Showing posts with label Middlemarch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Middlemarch. Show all posts

Sunday, November 10, 2024

Delicious Quotes from Middlemarch by George Eliot—Aphorisms and the Novel

Novelists have always told stories, but in the nineteenth century, they also sometimes took a step outside the narrative to make more general observations about human nature and experience. In these aphorisms, the writer commented on the action, but also served up delicious philosophical treats. There’s something very modern about that. A novel was not just an impersonal recounting, but an intimate conversation between the writer and the reader, with engaging side comments.

There’s probably no fiction writer better at these asides than George Eliot.


George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans, 1819–1880)
Eliot displayed that gift at its best in her novel, Middlemarch, the tale of a brilliant young woman in provincial England who marries too early a stuffy clergyman very much her senior. Her husband views his wife’s intellect as a hindrance to her being his unquestioning disciple.

Here are some of my favorites of George Eliot’s aphorisms in her masterpiece, in the order in which they appear. I’ve also included a few lines of dialogue that I particular love:

 

“…very little achievement is required in order to pity another man’s shortcomings.”

 

“A sense of contributing to form the world’s opinion makes conversation particularly cheerful...”

 

“I have a hyperbolical tongue: it catches fire as it goes.”

 

“A man may, from various motives, decline to give his company, but perhaps not even a sage would be gratified that nobody missed him.”

 

“...our tongues are little triggers which have usually been pulled before general intentions can be brought to bear.”

 

“...the truth is the hardest missile one can be pelted with.”

 

“...we hear with the more keenness what we wish others not to hear.”

 

“...what loneliness is more lonely than distrust?”

 

“…it is a little too trying to human flesh to be conscious of expressing one’s self better than others and never to have it noticed…”

 

“…it is one thing to like defiance, and another thing to like its consequences.”


[That impractical scheme] “…was as free from interruption as a plan for threading the stars together.”

 

“But how little we know what would make paradise for our neighbors.”

 

“‘I still think that the greater part of the world is mistaken about many things. Surely one may be sane and yet think so, since the greater part of the world has often had to come round from its opinion.’”

 

“Life would be no better than candlelight tinsel and daylight rubbish if our spirits were not touched by what has been, to issues of longing and constancy.”

 

“If youth is the season of hope, it is often so only in the sense that our elders are hopeful about us; for no age is so apt as youth to think its emotions, partings, and resolves are the last of their kind. Each crisis seems final, simply because it is new.”

 

“…to most mortals there is a stupidity which is unendurable and a stupidity which is altogether acceptable—else, indeed, what would become of social bonds?”

 

“…we all know the difficulty of carrying out a resolve when we secretly long that it may turn out to be unnecessary.”

 

“It’s no use being wise for other people.”

 

“It’s rather a strong check to one’s self-complacency to find out how much of one’s right doing depends on not being in want of money.”

 

“A man vows, and yet will not cast away the means of breaking his vow.”

 

“I have always loved him. I should never like scolding anyone else so well, and that is a point to be thought of in a husband.”

 

“…husbands are an inferior class of men, who require keeping in order.”

 

One of my very favorite George Eliot aphorism is the closing sentence of Middlemarch. I won’t spoil the surprise by quoting it.

 

It’s interesting that novelists, for the most part, no longer break away from the story to make these parenthetical, general comments. For a writer to tell us these days what to conclude from the events of the plot would feel too directive, almost manipulative—not to mention quaint. In some ways, that’s a loss, because those asides were more than just generalizations, they were a chance for an author to let another facet of their talent shine, the ability to sum up human nature and life beyond the specifics of one individual story.

Friday, February 15, 2013

My Library Dilemma

Nowadays when I prowl the aisles of shelves in the public library looking for a book to read, it’s so difficult to find the right one. Sideways I read names of authors I don’t know, thinking about taking a chance on a book I’ve never heard of, and then I remember that German novel about the fresco restorers in Prague where I never got the sense of humor, and I hesitate.


 I even hesitate at the titles I’ve already read, not eager to repeat any experiences, reluctant to admit I wouldn’t remember the books anyway, like Middlemarch, which I was forced to read in Venice at age 20.
                                            George Eliot (Mary Anne Evans)

The only store I could find there with English books only had a few, but I ended up traveling so far into that world George Eliot created that I barely left my room in the pensione, foraying out occasionally into that city of mirrors and skies at sundown to watch the clouds gather at the apex of the heavens like soapsuds draining in a reverse bathtub, understanding why Tiepolo and Canaletto and Turner could not get enough of that city. 

                                       J.M.W. Turner, The Grand Canal, Venice

Then I think that I should read something completely different from my usual picks: a history of Venice in the late eighteenth century, the assembly of the human genome, a biography of the person who invented the smartphone. But I have to confess that facts without beauty or imagination bore me.

No, I can’t decide what book to take out anymore, because every story seems to be about disappointment, so I magnetize toward the volumes by authors whom I’ve heard read in person or have met, knowing their personalities well enough to be sure they won’t betray my hope that the book will offer some bits of topaz, some involuntary chuckles, some ecstasy or indignation to lift me above my cubicle and monitor. But the authors I know, I’ve counted on them too often, and even their books become a disappointment, since their minor works and juvenilia are never up to their masterpieces, the books where I follow the characters in their bustles and redingotes and shakos, reassured that letters can paint as well as nineteenth century artists carrying beechwood boxes full of little tubes of mortared pigments blended with linseed oil and white spirits. 


What book, what book? Or maybe I just have to bear down and think of something to write about, something as mundane and ridiculous as what reading matter to choose in the library.

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How Not to Become a Literary Dropout
Putting Together a Book Manuscript
Working with a Writing Mentor
How to Deliver Your Message
Does the Muse Have a Cell Phone?
Why Write Poetry? 
Poetic Forms: IntroductionThe SonnetThe SestinaThe GhazalThe Tanka

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