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3.71 AVERAGE
3.71 AVERAGE
If Tom Tulliver has a million haters, then I am one of them. If Tom Tulliver has 10 haters, then I am one of them. If Tom Tulliver has only one hater, then that is me. If Tom Tulliver has no haters, then that means I am no longer alive. If the world loves Tom Tulliver, then I am against the world.
Very good - Austen fused with Dickens, artfully done, a fascinating window into the time.
I could not finish this book. Could have been timing, but it was very wordy and so very slow at the beginning I just couldn't keep going. Hopefully I will revisit again.
4.5/5However, whatever the anathema accredited to spoilers, it is a poor piece of work indeed which may be utterly ruined by the single turn of plot. As here we have the very opposite, (indeed, I would be amazed if Evans were even capable of turning out a poor piece of work), my quibble is a personal one, and should not affect your eagerness to read this in the slightest. And eager you should be; you'll never look at soap operas in fiction, or or romantic relations in real life, or women, or yourself, the same way again.
P.S. If ever you come across a copy of this book with every single 'George Eliot' crossed out and 'Marian Evans' written above where it counts: it was once mine.
But until every good man is brave, we must expect to find many good women timid, too timid even to believe in the correctness of their own best promptings when these would place them in a minority. And the men at St. Ogg’s were not all brave by any means; some of them were even fond of scandal, and to an extent that might have given their conversation an effeminate character if it had not been distinguished by masculine jokes and by an occasional shrug of the shoulders at the mutual hatred of women. It was a general feeling of the masculine mind at St. Ogg’s that women were not to be interfered with in their treatment of each other.Pay no heed to the stars. There's Marian (Mary Ann) Evans, and then there's everyone else. The only meaning that four-and-a-half signifies is that I do not feel this to be as masterful as [b:Middlemarch|19089|Middlemarch|George Eliot|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1386924110s/19089.jpg|1461747], an achievement few novels and even fewer established classics accomplish.
Childhood has no forebodings, but then, it is soothed by no memories of outlived sorrow.I have a sister, or rather I have a tie to this world that I will not break. If nothing else, I have her, and when I no longer have her, I do not know what I will do, but those are not thoughts that need be dwelt upon today. It is because of her that I have those "memories of outlived sorrow", and as such this portrayal of siblinghood that only Evans could create cut me to the quick. Not as deep as it could, however, for with my own kindred I share the solidarity of gender, a bond that eases the translation of one's pain from one to the other and back again. I might not be as forthright a feminist as I am today had I a brother in place of a sister.
You thank God for nothing but your own virtues; you think they are great enough to win you everything else. You have not even a vision of feelings by the side of which your shining virtues are mere darkness!You could call this a romance, a tragedy, a bildungsroman of highest order, but as with [b:Middlemarch|19089|Middlemarch|George Eliot|https://d.gr-assets.com/books/1386924110s/19089.jpg|1461747] Evans writes life in all its entanglements, every lazy dichotomy of good and evil skeined forth in veins that mix and match in that stringent mess humanity has made of life in an effort to live. It is a heartbeat that equates knowing with feeling and seeks to raise both to the utmost, a rare genius that does not excuse its oppression by way of its omniscience. Here is high society, here is high knowledge, here is the patriarchy laid bare with a keen and empathetic glance that transcribed in ink an effort to convey her insight to others, and if there are those who say 'twas a shame the author lived in the times she did, forbear. It's a shame that for all the respect accorded to her in the echelons of literature, for all the phenomenal works she composed in earnest, for all the readers she has inspired ever on, here and there and everywhere she is brought into existence through the letters of her pen name. Marian Evans is her name; you do her no respect by calling her otherwise.
Many things are difficult and dark to me, but I see one thing quite clearly: that I must not, cannot, seek my own happiness by sacrificing others.For all the gorgeous resonance this novel called forth, for all the strength and endurance of its anti-gaslighting measures that should be heralded in every tale of love involving a woman and/or others with less power in their inherent lot in life, I did not give it five stars because of the ending.
Spoiler
While the afterword rhapsodized on about tragedy and the Greeks and all that ancient jazz, I do not hold by a system of thought that proclaims the mental disturbance of a man a true tragedy and the death of a woman a mere accident. What I love most about Evans is her ability to make prominent and noteworthy the conflicts and resolutions of daily life, and while I respect her efforts to take a different path, it is not the one for me. When it comes down to it, making a meaningful conclusion with everyone alive is far more difficult than sacrificing a few to theme and pathos; I admire far more those writers who choose life over death.I am not resigned; I am not sure that life is long enough to learn that lesson.
P.S. If ever you come across a copy of this book with every single 'George Eliot' crossed out and 'Marian Evans' written above where it counts: it was once mine.
I have fonder memories of enjoying this book than my recent experience. I still keenly identify with Maggie's need for validation and love and acceptance. I enjoyed the childhood stories. I didn't so much enjoy what seemed like tangents involving the Aunts and Uncles.
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Character
Strong character development:
No
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
"We could never have loved the earth so well if we had had no childhood in it..."
the ending of this book is the literary equivalent of songs simply fading out mid-chorus rather than having an ending
the ending of this book is the literary equivalent of songs simply fading out mid-chorus rather than having an ending
funny
lighthearted
reflective
slow-paced
Plot or Character Driven:
Plot
Strong character development:
Yes
Loveable characters:
Yes
Diverse cast of characters:
No
Flaws of characters a main focus:
Yes
Read long ago, The Mill on the Floss is among the first books which introduced to a world that books of this magnitude portray. A lot to relate to the character of Maggie Tulliver... the places, the subdued sentiment of the nineteenth century character and a sensibility I could imagine as that of George Eliot's own, everything is still fresh... In the mind's eye doth cherish the mill and the floss.
I'm sure I'm doing George Eliot a huge injustice, but this was just boring and felt like it was written by a primary school kid? How utterly depressing story-wise as well. I know it's praised for its realism and the psychological insight into character but the book just annoyed me. I'm glad it was quite short. Sorry. :(