Noun & Noun

I almost began writing on the following topic yesterday, only to be convinced that I should hold my tongue, or fingers as it were, until I could more fully consider what it is I wanted to say. Later on in the day, I endeavored to do just that, but writing into the journal about it just wasn't working, so I jotted a brief email to a friend. That helped a bit, I guess, but nothing had become distinctly clearer. Then, as the topic arose during conversation with friends during the evening, that elusive clarity finally came forth.

The topic, which you're by now demanding, no doubt, is that of Ms. Jane Austen, her lovely works, and literature in general. I won't go into a written history of the rise and fall of my love for literature. Suffice it to say that the "fall" happened some time ago, and the empire hasn't since resurrected itself. There have been brief relapses, moments when she shone of former glory. But on the whole, like Mr. B.B. King has so passionately wailed, the thrill was gone.

A few months back, in a search for some media amusement, I swiped a copy of the most recent film adaptation of Pride and Prejudice. It being sufficiently enjoyable, I promptly picked up the novel and, with the exception of a brief hiccup for a week or two, plowed through it in relatively short order. It was fantastic in every way, completely bewitching indeed. Thus, I was rather forced to obtain another Austen work, this time choosing Sense and Sensibility. That one was devoured more speedily than the previous, and somewhere between Elizabeth and Elinor, Jane and Marianne, the thrill came back.

But I am worried now. As with the fire you've been tending to delicately, attempting to shield it from wind and waste, so now I feel as though the thrill might be extinguished just as quickly as it was stirred up, not by time, nor an excess of work, but by a misinformed selection of the next book to read. I can remember too clearly the sapping sense of apathy that overcame me in the midst of one book or another during high school. And I don't want to hasten its return with the selection of some ill-advised book. On the other hand, I certainly don't want to be formulaic, nor unadventurous, in my reading menu.

But getting back to the original point, I had been trying to figure out what had been the draw of Austen -- of how exactly it was that she had managed to crack the veneer and let in a light that had been too long lacking. I decided to read some critical essays of her work, her life, etc., and though interesting at times, they left me feeling less inspired rather than enlightened. So, in the note to my friend yesterday, I spattered about a few adjectives, hoping to catch on to something that could explain Austen's inexplicable attractiveness. "...hopeful, or redemptive, or, at the very least, never took themselves too seriously," were my characterizations. And then, that evening, a friend mentioned that she enjoyed Austen because of her "redemptive hope". Now, I have read that Austen should be considered "subversive", and I won't argue against that too heartily. I will argue, however, that, indeed, she has not yet failed to leave me with a sense of redemption, a sense of hope. Not that such things and subversiveness must be mutually exclusive, but they don't seem to be common bedfellows either. The point is that the glory of Pride and Prejudice, and Sense and Sensibility, is that they are neither cliche, nor oppositional; they admit our folly, our silly tendencies, and yet aren't so disgusted as to distance themselves from them, or claim detached superiority. It is for that reason that she's not truly Romantic, nor is she all cold, unfeeling Reason. And as someone apt to dwell in paradoxes myself, I find in Austen a comfortable listener, a friend with uncommon insight.

But where to turn now? There are many "approved" choices I could turn to, the Ulysses', D.H. Lawrence's and Virginia Woolf's, and ensure, at the least, no scoffing when relating what book I've been reading lately. But instead, I find myself drawn to more or less similar authors to Austen -- the Thackery's and James' and what not. After an initial trip to the library, I returned with Chinua Achebe's Things Fall Apart, Lawrence's Sons and Lovers, and, of course, Emma. But I am now unsettled about the Lawrence pick, thinking perhaps I should move in another direction, or at least give something else higher priority. Anything, as I've said, to not diminish the joy that has so recently returned. Someone mentioned last night that Woolf's To the Lighthouse made their mind twist and turn and wrench around in such a way, that they felt sanity's brink might not be far off. This is precisely the sort of thing I want, perhaps even need, to avoid. When my legs are stronger, more acclimated to the novel, of which I've been so long a stranger, I'll be more inclined, I think, to venture into such waters. But for now, it is Hope and Redemption. It is always Hope and Redemption, you know. So, let's start there.