Review: Wives and Daughters

As I was perusing the shelves of B&N for a cover that didn’t look too seedy, insipid, or stupid, I happened to come across Elizabeth Gaskell’s Wives and Daughters. Though I had not watched the mini-series, so many friends had recommended it to me that the actual novel piqued my curiosity. According to the back cover Gaskell was exceedingly popular in her own time though later overshadowed by Austen, Bronte, and George Eliot. She was a close friend with Dickens and Charlotte Bronte, even writing the latter’s post-mortem biography at the request of Bronte’s father.

Wives and Daughters reads like a stylistic blend of Austen and Bronte. The plot reminded me of Mansfield Park with parents playing favorites, friends turned rivals, and attempts to cover up potential scandal - no wandering about the moors, passionate fits of hysteria, or beating of breasts. And yet the characters speak with more frankness than the demure ladies and gentlemen of the Regency period. So take the plot of Austen mixed with a pinch of Victorian dialogue and you’ve got the Gaskell flavor.

Bottom line: I adored it. I consumed the plump little novel in one weekend and loved every minute of it. It was refreshing to find a rare jewel of classic literature that I had somehow missed in the past 10 years – like discovering Austen had written a seventh novel after all (or eighth…I’ve already read the posthumously finished Sanditon). A must-read for Victorian literature buffs looking for a pleasant novel for a lazy afternoon.

The Mouse Who Would Be King

A little mouse was bemoaning his humble existence in the world
when a passing lion overheard him complaining and kindly inquired:
“You seem so sad, little friend,” he said, “What bothers you so?”
The mouse replied: “My lot in life is so terribly small;
I wish I commanded respect from the other animals here,
instead of ignored and derided for being simply a mouse.”
So the lion extended a trade: “I want you to take my place -
use my name and my powers and see what it’s like to be king for a day.”
The mouse agreed promptly and scurried to enjoy his new privileges.
Adorning himself with a mane made of leaves, he approached a snake.
With a vicious squeak he roared, but the snake was not impressed
by the mouse’s antics. “What are you supposed to be?” he hissed.
“I’m a lion – move out of my way!” the mouse bellowed with a squeak,
as he savagely twitched his whiskers and ferociously scampered about.
But the snake knew better and lunged at the imposter with a sinister hiss.
Thus the mouse met his end, deceived by pride and discontent.
Though a name or a face can be easily changed by external means,
man’s inward nature will always remain immutable.


(For you keen observers, yes, this is not in Latin...but it is written in iambic hexameter like the Latin fables we've been translating all term.)

More Monkishness

If insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results, reenactment is not a crazy activity for that very reason: it expects, or wants, to achieve at least similar results every time. Reenactment is about re-living the experiences of a people who have gone before, with the intention of gaining greater historical insight. Therefore, the closer your replica can be to the actual event, the more you can theoretically understand. Our monk routine did not have an impact on me until I discovered a missing crucial element.

The dining room became our cloister last term. The term started off with a feeling of newfound sanctity. We would gather around our table, stacks of books perched at attention, instructions and timetables dutifully noted, each read our apportioned bit of the Rule, and each withdraw our freshly scribed Habbakuks. The novelty of our little monkishness was like a bubble – enchanting, but fragile. Within a week, the mystique of being a monk was gone.

“I don’t feel like a monk” became the common complaint at least once a week. And why should we? We sat down every morning, spent ten minutes reading or reciting, and then would dash off to the more pressing matters of the day. Our lives were full of a million little things to distract and occupy us; but real monks made an all-encompassing daily routine out of what we spent merely minutes on. After reading the reenactment essays and discussing them in recitation, I became especially convinced of the vanity of our endeavor. I realized the limitations of our routine with even greater clarity. I most definitely did not feel like a monk.

It wasn’t until near the end of our assignment that a new dimension of monkishness fell into my lap and changed my perspective. Two weeks ago, Ash Wednesday marked the beginning of Lent and, being an incorrigible sweet tooth, I decided to give up sugar – without first thinking through the ramifications. My poor roommates had to bear with a mad woman the first couple of days. “Sugar - what was I thinking? I can’t live without sugar!” Yet after the third day of bereavement, the cool factor started to hit me. Real monks had dietary restrictions! Real monks had to do without things that they wanted! They weren’t even allowed to keep care packages from family without permission. Cheerful sacrifice was a guiding principle of the Benedictine Rule.

Though eliminating sugar from my diet was just a small step toward authentic reenactment of a monk’s routine, that small physical dimension added immensely. So much of what the monks went through was physical (from laying facedown in the oratory in penitence, to ostracism from their fellows), that it felt right to incorporate something beyond mere readings in our routine. I felt sympathetic to the monks’ way of life only when I could feel the tangible results of deprivation curdling my brain. Understanding through reenactment must involve all the senses.

Monkishness

I feel I owe my mother an explanation. While trying to talk via gtalk one morning, I hurriedly left the computer, saying, "I have to go be a monk!!" I proceeded to run off; but upon returning, I discovered my mother still sitting there.
"Haha," she had said.
"What are you really doing?"
"Are you just ignoring me now?"
...
"Where are you????"

I tried to tell her that, no, I wasn't lying to her or trying to get out of talking to her, but I never fully explained what we're doing either. And so, mummy, here it is: What your darling daughter has gotten herself into.

Thankfully, we have not been required to undergo the procedure illustrated in my picture - that's right, no freaky tonsures...yet. But as part of our History colloquium for this year, Mr. Schlect has required us to do little routine every morning sometime before 10:00 am (only Sunday's excluded). In one sitting and in the correct order, we have to:
1) Read a psalm aloud (Either 6, 8, or 111)
2) Recite a creed aloud (Either Apostles, Nicene, or Chalcedon)
3) Read several sections of The Rule of Saint Benedict
4) Copy by hand a couple verses of Habbakuk.
And of course, there's a schedule for what gets read on what day and how many verses to copy per day. The entire routine only takes about 10 minutes - getting it done before 10:00 is the kicker. Since we have several early morning classes, we frequently have to crunch it in at 6:45 before leaving for school. But now our Habbakuks are almost complete, I have a much better handle on the Chalcedon creed than before, and I think we've all decided we would never, never, never have wanted to be a monk.
So what's the point of all this? I think part of this *has* to be attributed simply to Mr. Schlect's delight in being nerdy (and maybe he burns the Habbakuks as fuel, nescio), but his purported reason is to make us think about reenactment: re-living a part of the history, even in so small and "historically innaccurate" a way as this, as a means deeper insight into the past. Our routine was obviously not even a fraction of what the monks underwent 24/7. But why? What drove them? We've studied, in part, the spread of the early church this term - now I've just got to decide on my answer before Thursday. ^_^

Jesus

Virgin's Womb - present where he shouldn't have been

Empty Tomb - not present where he should have been

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button was indeed curious…and long (neither of which is a shot against, it in my book). However, it had enough defects to make it overall unsatisfactory.

The Good:
The Southerness of the movie is thick as molasses. Though the movie takes detours to other parts of the world, it originates and terminates in the heart of New Orleans. Being a deep-rooted Southerner myself (with familial ties to south Louisiana), I ate that element up. The slight copper cast to the film lends a rich atmosphere – a beguilingly grandiose quality. And the overall execution of the story is satisfying. At two hours and forty minutes of run time, they certainly take their time to tell the story in stereotypically drawly Southern fashion. Though most of the plot will not seem to have much purpose (and in the end you’ll find out it didn’t) I wasn’t bored once. However, I think this kind of storytelling can only be appreciated by those who just enjoy watching other people live their lives – it’s rather like reading the Anne of Green Gables series. Just a warning, in case you tend to get impatient with a slow-moving plot. Bonus points for making it a nearly perfect chiasm though! ☺

The Bad:
The callousness to sex in this movie is freakish. I know there is rarely a movie released today that doesn’t have at least one fornicator in it, but this was crazy. Benjamin’s mother figure isn’t married, there are innumerable prostitutes, he has an affair with a married woman, then more affairs with college girls, and of course there’s his one true love who has slept with who knows how many men. I found it curious that no one in the movie had an STD! So, big fat warning here: don’t take your elementary school kids to see this movie (as the people sitting next to us did). Yikes.

The Ugly:
Beautiful as the packaging was, the movie could have been done in the half the amount of time, without all the fancy trimmings, and put on the Hallmark channel. Or better yet, summarized in one sentence and put on a cheesy Hallmark card. John and I keep going over what this movie was getting at, but it simply seems to have been: love conquers all. Or “love transcends age (and race?)”. If the latter, then it’s a rather creepy message. Though maybe it wasn’t intentional, love and affection were usually expressed sexually in the movie, which makes the beginning and end (where the age differences are greatest) rather awkward to watch. If someone has two cents to throw in here about what they got out of the story, please go ahead. Otherwise this poor movie will remain blackballed in my mind as shallow tripe wrapped in the prettiest gold paper I’ve ever seen.

Inebriated School Teachers Rip Off (or out?) The Grass Roots 30 Years Ago

I have had an epiphany.

Firstly, let us compare lyrics.

"Sooner or Later" (The Grass Roots, released 1971)

...You've been looking for love in all the wrong places,
You've been looking for love in all the wrong faces...


"Lookin' For Love" (Johnny Lee, released June 1980)

...I was lookin' for love in all the wrong places
Lookin' for love in too many faces....

If that wasn't damning enough, you must hear the actual melodies. If you don't care to listen to both songs in their entirety, skip SoL to 1:16 and LfL to about 00:49. Enjoy!

Sooner or Later

Lookin' for Love


Ah yes. It's so nice to be on break.