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&&LDIV&&R&&LDIV&&R&&LP style="MARGIN: 0in 0in 22.5pt"&&R&&LI&&RMiddlemarch&&L/I&&R, by &&LB&&RGeorge Eliot&&L/B&&R, is part of the &&LI&&RBarnes & Noble Classics&&L/I&&R series, which offers quality editions at affordable prices to the student and the general reader, including new scholarship, thoughtful design, and pages of carefully crafted extras. Here are some of the remarkable features of &&LI&&RBarnes & Noble Classics&&L/I&&R: &&L/P&&R New introductions commissioned from today''s top writers and scholars Biographies of the authors Chronologies of contemporary historical, biographical, and cultural events Footnotes and endnotes Selective discussions of imitations, parodies, poems, books, plays, paintings, operas, statuary, and films inspired by the work Comments by other famous authors Study questions to challenge the reader''s viewpoints and expectations Bibliographies for further reading Indices & Glossaries, when appropriate All editions are beautifully designed and are printed to superior specifications; some include illustrations of historical interest. &&LI&&RBarnes & Noble Classics &&L/I&&Rpulls together a constellation of influences--biographical, historical, and literary--to enrich each reader''s understanding of these enduring works.&&L/DIV&&R&&L/DIV&&R&&LDIV&&R &&L/DIV&&R&&LDIV&&ROften called the greatest nineteenth-century British novelist, &&LB&&RGeorge Eliot&&L/B&&R (the pen name of Mary Ann Evans) created in &&LI&&RMiddlemarch&&L/I&&R a vast panorama of life in a provincial Midlands town. At the story''s center stands the intellectual and idealistic Dorothea Brooke--a character who in many ways resembles Eliot herself. But the very qualities that set Dorothea apart from the materialistic, mean-spirited society around her also lead her into a disastrous marriage with a man she mistakes for her soul mate. In a parallel story, young doctor Tertius Lydgate, who is equally idealistic, falls in love with the pretty but vain and superficial Rosamund Vincy, whom he marries to his ruin. &&LP&&REliot surrounds her main figures with a gallery of characters drawn from every social class, from laborers and shopkeepers to the rising middle class to members of the wealthy, landed gentry. Together they form an extraordinarily rich and precisely detailed portrait of English provincial life in the 1830s. But Dorothea''s and Lydgate''s struggles to retain their moral integrity in the midst of temptation and tragedy remind us that their world is very much like our own. Strikingly modern in its painful ironies and psychological insight, &&LI&&RMiddlemarch&&L/I&&R was pivotal in the shaping of twentieth-century literary realism. &&L/P&&R&&LP&&R&&LB&&RLynne Sharon Schwartz&&L/B&&R is the author of fourteen books of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry, including the novels &&LI&&RDisturbances in the Field, Leaving Brooklyn&&L/I&&R, and &&LI&&RIn the Family Way&&L/I&&R, and the memoir &&LI&&RRuined by Reading&&L/I&&R. Her poetry collection &&LI&&RIn Solitary&&L/I&&R and her translation of &&LI&&RA Place to Live: Selected Essays of Natalia Ginzburg&&L/I&&R appeared in 2002.&&L/P&&R&&L/DIV&&R
Author Notes
George Eliot was born Mary Ann Evans on a Warwickshire farm in England, where she spent almost all of her early life. She received a modest local education and was particularly influenced by one of her teachers, an extremely religious woman whom the novelist would later use as a model for various characters.
Eliot read extensively, and was particularly drawn to the romantic poets and German literature. In 1849, after the death of her father, she went to London and became assistant editor of the Westminster Review, a radical magazine. She soon began publishing sketches of country life in London magazines.
At about his time Eliot began her lifelong relationship with George Henry Lewes. A married man, Lewes could not marry Eliot, but they lived together until Lewes's death.
Eliot's sketches were well received, and soon after she followed with her first novel, Adam Bede (1859). She took the pen name "George Eliot" because she believed the public would take a male author more seriously.
Like all of Eliot's best work, The Mill on the Floss (1860), is based in large part on her own life and her relationship with her brother. In it she begins to explore male-female relations and the way people's personalities determine their relationships with others. She returns to this theme in Silas Mariner (1861), in which she examines the changes brought about in life and personality of a miser through the love of a little girl.
In 1863, Eliot published Romola. Set against the political intrigue of Florence, Italy, of the 1490's, the book chronicles the spiritual journey of a passionate young woman.
Eliot's greatest achievement is almost certainly Middlemarch (1871). Here she paints her most detailed picture of English country life, and explores most deeply the frustrations of an intelligent woman with no outlet for her aspirations. This novel is now regarded as one of the major works of the Victorian era and one of the greatest works of fiction in English.
Eliot's last work was Daniel Deronda. In that work, Daniel, the adopted son of an aristocratic Englishman, gradually becomes interested in Jewish culture and then discovers his own Jewish heritage. He eventually goes to live in Palestine.
Because of the way in which she explored character and extended the range of subject matter to include simple country life, Eliot is now considered to be a major figure in the development of the novel. She is buried in Highgate Cemetery, North London, England, next to her common-law husband, George Henry Lewes.
(Bowker Author Biography)
Reviews (3)
Guardian Review
The first time I read Middlemarch I was 17 years old and studying for my university entrance exams. Every Sunday some classmates and I went for a few hours to the home of a retired teacher of English literature, who had been enlisted by my grammar school to tutor us. She lived in a small village on the outskirts of the seaside town in Dorset where I grew up. In the summer, my hometown was filled with holidaymakers eating fish and chips and pitching striped canvas windbreaks on the beach. In the winter it was barren, with dreary skies and sea of the same unending grey. In no season did it satisfy my malcontented teenage self. As I sat in the teacher's living room, looking out over hills that were often sodden, grazed by forlorn sheep, the place I came from felt barely less provincial than the town anatomised by George Eliot in the novel that lay on my lap. I was dying to get away from this landscape. Oxford was the immediate goal, but anywhere would do. My town had no colleges, no theatres and no museums. It appeared to offer no opportunity to live a cultured, intellectual life, which was what I avidly aspired to do, even if I had only a very vague notion of what that might consist of. When I read about Dorothea Brooke - an ardent young gentlewoman who yearns for a more significant existence - I recognised in her imprecise longing a mirror of my own restless, ill-formed ambitions. This recognition occurred in spite of significant differences between us - Dorothea is a beautiful, well-born heiress, while I grew up in a modest house built in the 1950s, and could count among my Victorian progenitors men and women who worked in houses like that in which Dorothea lives. Dorothea was devout; in those years of Margaret Thatcher's ascendance I had a teenager's reflexive radicalism, and had spent many Saturdays hovering outside Woolworths in the town centre, trying to sell copies of leftwing newspapers to shoppers who could not have been less interested. Dorothea is 19, an age at which it is thought appropriate that she get married. I wasn't sure I ever wanted to get married, and if I did, it was certainly not going to be when I was 19. There was so much more I wanted to do. I just wasn't sure what it was. But those differences didn't matter. When I was a teenager, Middlemarch - which charts the loves and longings of a number of inhabitants of a fictional Midlands town circa 1830 - seemed to me to be all about the aspirations of youth. Even if the focus of that aspiration had changed, I recognised Dorothea's sense of yearning as akin to my own. I also admired Eliot, from the little I knew about her, who seemed to share Dorothea's yearning for a life other than the one she was born into. Eliot was born Mary Ann Evans in Nuneaton in 1819; she lived with a man to whom she wasn't married, writing her novels under a pseudonym: an inspiring and intriguing example to a young feminist who also wanted to be a writer. Middlemarch, written almost 100 years before I was born, wasn't the least bit dry or dusty. I couldn't believe how relevant it felt. And I couldn't believe how good it was. In those days, when I felt I was waiting for my life to begin, I used to write long letters to a cousin close to my own age, recounting music listened to, books read. In one letter, I reported getting through Dostoevsky's The Gambler, Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby and The Beautiful and Damned, Austen's Pride and Prejudice and Northanger Abbey, and Middlemarch, which, I opined airily, "is a brilliant novel and should be read". I loved Middlemarch, and I loved being the kind of person who loved it. I knew that many critics regarded it as the greatest novel in English literature, and I wanted to be among those who understood why. Reading it, and beginning to comprehend it, was a step on the path to the life I sought. When I went for my interview at Oxford I met with the senior tutor in English at what was to become my college - a forbidding Scotsman possessed of what I only later realised was a magnificently dry sense of humour. His study was furnished with low-slung easy chairs upholstered in mustard-coloured corduroy; one could either perch on a chair's edge or sink into its depths. His study was cold, or I was shivering with nerves - either way, I did not take off my charity-shop coat, made from astrakhan, with a fur collar, as I sat in his easy chair and shifted from one uncomfortable position to another, talking passionately about Middlemarch. Not long afterwards I received a letter saying I had been accepted, and that was the first time Middlemarch changed my life. Middlemarch got me to Oxford, and I read it again there, too. "Discuss George Eliot's treatment of 'oppressive narrowness' and its effect on her characters," was the essay question I chose to answer in the exams at the end of my first year, where the hard chair and the grand hall of the Examination Schools amounted to my own escape from oppressive narrowness. It was the mid 1980s, and such exotic concepts as critical theory were in the air. Instead of merely reading books I learned to interrogate texts, as if they had committed some criminal malfeasance. Even Middlemarch came in for this treatment: "This incoherent, heterogeneous, 'unreadable,' or nonsynthesisable quality of the text of Middlemarch jeopardises the narrator's effort of totalisation," wrote the critic J Hillis Miller, in a much-borrowed library volume. After graduating I was ready to escape even further, and moved to New York City. My plan was to stay for a year - I was doing a master's in journalism - and then to return to London to look for a job at a newspaper, equipped with experience that would set me apart from all the other eager would-be journalists. Studying journalism in a classroom, it turned out, was mostly absurd. One instructor, a weary former city reporter, conducted pretend press conferences in which he would impersonate the whiny, petulant mayor of the city, while we asked pretend questions. Another instructor aired her dispiriting opinion in the first class that most of us would end up in PR. But I also got a part-time job at the New Yorker, where I did research for writers, answered phones, did photocopying, and even wrote a few short pieces, learning skills and gaining experience that only a real job - with a real pay cheque - could provide. A few weeks before I was due to move back to England, a full-time job in the magazine's fact-checking department opened up. I was offered it, and decided that I wasn't going to move back home after all. And, apart from one short stint at a newspaper in London in my mid 20s, I have spent my entire adult life on the other side of the Atlantic from my childhood home. I didn't feel at home in New York - it was too alien for that - but I enjoyed the sense of estrangement it offered. At first I shared a small apartment that had sloping floorboards, exposed-brick walls and an occasional mouse problem four flights above a busy SoHo intersection. On summer nights when it was too hot to sleep I would sit on the fire escape, looking over the water towers on the building opposite and down on the streets below, enjoying the exotic sensation of sultry air on my skin. Where I grew up it was always cool at night, even after the warmest of days. I found the abrasiveness of New York exciting, even glamorous. I liked being able to yell at someone who shoved me on the subway, rather than feeling obliged to fume inwardly. I felt free, independent, exhilarated. And by my mid 20s, I was no longer a fact-checker. I had become a feature writer, working on often-acerbic profiles of cultural figures, which is one way for a young writer to get noticed. I lived in a tiny apartment downtown: the first home I made for myself alone. When she was not much older than I was George Eliot had been a journalist, too. Having grown up in the provincial towns of Nuneaton and Coventry, Eliot moved in her early 30s to London, becoming the editor in all but name of the Westminster Review. There, she became the anonymous author of a number of devastating critiques of writers and thinkers, including a piece about the poet Edward Young, whom she had revered in her youth but now castigated for moral falseness. She also wrote an essay about romance fiction called "Silly Novels by Lady Novelists" - a title that today would not look amiss as a cheeky headline on an irreverent website. Her critical judgment could be astringent. If one is accustomed to thinking of Eliot as the capaciously generous novelist she became, it's bracing and not a little gratifying to read these essays and realise that she too had a frustrated ferocity it satisfied her to unleash. In her private letters of that time Eliot could be spiky, defensive in anticipation of attack. "Treating people ill is an infallible sign of special love with me," she wrote to one friend. Her career was taking off: leading intellectuals quickly acknowledged her as their peer, and perhaps even suspected she was their superior. But her personal life was less successful. She had a brief entanglement with John Chapman, the head of the Westminster Review, who also happened to be her landlord. Then friends suspected that her closeness with Herbert Spencer was heading towards marriage; Spencer rejected her, to Eliot's great anguish. Her letters to him, buried for many decades in the British Library, make for painful reading. Eliot in these years seems a strikingly contemporary figure: a young woman, alone in a city, forging a career and hoping for love. "I can see her now, with her hair over her shoulders, the easy chair half sideways to the fire, her feet over the arms, and a proof in her hands," a friend wrote of her in later years. I can see her, too, because I know this woman. I've been this woman. In my own tiny apartment, I didn't have any bookshelves. My copy of Middlemarch and hundreds of other books were stacked in precarious piles, their orange and black and grey spines abutting each other like bricks in an uneven wall that has been foolishly and irrevocably constructed without foundations. They loomed over my bed: a futon that I rarely folded into a couch. I had little other furniture. A desk was wedged into a closet. In a kitchen that also served as a hallway were a tiny folding table and two chairs. The place was adequate to entertain a single significant visitor, when the occasion arose. And when I came back to Middlemarch again in my mid 20s - perched on my fire escape overlooking the bustling street, or sunk into my one easy chair, with my feet over the arm - it spoke to me in a different way than it had done when I was 17. Then, I had identified with Dorothea's ardent yearning for a different life. Now, as I embarked on one misbegotten love affair, and then another, the book seemed to be all about the purpose and meaning of marriage. Middlemarch didn't offer instruction, or at least I didn't read it as offering such. If I had, I might not have become successively involved with men seemingly older and seemingly wiser than I was, who occupied that second folding chair, and preoccupied my thoughts. But I could tell that the novel offered illumination, even if I didn't yet know quite how to answer the questions it posed. What constituted a good marriage? What made a bad one? How is one to know whom to build a life's love with? Eliot shows a number of different marriages, successful ones and ones that are fatally ill founded. At the outset of Middlemarch, Dorothea marries the Reverend Edward Casaubon: a pedantic, dry-as-dust scholar whom she mistakenly imagines to have a great mind. She discovers within a painfully short space of time after their wedding day that he is defensive and proud, and she is appalled by her efforts to achieve physical and emotional intimacy with him. That terrible marriage is followed by another fundamentally flawed match within the community: that of Tertius Lydgate, an ambitious young doctor, newly arrived in Middlemarch, who aspires to make great discoveries, but whose ambitions are fatally curtailed by his marriage to Rosamond Vincy, the town beauty, who is as empty-headed and stubborn as she is pretty and beguiling. In these two central stories, Middlemarch showed me the different ways in which getting married could constitute a terrible error. In a wonderfully restrained phrase, Eliot writes of "the difficulties of civilisation", that require men and women to marry before they have much more than a passing acquaintance with each other. Even with a lessening of those difficulties in my own time, it still seemed perilously easy to make a mistake. And Middlemarch also showed me what the cost of long-term commitment might be, in the marriage of Nicholas and Harriet Bulstrode. He is an odiously sanctimonious banker who came by his fortune through deceit, and whose eagerness to preserve his good name leads him deep into moral compromise. Mrs Bulstrode's discovery of her husband's wrongdoing, and then her decision not to be among those who turn against him, makes for one of the most moving episodes in the book. Alone in her bedroom, she removes her jewellery, puts on a plain cap, then descends to him, resolved to "espouse his sorrow". What would it be, I wondered, to promise someone you'd do that? George Eliot and George Henry Lewes met, appropriately enough, in a bookshop. Set among the tobacconists and shirtmakers and leather shops of Burlington Arcade, Jeffs specialised in foreign-language books imported from the continent. The shop was cramped - only nine-feet deep and not much wider. There would barely have been room to turn around, especially if wearing an ample Victorian gown. These days, it's a high-end jewellery shop. I went there one day, looking idly, and in vain, for an emerald-and-diamond ring, like the one that seduces Dorothea with its beauty in the first chapter of Middlemarch Less than three years after that introduction, when Eliot was in her 35th year, she and Lewes eloped to Germany; they went on to live together for 24 years. Marriage was impossible: he was already married and divorce was out of the question. The critic Phyllis Rose has written warmly of their union, "The Leweses manage to be as happy together for the 24 years they lived together as any two people I have heard of outside fantasy literature." Elizabeth Hardwick, the American novelist and critic, conjured their companionability with almost concupiscent precision: "working, reading, correcting proofs, travelling, entertaining, receiving and writing letters, planning literary projects, worrying, doubting their powers, experiencing a delicious hypochondria." Hardwick was married to the poet Robert Lowell when she wrote those lines, and in her description of Victorian literary couples - "Before the bright fire at teatime, we can see these high-strung men and women clinging together, their inky fingers touching" - there seems to be a touch of admiring identification. I'm inclined to join in this celebration of Eliot and Lewes's life together, and to cherish their late love, because it was not until I was 35 that I met the man who became my husband. He is a writer too, and on those days when we are working in different corners of our house, or travelling together for research, or reading one another's work before another editor has seen it, I think I have an inkling of what Eliot and Lewes's life together must have been like. Lowell, in an unrhymed sonnet about Eliot, called her union with Lewes "Victorian England's one true marriage". It would be hard to find a happier model for a writers' marriage than theirs. Like Lewes, who had three sons from his marriage, whom Eliot helped to support, my husband was the father of three boys when I married him. Eliot is often thought of as being a childless writer; but she wasn't, not really, and any step-parent might recognise him or herself in the words Eliot wrote to a friend shortly before the three boys - who had been away at boarding school, in Switzerland - were to take up residence with her and Lewes in their London home. "I hope my heart will be large enough for all the love that is required of me," she admitted. Eliot's feelings towards the three Lewes boys were complex. Though she cherished the oldest boy, Charles, a great deal, she seems to have been less able to find quite enough love in her heart to enjoy having the younger two around for any length of time. As young men, both were dispatched to colonial adventures in Africa, and both met early deaths. When I read Middlemarch now, in the light of Eliot's experience as a stepmother - and in the light of my own - I am struck by the way it offers variations on the paths that a young man might take: there is Lydgate with his focused ambition, Ladislaw with his erratic, artistic dreams, and Fred, with his wishful expectation of good fortune. "People may really have in them some vocation which is not quite plain to themselves, may they not?" Dorothea asks at one point, when Casaubon has been describing his young cousin Ladislaw as a dilettante. "They may seem idle and weak because they are growing. We should be very patient with each other, I think." These are words any parent, not just a step-parent, would be wise to remember. In them, I hear Eliot's own, not always successful, efforts towards patience with the three young men who arrived in her life unexpectedly. And I recognise my own obligations to the three young men who came into my life, bringing with them a great deal of joy, and some degree of care, as all children do - as my son, their much younger brother, did, when he was born a year after my husband and I were married. Patience, patience. Middlemarch reminds me that I must grant all my children that, and much more. "Few women, I fear, have had such reason as I to think the long sad years of youth were worth living for the sake of middle age," Eliot wrote in her diary on the last day of 1857. She was 38, which is an age at which most of us are trying to fend off any admission that middle age is upon us. But in the mid-19th century a woman was thought matronly at the very least by the time she was in her early 30s, and Eliot had long ceased to think of herself as a young woman when she met George Henry Lewes. But growing older was not to be dreaded. "One has to spend so many years in learning how to be happy," she wrote to a friend when she was 24. Childhood, she wrote, is full of incomprehensible sorrows, even if it can seem glorious in retrospect. "All this, dear Sara, to prove that we are happier than when we were seven years old, and that we shall be happier when we are 40 than we are now, which I call a comfortable doctrine and one worth trying to believe." Eliot was happier at 40 than she had been at 25. She had experienced the joy of finding her creative voice, and the satisfaction of having her work well received: her first full-length novel, Adam Bede, which was published in the year she turned 40, was widely acclaimed and avidly read. She was happy in her personal life, and remained so. "In my private lot I am unspeakably happy, loving and beloved," she wrote in her diary at the end of 1870, when she was writing Middlemarch, almost 20 years after she and Lewes had met. Eliot and Lewes seem to have been one of those enviable pairs who appreciate each other more as they grow older together, for reasons she hinted at in an essay she wrote about Madame de Sable, the 17th-century salonniere, in the summer of 1854, when she and Lewes had first departed for Germany together. "It is undeniable, that unions formed in the maturity of thought and feeling, and grounded only on inherent fitness and mutual attraction, tended to bring women into more intelligent sympathy with men," she wrote. She makes late-arriving love sound irresistibly romantic - different from the agonies and ecstasies of young love, but no less appealing, and significantly more satisfying. I, too, find myself happier in my 40s than I was in my 20s, and rereading Middlemarch now helps me understand why. It is a book that is mostly about young people, and when one reads it as a young person it seems to be all about the preoccupations of youth - the romantic dramas and the personal ambitions. But it was a book written by a person well into middle age, and is infused with the wisdom that can only be accrued by the experience of heartbreak and failure. A compensation of getting older is an increasing ability to see the comedy of human relations, which can be obscured by the tempests of youthful emotion. Even stormy, passionate Will Ladislaw will become a more measured person as he grows older, one with a sense of humour about his own passions. Or so Eliot hints, in her description of him as a middle-aged man, looking back on his desperate non-courtship of Dorothea, explaining why he had not simply thrown himself at Dorothea's feet once Casaubon had died. "He used to say the horrible hue and surface of her crape dress was likely the sufficient controlling force," Eliot writes. In this account I hear an ironical note of self-retrospection, even amusement, as Ladislaw remembers the boundless emotions of first love. Virginia Woolf famously called Middlemarch "one of the few English novels written for grownup people" - a judgment so often recited that it is rarely examined. But what an interesting choice of phrase it is: "Grownup people" is what children call adults; it is not usually what we adults call ourselves. ("A merry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could top the wind with their voices; and the grownup people, too, were in good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days when the wind had fallen," Eliot writes in Adam Bede.) One thing that Woolf meant, I think, was to suggest that the novel does not depend on the tidy resolution that so many children's stories provide. The ending is happy for some characters and disappointing for others. And for this reader, at least, the conclusion of the novel has always been irresistibly melancholy. But in revisiting Middlemarch in middle age, the melancholy I experience in reading its final pages is augmented by a strange glimmer of hope, even optimism. I see in it now what I could not see as a young person: that wisdom is always being acquired, and is never fully accomplished; that love can arrive in unimagined ways, and may be found where we least expect it. "Every limit is a beginning as well as an ending," Eliot writes at the end of Middlemarch. Our own limited lives might also contain the possibility of renewal. Only a child believes a grownup has stopped growing. The Road to Middlemarch: My Life with George Eliot by Rebecca Mead is published this week by Granta, priced pounds 16.99. To order it for pounds 14.99 with free UK p&p call Guardian book service on 0330 333 6846 or go to guardianbookshop.co.uk. - Rebecca Mead Caption: Captions: From left: Patrick Malahide as Casaubon, Juliet Aubrey as Dorothea and Rufus Sewell as Ladislaw in the 1994 BBC adaptation; 'A novel without weaknesses, it renews itself for every generation'; Martin Amis; It is interesting that during her life Middlemarch wasn't George Eliot's greatest achievement. Daniel Deronda, which came after, was an enormous worldwide success, but it is very hard going and is hardly read at all now. Meanwhile, I don't think there is much argument about Middlemarch being the novel of the 19th century. I would say that it is the central English novel. It's a novel without weaknesses, except perhaps Will Ladislaw is a little too light and romantic - he's a bit underweight for a novel so ample and deep.; I first read it in my late teens and both my sons have read it recently. Neither read English at university and both thought it was amazing. So another proof of greatness is that it renews itself for every generation. I reread it in my 30s with completely undiminished admiration. Dorothea's sexuality is very interesting, as her marriage to Casaubon is clearly unconsummated. When she goes to the art gallery in Italy and someone asks her about it she says she finds the paintings frightening. It is clear that it is the sensuality of the paintings that alarms her - she is about to experience some fulfilment with Ladislaw. Eliot's book came at the time that writers were trying to suggest something about sexuality with a very limited vocabulary. In Hard Times, when Gradgrind is fixing up for Louisa to marry the middle-aged Mr Bounderby, she looks out at the industrial landscape - "see those chimneys father, at night fire comes out of them" - an attempt to imply the very obvious image of sexuality. Mr Gradgrind says he does not understand the relevance of the remark. So that is the Dickens way of implying sex. Eliot is, of course, much more subtle.; 'Now when I reread it I want to urge Dorothea to stay exactly as she is at the start'; Kathryn Hughes; When I first read Middlemarch as a teenager, I was consumed by what deconstructionist critics call "the marriage plot" and the rest of us call the love story. I identified with Dorothea, naturally, and cringed at the idea of having Casaubon's hands all over me. (I was not a sufficiently subtle reader to pick up the clues that Casaubon is impotent, so his hands didn't go anywhere at all.) Like many of Eliot's contemporary readers I longed for Dorothea to get together with Lydgate, whose ardour to do "good small work for Middlemarch, and great work for mankind" seemed the perfect match for her own intense if inchoate desire to make the world a better place. Still, if she couldn't have him, at least she had Ladislaw for her second and forever husband. Although underwritten as a character (he is nothing but a lovely shimmering empty space), the Byronic young man is definitely on the side of angels, too.; Now, in middle age, and still identifying with Dorothea, I find that I couldn't care less about the love stuff. What interests me is the money. Unusually for the heroine of a Victorian novel, Dorothea does not have the threat of governessing hanging over her. Her dead parents have left her a fortune and, again unusually, there don't seem to be any complicated conditions attached to her inheritance. She is free to do as she pleases.; Above all, Dorothea isn't obliged to marry anyone and, increasingly, I think she's mad to have done it not once but twice. Casaubon, of course, is conveniently lost to a coronary. And she certainly dodged a bullet with Lydgate: Eliot tells us at the end of the novel that he soon gives up his high ideals in order to become a society doctor. But the marriage Dorothea actually makes, to Ladislaw, now strikes me as risky, too. He'll rise into the cabinet but something - dodgy expenses, a flirty secretary - will bring him down.; These days when I reread the novel I want to urge Dorothea to stay exactly as she is at the start of the novel, a supremely lucky creature with the resources to do exactly as she pleases (in her case, designing model cottages). Once she attains the age of 21 she can move out of Tipton Grange and buy an equally lovely, but better run, estate of her own.; 'Eliot had such power, and she knew she had. And such courage'; AS Byatt; When I first read Middlemarch I loved it most of all for Lydgate - the idea that an intellectual passion could be as powerful as a sexual one. My favourite pages were - and in many ways still are - those in which he discovers his scientific vocation. And his tragedy is more terrible and more inexorable than anything that happens to Dorothea. My next discovery was the wonderful pattern of interlinked metaphors (the web, the makeup of the eye) that hold the novel together as tightly as a poem, while chance and surprise work in the plotting, despite Eliot wanting to observe "the gradual action of ordinary causes rather than exceptional". I taught Middlemarch to many students. Most were uneasy about the narrative voice - the "I think" and "We feel" that introduce many of her observations. Over the years I have come to be almost more excited by this voice - or rather, these voices - than by anything else. The "I" is the authorial voice and we have our relation, as readers, with that voice. The "We" is part of a wonderful ability to move us with generalisations.; "If we had a keen vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, it would be like hearing the grass grow and the squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that roar which lies on the other side of silence. As it is, the quickest of us walk about well wadded with stupidity."; I was lecturing recently in Chicago in a conference on Middlemarch and Henry James's The Golden Bowl and got excited by the fierce, sardonic, black humour of the "I", the commenting voice, which I missed, on earlier readings, out of too much reverence. She had such power, and she knew she had. And such courage.; 'Eliot seems not to invent her characters but to approach them'; John Mullan; I first read Middlemarch, with relish, in my early 20s. I particularly remember first encountering Dorothea on her honeymoon. We left her 100 pages earlier, setting off for Rome with her new husband, Mr Casaubon. Now Eliot takes us into her handsome boudoir. "I am sorry to add that she was sobbing bitterly." Why is she crying? Eliot does not quite know because Dorothea does not know herself. Disappointment is overwhelming her but she can hardly face up to this truth.; Eliot's treatment of her heroine's dawning recognition of her mistake epitomises the novel's psychological complexity. She is letting us see how her characters delude themselves. I think that this is why Middlemarch seemed the most thickly peopled novel I had ever known. It was not a matter of scale but of characterisation: Eliot seems not to invent her characters but to approach them, listen to their foolish ideas about themselves, and yet leave them with some aspect yet to be discovered.; This means that she is able to jolt our sympathies so brilliantly. We think we have learnt to see through the self-regarding Casaubon but then, far into the novel, Eliot shows us how the desiccated scholiast "had an intense consciousness within him". We scorn the pious superiority of the banker Bulstrode, but when his true hypocrisy is revealed he unexpectedly becomes a person to attract our sympathies.; Eliot's company is one of the great pleasures of Middlemarch. Often she is speaking, yet her narrative manner turns her wisdom into irony or ruefulness. Even when being sententious (which is certainly her temptation) she is wry. It is her genius to use fiction to question even her own intelligence and insight. Captions: From left: Patrick Malahide as [Edward Casaubon], Juliet Aubrey as [Dorothea Brooke] and Rufus Sewell as [Ladislaw] in the 1994 BBC adaptation; 'A novel without weaknesses, it renews itself for every generation'; Martin Amis; It is interesting that during her life Middlemarch wasn't [George Eliot]'s greatest achievement. Daniel Deronda, which came after, was an enormous worldwide success, but it is very hard going and is hardly read at all now. Meanwhile, I don't think there is much argument about Middlemarch being the novel of the 19th century. I would say that it is the central English novel. It's a novel without weaknesses, except perhaps Will Ladislaw is a little too light and romantic - he's a bit underweight for a novel so ample and deep.; I first read it in my late teens and both my sons have read it recently. Neither read English at university and both thought it was amazing. So another proof of greatness is that it renews itself for every generation. I reread it in my 30s with completely undiminished admiration. Dorothea's sexuality is very interesting, as her marriage to Casaubon is clearly unconsummated. When she goes to the art gallery in Italy and someone asks her about it she says she finds the paintings frightening. It is clear that it is the sensuality of the paintings that alarms her - she is about to experience some fulfilment with Ladislaw. Eliot's book came at the time that writers were trying to suggest something about sexuality with a very limited vocabulary. In Hard Times, when Gradgrind is fixing up for Louisa to marry the middle-aged Mr Bounderby, she looks out at the industrial landscape - "see those chimneys father, at night fire comes out of them" - an attempt to imply the very obvious image of sexuality. Mr Gradgrind says he does not understand the relevance of the remark. So that is the Dickens way of implying sex. Eliot is, of course, much more subtle.; 'Now when I reread it I want to urge Dorothea to stay exactly as she is at the start'; Kathryn Hughes; When I first read Middlemarch as a teenager, I was consumed by what deconstructionist critics call "the marriage plot" and the rest of us call the love story. I identified with Dorothea, naturally, and cringed at the idea of having Casaubon's hands all over me. (I was not a sufficiently subtle reader to pick up the clues that Casaubon is impotent, so his hands didn't go anywhere at all.) Like many of Eliot's contemporary readers I longed for Dorothea to get together with [Tertius Lydgate], whose ardour to do "good small work for Middlemarch, and great work for mankind" seemed the perfect match for her own intense if inchoate desire to make the world a better place. Still, if she couldn't have him, at least she had Ladislaw for her second and forever husband. Although underwritten as a character (he is nothing but a lovely shimmering empty space), the Byronic young man is definitely on the side of angels, too.; Now, in middle age, and still identifying with Dorothea, I find that I couldn't care less about the love stuff. What interests me is the money. Unusually for the heroine of a Victorian novel, Dorothea does not have the threat of governessing hanging over her. Her dead parents have left her a fortune and, again unusually, there don't seem to be any complicated conditions attached to her inheritance. She is free to do as she pleases.; Above all, Dorothea isn't obliged to marry anyone and, increasingly, I think she's mad to have done it not once but twice. Casaubon, of course, is conveniently lost to a coronary. And she certainly dodged a bullet with Lydgate: Eliot tells us at the end of the novel that he soon gives up his high ideals in order to become a society doctor. But the marriage Dorothea actually makes, to Ladislaw, now strikes me as risky, too. He'll rise into the cabinet but something - dodgy expenses, a flirty secretary - will bring him down.; These days when I reread the novel I want to urge Dorothea to stay exactly as she is at the start of the novel, a supremely lucky creature with the resources to do exactly as she pleases (in her case, designing model cottages). Once she attains the age of 21 she can move out of Tipton Grange and buy an equally lovely, but better run, estate of her own.; 'Eliot had such power, and she knew she had. And such courage'; AS Byatt; When I first read Middlemarch I loved it most of all for Lydgate - the idea that an intellectual passion could be as powerful as a sexual one. My favourite pages were - and in many ways still are - those in which he discovers his scientific vocation. And his tragedy is more terrible and more inexorable than anything that happens to Dorothea. - Rebecca Mead.
Choice Review
To one who has quickly read through Eliot's Middlemarch once, Hornback's commentary will give more extensive understanding of its meaning. He often argues for its relevance today, and ten chapters bear titles like "Feeling and Knowledge," and "Selfishness,"; the other three summarize background information. Although knowledgeable about the Victorian period (having, for example, written on Dickens in "Noah's Arkitecture": A Study of Dickens's Mythology, 1972, and edited Middlemarch, CH, Apr '78), Hornback says little about the underlying politics of the book (as discussed in, e.g., Daniel Cottom's Social Figures, CH, Jan '88); and indeed only one book published in the 1980s appears in his bibliography of Middlemarch criticism--Barbara Hardy's Particularities: Reading in George Eliot (CH, Jan '84)--Hornback disparages what he calls "plot," criticizing some parts of this novel for "plottiness" and claiming that "plot does not reveal character" (he sees little or no change in the characters). Sometimes, as in Chapter 11, his style becomes so mechanical one feels the material might better be presented in a chart. Hornback's approach to the novel strikes one as Victorian, and that certainly is not all bad. This book would be most appropriate for lower-division undergraduates and secondary-school students. K. A. Robb Bowling Green State University
Library Journal Review
Though not out of print, this popular title is being added to the venerable "Modern Library" line to coincide with a PBS Masterpiece Theatre miniseries. Along with the full text, this edition includes an introduction by A.S. Byatt. All that for $15 makes this a bargain. (c) Copyright 2010. Library Journals LLC, a wholly owned subsidiary of Media Source, Inc. No redistribution permitted.
Excerpts
Excerpts
From Lynn Sharon Schwartz's Introduction to Middlemarch Eliot is not one for indirection or delay, or for obscurity. If anything, she makes things uncomfortably lucid, like a too-bright light that permits no mitigating shadows. On the very first page, Dorothea is likened to Saint Theresa, whose "passionate, ideal nature demanded an epic life, . . . some illimitable satisfaction . . . which would reconcile self-despair with the rapturous consciousness of life beyond self"-an arresting comparison, which is immediately qualified. Many Theresas are born, Eliot says, and then doomed to "a life of mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual grandeur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity." Dorothea Brooke, luckily, does not suffer a lifetime of mistakes, but on the brink of adulthood- she's not quite twenty-she makes just one, and a terrible mistake it is. Against the urging of her uncle and guardian, the foolish and nonchalant Mr. Brooke, her shrewd younger sister Celia, and her would-be suitor, the unimaginative but decent Sir James Chettam, she marries the wrong man. Victorian novels often turn on choices in marriage, and here Middlemarch follows suit. Eliot hints that if Dorothea had had a mother to advise her, she might not have leaped so hastily into error. But as in so many novels of the time (a stunning example is George Meredith's The Egoist , which turns on a young woman's being coerced into a disastrous match), no such mother-figure exists. No doubt this is partly a practical choice: Any marriage plot would be stymied from the start if the heroine avoided her mistake. Besides, readers loved (and still do) watching young women in sexual and emotional peril. But more important, no serious role existed in fiction for sensible, mature women. Until fairly recently, interesting women characters were required to be young, on the threshold of their one momentous decision. Older women in positions of authority tend either to be superannuated or ridiculous and useless-witness Mrs. Bennet, mother of five marriageable daughters in Jane Austen's much earlier Pride and Prejudice . In any case, Middlemarch , unlike so many notable works of its period, does not end at the altar with the prospect of a settled, if unsatisfying, future; it begins with the marriage and traces the course of its agonies to the final death rattle. One could hardly imagine a worse choice for a young woman of brimming energy and "a certain spiritual grandeur." Edward Casaubon is devoid of grandeur of any kind. The chapter in which Dorothea meets him opens aptly with an epigraph from Don Quixote: The bemused knight sees a cavalier with a golden helmet approaching on a dapple-gray steed, while the down-to-earth Sancho Panza sees "a man on a gray ass . . . who carries something shiny on his head." A dry, pompous pedant engaged in a huge and hopeless research project on mythology, Casaubon is more than twice Dorothea's age and singularly unappealing, as Celia-playing Sancho Panza to Dorothea's Quixote-points out with sisterly bluntness: "Can't you hear how he scrapes his spoon? And he always blinks before he speaks." Right from the start, then, the situation offers one of those tortured yet delicious moments in fiction when the reader wants to pluck the heroine back from her impetuous rush to folly but at the same time can't wait to see the folly play itself out. However grotesque it appears, the choice is implicit in Dorothea's nature. In the first chapter, she shows a taste for righteous self-denial, a streak of ascetic Puritanism. When she and Celia divide up their late mother's jewelry, Dorothea tries to "justify her delight in the colors by merging them in her mystic religious joy." She loves riding horses but "felt that she enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous way, and always looked forward to renouncing it." Obviously she is avoiding the sensual, and by implication, the erotic; in that regard, her choice is uncannily protective. Marriage to Casaubon would certainly keep her safe from physical passion. Beyond that, Dorothea is awed by what she takes to be Casaubon's learning; assisting him in his research, she imagines, will be the ideal goal for her restless energies. She goes so far as to envision his estate, Lowick, as the testing ground for her schemes to improve the tenant farmers' living conditions. In a cunningly ironic moment, she is disappointed to discover Lowick in such good order that little remains to be done. Her reforming zeal is so abstract that she would enjoy finding the farmers ground down by miseries she might then alleviate. Dorothea's notions of married life are comically naive: She views it as an initiation into ideas. But from the first moment, Casaubon's gloomy house, full of "anterooms and winding passages," and Casaubon himself, with his pigeonhole mind, are more stifling than stimulating. Despite her mighty efforts to make allowances, despite her self-deceptions (Eliot's characters are masters of self-deception), in no time at all Dorothea is sunk in a "nightmare of a life in which every energy was arrested by dread." Her limited education abroad is as nothing compared to this schooling in reality. Casaubon is no less disillusioned. In a grimly humorous passage, Eliot outlines his motives for marrying-entirely willed, painfully rational-and his dismay at the outcome. He had "determined to abandon himself to the stream of feeling, and perhaps was surprised to find what an exceedingly shallow rill it was." If "the quality and breadth of our emotion" is of supreme value to Eliot, then the shallowness of Casaubon's feelings is her supreme censure. Still, it is a measure of her even-handed sympathies that Casaubon is not made wholly monstrous. However unattractive, he is human, and granted human complexity. In the remarkable chapter 29, Eliot reveals his rankling disappointments and self-doubts, his secret awareness of his own failure, with an acuteness that compels a grudging compassion. When his bitterness finally turns against Dorothea, its source is all too clear. Into this dour nightmare of a marriage steps Casaubon's maverick nephew Will Ladislaw, an unconventional outsider by birth as well as by inclination. Like Dorothea, Will is driven by feeling, not logic. "The bow of a violin drawn near him cleverly, would at one stroke change the aspect of the world for him, and his point of view shifted as easily as his mood." In such volatile natures-maybe even in all natures-ideas are rooted in temperament rather than reason, a notion more congenial to our postmodern sensibility than to a Victorian. Will's feelings do not arise from some vaguely religious morality, like Dorothea's, but from an equally vague aestheticized view of the world. He seems a harbinger of the Pre-Raphaelite brotherhood of Eliot's own era, those poets, painters and critics (Dante Gabriel Rossetti, John Millais, William Morris, and John Ruskin, among others) who indulged in a cult of beauty steeped in nostalgia for the preindustrial simplicities of the Middle Ages. Will and Dorothea meet, fittingly, in an art gallery in Rome. They show their true-and contrasting-colors in one of their first exchanges. Dorothea declares she believes in doing good. If that proves impossible, simply desiring what is good will succeed in "widening the skirts of light and making the struggle with darkness narrower." Will counters this sweet but hopelessly ingenuous outlook with his own philosophy: "To love what is good and beautiful when I see it. . . . But I am a rebel: I don't feel bound, as you do, to submit to what I don't like." Some readers, especially those who idealize Dorothea and overlook her naïveté, have found Will an inadequate match for her, a comedown from her high-minded dreams. On the contrary, the pairing perfectly suits Eliot's design. Dorothea is never meant to realize her fantasies of mystical transcendence, of transforming the world; detached as they are from anything practical, they may be impossible in any event. Virginia Woolf, in a 1925 essay in The Common Reader (see "For Further Reading"), illuminates the nature of such longings in Eliot's heroines: "The ancient consciousness of woman, charged with suffering and sensibility, overflowed and uttered a demand for something-they scarcely know what-for something that is perhaps incompatible with the facts of human existence. . . . Save for the supreme courage of their endeavour, the struggle ends, for her heroines, in tragedy, or in a compromise that is even more melancholy" (p. 241). Only in fantasy can Dorothea ever be a Saint Theresa. "The medium in which [her] ardent deeds took shape is for ever gone"-Eliot's sober acknowledgment, at the very end, of the unheroic tenor of the times. But besides the narrow opportunities at hand, the unfocused nature of Dorothea's ardor precludes any secular sainthood. Her fate, like most fates, is one of compromise, though not especially melancholy. Will isn't a bad bargain. Their passionate, wayward, ineffectual natures complement each other and perhaps grow more effectual in the bargain. Will's carelessness serves as a check to Dorothea's overblown (even self-aggrandizing) sense of responsibility. His lightness balances her gravity. His aestheticism makes him a more congenial partner than Casaubon's suffocating pedantry. In the end, theirs is a marriage of the moral and the aesthetic-unworldly, yes, but benign and enlivening, and definitely sustained by breadth of emotion. Excerpted from Middlemarch: A Study of Provincial Life by George Eliot All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
