Details and photographs will follow.

Austen logically opens Catherine with a description of her heroine’s history and unfortunate circumstances.  Almost immediately, however, the subjects of sentences become difficult to follow in a cascade of pronouns.  We know Catherine is an orphan, and that she goes to live with her aunt.  We are told that “she tenderly loved her,” but it is not particularly clear whether Austen is telling us that Catherine loves her aunt but is not convinced that this aunt loves her, or that this aunt loves Catherine but has not convinced Catherine of that fact.  The multiple potential antecedents of “she” and “her” leave some doubt.

Austen attempts to minimize the ambiguity further along in the paragraph by setting her pronouns in context.  Thus, when the narrator tells us that “Kitty had heard twice from her friend since her marriage, but her letters were always unsatisfactory, and though she did not openly avow her feelings, every line proved her to be unhappy,” we recognize through context that it cannot be Catherine who is married and unhappy.  Still, within one clause the word “her” refers to both Catherine and Catherine’s friend.  Likewise, the same holds true for “she” (and “her” and “herself”) in reference to Catherine and her aunt in this astonishing sentence:

Her aunt was most excessively fond of her, and miserable if she saw her for a moment out of spirits; Yet she lived in such constant apprehension of her marrying imprudently if she were allowed the opportunity of choosing, and was so dissatisfied with her behavior when she saw her with Young Men, for it was, from her natural disposition remarkably open and unreserved, that though she wished for her Niece’s sake, that the Neighborhood were larger, and that She had used herself to mix more with it , yet the recollection of there being young Men [sic] in almost every Family in it, always conquered the Wish.

In Catherine, we must scour preceding lines to identify the subjects and objects of pronouns with multiple potential antecedents.  “They” and “them” confuse as easily as “she” and “her.”    One potential solution to this problem would be to replace some pronouns with characters’ proper names.

Lamentably, though Austen introduces a great many characters, she initially leaves some nameless.  Of the fourteen figures introduced within the first paragraph of Catherine, three are not given proper names at all, but remain “husband,” “daughter,” or “son.”  Those left unidentified may be incidental figures at this early stage in the novel, but some important characters’ identities are treated haphazardly.  Catherine’s only friends are first described simply as “two amiable Girls” before being labeled the “Miss Wynnes.”  Curiously, they are called by surname before their father, who, though introduced earlier, is still known only as “the Clergyman of the Parish.”  After more than a full page the Miss Wynnes are referenced again, this time as “Sisters,” then, finally, as Mary and Cecilia.  Austen might have tidied the first paragraph of Catherine considerably, and eliminated some ambiguity, by referring to the Wynne daughters straightaway by first name.

Shockingly, Austen treats the identities of the most important figures in the first paragraph of Catherine in similar fashion.  Many readers will recognize Kitty as a nickname for Catherine, and, therefore, be spared confusion when the narrator begins using both names interchangeably.  But Catherine’s aunt is left nameless until two and a half pages into the story, when, inexplicably, the narrator tells us that “the living at Chetwynde was now in the possession of a Mr. Dudley, whose family unlike the Wynnes were productive only of vexation and trouble to Mrs. Percival and her Niece.”  Thus, it appears to be in passing that we learn our heroine’s name is Catherine Percival, and her guardian attains an identity besides “aunt.”  Six other characters have been referenced by proper name before Mrs. Percival.  Austen’s neglect on this count seems almost careless.

Perhaps most striking of all the idiosyncrasies in the first paragraph of Catherine is the seemingly meandering nature of the text.  Syntactically, the sentences appear to proceed without direction, drifting from subject to subject:

They were the daughters of the Clergyman of the Parish with whose family, while it had continued there, her Aunt had been on the most intimate terms, and the little Girls tho’ separated for the greatest part of the Year by the different Modes of their Education, were constantly together during the holidays of the Miss Wynnes.

In those fifty-seven words, the subject of the action changes four times, from the daughters, to the family, to the Aunt, then back to the daughters.  Absent periodic or parallel structure, no author could hope to hold together such long sentences (one quoted above exceeds a hundred words).  Given the affinity the young Jane Austen was known to have for Samuel Johnson—an acknowledged master of complex sentence structure—it is surprising that her syntax in Catherine could be so awkward.

All successful authors of fiction improve their craft and hone their skills through practice.   Mature works will, in general, display a certain polish that early pieces lack, even if, in many instances, young authors write with more energy and enthusiasm.  Through experience, all great artists find their own voices and adopt means of expression that suit them and, if they are lucky, satisfy legions of readers.  Jane Austen undoubtedly achieved both mastery of her craft and considerable success during her career.  An odd paradox for Austen—and many other creative artists besides—is that the same talent and skill she employed in her mature masterpieces has caused a spotlight to be cast upon on her less finely wrought creations, and exposed to scrutiny much of what she never intended for public consumption.  Some readers have approached these youthful pieces from the perspective of the mere fan.  But students of literature, in particular, find it useful to examine Austen’s juvenilia for insights into her creative process, and mine her early works for evidence of the great author that first emerged publicly in 1811 with Sense and Sensibility.

Had Austen, once established, wished to resurrect Catherine for publication, she would have no doubt begun her revisions by breaking apart the novel’s first paragraph.  Thirty-six long sentences are too many to hold together in the absence of a coherent narrative, and few authors could hope to lay out a cohesive plot in the short space of an opening paragraph, even one that extends beyond four pages.  In an unforgettable way, however, Jane Austen would prove that the converse holds true; that by reducing the opening paragraph to the barest essentials, she could convey the most meaning in the fewest words:  “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.”

So begins James Boswell’s Life of Johnson, perhaps the most significant biography written in English.  Its significance is generally thought to arise from Boswell’s skills as a writer, his attention to detail, and his honest portrayal of a man with whom he was an intimate acquaintance.  Boswell is justly credited on all those counts.  But it doesn’t hurt that James Boswell’s closest friend–and the subject of his great biography–was Samuel Johnson, the most brilliant and interesting man to ever write in our language.

Samuel Johnson was a large, awkward man.  His face and body were scarred, and he suffered frequent tics and convulsions.  He was awful to look upon, but everyone wanted to be in his company.  In her diary, Frances Burney wrote about a dinner party she attended on “the most consequential day” of her life – when she was introduced to Johnson:

Soon after we were seated, this great man entered.  I have so true a veneration for him, that the very sight of him inspires me with delight and reverence, notwithstanding the cruel infirmities to which he is subject; for he has almost perpetual convulsive movements, either of his hands, lips, feet, or knees, and sometimes all together.

Samuel Johnson wasn’t guaranteed success by right of birth.  His family wasn’t rich or titled.  His father was a downwardly-mobile bookseller.  Had Michael Johnson been a cobbler or a wheelwright, things might have turned out very differently.  But Samuel Johnson had access to books, and that made all the difference.  He attended college for a while, but when his family could no longer afford it, he withdrew without receiving his degree.  He suffered bouts of illness in the years that followed, and several of his friends and loved ones died.  He found no profitable employment.  Then, in his late twenties, he moved to London, which in those days was the center of the world.  Johnson made it on the street there as a writer, selling whatever he could.  He made connections, published some poetry, composed a play, and wrote regularly for The Gentleman’s Magazine, where his work drew notice.  Then he wrote a dictionary.

Today, it is hard for us to imagine a world without a dictionary.  In Johnson’s day there were several books of words vaguely resembling dictionaries, but they were laughably inadequate, seldom provided definitions, and often included only a small number of entries.  There was a real and obvious need for a true dictionary that would attempt to describe the English language as it was actually used.  Johnson took up the task of making one, claiming he could do it in three years.  It took him three times that, but in 1755, his Dictionary of the English Language was published.  It is an amazing thing to behold, and an astonishing achievement for one man.  The book cost more to print than Johnson was paid to write it.

In the years to come Johnson would write a series of periodical essays called The Rambler, then The Adventurer, then The Idler.  In these essays, Johnson discusses almost every topic imaginable, in language that is brilliant and touching.  Consider The Rambler, No. 47, in which he distinguishes between “passions of the mind” like fear, desire, or ambition–which he claims have their own cures–and sorrow, for which

there is no remedy provided by nature; it is often occasioned by accidents irreparable, and dwells upon objects that have lost or changed their existence; it requires what it cannot hope, that the laws of the universe should be repealed; that the dead should return, or the past should be recalled. [...]

Sorrow is properly that state of the mind in which our desires are fixed upon the past, without looking forward to the future, an incessant wish that something were otherwise than it has been, a tormenting and harassing want of some enjoyment or possession which we have lost, which no endeavours can possibly regain.

“Sorrow”, writes Johnson, “is a kind of rust of the soul”.

Johnson wrote during a period in which new forms of literature were coming into prominence, when the number of literate people was growing exponentially, and when the meaning of literacy itself was changing.  No longer would a knowledge of the classics–of Homer and Virgil–be required, nor would an understanding of Greek and Latin.  Johnson knew all the classical writers, and he understood their languages.  But, as we see from his praise of Burney’s Evelina, he knew that the audience was changing.  His Dictionary, his Lives of the Poets, his Rasselas, his Rambler, are all works for a new age.

Samuel Johnson was born three hundred years ago today.  Making his acquaintance changed my life.

What was immediately clear in the interview is how extraordinary Lieutenant Campbell is.  Not many people would leave Princeton to join the Marines.  Modest and amazingly articulate, he recounted the challenges he and his men faced, and, through the interview, it became quite evident that intelligence, sound judgment and a strong moral compass abound in this man.  On top of that, of course, is tremendous courage.

Knowing that men like Donovan Campbell exist–and have positions of responsibility–is reassuring.

Here’s how it worked.  We got five different excerpts taken from the five novels we’ve read since spring break.  We were to identify and contextualize the excerpts (easy enough), then explain how they related to or differed from at least two other novels we’ve read since spring break.  We had to respond to two prompts, meaning that we would need to address each novel we read at least once.  This format requires a tremendous amount of planning, since you must first pick the two prompts you wish to address, then decide to which of the other novels you wish to compare or contrast them.  I sat thinking about it for a half hour before writing a word.  The five novels or novellas we read since spring break were Ormond, or The Secret Witness by Charles Brockden Brown; The Asylum by Isaac Mitchell; The Secret History and Laura by Leonora Sansay; and The Champions of Freedom by Samuel Woodworth.  I chose a passage from The Secret History and compared it to Champions of Freedom and Laura; and another passage from The Asylum and compared it to Laura and Ormond.  It was incredibly difficult, and I was one of the last two people to finish.  I felt the need to apologize to my teacher when I gave it to him.  I wasn’t the only one, though: I heard several other students tell him how hard it was, and how they were mentally exhausted this last day of finals.  I’m just going to cross my fingers and hope everything works out.

Tomorrow I’ll write about my three other finals.

Last Sunday night, Masterpiece began broadcasting Oliver Twist, and it is, I am sad to say, awful.  Scenes important in the book are excised, others not in the book are invented, as is much dialog.  The characters do not seem at all like what I pictured from reading the novel.  Worst of all is the ridiculously anachronistic soundtrack.  There are screaming electric guitars.  I suppose you could point out that almost every movie set before the eighteenth century has a soundtrack that is not, shall we say, historically informed.  But Oliver Twist is set smack in the middle of the Romantic era, and it would have been so much less distracting to use acurate music.

So, I am a bit worried for what the rest of this season has in store.  Meanwhile, note to self:  if you ever become penniless, chose to live in the charming Devonshire countryside instead of putrid London.

As I have written repeatedly, I think Samuel Johnson is the smartest man who ever lived.  He rose from modest beginnings to become the most esteemed man in England.  Boswell’s great Biography has a wonderful anecdote about Johnson’s encounter with George III.  The king asked to be informed when Johnson was in the library, and introduced himself to Johnson there.  He asked if Johnson was writing anything new, to which Johnson “answered, he was not, for he had pretty well told the world what he knew, and must now read to acquire more knowledge”, and that he thought he had “done his part as a writer”.  “I’d have thought so, too…if you had not written so well”, was the King’s reply.  Johnson considered it such a high compliment that he could make no reply.  “When the king had said it, it was to be so. It was not for me to bandy civilities with my Soverign”.

I consider my summer in Professor McCrea’s Age of Johnson course a life changing experience.  If I could recommend any writing to anybody, I’d say that everyone should read the great Rambler essays.

Huzzah, Johnson.

I was thrilled, then, to see that the new year brought with it new adaptations of nineteenth century British novels, beginning with Hardy’s Tess of the d’Urbervilles.  It was fantastic.  The acting, sets, costumes and cinematography were all splendid.  It was truly affecting.  I had high hopes for Wuthering Heights, but alas, it was terrible.  Aside from the odd aspects of the filmmaking itself, the story was twisted and modified in really pointless ways.  It’s not hard to see why a filmmaker might choose to eliminate the dual narrator technique Bronte adopts.  What works in a book doesn’t always translate well to the screen.  So, Nelly Dean was just a minor character in this production, and Mr. Lockwood didn’t appear at all.  Much of the plot was compressed, and some of my favorite scenes from the book were jettisoned.  Most of Healthcliff’s evil machinations from the book were glossed over, and others not in the book were invented.  The conclusion was not right at all.

I’m crossing my fingers for Sense and Sensibility next week, and four Dickens adaptations.