Forging an Art

Seven years ago, Book magazine (which I am unable to locate now – no idea when it was discontinued) published a “100 Best Characters in Fiction Since 1900″ list (April 2002).  I discovered it in my file cabinet while cleaning earlier this summer.  It is thought provoking – of course – as well as annoying and frustrating.  Obviously, the creation of such a list is quite an undertaking, and as the article indicates, provokes a great deal of argument.  Some of those included, as well as some not included, call for attention. 

#1 – Jay Gatsby, from Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby.  I can’t argue with this one, except to say ‘uneasy lies the head . . .’ because there are a few others on the list that run a close second, if not a tie for first.  Gatsby is a heartbreaker, and more importantly, a real person.  That is not to say that Fitzgerald necessarily based him on a real person – although this was a habit – but rather that James Gatz is as real as my hands typing at the keyboard right now.  I know him; you know him; we all know him.  Sometimes I know him too well, as I recognize myself and others in him.  Fitzgerald was a wizard in the characterization department; Gatsby is one of the many products of his magic.
#2 – Salinger’s Holden Caulfied.  Well, Holden has his time and place, and we’ve all been there and done that.  We all pass through the same developmental stages; how we manage them, and what circumstances surround our experience make us who we are, and Holden is there to hold a torch for those of us who fear that we aren’t “normal” or “right.” 
#3 – Nabokov’s Humbert Humbert.  It’s all about the empathy here, and Nabokov knew the language well enough to create droves of it for this genuinely disturbed character.  I am amazed every time I return to Lolita by the fullness of the characters, as well as the depth of Humbert’s immersion in his own perverse, but terrifyingly understandable world.  Lolita herself appears as #14, but I don’t think she qualifies to the list, period.  It’s all about the Hum.
#4, 8, 9 – James Joyce – doesn’t matter which characters, I don’t remember them, and I couldn’t care less.  His short stories are good enough, but the rest . . . ugh.  Never could understand his appeal. As John Dos Passos said of a Joyce production, “the hero doesn’t seem to me remarkable particularly.” Across the board.  It helps to have one’s opinion validated by the great Dos.
#7, #24, #81 – Atticus, Scout and Boo, To Kill a Mockingbird.  Yes, I am on the bandwagon with these. 
#10 – Wharton’s Lily Bart – wait a minute, I don’t see any Henry James creations on this list.  Sure, he only gave us a handful of novels and stories after the turn of the century, but if Miss Bart is present, surely Maggie Verver, Charlotte Stant, Marie de Vionnet, Kate Croy, Nan Midmore – yes, Nan, thank you very much – deserve a place on this list.  And Newland Archer, #94 – nope.  Move over, buddy.
#12 – Gregor Samsa – Kafka does not do it for me.  He stops in again at #83 with The Trial’s Joseph K.  Still doesn’t do it for me.
#16, #19 – Woolf’s Dalloway and Mrs. Ramsay.  I’m not big on Woolf, but her stream of consciousness narratives do work for me.  Some scholars/readers/people in general claim that she ‘invented’ such a narrative device, but this isn’t true.  William James was the first to note this method and to use this phrase; Faulkner, I believe, is the master of it.
#20 – Richard Wright’s Bigger Thomas.  Wright makes characterization seem effortless; and yes, Bigger is remarkable and memorable, but of the two, I think Fishbelly of The Long Dream made me a believer in Wright’s talent and brilliance.  I was surprised at how well I knew and understood Fishbelly, someone completely different from me in every possible way.  Or maybe he isn’t . . . this is what Wright made me consider, and continue to consider.
#21, #47, #53 – all Hemingway: Nick Adams, Santiago, and Jake Barnes.  Yes, but what about Robert Jordan?
#23 – Scarlett O’Hara.  Yes, definitely, and the book version, please, not Vivien Leigh.
#26 – Kurtz from Conrad’s Heart of Darkness.  At least it isn’t Jim of Lord Jim.  I think if we’re going to do Conrad, it should be Marlow, who steps in at #98.  Let’s switch Kurtz with Marlow and the world will make sense again.
 #27 – Stevens, the butler from Ishiguro’s The Remains of the Day.  Speaking of Ishiguro, I’d say Kathy, Ruth and Tommy of Never Let Me Go should be here instead.  NLmG gave me nightmares for weeks.  I am still unsure if it has found a place in my head yet, a comfortable one, that is.
#29 – Winnie the Pooh.  I am not sure how to respond to this one.  Who doesn’t like this silly bear, but really, I must reiterate that there are no Henry James characters on this list.  But Pooh is here, at #29.  Shaking my head.
#31 – Oh, yes, Hazel Motes of Flannery O’Connor’s Wise Blood.  She has a variety of highly memorable and disturbing characters to choose from; Motes is perfect here, but the list should include some of her other frighteningly real and honest attention-grabbers.

 . . .  to be continued

Review of The Ghosts of Kerfol at BSC posted yesterday.

Wendy Lesser‘s first novel is actually three novellas, the first of which is amazing and wonderful and I wanted it to go on and on.  The second wasn’t bad, but the third was wretched and I wondered if Lesser had been smoking crack after she completed the second.
As a James fan, I was obviously entranced by the first story, which does not name James but the implication is clear, as is that of characters in the steads of Wharton, Fullerton, and Andersen, along with the James butler and his drunken wife.  Lesser’s speculation on Wharton’s thoughts are engaging, and I was disappointed when they came to an end.  I adore my Henry, and one of the many important lessons I have learned from him and his work is that love has no expectations.  Hopes, most certainly, but not expectations – that would be another feeling altogether.  Lesser captures this quality in the love James holds for those dear to him, while her Wharton double furiously struggles to understand this.
I am looking now at a ridiculous review by Lucy Ellmann of the NYT, published on October 9, 2005, in which Ellmann states that Lesser “coyly never admits that these two are based on Edith Wharton and Henry James,” which is a rather silly thing to say.  Of course they are Wharton and James, and there is nothing coy in the portrayal that would leave any room to question this.  Ellmann goes on to claim that the characters (in the entire book, not just the first novella) are “emotionless.”  Ellmann must have completely missed the James/Wharton piece.  She complains that “well on the way to her third orgasm” is an “icky” description, but laments Lesser’s “promising disquisition on menstruation” that does not, to Ellmann’s disappointment, continue.  So – Ellmann wants to read about the heroine’s menstrual troubles but not about her amazing sexual experiences?  That doesn’t work for me.

It’s not Edith Wharton or Henry James, but the setting sure is.  Anna Godbersen’s teen soap set in Gilded Age (1899) Manhattan is an easy read, unlike Wharton and James, and the story isn’t original, but there is something about that cliffhanger that had me putting the sequel on hold as soon as I got in to work this morning.  I really don’t care about Elizabeth or Penelope, though – I want to see what Diana (who reads du Maurier’s Trilby behind her mother’s back – what is up with that?) and Henry are up to, and Lina, well, Lina is in quite a situation herself and we don’t know what she really thinks of it.
Four days and the sequel later – the drama continues, as there promises to be another in the series.  The story proves more predictable as it moves on, and the glittering details are only so entertaining.  There are a few too convenient plot twists that seem a bit contrived, but that is true soap opera fashion (unlike James, of course) in the same vein as Dynasty or Dallas.  The part that is hardest to accept, and perhaps I am just old and jaded and here is where it shows, is early on when Elizabeth’s new life in California is described as so different from her past.  In spite of the difference, she was happy, because she “had followed her heart, and no one ever regrets that.”  I haven’t snorted so loudly in many days, I can tell you that, after reading that line.