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A review by lee_foust
The Golden Bowl by Henry James
5.0
Well, well, well, here I am at the very end of my project to read all of Henry James's novels in chronological order. I did skip The Other House as I don't have a copy and couldn't easily procure one at the time, but I also added a few shorter works not usually included among the New Yorker's novels but rather relegated to long-ish tales, even if they're mostly published under a single cover. In a way I'm kind glad that I still have one James novel to pick up and read ex nihilo at some point in the future.
Anywho, This novel, The Golden Bowl, is, as advertised, a worthy final entry in the steadily evolving oeuvre of the great man. While it's not my personal objective choice for James's greatest novel (which I would give to this one's immediate predecessor, The Ambassadors), there are a lot of what makes James a great novelist on display here: the mix of exposition and terrific scenes, fascinating characters, a lovely central image/symbol, the amazing dialogue representing how well these sophisticated society types of a century and a half or so ago talked endlessly around the topics too taboo to invoke, the very slow and maniacal presentation of people's feelings, words, and inner movements until you almost feel as if you've lived their lives along with them. It's all top notch and thus this is another of the very best of the nineteenth century novel (here just over the edge into the new century but still before the watershed event of WWI, which would produce a whole new kettle of modernist fish), when it shook off the broadness and sometimes frivolously silliness of the Dickensian and tried to treat seriously of adult topics.
My one criticism, despite it being pretty much inevitable given James's whole approach, is that the relatively simple so-called plot here (really more of a series of situations at best) is pretty slight to hang so many pages on. While it was important to get the side commentary of dear Mrs. Assingham, perhaps shortening a tad or omitting a couple of her long, long evening conversations with her husband might have been propitious. This is especially noticeable, I think, in James because of all he doesn't (and refuses) to say--no easy answers or authorial revelations. Several characters, including the reader, remain oblivious to one thing or another, as happens in life and I appreciate James's realistic way of presenting that, even if it is occasionally frustrating when we, as readers, want to know all.
I have on other occasions bemoaned the fact that the greatest flaw of the nineteenth century European novel (particularly of the English and American variety) is it's yearning to touch on adult subjects--code for love and marriage--but not being able even to acknowledge that human beings have genitalia, much less sexual desire or, God forbid, actual sexual intercourse, or that these dirty truths have any effect at all on courtship, marriage, and/or later married life. How much richer the literature could have been if we knew how bad Edgar Linton was in bed or how good--or perhaps frightening--Heathcliff was. At least James partly avoids our thinking about it as he leaves so many other elements shrouded in darkness or some character's impressions and opinions only.
In the end the flawed golden bowl of the title stands not only for marriage, for human imperfection, but for the novel itself: a beautiful object just short of perfect.
Anywho, This novel, The Golden Bowl, is, as advertised, a worthy final entry in the steadily evolving oeuvre of the great man. While it's not my personal objective choice for James's greatest novel (which I would give to this one's immediate predecessor, The Ambassadors), there are a lot of what makes James a great novelist on display here: the mix of exposition and terrific scenes, fascinating characters, a lovely central image/symbol, the amazing dialogue representing how well these sophisticated society types of a century and a half or so ago talked endlessly around the topics too taboo to invoke, the very slow and maniacal presentation of people's feelings, words, and inner movements until you almost feel as if you've lived their lives along with them. It's all top notch and thus this is another of the very best of the nineteenth century novel (here just over the edge into the new century but still before the watershed event of WWI, which would produce a whole new kettle of modernist fish), when it shook off the broadness and sometimes frivolously silliness of the Dickensian and tried to treat seriously of adult topics.
My one criticism, despite it being pretty much inevitable given James's whole approach, is that the relatively simple so-called plot here (really more of a series of situations at best) is pretty slight to hang so many pages on. While it was important to get the side commentary of dear Mrs. Assingham, perhaps shortening a tad or omitting a couple of her long, long evening conversations with her husband might have been propitious. This is especially noticeable, I think, in James because of all he doesn't (and refuses) to say--no easy answers or authorial revelations. Several characters, including the reader, remain oblivious to one thing or another, as happens in life and I appreciate James's realistic way of presenting that, even if it is occasionally frustrating when we, as readers, want to know all.
I have on other occasions bemoaned the fact that the greatest flaw of the nineteenth century European novel (particularly of the English and American variety) is it's yearning to touch on adult subjects--code for love and marriage--but not being able even to acknowledge that human beings have genitalia, much less sexual desire or, God forbid, actual sexual intercourse, or that these dirty truths have any effect at all on courtship, marriage, and/or later married life. How much richer the literature could have been if we knew how bad Edgar Linton was in bed or how good--or perhaps frightening--Heathcliff was. At least James partly avoids our thinking about it as he leaves so many other elements shrouded in darkness or some character's impressions and opinions only.
In the end the flawed golden bowl of the title stands not only for marriage, for human imperfection, but for the novel itself: a beautiful object just short of perfect.