The House of Mirth: some random thoughts

1/ The House of Mirth has a range of interesting male characters. 
Gus Trenor and George Dorset are well-drawn, especially the latter. When was the last time I encountered such a weak, pathetic, and spineless man in fiction? The way he stays up all night to wait for his wife returning from another man, then collapses and feels sorry for himself, or the way he comes to ask Lily for help, after doing nothing to help or defend her, is so pathetic, and it’s all so vivid. 
The most fascinating male character in the book is Simon Rosedale, the Jew. I’m aware that Edith Wharton’s description of him is tinted with anti-Semitism, but in spite of it, the character is complex and becomes more humane throughout the story. He might be said to be better than most of the people in the book (apart from Gerty Farish). 
Look at the scene where Lily Bart, after the disgrace, hopes Rosedale still wants to marry her: 

“He met this with a steady gaze of his small stock-taking eyes, which made her feel herself no more than some superfine human merchandise. "I believe it does in novels; but I'm certain it don't in real life. You know that as well as I do: if we're speaking the truth, let's speak the whole truth. Last year I was wild to marry you, and you wouldn't look at me: this year—well, you appear to be willing. Now, what has changed in the interval? Your situation, that's all. Then you thought you could do better; now——"
"You think you can?" broke from her ironically.
"Why, yes, I do: in one way, that is."” (B.2, ch.7) 

He explains in more detail. Then: 

“She received this with a look from which all tinge of resentment had faded. After the tissue of social falsehoods in which she had so long moved it was refreshing to step into the open daylight of an avowed expediency.” (ibid.) 

Out of all the characters, including Lawrence Selden, Rosedale is the most honest. He’s a social climber, but he’s perfectly frank about who he is and what he wants. Rosedale’s brutally honest when proposing marriage to Lily, presenting it as a transaction, a win-win situation, without attempting to sugar-coat it in corny expressions. He’s brutally honest when rejecting her, but also presents to her the different options and how the choice he persuades her to take would benefit them both. 
Place him next to Selden—Selden may, in some way, understand Lily better because he, up to a point, still believes in a nobility in her, whereas Rosedale sees everything as a transaction and doesn’t understand that Lily is sick of high society and doesn’t want to blackmail Bertha Dorset. However, Rosedale is the one who tries to help and provides with practical solutions, the one who tries to and can save her from destitution, the one who is open and frank but also shows a tenderness when Lily’s reduced to living in a boarding house and working at a milliner’s. Selden often hides behind a light-hearted tone, and runs away. 
Of course, I’m not saying that Lily should listen to Rosedale’s suggestion and marry him—he’s not right for her. I’m just saying that he loves her, and tries to help, in his way, whereas Selden runs away like a coward. 

2/ I wonder why The Great Gatsby is much more acclaimed than The House of Mirth. 
Both novels are about a character chasing false values, getting disillusioned, and having a tragic end. Both novels dissect the rich and explore their hypocrisy and rottenness, except that Edith Wharton has a colder, harder tone, her characters are more calculating and ruthless, treating each other like disposables. The House of Mirth, in addition, examines the conditions of women, having limited options and being brought up to be ornamental. 
I used to have a Fitzgerald phase, but The House of Mirth is a greater novel, and Edith Wharton’s writing is much better.  

3/ It’s always nice to discover another writer to like. 
I’m reading The Custom of the Country, another book by Edith Wharton.

Some top 10 lists about books

- 10 favourite novels (updated):
Anna Karenina by Lev Tolstoy
War and Peace by Lev Tolstoy
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
Pnin by Vladimir Nabokov
Mansfield Park by Jane Austen
Wuthering Heights by Emily Bronte
Dead Souls by Nikolai Gogol
Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
Sentimental Education by Gustave Flaubert
The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner

- 10 most important novels- 10 novels that have most influenced me or been most significant to me in some ways:
Anna Karenina by Lev Tolstoy
War and Peace by Lev Tolstoy
Moby Dick by Herman Melville
Invisible Man by Ralph Ellison
Middlemarch by George Eliot
Emma by Jane Austen
Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoyevsky
The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald
The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

- 10 novels I hate the most:
The Book of Daniel by E. L. Doctorow
The Quiet American by Graham Greene
Corregidora by Gayl Jones
The Tattooed Girls by Joyce Carol Oates
Lord of the Flies by William Golding
Like Water for Chocolate by Laura Esquivel
Twilight by Stephenie Meyer
Kitchen by Banana Yoshimoto

_

_

(A possible candidate for 1 of the 2 empty spots might be The Sympathiser, but I have to finish the book). 

- 10 novels I feel worst for not having read:  

The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky 

Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe 

Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes* 

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain 

Bleak House by Charles Dickens**

The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass** 

Hunger by Knut Hamsun** 

To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf** 

Les Miserables by Victor Hugo** 

Tess of the D’Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy

- 10 novels I very much want to read but won't read any time soon: 

Ulysses by James Joyce

In Search of Lost Time by Marcel Proust 

The Master and Margarita by Mikhail Bulgakov**  

Dream of the Red Chamber by Cao Xueqin

The Red and the Black by Stendhal 

The Name of the Rose by Umberto Eco 

Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray 

Pale Fire by Vladimir Nabokov

And Quiet Flows the Don by Mikhail Sholokhov 

The Golden Bowl by Henry James

- 10 novels I don't think I'll ever read: 

Lord of the Rings by J. R. R. Tolkien 

Nausea by Jean-Paul Sartre 

Finnegans Wake by James Joyce 

Wide Sargasso Sea by Jean Rhys** 

Min Kamp by Karl Ove Knausgård

Nỗi buồn chiến tranh by Bảo Ninh
Anything by V. S. Naipaul
or Graham Greene
or E. L. Doctorow 
or Ayn Rand




*: I believe the book I read as a kid was an abridged version. Not sure. 
**: I tried and gave up on these books. 

"Four Meetings" (Henry James)

After thinking several days, I still don't know how to write about Henry James's "Four Meetings".
4 meetings- in the US (talking about Europe), in Europe, in Europe and in the US (talking about not knowing Europe). Again, a female character to study- Caroline Spencer. Again, a male character that studies her, who is also a narrator.
This collection of short stories is like Henry James's gallery, in which he exhibits different kinds of female characters, different kinds of American women- Daisy Miller, "the American flirt", the innocent girl; Pandora Day, the self-made girl; Grace Mavis, the victim of a long engagement; and now Caroline Spencer, a victim of... what? her own romanticised view of Europe? her innocence? her delusion? Whatever the author has in mind when creating the character, she is partly reminiscent of Flaubert's Félicité, in her innocence, naiveté, simplicity and self-forgetting devotion. James writes about her simple heart without exaggeration or sentimentalisation. 
The narrator is like Nick Carraway, a witness who is both inside and outside the story and who knows everything but says nothing. Readers feel with him, readers share with him the suspicion and annoyance and the strong sense of injustice and hatred for the villains, and pity for the girl, but whilst sympathising with his feeling of helplessness and fear of the pointlessness of any attempt to help, can't help feeling irritated with his passivity- why does he do nothing, nothing at all to help Caroline? Why does he say nothing? Why does he feed her illusions? But of course that is an emotional response. James's choice has its artistic effects- the story is moving because Caroline has always been alone in her illusion and tragedy and will remain so, nobody has interfered and nobody will interfere to burst that bubble. Come to think of it, that might not be a bad thing after all, maybe she's not so blind as she appears, maybe the dream of "that dear old Europe" gives her hope and strength and the drive to live and carry on. 

Literary prejudices

We all have literary prejudices, don't we? Like some people refuse to read Nabokov, at least Lolita, because they think it romanticises paedophilia, or because they are repulsed by the idea of entering the mind of a paedophile. Or some others have no intention of reading Jane Austen because they think her books are sentimental, or shallow and boring, or no more than romcom and chicklit. Etc. 
Well here comes a confession: I have my prejudices as well.
The 1st one is Hemingway. Yes, Ernest Hemingway. I haven't read his books- or maybe I did read something a long time ago when I was a kid, but that doesn't count. Why the prejudice? It started with a Team Fitzgerald vs Team Hemingway thing on the internet a while ago (like Tolstoy vs Dostoyevsky, Jane Austen vs the Brontes, etc.) It's cooled now, but back then I loved Fitzgerald- The Great Gatsby and Tender is the Night especially, and some short stories like "May Day", and Hemingway was contrasted with the romantic Fitzgerald as a sort of playboy. Macho. Arrogant. Egoistic. Zelda hated him, he hated Zelda. I saw many comments saying that his female characters were there only to glorify the protagonists, who were more or less versions of the author himself. And then I knew about the Hemingway vs Faulkner thing, I was obviously on Faulkner's side. Hemingway's comeback was, theoretically, a good one, but I loved The Sound and the Fury, and a glance now and then at some of Hemingway's quotes and passages, I thought I didn't like his plain style. Adding to that was the "bells, balls and bulls" remark- Nabokov loathed him. What was I supposed to do? But that's not all. A couple of years ago I read a chapter from Toni Morrison's Playing in the Dark about the black characters in his books. Still remember a few details: the white character was "the man" and the black character was "the nigger", Hemingway wrote "I saw that [the nigger] had seen..." (to avoid a speaking black, created a sentence "improbable in syntax, sense and tense"- Toni Morrison's words), the black man's loud moaning and complaint when he was slightly injured was contrasted with the white protagonist's stoic endurance of his serious wounds so that Hemingway could stress the white character's strength, bravery and manliness.
So before reading him I already had so many prejudices in mind, and they would definitely affect my reading.
Another one is V. S. Naipaul. I know, I know, he's important, he's huge, he's acclaimed by some as the greatest living writer of English prose, and so on and so forth. Perhaps he's great too. But he's an ass. A sexist, no, misogynist. A racist. Heard all the things he said about women and women writers? The things he said about Africans and Muslims? Arrogant and self-important too. Said no female writer was on a par with him. He even said that Jane Austen was "sentimental". What kind of person reads Jane Austen and still thinks her sentimental? Nabokov's also sexist and arrogant, but the things he said were more tolerable. And guess what, Naipaul said this about Nabokov "It's bogus, calling attention to itself. Americans do that. All those beautiful sentences. What are they for?", and about Pnin "It was silly. There was nothing in it. What do people see in him?". I know, I know, writers say bad things about each other all the time. Considered separately, these things are OK, but put together, they create such a negative impression that I want to stay away from his works altogether. If he meant every single thing he said, he's an ass and I can't take him seriously. If he didn't, but said to provoke, he's self-important and ridiculous and therefore also an ass. 
This is double standard, you say. Why am I OK with Nabokov's arrogance and his strong opinions? But I never have the impression that Nabokov expressed his disdain of acclaimed writers only to be provocative, and while dismissing some, he praised others, and he valued true art above all else. True art, originality, genius, beauty. I suppose I'm OK with his remarks not simply because he's Nabokov and he's allowed to say all that, but also because I understand his aesthetics and understand his reasons for having a high or low opinion of a writer. Things Naipaul said just didn't make sense. Like, about George Eliot he said "Childhood, you know, childhood. A little of The Mill on the Floss was read to me. It mattered at the time. But as you get older, your tastes and needs change. I don’t like her or the big English writers". What are you talking about? As though George Eliot's books are for children. 
The 3rd one would be Karl Ove Knausgård. Yes, the Norwegian guy who wrote 6 books about himself and his own life, and called them Min Kamp. The title in English is My Struggle, but it's Min Kamp in Norwegian, like Hitler's Mein Kampf. He's Norwegian, what on earth did he have to put into 6 books? It's about 5000 or 6000 pages or something. Norway's 1 of the most uneventful places ever, nothing happens. Knausgård seems popular in the US, but here he's controversial. Why? Because he put everything into his books, all the details about his personal life and the people around him. He even wrote that his wife snored, or whatever. He wrote lots of awful things about his family and relatives and friends and acquaintances that he antagonised everybody. When he wrote his 1st book, he showed it to some people in the family and they objected to it, but he changed a bit and went ahead and published it, and wrote another 5 books. People wanted to sue him, so now he lives in Sweden. My experiences of Norwegian literature hitherto haven't been very pleasant and have created a negative impression, that sort of influenced my view on Knausgård. And why should I read about this man's life? Why should I read about the real people around him, why should I know their personal stories, private details? Why should I read a book with a painful awareness that he's exposing and using someone else's life and that they're hurt by it? And also the thought that he had to write about himself because he didn't have the imagination to create characters and imagine stories. 6 memoirs sound self-indulgent. My Norwegian friends were assigned the 1st book in their Norwegian class, and many of them talked about it to me. Things like, he went to a party, and then went on for several pages talking about life and death. Boring, they said. I generally didn't trust their judgement, but I remember that. Besides, Knausgård's compared to Proust. Comparisons like that make me suspicious, sceptical. Most of the time they make no sense. Then there are of course people who argue that he's nothing like Proust except the big volumes and the examination of the past and such, that Knausgård has a plain, very plain, unpolished, seemingly careless style. Who likes that? Those who praise him say that he wrote about banality and boredom in a fascinating way, but that makes me more suspicious. I have SAD, that kind of book doesn't sound like something I'd like to read, especially in winter. 
This year, because of the Norwegian literature challenge I started, I've been thinking about reading Knausgård, but I still have some doubt. 
So that's it- those 3 are my main literary prejudices. Fight me. Argue with me. Yell at me if you like. Prove me wrong. Convince me. Show me how irrational and unreasonable I am.
[Out of pure curiosity: What are your literary prejudices?] 

Adapting Jane Austen

A no-nonsense article on how film adaptations completely misunderstand Jane Austen:

http://www.touchstonemag.com/archives/article.php?id=21-07-009-v

"Finally! The teenage passion of Jane Austen will become known to the world! Chemistry! Passion! Rebellious self-determination! With the movie Becoming Jane, devoted fans will become ever more devoted! The Regency period and the twenty-first century will embrace!
[...]
An obscene 1999 film (in which, among other things, Sir Thomas Bertram abuses and rapes slaves, Miss Crawford makes sexual advances on every other character and a few pieces of furniture, and Fanny happens upon her cousin Maria and Mr. Crawford in flagrante delicto) and a more traditional 2007 ITV production have both tried to reinvent the heroine altogether, rejecting her modesty, timidity, physical frailty, and staunch sincerity in favor of an unlikely, outspoken, and altogether too-hardy specimen of proto-feminism.
In the novel, Fanny is quiet, Fanny endures, and Fanny is essentially good. It requires the full length of the novel for her to be esteemed by her fellow characters and rewarded as she deserves; it may take several more decades for modern readers (or viewers) to attain such clarity.
As the cinematic treatment of this novel shows, instead of embracing the depth of feeling of the novels, and Miss Austen’s characteristically deft articulation of the authentic human experience, modern readers tend to reject or misinterpret what they cannot bear to acknowledge: the fact that virtue, not force of will, is the basis for heroism in Austen’s world.
[...]
The heroines of Jane Austen are not the selfish, willful, reckless creatures who sow social disruption and pain in their wake. They are the eager and essentially virtuous maidens who, although they often make mistakes, have a well-established code of virtuous behavior and can recover from any misstep..." 

______________________________________________

My thoughts: 

1/ The 1999 Mansfield Park film is a betrayal of the book. 
a) Fanny is an outsider, a Cinderella figure, who feels that she doesn't belong to Mansfield park throughout most of the story. She grows up in the little white attic, close to nobody but Edmund. Her personality is introverted, introspective, the situation makes her more timid and modest, especially when there's always a Mrs Norris to remind her of who she is. The Fanny of the film, even if we forget the book, is too outspoken for a girl under such circumstances. 
b) Nothing is as distasteful as associating Jane Austen with 1 of her heroines. Why bring details of Jane Austen's life into the characterisation of Fanny? 
c) Fanny in the film says yes to Henry- of course, the next day she takes it back (as Jane Austen did once in real life), but saying yes once already betrays the stance and the spirit of the book. 
In Jane Austen's novel, Fanny's outward frailty is contrasted with her inner strength, her firmness and strong principle, she refuses Henry less because of her hopeless love for Edmund than because of her distrusting of Henry, based on his character. The film fails to grasp that. It should be fine if they want to borrow the story, change it, add their own ideas to it, but with these changes, the Mansfield Park film becomes rather pointless. 
Fortunately, much as I hated the film (and still do), it didn't put me off the novel. 
(Must tell myself: Never judge a book by its movie). 

2/ Why do filmmakers think that they must add some water to Darcy to make women adore him? Isn't Darcy of the book enough? 
In the 1995 TV film, Colin Firth's Darcy swims in the lake and comes out wet and encounters Elizabeth. 
In the 2005 film, Matthew Macfadyen's Darcy proposes to Elizabeth (the 1st time) in the rain. 
I suspect that many people who say they adore Jane Austen in fact only adore Pride and Prejudice, swoon over the charming Colin Firth and imagine themselves as Elizabeth Bennet. 

3/ On principle, no.2 should not matter. 
But a few days ago, below an article on http://thedissolve.com about Emma and Clueless, I saw this comment: 

"Fanny decides to marry the Mr. Collins character (who is also her first cousin) instead of the Mr. Darcy character (who is played by Alessandro Nivola in the movie, at his peak Alessandro Nivola-ness). Then said rejected charming/handsome suitor has sex with her married cousin Mariah and everyone reacts as they would in 1814: "Well, we can never talk to either of them again! Cross her name out of the family Bible!"" 

I don't usually voice my opinion, but whenever it comes to Mansfield Park.... So I had to write: 

"Hold on... Darcy?
For 1 thing, Henry is a bad guy, vain, selfish, insensitive, deceitful and unreliable, who toys with women's feelings. I don't see any similarities between him and Darcy. The problem is not simply that Henry sleeps, or elopes, with Maria; but his character in general, he toys with women's feelings, flirts with many women at the same time without caring about how they feel.
Besides, I have never seen Darcy as a particularly charming guy. In fact, he's even rude. The word "charming" would apply for Henry Crawford, William Elliot or Willoughby, and among Jane Austen's good guys, I think the only one that can be called charming (to me anyway) is Henry Tilney. You must have Colin Firth in mind. Readers of Pride and Prejudice like him not because he's charming, but because he's generous, sincere, understanding (especially in the way he handles the Wickham- Lydia business).
I don't think you've really read the books." 

4/ I watched only part of Becoming Jane. Much as I like Anne Hathaway, I couldn't continue watching. 
Her bad accent is 1 thing, I don't like the way the film presents Jane Austen as Elizabeth Bennet, and suggests that she incorporated her personal experience into her novel. It's distasteful (go back to 1b). Besides, in popular culture, the name Jane Austen almost always goes with Pride and Prejudice, though Mansfield Park, Emma and Persuasion are artistically greater and deeper and Mansfield Park is her most complex and profound work. 

5/ I dislike the tendency of many film adaptations to romanticise literary works. 
A sentimental Jane Austen film is very, very wrong. Worse is the case of Wuthering Heights- many films remove the 2nd part about the later generation and focus on the love story between Catherine and Heathcliff, but Emily Bronte's book is not about a beautiful love story- it's about greed, the love vs money/ social position question, about obsession and hatred and revenge... 
Or think of the latest The Great Gatsby film. Baz Luhrmann strips Fitzgerald's story of all the essential things and of the main theme, the result is no more than a love story, visually dazzling but empty. 

6/ However, you should not have the mistaken view that I dislike all of the adaptations. Nor should you think that I always demand adaptations to be faithful- an adaptation is an interpretation and the filmmaker can take liberties with a story, as long as the film is good, I wouldn't object. 
1 good film I can think of is Ang Lee's Sense and Sensibility. Emma Thompson's script creates greater contrast between Elinor and Marianne (unlike the 2008 TV adaptation), and if Jane Austen's more on the side of sense (Elinor), Emma Thompson's a bit more on the side of sensibility (Marianne). I do not think that Jane Austen thinks of Elinor as perfect and ideal, the story simply tends to be seen from her point of view; Elinor doesn't express her emotions so on the 1 hand, Edward never knows how she feels and doesn't know how to act and Elinor almost loses her chance of happiness, on the other hand, she has an outburst in the end after holding back emotions for a long time. Think of Jane Fairfax in Emma, she's too reserved and, as George Knightley notes (which I think is also Jane Austen's opinion), an open temper is preferable; similarly, Elinor's too reserved. Other characters remain the same, the mercenary, greedy... people are still in the story. In short, the 1995 Sense and Sensibility offers a new interpretation without betraying Jane Austen's general idea about the balance of sense and sensibility (one can see from the works that her emphasis is on virtue, good will and balance). 
Another film is Clueless, a modernisation of Emma. Let me digress a bit: one may wonder how Jane Austen can sympathise with all of her heroines, different as they are, but what they have in common is that, whatever faults they have, they always mean well (unlike Mary Crawford, albeit similar to Elizabeth on the surface because of her charm and vivacity, is egoistic, insensitive, frivolous, shallow, insincere, manipulative, mercenary... and should be in the same camp with Lucy Steele, Caroline Bingley, Susan Vernon, Fanny Dashwood...). Emma Woodhouse is not as likeable as Elizabeth Bennet; anyone adapting Emma faces the danger of depicting Emma as full of malice and contempt. Clueless doesn't do that- like Emma, Cher makes mistakes because she interferes in other people's lives, thinking she knows all, but is in fact delusional, but she means well; like Emma, Cher is good-natured and capable of learning and changing in the end. Clueless modernises the story, changes the setting, changes a few characters and details, but the spirit is the same. And it's well-done. 

Separating the art from the artist: A response

Before continuing, you'd better read or skim through this post: http://anotherbookblog.com/2013/10/03/separating-the-art-from-the-artist/
Rick, the author, asks in the end:

"Are you able to separate the art from the artist? Is there a particular writer or painter or actor that you admire, despite serious character flaws? What allows you (or someone you know, even) to make that distinction between art and life? Is that distinction important?"

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Let's assume there are 2 standpoints, put simply as:
1/ Unable to separate the art from the artist at all.
Look back at the quote above, one must ask what counts as "serious character flaws". Because of the sentence "Charles Dickens was absolutely terrible to his wife", I assume it extends further than political views. So the question is: what if you dig deeper and it turns out that every single acclaimed writer has some "flaws"? What if each writer is either sexist or racist or xenophobic or bigoted or homophobic or snobbish or extremely egocentric? Or communist or fascist or pro some totalitarian regime or in favour of things like slavery or segregation? What if many writers are assholes in real life: domineering, deceitful, pathologically dishonest, hypocritical, horrible to husband/ wife/ children, stingy, violent, etc.?
Look at my favourite writers.
Lev Tolstoy? Politically naive. Idealist. Horrible to his wife. Dominating.
Fyodor Dostoyevsky? Anti-Semite.
Virginia Woolf? A snob. And anti-Semite.
F. Scott Fitzgerald? Anti-Semite.
William Faulkner? Racist. Pro-slavery or something. Pathological liar.
Vladimir Nabokov? Homophobic. Extremely arrogant and narcissistic. Sexist.
Charlotte Bronte? Apparently xenophobic- "Jane Eyre" is full of ethnic slurs.
Milan Kundera? Communist, at least in the past.   
Gustave Flaubert? Had syphilis. 
etc.
(I'm not sure about Jane Austen, Toni Morrison, Emily and Anne Bronte, Ivan Turgenev, George Orwell, Sylvia Plath, Franz Kafka, etc. but I'll certainly find something. But then I myself also have some views others may object to). 
I can't help feeling that if you keep looking for ethics and morality and whatever in authors, then perhaps there aren't many books left to read.

2/ Always able to separate the art completely from the artist.
Nope, I don't believe those who claim that.
Writers can't separate their own political views from their writings. As long as they depict a society and present some groups of people in a certain way, explicitly or implicitly express approval or disapproval of some social issues, critique something in society- no, as long as they hold a pen and start writing, they can't leave their political views out of their fiction. How can one? It's one's worldview. Literature is always political.
(Think Jane Austen's works aren't political because she seems to deal with romance and marriage? They are political. That can be seen in, e.g, her critique of gender inequality and primogeniture. I also consider it political the way she satirises 'the sentimental novel' and some banal literary devices and tendencies in literature of her time, and the way she refuses to let 'masculine values' dominate her works). 
Similarly, readers read a book, with their own political views in the back of their mind. There may be times when you, whilst reading a novel, argue in your head- nope, nope, you're wrong; no, I disagree; what the fox are you thinking, etc. I read not only as a reader, not only as a human being, but also as a woman, as a feminist, as an East Asian or more specifically a Vietnamese or even more specifically a Southerner, as a person living in Norway, as an anti-communist, as a pro-democracy person, as an agnostic, and who knows what else. All these views make me who I am, and I can't leave them behind when approaching a work of art. And I believe it's the same for everybody- even professional critics have that personal factor.
The best thing one can do is to be able to recognise and acknowledge the aesthetic values of the book, one can't like it more personally if the views presented in book are too opposed to one's own. Even that can be difficult.


__________________________________________________

Go back to Rick's questions, here are my thoughts:
1/ Some prejudices, stereotypes and views are less acceptable now than in the past.
I find it rather unfair (for lack of a better word) to dismiss a great writer of the beginning of the 20th century, or earlier, for some limited views, such as homophobia, anti-Semitism, xenophobia... I may forgive a man in the 19th century for his misogyny, even if it's quite irritating. Society's progressing, the world's more connected, many countries are now multicultural, there have been movements and changes of law, people come to understand and accept many things that were once considered repulsive, sick or morally wrong, we're generally more tolerant, liberal, understanding... (or supposed to be, at least).
However, it's precisely because we're supposed to be more modern and open-minded that I might have problems with conservative, close-minded, intolerant, ignorant writers of today. Not only writers, but artists in general, especially those who create something, such as film directors, painters, screenwriters..., instead of, say, actors. Time matters. Distorted depiction of people of darker skin a few centuries ago, due to ignorance and lack of contact with other cultures, is forgivable, such as the emphasis on the Creole origin of Bertha Mason and other ethnic slurs in "Jane Eyre". But I cannot tolerate the depiction of Indians as savages, who eat beetles, eyeball soup, baby snakes and monkey brains, in the 1984 film "Indiana Jones and the temple of doom".
Similarly, I may understand that some people in mid-20th century were attracted to Marxism, but if someone today still swoons over Lenin and Stalin, or admires Mao and defends the CCP, that's another story.

2/ A writer's personal life is not my concern.
I don't really care how Charles Dickens treated his wife. It doesn't affect my perception of "Great expectations" or "A Christmas carol".
After all, I do make a distinction between the author and the person (which is why, when asked which writers I'd like to invite to dinner, I can't think of anybody). And I don't have the illusion that a writer who has an incredible ability to create vivid characters and slip into their minds and understand them, must be magnanimous, sensitive, kind, warm-hearted, moral, trustworthy... A writer's personal life, with all the foibles, pet peeves, odd habits, nuisances, eccentricities..., is outside his or her works.
(Should we stop reading Jane Austen because we think that a spinster couldn't understand relations between men and women? Should we stop reading Virginia Woolf and Sylvia Plath because we think that suicidal, mentally sick people had nothing to give us?...) 
Or maybe it's better to say: I make a distinction between the implied author and the real author. 
To me, a literary critic doesn't have to create great fiction to be a critic, and a novelist doesn't have to be a kind person to be a novelist. 
In extreme cases, I understand some people's decision to boycott artists who are, say, paedophiles or rapists, saying that buying their works is equivalent to supporting them, but I still watch Roman Polanski's films (or is it because his wrongdoings were committed some decades ago?).

3/ I care more about political views. But it also depends on whether they're obvious in the works, whether they affect my reading.
Marquez had some crazy views, but I don't see them in "100 years of solitude", "Chronicle of a death foretold" or "Memories of my melancholy whores".
Neither do I have problems with Albert Camus's crazy views when reading "The stranger" and "The misunderstanding", which I love.
Nabokov's sexism and homophobia are hardly seen in his novels, at least the ones I've read.
Zhang Yimou is 1 of those cases I feel sorry about, an enormous talent who sold his soul to the devil (by "the devil" I mean the CCP). Since "Hero", his films stink. But his early films are still great, some are masterpieces, especially "To live", "Raise the red lanterns" and "Red sorghum".
Politically, I can't stand Bernardo Bertolucci, but "Last tango in Paris" is very good; Oliver Stone, but "Wall Street" is well-done and tolerable; Jean-Luc Godard, but "Vivre sa vie" is thought-provoking and lovely, etc.
"The quiet American" I regard as rubbish, though Graham Greene's prose is likeable. "The book of Daniel" I may admire for E. L. Doctorow's artistry but can't like it any more than that. I don't regret reading them, but can't say whether I'll read their other books.

4/ Most important is obviously still the quality. Are the books worth reading? Are they great enough for readers to endure the authors' stupid, extreme opinions?
One cannot read all the books one wants to read in a lifetime- life is too short to spend time on bad books, let alone bad books by bigots.






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Go back to Rick's post. 
Would I read David Gilmore's books? Let's see. 
Generally, I don't pay much thought to the question about separating the art from the artist, because most of the writers I read were dead a while ago (or a long, long time ago), and their ways of thinking were rather shaped by the societies in which they lived. I may be more demanding when it comes to today's writers, but then I usually don't read them. Which is to say, now when I pick up a contemporary book, I'll be quite selective, and David Gilmore's probably not that interesting. How to put it, it's like, he's not praised that often (who knows whether he'll be read in another 50 years?). I would be more interested in Orhan Pamuk, Alice Munro, Mario Vargas Llosa, Martin Amis, John Irving, Philip Roth, Don DeLillo, Zadie Smith, etc. (yes, this is a confession- I haven't read their works). 
Considering his statement, I understand that he prefers to teach stuff he loves. To me, he's not exactly sexist- a feminist as I am, I don't use the word 'sexist' to label everyone and everything. But personally I find him rather limited. When a guy says that he only likes books by male authors, I don't think that women's books are not as well-written or fascinating as men's, I think that guy's limited.



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I may or may not read V. S. Naipaul's books. Can't say.
So far, my impression of him is quite negative: self-important, racist (with zero understanding of India, so I've heard), intolerant, and above all misogynistic (http://flavorwire.com/319649/a-collection-of-the-worst-things-v-s-naipaul-has-ever-said). If I read his books, I'll read with lots of preconceptions, constantly comparing him to female authors.
Last time I picked up a book of his, or 2, at the library, it seemed contrived and unnatural, therefore ridiculous.
But who knows. There's a possibility that I may read his books and gasp in awe and lower my voice, this man, despite his awful, intolerable personality, writes such magical prose.
Before that, there are still many novels to read.

Some random thoughts on Jane Austen

Her sense of balance:
Between sense and sensibility
Between emotional display and restraint 
Between love and money
Between a prudent and a mercenary motive in marriage
Between pride and humility
Between a persuadable temper and a resolute character
Between introversion and extroversion
Between vivacity and quietness
Between openness and reservedness
Between civility and hypocrisy
Between dismissal of fiction as worthless and living as though life's the same as fiction
etc.

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Interesting 'doubles' across her works:
Elinor Dashwood vs Jane Fairfax
John Willoughby vs George Wickham vs Frank Churchill vs William Elliott vs Philip Elton
Mrs Price vs Anne Elliott
Lady Russell vs Emma Woodhouse
Elizabeth Bennet vs Mary Crawford vs Louisa Musgrove
Lucy Steele vs Isabella Thorpe
Lydia Bennet vs Maria Bertram
Charles Bingley vs Edward Ferras
Jane Bennet vs Jane Fairfax
Mrs Ferras vs Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Georgiana Darcy vs Eleanor Tilney
Harriet Smith vs Catherine Morland
Mr Bennet vs Mr Weston
Lady Catherine de Bourgh vs Sir Walter Elliott
Mary Musgrove vs Mr Henry Woodhouse
etc.

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The guts to say no: Fanny Price
The guts to say yes: Charlotte Lucas

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One should be careful when quoting Jane Austen. She uses irony all the time, and very often, writes what the character means, which is not necessarily what she thinks. 

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Here and there in the internet people ask which authors, alive or dead, you would invite to dinner.
I doubt that I would invite anybody.
Concerning the writers I like: Emily Bronte wouldn't come; Dostoyevsky probably wouldn't come either, or he would be grumpy and irritable and sometimes get hysterical; Tolstoy would also be grumpy and would talk about the idleness, insignificance and uselessness of my life, about the senselessness of war, about his anarchism and Christ, probably would think his disapproval of the VN war would make me glad; Salinger would respond "Cliché!" to every single thing I say; Nabokov would make me feel awful about myself, my inadequacy, mediocrity, philistinism; Fitzgerald would be nice, but to my questions on writing, would tell me to sell my heart, not write about the little things I may tell at dinner...
I would be afraid of being in the same room with Jane Austen. She sees everything, through all pretensions, and notices all kinds of folly. 

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http://www.firstthings.com/article/2007/01/hume-austen-and-first-impressions
"Pride and prejudice", probably together with "Emma", as Jane Austen's response to David Hume. 
The article points out the possible intention behind the former title "1st impressions", and the phrase "universally acknowledged" in the opening line. I didn't notice that. 
It's also interesting how the author here argues that Elizabeth's prejudice and Darcy's pride are fused in 1 character in "Emma"- Emma Woodhouse. 

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http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rejecting_Jane
This means that lots of people, mostly men I presume, don't read Jane Austen.
I believe the 1st factor is prejudice- male and manly readers know about the cult, the Jane Austen industry, the adaptations, and associate her with romance, couples, marriage, balls, dresses, gossip, silly happy endings... and thus imagine her to be romantic, sentimental, trivial, dull... Her popularity among silly readers is the most important reason for this misconception, not the works themselves.
The 2nd factor is pride, expressed in the scepticism that an author so beloved must not be very good, in the feeling, the belief that they're not going to like "everybody's dear Jane".

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http://www.newrepublic.com/article/politics/magazine/110865/vs-naipaul-the-arab-spring-authors-he-loathes-and-the-books-he-will-never-write
Here, the presumptuous, arrogant, misogynist, racist, intolerable V. S. Naipaul talks more about Jane Austen. His wife Nadira also hates her: "Oh God, everybody hates Jane Austen. They don’t have the balls to say it. Believe me. Who did we meet the other day, that famous academic who said Jane Austen was rubbish? And I said, “Why don’t you stand up and say it.” And he said, “Am I mad?” They have all reassessed her, but they just don’t want to say it."
Funnily enough, I have reassessed her, in the opposite direction. And back then I did have the balls to say I hated her, only to now realise that at that point I failed to recognise her artistic talent.
(Nabokov, with his prejudice against female writers, acknowledges the greatness of "Mansfield park", and although not going crazy about Jane Austen, does use the word "genius", not just "talent", in his lecture).
(Plus: some shit Naipaul said: http://flavorwire.com/319649/a-collection-of-the-worst-things-v-s-naipaul-has-ever-said/)

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My attitude towards Jane Austen remains complicated and ambivalent.
At 1 time I admire her artistry and perfection, her power of characterisation through dialogues and free indirect speech, her ability to turn trifles and mundanities into art; at another time I move further away from her because of her annoying fans (as written in "I like your Jane, I don't like you Janeites"). At 1 time I feel that she's more important to me than any other writer, because I read her as a reader, as a human being and as a woman; at another time, I see that her works don't have the scale and the scope of the works by Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky, that her works aren't as complex and profound as theirs, and I also think that the distance I feel from Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky must be partly because I don't read their works in the original.
I guess that depends on my mood and mindset.
Whilst reading some huge Russian books, for instance, I feel overwhelmed, whereas her books are never overwhelming, shocking, haunting, challenging.
Then, these days, as I've been observing people and had some fascinating case studies (human beings are indeed interesting), I've been thinking that, 1 of the most important reasons I love Jane Austen is her dealing with delusion and perception vs reality, and focusing on understanding, self-understanding. And self-understanding is very important. We all, to varying degrees, suffer from some illusion about ourselves.
That is not to say an author's importance is valued by their messages, views, ethics. What's admirable and remarkable is how she tackles these themes, how she gets into the mindset of her characters and makes us see things from their points of view and interpret things in their way only to later realise that things are not necessarily what they seem, how she develops her characters and lets us see them change and gain self-awareness, how she switches between the omniscient point of view and a protagonist's subjective view, how she depicts everything in a subtle way... And I love her prose.
After all, one should not dismiss a writer because he or she isn't as profound as Tolstoy and Dostoyevsky. And writers are different- comparison usually goes nowhere. What's the point?

On Virginia Woolf on Turgenev

Fragmentary, superficial, badly-expressed thoughts on chapter 5 "Turgenev: A passion for art" from "Virginia Woolf and the Russian Point of View" by Roberta Rubenstein (http://books.google.no/books?id=qSjFAAAAQBAJ&lpg=PA138&ots=FD9zxD0Gb1&dq=turgenev%20woolf&pg=PA131#v=onepage&q&f=false)

1/ The Russian trinity here is Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky and Turgenev. I find it better than to refer to the 1st 2 and Chekhov. Comparing novelists and short fiction writers is problematic.
2/ Like Virginia Woolf, I'm 1 of those who appreciate Turgenev "more for his formal artistry than for his political or social commentary".
3/ In 1 aspect, Tolstoy and Turgenev are opposites. Tolstoy, in his works, is like an omniscient God, seeing everything from the largest, most epic scenes to the smallest gestures, the tiniest glances that easily go unnoticed, and all that goes through his characters' minds. Anyone who has read Tolstoy knows what I mean, I lack the words to praise him as he deserves. Turgenev isn't like that, and it is proof that he's not as great, but his books "leave behind the impression that they contain a large world in which there is ample room for men and women of full size and the sky above and the fields around". His economy of style is suggesting, leaving room for the readers to fill in.
4/ Virginia Woolf praises his "power of suggesting emotion by scenery... All the lines rubbed out except the necessary". She also praises "his method of drawing from details in the natural world to suggest mood and feeling".
(This, strangely enough, makes me think of F. Scott Fitzgerald).
5/ "The superficial impression deepens and sharpens itself as the pages are turned. The scene has the size out of all proportion to its length. It expands the mind and lies there giving off fresh ideas, emotions, and pictures much as a moment in real life which sometimes only yield its meaning long after it has passed". 
This is 1 of those times when I lament the inadequacy of my language and then find someone express my exact thoughts.
6/ She, similar to what I've said in my 'theory', says that a novelist can't be a politician and can't believe in 1 cause only.
7/ As Virginia Woolf notes, Turgenev's characters don't have to speak in order to make us feel their presence.
8/ Never stop observing. Pay attention to everything.
9/ According to Roberta Rubenstein, Virginia Woolf comes to prefer Turgenev, with his "artistic restraint, his sensitivity to beauty and his lyrical sensibility", to Dostoyevsky. 
To me, Dostoyevsky is thought-provoking, Turgenev touches the heart.

Will come back to this chapter when I read more works by Turgenev, to see if my view will remain the same. Virginia Woolf's essays on literature are always satisfying.

Lucy Steele and Isabella Thorpe

Reading "Northanger Abbey" at the moment. 
As it turns out, master at describing, depicting and dealing with phonies is not J. D. Salinger, nor F. Scott Fitzgerald, as I have thought, but Jane Austen. The best character in this novel is Isabella Thorpe. At 1st she's reminded me of Lucy Steele (in "Sense and sensibility"), both of whom are self-serving, mercenary, hypocritical, artificial and full of flattery, then it turns out that in some magical way, Jane Austen's able to portray them as 2 distinctive individuals, so whereas Isabella Thorpe's energetic, rapid, enthusiastic, flirtatious, flexible, manipulative in a loud way with exaggeration of affection, taking advantage of language, talking in circles around anybody, transforming into whatever she knows others expect her to be, Lucy Steele is artful, affected, in a more gentle, calm, cold, cunning way, and mean almost to the point of being ruthless. In fact I find myself at loss to use my own words to say how different they are, so I'd better let Jane Austen demonstrate it. 





""You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage—"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?"
Elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?"
"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity— "I know nothing of her."
"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons—I wish I might venture; but however I hope you will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be impertinent."
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,
"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, I should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you. I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."
"I am sorry I do not," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her. But really I never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."
"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs. Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present—but the time may come—how soon it will come must depend upon herself—when we may be very intimately connected."
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. Robert Ferrars—I never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."" 

"She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."
"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."
"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety."
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you," said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom—we can hardly meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite broke.""

"The next morning brought Elinor a letter by the two-penny post from Lucy herself. It was as follows:
"Bartlett's Building, March.
I hope my dear Miss Dashwood will excuse the liberty I take of writing to her; but I know your friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such a good account of myself and my dear Edward, after all the troubles we have went through lately, therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed to say that, thank God! though we have suffered dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy as we must always be in one another's love. We have had great trials, and great persecutions, but however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge many friends, yourself not the least among them, whose great kindness I shall always thankfully remember, as will Edward too, who I have told of it. I am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise dear Mrs. Jennings, I spent two happy hours with him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our parting, though earnestly did I, as I thought my duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake, and would have parted for ever on the spot, would he consent to it; but he said it should never be, he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could have my affections; our prospects are not very bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should it ever be in your power to recommend him to any body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you will not forget us, and dear Mrs. Jennings too, trust she will speak a good word for us to Sir John, or Mr. Palmer, or any friend that may be able to assist us.—Poor Anne was much to blame for what she did, but she did it for the best, so I say nothing; hope Mrs. Jennings won't think it too much trouble to give us a call, should she come this way any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my cousins would be proud to know her.—My paper reminds me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully and respectfully remembered to her, and to Sir John, and Lady Middleton, and the dear children, when you chance to see them, and love to Miss Marianne,
I am, &c.""



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"They met by appointment; and as Isabella had arrived nearly five minutes before her friend, her first address naturally was, "My dearest creature, what can have made you so late? I have been waiting for you at least this age!"
"Have you, indeed! I am very sorry for it; but really I thought I was in very good time. It is but just one. I hope you have not been here long?"
"Oh! These ten ages at least. I am sure I have been here this half hour. But now, let us go and sit down at the other end of the room, and enjoy ourselves. I have an hundred things to say to you. In the first place, I was so afraid it would rain this morning, just as I wanted to set off; it looked very showery, and that would have thrown me into agonies! Do you know, I saw the prettiest hat you can imagine, in a shop window in Milsom Street just now—very like yours, only with coquelicot ribbons instead of green; I quite longed for it. But, my dearest Catherine, what have you been doing with yourself all this morning? Have you gone on with Udolpho?"
"Yes, I have been reading it ever since I woke; and I am got to the black veil."
"Are you, indeed? How delightful! Oh! I would not tell you what is behind the black veil for the world! Are not you wild to know?"
"Oh! Yes, quite; what can it be? But do not tell me—I would not be told upon any account. I know it must be a skeleton, I am sure it is Laurentina's skeleton. Oh! I am delighted with the book! I should like to spend my whole life in reading it. I assure you, if it had not been to meet you, I would not have come away from it for all the world."
"Dear creature! How much I am obliged to you; and when you have finished Udolpho, we will read the Italian together; and I have made out a list of ten or twelve more of the same kind for you."
"Have you, indeed! How glad I am! What are they all?"
"I will read you their names directly; here they are, in my pocketbook. Castle of Wolfenbach, Clermont, Mysterious Warnings, Necromancer of the Black Forest, Midnight Bell, Orphan of the Rhine, and Horrid Mysteries. Those will last us some time."
"Yes, pretty well; but are they all horrid, are you sure they are all horrid?"
"Yes, quite sure; for a particular friend of mine, a Miss Andrews, a sweet girl, one of the sweetest creatures in the world, has read every one of them. I wish you knew Miss Andrews, you would be delighted with her. She is netting herself the sweetest cloak you can conceive. I think her as beautiful as an angel, and I am so vexed with the men for not admiring her! I scold them all amazingly about it."
"Scold them! Do you scold them for not admiring her?"
"Yes, that I do. There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves; it is not my nature. My attachments are always excessively strong. I told Captain Hunt at one of our assemblies this winter that if he was to tease me all night, I would not dance with him, unless he would allow Miss Andrews to be as beautiful as an angel. The men think us incapable of real friendship, you know, and I am determined to show them the difference. Now, if I were to hear anybody speak slightingly of you, I should fire up in a moment: but that is not at all likely, for you are just the kind of girl to be a great favourite with the men."
"Oh, dear!" cried Catherine, colouring. "How can you say so?"
"I know you very well; you have so much animation, which is exactly what Miss Andrews wants, for I must confess there is something amazingly insipid about her. Oh! I must tell you, that just after we parted yesterday, I saw a young man looking at you so earnestly—I am sure he is in love with you." Catherine coloured, and disclaimed again. Isabella laughed. "It is very true, upon my honour, but I see how it is; you are indifferent to everybody's admiration, except that of one gentleman, who shall be nameless. Nay, I cannot blame you"—speaking more seriously—"your feelings are easily understood. Where the heart is really attached, I know very well how little one can be pleased with the attention of anybody else. Everything is so insipid, so uninteresting, that does not relate to the beloved object! I can perfectly comprehend your feelings."
"But you should not persuade me that I think so very much about Mr. Tilney, for perhaps I may never see him again."
"Not see him again! My dearest creature, do not talk of it. I am sure you would be miserable if you thought so!""

"Catherine, in some amazement, complied, and after remaining a few moments silent, was on the point of reverting to what interested her at that time rather more than anything else in the world, Laurentina's skeleton, when her friend prevented her, by saying, "For heaven's sake! Let us move away from this end of the room. Do you know, there are two odious young men who have been staring at me this half hour. They really put me quite out of countenance. Let us go and look at the arrivals. They will hardly follow us there."
Away they walked to the book; and while Isabella examined the names, it was Catherine's employment to watch the proceedings of these alarming young men.
"They are not coming this way, are they? I hope they are not so impertinent as to follow us. Pray let me know if they are coming. I am determined I will not look up."
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the pump-room.
"And which way are they gone?" said Isabella, turning hastily round. "One was a very good-looking young man."
"They went towards the church-yard."
"Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar's Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it."
Catherine readily agreed. "Only," she added, "perhaps we may overtake the two young men."
"Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to show you my hat."
"But if we only wait a few minutes, there will be no danger of our seeing them at all."
"I shall not pay them any such compliment, I assure you. I have no notion of treating men with such respect. That is the way to spoil them."
Catherine had nothing to oppose against such reasoning; and therefore, to show the independence of Miss Thorpe, and her resolution of humbling the sex, they set off immediately as fast as they could walk, in pursuit of the two young men."

"... "Oh! Don't defend her! And then the brother, he, who had appeared so attached to you! Good heavens! Well, some people's feelings are incomprehensible. And so he hardly looked once at you the whole day?"
"I do not say so; but he did not seem in good spirits."
"How contemptible! Of all things in the world inconstancy is my aversion. Let me entreat you never to think of him again, my dear Catherine; indeed he is unworthy of you."
"Unworthy! I do not suppose he ever thinks of me."
"That is exactly what I say; he never thinks of you. Such fickleness! Oh! How different to your brother and to mine! I really believe John has the most constant heart."
"But as for General Tilney, I assure you it would be impossible for anybody to behave to me with greater civility and attention; it seemed to be his only care to entertain and make me happy."
"Oh! I know no harm of him; I do not suspect him of pride. I believe he is a very gentleman-like man. John thinks very well of him, and John's judgment—"
"Well, I shall see how they behave to me this evening; we shall meet them at the rooms."
"And must I go?"
"Do not you intend it? I thought it was all settled."
"Nay, since you make such a point of it, I can refuse you nothing. But do not insist upon my being very agreeable, for my heart, you know, will be some forty miles off. And as for dancing, do not mention it, I beg; that is quite out of the question. Charles Hodges will plague me to death, I dare say; but I shall cut him very short. Ten to one but he guesses the reason, and that is exactly what I want to avoid, so I shall insist on his keeping his conjecture to himself."
[...] 
The friends were not able to get together for any confidential discourse till all the dancing was over; but then, as they walked about the room arm in arm, Isabella thus explained herself: "I do not wonder at your surprise; and I am really fatigued to death. He is such a rattle! Amusing enough, if my mind had been disengaged; but I would have given the world to sit still."
"Then why did not you?"
"Oh! My dear! It would have looked so particular; and you know how I abhor doing that. I refused him as long as I possibly could, but he would take no denial. You have no idea how he pressed me. I begged him to excuse me, and get some other partner—but no, not he; after aspiring to my hand, there was nobody else in the room he could bear to think of; and it was not that he wanted merely to dance, he wanted to be with me. Oh! Such nonsense! I told him he had taken a very unlikely way to prevail upon me; for, of all things in the world, I hated fine speeches and compliments; and so—and so then I found there would be no peace if I did not stand up. Besides, I thought Mrs. Hughes, who introduced him, might take it ill if I did not: and your dear brother, I am sure he would have been miserable if I had sat down the whole evening. I am so glad it is over! My spirits are quite jaded with listening to his nonsense: and then, being such a smart young fellow, I saw every eye was upon us."
"He is very handsome indeed."
"Handsome! Yes, I suppose he may. I dare say people would admire him in general; but he is not at all in my style of beauty. I hate a florid complexion and dark eyes in a man. However, he is very well. Amazingly conceited, I am sure. I took him down several times, you know, in my way.""