The Mysteries of Udolpho
After something like three weeks, I have at last finished The Mysteries of Udolpho, written in 1794 by Ann Radcliffe. At 672 extremely dense and dialogue-deficient pages, I can agree with the author of the preface, who writes: "Art is long and life is short and Udolpho is long indeed."
I was inspired to pick this up while, having parked in a 15-minute spot at Powell's and having found the dollar-book section nearly empty, I scoured my mind for something to read. I thought to myself, "Who is that writer, who keeps getting referenced in these old books I read, where somebody's being silly or romantic and another person chides them that they've been 'reading too many of Mrs. ____'s novels?'" After thinking very hard for a few minutes, I recalled the name of Radcliffe.
The book itself was oddly contradictory, a conclusion with which the preface heartily agrees. I was pushed forward by the mysteries themselves (for instance, the heroine Emily draws back a black veil in a castle and sees something so ghastly it cannot be described...until the end,) the romance (was there ever such a devoted lover as Valancourt? For indeed, who else would so patiently attend his lady as she faints something like 30 times, and feign concern on each occasion??) and the violence (trails of blood lead one everywhere.) At the same time, I was held back by the impenetrability of the text, its tendency to linger longer than anyone ever should on descriptions of views and scenery, and its love of interjecting long poems supposedly "arranged" by the characters in their idle moments. It was a slog to get to the answers and the wedding, but I made it!
A note, however: A few days ago as I was riding the bus to work a woman sat next to me and asked, "You read a lot?" to which I replied yes, and she continued: "Because I see you on the bus every day, and every day it's a different book, but it's not some pop culture crap, it's like, Melville and shit! That's so cool."
Aw...too bad I don't think I could actually make it through Melville. Udolpho is quite enough, thank you!
I was inspired to pick this up while, having parked in a 15-minute spot at Powell's and having found the dollar-book section nearly empty, I scoured my mind for something to read. I thought to myself, "Who is that writer, who keeps getting referenced in these old books I read, where somebody's being silly or romantic and another person chides them that they've been 'reading too many of Mrs. ____'s novels?'" After thinking very hard for a few minutes, I recalled the name of Radcliffe.
The book itself was oddly contradictory, a conclusion with which the preface heartily agrees. I was pushed forward by the mysteries themselves (for instance, the heroine Emily draws back a black veil in a castle and sees something so ghastly it cannot be described...until the end,) the romance (was there ever such a devoted lover as Valancourt? For indeed, who else would so patiently attend his lady as she faints something like 30 times, and feign concern on each occasion??) and the violence (trails of blood lead one everywhere.) At the same time, I was held back by the impenetrability of the text, its tendency to linger longer than anyone ever should on descriptions of views and scenery, and its love of interjecting long poems supposedly "arranged" by the characters in their idle moments. It was a slog to get to the answers and the wedding, but I made it!
A note, however: A few days ago as I was riding the bus to work a woman sat next to me and asked, "You read a lot?" to which I replied yes, and she continued: "Because I see you on the bus every day, and every day it's a different book, but it's not some pop culture crap, it's like, Melville and shit! That's so cool."
Aw...too bad I don't think I could actually make it through Melville. Udolpho is quite enough, thank you!