I find Virginia Woolf to be remarkably clear-headed. Her A Room of One’s Own is one of the few pieces of purely feminist (or purely political, for that matter) writing that I’ve ever read which feels that it was written by someone who was intelligent and thoughtful first and foremost, as opposed to someone defined by their agenda. It is not only readable, but actually brilliant.
Unfortunately, when it comes to George Eliot‘s Middlemarch, I find myself disagreeing with Woolf violently–which is bad because I’m pretty sure most people will come down on Woolf’s side in any argument, and also because she has been dead for ages, and I can’t actually discuss it with her.
Woolf, as some of you might know, probably gave the most famous review of Middlemarch when she expressed the opinion that it was “one of the few English novels written for grown-up people.” Writing from the vantage point of 1902, that is very dismissive of everyone from Austen to Thackarey (and let’s not forget the Bell brothers).
Such a ringing endorsement made Middlemarch a must-read. So read it I did. And it fell reasonably flat (which is what all the other critics were saying, but I went and believed Woolf!).
Yes, it is for grown-ups. Of that, there is little doubt. But it is not for every grown-up. It is for those men and women whom earlier generations referred to as “Serious-minded”, which seems to mean earnest people obsessed with important issues and for whom smiling was something of a lost art. Humor, of course, is for children and the unwashed masses.
In that light, Middlemarch works very well. It plods along logically and earnestly, eventually becoming a character study of many of the types of people you would have found in the English countryside in the late 19th century. It’s not bad, but one can’t help feel that it would have benefited from having Jane Austen edit it. Better still, Thackeray whose character studies as much more biting. No, wait… Best of all would have been Oscar Wilde.
What I’m trying to say here is that the book is too lineal and earnest for its own good. Real grown-ups, no matter what Virginia Woolf said, are people who appreciate humor as well as obligation, people who understand that a good life life contains levity as well as grey porridge.
Perhaps the lucid Woolf of A Room of One’s Own wasn’t the real one. Perhaps she really was as humorless and agenda driven as so many others before and after her have been when they dedicated their lives to a particular cause.
But I choose to believe not.
So the only thing left to do is to read To The Lighthouse, I guess. That should settle the matter pretty definitively, and show once again how little provocation is required for me to pick up a random classic book.