Take a photo of a barcode or cover
3.53 AVERAGE
3.53 AVERAGE
This wouldn't be my favorite radio drama, but it's still pretty good. 2-CD set.
A story of redemption in the midst of consequences of sin. Simple people who live simply in small towns, who suffer various wrongs, but who see God’s gracious hand in their rescue. The story starts out with very unsympathetic characters in meanness of spirit. But Providence intervenes and those same characters are imbued with a largeness of heart and soul which transforms them and the people around them. Masterfully written.
This starts out with hardship and injustice befalling the main character, but unlike Hardy's stories, Marner is not sucked into a whirlpool of doom. Quiet, but lots to think about- fate, the silence of God, greed, gratitude, and purpose.
I don't think I can add much to the body of commentary on George Eliot, but here are a few personal impressions.
I fell into this during an idle few minutes in the staff room, and was immediately taken in by the narrative voice.
The opening five or ten pages of this novel are stunning: The narrator starts well outside Silas Marner:
"In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses—and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak—there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The shepherd's dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?—and these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious burden."
The narration zooms in near on Silas himself (" such a linen-weaver, named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe"), hovers outside with nervous children, peeking in, frightened of the man inside. Finally, it enters the cottage and we meet the man himself, and delve into his heart and memory, and find out how dear he is.
The description of Silas' upbringing of Eppie reminded me rather of my own dad, who was very dear to me (but never in that daddy's-little-princess way, which people assume characterises close father-daughter relationships). Here is Silas, speaking about having found Eppie on his hearth:
"Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to the grave in my misery. The money was taken away from me in time; and you see it's been kept — kept till it was wanted for you. It's wonderful — our life is wonderful."
Finally, here's the narrator (and Eliot-via-narration) on the incomprehension brought on by 'plenteous ciumstances' and 'privileges':
"Nancy, used all her life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of 'respectability', could not enter into the pleasures which early nurture and habit connect with all the little aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor."
This was described in the afterward as a sort of blend of fairy tale and literary fiction: it has the literary fairy tale at its heart (moralizing is so post-2nd edition of Grimms'), but of course aims for realism in the presentation of all its characters and facts.
As with many novels from previous centuries, the scenes of 'local colour' dragged a bit for me. And sometimes the moralism of the story -- that right should come to right, that redemption and luck come to whosoever is open to it, and that penitence should be served -- didn't quite sit right, either. George Eliot has compassion for her characters, but it's tempered somewhat by her desire to punish them for their faults (so that they may be redeemed But these are small complaints, and mainly addressed to the mores of the time (some of Eliot's concerns are, by the nature of their circumstance, very Victorian).
Next stop: Middlemarch.
I fell into this during an idle few minutes in the staff room, and was immediately taken in by the narrative voice.
The opening five or ten pages of this novel are stunning: The narrator starts well outside Silas Marner:
"In the days when the spinning-wheels hummed busily in the farmhouses—and even great ladies, clothed in silk and thread-lace, had their toy spinning-wheels of polished oak—there might be seen in districts far away among the lanes, or deep in the bosom of the hills, certain pallid undersized men, who, by the side of the brawny country-folk, looked like the remnants of a disinherited race. The shepherd's dog barked fiercely when one of these alien-looking men appeared on the upland, dark against the early winter sunset; for what dog likes a figure bent under a heavy bag?—and these pale men rarely stirred abroad without that mysterious burden."
The narration zooms in near on Silas himself (" such a linen-weaver, named Silas Marner, worked at his vocation in a stone cottage that stood among the nutty hedgerows near the village of Raveloe"), hovers outside with nervous children, peeking in, frightened of the man inside. Finally, it enters the cottage and we meet the man himself, and delve into his heart and memory, and find out how dear he is.
The description of Silas' upbringing of Eppie reminded me rather of my own dad, who was very dear to me (but never in that daddy's-little-princess way, which people assume characterises close father-daughter relationships). Here is Silas, speaking about having found Eppie on his hearth:
"Eh, my precious child, the blessing was mine. If you hadn't been sent to save me, I should ha' gone to the grave in my misery. The money was taken away from me in time; and you see it's been kept — kept till it was wanted for you. It's wonderful — our life is wonderful."
Finally, here's the narrator (and Eliot-via-narration) on the incomprehension brought on by 'plenteous ciumstances' and 'privileges':
"Nancy, used all her life to plenteous circumstances and the privileges of 'respectability', could not enter into the pleasures which early nurture and habit connect with all the little aims and efforts of the poor who are born poor."
This was described in the afterward as a sort of blend of fairy tale and literary fiction: it has the literary fairy tale at its heart (moralizing is so post-2nd edition of Grimms'), but of course aims for realism in the presentation of all its characters and facts.
As with many novels from previous centuries, the scenes of 'local colour' dragged a bit for me. And sometimes the moralism of the story -- that right should come to right, that redemption and luck come to whosoever is open to it, and that penitence should be served -- didn't quite sit right, either. George Eliot has compassion for her characters, but it's tempered somewhat by her desire to punish them for their faults (so that they may be redeemed But these are small complaints, and mainly addressed to the mores of the time (some of Eliot's concerns are, by the nature of their circumstance, very Victorian).
Next stop: Middlemarch.
This book was probably the shortest book I've read in ages but it was very eloquent. the other book I've read by George Eliot - Middlemarch - was filled with some pretty forgettable side characters, a narrators voice that left little to interpretation because it was so didactic, and a length and verbiage that swayed between intense worldbuilding and just being too #$%&ing long. Silas Marner is, excepting the better parts, its complete opposite. I really enjoyed it, excepting the very very end
I was excited to read this book, as it came so highly recommended, but I was a little bit scared that it would be above my head, based on the person who recommended it. However, I really enjoyed this book from the start and loved all the characters. The general moral that I took from the story is that money can't buy happiness and to appreciate what you have and enjoy it to its fullest.
God, this one was so boring. Though it was definitely not badly written, I really failed to see the point of it, so it ended up leaving me cold.
Week 8 of the 2016 Reading Challenge: A Classic Book with Less Than 200 pages.
Robbins Library 2016 Reading Challenge: A Classic Book
I found this book was quite painful to read. I am just not a fan of classic literature. Although it's a good story and I would enjoy a contemporary version, this was just not enjoyable at all. Despite the fact that is is fairly short, I had a hard time getting through it.
Robbins Library 2016 Reading Challenge: A Classic Book
I found this book was quite painful to read. I am just not a fan of classic literature. Although it's a good story and I would enjoy a contemporary version, this was just not enjoyable at all. Despite the fact that is is fairly short, I had a hard time getting through it.
Another book I had to read for university, but unlike most of the others, I rather enjoyed this book.
It seems to have an unusual style for the period it was written in.
It was easy to read and had quite a few good ideas which could spark some interesting discussions (in class), however not the kind of book where I would say "I will DIE if I don't get to read this soon!".
But if you're interested in reading classics, this is one that won't bore you to death. It is what I would classify as "nice".
It seems to have an unusual style for the period it was written in.
It was easy to read and had quite a few good ideas which could spark some interesting discussions (in class), however not the kind of book where I would say "I will DIE if I don't get to read this soon!".
But if you're interested in reading classics, this is one that won't bore you to death. It is what I would classify as "nice".
Silas Marner is a weaver, who spent his youth in an isolated religious community. After a betrayal by a close friend shatters his faith in both God and man, Marner sets out and establishes a new life for himself in the small, far-off village of Raveloe, a place equally isolated from the world in its own way. Here he lives a life of seclusion, replacing human interaction with the monotonous hum of his spinning wheel and a growing love of money; he gets out his hoard of coins and looks lovingly on them each evening - their faces become his only friends, they will never wrong him. Marner “hated the thought of the past”, of his present life he found that “there was nothing that called out his love and fellowship toward the strangers he had come amongst” and, of the future, he anticipated a life that ”was all dark, for there was no Unseen Love that cared for him”.
The villagers, for their part, are more than happy to leave him to his solitude. Simple and indolent folk, they have a deep mistrust of strangers - in Raveloe ”superstition clung easily round every person” who was not from their village, for “how was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his father and mother?” - and this mistrust is exaggerated for any strangers who are skilled or clever in some way, the acquisition of any such talents seeming to be only possible by supernatural means.
And so life goes on for the fifteen years after Marner’s arrival in Raveloe, until two events occur which are to have a dramatic impact on Marner’s way of life. The first of which, the theft of his hoard of gold, leaves him bewildered and desolate, his soul “like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert”. But soon after this, the strange appearance in his cottage of a seemingly orphaned toddler - whose blonde curls the short-sighted Marner initially mistakes for his gold returned - gives him a chance learn to open himself to the outside world again, and to satisfy his soul with something warmer than gold.
There is a quiet realism to the novel, albeit one which is tinged with an almost fairy-tale or dreamlike quality at times. The novel is set sometime in the early nineteenth century, but there is a certain quaintness to the story, which, alongside the pervading belief in superstitions and the mystical among the villagers, makes its setting feel even earlier. Raveloe is an insular, prosperous place that stands immutable against the march of time.
Silas Marner is the first work of George Eliot’s that I have read. I found her writing style to be quiet formal, and some of her sentences can be somewhat long and convoluted, such as this one describing a party at the local nobleman’s house:
”It was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and the entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and patting his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table—a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober business hours, became intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before his adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, as if in a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy”.
However, despite not really gelling with Eliot’s writing style, I still found the novel overall to be reasonably enjoyable. It is a much slower and subtler novel than the more plot-driven, melodramatic Victorian novels that I tend to read to read and love, yet it still has a quiet charm that drew me into the story.
The villagers, for their part, are more than happy to leave him to his solitude. Simple and indolent folk, they have a deep mistrust of strangers - in Raveloe ”superstition clung easily round every person” who was not from their village, for “how was a man to be explained unless you at least knew somebody who knew his father and mother?” - and this mistrust is exaggerated for any strangers who are skilled or clever in some way, the acquisition of any such talents seeming to be only possible by supernatural means.
And so life goes on for the fifteen years after Marner’s arrival in Raveloe, until two events occur which are to have a dramatic impact on Marner’s way of life. The first of which, the theft of his hoard of gold, leaves him bewildered and desolate, his soul “like a forlorn traveller on an unknown desert”. But soon after this, the strange appearance in his cottage of a seemingly orphaned toddler - whose blonde curls the short-sighted Marner initially mistakes for his gold returned - gives him a chance learn to open himself to the outside world again, and to satisfy his soul with something warmer than gold.
There is a quiet realism to the novel, albeit one which is tinged with an almost fairy-tale or dreamlike quality at times. The novel is set sometime in the early nineteenth century, but there is a certain quaintness to the story, which, alongside the pervading belief in superstitions and the mystical among the villagers, makes its setting feel even earlier. Raveloe is an insular, prosperous place that stands immutable against the march of time.
Silas Marner is the first work of George Eliot’s that I have read. I found her writing style to be quiet formal, and some of her sentences can be somewhat long and convoluted, such as this one describing a party at the local nobleman’s house:
”It was after the early supper-time at the Red House, and the entertainment was in that stage when bashfulness itself had passed into easy jollity, when gentlemen, conscious of unusual accomplishments, could at length be prevailed on to dance a hornpipe, and when the Squire preferred talking loudly, scattering snuff, and patting his visitors' backs, to sitting longer at the whist-table—a choice exasperating to uncle Kimble, who, being always volatile in sober business hours, became intense and bitter over cards and brandy, shuffled before his adversary's deal with a glare of suspicion, and turned up a mean trump-card with an air of inexpressible disgust, as if in a world where such things could happen one might as well enter on a course of reckless profligacy”.
However, despite not really gelling with Eliot’s writing style, I still found the novel overall to be reasonably enjoyable. It is a much slower and subtler novel than the more plot-driven, melodramatic Victorian novels that I tend to read to read and love, yet it still has a quiet charm that drew me into the story.