I have always assumed the cover illustration reflects Maggie Verver lost in thought, losing her infantilism, to use Virginia Llewellyn Smith's term in her introduction to the text, an introduction written for the aficionado, not the novice. I am paused in James' opening, amid his worry about novel illustrations, no doubt a relevant concern to the replete literary mind at the dawn of the twentieth century.
I am very strenuous about my Henry James, despite the occasional laxity in application, and that strain may make the more applied scholars uncomfortable, because I want the revelation, "god fucking damn it to hell, !" and none is forth coming. I will confess that my first try at this nearly last completed work was almost incomprehensible. I was 23, foaming at the mouth for some of that zoological sociability, which, in Jamesian frills and lace, is always concealed. The reader can infer it, however, with as much irony or horror as he, or she, likes.
Richard Hathaway, here is one of his guidepost critiques, was one of my first Jamesian skirmishes in relation to interpreting The Golden Bowl, and my ferocity toward penetration in no way reflects any lack of respect for la bonne instructeur. The glass half full, half empty approach is what creates Jamesian fanatics in the first place. Dr. Hathaway supports his optimism by citing Adam's last words to his daughter about her "good things". My pessimism is due to Maggie's last perception of Amerigo's pride, "...strangely lighted his eyes that as for pity and dread of them she buried her own in his breast."
I think James, near the end of his life, has had enough of refined mannerisms, and implodes the end of the Victorian age with the only weapons he knew how to deploy. I hear the critiques ringing that I over simplify, but I have only just begun.
No comments:
Post a Comment