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mariamag001's review against another edition
emotional
relaxing
medium-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? No
- Diverse cast of characters? Yes
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.0
stonecoldjaneausten's review against another edition
emotional
reflective
sad
tense
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? Character
- Strong character development? Yes
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? It's complicated
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.25
nick_jenkins's review
5.0
Galsworthy's reputation as a writer today is blanketed by the success of the television adaptations of the Saga, such that I think many people drastically underrate him. He is often one of the Nobel Prize winners on whom we look back with disbelief, although to be fair it seems that he was a compromise choice by the Swedish Academy. Be that as it may, he was undeniably one of the most prominent and widely admired novelists of his time, and enormously influential on a wide spectrum of young writers in many nations over the first third or so of the twentieth century, and not merely because they wished to copy his success.
Galsworthy is one of a true lost generation of novelists who are veiled from us by the bulk of modernism, along with Arnold Bennett (whom I'll be reading soon), H. G. Wells's non-SF work, W. Somerset Maugham, Romain Rolland, Lion Feuchtwanger, a host of Scandinavians, Sinclair Lewis, Ellen Glasgow, Margaret Ayer Barnes, Louis Bromfield, Booth Tarkington, and, to some extent, Thornton Wilder. They have yet to be 'recovered' as "middlebrow" writers like, say, Edna Ferber or Dorothy Canfield Fisher, yet are also clearly not "naturalists" of the Zola/Norris/Dreiser vein, far less self-conscious (or, rather, less intentionally crude) in their technique. Falling somewhere between these three categories, they are seldom taught or written about by scholars.
That seems to me increasingly strange as a matter of literary history For one thing, writers like Conrad, Rebecca West, Edith Wharton, and Ford Madox Ford and even Henry James are now read almost solely in the context of modernism, which is not at all how they were read in the Teens and Twenties. The elevation of these writers to modernists or proto-modernists is a retrospective one, and obscures numerous crucial connections and contexts. For another thing, our whole history of the middlebrow--especially on the American side--seems to come almost out of nowhere, as if it was an untapped market niche on which clever operators suddenly pounced.
But even apart from literary history, I think Galsworthy's worth reading: the best comparison I can make is to Jean Renoir's film La Regle de jeu (with its wonderful line "Le plus terrible dans ce monde c'est que chacun à ses raisons"), but it is perhaps impossible not to think also of Brideshead Revisited (which again directs us to the fantastic success of television adaptations), although I like Galsworthy and detest Brideshead. The difference is that, at least in this novel, Galsworthy is not trying to win our approval for his characters and so is not bent and distorted into portraying things nobly which he cannot possibly feel are really noble. He can unfurl his wit without questioning its cost against his characters, less concerned that we forgive than that we understand. That is, I think, Renoir's spirit, and Sinclair Lewis's spirit, too, actually, and Thomas Mann, for that matter.
It is compelling reading especially today, I think, when so many of our problematic characters (particularly on television--the "difficult" men and women of HBO, Showtime, and AMC) are really begging us for our forgiveness, trying to convince us of the reality of their suffering. They require a genuine emotional investment, malgré nous, one might say, and Galsworthy and Lewis give us space to withhold that without consequence: take or leave our characters, you know they exist and will go on existing. That, I think, is rather powerful, both as a reading experience and as a social statement.
Galsworthy is one of a true lost generation of novelists who are veiled from us by the bulk of modernism, along with Arnold Bennett (whom I'll be reading soon), H. G. Wells's non-SF work, W. Somerset Maugham, Romain Rolland, Lion Feuchtwanger, a host of Scandinavians, Sinclair Lewis, Ellen Glasgow, Margaret Ayer Barnes, Louis Bromfield, Booth Tarkington, and, to some extent, Thornton Wilder. They have yet to be 'recovered' as "middlebrow" writers like, say, Edna Ferber or Dorothy Canfield Fisher, yet are also clearly not "naturalists" of the Zola/Norris/Dreiser vein, far less self-conscious (or, rather, less intentionally crude) in their technique. Falling somewhere between these three categories, they are seldom taught or written about by scholars.
That seems to me increasingly strange as a matter of literary history For one thing, writers like Conrad, Rebecca West, Edith Wharton, and Ford Madox Ford and even Henry James are now read almost solely in the context of modernism, which is not at all how they were read in the Teens and Twenties. The elevation of these writers to modernists or proto-modernists is a retrospective one, and obscures numerous crucial connections and contexts. For another thing, our whole history of the middlebrow--especially on the American side--seems to come almost out of nowhere, as if it was an untapped market niche on which clever operators suddenly pounced.
But even apart from literary history, I think Galsworthy's worth reading: the best comparison I can make is to Jean Renoir's film La Regle de jeu (with its wonderful line "Le plus terrible dans ce monde c'est que chacun à ses raisons"), but it is perhaps impossible not to think also of Brideshead Revisited (which again directs us to the fantastic success of television adaptations), although I like Galsworthy and detest Brideshead. The difference is that, at least in this novel, Galsworthy is not trying to win our approval for his characters and so is not bent and distorted into portraying things nobly which he cannot possibly feel are really noble. He can unfurl his wit without questioning its cost against his characters, less concerned that we forgive than that we understand. That is, I think, Renoir's spirit, and Sinclair Lewis's spirit, too, actually, and Thomas Mann, for that matter.
It is compelling reading especially today, I think, when so many of our problematic characters (particularly on television--the "difficult" men and women of HBO, Showtime, and AMC) are really begging us for our forgiveness, trying to convince us of the reality of their suffering. They require a genuine emotional investment, malgré nous, one might say, and Galsworthy and Lewis give us space to withhold that without consequence: take or leave our characters, you know they exist and will go on existing. That, I think, is rather powerful, both as a reading experience and as a social statement.
saralynnburnett's review
3.0
I don't know why, maybe I wasn't in the right mood, but I didn't enjoy this as much as I should have. Great story, dramatic family... but I just couldn't dig my teeth into the way I usually do. I will probably give the next in the series a chance... in a while. Or I may just watch the BBC version.
michaelacabus's review
5.0
"Justice, there is no justice for men, for they are forever in the dark"
In some novels, the author's admiration for their creations is obvious; in varying degrees, a novelist will let you in on who is their favorite, sometimes annoyingly so (as much as I liked the Harry Potter books, the refrain of "Harry, Ron and Hermonie" that constantly began chapters became, dare I say, tiresome).
Here the reader doesn't get the sense that Galsworthy really admires any of his subjects, expect perhaps for Old Jolyon and Young Jolyon. It was at times reminiscent of Trollope's The way we live now; like that wonderful novel, it constructed a story that questioned ideas of principle at the basis of the upper class. Here, Galsworthy equates it all with property; indeed, a redemptive moment in the novel, when a character comes to a realization about his behavior and and a scope broader than himself, it is couched as behavior that it unpractical (and, hence, in the Forsyte parlance, useless).
Here we see the notion of property as principle taken to its extreme, and it is disquieting. For all the television shows on now that rely on some shock, and persistent violence, it is the quiet novels that come to a fore that, in my mind, are the most awakening and powerful. J.M. Coetze's novel Disgrace does the same, in almost the same manner: ideas of property and possession that seem sound but taken to their extreme are seen as the source of so much grief. We have that here, and its hard to see the character in the same way, hard to forgive him, even if he has that unpractical redemptive realization.
Must we always live forever in the dark, thus having any true sense of justice allude us? This seems to be the question of the novel and it hinges on our susceptibility to rigid ways of living, to purely self-interested pursuit.
I'd intended to read the others in this series, with books 2 and 3 ready for me in audio book during my commute. The Forsyte's, so far, though, have proved to be like a side of your family (or in-laws) you are eager to hear about and perhaps gossip about, and visit briefly, but also feel a bit relieved when you board the airplane to go home. "The more I see of people", young Jolyon quips, "the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad – merely comic, or pathetic." Dickens believed in the good souls as lights of the world, in the midsts of the comic, or pathetic; and as much as I may agree with Young Jolyon's sentiments, if pressed for an absolute answer, I feel better under the illusion that the world is a bit more Dickensian, sometimes against all evidence to the contrary.
A+
In some novels, the author's admiration for their creations is obvious; in varying degrees, a novelist will let you in on who is their favorite, sometimes annoyingly so (as much as I liked the Harry Potter books, the refrain of "Harry, Ron and Hermonie" that constantly began chapters became, dare I say, tiresome).
Here the reader doesn't get the sense that Galsworthy really admires any of his subjects, expect perhaps for Old Jolyon and Young Jolyon. It was at times reminiscent of Trollope's The way we live now; like that wonderful novel, it constructed a story that questioned ideas of principle at the basis of the upper class. Here, Galsworthy equates it all with property; indeed, a redemptive moment in the novel, when a character comes to a realization about his behavior and and a scope broader than himself, it is couched as behavior that it unpractical (and, hence, in the Forsyte parlance, useless).
Here we see the notion of property as principle taken to its extreme, and it is disquieting. For all the television shows on now that rely on some shock, and persistent violence, it is the quiet novels that come to a fore that, in my mind, are the most awakening and powerful. J.M. Coetze's novel Disgrace does the same, in almost the same manner: ideas of property and possession that seem sound but taken to their extreme are seen as the source of so much grief. We have that here, and its hard to see the character in the same way, hard to forgive him, even if he has that unpractical redemptive realization.
Must we always live forever in the dark, thus having any true sense of justice allude us? This seems to be the question of the novel and it hinges on our susceptibility to rigid ways of living, to purely self-interested pursuit.
I'd intended to read the others in this series, with books 2 and 3 ready for me in audio book during my commute. The Forsyte's, so far, though, have proved to be like a side of your family (or in-laws) you are eager to hear about and perhaps gossip about, and visit briefly, but also feel a bit relieved when you board the airplane to go home. "The more I see of people", young Jolyon quips, "the more I am convinced that they are never good or bad – merely comic, or pathetic." Dickens believed in the good souls as lights of the world, in the midsts of the comic, or pathetic; and as much as I may agree with Young Jolyon's sentiments, if pressed for an absolute answer, I feel better under the illusion that the world is a bit more Dickensian, sometimes against all evidence to the contrary.
A+
indianajane's review against another edition
4.0
It took me a while to get into this book. A family tree or car of characters would have been very helpful, especially at the beginning
elenajohansen's review against another edition
challenging
reflective
sad
slow-paced
- Plot- or character-driven? A mix
- Strong character development? No
- Loveable characters? It's complicated
- Diverse cast of characters? No
- Flaws of characters a main focus? Yes
4.25
I had never heard of this book before getting the sixth book in the series as part of a gift-subscription box for vintage paperbacks. I bring this up to explain why I would read it at all when it's so far out of my comfort zone, and in some ways so far in to my anti-comfort zones: classics by stuffy old white men about stuffy old white men problems, stories about rich people bemoaning their petty lives, tales of infidelity. I'm on record throughout many book reviews over the course of many years as hating many examples of each of those types of stories.
And yet here, I found myself enjoying this. I can't even say "in spite" of what the book is about, and on the surface, it is the opening of a sprawling rich-family saga, it is about propriety and society and infidelity, and it is definitely about petty people and their petty problems.
Somehow it is also a poignant examination of beauty, a reflective piece about old age and family legacy, and (for its time) a surprisingly sensitive take on that old rich-people chestnut, the loveless marriage.
It really helped, from my modern perspective, that the narrative was about upper-middle-class Brits of the early 20th century, but also had a bit of a cheeky disdain for them and their ways, even if they were the focus of the story. I'm an American who has read plenty of British literature but has not come across this gently ironic tone before, which made it more palatable to read a story I probably would have otherwise passed by, if it had been too serious about itself.
It also helped that the language, at times, was beautiful; even if I was listening to an edition of the audiobook whose narrator had such an impossibly posh accent that whenever he did a character voice it sounded bizarrely unreal. (Again, I'm American, but this isn't me casting aspersions at the library of British accents in general. My accent is a pretty bland Midwestern, which is sort of considered "standard," but I'm aware some of our regional accents are just as bizarre to any ear not used to hearing them.)
I can't point to any one amazing thing about this novel that would make it easy to recommend, or even anything to more solidly explain why I enjoyed it. But I did, much to my own surprise. I'll keep reading the series and hope it doesn't fall off a cliff before I get to that sixth book sitting on my shelf.
And yet here, I found myself enjoying this. I can't even say "in spite" of what the book is about, and on the surface, it is the opening of a sprawling rich-family saga, it is about propriety and society and infidelity, and it is definitely about petty people and their petty problems.
Somehow it is also a poignant examination of beauty, a reflective piece about old age and family legacy, and (for its time) a surprisingly sensitive take on that old rich-people chestnut, the loveless marriage.
It really helped, from my modern perspective, that the narrative was about upper-middle-class Brits of the early 20th century, but also had a bit of a cheeky disdain for them and their ways, even if they were the focus of the story. I'm an American who has read plenty of British literature but has not come across this gently ironic tone before, which made it more palatable to read a story I probably would have otherwise passed by, if it had been too serious about itself.
It also helped that the language, at times, was beautiful; even if I was listening to an edition of the audiobook whose narrator had such an impossibly posh accent that whenever he did a character voice it sounded bizarrely unreal. (Again, I'm American, but this isn't me casting aspersions at the library of British accents in general. My accent is a pretty bland Midwestern, which is sort of considered "standard," but I'm aware some of our regional accents are just as bizarre to any ear not used to hearing them.)
I can't point to any one amazing thing about this novel that would make it easy to recommend, or even anything to more solidly explain why I enjoyed it. But I did, much to my own surprise. I'll keep reading the series and hope it doesn't fall off a cliff before I get to that sixth book sitting on my shelf.