Nerd Alert!

Some literary thoughts that have been pinballing through my head.

I had a conversation with a friend a bit ago about change in Pride and Prejudice. And I'm not all that sure that there's much of it. I mean, I think part of the point of the novel is the extent to which people's true natures are misinterpreted, due to prejudices held by other characters (see how it all ties in with the title there? Spiffy!).

Really, I guess it's a question of what constitutes change in a person. Fundamentally, I think people don't change. What they can change are their opinions, but their basic natures remain the same. In terms of Pride and Prejudice, Darcy remains the same proud, moral person throughout. He likes Elizabeth from the start; even though he only refers to her as "tolerable" at the dance, in the subsequent scenes it's clear that he, in fact, finds her attractive. What seals the deal is her personality; her wit, her intellect, her lack of artifice. More than anything, it is this last point; Darcy is not the sort of character to be attracted by the typical female schemes - anything smacking of such sentiments would actually repel him, I think.

Conversely, for Elizabeth, what brings about the change in her opinion of Darcy is the fact that while he and his actions are mistaken, he remains steadfast and true to his own moral principles. Again, it seems unlikely to me that any man whose beliefs were easily mutable would appeal to her; she requires an equal, a man of forbearance and intellect to match hers. It is because their fundamental natures are so similar that they are both so suited and so antagonistic towards one another.

Projecting Into the Past

I've been rereading Pride and Prejudice, and (aside from it increasing my dissatisfaction with the 2005 film adaptation) thinking about a bit of literary critique in the introduction to the edition of Wuthering Heights I read, which identified Heathcliff as the perfect "other": a man whose past and motives are unknown, an individual upon whom others are free to project whatever they wish.

Before the advent of the modern novel (in general terms, the publication of Woolf, Proust and Joyce), the concept of the interior life of a character was less emphasized. External events and actions were the focus, from which readers were left to infer interior motive. In some ways, one wonders how much current enjoyment of classic texts owes to this fact, to the fact that modern readers are free (within reason, as dictated by the actions of the characters) to project whatever motivations they desire onto the protagonists. Modern novels which attempt to expose the precise inner workings of a character can be no less timeless or brilliant, but require a far more thorough understanding of the era and society which they are products of before one can begin to understand their characters.

For example, Elizabeth Bennet. A modern reading might identify her as a strong, independent woman: a modern heroine, unwilling to settle for a materially comfortable yet spiritually and intellectually dissatisfying marriage. Yet is that not modern, Western thought projecting its own morality into the past? She is an individual, yet it is only Western thought which prizes the individual above the collective, emotion over rationality; only in Western art is romantic love deified. Is it right of Elizabeth to be so contemptuous of Mr. Collins (admittedly, this is difficult to argue against), and subsequently, of Charlotte for accepting him (this is far less so)? And yet, whether or not it is right, it is true, and it is consistent with her character and the novel as a whole. As with philosophy, when reading fiction one must always distinguish between what the writer believes should be and is. And even if her actions weren't completely rational, the cardinal rule which one must always remember is that people are not consistent. People will frequently say one thing and act in a different manner; only in art do we demand purity of thought and deed before accepting a character as "believable," when reality and experience teach us otherwise.

Rage Against...Something

I recently watched the 2005 adaptation of Pride and Prejudice, which was kind of awful.

I had been warned that Mr. Darcy was somewhat...lacking in intestinal fortitude, which he certainly was. What's unfortunate is that interpreting him in that manner throws the whole story off. As it is, much of the book is compressed to fit it into the 2 hour time frame of the movie, so it's hard enough to comprehend why Elizabeth would love him. Granted, there are his actions to benefit her sisters, but Elizabeth's character is such (and again, this is only briefly established in the movie) that such actions, while laudable, would not be enough to win her love.

Of course, it's been a while since I read the book, which is why I went out and picked it up today. Maybe I'm wrong. I just kept waiting for a spark of something from Darcy other than sad, longing stares. Why would anyone feel any sort of attraction towards a mopey bastard? It's ludicrous.

It probably didn't help that I also recently watched When the Levees Broke, Spike Lee's documentary about New Orleans and Katrina, which is very well done and fills you with large amounts of inarticulate rage and sorrow. There are no words to communicate the disgust that such a thing could happen in the United States, but what is perhaps more worrying is the fact that it and its repercussions have been lost in the shuffle of Iraq. Where are the demands for change, for oversight, for some acknowledgement of failures and a transparent creation of plans for future emergencies? Is there even a fucking plan for the next time? Because, make no mistake, there will be a next time.

I was reminded, as I was watching it, of the night Dubya won re-election, when I turned to my friend sitting with me and said, "You know, it's horrible to say this, but you almost wish something terrible would happen to the US again, so they could really see what kind of person they re-elected."

People saw, but did they care?