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chiaroscuro 's review for:
Vanity Fair
by William Makepeace Thackeray
On top of my normal reading, every month, for the foreseeable future, I will be tackling a truly mammoth book. I am more stubborn than I am cowardly, and so whilst I have mostly shied away from 700+ page books in the past, broadcasting my new project to the internet is a surefire way for me to read the damned things. March 2019's pick is William Makepeace Thackeray's [b: Vanity Fair|5797|Vanity Fair|William Makepeace Thackeray|https://images.gr-assets.com/books/1344386439s/5797.jpg|1057468], because I felt guilty calling myself a fan of the Victorians without having read this bastion of the era.
Spoilers freely mentioned ahead, so don't say I didn't warn you.
This book is utterly devoid of warmth, hope, goodness, flourishing love — and please don't call what Amelia feels for George or what Dobbin feels for Amelia love, because that kind of puppy-dog devotion isn't healthy for anyone. Obviously that's the book's strength; Thackeray shows only the worst side of everyone, and still the whole cast is believable. A book full of awful people who don't suffer their deserved punishments sounds bleak, but this isn't: there's too much frivolity and humour for that. It does leave a funny taste in the mouth though, because I think there's lots unresolved — at least in my head.
The hope is that by the end of this review I'll have sorted through my feelings and reached a not unintelligent analysis. At present I can't decide if Thackeray's a moralist or not, and in particular I can't decide what I'm meant to feel for Amelia. I know the real star of this is Becky, whom I sort of adore. And I think Thackeray's a damned coward for packing her descent into murder into a few paragraphs at the close of the novel. This is a Victorian novel, and he's refusing to show a character's thought processes. Why? Well, maybe because it doesn't make sense. Murder, especially the slow, barefaced sort, isn't amoral, but immoral, and Becky's very clearly presented as an amoral woman. It seems a betrayal of the cleverness Thackeray spends the whole book showing that Becky eventually gives up on all her schemes and settles for straight up insurance money murder. Alternatively that could be the point: having learnt that skirting the line between morality and immorality doesn't work, since it led to being poor and living in a sad boarding house, Becky decides she might as well turn evil. But I like her so I won't believe that of her, the more fool me.
To put my muddle simply, what is the point of this book? It's certainly not simple moralising: the narrator does not sit on a lofty perch. And yet, when one is presented with such awful people, what else is there to do? But this book won't even let you judge people in peace. After launching attacks on his characters, Thackeray's narrator favourite thing to do is to launch attacks on his reader. When Amelia does something particularly exasperating, the overwhelming temptation is to roll your eyes, but Thackeray intercedes with something like:
There are a good few shocking moments in this, and I enjoyed imagining the drawing room in which one of the ladies read this story to the rest of the company, and the frozen teacups and shocked gasps when Sir Pitt proposed to Becky, or when Major Dobbin finally had enough of Amelia's dilly-dallying and made the most worthy speech of his life. Sadly I read the whole thing on my Kindle over the course of a few weeks, not even attempting to recreate the way in which this was first consumed.
Two weeks ago I was telling my fellow receptionist I was reading this, and he said that he'd read it twice and loved it both times. I literally cannot fathom how anyone would love this book, which seems to spoil any love surrounding it in a ten mile radius. Of course that's not to say that this isn't a clever and brilliant work of a great writer. But I don't really believe people are like this, and I don't really find them entertaining. Maybe in a few years I'll think differently — after all, at present I wouldn't have even graduated from Miss Pinkerton's.
Spoilers freely mentioned ahead, so don't say I didn't warn you.
This book is utterly devoid of warmth, hope, goodness, flourishing love — and please don't call what Amelia feels for George or what Dobbin feels for Amelia love, because that kind of puppy-dog devotion isn't healthy for anyone. Obviously that's the book's strength; Thackeray shows only the worst side of everyone, and still the whole cast is believable. A book full of awful people who don't suffer their deserved punishments sounds bleak, but this isn't: there's too much frivolity and humour for that. It does leave a funny taste in the mouth though, because I think there's lots unresolved — at least in my head.
The hope is that by the end of this review I'll have sorted through my feelings and reached a not unintelligent analysis. At present I can't decide if Thackeray's a moralist or not, and in particular I can't decide what I'm meant to feel for Amelia. I know the real star of this is Becky, whom I sort of adore. And I think Thackeray's a damned coward for packing her descent into murder into a few paragraphs at the close of the novel. This is a Victorian novel, and he's refusing to show a character's thought processes. Why? Well, maybe because it doesn't make sense. Murder, especially the slow, barefaced sort, isn't amoral, but immoral, and Becky's very clearly presented as an amoral woman. It seems a betrayal of the cleverness Thackeray spends the whole book showing that Becky eventually gives up on all her schemes and settles for straight up insurance money murder. Alternatively that could be the point: having learnt that skirting the line between morality and immorality doesn't work, since it led to being poor and living in a sad boarding house, Becky decides she might as well turn evil. But I like her so I won't believe that of her, the more fool me.
To put my muddle simply, what is the point of this book? It's certainly not simple moralising: the narrator does not sit on a lofty perch. And yet, when one is presented with such awful people, what else is there to do? But this book won't even let you judge people in peace. After launching attacks on his characters, Thackeray's narrator favourite thing to do is to launch attacks on his reader. When Amelia does something particularly exasperating, the overwhelming temptation is to roll your eyes, but Thackeray intercedes with something like:
I know Miss Smith has a mean opinion of her. But how many, my dear madam, are endowed with your prodigious strength of mind?And thus I am temporarily chastised, and sink back down on the sofa.
There are a good few shocking moments in this, and I enjoyed imagining the drawing room in which one of the ladies read this story to the rest of the company, and the frozen teacups and shocked gasps when Sir Pitt proposed to Becky, or when Major Dobbin finally had enough of Amelia's dilly-dallying and made the most worthy speech of his life. Sadly I read the whole thing on my Kindle over the course of a few weeks, not even attempting to recreate the way in which this was first consumed.
Two weeks ago I was telling my fellow receptionist I was reading this, and he said that he'd read it twice and loved it both times. I literally cannot fathom how anyone would love this book, which seems to spoil any love surrounding it in a ten mile radius. Of course that's not to say that this isn't a clever and brilliant work of a great writer. But I don't really believe people are like this, and I don't really find them entertaining. Maybe in a few years I'll think differently — after all, at present I wouldn't have even graduated from Miss Pinkerton's.