Why read plays? (P.2): Plays vs novels

I know, I wrote that the last blog post was my response once and for all to the mantra “Plays are meant to be seen, not read.” But I want to write about a different aspect: Why read plays? What do plays offer that novels do not? 

(Ibsen staring into your soul). 

Considering the popularity of novels, I think we can all name the advantages of novels. Some might argue that novels dig deeper into characters’ minds and have more psychological depth, but I don’t agree—look at Shakespeare—Hamlet and Macbeth and Brutus and many other characters question themselves, struggle with themselves, and people have analysed them for 400 years. But scope is one advantage: a play cannot have hundreds of characters and a wide range of experiences like War and Peace. Length and span are another: The Winter’s Tale might be an exception in making a jump of 16 years, but it doesn’t cover 16 years; War and Peace spans from 1805 to 1813, then jumps to 1820.

However, plays have their own strengths—I’m not even talking about plays as performance, but as text. Plays show a clash of perspectives. I won’t talk again about the range of views in Shakespeare—I think I’ve been annoying enough about this subject—you all know what I would say. Instead, look at Ibsen. In The Wild Duck, he shows the contrast between a character who thinks human beings need delusion and can’t cope with much of the truth, and a character who tears down a marriage to set it on a new foundation of truth and destroys everything. In An Enemy of the People, he depicts a man of integrity, a man of courage standing up for the truth, but at the same time also lets us see the concerns of the townspeople, and makes us feel uneasy about the heroic man. In Rosmersholm, he depicts three different people—or four if you count Mrs Helseth—grappling with a suicide and questioning, blaming themselves. What actually happened? Who is to blame? 

Occasionally you find a novel with the same quality. Tolstoy for instance enters different characters’ minds and depicts their different—clashing—perspectives. William Faulkner has multiple characters narrating the story, in The Sound and the Fury and As I Lay Dying. But even when a novelist switches between different perspectives, there is narration—there is someone shaping how you see characters and events—you are always aware of the authorial presence. The closest a novel gets to a play in this aspect is the epistolary form: in Dangerous Liaisons, the finest epistolary novel I’ve read, you see the different perspectives, you see the manipulators set out their plan and see them at work, you read between the lines and imagine the effect on the receiver of each letter. 

Normally, a novel focuses on a single point of view, or has an omniscient or objective point of view. In the former case—when the story is narrated by the protagonist (such as Jane Eyre) or an observer/ another character (such as Nick Carraway in The Great Gatsby), or it has a third-person narrator but mainly focuses on a single perspective (such as Jane Austen’s novels)—we see everything through that one perspective. With the third-person narrator who focuses on one character’s point of view, we can see the author: Jane Austen’s use of free indirect discourse for instance creates a double perspective, a dual voice—the narrator’s voice blending in with the character’s voice. But even when a novel has a first-person narrator, you can see the author somewhere between the lines: even though Lolita is seen through the eyes of Humbert Humbert, we can see—even without the framing device—that Nabokov is not Humbert Humbert. 

In the latter case, when the story has an omniscient or objective point of view, there is a narrator guiding the reader, which you don’t get in plays. Take Rosmersholm, for instance. What goes on in Rebecca’s mind when she cries out in joy and then rejects Rosmer’s proposal? And because there is no narrator and we are restricted to what the characters say, Ibsen gets us to see the situation in a certain way in the first two acts then turns everything upside down in Act 3. Even then, we only have fragments and there are things we would never know. What actually happened? What’s the truth about the relationship between Rosmer and Beata? What was on Beata’s mind when she decided to kill herself? 

Himadri (Argumentative Old Git) says: 

“I think Ibsen makes use of the fact that there *is* no narrator - no-one to interpret things, even by implication.

[…] This communicates a sense of mystery - not in the sense that the narrator isn’t giving us answers, but in the sense that there is no answer to give that may be articulated.

I don’t know to what extent this is possible in a novel.

A sense of the mystery of our human lives, of its inscrutability, is difficult to convey in a novel, where you’re aware of the authorial presence, even if the authors do their best to keep themselves in the background.”

Even in An Enemy of the People, a play that seems more straightforward than other Ibsen plays, there is a sense of mystery: what happens in Dr Stockman’s mind between Act 3 and Act 4 that he, when he has the chance to speak to people in town, decides not to speak about his findings about the baths but, instead, to have a rant about “the common man”? And more importantly, as Himadri has put it, why is the truth about the endangerment to public health so important to Dr Stockman, considering his contempt for the public? 

That sense of mystery is one of the fascinating things about Shakespeare. Why does Hamlet not act? What goes on in his mind when he tells Ophelia “Get thee to a nunnery”? Why does Iago hate Othello so much that he sets out to destroy him? Does he actually suspect Othello of having slept with his wife? What does Viola see in Orsino? Where does Leontes’s jealousy come from? 

Let’s have a discussion. 

Reading Pamela, thinking about Dangerous Liaisons

Samuel Richardson’s Pamela is foundational for the epistolary form. Not the first epistolary novel ever written, but the one to start the craze in the 18th century. Isn’t it interesting to read foundational texts? You read the first modern novel (Don Quixote) and realise it is indeed a contender for the title of greatest novel ever written. You read the first detective novel (The Moonstone) and feel amazed that Wilkie Collins already figured out all the elements of a detective story: locked room, “inside job”, red herrings, professional investigator, large number of false suspects, “least likely suspect”, reconstruction of the crime, plot twist, etc. But then you read Pamela and discover that at this point, in 1740, Richardson didn’t quite know what he was doing, or what could be done with the epistolary novel. 

I can’t help thinking of Dangerous Liaisons (1782), perhaps the most cleverly constructed of epistolary novels.

First of all, Dangerous Liaisons has a range of writers and a range of voices, and some of the characters (Merteuil and Valmont) also adopt different voices for different people, whereas Richardson’s novel mostly has Pamela, and a bit of her parents. I read Dangerous Liaisons and think it has to be an epistolary novel, or at least the form is perfect for it; I read Pamela and think that for a large part, it could just be a standard first-person narrative. Perhaps I’m talking nonsense, as usual, because I’m on page 89 and the book is about 550 pages, but I did leaf through the book. 

Dangerous Liaisons is also more captivating for two other reasons: there are multiple things going on at the same time, and before the reader gets impatient with the slow development of the Valmont – Tourvel plot, Laclos gives us the Prévan plot and grabs our attention again; it is always more interesting when a character may be hiding something, lying to others or lying to themselves, than when a character – narrator is a virtuous girl, a Mary Sue such as Pamela. 

(Frankly, Pamela gets on my nerves). 

As I have recently explained to a friend who didn’t particularly care for the book, I love Dangerous Liaisons because it deals with human complexity and contradictions, because it explores the way people deceive others and deceive themselves, because it’s not always certain whether the characters are telling the truth or playing a role or, whilst joking or being ironic, revealing something about themselves. These are the subjects that interest me in literature. I also like the way Laclos deals with longing, sexual desire, and love. 

Another thing I’ve noted is that Laclos includes the dates (it’s clear that he carefully plans everything), whereas Richardson doesn’t. How much time passes between the letters? How often does Pamela write? How long does it take for the parents to reply? What’s the gap? As Laclos includes the dates, you think about the actions that are happening around the same time; you think about the silence, the gap; you think about the letters that get delayed and perhaps the consequences; you think about the time that an action or a scheme takes, and so on and so forth. 

Such a well-constructed novel, Dangerous Liaisons. 

Let’s hope I later have something interesting to say about Pamela.

Is Dangerous Liaisons a cynical book?

Under my previous blog post about Dangerous Liaisons (or Les Liaisons dangereuses), Michael wrote: 

“I feel odd commenting because I’ve never read the book. But I think I still need some convincing that this is a book I would enjoy.

It sounds extraordinarily well written, but didn’t you find the ugliness and corruption of the characters off-putting? I recall, in reading Madame Bovary, feeling like the novel was extremely well-written and a deeply insightful picture of people whom I didn’t like and didn’t want to know (and maybe I’m wrong, but I felt Flaubert felt the same way.) Corrupt or ugly people can be fun to read about of course, but I find I don’t love books where they are the prime focus. There’s a novel by Trollope called The Eustace Diamonds that suffers from this problem; the main character is more or less a sociopath, and I find Thai [sic] tire of her company. Vanity Fair is a counter example, I suppose, but then Becky Sharp is just one character, and there are some other redeeming central characters in that novel that balance her out. Perhaps I’m just an unsophisticated and puritanical American, I don’t know. But Does [sic] Laclos have any redeeming central characters? I guess I just need some convincing that I’d enjoy it.” 

Interesting question, so I thought I’d answer in a blog post. 

To put it simply: is Dangerous Liaisons a cynical book that just focuses on people’s ugliness and corruption? 

I’d say no. 

Firstly, Dangerous Liaisons is not a celebration of cynicism and corruption. The sex games, the manipulation, the way Merteuil and Valmont play with others’ feelings bring misery to everyone involved, including themselves.

Secondly, Choderlos de Laclos dissects the cruelty and depravity of these two characters, but doesn’t depict these traits as universal or common traits of humanity—Merteuil is seen as exceptionally evil; she is, in the end, condemned and shunned by society. 

Contrast that with Balzac’s vision of life in Eugénie Grandet: “She has the noblest qualities of sorrow, the saintliness of one who has never soiled her soul by contact with the world…” (translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley). In Eugénie Grandet, the world is corrupt; everyone is materialistic, selfish, scheming, dishonest; the father has no humanity; the only good people are Eugénie Grandet, her mother, and Nana, who do not understand society and its lies and deceit, who are not soiled “by contact with the world.” 

That is not the vision of life in Dangerous Liaisons: Cécile de Volanges, her mother Madame de Volanges, Madame de Tourvel, Madame de Rosemonde (Valmont’s aunt) are good people; Danceny is also arguably good-natured, though his infidelity to Cécile is disappointing. 

Thirdly, evil doesn’t triumph. It corrupts, it destroys, but it doesn’t win in the end. Think about King Lear: evil destroys many things in its wake and kills Cordelia (and arguably Lear), but the evil characters of the play—Cornwall, Oswald, Goneril, Regan, Edmund—are all defeated. It is similar with Dangerous Liaisons. 

Choderlos de Laclos depicts two characters who like pulling the strings and manipulating other people and having power over them, but they gradually realise that many things are beyond their control. Despite their cleverness, despite their manipulation, despite their understanding of psychology, Merteuil cannot control Valmont, Valmont cannot control his own feelings for Tourvel, Merteuil cannot triumph over Cécile. Their little games are all futile. 

Contrast Laclos’s vision of life in Dangerous Liaisons and the vision of life in Naomi: Tanizaki’s book is a picture of perversity, control, and baseness; the manipulative character triumphs in the end; Naomi left a bad taste in my mouth. That is not the case for Dangerous Liaisons. 

Most importantly, Dangerous Liaisons is a masterpiece. Choderlos de Laclos’s psychological insight and talent for characterisation are astonishing. Even if it doesn’t end up as one of your favourite novels (which after all is personal), it is very much worth reading. 

Love, lust, and Les Liaisons dangereuses

1/ It was clearly a mistake to neglect French literature for so long. 

Up till now, the writer I’ve read who seems to have the best understanding of longing and sexual desire and especially female sexuality is Chekhov. But as a writer in Tsarist Russia, he couldn’t be very direct, and Laclos also has an advantage over him that we follow his characters for 400 pages. 

(Went for the original title in my headline so the alliteration works better—see, I think about little things). 

2/ Under my previous blog post about Dangerous Liaisons, Cathy Young wrote: 

“It took me several readings to notice this, but I think Valmont’s actions toward Cecile are very substantially motivated by the need to have a “victory” to counter Merteuil’s victory over Prevan.

[…] I think he waits to write back to Merteuil after he has a “success” of his own to report, especially since she’s been zinging him so much about his lack of success with Tourvel. Also notable: he starts putting the Cécile plan into action shortly after Merteuil sends him the long autobiographical letter in which she is absolutely brutal in putting him in his place and affirming her superiority, and which she concludes with, “As for Prévan, I want him, and I’ll have him; he wants to tell, and he won’t. That is our story.” That letter is sent on Sept. 20; Valmont presumably receives it Sept. 21; his letter to Cécile is sent Sept. 24, presumably after he’s had a bit of time to come up with the scheme with the second key. So I think he knows by then that Merteuil will succeed and is planning his own “victory” to match hers and maybe even beat her to it (but his plan is delayed because Cécile initially refuses).” 

That’s a very good point. 

Cathy also pointed out the parallels between the Valmont – Cécile scene and the Merteuil – Prévan scene, and between the Merteuil – Prévan plot and the Valmont – Tourvel plot. Again, these are great observations—you should read her comments for yourself.

Nothing to add, so I’ll make a different point: I think Merteuil seduces Danceny partly because she’s jealous of Cécile; partly because she wants to test her own power of seduction (as some women out there steal someone’s man just to prove that they can); partly because she wants Valmont to be jealous; and partly because she wants to triumph over Valmont, who won Cécile’s body but not her heart and not even her head.   

3/ Since Hadrian’s comments under my first blog post about Dangerous Liaisons, I’ve been toying with the idea that Valmont is not as attractive and seductive as he portrays himself to be.

Let’s see. Valmont is meant to seduce Cécile and Tourvel. Even if you don’t want to say Valmont rapes Cécile, he lays a trap for her, puts pressure on her, threatens her about reputation, and essentially forces himself on her. 

Now look at his “conquest” of Tourvel: 

“At this last word she threw herself or rather fell into my arms in a faint. As I was still doubtful of such a happy outcome, I pretended to be dreadfully alarmed. But at the same time I was leaving her or carrying her towards the place I had designed before as the field of victory. And, in fact, she only regained consciousness having already submitted and surrendered to her happy conqueror.” (Letter 125) 

(translated by Helen Constantine) 

Is that victory? In both cases, they yield after he forces himself on them—Cécile previously had no interest in him and Tourvel was resisting—it’s only after the sex that they yield, but Cécile is a 15-year-old virgin and Tourvel is sexually unfulfilled (where is the husband?) and vulnerable. They’re vulnerable like Natasha when separated from Andrei. Yes, Tourvel has fallen for Valmont, but you may have feelings for someone and not act on them.

Having said that, I still think John Malkovich is wrong for the role—Valmont has to be attractive—I’m merely pointing out that his two victories are not quite triumphs as he presents them to be.   

4/ For some time, I thought I understood Merteuil better than I understood Valmont. What kind of woman, however self-assured, would enjoy hearing a man with whom she has been involved speak in such praise about another woman? What kind of woman, however slutty, would enjoy being taken for granted and expected to run like a dog whenever some man calls? Laclos depicts so well her jealousy, her sense of rivalry, her wounded pride, her competitiveness and vengefulness, her need to triumph over Tourvel and to have control over Valmont, her love of freedom and of power. I even get why, when Valmont gives her an ultimatum, Merteuil chooses war, knowing it would ruin everybody involved. 

So for some time, I didn’t quite get Valmont, but now I do. To steal Hadrian’s ideas, this is a twisted love triangle—Tourvel appeals to the human side of Valmont and Merteuil attracts the demonic side, but that demonic side is so ingrained in him that he suppresses and denies and rejects his own love for Tourvel, to a disastrous end. He thinks he knows himself, but he does not—until it’s too late. 

5/ In Dangerous Liaisons, the characters all change. The most fascinating change is the deceitful, manipulative Valmont becoming more human, as his foil—the supposedly romantic and noble Danceny—turns out to be a false lover. Look at his letters to Merteuil! What kind of love does he have for Cécile that she is so easily supplanted? Cécile may be unfaithful to him physically, but he betrays her physically and emotionally. 

(With whom does he mean when Danceny writes in Letter 174 that he’s no longer in love?) 

6/ Now that I have finished reading Choderlos de Laclos’s book, I can say that it’s the greatest epistolary novel I’ve read, and the greatest novel about sexual desire, manipulation, and power.

It is also better than the films. It’s no wonder that Dangerous Liaisons has been adapted so many times, as Laclos creates two of the most devious, cunning, and memorable characters in fiction, and there’s a timeless appeal about their sex games—manipulating others for each other’s amusement and then manipulating each other. But it’s in the book where you can see the subtlety of characterisation, the different voices these characters adopt for different readers, the lies they tell others and tell themselves, the uncertainty about whether they’re being honest or playing a role. Laclos exploits the full potential of the epistolary form. 

Magnificent novel. 

Dangerous Liaisons and manipulation

1/ In some blog post about Don Quixote, I have noted that Shakespeare and Cervantes are both fascinated by disguise, pretence, and manipulation: if Shakespeare’s plays are full of actors (like Viola, Rosalind, Imogen) and playwrights/ theatre directors (like Iago or the Duke in Measure for Measure), Cervantes’s world is populated with storytellers (almost everyone in Don Quixote), who can be self-creators (like Don Quixote) or pranksters. 

What about the manipulators in Dangerous Liaisons—Merteuil and Valmont? I would say they are actors (in general, but especially in Merteuil’s handling of Prévan and Valmont’s acting towards Tourvel) and theatre directors (the way Merteuil and Valmont engineer the plot of Cécile and Danceny, especially when Merteuil adds conflict and drama) and self-creators (Merteuil writes in letter 81 “I am what I have created”). The two of them constantly compare their little games to theatre; Merteuil says she’s an actress and a writer. 

Here’s Valmont: 

“What more does one have in a larger theatre? Spectators? Ha! Just wait, I shall have plenty of them. Though they may not see me at work, I shall show them the finished product. All that will remain for them to do is admire and applaud.” (Letter 99) 

(translated by Helen Constantine)

Nobody would want to encounter a Valmont or a Merteuil in real life, but in literature, isn’t it fascinating to watch them?  

I especially like that Laclos adds the little Prévan plot. Up to that point, there have been 2 plots going on at the same time—the Cécile and Danceny plot, and the Valmont seducing Tourvel plot—which have started to drag on for a bit—then Laclos gives us the Prévan plot. Now that is fascinating! Before that point, Valmont has dominated the book, utterly thrilling as he switches between different voices for Merteuil, Cécile, and Tourvel. Now is Merteuil’s time to shine. And shine she does. 

2/ I would say that over the past few years, the most striking and compelling female characters I’ve come across in novels are Sử Tương Vân (Shi Xiangyun) and Vương Hy Phượng (Wang Xifeng) in Cao Xueqin’s Hong lou meng (Hồng lâu mộng by Tào Tuyết Cần), Becky Sharp in Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, and now Merteuil in Choderlos de Laclos’s Dangerous Liaisons. Sử Tương Vân (Shi Xiangyun) is the odd one out, delightful and lovable like Shakespeare’s Rosalind and Jane Austen’s Elizabeth Bennet and Tolstoy’s Natasha. 

The other three are manipulative, chameleon-like, immoral, deceitful, and yet utterly bewitching. 

Interestingly enough, I note that they’re all written by male writers. When I think of attempts by George Eliot (Middlemarch, maybe Daniel Deronda) and Edith Wharton (The Custom of the Country), I think they don’t quite succeed—those characters seem real enough, but they don’t bewitch. Jane Austen’s Mary Crawford is much better in comparison—so charming that many impressionable readers out there miss the entire point of the book—but she is not on quite the same level as Becky Sharp or Merteuil, is she? Lady Susan is more manipulative, but that’s quite a thin novel—I have always wished Austen had done something more with that character. 

To go back to Dangerous Liaisons, Laclos’s other female characters are also very good. One reads War and Peace and wonders how Tolstoy enters the mind of a 16-year-old girl in love (Natasha). One reads Dangerous Liaisons and asks the same question about Laclos and 15-year-old Cécile. He depicts well the pure innocence and naïve enthusiasm of a young girl raised in a convent and without experience, without making her sound sappy. 

Tourvel is even better. We don’t even need Valmont’s discovery of her copy of his letter to know—as we read between the lines—that for some time she has fallen for him. 

3/ Dangerous Liaisons has a good structure. Two significant things happen around the mid-point of the novel.

One is—shall I be nice and not reveal the spoiler?—what Valmont does to Cécile. He is the devil. 

His letters to Merteuil afterwards fill me with disgust, especially when he says he has been telling Cécile false stories about her mother: 

“For the girl who does not respect her mother will not respect herself.” (Letter 110)

The other thing is Tourvel’s departure, and the start of her downfall. 

Look at Valmont’s immediate reaction upon finding out she has run away: 

“What strange power draws me to this woman? Are there not a hundred others clamouring for my attention? […] Why chase after the one who flees from us and neglect those who offer themselves? Ah why? I do not know, but I feel it most grievously.” (Letter 100)

In the first half of Dangerous Liaisons, Merteuil and Valmont pull all the strings; in the second half, they slowly and gradually realise they’re not quite the puppeteers they think they are.

In other words, as Valmont turns more demonic in the second half, he also becomes more human. 

Dangerous Liaisons and the epistolary novel

As I’m enjoying Les Liaisons dangereuses or Dangerous Liaisons by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos (translated by Helen Constantine), I’ve been thinking about the epistolary form. Sometimes it’s rather clumsy and awkward, like The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Frankenstein too, I think. Sometimes it works quite well, like Dracula (series of documents in different forms) or The Moonstone (witnesses’ statements). The epistolary form can show different—and clashing—perspectives, like Lady Susan or The Lady in White.

But it’s in Dangerous Liaisons that I can see the author exploit the full potential of the form. We see the clashing perspectives. We read the sender’s words and imagine the receiver’s reaction, and if there is a second reader, also imagine the effect on them. We see the lies, the manipulation, the face-saving untruths. We read between the lines and examine the layers of meaning. We get different voices from different characters, but sometimes the same character—such as Valmont—can also put on different voices and play roles. We watch the schemer lay out her plan and embark on her project. We see the manipulator at work, as he explains his tactics and manoeuvres his way into a virtuous woman’s heart.

I think of Mansfield Park, for example. Jane Austen focuses on Fanny Price—she writes in the third person but always focuses mainly on one perspective in the 6 novels. It would be interesting, would it not, if we could enter the Crawfords’ minds, as Henry plays games with both Maria and Julia and also wants to capture Fanny’s heart but ends up falling for her, or if we had access to Maria’s thoughts, as she cheats on her dull husband with the charming Henry.  

In Dangerous Liaisons, we have two characters—Valmont and Merteuil—who are more evil, more demonic, more dangerous than the Crawfords. And it’s—should I say this?—thrilling to watch these manipulators at work! 

With Dangerous Liaisons, I have a situation similar to Anna Karenina: I watched multiple film adaptations before reading the book.

The 1988 American film: the film’s good; Glenn Close’s brilliant; but to this day, I still don’t understand how John Malkovich could have been cast as the irresistible womaniser. I don’t mean Valmont has to have good looks. Handsome and sexy are two different things. In the general sense, not in the should-be-cast-as-Valmont sense, Vincent Cassel is not handsome, but he is hot; Henry Cavill is handsome, but not charismatic; Tom Hiddleston and Benedict Cumberbatch aren’t particularly good-looking, but they’re charming. No disrespect to his acting skills, but I have never thought John Malkovich has the seductive qualities to play Valmont, I don’t buy it. 

Cruel Intentions: I frankly don’t remember the film, but it has always fascinated me that Les Liaisons dangereuses is moved to a modern setting and it works. 

Untold Scandal: I don’t remember the film (what’s up with my memory?), but I remember liking it. Bae Yong-joon is a heartthrob in East and Southeast Asia—he should be convincing as Valmont—I can’t remember. But again, it’s intriguing that Les Liaisons dangereuses is transported to South Korea and it works. 

Let’s hope I’ll have something more interesting to say about Laclos’s novel.