliking Jane Austen. Miller does not sacrifice Style in exchange for Personhood just as Austen’s narrative voice remains neuter in not engaging in the marriage plot of which it narrates.
I think that with all works of art, including literature, sometimes the meaning that we derive from the text and how the text is used is more important than those that the author intends. I remember hearing from an ethnomusicology lecture that Aretha Franklin’s song “Respect” was used in some Women’s Rights movements despite the lyrics’ references to prostitution. The point was that the people paid attention to the word “respect” of the chorus and derived their meaning from it, independent of its lyrics or of the composer’s intention. In the end, it didn’t matter what the song actually said, but how it was used/how it was read by its audience. Similarly, while Uncle Tom’s Cabin was intended to be an abolitionist novel, “Uncle Tom” is now used to describe blacks that sympathize with whites. But this method of reading/or understanding music is obviously specific to the reader. In my case, I don’t listen to the lyrics of a song and its significance to me comes from its rhythm/mood, if I can dance to it. I suppose that I approach some literary texts in the same manner. While I can objectively see the value in all literary texts (I can appreciate the author’s experimentation with a new sort of narration, for instance), I am particularly fond of texts in which I have discovered a personal significance, at least initially. Deriving personal meaning from a text is especially useful when attacking a dense work of fiction—it becomes less intimidating and has helped me examine the text more critically without qualms. This personal approach to reading is how D.A. Miller approaches Austen. He finds that he, like Austen herself, is a master of Style for he does not subscribe to societal norm of heterosexuality and of a man disliking Jane Austen. Miller does not sacrifice Style in exchange for Personhood just as Austen’s narrative voice remains neuter in not engaging in the marriage plot of which it narrates.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Self-Awareness of Character in "The Type-Writer Girl"
One of the most noticeable characteristics of Juliet’s conscience (and narration) is her rationalization of her reality to literature. In this she often superimposes her own “Homeric” adventures onto those of characters that she deems worthy of emulation or at least notice. Nowhere is this more evident that in her naming of most of her characters from past literature. This is especially important because her own name is that of one of Shakespeare’s heroines. Because of this fact she is, perhaps unwittingly, forced into this methodology of life and, in particular, to her self-proclaimed search for a Romeo: “My name is Juliet; you may well believe I have had moments when I thrilled with the expectation of a Romeo” (74). This proves to be an essential aspect of her character, as Allen must have clearly known in providing us with a main character keenly aware of her “character-ness”.
This fact is precisely what complicates her style as that of a “new woman”. Though she exhibits many of the attributes that are meant to characterize her as such (bicycle riding, her dress, smoking, etc.), she harbors these sentiments of a Shakespearean Juliet in her search for a man and in her own awareness that “woman is plastic till the predestined man appears” (85). From her narration we see that with the arrival of her “Romeo”, she becomes far more aware of the character-like quality that each of them are meant to play. She adopts somewhat of a persona even upon their first meaning, trying her best to maintain and fulfill her role as the “employee” when she sees that he is willing to give her undue treatment with regard to the carrying of her typewriter. Such intentional self-characterization may equally be said to stem from her awareness of her self as a literary Juliet or have provided her with later insight into her behavior as such. Either way, the notion of her modernity is brought into question with this adoption of the quintessentially female persona.
This fact is precisely what complicates her style as that of a “new woman”. Though she exhibits many of the attributes that are meant to characterize her as such (bicycle riding, her dress, smoking, etc.), she harbors these sentiments of a Shakespearean Juliet in her search for a man and in her own awareness that “woman is plastic till the predestined man appears” (85). From her narration we see that with the arrival of her “Romeo”, she becomes far more aware of the character-like quality that each of them are meant to play. She adopts somewhat of a persona even upon their first meaning, trying her best to maintain and fulfill her role as the “employee” when she sees that he is willing to give her undue treatment with regard to the carrying of her typewriter. Such intentional self-characterization may equally be said to stem from her awareness of her self as a literary Juliet or have provided her with later insight into her behavior as such. Either way, the notion of her modernity is brought into question with this adoption of the quintessentially female persona.
The "Modern Woman" and Her Irrationality
In The Type-Writer Girl, Grant Allen assumes not only a female voice for narration but a female persona for author as well. Instead of a man writing as a woman, Allen presents the novel as a woman writing as a woman. Since the protagonist’s concerns are those of what the Introduction calls “Modern Woman” –financial independence, freedom from male-oriented social constraints, et al. – it would be hard to accept as genuine if attributed to a man: the author would be emasculating himself.
Through the use of a female pseudonym Allen is able to skirt this problem for the most part, but his true identity, at points, shines through. The natural equality of the sexes that Juliet purports to believe in is contradicted by her own actions. When she goes to the auction house she bids on a piece of art even though she has no money to her name simply because she “could not bear to think that that coarse-looking dealer with the vulgar laugh” should own her favorite piece (72). From there, she is quickly overcome by her emotions – “I could no longer contain myself…. With an effort I gasped out”(72).
She has now, through her impetuousness, put herself in an irreconcilable position. Thank God, then, for “the young man with the sweet voice” who approaches her and offers to buy the Fra Angelico from her – and for more than she bid in the first place (73). The “Modern Woman” was saved from her irrational behavior by the benevolent and levelheaded male.
Through the use of a female pseudonym Allen is able to skirt this problem for the most part, but his true identity, at points, shines through. The natural equality of the sexes that Juliet purports to believe in is contradicted by her own actions. When she goes to the auction house she bids on a piece of art even though she has no money to her name simply because she “could not bear to think that that coarse-looking dealer with the vulgar laugh” should own her favorite piece (72). From there, she is quickly overcome by her emotions – “I could no longer contain myself…. With an effort I gasped out”(72).
She has now, through her impetuousness, put herself in an irreconcilable position. Thank God, then, for “the young man with the sweet voice” who approaches her and offers to buy the Fra Angelico from her – and for more than she bid in the first place (73). The “Modern Woman” was saved from her irrational behavior by the benevolent and levelheaded male.
Juliet's bicycle
Juliet’s bicycle is the literal and metaphorical vehicle by which she creates relationships with others. (Juliet makes a similar comparison between herself and her bicycle when she dismounts it to “tighten her loose joints”—that is, those of her bicycle and her own.) The bicycle allows her to obtain her first typewriting job quickly thereby hearing of the anarchist commune later that very day at lunch. Juliet’s fellow anarchist comrades warmed up to her because they were interested in learning how to bicycle. Upon leaving the commune, she crashes into Michaela who we, the reader, learn to be Meta, the fiancé of Juliet’s love interest Romeo.
At the opening of chapter eight, Juliet mentions “bicycle face” along with other disadvantages of her beloved bicycle—its loosened screws as well as the inability for calm reflection whilst riding it. The shift in Juliet’s attitude about her bicycle marks the end of its life—crashing into Michaela about in corner. Here too, Juliet realizes that she is indeed a woman before she is a cyclist because she looks at her own wounds before those of her bicycle; an observation that separates her further from the independent, progressive, bicycling woman in a cycling suit.
When she had her bicycle, Juliet was essentially alone (with the exception of Commissioner Lin). It was a vehicle meant for one person and as such, it is during this time in the novel where Juliet does not have any meaningful (human) relationships. The death of Juliet’s bicycle and her use of trains and gondolas later in the novel coincide with her emotional involvement with Romeo and Michaela (Meta). Even when Juliet must leave Venice, she depends on Meta to return to London (or more specifically, she depends on Meta’s funds).
While the novel begins with a bicycle, it ends with a romantic image of Juliet revealing her identity and bidding goodbye to Meta on a gondola. The gondola, unlike a bicycle with its clunky, mechanical gears and chains, is more aesthetically simple with a smooth, traditionally wooden, body that glides along the Venetian canals. It is noteworthy that the novel’s most dramatic action surrounding Juliet’s emotional affair is discussed with Romeo and Meta on the more aesthetically simple of the two vehicles.
At the opening of chapter eight, Juliet mentions “bicycle face” along with other disadvantages of her beloved bicycle—its loosened screws as well as the inability for calm reflection whilst riding it. The shift in Juliet’s attitude about her bicycle marks the end of its life—crashing into Michaela about in corner. Here too, Juliet realizes that she is indeed a woman before she is a cyclist because she looks at her own wounds before those of her bicycle; an observation that separates her further from the independent, progressive, bicycling woman in a cycling suit.
When she had her bicycle, Juliet was essentially alone (with the exception of Commissioner Lin). It was a vehicle meant for one person and as such, it is during this time in the novel where Juliet does not have any meaningful (human) relationships. The death of Juliet’s bicycle and her use of trains and gondolas later in the novel coincide with her emotional involvement with Romeo and Michaela (Meta). Even when Juliet must leave Venice, she depends on Meta to return to London (or more specifically, she depends on Meta’s funds).
While the novel begins with a bicycle, it ends with a romantic image of Juliet revealing her identity and bidding goodbye to Meta on a gondola. The gondola, unlike a bicycle with its clunky, mechanical gears and chains, is more aesthetically simple with a smooth, traditionally wooden, body that glides along the Venetian canals. It is noteworthy that the novel’s most dramatic action surrounding Juliet’s emotional affair is discussed with Romeo and Meta on the more aesthetically simple of the two vehicles.
"The Bacilli at Flor and Fingleman's"
Juliet Appleton, upon accepting her post as a typewriter (female), comments on the copious amounts of dust that saturate every nook and cranny of the small office at Flor and Fingleman's. "The bacilli," she says, "flew about me visibly whenever I lifted a book; they settled in myriads on my poor black dress; they invaded my hair and required to be daily dislodged by violent hostilities."
Appleton leaves, and after negotiating "complicated topography," she achieves her temporary end at the anarchist colony in Sussex. That colony, in contrast with the London offices, could be best figured by the "bald, bare dining hall" that stood at its center. Here, the influence of women is nearly totally absent. Families exist, but the women and children blindly follow the doxy of the men.
Somehow, simplicity has become foreign (hence the anarchist "furriers,") and complexity has become familiar.
With Austen, we read the austerity of the countryside as a feature that symbolizes and culminates the 19th century nationalist spirit of England. With Allen's novella, however, this austerity typifies the opposite: now, national character is linked with the complex and the accumulated, and the austerities of anarchy and futurism--male dominated phenomena--are marginalized. To borrow a trope from Moretti: In its (moral) emptiness, the simple countryside is inverted as the site of complication in the unfolding plot.
The mechanics of inversion shine yet brighter in the case of narrative voice. A man, Grant Allen, has assumed the first person limited omniscient point of view of a woman, albeit a somewhat independent (masculine) one. Where Austen took a neutered and highly distant position, Allen works the opposite angle by getting moving the narrative voice so close to his character that it moves across the gendered divide. This intense closeness is accentuated time and time again in the novella when Appleton describes moments of "penetration": we feel the dust in her nostrils, the stares upon her figure, the dirt on her dress, the cuts in her hands.
Finally, to tie all this together, the inversion of narrative voice and the inversion of national character simultaneously signify the new-mystical experience of urban modernity. In London, "the phantom-crowded Strand, [the] streaming street full of those hurrying, scurrying men with black bags, bound as ever for the Unknown," offers a brilliant after-image of the "vagueness, the elusiveness, the melting, hazy charm of feminine craft" found in The Odyssey. For wherein the country, peoples and structures lie far from one another, in London experience is condensed. And given the new socialized structure, whereby Woman is to compete with the men, the city re-emerges as the site of nationalism. With its condensation of personalities, ideas, and genders, like bacilli heaped upon old books, London can replace the countryside as the space of mystery and possibility. As Allen looks through new eyes with Juliet Appleton, so we are to understand the urban space as the best place to look mystically through the eyes of others.
Type-writer (not male, but more than female)
When Juliet first enters Flor and Fingelman, she is ignored by all three clerks. In their “ostentatious unconsciousness” of her presence, “[t]heir talk turned upon that noble animal, the horse” (29). They don’t dwell on the horse, instead they turn to talking about Fleet Street. Yet interestingly, once their attention does turn to Juliet, she describes the “pulpy youth” running his eyes over her “as if [she] were a horse for sale” (30). They have stripped her of her personhood and naturalized her into their discussion of horses. As a response to their impersonal scrutiny, she reverts to style since she cannot be a legitimate person in their eyes. Instead, she is a horse—no different from any other horse from their earlier conversation. In being conscious of their gaze, she subsumes their gaze into her own narrative voice, weighing herself as a scientific specimen with her attractiveness in her little black dress and hat.
Rather than reject their condescending gaze and attempt to persuade the reader otherwise, Juliet allows the reader to read her in the same way. She adopts the clerk's perspective, even though she does not endorse that particular view of herself. Thus, she becomes a detached animal in the eyes of the reader, if only for a short time. In the struggle for life, she permits the episode, showing herself humbled, yet knowing enough to read their reading of her. When the pulpy clerk turns to his fellows and pronounces her “good enough” (30), Juliet suspects it as a reference to her outward face and figure rather than her typing skills. She is powerless at this moment to distinguish herself from a horse. At same time, she ironically turns their own kind of gaze against them as she observes the straight black hair, features modeled after an oysters, hairy hands, and goggle-eyes. In that sense, her retaliation wins back part of her personhood, by using the authoritative objectifying gaze usually reserved for men looking at women to look at men.
Coming from an audacious type-writer (female), the power of narration makes any gaze or pronouncement from the clerks secondary. Though Juliet never achieves the privilege of (male), as the author and narrator of her own story, she can definitely claim the authority of a more than female.
Rather than reject their condescending gaze and attempt to persuade the reader otherwise, Juliet allows the reader to read her in the same way. She adopts the clerk's perspective, even though she does not endorse that particular view of herself. Thus, she becomes a detached animal in the eyes of the reader, if only for a short time. In the struggle for life, she permits the episode, showing herself humbled, yet knowing enough to read their reading of her. When the pulpy clerk turns to his fellows and pronounces her “good enough” (30), Juliet suspects it as a reference to her outward face and figure rather than her typing skills. She is powerless at this moment to distinguish herself from a horse. At same time, she ironically turns their own kind of gaze against them as she observes the straight black hair, features modeled after an oysters, hairy hands, and goggle-eyes. In that sense, her retaliation wins back part of her personhood, by using the authoritative objectifying gaze usually reserved for men looking at women to look at men.
Coming from an audacious type-writer (female), the power of narration makes any gaze or pronouncement from the clerks secondary. Though Juliet never achieves the privilege of (male), as the author and narrator of her own story, she can definitely claim the authority of a more than female.
Sunday, March 29, 2009
The Metaphorical Act of Translation in Austen's Work
In consulting various texts regarding the history of English translation, I have been able to understand the progress of what was considered the “proper” form of translating foreign texts. Throughout much of the 18th century, general critical and popular consensus held that the most important thing for a translator to do was catch the “spirit” of a given piece rather than to focus on literal translation. This feeling can be understood quite easily through Alexander Tytler’s seminal work on translation Essay on the Principles of Translation (1791) in which he states of many works that only deal with “literal and servile transcript”. This feeling gradually began to give way with the turn of the century and up until the end of the 19th century there was a general trend towards more literal translations. The era that Austen lived and wrote in, then, was only at the beginning of this transformation of the translational process, but as the topic was widely debated, it would be safe to assume that she had at least minimal exposure to it.
The importance that this debate has to Austen’s text is then to be understood via Inchbald’s own self-proclaimed concern with the style of Kotzebue’s work rather than any form of literal translation. She explicitly states in her preface to Lovers’ Vows that she is primarily concerned with representing his work in a proper fashion to a British audience. This act of catering a translation to an audience becomes very important for Austen in her use of the play and as it reflects the characters throughout her work.
Austen quite clearly considers the play itself as quite improper, a fact which highlights the inefficacy of Inchbald’s supposed concern over British propriety. Fundamentally, then, this may be read as Austen’s belief that no matter the type of translation proffered, the underlying “spirit” is not to be eradicated. This concern gives way to the metaphorical act of translating that each of Austen’s characters undergoes in various forms. Every character deals differently with the act of relaying unknown information to an audience. What is most noteworthy in this is Fanny’s exceptional ability (or inability) to consider only literal speech and behavior. From her very first appearance she is taken in more by Lady Bertram’s smile than by the implicitly intended graciousness of Sir Thomas (43). This behavior is manifest throughout the novel, as seen in Fanny’s objection to the play based on its actual contents rather than what her compatriots tell her is the “spirit” of the play. Equally, Fanny’s literal interpretation of impropriety of the act of Maria’s giving away her brother’s present, Fanny’s unwillingness to adhere to Edmund’s interpretation and justification of Mary’s behavior (90), Fanny’s immediate disavowal of Mary’s plea to overlook the literal aspects of Henry’s behavior (436), and many more instances all reveal Fanny’s adherence to the literal aspects of reality rather than subjective speculation and “translation”.
This analysis becomes even more intriguing when considering Mrs. Norris’s primary joy in life: relaying information of shocking events. This metaphorical “translation” to her intended audiences is the exact opposite of Fanny’s tendencies, and deepens the judgment that Austen’s narrator implicitly gives this most loathed aunt. Ultimately, it may be understood that the debate of Austen’s time regarding the nature of the act of translation has a direct effect on the behavior of the character’s that live in such a time.
The importance that this debate has to Austen’s text is then to be understood via Inchbald’s own self-proclaimed concern with the style of Kotzebue’s work rather than any form of literal translation. She explicitly states in her preface to Lovers’ Vows that she is primarily concerned with representing his work in a proper fashion to a British audience. This act of catering a translation to an audience becomes very important for Austen in her use of the play and as it reflects the characters throughout her work.
Austen quite clearly considers the play itself as quite improper, a fact which highlights the inefficacy of Inchbald’s supposed concern over British propriety. Fundamentally, then, this may be read as Austen’s belief that no matter the type of translation proffered, the underlying “spirit” is not to be eradicated. This concern gives way to the metaphorical act of translating that each of Austen’s characters undergoes in various forms. Every character deals differently with the act of relaying unknown information to an audience. What is most noteworthy in this is Fanny’s exceptional ability (or inability) to consider only literal speech and behavior. From her very first appearance she is taken in more by Lady Bertram’s smile than by the implicitly intended graciousness of Sir Thomas (43). This behavior is manifest throughout the novel, as seen in Fanny’s objection to the play based on its actual contents rather than what her compatriots tell her is the “spirit” of the play. Equally, Fanny’s literal interpretation of impropriety of the act of Maria’s giving away her brother’s present, Fanny’s unwillingness to adhere to Edmund’s interpretation and justification of Mary’s behavior (90), Fanny’s immediate disavowal of Mary’s plea to overlook the literal aspects of Henry’s behavior (436), and many more instances all reveal Fanny’s adherence to the literal aspects of reality rather than subjective speculation and “translation”.
This analysis becomes even more intriguing when considering Mrs. Norris’s primary joy in life: relaying information of shocking events. This metaphorical “translation” to her intended audiences is the exact opposite of Fanny’s tendencies, and deepens the judgment that Austen’s narrator implicitly gives this most loathed aunt. Ultimately, it may be understood that the debate of Austen’s time regarding the nature of the act of translation has a direct effect on the behavior of the character’s that live in such a time.
Mansfield Park and the Archeology of Values
"England" is an entity ripe for accurate historical interpretation because so much cultural innovation took place in such a relatively condensed time and space. Here, I want to focus my lens on the transformation of public values in England as represented through its main works of architecture. My journey begins with Medieval England, when parish churches were first introduced, and it moves swiftly through towards the turn of the nineteenth century, when the house estate became the final locus of public activity, and thus of values.
In "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles," Pamela C. Graves' archeological analysis of church structures affords scholars the opportunity to imagine the interface between values and experience in public life at that time. She notes that "past understandings of the senses and their role in social construction, embodiment and body emplacement" can be the subject of prolonged scrutiny, and thus we learn how "sights, movements and sounds are imbued with meaning and carefully hierarchized [in Medeival eccliastic experience] so as to express and enforce the social and cosmic order." Given the extramission/intromission theories of sensation and perception, by which to sense phenomenologically is to make spiritual contact, the "ritualized...interactions with these material environments [expose] the nexus of piety, social identity, individual and institutional strategies such practices helped to create, as well as the limits of authority and dissidence." Without going into too much detail, the ritualization of otherwise everyday objects was supposed to a.) provide for the laiety, clergy, and nobility alike, an authentic interaction with Communion, and b.) to remind and enforce all peoples to look for the spiritual aspects of physical creation. The latter effort aimed for good Christians to reject outward curiosities and extraneous details by looking always inward towards their True Selves.
Fast forward to the turn of the 1800s, and we see quite a different value system, as evidenced by George Dyer's "A dissertation on the theory and practice of benevolence." In his first chapter, he establishes a variety of points which show the dramatic shift in social attitudes
1.) Humans of like mind are to seek refuge from the imperfections of the physical world in each other's social help: to live otherwise is to subscribe to the superstitions of 'dark ages.'
2.) If a man is superior in his independence, given that he is moral and rational, he may as well be his own god; he does not require the mediation of religion.
3.) It is the responsibility of the nation to ensure the stability of this way of private independence.
4.) No one of true virtue is to be enslaved in his family or to be enslaved by other families, unless of course, the original sins of despotism or corruption lurk by the wayside.
5.) Only through honesty and inward reflection can a person look through cracked customs and peer at the corruption/despotism beneath.
6.) No one is to discriminate based off of extraneous detail such as race or creed: the buck ends at universal human virtue.
7.) Self-righteousness reaches beyond the boundaries of proper inward reflection; to practice thus is to be like the Pharisees, and so mercy in its correct form is of highest value.
What we see from Dyer essentially is a clever transformation: what institutions existed to make G-d the center of life are now reconfigured to make the beneficiary and patron the god of his own household. Mansfield Park, then, is like a living archeological record of Dyer's theories unfolding. As the characters move through space in a ritualized fashion, we see, in sharper and sharper degrees, the extent to which Sir Thomas plays the role of the indepentent benefactor. Oftentimes, his despotism and corruption overshadow his proper role, as shown through the inward-looking Fanny.
The scene at Sotherton where Fanny is disappointed with the simplicity of the private chapel is no value judgment: it is more an objective exhibition of the state of things. Given our awareness of this state and its ability to saturate the most mundane aspects of life, readers of Austen's work are to move forward and evaluate whether or not this state is satisfactory, and why.
So we have a new reading of the following exchange, and we can essentially read outwards from this moment in order to best read the rest of the novel:
***
"Very fine indeed!" said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away"
"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Every body likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes: and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have forseen that the time would come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now."
***
According to Dyer, Miss Crawford's logic would be infallible. Her sentiments would reflect a humanistic liberation from the shackles of religious slavery. The order achieved by that old system is now superimposed in a secularized realm. There would be nothing wrong with her emphasis on the aesthetics of the human form (project that Mrs. Eleanors would gaze away from the priest and turn a lusty eye towards her husband); such is her choice, so long as she is rationally virtous. Moreover, we learn in Graves that the architectural features that enforced inner reflection would often inadverntly highlite, aesthetically, class distinctions and wealth. So, Fanny could not justify her qualms with Miss Crawford's logic on purely spiritual grounds; after much inner reflection, she would arrive at the conclusion that the system of beneficience is only being mishandled at Mansfield.
In "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles," Pamela C. Graves' archeological analysis of church structures affords scholars the opportunity to imagine the interface between values and experience in public life at that time. She notes that "past understandings of the senses and their role in social construction, embodiment and body emplacement" can be the subject of prolonged scrutiny, and thus we learn how "sights, movements and sounds are imbued with meaning and carefully hierarchized [in Medeival eccliastic experience] so as to express and enforce the social and cosmic order." Given the extramission/intromission theories of sensation and perception, by which to sense phenomenologically is to make spiritual contact, the "ritualized...interactions with these material environments [expose] the nexus of piety, social identity, individual and institutional strategies such practices helped to create, as well as the limits of authority and dissidence." Without going into too much detail, the ritualization of otherwise everyday objects was supposed to a.) provide for the laiety, clergy, and nobility alike, an authentic interaction with Communion, and b.) to remind and enforce all peoples to look for the spiritual aspects of physical creation. The latter effort aimed for good Christians to reject outward curiosities and extraneous details by looking always inward towards their True Selves.
Fast forward to the turn of the 1800s, and we see quite a different value system, as evidenced by George Dyer's "A dissertation on the theory and practice of benevolence." In his first chapter, he establishes a variety of points which show the dramatic shift in social attitudes
1.) Humans of like mind are to seek refuge from the imperfections of the physical world in each other's social help: to live otherwise is to subscribe to the superstitions of 'dark ages.'
2.) If a man is superior in his independence, given that he is moral and rational, he may as well be his own god; he does not require the mediation of religion.
3.) It is the responsibility of the nation to ensure the stability of this way of private independence.
4.) No one of true virtue is to be enslaved in his family or to be enslaved by other families, unless of course, the original sins of despotism or corruption lurk by the wayside.
5.) Only through honesty and inward reflection can a person look through cracked customs and peer at the corruption/despotism beneath.
6.) No one is to discriminate based off of extraneous detail such as race or creed: the buck ends at universal human virtue.
7.) Self-righteousness reaches beyond the boundaries of proper inward reflection; to practice thus is to be like the Pharisees, and so mercy in its correct form is of highest value.
What we see from Dyer essentially is a clever transformation: what institutions existed to make G-d the center of life are now reconfigured to make the beneficiary and patron the god of his own household. Mansfield Park, then, is like a living archeological record of Dyer's theories unfolding. As the characters move through space in a ritualized fashion, we see, in sharper and sharper degrees, the extent to which Sir Thomas plays the role of the indepentent benefactor. Oftentimes, his despotism and corruption overshadow his proper role, as shown through the inward-looking Fanny.
The scene at Sotherton where Fanny is disappointed with the simplicity of the private chapel is no value judgment: it is more an objective exhibition of the state of things. Given our awareness of this state and its ability to saturate the most mundane aspects of life, readers of Austen's work are to move forward and evaluate whether or not this state is satisfactory, and why.
So we have a new reading of the following exchange, and we can essentially read outwards from this moment in order to best read the rest of the novel:
***
"Very fine indeed!" said Miss Crawford, laughing. "It must do the heads of family a great deal of good to force all the poor housemaids and footmen to leave business and pleasure, and say their prayers here twice a day while they are inventing excuses themselves for staying away"
"At any rate, it is safer to leave people to their own devices on such subjects. Every body likes to go their own way--to choose their own time and manner of devotion. The obligation of attendance, the formality, the restraint, the length of time--altogether it is a formidable thing, and what nobody likes: and if the good people who used to kneel and gape in that gallery could have forseen that the time would come when men and women might lie another ten minutes in bed, when they woke with a headache, without danger of reprobation, because chapel was missed, they would have jumped with joy and envy. Cannot you imagine with what unwilling feelings the former belles of the house of Rushworth did many a time repair to this chapel? The young Mrs. Eleanors and Mrs. Bridgets--starched up into seeming piety, but with heads full of something very different--especially if the poor chaplain were not worth looking at--and, in those days, I fancy parsons were very inferior even to what they are now."
***
According to Dyer, Miss Crawford's logic would be infallible. Her sentiments would reflect a humanistic liberation from the shackles of religious slavery. The order achieved by that old system is now superimposed in a secularized realm. There would be nothing wrong with her emphasis on the aesthetics of the human form (project that Mrs. Eleanors would gaze away from the priest and turn a lusty eye towards her husband); such is her choice, so long as she is rationally virtous. Moreover, we learn in Graves that the architectural features that enforced inner reflection would often inadverntly highlite, aesthetically, class distinctions and wealth. So, Fanny could not justify her qualms with Miss Crawford's logic on purely spiritual grounds; after much inner reflection, she would arrive at the conclusion that the system of beneficience is only being mishandled at Mansfield.
Portsmouth Close Reading: Mansifeld Park
"William was almost as happy in the plan as his sister. It would be the greatest pleasure to him to have her there to the last moment before he sailed, and perhaps find her there still when he came in from his first cruise. And besides, he wanted her so very much to see the Thrush before she went out of harbour--the Thrush was certainly the finest sloop in the service--and there were several improvements in the dockyard, too, which he quite longed to shew her."
This is the best example of a shift in time in the novel, demonstrating the years since Fanny had been home last. In narrowing a focus, it is easiest to spend time understanding changes in the closest seaport, Portsmouth. Upon examining the word "improvement" in this excerpt, one must examine the definition of said word, stating that an improvement is the betterment of space. Portsmouth during this time period was often perceived as being a place of debauchery and dysfunction and it is interesting to trace how that significance impacted the novel, especially since Fanny herself experienced a change in demeanor as well, from Portsmouth to Mansfield Park.
The Quarterly Review and Progressive Politics
During the episode at Sotherton Mrs. Norris, Mrs. Rushworth and Fanny go back to the house ahead of the rest of the party. Austen writes: “On this rencontre they all returned to the house together, there to lounge away the time as they could with sofas, and chit-chat, and Quarterly Reviews, till the return of the others, and the arrival of dinner.”
From the journal’s very first volume, the Quarterly Review adopts a strong stance against the slave trade and its prominent place in the West Indian colonies. In a review of a history of Barbados from that first issue, the QR writes that the trade “has proved a moral evil of enormous magnitude.” The publications politics are anything but ambiguous.
Austen’s reference to the Quarterly Review is made in as offhanded a manner as her references to Antigua. It is mentioned in a list with, and therefore on the same level as, lounging on sofas and chit-chatting – normalized and everyday activities for whiling away the time before dinner.
At the time of Mansfield Park’s writing and publication, the Quarterly Review was the premiere literary and political journal in England, surpassing the Edinburgh Review that it was set up to combat in both readership and influence. It is the only periodical to be mentioned by name in the novel, and any contemporaries reading Austen’s reference would be quick to associate it with progressive, abolitionist politics.
The result is the residents of Mansfield Park read one politics while relying on another for their livelihood. The disjunction could be explained as Austen equating Sir Thomas’ lack of progressive politics abroad and the resulting troubles in Antigua with his lack of progressive parenting and the problems that arise with his daughters eloping.
From the journal’s very first volume, the Quarterly Review adopts a strong stance against the slave trade and its prominent place in the West Indian colonies. In a review of a history of Barbados from that first issue, the QR writes that the trade “has proved a moral evil of enormous magnitude.” The publications politics are anything but ambiguous.
Austen’s reference to the Quarterly Review is made in as offhanded a manner as her references to Antigua. It is mentioned in a list with, and therefore on the same level as, lounging on sofas and chit-chatting – normalized and everyday activities for whiling away the time before dinner.
At the time of Mansfield Park’s writing and publication, the Quarterly Review was the premiere literary and political journal in England, surpassing the Edinburgh Review that it was set up to combat in both readership and influence. It is the only periodical to be mentioned by name in the novel, and any contemporaries reading Austen’s reference would be quick to associate it with progressive, abolitionist politics.
The result is the residents of Mansfield Park read one politics while relying on another for their livelihood. The disjunction could be explained as Austen equating Sir Thomas’ lack of progressive politics abroad and the resulting troubles in Antigua with his lack of progressive parenting and the problems that arise with his daughters eloping.
Edmund's Tainted Deeds
While only Members of Parliament had the privilege of franking letters, its abuse was frequent because post was expensive. Upon searching through primary documents from Austen’s era (and before and after), several documents that outlined Parliamentary privileges and also complaints about the abuses thereof surfaced. People would forge the signatures of Members of Parliament with, or without, their knowledge. In the former, even if the MP gave them permission to do so, it was still blatant forgery as in the latter case.
In “A Letter from a Freeholder in the Country to a Member of Parliament Concerning Franking of Letters” from 1738, the author (signed "Frank Yeoman) claims that about 1/5 or 1/7 of all inland letters are franked “one way or other” which he concludes proves the abuse of franking and that some made a profit from it.
With this in mind, my interpretation of the scene in Chapter 2 where Edmund offers Sir Thomas’s franking privilege to Fanny has altered slightly. Fanny responds to Edmund’s supposedly kind suggestion with a “frightened look” and “thought it a bold measure”, for what I now understand to be with good reason because Edmund was breaking the law—his kind gesture is tainted with the abuse of his father’s Parliamentary privilege (MP 47). Previously, I attributed Fanny’s reaction to her overly appreciative, sensitive manner. Despite Fanny’s initial negative reaction however, she so fully trusts Edmund that she offered “no further resistance” to his suggestion and gratefully accepts his help with her letter writing. Additionally, Edmund sent half a guinea under the letter’s seal to Edmund, thus doubling the cost of post were it not franked. In this scene, we are inclined, just as Fanny is to be grateful to Edmund for reaching out to Fanny.
But this theme of Edmund’s heroic kindness to Fanny tainted by a “bending of the rules” appears elsewhere in the novel. Edmund forgets that it was time for Fanny to ride while accompanying Miss Crawford hers. Fanny herself, for all her gratefulness, even acknowledges this fact, “…if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered. (MP 94)” While Miss Crawford was apologetic, Edmund “added in his conviction that she [Fanny] could be in no hurry. (MP 95)” Similarly, Edmund acts against his initial better judgment when he finally concedes to take part in “Lover’s Vows.” Fanny is “more sorry to see [Edmund] drawn in to do what [he] had resolved against, and what [he knew] to think disagreeable to [her] uncle. (MP 174)” In both cases, Edmund rationalizes his decisions while Fanny still idolizes him. Like Fanny, we are tempted to accept Edmund’s rationalization and remain fond of him and his care for her.
From here, I hope to find more instances of Edmund’s “bending of rules” and perhaps explore Johnson’s references to Edmund’s “double-talk” or his opinions disguised as unselfish advice to Fanny.
In “A Letter from a Freeholder in the Country to a Member of Parliament Concerning Franking of Letters” from 1738, the author (signed "Frank Yeoman) claims that about 1/5 or 1/7 of all inland letters are franked “one way or other” which he concludes proves the abuse of franking and that some made a profit from it.
With this in mind, my interpretation of the scene in Chapter 2 where Edmund offers Sir Thomas’s franking privilege to Fanny has altered slightly. Fanny responds to Edmund’s supposedly kind suggestion with a “frightened look” and “thought it a bold measure”, for what I now understand to be with good reason because Edmund was breaking the law—his kind gesture is tainted with the abuse of his father’s Parliamentary privilege (MP 47). Previously, I attributed Fanny’s reaction to her overly appreciative, sensitive manner. Despite Fanny’s initial negative reaction however, she so fully trusts Edmund that she offered “no further resistance” to his suggestion and gratefully accepts his help with her letter writing. Additionally, Edmund sent half a guinea under the letter’s seal to Edmund, thus doubling the cost of post were it not franked. In this scene, we are inclined, just as Fanny is to be grateful to Edmund for reaching out to Fanny.
But this theme of Edmund’s heroic kindness to Fanny tainted by a “bending of the rules” appears elsewhere in the novel. Edmund forgets that it was time for Fanny to ride while accompanying Miss Crawford hers. Fanny herself, for all her gratefulness, even acknowledges this fact, “…if she were forgotten, the poor mare should be remembered. (MP 94)” While Miss Crawford was apologetic, Edmund “added in his conviction that she [Fanny] could be in no hurry. (MP 95)” Similarly, Edmund acts against his initial better judgment when he finally concedes to take part in “Lover’s Vows.” Fanny is “more sorry to see [Edmund] drawn in to do what [he] had resolved against, and what [he knew] to think disagreeable to [her] uncle. (MP 174)” In both cases, Edmund rationalizes his decisions while Fanny still idolizes him. Like Fanny, we are tempted to accept Edmund’s rationalization and remain fond of him and his care for her.
From here, I hope to find more instances of Edmund’s “bending of rules” and perhaps explore Johnson’s references to Edmund’s “double-talk” or his opinions disguised as unselfish advice to Fanny.
Reading Femininity through Horses
In light of the fact that women riding horses enhanced cultural capital for women but threatened their claims of traditional female domesticity, the distinctions between Fanny and her cousins/Mary Crawford become clearer. Edmund’s mare factors prominently in the triangulation of Edmund, Fanny and Mary, drawing attention to the contrast between Fanny and Mary. Their different responses to horses can not only be connected with their different temperaments (which also carries significance, since positive horse attributes in the 19th century were also connected with desirable female attributes), but also with their relationship to the sequestered female sphere. Immediately after Mary receives her first lesson in horsemanship, initiated by her for pleasure, the old coachman accompanying Fanny praises Mary’s giftedness saying “I never see one sit on a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear. Very different from you, miss, when you first began…Lord bless me! how you did tremble…” (95). The Miss Bertrams take especial interest in Mary’s natural affinity for riding since “her early excellence in it was like their own” (95). Horsemanship draws Mary and the Bertram girls together at the expense of excluding Fanny.
There is also the question of motivation. Fanny rides for health whereas the other women ride for pleasure. By leaving the confines of the house, symbolically leaving the “feminine roles of passivity, submissiveness, and non-physicality” (Dorre 78), the Bertram girls and Mary unbecomingly embrace independence and freedom from the patriarchal rule, making them less womanly. It is harder to make a judgment on Fanny because she, in general, has less freedom to choose what she wants to do or what she is allowed to like. There is no point in the novel where Fanny explicitly expresses her enjoyment for riding. The narrator describes Fanny’s old grey poney as a “valued friend” (64) and subsequently talks about Fanny’s “delight” (66) in the new mare calculated for her use. Most of that delight seems to derive from the “consideration of that kindness…beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good” (66). With her delicate health, Fanny has necessity in riding, but remains a homebody. In that sense, she escapes the censure that comes from denouncing traditional femininity. She remains, in Claudia Johnson’s words, “conventionally feminine” (Johnson 95).
NB. There are a lot more readings of horses that I could pursue in the novel: 1) the relationship of ideal woman to ideal horse and how that influences female education and the reading of Edmund’s “gentling” vs. “breaking” of Fanny, 2) Tom’s obsession with horses, Mary Crawford’s jealousy, and the idea that Tom successfully replaces women with horses, 3) the economic significance of horses and the way it distinguishes class, i.e. how Fanny can’t own a horse and Henry gives a costly loan horse to William, etc.
There is also the question of motivation. Fanny rides for health whereas the other women ride for pleasure. By leaving the confines of the house, symbolically leaving the “feminine roles of passivity, submissiveness, and non-physicality” (Dorre 78), the Bertram girls and Mary unbecomingly embrace independence and freedom from the patriarchal rule, making them less womanly. It is harder to make a judgment on Fanny because she, in general, has less freedom to choose what she wants to do or what she is allowed to like. There is no point in the novel where Fanny explicitly expresses her enjoyment for riding. The narrator describes Fanny’s old grey poney as a “valued friend” (64) and subsequently talks about Fanny’s “delight” (66) in the new mare calculated for her use. Most of that delight seems to derive from the “consideration of that kindness…beyond all her words to express. She regarded her cousin as an example of everything good” (66). With her delicate health, Fanny has necessity in riding, but remains a homebody. In that sense, she escapes the censure that comes from denouncing traditional femininity. She remains, in Claudia Johnson’s words, “conventionally feminine” (Johnson 95).
NB. There are a lot more readings of horses that I could pursue in the novel: 1) the relationship of ideal woman to ideal horse and how that influences female education and the reading of Edmund’s “gentling” vs. “breaking” of Fanny, 2) Tom’s obsession with horses, Mary Crawford’s jealousy, and the idea that Tom successfully replaces women with horses, 3) the economic significance of horses and the way it distinguishes class, i.e. how Fanny can’t own a horse and Henry gives a costly loan horse to William, etc.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
((FRIENDLY RESEARCH ADVICE))
Dear Engl261,
I just wanted to share with you that JSTOR, which is found next to the link for EBSCO at the Van Pelt website, has just given me a ton of hits for my search: private chapel + England. I also found it particularly helpful to sort the results from oldest to newest in order to separate primary sources from secondary criticisms. See y'all tomorrow.
-Michael
I just wanted to share with you that JSTOR, which is found next to the link for EBSCO at the Van Pelt website, has just given me a ton of hits for my search: private chapel + England. I also found it particularly helpful to sort the results from oldest to newest in order to separate primary sources from secondary criticisms. See y'all tomorrow.
-Michael
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Franking letters and letter-writing
While I’ve only read Pride and Prejudice aside from Mansfield Park, I remember that the information revealed in letters in the former were pivotal in Elizabeth Bennet’s understanding of Mr. Darcy. In fact, Mr. Darcy’s one letter quelled all of Lizzie’s reservations about Mr. Darcy, making him a sympathetic character to her and the audience. Similarly, in the last book of Mansfield Park, letters appear with greater frequency and at greater length from Edmund, Lady Bertram and Miss Crawford to Fanny while she is at Portsmouth to tell her of the news from her true home--Henry Crawford’s affair with Maria, Julia elopement with and Tom Bertram’s illness. The importance of letters in Austen’s novels, what they accomplished for the plot and character development in comparison/and or contrast to their usage in Mansfield Park would be interesting for biography critics and zeitgeist critics alike note Mansfield Park’s uniqueness.
Letter-writing was also personally important to Austen, which was a reflection of her own character and also of the times. She wrote letters over the course of several days to keep her friends informed of her shopping details, gossip, visits and progress on her latest writing project. During Austen’s lifetime, the British post improved greatly from mounted postboys to a system of armed mailcoaches. Despite such an improvement though, post was relatively expensive and was only free for Members of Parliament and Members of the House of Lords who could “frank” letters. Around 1813, the recipient of letter paid four pence for letter from 15 miles away. The price of the letter varied with weight, distance, whether it was paid for on dispatch or on receipt. Because of the cost, resourceful methods of letter writing to conserve paper arose like folding the letter into its own envelope as well as turning the paper sideways to write in the opposite, intersecting direction. Also, letter-writers crammed as much text as possible into one sheet of paper by writing very small texts with very little space between the lines—such letters would contain news of what had occurred over the past few days.
With all of the cost-saving methods in mind, I am interested in researching how this affected the nature and prominence of letter-writing/epistolary relationships in Mansfield Park and other writings of the Regency Era. Perhaps so much information was contained in each letter that moved the plot along quickly in the final five or so chapters of the novel because of cost of sending a letter.
Letter-writing was also personally important to Austen, which was a reflection of her own character and also of the times. She wrote letters over the course of several days to keep her friends informed of her shopping details, gossip, visits and progress on her latest writing project. During Austen’s lifetime, the British post improved greatly from mounted postboys to a system of armed mailcoaches. Despite such an improvement though, post was relatively expensive and was only free for Members of Parliament and Members of the House of Lords who could “frank” letters. Around 1813, the recipient of letter paid four pence for letter from 15 miles away. The price of the letter varied with weight, distance, whether it was paid for on dispatch or on receipt. Because of the cost, resourceful methods of letter writing to conserve paper arose like folding the letter into its own envelope as well as turning the paper sideways to write in the opposite, intersecting direction. Also, letter-writers crammed as much text as possible into one sheet of paper by writing very small texts with very little space between the lines—such letters would contain news of what had occurred over the past few days.
With all of the cost-saving methods in mind, I am interested in researching how this affected the nature and prominence of letter-writing/epistolary relationships in Mansfield Park and other writings of the Regency Era. Perhaps so much information was contained in each letter that moved the plot along quickly in the final five or so chapters of the novel because of cost of sending a letter.
The Quarterly Review
The Quarterly Review was founded in 1809 as a liberal-conservative political and literary journal to combat the Edinburgh Review. While the Edinburgh Review espoused the ideas of the Whig Party and supported a laissez-faire economy, the Quarterly Review identified with the Tories and the gradual abolition of slavery.
The journal was not necessarily helpful in influencing actual government policy, but it quickly surpassed the Edinburgh Review in readership and exercised a strong influence over the opinion of the majority of the reading public. The same went for literary influence. In fact, the Quarterly Review was the journal that published the scathing review of Keats’ “Endymion” that Shelley blamed for his death. The publication printed influential reviews of Jane Austen’s work as well.
There were several reviews and articles published in 1811, the year Austen began writing Mansfield Park, that concern works about plantations and slavery in Jamaica and the East Indies.
The journal was not necessarily helpful in influencing actual government policy, but it quickly surpassed the Edinburgh Review in readership and exercised a strong influence over the opinion of the majority of the reading public. The same went for literary influence. In fact, the Quarterly Review was the journal that published the scathing review of Keats’ “Endymion” that Shelley blamed for his death. The publication printed influential reviews of Jane Austen’s work as well.
There were several reviews and articles published in 1811, the year Austen began writing Mansfield Park, that concern works about plantations and slavery in Jamaica and the East Indies.
Austen's Use of "Lovers' Vows"
So much of modern criticism regarding Austen's use of Inchbald's "Lovers' Vows" focuses on the emphasis the acting scenes place on the immorality of the Bertram children and how this reflects their impropriety. I decided to research the reviews and critiques of the play upon its first performances in English and compare these comments with the idea that "Lovers' Vows" was a horribly scandalous play for the time and featured very provocative subject matter. I consulted the database of 18th century newspapers and searched for "Lovers' Vows". The majority of the results were from October of 1798, which corresponds to the plays first performances in Covent Garden. I was surprised to find that almost all of the reviews proclaimed it to be a marvelous adaption and very properly and tastefully done. Even more surprising perhaps, was the mention of "Kotzebue's considerable partiality for this country". Many of the critics praised the preface that Inchbald added to her play, as it justified her morality. She herself, in the preface, states the necessity of alteration because of its "original unfitness for an English stage" and that it would have been "revolting to an English audience". The newspapers even mention specific alterations, like the removal of a smoking scene, that Inchbald thought necessary. I then briefly researched the public perception of smoking during this period and found that it was indeed considered a vice to Christians, though not so horrible as to warrant open criticism. With these discoveries in mind, I am beginning to believe that Austen used the play not so much to emphasize the individuals' immorality, but rather to show the excessive priggishness of certain characters. There were a number of more "scandalous" German plays of the time, famously Goethe's Faust, that would have provided Austen with a considerably less ambiguous symbol, if that was her goal. Equally, in considering the assertion that it is not so much the content of the play, but rather the idea of these women acting that was improper, I came upon a series of Austen's work known as the "Juvenilia". These were written in her youth, for supposedly home performance, and often featured rather "racy" subject matter. Though I still intend to review the Anti-Jacobin perceptions of the play, it is beginning to seem to me that the play's tremendous success upon its introduction to England and the critics' praise of Inchbald's alterations reveal Austen's intentions as wholly those of satire. Even further, I quickly looked at the character that Fanny was supposed to play, the cottager's wife, and this is one of the most moral and praiseworthy characters. This may even further this idea that Fanny's actions were misguided to the extent of near inarticulateness by the excessive prudishness of her family's expectations.
Church Interiors: Parish vs. Private
In Chapter 9 of Mansfield Park, Fanny is disappointed upon entering the private family chapel at Sotherton.
"I am disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a Scottish monarch sleeps below."
"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements."
-Fanny's emotions relate space, vision, and values: the layout of the family chapel signals to Fanny, at the very least, an absence of value in the religious sphere. Now, whether Fanny is simply disappointed that the chapel is not as pretty or interesting as its Medieval counterpart is not so important. Generally, the parish church carries some special import that is missing in the Sotherton chapel.
My research will spring from C. Pamela Graves' article "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles." This article explores the relationship between church space and the phenomenological experience of the Medieval subject as he his situated in a social hierarchy. The belief was that the specific construction of the church interior allowed the laiety to touch the Lord by viewing carefully contrived images, sculptures, and structures depicting Divinity. Essentially, the masses felt that when they entered the church at Mass, they were entering a space where Divinity resides.
In contrast, the plain layout of the family church sends a quite different message about space and divinity. This space is not G-d's; it is the family's. Such a distinction in church usage is rooted deeply in history, specifically in the short rain of James II and the Glorious Revolution. As the chapel was built during this reign, it carries extra symbolic import for this discussion. Furthermore, as the chapel is part of the estate, it is viewed merely as a branch of a larger entity. The chapel loses its position as the House of the Lord, and instead the space bends to the wills of its legitimate owners.
An application of this historicization to the text of Mansfield Park should lead to interesting conclusions. What I would like to specifially address: how do the spatial and visual constructions of buildings and estates within the novel clue us in to the phenomenological experience of early 19th century Britannia? Further, how do these experiences point to values inherent in that society? Finally, what can we surmise is Jane Austen's evaluation based on these findings, or if she means to espouse no opinion on the matter, what does this mean?
"I am disappointed," said she, in a low voice, to Edmund. "This is not my idea of a chapel. There is nothing awful here, nothing melancholy, nothing grand. Here are no aisles, no arches, no banners. No banners, cousin, to be 'blown by the night wind of heaven.' No signs that a Scottish monarch sleeps below."
"You forget, Fanny, how lately all this has been built, and for how confined a purpose, compared with the old chapels of castles and monasteries. It was only for the private use of the family. They have been buried, I suppose, in the parish church. There you must look for the banners and the achievements."
-Fanny's emotions relate space, vision, and values: the layout of the family chapel signals to Fanny, at the very least, an absence of value in the religious sphere. Now, whether Fanny is simply disappointed that the chapel is not as pretty or interesting as its Medieval counterpart is not so important. Generally, the parish church carries some special import that is missing in the Sotherton chapel.
My research will spring from C. Pamela Graves' article "Sensing and believing: exploring worlds of difference in pre-modern England: a contribution to the debate opened by Kate Giles." This article explores the relationship between church space and the phenomenological experience of the Medieval subject as he his situated in a social hierarchy. The belief was that the specific construction of the church interior allowed the laiety to touch the Lord by viewing carefully contrived images, sculptures, and structures depicting Divinity. Essentially, the masses felt that when they entered the church at Mass, they were entering a space where Divinity resides.
In contrast, the plain layout of the family church sends a quite different message about space and divinity. This space is not G-d's; it is the family's. Such a distinction in church usage is rooted deeply in history, specifically in the short rain of James II and the Glorious Revolution. As the chapel was built during this reign, it carries extra symbolic import for this discussion. Furthermore, as the chapel is part of the estate, it is viewed merely as a branch of a larger entity. The chapel loses its position as the House of the Lord, and instead the space bends to the wills of its legitimate owners.
An application of this historicization to the text of Mansfield Park should lead to interesting conclusions. What I would like to specifially address: how do the spatial and visual constructions of buildings and estates within the novel clue us in to the phenomenological experience of early 19th century Britannia? Further, how do these experiences point to values inherent in that society? Finally, what can we surmise is Jane Austen's evaluation based on these findings, or if she means to espouse no opinion on the matter, what does this mean?
Historical Research: Portsmouth & Navy
On October 21st, 1805 the Battle of Trafalgar brought victory to the British fleet, specifically gaining a win over Spanish and French troops. Tension continued amongst both British and United States troops, increasing the need for naval officers in their fleets. In 1812, around the time that Austen was going to begin Mansfield Park, the United States invaded Canada. Between 1793 and 1815 the Royal Navy had lost 344 of its vessels and more than 100 seamen. It seems William Price was lucky to have entered the navy at the tail end of a somewhat disastrous era for the Navy.
Fanny's relationship with William as well as Austen's own relationship with her brother's (who were both serving in the navy) often circulated around the area of Portsmouth. Not only did it serve as a major port for those training in the navy during the time, but it was also Fanny and William Price's hometown. Austen would often meet her brother's in Portsmouth when they came home from sea. The atmosphere in the military town was notorious for being dysfunctional - riots, debauchery and gang violence were some of the few delinquencies that the area was most famous for. The naval dockyard specifically mentioned in Mansfield Park was actually located in a nearby town called Portsea. Many sailors during the time would wait in the Isle of Wright for orders, five miles from Portsmouth, blockading it from the English Channel.
Historical Research: Horses
Almost fifty years after the publication of Mansfield Park, Queen Victoria’s physician prescribed her fresh air and exercise by means of horseback riding. This began a long and intimate relationship between the queen and her groom (who was later promoted to be her personal attendant). Gina Dorre, the author of Victorian Fiction and the Cult of the Horse, attributes part of the scandal that arose in court to the “provocative collusion of gender and class issues that the horse [engendered] in the nineteenth century” (Dorre 3).
Both before and after the creation of the railroad, the horse was important to English society. It was the main power behind transportation, whether by horseback or by some kind of horse drawn carriage. It, as well as the dog, was considered among the most noble of animals. Representing nobility and aristocratic values, the horse ennobled humanity by its servitude to an even more noble creature, man. The kind of horse was tailored to the kind of work it was required to do. As a noble beast, the horse and his relationship to man came to illustrate the model relationship between man and compliant servant. By opening acknowledging masterly superiority, the horse set an example among animals for men to follow.
Practically it was very expensive to keep a horse. Stabling, feeding, and maintaining horses was reserved for people with capital, which explains its early associations with aristocracy and landed wealth. Horse racing was very popular in the nineteenth century, more for the gambling aspect than for love of the animal. Women could ride horses, but horses were always initially associated with the masculine. On one hand, horses were seen (as in the Queen Victoria story) as ideal for exercise and fresh air. On the other hand, it took women from their culturally assigned place in the home and away from the idea of the passive, meek, non-physical angel in the home. Exemplary horse qualities were also involved in discourses of female desirability throughout the nineteenth century, including posture, gait, breeding, class standing, and disposition. From these traits, monetary market value was determined in the respective marketplaces, for the horse, in the literal marketplace and for the woman, in the marriage market.
Both before and after the creation of the railroad, the horse was important to English society. It was the main power behind transportation, whether by horseback or by some kind of horse drawn carriage. It, as well as the dog, was considered among the most noble of animals. Representing nobility and aristocratic values, the horse ennobled humanity by its servitude to an even more noble creature, man. The kind of horse was tailored to the kind of work it was required to do. As a noble beast, the horse and his relationship to man came to illustrate the model relationship between man and compliant servant. By opening acknowledging masterly superiority, the horse set an example among animals for men to follow.
Practically it was very expensive to keep a horse. Stabling, feeding, and maintaining horses was reserved for people with capital, which explains its early associations with aristocracy and landed wealth. Horse racing was very popular in the nineteenth century, more for the gambling aspect than for love of the animal. Women could ride horses, but horses were always initially associated with the masculine. On one hand, horses were seen (as in the Queen Victoria story) as ideal for exercise and fresh air. On the other hand, it took women from their culturally assigned place in the home and away from the idea of the passive, meek, non-physical angel in the home. Exemplary horse qualities were also involved in discourses of female desirability throughout the nineteenth century, including posture, gait, breeding, class standing, and disposition. From these traits, monetary market value was determined in the respective marketplaces, for the horse, in the literal marketplace and for the woman, in the marriage market.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Historical Detail 2 Posting
This week, we learned how to use a variety of databases to do historical research. By midnight on Sunday (3/22) please post a summary of what you have discovered about your chosen (or newly chosen) historical detail from Mansfield Park. For models, you might look specific paragraphs (and footnotes) within the selections we've read by Edward Said or Marilyn Butler in which Said and Butler synthesize and analyze their own historical research.
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