Sister Carrie

Sister Carrie

by Theodore Dreiser

It took a long while for this book to gain my interest. It was recommended to me by my mom, with the advice, "pay attention to Hurstwood. I daresay he's the real main character of the story." So I did. But at first the book really didn't appeal to me; Carrie was too emotional, Hurstwood a little too old, for me to empathize with them. I couldn't muster up the sympathy necessary in order to actively be engaged in their fictional lives. So the first half of the book dragged on for a few months while I dabbled in other books . . . but after Hurstwood tricks Carrie into running away with him, I became absorbed in this fascinating, very real-life story, which quickly takes the reader into a world where right and wrong become blurred, where an individual's sins or wrong choices can't be blamed on him/her alone, and where money, power, success, and beauty is out of reach no matter what.

This book is, overall, a book about Carrie and Hurstwood. The story zooms in on their little lives, paying barely any attention to other details in their world. Though the limited 3rd-person narration switches between them often, it rarely ventures to narrate the POV of other characters. I think the next largest character was Drouet, but he is only the foil, the initial spark, whose role was to set off Carrie's journey and facilitate her meeting with Hurstwood. Drouet fades out quickly towards the 2nd half of the book, and Carrie and Hurstwood quickly take center stage. Their character development is unique--something I have yet to see in other books. Carrie and Hurstwood develop not so much as "characters," but rather in financial and social ways. As a matter of fact, both characters remain relatively unaltered in personality by the end: Hurstwood is still prideful, Carrie is still wistful. But at the same time they are altered significantly by their external situation: Hurstwood is sullen, destitute, poor, and dreary as he loses his fortune, his love, his home, and everything that defined him in his old life of rich comfort. Contrarily,  Carrie is independent and beautiful, in the spotlight. These changes do not come to them internally, but externally. In fact, their entire persons are described via outer circumstances. It's curious to note that outside their financial ups and downs, their relationships with each other, there is very little to be said about Carrie and Hurstwood as individuals. The author shapes and develops them almost entire through their fortunes.

Which brings us to the huge significance of financial success in this story. Throughout the entire book, being rich and well-off seems equated with happiness. Carrie longs for happiness indirectly by seeking such materialistic objectives: first she wants money, then luxury, then recognition, then prestige. In the beginning when she is poor and jobless, she is miserable. But by degrees as she achieves first an income, then a more luxurious lifestyle through Drouet, she tastes "happiness" and begins grasping for more. In a similar way, Hurstwood displays the importance of fortune in his initial situation: he is a rich manager of a club, is well-off, and holds in his hands the satisfaction of a prestigious circle of friends and a good reputation. In his initial state, Hurstwood represents the ideal picture of "happiness" which Carrie wishes to obtain.

Yet the truth is not so simple--as the author quickly informs us. Hurstwood is troubled by his family's growing indifference to him, and falls in love with Carrie who represents an "emotional happiness" which he lacks in his current life. This leads him to desert his old lifestyle with her, eager for a more modest, but happy home life. Of course, he begins to realize that without money, happiness is very far off--with their income cut off and the money in his possession dwindling, Hurstwood falls into a sort of indifferent stupor of denial. His mental state during this time is fascinating. He displays an apathy towards making money yet is in a situation where money is dire; whether his dwindling interest in finding a job as time goes on comes from a sort of pride that refuses him a lesser job than he previously possessed, or whether it comes from the indifference of a man who has never reached "rock bottom," is difficult to say. It certainly gives much food for thought, however, as he sinks lower and lower...from destitute to homeless, and finally to suicide. It causes us to question: how can a man who had such success at the beginning possibly fall so low? There is no clear answer, really; should his initial felony of stealing money be blamed? Or the businessmen of New York who refused to hire him? Or Carrie, who deserts him later on? Or himself, who refused to condescend to a lower job until too late? Whatever the cause may be, his life is a picture of the need for money if happiness in this world is to be gained.

In a way, his life could be considered the opposite of what Carrie's life represents: the strange paradox that money cannot buy happiness. Carrie continuously reaches for higher and loftier dreams in the book. Initially when she has nothing, she is satisfied when Drouet provides her with a life of modest luxury. But when this becomes the norm for her, she wishes for something more, and her experience acting in one play solidifies her desires for things she does not yet have: namely, fame and prestige. After she runs away with Hurstwood, she is for a time again satisfied, until a trip to Broadway with Mrs. Vance shatters her complacency and ignites in her a passion for the luxurious life of New Yorkers. This desire prompts her to leave Hurstwood, who without his previous charms and fortunes, no longer has a hold on Carrie's heart. She then takes a one-way road to success through the theatre, and eventually reaches the pinnacle of success she always dreamed of. But, is she happy after she accomplishes her lifelong ambition? Not really. The concluding paragraphs state clearly that she will forever be chasing after happiness, without ever being able to reach it. Her growing apathy towards the fame and pleasures that she once desired, her increasing restlessness in her new position in society, speak clearly of her "unhappiness" in her new-found wealth. It is interesting that both Hurstwood and Carrie, though they end up on polar opposite sides of fortune, never realize complete satisfaction and happiness.

Actually, Drouet presents an even more interesting look at the whole picture. While Hurstwood experiences a drastic fall in fortune, and Carrie experiences a gradual rise, Drouet remains largely unchanged in both fortune and person. At the beginning and in the end, Drouet stays modestly successful, still playful and flambouyant, still chasing after idle pleasures and women without much thought. He, more than any other character in the story, provides a contrast with which to compare Carrie and Hurstwood's situation, and gives the reader additional food for thought in considering what then, really, can lead one to happiness.

This is definitely a book worth reading. It is thought-provoking and stays with you long after the last page is turned. I am still pondering the question of "why?" even after the last paragraph. Why did Hurstwood fall so hard and so rapidly? Why did Carrie succeed so well? Why did things turn out the way they did? There is no clear answer to these questions, and it adds a touch of reality to the book like nothing else. Because really, in real life, nothing has a clear answer.



The Lord of the Rings

The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

by J. R. R. Tolkien

 

I have never watched the movies and this was my first time attempting the trilogy, and I must say it was not exactly how I expected it to be. Perhaps because I've heard so many conflicting opinions about the series, but it wasn't nearly as masterful as I was looking forward to discovering.

 

I did appreciate the quiet and quintessential beginning that takes place in the Shire. The life of the hobbits before their fantastic journey, the everyday conflicts and family problems, birthday party celebrations, the locality of the setting...it all provided a wonderful contrast with the grand scale of the adventures that would dominate the rest of the book. In fact, arguably, the beginning was my favorite part. There is a sense of excitement that runs beneath the currents of the opening scenes in the Shire--sort of an expectation for what we know will come with the arrival of Gandalf--that makes the reader flutter with yet-unnamed emotions.

 

However, when the actual adventure gets underway, I felt that some of those forshadowing elements were lost. Can't be helped, I suppose...the story must go on. But the high tension of the narrative seemed to slacken as the hobbits ventured further and further away from the Shire, instead of rising, as a proper adventure story should. The more obvious reason for the lack of heart-throbbing excitement could probably be attributed to the sheer amount of time the author devotes to describing the continent. I generally have no problems with long description passages that detail the hills, the trees, the rivers, the sky, the roads, the birds, etc, etc...but when Tolkien begins to attribute proper names to each and every single one of these elements, regardless of whether or not they can be pronounced by the English tongue, it started to get just a bit tedious for me.

 

Of course, the adventurous story of Frodo and his company is very enjoyable. There is a bit of everything that makes a good fantasy novel, and each character is appropriately fantastic while at the same time grounded in faults that makes everyone human. (That...sounded very cheesy and bookish just now, but it's true. What can I say.) But it becomes a problem when the only character you fully empathize with is Frodo. Every other character has some sort of backdrop--a history, a motivation, various circumstances that shape their past and will shape their future decisions. But literally, there is almost no explanation of any of this. Gandalf remains the mysterious wizard, Aragorn remains the mysterious Strider, Boromir remains the mysterious (i.e. suspicious) dude/person/guy, Gilmi and Legolas both also mysterious dwarf and elf, respectively. In a way, Merry and Pippin also remain a mystery--why are they so loyal and eager to follow Frodo into danger? What is their past relationship with the protagonist? Everything remains somewhat outlined, but glossed and skipped over in the course of the story. Therefore it's harder to understand where each person is coming from. The group doesn't come together cohesively. I mean, it's understandable that the characters within the story wouldn't just become chummy right away, but as an omniscient narrator, it wouldn't hurt Tolkien to give us readers a little bit of an inside scoop.

 

I have a sneaking suspicion that a lot of my criticisms will be cleared away once I actually read through the entire trilogy. Nevertheless, as a single standing book, The Fellowship of the Ring left a lot to be desired. Or maybe I was just a little too lost between Rivendell and Mordor and couldn't figure out my way as well as Aragorn could. In any case, I think I'll wait a little before attempting to tackle the sister novels of this work.

Little Women

Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

 

An episodic sort of story, almost like a fairy tale, with a moral to be learned on every page. When I first picked up this book, I confess that I thought of it as more of a children's book. But it struck me as a surprisingly pleasant narrative, enjoyable for any age from 8 to 80. Actually, as any good book, it's easy to read, but can be better enjoyed by readers who have a bit of experience under their belt, because the depiction of the lives of the members of the March family is better understood by adults. Yes, the story is simple, but it is also a message of how to live life. There may be some feminists out there who would like to burn this book out of existance, but I thought it was a picturesque telling of the moral values of Alcott's time.

 

Plot is deceptively simple: life and times of the four March sisters. But this sentene isn't enough to really encompass the whole of it. These are four different lives. The happenings in the everyday life isn't one that can easily covered in the span of one novel. Of course, there's a great deal of interweaving between the stories of the four girls, seeing as they all live under the same roof, but there's still a degree of separation that ensures that none of them take center stage. The quite little details that piece together into the larger story--these elements make the novel a far more pleasant read than if it was just big drama and Hollywood action.

 

Admittedly, the characters tend to come off as a little too upright, too eager to fix their mistakes, even a little unrealistic in their constant strivings to be good. I mean, as humans, we all make mistakes, even Beth March. The faulty human side is a little lacking here, because even when the sisters do make some mistake, it is quickly and easily mended before any serious damage is done. Yet at the same time that this takes away from the reality, it's also a wonderful breath of fresh air. As a reader, I thought it a nice change that I didn't have to keep on the edge of my seat the whole time screaming "don't do it! Don't do it!!! DON'T....great, you've gone and done it."

 

No, none of that. I could rest easy in the confidence that any and all mess-ups would be mended and done away with within the same chapter. Is it potentially dull? Possibly? Do I like Meg better than I do Frodo Baggins from Lord of the Rings? Oh, Yes.

 

The story progression flowed quietly from one event to the next, seamlessly connecting the lives of the characters into a larger picture of everyday life. There wasn't really any major climax that I could detect; rather, there were multiple major "happenings" that kept the story from sinking into the mires of mundane mugginess.

 

One thing I noticed was the varying personalities of the sisters. Of course, the book is known for having four protagonists, but I thought Alcott did a remarkable job of distinguishing the sisters from each other without ever favoring one sister above the rest. Each sister takes up an appropriate amount of space within the narrative, and if Jo seems to have more dialogue than Beth, than I say it's due to the nature of their characters rather than a bias on the narrator's part. In fact, it almost seems like the author is allowing the reader to choose his or her own favorite character. Which sister can you most connect with? Which one rings true to your heart? I had a great time following up on Jo's adventures, because the 21st century dotes on tomboys and the strong-willed character. But I also liked Amy, she was just so cute.

 

And of course, you can't forget the sage quotables of Mother March--the quotes that every good person highlights and less than half of them can actually carry out. If only the things she advises were that easy to accomplish...

 

Quick and light, it's a story I enjoyed with the heart of a child sitting in the lap of her mother while she tells a good bedtime story.