The Posthumous Memoirs of Brás Cubas (1881)

This low-key charming and very odd novel by the Brazilian writer Machado de Assis came to my attention, perhaps appropriately enough, via circuitous and random circumstances, i.e., booktube. It is confounding in many little ways—labeled archly as a memoir, it is a novel. Published in 1881, it is strikingly modern. As a “memoir” (better use the scare quotes) it is further archly written from beyond the grave (a phrase everyone uses in regard to it and I’m not about to do any differently). Emphasizing the point, it is dedicated “To the Worm Who Gnawed the Cold Flesh of My Corpse”—meaning, as someone more astute than me mentioned somewhere, no one mattered very much to him in his life. It is about 240 pages long, with 160 chapters. I like this kind of approach as much as the next guy—hello, Moby-Dick, hello, Cat’s Cradle, hello, As I Lay Dying—but I must say they can be a little exhausting, with all the stopping and going, and I never seemed to settle in for long reading sessions with this. It took me a week when it should have taken two or three days max. Still, I enjoyed it and think I might like to try it again. John Barth and Donald Barthelme claim it as an influence, along with a host of Latin American writers. In 2011 fucking Woody Allen claimed it as one of his five favorite books. This many-chaptered tale starts with the death of Brás Cubas, lightly hitting the surreal tone that is maintained throughout. There is a 16th-century historical figure with that name, who is also a Brazilian colonialist, but the novel appears to be set in the 18th century if not the 19th. Perhaps he's a kind of wastrel descendant. Certainly he is privileged and his family is wealthy. From the death we take “the greatest leap in this story” to his birth and childhood. There is nothing remarkable in his life and Cubas never really distinguishes himself either. It is mostly concerned with his comically inept romantic life. He falls in love with a prostitute when he is a teen, which results in being sent abroad by his family for an education. His father intends him to marry a woman named Virgilia. They’re not much into each other and she marries another. Later they meet again and fall in love and carry on an affair for years. Brás Cubas is a bit of a wastrel, as I say, but he is charming and a pleasure to read and in all ways this is just a fun one—as novel, as memoir, and as landmark of Latin American literature.

In case the library is closed due to pandemic, which is over.

The Prince and the Pauper (1881)

Wikipedia has this short Mark Twain novel down as both "children's literature" and "realistic fiction." Well, first, it has some elements of social realism but it is absolutely not realistic. It uses a plot line Twain would go to again and again, ostensibly by way of mocking romantic literature. The basic version is that a low-born person and high-born person exchange positions. It's more typical in these stories that the switch takes place at birth (not least because it's more believable), but Twain's amazingly preposterous premise in this one has the boys meet when they are 14-ish. They meet by happenstance, note they are remarkably identical in appearance, and decide to give the ruse a go. It works! (yeah, right) It does have some of the self-conscious simplicity of a fairy tale, which of course requires accepting the premise as is, which somehow remains a tall order. I guess it's a little like granting superpowers of superheroes. So, right, children's literature. After that comes the social realism, as the King of England (no less) sees for himself what life is like for commoners. Once again Twain seems to implicitly accept the idea that the best of the high-born are the best of us all, while not ruling out some of them are rats and also there are good people among the low-born too. The Prince and the Pauper seemed predictable and even tiresome to me, with lots of unlikely and virtually meaningless action as Twain moves pieces about the board. The story is trying to please many and all, with cheers for the aristocracy and cheers for democracy too. If the high-born can have low characters they are rarely as low as the lowest of the low-born, which I think is sort of the giveaway with Twain. He seems to buy the existing European class structure to a certain extent. So it goes, as one of his inheritors would put it later. But I note that The Prince and the Pauper has been and remains fairly popular, with plays, movies, and TV productions coming along at a regular clip for better than a century. You can't knock that?

In case the library is closed due to pandemic. (Library of America)

The Portrait of a Lady (1881)

This fat thing may be the best known work by Henry James—I think only The Turn of the Screw or Washington Square may compete, and they are both much shorter. Though Portrait is the usual business for James of various collisions between New World and Old World, it also stands out for other reasons. One that's often mentioned is explicitly making a woman the hero and central character—the American Isabel Archer. The Scarlet Letter may be another example, but they are relatively rare before the 20th century, certainly in novels written by men. Even more interesting, to me, is that all of the principals are American, though it is set in Europe and there are many European supporting characters. There is thus less about the confrontation between the two worlds and more about its effects. Many of the American characters, including Miss Archer, are brash, defiant, outspoken, and rather thick—thick-headed and thick-skinned both. But she undergoes a change when she encounters two Americans well adapted to scheming and manipulating within the European setting, and the tragedy (if that's what it is) begins. Portrait presents itself as a standard novel of manners, as first one and then another and another unlikely marriage prospect appears and the action is largely focused on who she will choose. Isabel Archer is a strange and unexpected character—mysterious, really, in her motives, which I never quite understand and halfway think James did not either. Daisy Miller may be a useful comparison; Angela Vivian, from Confidence, another. Portrait works very well as a novel of manners providing cover for a drama of cruelty. The developments are rarely less than believable and every time I have been through it I find myself baffled and absorbed by the strange predicaments all over again—baffled, but intrigued to know what happens next, because perhaps there is a seed of explanation. It's really kind of a page-turner that way, and leaves a lot to chew over, including pondering the person at the center of it all. In many ways, all the questions are posed and answered in the title, with its odd use of the definite and indefinite articles.

"interlocutor" count = 8/560 pages

In case it's not at the library.

Washington Square (1881)

Washington Square is a great example of Henry James's prodigious storytelling talent. It's in the vein of a comedy of manners and indeed is often funny, mostly by dint of the ninny Aunt Penniman. It's a tragedy as well, or at least contains unpleasant characters who do not necessarily receive their just desserts, which I suppose is not the same thing. It's arguable that the father, Dr. Austin Sloper, is possessed of a fatal flaw that dooms him, but for the most part he is serenely unaware of it, which is hardly satisfying. The story of love lost and found is irresistible for me—it often put me in mind of Jane Austen the way it plays out—and Catherine Sloper, the main character and our heroine, comes with layers of fascinating complexity, a James specialty. I've seen a Hollywood version of this with Olivia de Havilland and Montgomery Clift (called The Heiress) and it comes with a big wallop of an ending. The movie, which I saw first, is so generally faithful that I wondered as I was reading how James would handle such drama but I needn't have worried. The rebuke of Catherine by her father (and the lessons each takes from it), and then the resolution with her lover, were not nearly so highly contrasted by James, the better decision I think if one is comparing them. The satisfactions of the movie's broad gestures are replaced by a rueful complexity that is more ambiguous and open to conjecture as it stays in one's head and turns itself about. I tend to come down on the side of Catherine Sloper as a strong and self-possessed person who has come to know herself, and to appreciate herself and her lot for what they are. I have no doubt it's not difficult to make another case, closer to her father's view, that she is sad and pathetic, a lost soul. But no one can deny she is a great character of literature. I also really liked the early/mid-19th-century New York setting. Nice to see Europe mostly out of the picture for once with James, though of course the cultural relations between Europe and America remain one of the primary calling cards. But as James was born and mostly raised a New Yorker he brings a good deal of convincing sense of place here that feels more intimate than his European settings. Some of them are a little studied, occasionally even smacking of a guidebook. This is definitely one of my favorites by James.

"interlocutor" count = 2/157 pages

In case it's not at the library. (Library of America)