So today I started reading Wilkie Collins's The Moonstone.
'cause, you know, classic, right? And the movie was pretty good when we watched it when I was... oh... eleven? So any classic that can, even in movie form, hold the attention of a preteen is worth reading. (Case in point: Jane Austen. Liked all the movies we watched (P&P, S&S, P, E, NA) except Persuasion. Well, and Northanger Abbey, but that's because whoever directed the version we watched had serious ADD. Read all of them except Emma (what can I say, Miss Austen rattled on too long in narrative about pointless things; I do have to give it another try someday, though). Didn't much like Persuasion - too dull.) And, after all, it couldn't possibly be worse than Bleak House: I have never read a ghastlier book. I hated the main character and I hated the prose.
Anywho, digression aside... I got a hundred pages into The Moonstone, and it's surprisingly readable. Dickens and Collins were contemporaries, but Moonstone is so much more accessible than Dickens.
So far, we've read a journal describing the origins of the Moonstone (a gigantic yellow diamond that glows in the dark). It came from heaven knows where, and rattled around in the temple of an "Hindoo" moon-god for a while before being stolen by the "Mohammedans". So three Brahmin priests were sent to guard it and to try to steal it back. Centuries pass, the priests are replaced whenever one of them dies, and the English come along and conquer India. An English SOB (yes, that's the technical term... >_>) in the army that conquers the Islamic city where the Moonstone is, kills its preservers and steals the jewel. Dying, one of the Brahmin curses the SOB, as one of the SOB's friends (the journalist) comes in.
Cut to England, fifty or so years later. An old gentleman (actually he's a servant, but he is a dear) named Gabriel Betteredge is asked to write up his perspective of the events leading to the theft of the Moonstone, some two years prior. He's a bit eccentric but not in any insane way. Basically, the SOB left the Moonstone, in his will, to Rachel Verinder (the daughter of the house that Gabriel serves). At the moment it's unclear whether he did it to curse her (society refused to have anything to do with him as a result of his war crimes, and Lady Julia, the SOB's sister (I think - can't quite remember) also refused to see him), or to show he'd forgiven her mother. The thing is, after all, worth a fortune.
There are three mysterious Indians ("Hindoos") lurking around with a little boy who's allegedly clairvoyant. There's a servant in the house who was "rescued" from a prison-rehab-center type place, and who's in love with the hero. There's a love triangle between Rachel Veringer and her two cousins (Me: Oh, squick - I don't care that this was mid-nineteenth century, first cousins are not okay to marry!), one of whom (Frederick something-or-other, I think) is the hero. There's a pit of quicksand in the neighborhood, which Rosanna-from-the-prison likes sitting by.
And lo and behold, on Rachel Veringer's eighteenth birthday (same date as mine, hee), when she gets the Moonstone, it is stolen!
And the Brahmin have cast-iron alibis.
Rachel locks herself in her room and refuses to talk to anyone (although she makes an exception for a screaming fight with the hero). The police lock up the Hindus (Hindi? or is that the language?) anyway, although they say it's an inside job. Rosanna has some sort of nervous breakdown, and Gabriel, narrating, drops ominous hints that not getting her out of the place was a terrible, terrible decision. I suspect doom. And, for some odd reason, that's about where I put the book down. Oh, right - my mom got off the computer. ^^;;
My thoughts:
Of course, the introduction to the book was a tad alarming. It was, for some reason, at one point discussing the concept of "Victorian immorality", and cited a whole bunch of famous Victorian authors who weren't as snowy-pure as one would expect. Apparently, Lewis Carroll was into child porn. I am never going to be able to read Alice in Wonderland again without crying inside.
Anywho, digression aside... I got a hundred pages into The Moonstone, and it's surprisingly readable. Dickens and Collins were contemporaries, but Moonstone is so much more accessible than Dickens.
So far, we've read a journal describing the origins of the Moonstone (a gigantic yellow diamond that glows in the dark). It came from heaven knows where, and rattled around in the temple of an "Hindoo" moon-god for a while before being stolen by the "Mohammedans". So three Brahmin priests were sent to guard it and to try to steal it back. Centuries pass, the priests are replaced whenever one of them dies, and the English come along and conquer India. An English SOB (yes, that's the technical term... >_>) in the army that conquers the Islamic city where the Moonstone is, kills its preservers and steals the jewel. Dying, one of the Brahmin curses the SOB, as one of the SOB's friends (the journalist) comes in.
Cut to England, fifty or so years later. An old gentleman (actually he's a servant, but he is a dear) named Gabriel Betteredge is asked to write up his perspective of the events leading to the theft of the Moonstone, some two years prior. He's a bit eccentric but not in any insane way. Basically, the SOB left the Moonstone, in his will, to Rachel Verinder (the daughter of the house that Gabriel serves). At the moment it's unclear whether he did it to curse her (society refused to have anything to do with him as a result of his war crimes, and Lady Julia, the SOB's sister (I think - can't quite remember) also refused to see him), or to show he'd forgiven her mother. The thing is, after all, worth a fortune.
There are three mysterious Indians ("Hindoos") lurking around with a little boy who's allegedly clairvoyant. There's a servant in the house who was "rescued" from a prison-rehab-center type place, and who's in love with the hero. There's a love triangle between Rachel Veringer and her two cousins (Me: Oh, squick - I don't care that this was mid-nineteenth century, first cousins are not okay to marry!), one of whom (Frederick something-or-other, I think) is the hero. There's a pit of quicksand in the neighborhood, which Rosanna-from-the-prison likes sitting by.
And lo and behold, on Rachel Veringer's eighteenth birthday (same date as mine, hee), when she gets the Moonstone, it is stolen!
And the Brahmin have cast-iron alibis.
Rachel locks herself in her room and refuses to talk to anyone (although she makes an exception for a screaming fight with the hero). The police lock up the Hindus (Hindi? or is that the language?) anyway, although they say it's an inside job. Rosanna has some sort of nervous breakdown, and Gabriel, narrating, drops ominous hints that not getting her out of the place was a terrible, terrible decision. I suspect doom. And, for some odd reason, that's about where I put the book down. Oh, right - my mom got off the computer. ^^;;
My thoughts:
- Frederick(?) is a twit. As is clearly shown by the fact that I can't even remember his name. Collins wanted to make him a Gary-Stu, I think, and, well... didn't even quite succeed, which is terribly sad. He's supposed to be a blending of the best of four cultures, from his extensive Continental education, but he comes across more as schizophrenic. And he doesn't really do anything. And is boring.
- Rachel is cool. Really cool. Brave and stubborn and probably going to be a heck of a lot of trouble for herself and everyone else, but I kind of admire her. Well, admire everything except her taste in men. >_>
- Gabriel is a good narrator. The book switches narrators quite a few times, and I hope everyone else is as reliable and such as he is. When he has to give infodumps, he apologizes, and tries to make them interesting, and all. It's really a very conversational style, with lovely manners.
Of course, the introduction to the book was a tad alarming. It was, for some reason, at one point discussing the concept of "Victorian immorality", and cited a whole bunch of famous Victorian authors who weren't as snowy-pure as one would expect. Apparently, Lewis Carroll was into child porn. I am never going to be able to read Alice in Wonderland again without crying inside.