Part 1 of the experiment has ended. Waves of relief. Part 2 is much shorter.
Oh, Henry James.
Clearly, I am stalling.
To begin with a misdirection: I just returned from spending a pleasant week
in Atlanta with 14 amazing Kentucky school teachers in a conference organized
by the McConnell Center and Liberty Fund. This is the third year I have done
this—and once again, I left the week inspired by these teachers, having had
many wonderful conversations about Great Books and Other Matters (while
conceding they have talent, I still say Heart is not a good band (and, Toad the
Wet Sprocket? Surely, you were jesting…)
(one of the best things about a blog is that you always get the last word in
bar fights)). The McConnell Center is doing
great work, truly great work. If you
have access to large sums of money to distribute to charitable causes, look no
further,
A week-long conference with travel to and fro merits a Plane
Book, which as the ever attentive reader will recall is a book one thinks one should
probably read but will never actually get around to reading unless trapped in a
metal cylinder hurtling through the air.
Add time in a hotel room, exhausted from endless social interaction, and
you have many hours to work through said tome.
Plane Books are everywhere; the trick is picking which one. Which brings me to the experiment.
I really don’t like Henry James. He is a bore.
I have read several things by James over the year, and other than a brief
flicker somewhere about three-fourths of the way through my third reading of Washington Square, I have never once
thought, “maybe, just maybe, there is something worth reading here.” Yet Henry James keeps coming up in discussions
about Great Books. I don’t understand it. So, I decided on an experiment. There are two English profs here at Mount Holyoke
whom I have heard say kind words about Henry the Bore. So, I e-mailed both of them back toward the end
of the semester with a request. I will
give Henry James another chance this summer.
Send me the title of the one book you think I should read. The fate of James’ immortal reputation hangs
in the balance. He has somehow climbed into
Purgatory; will he be cast back own into the inferno?
I figured I could fit in two books by Henry James this summer
and still enjoy my summer. I got my two
suggestions. I have now read the first
one.
The Portrait of a Lady. Had some promise since T S Eliot has a poem
of that name. Then again, the novel is 600
pages. “Under certain circumstances there are few
hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as
afternoon tea.” It begins.
In one way, the experiment was a success. I have a new theory on Henry James and I have
a second book in which I can test my theory.
The theory: A Henry James novel
is like an exquisitely crafted object, something made so perfectly that you can
look at the object and admire the craftsmanship because the craftsmanship is so
perfectly visible and obvious no matter where you look at the object. But, the object itself, though perfectly, and
I mean perfectly, crafted, is not
Beautiful. At all. There is nothing in the object which would attract
a second glance unless one likes to look at craftsmanship for the sake of
craftsmanship.
I realized this late in the novel. It is perfectly put together, perfectly written. Every character is perfectly described. The plot twists are perfectly foreshadowed
and revealed. The characters act perfectly
in accordance with their perfectly crafted natures. There are a perfect number of main characters
and secondary characters. The novel has
a perfect ending, which is only ambiguous if you haven’t been paying enough attention
to the perfectly crafted characters, but if you realize that all these
clockwork characters will continue to function like perfect timepieces, then
you know exactly what comes next. And in
the midst of all that perfection, the story is terribly dull. The characters have no blood in them. There is never a moment when the novel grabs
you by the lapel and forces you to care.
It is a perfectly detached novel.
It is there, it is perfect, and yet it is lifeless. Henry James failed to discover the secret of
Dr Frankenstein.
If the foregoing is correct, then I understand why James is
held in such high repute despite not being worth reading. It is the Specialist problem. If you are a professor of English literature
and when you read novels, you treat them like items in a laboratory, then Henry
James gives you great specimens to study.
But, step outside the laboratory, read the books because you want them
to show you something about Life beyond how to craft the perfect sentence, there
there is nothing to see.
I’ll test the theory soon.
Fortunately, the second book is vastly shorter.
What I don’t know is whether confirmation of the hypothesis
will lead to Henry James being banished to perpetual exile or not.
In the meantime, another 70s band who is on a Kentucky
school teacher’s Top 5 list. This band
is much better than the ones mentioned above.
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