I love an espistolary novel so when Teresa pointed out that Lady Susan is an epistolary novella, I moved it right to the top of my list. Often I am disappointed because the letters included in such works of fiction have way too much quoted speech or dialog in them. To the point where there is little credibility in the epistolary nature of the work. One day I would love to find a work of epistolary fiction that reads like the correspondence in 84, Charing Cross Road. If anyone knows of a such a work let me know.

Austen does much better with the form than most authors. It isn’t until about half way through that she starts to use much quoted conversation. Perhaps she got lazy. I don’t think she needed to invent conversation to keep the narrative moving along. I liked the fragmentary nature of the letters back and forth. This is one form where I think it is good if not everything is crystal clear. I might try my hand one day at an epistolary something. Although not being a talented fiction writer I am at a distinct disadvantage. Then again maybe I should just read volumes of letters for the effect I appreciate. In my libarary I have unread volumes of correspondence to and from Gustav Mahler, Virgil Thompson, Stephen Spender, Edith Sitwell, May Sarton, the Mitford Sisters, GB Shaw, and others. And I loved my undergraduate History paper which used much from the five volume set of the letters of Sir Edward Elgar.

But I digress. Lady Susan is a conniving bitch and unlike other reviewers I don’t think she is deserving of any sympathy. She is the definition of selfish and deserves whatever lumps come her way.

The Verdict: A total pleasure.

I think if you are going to be called Rudy, Rudyard is a much better name than Rudolph.

Sigh. What to say about this one? In this story of two British “ne’re-do-wells” who attempt to create their own kingdom in Afghanistan can be found fodder for those who find Kipling jingoistic as well as those who find him to be shining the light on the evils of imperialism. But in either case I just didn’t care. I was perpetually confused by the protagonists’ dialect and the smattering of non-English words. In the best of circumstances I don’t much like books written in dialect, and in this case it took a much too hale and hearty tale and made it far more annoying.

The Verdict: I can appreciate this for what it is, but I didn’t enjoy it for one moment. I don’t see much Kipling in my future unless it comes in cake form.

The first time I read Bartleby was in grad school. And do we ever appreciate anything properly when we are forced to read it? I worry that I can’t remember one word or feeling from the classroom discussion, but I think that says more about the quality of the discussion and less about my memory.

The second time I read it I think I was so looking for the magic key that would explain the story that I rushed through it.

This time I took it slow paying careful attention to everything. Because of this I enjoyed it.

For those who don’t know this famous story, Bartleby is a legal copyist for a Wall Street lawyer. There are many things Bartleby doesn’t want to do with his mantra being “I prefer not to”.

After looking around online (and at Frances’ review) and there are many different ways one can read this book. I even approached it with a queer perspective and really don’t put much stock in the homoerotic possibilities. The only thing that had any resonance with me is that Melville was suffering from clinical depression and fantasized about letting every obligation go bit by bit until he could finally turn his head toward the wall and die.

The Verdict: While I quite enjoyed reading Bartleby this time round, I am not sure I a m any wiser for the experience.

Is this novella the source of Flaubert’s parrot? Or is the parrot a leitmotif in Flaubert’s work?

This is a simple tale of Félicité who spends her whole life looking for love. The longterm housekeeper for Madame Aubin, Félicité’s opportunities for love are perhaps not as many as they might be for someone with a higher position in society. Over the years she pours herself into work and her love into her charges, her boss, her nephew, and ultimately her parrot.

The Verdict: I found Félicité’s simple heart and her simple life to be intensely moving and really enjoyed A Simple Heart.

In The Dead is a story that could have gone many different ways. Taking place at a party, the reader wonders with each interaction where the plot may be headed–especially given the title. Dubliners Gabriel Conroy and his wife Gretta attend the annual dance hosted by his spinster aunts around the time of Epiphany in early January. While there he mixes with his aunts and the varied guests and generally finds himself unsure of himself and feeling rather awkward. At the end of the evening he becomes emotionally and physically amorous towards his wife. But he finds her worlds away. When pressed, Gretta tells him about her profound loss over the death of a loved one when she was seventeen. For a few reasons the story effects Gabriel deeply and one senses that he might be on the edge of a personal epiphany.

He muses:

Better to pass boldy into that other world in the full glory of some passion, than fade and wither dismally with age.

The Verdict: Much to my surprise I really liked this novella. Up to this point I had sworn off James Joyce. I think The Dead has me reconsidering that.