It took me almost four months to finish reading Villette by Charlotte Bronte (pseudonym Currer Bell). Why did it take me so long? Well, although I’ve been often stuck on my couch or recliner nursing and burping and making googly eyes at my baby girl, I usually run into a few obstacles to reading: 1. My brain feels fried due to lack of rest, too much stress, and having to work on other things like grocery lists and our budget. 2. It is easier to watch tv or a movie. 3. Evie falls asleep for her often-elusive naps when I feed her with the lights off.
But at last, I’ve finished this Victorian literary treasure.
A few quotes with which to (for me) savor and (for you) entice.
“Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses, looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled under her smile; a star shone subject beside her with the unemulous ray of pure love. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale statue leaned over the play of waters.” Vol III, Faubourg Clotilde, pg 455.
“A moon was in the sky, not a full moon but a young crescent. I saw her through a space in the boughs over-head. She and the stars, visible beside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhood knew them. I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in its curve leaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an old field, in Old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned back beside a stately spire in this continental capital.” Vol I, The Casket, pg 99.
“...-a Methuselah of a pear-tree, dead, all but a few boughs which still faithfully renewed their perfumed snow in spring, and their honey-sweet pendants in autumn- you saw, in scraping away the mossy earth between the half-bared roots, a glimpse of slab, smooth, hard, and black.” Vol I, The Casket, pg 96.
“One night a thunderstorm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, creeping outside the casement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch-dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the light-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man- too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts.” Vol I, The casket, pg 99.
I love that excerpt of the storm! I feel a vivid sense of kinship when I experience sitting on that ledge of the french boarding house in the middle of a glorious storm right there alongside Lucy. These are the experiences I read for!
Below are my thoughts on the novel.
At a glance, the story comes across as stoic, austere, and formidable. However, I have found Bronte’s work to be moving beneath the surface. I feel that much of the resistance met while reading the novel lies in the fact that it is Victorian, and therefore chalk-full of that corset-strung formality in its diction. One must peer through these prison bars to see the treasure inside, and I fear that most people do not have the patience to attempt it.
One cannot well comment on a story told in the first person narrative without alluding to the character of the narrator herself. Lucy Snowe is a woman that I soon found to be the kind of character I would love to befriend in real life. She is quick and sharp, yet patient and endlessly self-effacing. She is realistic and self-possessing, well-mannered and full of common sense. However, it is this very self-effacement, carried out to such incredible lengths, that I eventually found to be tiring. There is such feeling of self-suppression and humility, that I found myself crying out to see something give- to see a sufficient outburst, to watch this character get way out of character, to grow and deepen and stretch into a ferocious lioness. And I was somewhat dissatisfied to see her merely growl a time or two and yet maintain her shape as a subdued and docile lamb. But perhaps this is more telling of the reader than the story itself.
It is indeed her very passion that moves beneath the surface. And though I badly wanted to watch it swell and crest and burst forth with all the glory of white caps and that cosmic oceanic rush exhibited in other heroines, I was yet mesmerized by its subtler movements. This story is deep. It contains depths, I think, that are incredibly rare- and here lies the treasure! The narrator expertly delves into the human psyche, and deeper still, into the soul, permeating the very fiber of humanity. The story is so skillfully portrayed and so beautifully complex like a many faceted prism, shedding light on a thousand different subjects, ideas, and questions.
Villette is full to the brim with french language, dual personalities, gothic dualism, personification of nature and virtues, allusions to mythology, masterful imagery, character foils, profound revelations of the soul, scripture references, and even brief discourses on the opposing views of protestantism and catholicism. It is full, indeed!
I will even grant Bronte two very respectable feats- that of an original story and that of the element of surprise. Yes, she kept me on my toes from beginning to end in that regard! Just when I thought I knew where things were headed or what would become of certain characters, she led me down an entirely different path.
This story contains truly classic elements of suspense, drama, tragedy, and romance. In the end, I loved the tale and feel more wise and intelligent from Bronte’s (and Lucy’s) “histoire” than before.
While it is probably uncouth to comment on the ending of the story, I am fascinated with the ways different authors choose to end stories. For instance, I LOVE Tolstoy’s War and Peace, though the ending of the story contained a 90(ish) page discourse on history, which was quite honestly boring and anticlimactic. In contrast, Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov was an absolutely painful experience for me all the way through up until the beautiful and masterful ending. And so I feel that I must say a word on the ending of Villette. It was quite honestly confusing, and my last lingering feeling toward the author during my reading experience was that of anger and frustration. It ended with a sense of ambiguity, and I can’t say that I thought it was justly handled. While I love the idea of an open ending, I would never want to leave readers feeling frustrated, angry, and confused. I would want to make a way for them to choose what really happened with a sense of finality and conviction. I just can’t experience those feelings with the ending of Villette. I just keep thinking, “What???” Yes, with all three question marks! It is maddening and preposterous. However, sometimes you have to acknowledge that a work is incredible in spite of its ending, while in the case of Dostoevsky it is the very ending which redeems the work as a whole. So, farewell, for a time, Victorian literature. And farewell for good my dear lioness-lamb, Lucy Snowe.
Next up? A long-anticipated rereading of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. And while it is early to judge, I am already considering a second work by Faulkner after that. Therefore, it is also time to say au revoir to dear France for the time being. I am craving again to taste America, and savor the south (a literary flavor that nobody serves up quite like Faulkner).
But at last, I’ve finished this Victorian literary treasure.
A few quotes with which to (for me) savor and (for you) entice.
“Above the poplars, the laurels, the cypresses, and the roses, looked up a moon so lovely and so halcyon, the heart trembled under her smile; a star shone subject beside her with the unemulous ray of pure love. In a large garden near us, a jet rose from a well, and a pale statue leaned over the play of waters.” Vol III, Faubourg Clotilde, pg 455.
“A moon was in the sky, not a full moon but a young crescent. I saw her through a space in the boughs over-head. She and the stars, visible beside her, were no strangers where all else was strange: my childhood knew them. I had seen that golden sign with the dark globe in its curve leaning back on azure, beside an old thorn at the top of an old field, in Old England, in long past days, just as it now leaned back beside a stately spire in this continental capital.” Vol I, The Casket, pg 99.
“...-a Methuselah of a pear-tree, dead, all but a few boughs which still faithfully renewed their perfumed snow in spring, and their honey-sweet pendants in autumn- you saw, in scraping away the mossy earth between the half-bared roots, a glimpse of slab, smooth, hard, and black.” Vol I, The Casket, pg 96.
“One night a thunderstorm broke; a sort of hurricane shook us in our beds: the Catholics rose in panic and prayed to their saints. As for me, the tempest took hold of me with tyranny: I was roughly roused and obliged to live. I got up and dressed myself, creeping outside the casement close by my bed, sat on its ledge, with my feet on the roof of a lower adjoining building. It was wet, it was wild, it was pitch-dark. Within the dormitory they gathered round the light-lamp in consternation, praying loud. I could not go in: too resistless was the delight of staying with the wild hour, black and full of thunder, pealing out such an ode as language never delivered to man- too terribly glorious, the spectacle of clouds, split and pierced by white and blinding bolts.” Vol I, The casket, pg 99.
I love that excerpt of the storm! I feel a vivid sense of kinship when I experience sitting on that ledge of the french boarding house in the middle of a glorious storm right there alongside Lucy. These are the experiences I read for!
Below are my thoughts on the novel.
At a glance, the story comes across as stoic, austere, and formidable. However, I have found Bronte’s work to be moving beneath the surface. I feel that much of the resistance met while reading the novel lies in the fact that it is Victorian, and therefore chalk-full of that corset-strung formality in its diction. One must peer through these prison bars to see the treasure inside, and I fear that most people do not have the patience to attempt it.
One cannot well comment on a story told in the first person narrative without alluding to the character of the narrator herself. Lucy Snowe is a woman that I soon found to be the kind of character I would love to befriend in real life. She is quick and sharp, yet patient and endlessly self-effacing. She is realistic and self-possessing, well-mannered and full of common sense. However, it is this very self-effacement, carried out to such incredible lengths, that I eventually found to be tiring. There is such feeling of self-suppression and humility, that I found myself crying out to see something give- to see a sufficient outburst, to watch this character get way out of character, to grow and deepen and stretch into a ferocious lioness. And I was somewhat dissatisfied to see her merely growl a time or two and yet maintain her shape as a subdued and docile lamb. But perhaps this is more telling of the reader than the story itself.
It is indeed her very passion that moves beneath the surface. And though I badly wanted to watch it swell and crest and burst forth with all the glory of white caps and that cosmic oceanic rush exhibited in other heroines, I was yet mesmerized by its subtler movements. This story is deep. It contains depths, I think, that are incredibly rare- and here lies the treasure! The narrator expertly delves into the human psyche, and deeper still, into the soul, permeating the very fiber of humanity. The story is so skillfully portrayed and so beautifully complex like a many faceted prism, shedding light on a thousand different subjects, ideas, and questions.
Villette is full to the brim with french language, dual personalities, gothic dualism, personification of nature and virtues, allusions to mythology, masterful imagery, character foils, profound revelations of the soul, scripture references, and even brief discourses on the opposing views of protestantism and catholicism. It is full, indeed!
I will even grant Bronte two very respectable feats- that of an original story and that of the element of surprise. Yes, she kept me on my toes from beginning to end in that regard! Just when I thought I knew where things were headed or what would become of certain characters, she led me down an entirely different path.
This story contains truly classic elements of suspense, drama, tragedy, and romance. In the end, I loved the tale and feel more wise and intelligent from Bronte’s (and Lucy’s) “histoire” than before.
While it is probably uncouth to comment on the ending of the story, I am fascinated with the ways different authors choose to end stories. For instance, I LOVE Tolstoy’s War and Peace, though the ending of the story contained a 90(ish) page discourse on history, which was quite honestly boring and anticlimactic. In contrast, Dostoevsky’s The Brother’s Karamazov was an absolutely painful experience for me all the way through up until the beautiful and masterful ending. And so I feel that I must say a word on the ending of Villette. It was quite honestly confusing, and my last lingering feeling toward the author during my reading experience was that of anger and frustration. It ended with a sense of ambiguity, and I can’t say that I thought it was justly handled. While I love the idea of an open ending, I would never want to leave readers feeling frustrated, angry, and confused. I would want to make a way for them to choose what really happened with a sense of finality and conviction. I just can’t experience those feelings with the ending of Villette. I just keep thinking, “What???” Yes, with all three question marks! It is maddening and preposterous. However, sometimes you have to acknowledge that a work is incredible in spite of its ending, while in the case of Dostoevsky it is the very ending which redeems the work as a whole. So, farewell, for a time, Victorian literature. And farewell for good my dear lioness-lamb, Lucy Snowe.
Next up? A long-anticipated rereading of F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. And while it is early to judge, I am already considering a second work by Faulkner after that. Therefore, it is also time to say au revoir to dear France for the time being. I am craving again to taste America, and savor the south (a literary flavor that nobody serves up quite like Faulkner).
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