Eddie Loves Elinor

Weird title for a blog post, I know. But stick around. It will all make sense soon...

Seven years ago now, I posted something here in an attempt to explain the name of my blog. Actually, it wasn't an attempt. It's pretty simple. I love Somerset Maugham. I'm a lot like Gerald Haxton in that way. Ok, so not exactly.

But if you know me (and even if you don't, what I am about to write is still true), I also love 19th century British novels. Austen, Thackeray, Eliot, the Bronte sisters, Wilkie Collins, some Dickens, Gaskell. You get the idea. All the way up to Thomas Hardy. And do I love Thomas Hardy.

This post will cover a little more Maugham territory and then proceed (actually go back in time) to the 19th century.

So, yeah, Somerset Maugham. Let's go clear back to high school and establish the fact I was like a lot of boys. "Hated" reading. It was always assigned. English class. No choice of which text. Write about it. Learn from it. But although I "hated" reading, I was aware even then that I enjoyed what I read most of the time. I was proud I had finished a book, could say "I've read that." But I still didn't read very much.

In my second year of college, however, something happened. An older brother of mine, who I very much looked up to, was reading. A lot. And apparently liking it. And reading some more. I decided to see what all the fuss was about. I took a couple suggestions and read them. Liked them. And he suggested a Somerset Maugham novel. After that, the ship sailed, as they say. And people DO say that. I know.

So in the first few years after I was married (in 1993 so you have a reference [although you must know, because I can't imagine anyone other than my mother is reading this]), I read several Maugham novels: Of Human Bondage, The Razor's Edge, The Narrow Corner, Mrs. Craddock, Liza of Lambeth, Of Moon and Sixpence, and so on. And since those early years I have read almost every other novel of his (and short story, and play), and several more than once.

I loved Maugham because of how he writes (well, wrote, since he is dead). He does not judge. He reports. His characters sometimes do terrible things (if you consider murder, prostitution, betrayal, and duplicity terrible things), and he does not tell the reader how to feel about it. He also introduced me to something that may have set me off toward my love of 19th century novels. This thing is hard for me to identify exactly but is something like this: the non-explicit conveying (description? relation?) of profound emotion. Does that make any sense? He did not have to say, "And then the man told the woman he loved her very, very, very, very, very much. A ton. Really strong feelings, reader. Take note of this!" He simply described their interactions and my mind did the rest. And it did something to my heart. Or something like that. I put that disclaimer there since at the time (and even sometimes now) I hate to admit that about myself. Why? Another post, I imagine.

But let's leave Maugham for now and travel to 1995. In that year, a movie called Sense and Sensibility was released. I remember how the following year it won an Oscar for something, and even recall a lampooning of it on Saturday Night Live. I also remember I had no interest in seeing such a movie. People dressed in crazy old clothes, talking as they did, falling in love. Come on, a chick movie!

So I did not see Sense and Sensibility until several years until after it was released. To say it affected me is an understatement. I could not attempt to deny I loved it, loved how it made me feel. Obviously I did not discuss these feelings with anyone, but I felt them. And I realized it was because of the interactions between characters. They made no blatant declarations or demonstrations; the sum of their feelings was very many times only betrayed by a look or a stare or an uncomfortable silent moment. Have you watched it? Do see how Edward (I like to call him Eddie) looks at and acts around Elinor? Can you not tell by just looking at her how much she loves him in return? You have to, since she cannot tell him, forced by circumstances into her guarded reserve. I like to think it is painful for her even to speak his name.

Ok, that might be going a little far. The movie doesn't mention that, and perhaps I just wanted it to be true. But I think it helps my point: when a movie is done well enough to make clear there are profound feelings, but leave the fullness and depth of emotions between its characters to the imagination of the viewer, it is well done indeed. So say I.

So realizing I loved this movie, I soon set out on others of its type and time. Pride and Prejudice (the 1995 BBC version--definitely not the Keira Knightley one!), Jane Eyre, Wuthering Heights, Nicholas Nickleby. Then I realized I must read all these books. And if I have painted a positive picture of them as movies, let me assure you I love them all more as books. Perhaps the movies are a bit better at drawing out a stubborn tear at just the right time (although I have had to set a book down a time or two to compose myself), but the skill and imagination and wit and dead-on portrayal of human emotion in 19th century British novels cannot be equalled. Again, so say I.

And if you think I am wrong, keep it to yourself.