The Signature of All Things, by Elizabeth Gilbert
Let me start right out with a confession - I tried to read Eat, Pray, Love, Gilbert’s much admired memoir, but I never finished it. I have rarely disliked a book more than I disliked that one. I found the writing mawkish, the author annoying and her problems silly.
However, I was reading nothing but good reviews for The Signature of All Things as soon as it was published, and one of the best things I read is that it wasn’t at all like Eat, Pray, Love, so when my stepmother sent it to me as a Christmas gift I was delighted.
And it is not, for the most part, like Eat, Pray, Love; in fact it could hardly be more dissimilar. An historical novel set between 1760 and 1883, it ranges from the birth of Henry Whittaker in England, through his impoverished childhood to his business empire building in pharmaceuticals and botanical exports to the birth of his daughter Alma in America, and then follows her life as she continues with her father’s interest in botany, becoming an amateur scientist specializing in mosses. Normally I tend to grouse about long books (and this one is exactly 500 pages), as I often believe the author could have told a better story with fewer words, but in this case I think the length is more than justified by the amount of material Gilbert is covering and her skill in doing so.
I have to admire, more than anything else, the obviously extensive research Gilbert did on the history of the times she was covering, and not just on the study of botany (which is impressive enough and includes some gorgeous botanical illustrations) but on the culture of the times, people’s attitudes and behaviors that were often so very different, and often objectionable, to modern sensibilities.
I love stories that combine history and science (and can strongly recommend Andrea Barrett for anyone who shares this taste) and for the most part The Signature of All Things was a wonderful read - the exception came toward the center of the story when I felt the author began to stray in unfortunate Eat, Pray, Love territory as she dealt with the adult Alma’s relationships with her adopted sister, Prudence, and later with her, well, I guess we can call him a non-husband and their joke of a marriage.
It seems to me that Gilbert meant us to fault Alma (as the other characters in the book do, including Alma herself) over her misunderstanding of Prudence’s feelings for Alma and the “great sacrifice” she made for Alma’s sake. Unfortunately, the way the sisters relationship and history was set up by Gilbert, Alma’s correct understanding of Prudence would have involved the ability to read minds, since at no point in their lives together was Prudence anything but distant and coldly civil, giving every impression that what she wanted most from Alma was to be shed of her company. And the “sacrifice” that it seemed I was supposed to admire was idiotic, even for a young woman.
And then there’s Alma’s “husband” - and there is no other way to apply that word to him except in quotes - an emotionally unstable man whom Alma fell in love with and wed shortly after first meeting him, then discarded even more quickly but continued to obsess over for years. All thru this portion of the story (sadly a longish one) I couldn’t help thinking “Am I supposed to be taking this seriously?” Alma’s emotions for her goofus of a “husband” seem to me entirely imaginary - created by the feverish and frustrated needs of an aging spinster and maintained out of a desire to have some kind of emotional life no matter how pathetic.
Fortunately, this portion of the story finally comes to its (embarrassing, in my opinion) end and it gets back on track with Alma making use of her exhaustive knowledge of mosses to make her own way in the world, and ends with her meeting Alfred Russel Wallace, the young explorer who was nose-to-nose with Charles Darwin in proposing the theory of evolution by natural selection. On the last pages of the book they have a long discussion about life and meaning (Wallace, altho an atheist, did believe in spirits and an after-life) and I’m going to quote part of that conversation at length because it’s my very favorite part of the story, shows off the tone of most of the book and sums up my own feelings on the matter under discussion so well:
‘Do you believe in an afterworld?’ Wallace asked.
She patted his hand once again. ‘Oh, Mr. Wallace, I do so try not to say things that make people feel upset.’
He laughed again. ‘I am not as delicate as you may think, Miss Whittaker. You may tell me what you believe.’
‘Well, if you must know, I believe that most people are quite fragile. I believe that it must have been a dreadful blow to man’s opinion of himself when Galileo announced that we do not reside at the center of the universe - just as it was a blow to the world when Darwin announced that we were not specially crafted by God in one miraculous moment. I believe these things are difficult for most people to hear. I believe it makes people feel insignificant. Saying that, I do wonder, Mr. Wallace, if your longing for the spirit world and an afterworld is not just a symptom of a continued human quest to feel . . . significant? Forgive me, I do not meant to insult you. The man whom I dearly loved had this same need as you, this same quest - to commune with some mysterious divinity, to transcend his body and this world, and to remain significant in a better realm. I found him to be a lonely person, Mr. Wallace. Beautiful, but lonely. I do not know if you are lonely, but it makes me wonder.’
He did not answer that.
After a moment, he merely asked, ‘And don’t you have that need, Miss Whittaker? To feel significant?’
‘I will tell you something, Mr. Wallace. I think I have been the most fortunate woman who ever lived. My heart has been broken, certainly, and most of my wishes did not come true. I have disappointed myself in my own behavior, and others have disappointed me. I have outlived nearly everyone I ever loved. Remaining alive to me in this world is but one sister, whom I have not seen for more than thirty years - and with whom I was not intimate, for most of my life. I have not had an illustrious career. I had one original idea in my life - and it happened to be an important idea, one that might have given me a chance to be known - but I hesitated to put it forth, and thus I missed my opportunity. I have no husband. I have no heirs. I once had a fortune, but I gave it away. My eyes are deserting me, and my lungs and legs give me much trouble. I do not think I will live to see another spring. I will die across the ocean from where I was born, and I will be buried here, far away from my parents and my sister. Surely you are asking yourself by now - why does this miserably unlucky woman call herself fortunate?’
He said nothing. He was too kind to reply to such a question.
‘Do not worry, Mr. Wallace. I am not being facetious with you. I do truly believe I am fortunate. I am fortunate because I have been able to spend my life in study of the world. As such, I have never felt insignificant. This life is a mystery, yes, and it is often a trial, but if one can find some facts within it, one should always do so - for knowledge is the most precious of commodities.’
When he still did not reply, Alma went on:
‘You see, I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others - why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this dominion . . . but that is not my business. We are all different, I suppose. All I ever wanted was to know *this* world. I can say now, as I reach my end, that I know quite a bit more of it than I knew when I arrived. Moreover, my little bit of knowledge has added to all the other accumulated knowledge of history - added to the great library, as it were. That is no small feat, sir. Anyone who can say such a thing has lived a fortunate life.’
I very much enjoyed this book, aside from the mind-boggling emotional stuff at the middle, and I suspect that is just me, and someone with a more sentimental turn of mind would find the business with the sister and the “husband” more understandable.
However, I was reading nothing but good reviews for The Signature of All Things as soon as it was published, and one of the best things I read is that it wasn’t at all like Eat, Pray, Love, so when my stepmother sent it to me as a Christmas gift I was delighted.
And it is not, for the most part, like Eat, Pray, Love; in fact it could hardly be more dissimilar. An historical novel set between 1760 and 1883, it ranges from the birth of Henry Whittaker in England, through his impoverished childhood to his business empire building in pharmaceuticals and botanical exports to the birth of his daughter Alma in America, and then follows her life as she continues with her father’s interest in botany, becoming an amateur scientist specializing in mosses. Normally I tend to grouse about long books (and this one is exactly 500 pages), as I often believe the author could have told a better story with fewer words, but in this case I think the length is more than justified by the amount of material Gilbert is covering and her skill in doing so.
I have to admire, more than anything else, the obviously extensive research Gilbert did on the history of the times she was covering, and not just on the study of botany (which is impressive enough and includes some gorgeous botanical illustrations) but on the culture of the times, people’s attitudes and behaviors that were often so very different, and often objectionable, to modern sensibilities.
I love stories that combine history and science (and can strongly recommend Andrea Barrett for anyone who shares this taste) and for the most part The Signature of All Things was a wonderful read - the exception came toward the center of the story when I felt the author began to stray in unfortunate Eat, Pray, Love territory as she dealt with the adult Alma’s relationships with her adopted sister, Prudence, and later with her, well, I guess we can call him a non-husband and their joke of a marriage.
It seems to me that Gilbert meant us to fault Alma (as the other characters in the book do, including Alma herself) over her misunderstanding of Prudence’s feelings for Alma and the “great sacrifice” she made for Alma’s sake. Unfortunately, the way the sisters relationship and history was set up by Gilbert, Alma’s correct understanding of Prudence would have involved the ability to read minds, since at no point in their lives together was Prudence anything but distant and coldly civil, giving every impression that what she wanted most from Alma was to be shed of her company. And the “sacrifice” that it seemed I was supposed to admire was idiotic, even for a young woman.
And then there’s Alma’s “husband” - and there is no other way to apply that word to him except in quotes - an emotionally unstable man whom Alma fell in love with and wed shortly after first meeting him, then discarded even more quickly but continued to obsess over for years. All thru this portion of the story (sadly a longish one) I couldn’t help thinking “Am I supposed to be taking this seriously?” Alma’s emotions for her goofus of a “husband” seem to me entirely imaginary - created by the feverish and frustrated needs of an aging spinster and maintained out of a desire to have some kind of emotional life no matter how pathetic.
Fortunately, this portion of the story finally comes to its (embarrassing, in my opinion) end and it gets back on track with Alma making use of her exhaustive knowledge of mosses to make her own way in the world, and ends with her meeting Alfred Russel Wallace, the young explorer who was nose-to-nose with Charles Darwin in proposing the theory of evolution by natural selection. On the last pages of the book they have a long discussion about life and meaning (Wallace, altho an atheist, did believe in spirits and an after-life) and I’m going to quote part of that conversation at length because it’s my very favorite part of the story, shows off the tone of most of the book and sums up my own feelings on the matter under discussion so well:
‘Do you believe in an afterworld?’ Wallace asked.
She patted his hand once again. ‘Oh, Mr. Wallace, I do so try not to say things that make people feel upset.’
He laughed again. ‘I am not as delicate as you may think, Miss Whittaker. You may tell me what you believe.’
‘Well, if you must know, I believe that most people are quite fragile. I believe that it must have been a dreadful blow to man’s opinion of himself when Galileo announced that we do not reside at the center of the universe - just as it was a blow to the world when Darwin announced that we were not specially crafted by God in one miraculous moment. I believe these things are difficult for most people to hear. I believe it makes people feel insignificant. Saying that, I do wonder, Mr. Wallace, if your longing for the spirit world and an afterworld is not just a symptom of a continued human quest to feel . . . significant? Forgive me, I do not meant to insult you. The man whom I dearly loved had this same need as you, this same quest - to commune with some mysterious divinity, to transcend his body and this world, and to remain significant in a better realm. I found him to be a lonely person, Mr. Wallace. Beautiful, but lonely. I do not know if you are lonely, but it makes me wonder.’
He did not answer that.
After a moment, he merely asked, ‘And don’t you have that need, Miss Whittaker? To feel significant?’
‘I will tell you something, Mr. Wallace. I think I have been the most fortunate woman who ever lived. My heart has been broken, certainly, and most of my wishes did not come true. I have disappointed myself in my own behavior, and others have disappointed me. I have outlived nearly everyone I ever loved. Remaining alive to me in this world is but one sister, whom I have not seen for more than thirty years - and with whom I was not intimate, for most of my life. I have not had an illustrious career. I had one original idea in my life - and it happened to be an important idea, one that might have given me a chance to be known - but I hesitated to put it forth, and thus I missed my opportunity. I have no husband. I have no heirs. I once had a fortune, but I gave it away. My eyes are deserting me, and my lungs and legs give me much trouble. I do not think I will live to see another spring. I will die across the ocean from where I was born, and I will be buried here, far away from my parents and my sister. Surely you are asking yourself by now - why does this miserably unlucky woman call herself fortunate?’
He said nothing. He was too kind to reply to such a question.
‘Do not worry, Mr. Wallace. I am not being facetious with you. I do truly believe I am fortunate. I am fortunate because I have been able to spend my life in study of the world. As such, I have never felt insignificant. This life is a mystery, yes, and it is often a trial, but if one can find some facts within it, one should always do so - for knowledge is the most precious of commodities.’
When he still did not reply, Alma went on:
‘You see, I have never felt the need to invent a world beyond this world, for this world has always seemed large and beautiful enough for me. I have wondered why it is not large and beautiful enough for others - why they must dream up new and marvelous spheres, or long to live elsewhere, beyond this dominion . . . but that is not my business. We are all different, I suppose. All I ever wanted was to know *this* world. I can say now, as I reach my end, that I know quite a bit more of it than I knew when I arrived. Moreover, my little bit of knowledge has added to all the other accumulated knowledge of history - added to the great library, as it were. That is no small feat, sir. Anyone who can say such a thing has lived a fortunate life.’
I very much enjoyed this book, aside from the mind-boggling emotional stuff at the middle, and I suspect that is just me, and someone with a more sentimental turn of mind would find the business with the sister and the “husband” more understandable.