Reading Jane

Locked away for a period of a month recently I realized I wouldn’t be able to read in my normal manner – in which I can easily read a book a night. With my luggage space and weight limited I decided, therefore, to take with me a book I was given about 10 years ago but had been afforded no more than a quick glance in that time.

The Complete Novels of Jane Austen, as the title suggests, comprises (all) seven of Jane’s completed novels. Four of these (Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park and Emma) were published during her lifetime and two after her death (Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.). The seventh novel in the tome includes an early composition titled Lady Susan.

Dare I admit that this is the first time I have read Jane Austen? I have seen many of the books translated onto celluloid, both on the big and small screen. Like hordes of others, the BBC miniseries of Pride and Prejudice is a favourite of mine (and not just for the Colin Firth-coming-out-of-the-water-in-his-wet-shirt factor). Though Firth’s Mr Darcy is everything Mr Darcy should be. Handsome, but cold and brooding and Firth does it beautifully. I am unable to watch subsequent versions as I don’t think any other Mr Darcys could compare. Nor do I want them to.

But on paper, Austen’s writing is not what I imagined. She was surely a fan of the why-say-something-in-10 words-if-you-can-say-it-in-100 school of writing. Of course I realise that her turns of phrase must reflect the era in which she lived, where the conversations and commentaries were incredibly polite, and where passive voice was appreciated (unlike my computer’s grammar-checks!).

What I hadn’t imagined was that so much of her narrative would be buried in lengthy and meandering paragraphs. The challenge this provides me is of my own making and uncovers a terrible (terrible) habit. I skim-read. I commonly scan a page quickly until I find what I need, which I suspect is how I can read so quickly and prolifically. As someone who enjoys writing (note that I would not describe myself as a writer) I understand that this is an affront to writers and authors who painstakingly piece together words and lyrical prose to entertain readers. This unfortunate habit of mine, means that some authors, such as Tim Winton (whose inspired prose is, indeed, beautiful) are wasted on me. I wonder if this habit is because I am an auditory thinker. I hear words and storylines rather than visualize them. I similarly fast-forward DVDs and taped-TV for the same reason - just to get to the ‘action’. (Note here that I am not implying I am a fan of action-movies, as I am most certainly not. I mean the next phase of the plot.)

I am aware that Austen has been analysed and critiqued to death, so I am not intending to do so here. Merely just voicing my own thoughts as I find my interest piqued by her work. Nor am I going to dissect her characters, either for my own pleasure; or to get an idea of what Jane herself, a lifelong ‘spinster’ (like myself) was like.

Certainly she was able to write about love and romance, about loss and heartbreak. Many of her female characters were strong and independent women, her men seemingly either pleasant and outgoing or strong and silent. But she did not pull punches in developing some flighty, vacuous or socially and financially-ambitious characters – both male and female. Though I said I wouldn’t extrapolate to Austen’s own personality, I have to say it is clear that, as a woman and as a writer, she did not suffer fools gladly.

Though I know little (and haven’t done the research – for that was not the point of reading her work, or writing this blog) of her life, it seems that she based much of her writing on her own experiences and on those around her. She is reputed to have fallen in love once or twice. Firstly to Tom Lefroy – the more public of her dalliances, but her sister wrote of a subsequent relationship (when Jane was 30) where the man in question died suddenly. Apparently she later accepted a proposal from a wealthy landowner but rescinded her acceptance the next morning and was devastated by the whole episode.

Jane’s wit and sarcastic prose are evidence of her intelligent and observant life, but I wonder about her level of cynicism. It seems she would have been comfortable around men and gotten to know them well – with 7 brothers and male boarders at the family rectory. Indeed, as I described earlier she often pulled no punches when developing her male / female characters.

I found it mildly disturbing when she switched from third person to a first person narrative style. As an example, near the end of Mansfield Park, and the tale of Fanny Price, Austen writes, “My Fanny indeed at this very time, I have the satisfaction of knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything….” As if there has been a narrator present between the pages all along.

Similarly, once we past the crisis in the storyline, she wraps the novel up quickly – rather than allow us to bask in the ‘happily-ever-after’ ending. As if she became bored with the story – and Mr Darcy again asks Elizabeth to marry him, she says yes, blah blah and they live happily ever after. This style coupled with her occasional popping in as the narrator makes it seem as if she is relaying a true account and feels obliged to fit a lot of detail in the final pages to be true to the subject at hand.

Perhaps it is her lack of ‘happily-ever-after’ that caused her to gloss over that bit in her novels. Perhaps she just got bored with her characters. Who knows? What surprised me was what page-turners the novels were (with the exception of Lady Susan – written as a series of letters and when Jane was only 20yrs old - so I will forgive her that one).

The novels have reignited my interest in Jane and I have since re-watched some TV/movie adaptations of her work. Indeed, the tome will also become one of my many novels which I will read over and over again.

I suspect I thought of Jane Austen as some sort of Barbara Cartland of her era. Instead I am struck by how clever she was and how insightful her social commentary was given the role she was afforded in a society in which her name could not even appear on her published manuscripts.

Jane was 41 years old when she died in 1817. My age. And that makes me sad. For her and for me. Her life and potential snuffed out prematurely. And the question going begging…. what do I have to show for my 41 years?

Addiction

I am, as it happens, obsessive by nature. My addictions come and go and range from the unhealthy – champagne, red wine, caramel filling, chocolate, to the healthier – watching episode upon episode of my latest favourite TV show, or reading book after book.

There are some things of which I cannot get enough. For a while (on the healthy side of the scale) I read incessantly. I inhaled novel after novel. Some good, some not-so-good and some pretty crappy. (I do however have SOME standards, so there were a few returned to the library unread!)

The Twilight series I found bizarrely addictive; the simplistic style of writing inviting me in so I needed to know more. Needed to know what happened next. I also have a habit of reading and re-reading my ‘comfort’ novels and I use them in the same way I use ‘comfort’ movies or TV shows, or ‘comfort’ food.

So, for I while I was reading between 7 and 10 novels a week. And working fulltime. I ignored favourite TV shows, scorned movies and DVDs or outings in general. It was all about reading.

But more recently it has been TV that has taken my fancy. Or more specifically, TV on DVD. That way I don’t have to worry about pesky advertisements AND like all good addicts, instant gratification is mine as I don’t have to wait a week for the next installment.

I have been working through TV series on DVD for some time. Some out of boredom while others have become an addiction and I cannot get enough of them.

I have recently discovered Dexter; Mad Men; True Blood, Firefly; Dead Like Me; and Pushing Daisies this way.

Even more fulfilling to someone like me is when I discover something years after it actually commenced, which was the case when I stumbled across Buffy the Vampire Slayer in 2000. Five seasons into its filming. With (mostly) 22 episodes each season, I had hours of ready-made viewing at my beck and call and had to work out in advance how many hours I could possibly watch in a night; or over a weekend.

Of course this addiction – like so many others – does carry some risks. Too many episodes without a break and you find yourself in West Wing dreams. Or when you find yourself conversing in Buffy-speak (and people don’t know what you mean when you say you déjà-ed that vu!) you know that you have been ridiculously entrenched in the celluloid world of your own choosing.

My latest discovery is Entourage. Though I had heard of it and its success, I hadn’t been tempted until I stumbled across the pilot episode on SBS (TV in Australia) recently.

Though I actively pursued Dexter Season 3 and will watch Mad Men Season 2 when it returns to my video store, I cannot get enough of Entourage. Like Buffy or West Wing, I cannot wait for my next hit. I have watched three seasons of the show in one week. I would have watched more but some pesky customer has borrowed Season 4 and I am waitlisted.

I already know I have to buy it. And I am – despite all accounts – fussy about the TV series in which I invest, having only procured Buffy; Sex and the City; West Wing; and Firefly to date.
Some shows I love – Dexter and Mad Men – but I know I won’t watch them again. And again. Entourage I will. I already know this. Though the storyline interests me, knowing what is coming won’t prevent me from re-watching. Like Buffy and West Wing, it is the characters and the dialogue which draw me in and spit me back out. Sated but ready and willing to take more.

Meanwhile, as I wait for Season 4 of Entourage to find its way back to the video store, I realise I need to start pacing myself. Season 5 has only just been released and Season 6 is currently screening in the USA. Soon I am going to have to wait. Delay gratification. Or just find my next drug of choice…..

PDAs: How far is too far?

I have recently had cause to ponder the concept of PDAs. More specifically, my contemplation has focused on that point at which a PDA is no longer cute or nice, but is in fact cringe-worthy or distasteful; something that you need to draw your eyes from but can’t - akin to a train wreck.

I recall having conversations with friends about PDAs, or (as known by the less-erudite) public displays of affection, and we thought we may, in fact, have been jealous. At that time, my friends and I were all single and so wondered if our disdain of open displays was some sort of defense mechanism. Easier to scoff at, than admit that we wanted to be the ones smooching in public.

I must, however, admit to my own prejudice against PDAs. In fact, what I remember most about my first love (well, first boyfriend – as defined at 16 years of age!) was becoming aware of my antipathy to PDAs. The boy lived in a nearby town and we met through sport. He was very sweet and our relationship very innocent (I was a very naïve 16 yr old). While I was the one who pursued him relentlessly but once snagged, he was the one who wanted to put our relationship on display. Though a great deal of organisation went into our holiday and weekend meetings, I recall balking at his eagerness to walk around my hometown holding hands. Needless to say, after succumbing to my wiles, his public enthusiasm for me meant that he didn’t last long (much to my later regret!).

My neuroses aside, I must admit that PDAs can sometimes be quite charming. An elderly couple wandering along the beach holding hands; a peck on the cheek from one partner to another as they separate at a busy street corner in the city. All very sweet.

So then I wonder, at what point exactly does a cute PDA become something that causes one to shudder distastefully?

We have all seen them. From my own very extensive research (aka everyday life), they usually seem to involve either: a) teenagers; or b) very drunk people in a pub at the end of the night. Though both can make me gag, I find I can usually forgive these transgressors.

But it is those others that make me cringe – and judge. I have been stuck on a bus with them. Behind them. Near them. Constant kissing; with lots of noise. While some allowances can be made for the smitten few in a new relationship, there must be a limit to what the rest of us should be subjected to.

The PDA issues has been on my mind because once a week I catch a late bus into work and more often than not there is a young woman also waiting at the bus stop. She is usually there with her partner / boyfriend / male-friend of some sort. He doesn’t actually catch the bus himself. It appears as if he merely walks the 20 metres there with her and then returns home after we have left.

They stand or sit tightly wrapped around each other. There is much smooching. Much cuddling. Much adoration. They straddle each other on the bus shelter seat, or entwine their legs. It is impossible to join them on the seat at the bus shelter without feeling like some sort of voyeur. I find myself scowling as I try to look anywhere-but-at-them; and in true me-fashion, I analyse these feelings of scorn. Assessing if I am jealous that I don’t have someone coming to wave me off to work for the day, or even wistful at the idea that someone could care enough about my comings or goings. But, no. Condescension wins out. Sweet, I wonder? No weird, I decide!

If she was going off to war it would be one thing; if the journey into the city was perilous rather than bloody long and tedious, that would be another thing.

So, given the unlikelihood of either of these scenarios I wonder then, why this guy feels compelled to accompany his partner the short distance to the bus stop and make out with her in front of an unsuspecting public, before releasing her for the day. And why does she feel the need to cling to this guy before stepping onto the bus.

The suspicious and cynical side of me wonders if he is in fact emotionally and physically controlling and the farewell is his way of marking his territory, akin to a dog peeing around his neighbourhood. If so, it is kinda wasted cos neither myself nor Joanie (the 65yr old tea lady who also catches that bus) weren’t really looking to make a move on his honey…though perhaps I shouldn’t speak for Joanie?!

Or maybe they are so madly in love they cannot bear to be apart one more moment than necessary. (Pause here for obligatory dry-retching!) Whatever the reason, there is surely no justification for the extent of the farewell. I cannot help but think it is immature and extremely inconsiderate to those around who find anything more than a quick peck and cuddle to be over the top. And I think there are many who do. Surely one of the things about an intimate relationship is just that. Intimacy. You share it with each other. Not everyone else!