Middlemarch

by

George Eliot

A book that was lauded (by Woolf) as the only British novel written for grownups. I dislike Woolf and I am not even sure why. There’s something off-putting in how her name, in combination with titles of some of her works, is perceived by me.

But I also disliked “George Eliot” without knowing exactly why. That was a long time ago, well before I knew it was a ‘she’ and not a ‘he’, and “George Eliot” was a pseudonym. Nevertheless, after I read somewhere that she was paid more than a majority of her contemporaries–themselves big names in the British literary scene–I decided to take the plunge and started with Middlemarch.

I know Eliot’s fans will probably think I am biad or not intelligent enough to get her, but I found the whole 1000-page travesty of art a sort of mish-mash of Eliot trying to mimic true artists who lived way before her.

When I say art, I mean the kind that edifies, mollifies, ameliorates, engages, impacts, elevates, and even entertains–and not the pseudo-version that shocks (if you have been to art exhibitions). Eliot’s art is shocking. She pretends to do all the above, but only ends up shocking and confusing.

It is a rant by an ugly girl who has sought solace in her intellect, but the intellectual capacity has been destroyed by lack of what Kant terms Good Will: that essential quality that makes intelligence useful or complete.

The rant attacks everything that has got on Eliot’s nerves, and she makes sure to mock a variety of archetypes, the clergy included. I agree that some of the people mocked deserve it, and there is an element of truth in the mockery; after all, the mocking has to be justified on real-world evidence.

But art becomes biased when the mockery is one-sided. This is officially the definition of propaganda, where only one side of events is presented. In “Deal Souls”, the greatest artist to hail from eastern Europe, Nikolai Gogol, sets a very high standard when he mocks officials, farmers, peasants, educators, mayors, police chiefs, women, men, travelers, hotels, artists, and so forth.

But at the same time, he also provides a counter-example of what things ought to be like. He shows good archetypes as well, and uses them to counter the negativity arised from the merciless mockery. In using this contrast, Gogol achieves artistic illumination, but also a moralistically complete picture–which is what art is actually for.

In Middlemarch, such a moralistically complete picture, such a balanced view is missing. Whoever has angered Eliot will be scorched, including the prettier women, who, in the archetype of Rosamond, are villified and attacked till the very end.

A lot more can be said about Middlemarch, but nothing positive. Still, the reason I kept on reading even when the writing was stifling and full of unrealistic ideas and incessant moping, an amateurish preoccupation with British politics (oh the irony!) and a third-class entertainment, I learned a great deal about human nature and abnormal psychology, though (my subject was Eliot herself).

Will I be reading another Eliot? Most probably not, unless I am in a scientific mood and want to psychoanalyze a mediocre writer by experimenting and observing her in “action”. No, on second thoughts, no. Life is too short for a 1000-page mediocre work whose main attraction is a biased mockery of certain social archetypes, interspersed with hints about how knowledgeable and great the author is!