Engaging with a Novel through Teaching It

When I teach a novel, I get to know it in a way that I wouldn't otherwise. First, I read it more often, and more carefully. Second, I read more about it: literary criticism, biographical information about the author, etc. Third, I learn from my students' questions and comments. Most of all, I involve myself more deeply with the book, I steep myself in it, and I feel more connected to it. Of course I wouldn't have chosen to teach the book if I didn't already admire it, but teaching it brings a deeper relationship with it. This has happened to me with quite a few novels and other literary works, perhaps most notably Jane Austen's "Sense and Sensibility," Charlotte Bronte's "Jane Eyre," Willa Cather's "My Antonia," Virginia Woolf's "Mrs. Dalloway," Edith Wharton's "House of Mirth," and Toni Morrison's "Sula."

Girl Books and Boy Books?

This semester my writing class is reading (along with a textbook) "Digging to America," by Anne Tyler. I thought the themes of mixed cultures co-existing, international adoption, and family would stimulate good discussions and good writing, and they have done so. After we finished the novel this week, I asked students to write a quick overall response to the book: Did they like it? Were they glad they had read it? Would they recommend it to friends? Should I assign it again in future semesters? I asked them to be honest. All of them liked it at least somewhat, but the responses were quite gendered. The women all liked it without reservation. The men liked it more or less, but several of them said that they preferred books with "more action." And one male student stated that he liked it, and wrote very well about what he learned from it, but concluded by saying that it was a rather "girly" book, wasn't it? I am not sorry that I assigned this novel, as students spoke animatedly and wrote well about the themes and characters, and seemed genuinely interested in the story. But the male responses reminded me of something that I sometimes forget: for whatever reason, nature or nurture (I will not get into that huge and fraught question here!), it does seem that -- on average -- males have overlapping but at least somewhat different tastes in books than females. As an educator, should I take these differences into account? Should I look for novels with literary value but "more action"? I will have to think long and hard about this before the next time I need to select a novel for a class.

"Atlas of Unknowns"

"Atlas of Unknowns," by the Indian-American author Tania James, has just come out in paperback (Vintage, 2010). I read this engrossing novel when it was originally published in 2009, partly because I am always interested in novels about India and about Indians in the U.S., and partly because I am drawn to stories about sisters (perhaps because I don't have any, and wonder what it would be like to have them?). Two sisters, Linno and Anju, grow up in India; Anju wins a scholarship and goes to the U.S. to study, betraying her sister in the process. After various plot twists and troubles, Anju leaves the American school and disappears. We readers know she is safe, although unhappy, but Linno and the rest of the family does not. Linno has had success in India, due to her artistic talents, and she tries to go to the U.S. to find Anju. Despite all the secrets and sadnesses, the sisters' bond is inspiring. This is a good old-fashioned plot- and character-driven story, told extremely well; the cultural aspects regarding both India and the United States are of interest as well.

Elizabeth Gaskell

Of course as a lover of women's literature and of 19th century literature, I am a great fan of the Bronte sisters, especially Charlotte. But one of the benefits and joys of being privy to the 1970s "rediscovery" of many women authors was reading another great women author of that time period, Elizabeth Gaskell. Gaskell was quite well known during her own lifetime, but had been close to forgotten before this "rediscovery." She lived from 1810-1865, raised five children, knew many of the literary figures of the day such as Charles Dickens and John Ruskin, and - impressively - published several novels as well as many novellas, essays, and more. Her novels include "Mary Barton," which I taught in my women's literature classes because it was one of the few novels of that time period that portrayed poverty from a woman's point of view; "North and South"; "Wives and Daughters"; and my favorite, "Cranford." "Cranford" depicts a small village whose inhabitants are mostly older women. There is very little plot, but much about the small events of these women's daily lives. Gaskell is an excellent observer of human nature. She also gives us a touching picture of how these women formed a supportive community in which they looked out for and helped each other, without a lot of fuss and always preserving each other's dignity. BBC has adapted "Cranford" for television several times, most recently in 2007, starring the wonderful actors Judi Dench and Eileen Atkins. Gaskell is also known for her biography of her good friend Charlotte Bronte, a biography well worth reading still, even though later biographers have provided us with new information about Bronte.

"Afterimage"

I am grateful to my friend S. for her recommendation of Canadian writer Helen Humphreys' novel "Afterimage" (Metropolitan Books, 2000), which I have just finished reading. This book is "inspired by the life of Julia Margaret Cameron," the famed photographer, and takes place in 1865. A young maid, Annie Phelan, goes to work for a photographer, Isabelle Dashell, and her mapmaker/would-be explorer husband, Eldon Dashell. Both are much taken with Annie, who is intelligent and well-read as well as beautiful and unspoiled. A great line about Annie's love of books is the following: "that feeling of story rushes through her like a swoon" (p. 32). Isabelle uses Annie as her best model for her photographs, and Eldon shares his thwarted but lingering dreams about Arctic exploration with her. Annie's presence both inspires and unsettles the Dashells, and tragic events unfold. This book shows us much about social class, as well as about what it was like to be a woman, especially a talented but underrated woman artist, at that time. The loneliness and lack of support that Isabelle receives, even from her own husband, are sad to read about. A fellow (male) artist, for example, pontificates that Isabelle's work should be "more domestic" (p. 22). But the novel also shows us how transformative art can be. The main pleasure of this novel, finally, is the gorgeous, evocative, sometimes dreamlike writing.

Edith Wharton

Edith Wharton is a writer I have long treasured. First, she writes beautifully. Second, her stories and characters are engaging. Third, she brilliantly portrays the lives and problems of the women of her time period (and in some ways, women of all time periods). Fourth, she teaches us so much about social class and how it worked and works. As someone who has studied and written about social class issues, I find her work fascinating and instructive in this regard. I also find myself with ambivalent feelings, as her portrayal of the luxurious life of the upper class has its glittering appeal, yet we also see its negative aspects: superficiality, callousness, inequity, even destructiveness. Wharton's "The House of Mirth," a novel I have read and taught several times, is illustrative of everything I have said above. The brilliant and beautiful but increasingly impoverished Lily Bart spends her time with those who have much more than she does, hopes for a marriage that will rescue her, but can't quite bring herself to give up her true self and her true love of a less affluent man in order to save herself financially. This decision costs her dearly, and she spirals downward to a sad end. Wharton was a great student of psychology and the human condition. She chose to write (mostly) about her own milieu, the world of the New York upper class, as that is where she found herself and that is what she could write best about, but she was well aware of other lives and of the wider world, and her work speaks to us still.

"Solar" is "fine"

My friend C. is the person who persuaded me several years ago to start reading Ian McEwan's novels, and I am grateful to her for that; since then I have read and very much enjoyed several of his novels, most notably "Atonement" and "Saturday." A few days ago, in an email about something else, C. mentioned that she was reading McEwan's current novel, "Solar" (Random House, 2010), and that it was "fine." I had to smile, as the phrase "damning with faint praise" came to mind. I haven't discussed the novel with her since, so I don't know how she feels about it as she has read more or perhaps finished the novel. But in the meantime I too have been reading "Solar," which I finished last night. I have to agree with C's assessment that it is "fine." I mildly enjoyed it, but it didn't grip me the way some of his other novels have. Perhaps it was because of the pages and pages of prose about physics and solar energy. Of course I admire the idea of solar power, but that doesn't mean I enjoy reading about the scientific details. This probably says more about my limitations than it does about the book, and I am sure some readers truly savor the very parts that I skim over. Or perhaps my lack of involvement was because the main character, Michael Beard, is -- intentionally, as I heard the author say in a radio interview -- a rather unlikable, completely self-centered character who doesn't connect to other human beings very well, even his five ex-wives, his small daughter, his dozens of lovers, and his scientific and business colleagues. Of course main characters do not have to be likable in order for a book to be good or even great, but such choices on the part of the author do make it harder for the reader to get emotionally involved with the story. I do note though that the power of seeing a story through a certain character's perspective is very strong: I found myself rooting for Beard even when he was covering up a crime, and then being appalled at myself for doing so!