Life of a Good-for-Nothing

I just finished Joseph Von Eichendorff's classic romantic novel Life of a Good-for-Nothing.  It's a good thing it's spring, because I feel I'd dismiss Eichendorff's adventure as "bunk" and "humbug" in any other season.  It's definitely a novel to read in spring, preferably while reclining in an open field, and thinking about falling in love for no verifiable reason.
Now, I am certainly a romantic, but even while typing this between two pictures of my wedding day, cannot I reconcile the amusing, though clearly nonsensical, story with the total lack of real substance.  The Good-for-Nothing's love interest, referred to throughout as the "beautiful lady," only speaks at the end of the work.  Granted, she isn't required to, considering the nature of the work, but if we're looking for truly great art, shouldn't she offer something to the main character other than a pretty face?  I mean, he meets many pretty faces throughout his journey and seems to be clearly interested in each one, yet he remains ardently in love with this one.  It's a stretch of the imagination, though not as much as the twists at the end.  I feel like even Dickens would come to the end of this book and be dumbfounded by the  absurd ending, which seems to come out of nowhere.
Regardless of this main criticism, it's hard to not be enchanted by the Good-for-Nothing's adventures.  He's a genuinely decent fellow, and anyone who's ever had a desire to go traipsing across the countryside just to see what there is to see will find him hard to resist.  And there is the novel's staying power, I feel.  As one person put it, the Good-for-Nothing (who is never named) is the embodiment of the German spirit.  I would go one step further and say he is the embodiment of the human spirit.  He is generous, kind, foolhardy, selfish, ridiculous, devout, religious, and essentially all the adjectives each of us could use to describe ourselves.
And so, this short novel--just over an hundred pages--continues to attract readers close to two hundred years after it was published.  While not as artistically satisfying, I would put it in the same arena as Don Quixote, The Pickwick Papers, or On the Road.  There's just something attractive about an overly romantic character. Perhaps it's because so many of us let ourselves grow calous.  Well, I recommend that this Spring, whoever is reading this take the time to read Eichendorff's Life of a Good-for-Nothing.  Personally, I think we could all stand be a little more good-for-nothing.

Tolkien Was A Racist?

Based on the evidence, we’ve got a writer creating villains, colored black, who oppose the pure-hearted white heroes, right?  Well, let’s just ignore for now the fact that most of the people who play that bullshit race card with Tolkien also claim that the Elves are supposed to represent Oriental Asians and the Hobbits represent the English, and explore the notion that perhaps he was going back to age-old idea that black represents evil while white represents good.  Going back to what many of these “Tolkien was a racist” enthusiast propagate, if I was determining what group of humanity Tolkien preferred based on The Lord of the Rings, I’d say it wasn’t his own people.  But these are the same people who say that The Lord of the Rings is a metaphor for either World War I, World War II, or Christianity in general—all of which Tolkien himself dismissed.  But what doesn’t authorial intent mean?  Nothing, apparently.
So was Tolkien a racist?  I don’t know, nor do I care.  He was a brilliant man who wrote a classic piece of fantasy.  Based on the evidence taken from that classic though, I’d say no.  Anyone who disagrees with me doesn’t fully understand literature or symbolism when dealing with color.  Like it or hate it, black is a symbol throughout literature for evil.  Tolkien wasn’t exactly a rebel when it came to literature.  He preferred the works that came before him and took much influence from them, especially Medieval literature.  If we read a Medieval “history” (read: fantasy) dealing with black invaders, we would assume the color was a symbol for evil, simply because most Medieval authors I’ve read, when referring to Africans or Arabs, called them either dark skinned or brown.  This is easily explained by saying, they are dark skinned or brown.  The fact that we call them “black” doesn’t change the fact that they are not, in fact, black.
Let me just finish by saying, I’m white (though, in actuality, my skin is more of a pinkish color), and I didn’t assume Tolkien thought I was a part of some master race simply because Aragorn was the same color as me.

Elizabeth Gaskell's Cranford

"Quaint" is the first word that comes to mind.  I would almost describe it as one of Eliot's idyllic novels, if it had been written by Dickens.  I would say that, if it weren't a disservice to all the authors involved.  Jane Austen would be a more apt comparison, if Austen's works were more episodic.  Mrs. Gaskell has a sweetness and a wit throughout the novel, with a tongue-in-cheek attitude towards the inhabitants of Cranford, that brings to mind both the works of Dickens and Austen--especially the characterizations, which are quite good.  This is important, as with only a thin veil of a plot to tie to chapters together, the responsibility of drawing the reader in falls solely on the shoulders of her characters.  Moving from incident to incident, as was not uncommon in Victorian novels, the novel begs us to pay attention simply because the characters are worth giving our attention.  Obviously, a weak novel is one wants to study plot, but one could certainly choose a worth book to pick up to study the art of comedic characterization.  With less on it's mind than some of Gaskell's other works--from what I've read--Cranford is an easy, enjoyable read, but far from life changing.  It is simply a well-written, enjoyable read, and there's nothing wrong with that.

William Makepeace Thakeray: Second isn't Always the First Loser

William Thackeray had his nose broken twice by two different boys.  That's why his nose looks the way it does in pictures.  But how many men can say they had their nose broken by a friend of Tennyson?  Of course, George Stovin Venables wasn't Alfred Tennyson's friend at the time.  Nor was he yet a Fellow at Jesus College, Cambridge.  He was a fellow student with Thackeray at Charterhouse School, the third school he had attended.
Venables described Thackeray as "a pretty, gentle, and rather timid boy."  My response to that would've been, "So why did you break this timid boy's nose?"  We don't know if his broken nose was the result of a swift punch in the face or came about after a fight between the two boys, but we do know that before the first broken nose was finished healing, it was broken again by another boy whose name is unknown to history.
So why all the violence towards this "pretty, gentle, and rather timid boy"?  Knowing what we know about Thackeray today, it's easy to assume he was a sharp witted youth who perhaps made statements his fists couldn't back up.  But if Thackeray was anything like the title character from his novel The History of Pendennis, which he most likely was considering it's autobiographical nature, it is very likely that Venables and this mystery boy were defending themselves against an easily provoked youth.  (Interestingly enough, Venables is said to be the basis for George Warrington, the bosom buddy of Arthur Pendennis.)
We can make some fair assumptions about an author based on their body of work.  For example, only using his works to study him, we can assume Dickens was a sentimental, enthusiastic, compassionate, optimistic, and often ridiculous man.  Thackeray, on the other hand, it would be safe to assume, was abrasive, intelligent, witty, pessimistic, and perhaps a bit of a rascal.  I'd also say he had a strong appreciation for justice and morality, a characteristic he shared with Dickens.  I think it is ever so likely that he quite possibly deserved a punch in the face and possibly gave as good as he got.
In a scene early on in Pendennis, Arthur strikes down a boy for making a rude comment to him regarding an attachment he had made to a low-bred actress.  Hobnell Major is surrounded by his friends, but Arthur, not standing for any jokes at his expense, leaps upon him and knocks him down into an open grave and turns upon Major's friends to see if any of them will have some of the same.  They decline.  It is a very intense scene, and in all likelihood is nothing more than wish fulfillment.  Of course, history doesn't record how many times Thackeray was the one breaking noses, so I suppose we'll never know.

Thackeray, age 2, with his mother Anne

We do know that this timid boy was also a mamma's boy.  Born in Calcutta in 1811, Thackeray can never really claim to have known his father, who died in 1815.  His mother, however, outlived Thackeray by a year, dying in 1864.  She returned to England in 1819, remarried to an old flame, who Thackeray admired and used for inspiration in his novel The Newcomes, narrated by Arthur Pendennis.  From Pendennis alone, we can see something that goes beyond merely a deep appreciation for the matronly figure.  Thackeray's mother would serve, for him, as the prime example of the best in womankind.
When he came of age (twenty-one), he received his inheritance, which he quickly squandered away on gambling as well as funding two unsuccessful newspapers.  He was rather idle in his youth, and after his money was nearly wasted away, he began to consider art a viable source of income.  It was not until after his marriage in 1836 to Isabella Shawe that he seriously turned to writing, which, as history clearly shows, he did pretty well with.
His wife "went mad" in 1840, after the birth of their third daughter.  He spent less time at home after this so he could get work done, but after feeling guilty, he went back to take care of her.  In hopes of curing her, he took her on a trip to Ireland, but while on the way, she threw herself overboard.  She was rescued.  It's easy to assume this was postpartum depression, but considering that she eventually detached from reality altogether and never recovered, confined to a home in Paris for the rest of  her life, it's possible it was something else.  Thackeray looked eagerly for a cure, but never found one.
Being essentially a widower, he did pursued two women after this, one a married woman named Jane Brookfield, whose husband barred him from seeing her, and another named Sally Baxter, an American twenty years his junior, who married someone else in 1855.  Of course, we cannot assume Thackeray was as virtuous as his fictional self, though I will not presume to say if he had a physical relationship with either Mrs. Brookfield or Miss Baxter.  His wife died in 1893, outliving him by thirty years.

Thackeray's caricature of himself

Thackeray's interest in the feminine character is shown throughout his works.  Perhaps this understanding of women is due to his unique relationships with them, as well as the fact that he had three daughters, though the second born died after eight months.  His mad wife might also explain, in part, his interest in Jane Eyre, which he said he read in one sitting.
Thackeray was not unfamiliar with illness.  One such illness struck him in the middle of writing Pendennis and, as he indicated in the dedication to that novel, nearly ended the novel prematurely.  Despite this, he went on to produce several novels afterwords, most notably The Newcomes and his personal favorite The History of Henry Esmond, a novel George Eliot called "the most uncomfortable book you can imagine."
His health began to deteriorate more noticeably in the 1850's, when he was stuck in bed for days at a time.  Much to be expected from a man like Thackeray, rather than help himself, he over ate and drank, as well as got little exercise.  To top things off, he refused to give up spicy peppers, which only worsened his digestion.
On the 23rd of December in 1863, he died of a stroke while getting ready for bed, after coming home from a dinner, where you can be sure he eat and drank his fill.  But it seems to me, if he had given up the drink, the peppers, and the abundance of food, if he had gotten more exercise, we may have gotten a few more years out of him; but it wouldn't seem like William Makepeace Thackeray to me. The savage satirist went out in pure Thackerayan style: stubborn and irascible, just like his most famous characters.
Seven years later, the only writer of the era rated higher than Thackeray would also die of a stroke in his home, Gad's Hill Place, ending what some consider to be the greatest days of the novel.  Today, that man--Charles Dickens--is better known and more appreciated, but there is a reason why Thackeray was second only to Dickens in his day.  They two were distinctly different animals from the other novelists of their day.  In a way, they are two sides of the same coin: Dickens the optimist and Thackeray the pessimist.  But to truly understand the Victorian period, it is necessary to read both, and thoroughly.  Sure, there are other Victorian authors ones need to read--when studying the era--but I deride an Academia that can award someone a masters in Victorian literature without requiring them to read a word of Thackeray.

Books to Read in 2011

For the last two years--the years I've been keeping track--I've had a habit of reading thirty books (not including Charles Dickens' Christmas books, as I've pointed out before).  I'm hoping to change this in 2011.  For this year I've made a reading list of forty books, and I've already completed three books.  I had wanted to reread some books this year, but they just don't fit with my reading list.   Next year will be a year for rereading old favorites; this year is for reading books I've never read before.
Like I said, I've read three this year: St. Francis of Assisi by G.K. Chesterton, The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz  and Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass by Bruno Schulz (he only wrote two books and I might as well get them both).  I have the next four planned out as well.  The Croquet Player by H.G. Wells, Pendennis by William Thackeray, Gargantua and Pentagruel by Francois Rabelais, and Robinson Crusoe.
Here's the complete list of books I intend to read this year.  I feel like posting it online will help me actually get through them.

Pendennis by William Makepeace Thackeray
The History of Henry Esmond by William Makepeace Thackeray
New Grub Street by George Gissing
The Life and Opinions of Tristam Shandy by Lawrence Sterne
The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope
Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe
Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin
A Pair of Blue Eyes by Thomas Hardy
Jude the Obscure by Thomas Hardy
The Discarded Image by C.S. Lewis
The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius
Confessions by Saint Augustine
Ecclesiastical History of the English People by Bede
The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth
The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
Gargantua and Pentagruel by Francois Rabelais
The Wood Beyond the World by William Morris
Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome
Barnaby Rudge by Charles Dickens
Our Mutual Friend by Charles Dickens
The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens
St. Francis of Assisi by G.K. Chesterton
The Return of Don Quixote by G.K. Chesterton
Pinocchio by Carlo Collodi
Baudolino by Umberto Eco
Where Angels Fear to Tread by E.M. Forster
1066 by David Howarth
The Moon & Sixpence by W. Somerset Maugham
The Egoist by George Meredith
The Street of Crocodiles by Bruno Schulz
Sanatorium Under the Sign of the Hourglass by Bruno Schulz
The Travels of Marco Polo
Waverly by Walter Scott
The Croquet Player by H.G. Wells
Tono-Bungay by H.G. Wells
Medieval Lives by Terry Jones & Alan Ereira
The Inimitable Jeeves by P.G. Wodehouse
Cranford by Elizabeth Gaskell
The Last Man by Mary Shelley

H.G. Wells: The First Man in the Moon

Science fiction, much like many children growing up in homosexual households, has two fathers.  (One could make the obvious joke that that's why science fiction is so gay, but I find that joke in poor taste and will refrain from using it.)  These two fathers are, of course, Jules Verne and Herbert George Wells, more commonly referred to as H.G. Wells.

Now, we all know science fiction had other writers before these two.  It's generally agreed that the oldest work of science fiction dates back to the 2nd century, with Lucian's True History, though it differs greatly from what we would consider science fiction today.  One can see elements of the genre in Gulliver's Travels by Swift, which is from the 18th century.  One of the earliest manifestations of the genre as we know it today would be Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.  And, of course, let us not forget Mr. Poe's works of science fiction as so many other people tend to do.  But I'm not here to discuss science fiction, so much as one of its fathers.

There always seems to be a bit of a debate as to who was the better science fiction writer: Verne or Wells.  I think a large part of who you choose is determined by which one you grew up on, though I'll not voice my opinion of who is the more superior author.

Now, I remember when I was a lad, I tried to read Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.  Much like my attempt to read Moby Dick, it failed miserably.  I had no stick-to-it-iveness, I guess.  This somewhat turned me off to Verne.  Maybe it was the translation, but I found the prose too dense for my young brain to comprehend.  In 2009 I read Around the World in Eighty Days, and while I enjoyed it, it felt little more than an adventure novel, a travelogue.  I would like to read more by Verne, but he failed to make my list of books to read this year.  Maybe next year.
Wells, on the other hand, I did not even attempt until I was a bit older.  Not that I thought it'd be too difficult, but he was an author who never really suggested himself to me.  He stood back quietly and awaited my arrival.  I was twenty the first time I read War of the Worlds.  I was in Indiana at the time, which was when I mostly read nothing but C.S. Lewis.  Wells stuck with me though.  It wasn't until 2006 that I began reading other works by him.  There are two used bookstores in my home town.  They're right next to each other so I would always stop at one and then walk down to the other.  Between the two, I found a good selection of books by Wells.  All the well known titles, but also some more obscure ones, such as In the Days of the Comet and The First Men in the Moon, which is my favorite.  I devoured them.  Wells is the only author, saving C.S. Lewis, that I have devoted to reading so wholeheartedly, as I read him without stopping to read anyone else.
I hit a wall though when I began reading When the Sleeper Wakes, republished later as The Sleeper Awakes.  I can't tell you why, but to this day, it's one of the few books I started and never finished.  The story was interesting--a man stays awake for a long period of time and then sleeps for two hundred and three years.  The writing was as good as any other Wells novel.  But, I couldn't find an interest in it.  My love affair with Wells had ended.
This was not too long ago--November of 2007, if I remember correctly--because When the Sleeper Awakes  was a late find for me.  I tried to read it again in the summer of 2008 and had the same difficulty.  Perhaps I should've simply started on a different Wells novel--The Food of the Gods had recently shown up at one of the bookstores--but instead, I moved on to other things.  That was the year I really got into Charles Dickens, and my interests had shifted from science fiction to the more realistic novels of the Victorian period (comparatively more realistic).

Now, I never intended for Wells to fade into the obscurity of authors long past, though I will admit, three years of not reading him might imply that.  Remember my brief mentioning of a reading list for this year--the one Verne failed to make it onto?  Well, while visiting my parents, I took a trip back to one of those bookstores in town and happened upon an old friend.  Not only were these not in the science fiction section, which is where they usually kept Wells, they were books I'd never heard of before: The Croquet Player and Tono-Bungay.  Maybe it was nostalgia or guilt or maybe the fact that neither were science fiction, but I was intrinsically drawn to the two books and quickly snatched them up.  I meant to read them last year, but kept putting them off.  Now, they've been put on my reading list, and I'm itching to get started on The Croquet Player, which is apparently a horror story.

Will this spark another obsession with an author who used to rank with my top favorites?  Well, I've already added six books by Wells to my wishlist.  We'll see though.

To anyone who doesn't know that Little Nell dies in the end: don't read this post. . .Whoops.

I once read a definition of tragedy and comedy.   I feel like it must've been G.K. Chesterton, but I'm also attaching Walter Scott to it, so I don't know.  The definition was simply this: in tragedy, the reader (or viewer) is constantly thinking, "They're going to make it; they're going to make it."  In the end, they do not make it.  Comedy is just the opposite.  I can cite certain examples of this, though it is far from a comprehensive definition.  A good example of this type of tragedy (let us call it a type, rather than a definition) is Romeo & Juliet.  It is one of the most famous love stories, so I'll not recap anything for the reader.  But imagine it was not so famous or imagine that you were one of the first viewers of the tragedy.  I believe the real power of the play comes from the feeling given throughout.  It is not so much that the viewer wants the young lovers to escape and be together forever, but that the story itself seems to indicate that they--if not ought to escape--will.  The fact that they don't should come as a shock.  Anyone who fancies themselves an expert on Shakespeare can disagree with me if you like.  I'm admittedly far from an expert.

Little Nell is the girl, not the old man.

An author I am--Well, perhaps not an "expert" per se, but I at least know more than the average reader.  I'll say again, slightly amended, one author I do know quite a bit about is Charles Dickens.  I also know quite a few people--literary types--who roll their eyes at the name, but the fact remains, despite their rolling eyes, that Dickens stands taller than any other figure in English literature, save the Bard himself.  And anyone who knows any substantial amount about Dickensian literature knows the controversy over Little Nell from The Old Curiosity Shop.
There is nothing exactly wrong with the character of Little Nell.  For those familier with Dickensian literature, she is fairly standard.  The innocently good--beyond-belief-good--character is seen throughout the works of Dickens and the works of many authors inspired by him.  Some other examples include, Oliver Twist, Paul Dombey, Tiny Tim, Agnes Wickfield, and even Little Dorrit.  Chesterton had a theory that Dickens based this character on someone he knew.  Perhaps it was his sister-in-law, Mary Hogarth, whom Dickens was quite attached to and was heartbroken when she died young.  Some theorize that he was in love with her.  We'll only ever have speculation on that end.  Little Nell is considered by most to be based on her, though I have see nothing from Dickens explicitly saying this.  Another theory is that it was some child he knew while working in the blacking factory who he became friends with.  Some child who died.  Dickens did not enjoy talking about those times and we know little more than he tells us.  All I know is, he wrote many characters in this style and most of them die young.  (An interesting exception is Agnes, who is of this ilk, but does not die; whereas, Dora Copperfield, née Spenlow, does die young, but is not of this type of character.  She represents young love and is based on a girl Dickens' admired as a young man.  I will perhaps post further about Dora, Agnes, and their parallel characters from Little Dorrit.)
Of course, with all this talk of people dying, it is probably made clear that Little Nell dies.  This is where the controversy arises.  At the time, people all over the world were devastated by the news.  We've all heard the story of people in New York City flooding the docks to ask sailors from England, who might have read the last installment of The Old Curiosity Shop, if Nell had lived.  At the time it was considered a truly moving tragedy.
That opinion has become part of a heavy debate among Dickensians as well as foes of Dickens.  I won't go so far as to agree with Oscar Wilde and say that her death should incite tears of laughter, but I will say that her death seems out of place with the story.  It seems forced.
Perhaps that is because Dickens didn't have her death planned until later in the book, after he'd heard that his fans expected it.  Now, if there's one thing Dickens liked to do, it was please his fans.  He loved his readers and they loved him for it.  Now, it's also possible that Dickens didn't ever plan on keeping her alive.  I've only just tonight heard that he had planned it, but haven't found the evidence for it yet.  Either way, there is a definitive shift in the novel where one begins to expects Nell to die.  Not because the story calls for it, but the attitude of the author seems to change.  He begins to treat her with something more than pity, which he holds for her throughout the novel.  It's not so much that this aura isn't there, as it is the question of whether it should be or not.  Little Nell dies, yes, but should she?  She seems a makeshift tragic heroine.

Now, I realize this was Dickens first real attempt at tragedy--the books before this were comedies expect for Oliver Twist--and Nell death is not going to be as masterfully done as, say, Sydney Carton.  His was a truly moving death.  Nell's death, however, seems pointless.  She dies at the end simply to die, as a sacrifice to the bloodthirsty author--Dickens killed people with the indifference of a pagan god.  He clearly improved as an author, and despite Little Nell, The Old Curiosity Shop is filled with a wide cast of wonderfully done characters--customers, I almost want to say.  It's hard to find a better villain in all of Dickens' novels than Daniel Quilp, and Dick Swiveller is one of the most lovable of Dickens' rascals.  Also, I know that regardless of my, and many people's, opinion that Little Nell should have lived, people will still read The Old Curiosity Shop and cry at the end.  That's fine.  For the sake of honesty, I'll admit it: I cried at the end too.

Another Another List

16. The Castle of Otranto by Horace Walpole
      First published in 1764, this is one of those books that most people read for historical purposes.  Horace Walpole essentially started, not only the Gothic movement, but the age of the novel. Of course, it is not the first novel, but that does not belittle it's effect.  You can see it stretch all through the Gothic movement it started, but also through literature of the 19th century and into 20th century horror novels.  Granted, reading it now, it's not so scary as it might have been.  The image of a man being crushed to death by a giant helmet is always a shocking one though.
17. A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, Jr.
      Moving nearly two hundred years in the future, we find A Canticle for Leibowitz, one of the most influential science fiction novels, and easily the most influential post-apocalyptic novels of all time.  The story is devided into three parts: "Fiat Homo," "Fiat Lux," and "Fiat Voluntas Tua."  Each piece, while taking place in the future, in a world changed by nuclear destruction, represents a period in history.  The nuclear holocaust that preceded represents the Fall of Rome; "Fiat Homo," the Dark Ages; "Fiat Lux," the Renaissance, and "Fiat Voluntas Tua," the Modern Age.  Shortly after the "Flame Deluge," came the "Simplification," when "Simpletons" burned every book and piece of writing they could find, for that, they thought, was the cause of the destruction before.  Isaac Liebowitz created an order dedicating to hiding books and preserving knowledge.  The story follows important instances during the life of this Order of Liebowitz and deals heavily with the notion of recurrence.  It is easily the best science fiction novel I've read.
18. Idylls of the King by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
       Tennyson's blank verse retelling of the story of King Arthur and his knights is often seen as an allegory for Victorian society, which is easy to understand; however, they can be just as enjoyable if read simply as stories of the greatest mythic hero in British history.  While the poetry is not always as good as some of Tennyson's other works, it is easy to read and understand, which is essential when telling a story, whether in prose of verse.  Another thing to keep in mind is that Tennyson did not sit down and write all of these one after the other.  They were written over a period of over twenty years, which really only means that each poem can be read separately and understood just as well, so long as some basic knowledge of the Arthurian legend is had beforehand.  My personal favorites are "Gareth and Lynette," "Balin and Balan," "Lancelot and Elaine," and "Pelleas and Ettare."
19. Little Dorrit by Charles Dickens
      Before the miniseries of this novel came out two years ago, it was not common to hear it discussed except by die hard Dickens fans.  It was heaped among the lesser read Dickens novels such as Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge, or Hard Times.  While it may be less read, it is not less fantastic than his other works.  Chesterton described Little Dorrit as the saddest of Dickens novels, which I would have to agree with.  It really is a melancholy novel, which I realize is not uncommon with Dickens; however, Little Dorrit lacks something even the most melancholy Dickens novels have.  Really, the only way to explain it without saying far more than I have room for right now, would be to recommend reading David Copperfield and then Little Dorrit simply to compare the characters.  With these two novels, Dickens shows the reader two sides of the same coin.  What I find most interesting is that I don't think he intended to do it.
20. Caleb Williams by William Godwin
      The other title to this 1794 novel is Things As They Are.  William Godwin, the husband of pre-feminism feminist writer Mary Wollstonecraft and father to Mary Shelley, was writing with a very distinct purpose.  That purpose was to show how things were in England, and if his word is to be trusted, things were not perfect.  Divided into three volumes, the first tells the tale of country gentry Mr. Falkland and his rival.  When his rival turns up dead after publicly insulting Falkland, one can only assume what happened.  Caleb Willaims is a well-educated but poor servant in Falkland's house, and after hearing the story, he grows curious.  A little too curious for Falkland's comfort, and soon, he is accused of thieving and lying.  He throws the accusation back at Falkland and is quickly hated by all of England. One word I've heard quite often to describe this story is "fierce." It's a good term for not only the story, but the concept Godwin was trying to express. Justice is a fierce thing, but no where near as fierce as injustice; and that's truly what this story is driven by: injustice. Mr. Falkland evades justice and Caleb cannot seem to find it. Caleb becomes a criminal, hunted for a crime he did not commit.   It is a intense look at the justice system of England, as Godwin saw it, in the late 1700's.  My only complaint is that Godwin's style is that of a philosopher, not a novelist, and it can some times be distracting.
21. Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy*
      Academically speaking, there are two good reasons to read this novel.  Firstly, it displays Hardy's early style and is foreshadows his later works.  Secondly, Hardy shows a wonderful depiction of rural English life through the characters of the Mellstock choir, or quire.  Some consider this last part the strongest part of this work, and I will admit, I find his depiction of country life highly enjoyable, but it is a common element in most of his novels and short stories.  The main reason I read the novel again was for the love story.  Thomas Hardy's novels are always full of tragic love stories, and often times with multiple characters in play.  In Far from the Madding Crowd, for example, Bathsheba Everdone has three men in love with her.  One is murdered by the another one who is clearly insane, and the last one she marries quietly after her pride and spirit are broken. In Under the Greenwood Tree with Fancy Day and her three suitors, things play out much less tragically.  In fact, this novel stands out among Hardy's work for it's relatively happy atmosphere and ending, though it wouldn't be a Hardy novel if there wasn't some cloud on the horizon, right?
22. The Mysterious Stranger by Mark Twain
      For those who are only familiar with Twain's earlier works, The Mysterious Stranger might come as a shock.  It was his last attempted novel, which he tried to write three times.  The copy I read is the heavily edited edition by Albert Bigelow Paine.  It is mainly an edited version of Twain's first draft, The Chronicles of Young Satan, with the ending to the last draft, No. 44, the Mysterious Stranger.  Let's go back to that Young Satan thing.  The tale of is set in 16th century Austria, where three boys meet--you guessed it--a mysterious stranger.  This stranger reveals himself to be an angel named Satan, nephew to the fallen angel of the same name.  Throughout the novel, he teaches them the value of man and human life: nothing.  It is a very dark message.  When Satan explains that all of our choices are determined the very second we're born due to circumstances set in motion the day earth was created, I had to reanalyze my entire philosophy.  I'm an advocate for free will, but there's something to be said for this argument of circumstance.  Our choices are our own, but they are effected by outside sources beyond our control.  Even our thought process is effected by circumstances we did not choose.  But I'll not digress further.
23. The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis*
      This seems like a good follow up to The Mysterious Stranger, but if I remember correctly, I started reading The Monk first, but finished this rather quickly.  I've read this book at least seven times, and by now I should know it backwards and forwards, but it had been nearly five years since I last read it.  There's something wonderful about re-reading a book by an author you've come to read quite thoroughly.  It gives a new appreciation of the work.  While the work is full of spiritual insight and the token Lewis humor, reading it now, shows me different elements of Lewis that I didn't see when I first read it.  On it's own though, the work is obviously a masterpiece, which can be appreciated by Christians and atheists alike, and it has been over the years.  While Lewis' devils are, of course, representative of real devils (he believed in the devil, like any legitimate Christian), the way he displays them is also an attack of bureaucracy, where each person is only ever unselfish for selfish reasons.  It is highly recommended to anyone.
24. The Monk by Matthew G. Lewis
      The Monk is the climax of Gothic literature. That's not to say anything after isn't good or even better than it, but everything after was on the down hill side of the movement.  That's not even to say The Monk  is the best piece of Gothic literature, but it seems to be an amalgamation of everything everyone had done before, with a little bit of a twist.  Matthew Lewis was not opposed to showing the reading the atrocities his book is about.  It's essentially the difference between a horror film and a thriller.  And The Monk is frightening is certain places.  Dull in others, though.  It is the story of lust destroying an otherwise holy man, and as a consequence, destroying many people around him.  Ambrosio's lust is on full display, as well as the objects of his lust.  You won't find your Victorian descriptions of women here.  It is sexual and horrific, like a modern horror film teens go to in the Summer to see breasts and gore.  For that reason, I would say, it lacks heavy intellectual merit, but considering Lewis wrote it in a matter of ten weeks before he was twenty, it's brilliance makes any of the failings seems rather small.
25. Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov
      Having never read any Nabokov, I felt Lolita was a good place to start.  Let me first say, I don't think the book is bad.  Far from it, in fact.  Nabokov's use of prose is spectacular, but it can also be confusing.  Thomas Mann's Death in Venice, however, as I pointed out in an earlier post, tackles the same concept with the efficiency and bleakness one would expect from a German.  Humbert Humbert's account seems unlikely, though possibly, which I think is the point; but he, like many intellectuals, has a tendancy to ramble--a trait Mann's Aschenbach does not share.  The main difference is that while Nabokov's story is convoluted and uniquely phrased, there isn't much underneath the prose beside one pervert's love for a young girl.  Mann's story is told in straightforward manner, but it hides a deeper aspect.  I would recommend reading both, but I would definitely recommend Death in Venice before Lolita.
26. The Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
      What is there to say about Sherlock Holmes other than he's f**king Sherlock Holmes.  Seriously though, Holmes is perhaps the biggest badass in all of literature from the last hundred, maybe two hundred years.  That's considering James Bond was created within the last century.  There's been a resurgence of Holmes lately, though he never went out of style, and this is easily my favorite collection of Holmes stories.  It contains my favorites: "The Adventure of the Yellow Face," "The Gloria Scott," "The Naval Treaty," and--of course--"The Final Problem."  The last is the infamous introduction of Professor James Moriarty, and also contains what was meant to be the death of Sherlock Holmes.  This is a wondrous collection of stories, but then again, aren't all the Sherlock Holmes collections?
27. The Way of All Flesh by Samuel Butler
      Samuel Butler is one of those few people who thought they would only fully be appreciated after their death and happened to be right.  His magnum opus, written over a period of about ten years (1873-1884), was not published until 1903, one year after Butler's death.  The Way Of All Flesh was quite popular and is today considered one of the most influential novels of the 20th century.  I must say, there's good cause for all the praise.  It is a harshly written attack on Victorian values, and while I found the style to be unique and enjoyable and the story quite interesting, my major complaint is all of his complaints.  He seems to be shooting with a scatter-gun.  Mr. Overton--the narrator--seems angry about everything.  He would attack one thing and then criticize Ernest's attack against the same thing.  Also, his attacks on Christianity--while understandable considering the strict Calvinism he was dealing with--were lacking in any real merit.  Anyone with a half-thorough knowledge of theology could tear down his arguments, but like I said, I understand why he was attacking it.  Still, I'd recommend reading George MacDonald's--also a Victorian--criticize of Calvinism instead.
28. The Golden Legend: Selections by Jacobus de Voragine
      For those who are not aware of one of the world's first best sellers, The Golden Legend is a collection of the lives of the Saints.  Technically, Voragine did not write it, but merely collected the information from other sources, though he deserves more credit than a simple compiler.  I'll not focus on that, however, and move on to the work itself.  Being raised Baptist, we did very little study of the Saints, aside from the big ones--the Apostles, Mary (Magdalene, not the mother of Christ), early Christian martyrs, et cetera.  So, aside from wanting to read more Medieval literature, I was naturally interested in the lives of the lesser known--or sometimes well known but Catholic--Saints.  I read about most Saints on his or her feast day throughout the year, reading more sometimes and less sometimes, and finished in late November.  The tales in here are at times quite fascinating as well as fantastical.  Some of them read like fairy tales.  Take the Seven Sleepers, for example--a story I've blogged about before.  What is especially interesting is reading the historical account of a saint--say, Thomas Becket--and the Church's version.  I'm sure the truth is somewhere in the middle.  I'm quite eager to get the entire collection, rather than just selections, but I would recommend starting with this.
29. A Room with a View by E.M. Forster
     I already blogged extensively on this novel, so I will say very little here.  If anyone is truly interested in my thoughts upon the book, read my blog from December second.  All I'll say here is that I could easily see myself reading this again, and look forward to reading Where Angels Fear to Tread.
30. The Song of Roland by Anonymous
      Ah, The Song of Roland, first of the chanson de geste--is there really anything I can say about this that could actually express the pure badassery of it?   This is the Medieval equivalent to Die Hard, and might also remind modern readers of the plot to 300.  I'd have to say though, even John McClane and King Leonidas wouldn't stand a chance against Roland and Olivier.  Here's the basic idea: Charlemagne has been invading Spain for a while now, and decides to leave after Saracen king Marsile promises peace.  It's all a trap though, and when Roland, twelve peers--including his best friend Olivier--and twenty thousand soldiers head up the rearguard, they are ambushed by Marsile's army of four hundred thousand.  They fight to the last man--that being Roland, of course.  Roland previously refused to sound his horn to alert Charlemagne, but now does so, bursting his temples from the blow.  He dies on a hill, facing the enemy land.  Charlemagne comes, and long story short, is mortified, but not so much that he can't heap a horrible vengeance on his foes.  Based on historical events, but probably about as reliable a historic document as 300, The Song of Roland is easily the greatest epic poem from the era.  There's a lot more I could say about it, but I'll limit myself.  Maybe I'll talk about it some other time.

Well, that is my finished list of the books I read this year.  Hopefully next year's will be longer, but at least it's not shorter than last year's.

Charles Dickens and Christmastime

For those who know and love the works of Charles Dickens, it's hard to separate him from Christmastime.  Christmas--when looked at properly--has an other worldliness about it, and Dickens is not without this aura as well.  He is like a second Homer, breathing life into pagan gods. But the gods of Dickens--the Pickwicks and Wellers, the Traddles and Micawbers--are not without their Christianity.  If this blending of Paganism and Christianity seems odd to anyone, let us not forget that many of our most cherished traditions of Christmas are pagan traditions.
None of his works seems to exude this feature more so than his Christmas books.  Even The Battle of Life, which is the only one of his Christmas books that contains no elements of the supernatural, is ripe with this other-worldliness, this Pagan Christianity.  Reading the story, it is hard to not picture these characters worshiping their household gods.  One could transpose the entire story to Ancient Rome and find little need to change a thing.
I would say though that the Dickens' other-worldliness is best exposed in two scenes, two of his Christmas books, A Christmas Carol and The Chimes.  The scene wherein Scrooge holds conversation with his former partner Jacob Marley has always held a sort of awful presence in my mind.  It is one of the most real scenes in all of literature to me.  I can hear the bells, the rattle of chains, the woeful voice of Marley as he talks of Scrooge's "ponderous chain."  But no part of this is more set in my mind than when Scrooge is at the window.  Of course, Dickens' views on the afterlife seem more influenced by folklore than actual religion, which, though he would not have liked to admit it, was more Medieval than it was Victorian.
This scene at the window in very similar to a scene in The Chimes, when Trotty Veck is in the bell tower, viewing goblins, all over the country side, comforting lamenting souls and tormenting sinners, until the bells stop ringing and they all disappear.  They are the spirits of the bells working on the souls of men.  It is a perfect example of his Pagan Christianity.  Then the true spirits of the bells appear, "a bearded figure. . .a figure and the Bell itself."  They are described as "mysterious and awful."  Yet, even these Bells, he says were Baptised.  He links fairies with the Church, combining folklore with religion.  This is actually very common among the British.  Even today, many devout Christians of the Celtic countries hold to beliefs in the fairy folk.
Christmastime is as well a link between folklore and religion.  One the one hand, we have the Virgin Mary giving birth to God made flesh, born so that through His death he might rescrue His creation.  On the other hand, we have such folklore as Sinterklaas (the true name of Santa Claus), Father Christmas (a seperate entitity from Sinterklaas), yulelogs, mistletoe, and even elves, though for the life of me, I can't figure out how they fit in.  While I am the type of Christian who prefers to make Christmas about Christ, I'm also an enthusist of fairy tales.  I might not tell me children that Santa Claus is real (I might mention Sinterklaas because I'd like to tap into my Dutch herritage), but they'll certainly learn about Father Christmas (who is simply an embodiment of the Christmas spirit) and of course we'll have a Christmas tree and all those other ornaments that owe their origins to Pagan tradition. 
Christ did not come into the world to destroy the law, but to fulfill it.  We are to cast aside the parts we do not need, and keep only that which is pertinant to the Christian faith.  In the same regard, I think Christ did not come into the world to destroy Paganism, but to complete it.  We can throw aside the harmful beliefs, but there are many aspects that need not be eliminated simply because of their connection to false gods.  The early Church knew this, but many movements since have feared the harmful effect of Paganism, not realizing that Christianity has rendered Paganism impotent.  It was because of this that Puritains abolished Christmas.  Even America was founded without Christmas, and if not for such writers as Washington Irving and Charles Dickens, Christmas might have gone out into obscurity.

Another List

Well, since December has reared it's cold, white-bearded head, I suppose it's time again to make the list of books I've read this year.  Sadly, just like last year, it's at thirty.  But at least it's not less than last year.  And just like last year, I'm not including Dickens' five Christmas books that I read every year in December.  I'm currently reading a small collection of essays by William Hazlitt, but I doubt I'll get it finished before January, so it's not included.
I've devided the list into two lists of fifteen (just like last year), and, of course, and asterisk next to the name means I've read it before.  Prepare to judge me harshly.


1.  The Princess and Curdie by George MacDonald
     I first read The Princess and the Goblin in 2006.   It was the second novel I read by MacDonald and the first one I enjoyed all the way through.  I checked all the book stores in town for the sequel, but not finding it, I let it slip from my mind.  I wish I hadn't, because the two should really be read back to back.  They compliment each other in the sense that Goblin is the feminine story while Curdie is the masculine.  Of course, the two are ripe with Christian metaphors, though like most of MacDonald's works, they are never preachy.  It is definitely a classic I'll read to my kids one day.  (My future children, not my future baby goats.)
2.  Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte
     I had intended to start the year off with this novel.  This was to be my year of reading novels everyone should read.  I made a dent in that list, at least, and I started with this book.  I've already said how I rank the Brontes in an early post, but I'll say again: Anne is my favorite.  That's not to say Charlotte is a bad writer, but having read two of her novels, I find them somewhat trite.  Jane Eyre specifically, I found to be predictable--I knew little to nothing of the story--and often boring.
3.  In a Glass Darkly by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu
     Le Fanu is a little know Irish author from the Victorian movement who was stuck in the Gothic period.  This is in no way a bad thing.  In a Glass Darkly is a collection of short occult mysteries, taken from the papers of one Dr. Martin Hesselius, an expert in metaphysics and the occult.  He appears very little throughout though, which is due to him being merely a pretense to publish these all together.  They were most of them, if not all, published separately beforehand.  While the five stories were all interesting and entertaining, the best was certainly the novella length vampiric tale Carmilla, the story of a lesbian vampire's obsession with an English girl living in Western Europe. Not your typical Victorian romance.
4.  Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray
     This is a powerhouse of a story.  Like many novels written in the Victorian era, it spans a large time frame and includes a large cast of characters.  Despite that, it is highly memorable and entertaining.  It's easy to see why it was so influential.  What's not easy to see is why Becky is so beloved.  She was the least likable character in it, but feminists see her as a strong woman.  I've never thought being amoral makes you strong.  But again, I think most people miss the point in the same way Blake missed the point about Milton's Satan.
5.  Gulliver’s Travels by Jonathan Swift
     For those who don't know Jonathan Swift's famous story, it is the tale of a traveler who apparently has the worst luck when he finds open water, and finds himself four times stranded on islands with strange inhabitants who just so happen to lampoon and attack the flaws and foibles of the day.  Of course, this is why Swift is considered by many to be England's greatest satirist.  I would go so far as to estimate that this fictional travelogue is one of--if not the most influential book of the last three hundred years.  It's effected not only literature and film, but also the English language.  Not to the extent of Shakespeare, but certainly you've never met someone who didn't know the word "yahoo."
6.  The Eyre Affair by Jasper Fforde
     Like many people who read a lot of classic literature, this was recommended to me because I'd like the subject matter and the references.  Sadly, it takes more than a mention of Martin Chuzzlewit to get me to like a book.  Do I doubt Fforde really enjoys classic literature?  No.  But this book is trying way to hard to not only make that point abundantly clear, which, by the way, it does not do; but it is also trying way to hard to be eccentric.  Oh, it's kinda cute that Thursday Next has a Dodo named Pickwick, but that doesn't fix the weak points in his plot or dialogue.  I'll probably still read the second one in the series though, since I own it.
7.  David Copperfield by Charles Dickens*
     David Copperfield is my favorite novel.  It's not Dickens' best work.  No, that title would go to Bleak House most likely.  But David Copperfield has sentimental value.  It also helps that some of Dickens' best characters are displayed in this novel.  The wonderfully positive Thomas Traddles, the clearly bipolar and perpetually impoverished Wilkins Micawber, the simple yet lovable Dora Spenlow, the conniving and dastardly Uriah Heep, and the stiff but gentle Betsy Trotwood--and the cast goes on.  Dickens displays his knack for making eccentric characters better in David Copperfield than in any other work.  And it's this knack for the eccentric that I've always loved about Dickens, ever since I first read A Christmas Carol.
8.  The Last Unicorn by Peter S. Beagle
     The thing about Beagle is, he looks like a fantasy author.  More than that, he looks like a fantasy reader.  In some ways, this is a good thing.  One can tell from reading The Last Unicorn that Beagle knows his fantasy, especially high fantasy.  The problem is though, The Last Unicorn is high fantasy in a low fantasy body.  (For those who don't know the difference, click on the links.)  Granted, I think I was looking for something a little bit more William Morris, and what I got was more Diana Wynne Jones.  I like both authors, but I felt this book could've been something so much more than it was.  As it is, I found it somewhat forgettable and boring in many places.
9.  Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
     I like Vonnegut, but I think I like him in smaller doses than a whole novel.  I've read many of his short stories and never been let down.  Slaughterhouse-Five was, sadly, not as good as I'd expected it to be.  It wasn't science fiction, for one.  That's a mislabel.  I think we all know Billy Pilgrim didn't go into space.  He suffered quite a bit as a prisoner of war, and eventually, he snapped.  That wasn't my issue.  I just got nothing out of the book.  Most of the Vonnegut stories I've read I highly enjoyed and they stuck in my mind long afterwords.  This, once I got to the last page, was out of my head immediately.  Maybe I'll read Cat's Cradle next time.
10. The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
      By the time an American reaches the age of twenty-five, if he hasn't read The Great Gatsby, most people assume there's something wrong with him.  It might surprise some, but my school never required me to read it.  I'm not too fond of American literature in general, so I put it off.  I'm glad I did.  I'd already read Fitzgerald's Tales of the Jazz Age by the time I got to this, which added to what I got out of it.  I will say though, I felt it was a bit over-lauded.  It was good, but there were many British writers from the same period attacking the same social ills and doing it better.  I look forward to reading more by Fitzgerald though. 
11. It’s Too Late to Say I’m Sorry by Joey Comeau
      I've already expressed my enjoyment of the works of this crazy bastard once before, so it should come as no surprise that I read this collection of short stories in a few hours.  Comeau lends himself to easy reading though.  He's never too deep, but never too shallow.  He tows the line.  I read his darkly hilarious epistolary novel Overqualified last year and I've been reading his webcomic A Softer World even longer, so I knew what to expect from this collection: horror, romance, and a little bit of philosophical musings.  Throw in a little bit (or a lot) of perverted humor and you've got Joey Comeau.
12. The Mill On the Floss by George Eliot
      This is probably not what one would expect someone to read after Joey Comeau, but somehow it happened that way.  I was in the mood for some Victorian idyllic stylings, something like Thomas Hardy.  And who's more like Thomas Hardy than George Eliot?  (I suppose I could've just read Thomas Hardy, but here we are.)  Let me just say, I enjoyed this novel, but it was so slow.  It was like walking up a steep hill the entire time, and then, out of no where, falling into a crevice.  It just ended, and I did not see that ending coming.  After thinking about it, it makes sense, but at the time I was highly confused why she'd end it like that, so suddenly.  I know many people studying Victorian literature usually read Middlemarch, but I'd highly recommend this instead.  It is a biting, but also sympathetic, attack on many aspects of Victorian country life.
13. The Death of Ivan Ilyich by Leo Tolstoy
      I remember that while reading this, I enjoyed it, but I remember very little from it.  I mean, I understand what it was actually about, what the intellectuals say it's about.  Maybe if I were someone who never thought of death and the afterlife it would've struck home more.  It's a very well done novella, but I can list on one hand all the novellas that have changed my life.  There's nothing wrong with it, and I'm glad I read it.  I'd even recommend it to anyone interested in the subject, the author, or Russian literature.  I suppose though, there's rarely a reason to not remind one's self of life's temporariness and the need to live right.
14. Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen*
      I first read this in 2007 because a girl I liked told me to read Austen.  I'm glad I did because Austen is a necessity.  I read it at a ridiculous singles conference my church went to. I don't think they meant for me to spend the conference in a stairwell reading alone, but there you have it.  I feel like that's where Cathrine Morland would've been.  Northanger Abbey  is Austen's Don Quixote.  In fact, the earlier novel The Female Quixote by Charlotte Lennox was used as a model for Norrthanger Abbey.   But anyway, Miss Morland is perhaps my favorite Austen heroine.  She is, I believe, the most eccentric, which to a certain extent means the most sincere.  Naivety is a good sign of sincerity.  And rather than feel sorry for her when she makes her outrageous mistakes, I feel nothing but comradely.
15. Death in Venice by Thomas Mann
      While this is barely more a short story, I've added it here because it's classified as a novella.  If you ask the average reader, they'll tell you Death in Venice  is paled by Lolita, but in my opinion, this is the superior work.  His use of the Apollonian life struggling against the Dionysian life, resulting in the end with a failure and Aschenbach falling victim to Dionysus, seems to me far more interesting than the concept tackled in Lolita.  In fact, I'd say, without Nabokov's unique use of prose, Lolita would be nothing special.  Of course, I only see this now after reading Lolita and comparing the two.  But I'll get to my views on Lolita in the next and final list.

I'm an existentialist. Of course I don't believe in Italy

I've been reading E.M. Forster's A Room with a View for nearly a week now.  I'll probably finish it today or tomorrow.  (I'd be done sooner if I hadn't thrown The Song of Roland into the mix.)  It has been an interesting read, to say the least.  Forster is one of those authors that I had a natural aversion to before I'd read anything by him.  Often, I follow my instincts and avoid that author and his works.  Sometimes, however, I force myself to read something by him--usually the shortest work.  This is, of course, one such occasion.  Other similar instances involved such authors as James Joyce, J.D. Salinger, F. Scott Fitzgerald, John Steinbeck, and even Charles Dickens. 
Now, forcing myself to read an author I don't want to read isn't always such the resounding success as my foray into the world of Dickens.  Take Salinger for an example: I had never read anything by him but always knew I'd hate his works; I found Franny and Zooey for a dollar and read it in a couple of days, only to find my original opinion was an understatement of my true hatred for that man's works. 
Luckily, Forster is not turning out so bad as all that.  I'd not say he's turning out like Dickens did though by any means.  It's a nice middle ground.  I like the story he's crafted and the characters he's populated it with, but his writing leaves something to be desired at times.  Some brilliance does shine through though.  Through dialogue mostly.  A wonderful example of this is this quote by George Emerson: "It is Fate that I am here.  But you can call it Italy if it makes you less unhappy."  I love that quote. Another highlight is the conversation between Cecil and Lucy wherein Cecil explains that when he thinks of her he thinks of a view, and when she thinks of him, she thinks of a room--a room without a view.  It's also said later that there are two types of men in the world: those who remember views and those who don't.
This room and view comparison is, in my opinion, a metaphor for two types of people.  The first being people who are closed off within society, with no access to the aesthetic life.  The view is that aesthetic life, but it is also the future--a wide open expanse with limitless possibilities.  You'll find none of that back in the room.  And so, it is a conflict between the passed and the future.  Which is interesting, considering the title: A Room with a View.  Obviously, this is a combination of both the passed and the future.  The societal safety of an enclosed room with the aesthetic freedom of a view.
There is another aspect of the room and view comparison.  It is stated at a certain point that Lucy says to Cecil, "I won't be stifled, not by the most glorious music, for people are more glorious, and you hide them from me."  This is easily a call-back to the notion that Cecil is a room without a view, and he would bring Lucy into the room if she would let him.  He would surround her with beautiful things--books, art, music--but he would keep her from people.  People are the one thing Cecil cannot stand.  He grows tired of every person he meets in the book.  Forster isn't saying we shouldn't surround ourselves with these beautiful things, but we should never remove people--the view--because people are the most beautiful things.  (As a misanthrope, I'm a little inclined to disagree, but I'm just stating what I think Forster was saying in the book.)
George Emerson seems to embody this notion.  His father is obviously a radical and a very strange man.  George takes after him somewhat, though he is different in many aspects.  He's described as "ill-bred" and that he "didn't do," but he is easily the most likable character and  obviously has better morals and understanding than the well-bred Cecil, who finds amusement in putting everyone down, so long as they hold nothing for him to gain.  George seems like what one would get from a cross between a country squire and a liberal-minded aristocrat: he is philosophical and gentlemanly, but he'll kiss the girl he loves regardless of her fiance being present not a minute earlier, because he "loves passionately."
I think this is what Forster was hoping for the future gentleman to be like.  Free of many Victorian restrains, replacing them with true morals and true philosophy rather than hypocrisy and regurgitated knowledge.  (I must point out that I do not hold the Victorian lifestyle to be nearly as bad as many of Edwardians and Modernists did, but that's neither here nor there.)  If Forster had understood the Medieval mind better, he would've called George medieval rather than that cold and cynical Cecil.
Or maybe I'm over-analyzing the whole damned thing, and it's just about a girl growing up and falling in love.

Extended Reading List

I've found myself in a predicament, as of late.  I have two lists of books I want to read.  The first one is the list I posted earlier; the second is a list of Medieval and classical works as well as works expounding upon the former period.  One could say the first list is my casual reading list, though to a casual reader--by most definitions--it would look rather academic.  The second would clearly appear entirely academic, though it's becoming a bit of an obsession of mine.  I have before me an untouched wealth of knowledge, which, in the words of Seneca the Younger, "were born for us and prepared for us a way of life."
I have been gathering up Medieval texts over the passed few months--over the passed year, actually.  Of these, I've only read selections from The Golden Legend.  I intend for this to change in the coming year.  Of the books I intend to read next year, here is a list.  By making a list, I can use it as a reference, as well as make it more definitive.

Books about the Medieval Period include:

The Discarded Image: An Introduction to Medieval and Renaissance Literature by C.S. Lewis
Medieval Lives by Terry Jones, with Alan Ereira (The documentary was fantastic.)
Monarchy by David Starkey (Again, the documentary was fantastic.)

Actual Medieval (and going back to the Classical period and into the Renaissance) texts:

The Illiad and The Odyssey by Homer
Ethics by Aristotle
The Mabinogion
The Consolation of Philosophy by Boethius
Confessions by Saint Augustine
City of God by Saint Augustine
Piers the Plowman
Ecclesiastical History of the English People by Bede
Alfred the Great by John Asser 
The History of the Kings of Britain by Geoffrey of Monmouth
The Decameron by Giovanni Boccaccio
The Canterbury Tales by Geoffrey Chaucer
The Inner Life by Thomas a Kempis
Le Morte d'Arthur by Sir Thomas Malory (more thoroughly)
Utopia by Thomas Moore (again)
Gargantua and Pantagruel by Francois Rabelais

I'll be honest.  I don't think I can read all of those in one year, but I'm ambitious.  That's not including the books in my Amazon wishlist, like William of Newburgh's History of English Affairs or Lewis' Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Literature.  I also want to find more books about Medieval literature and life.  That and hopefully I'll be able to find a cheap copy of some of Roger Bacon's works.  It may take some time, considering the other reading list I have, but I've become increasingly passionate about these studies.  I think the Medieval mindset contained something that we've lost in the last few hundred years that was beneficial, but for some reason we've been damning Medieval man as if he were lower than us.  It's chronological snobbery, as Lewis put it.