On April 10, 1994, PBS stations nationwide will air the first episode of a lavish six-part Masterpiece Theatre production of Eliot’s brilliant work, Middlemarch, hosted by Russell Baker and produced by Louis Marks. The Modern Library is pleased to offer this official companion edition, complete with tie-in art and printed on acid-free paper. Unabridged.
“Probably the greatest novel in the English language.”
So say Martin Amiss (twice listed for the Booker prize) and Julian Barnes (four times Booker listed, and once winner).
My brother-in-law, Dhammarati (zero times listed; but with a name like that, you can be sure he knows his onions) is also an advocate. A conversation, last Christmas:
Dhammarati: “You’ve NOT read Middlemarch?”
Me: “I’ve tried TWICE – I couldn’t get past book one. There are eight.”
Dhammarati: “You’ve GOT to read Middlemarch.”
Me: “I WANT to read Middlemarch – man, I was BORN in the George Elliot Hospital.”
Dhammarati: “You’re joking?”
Me: “Serious. Nuneaton. I cut my teeth in the fields where it was written.”
Dhammarati: “Listen. People wish they’d never started Middlemarch. When they get to the end, they wish it wouldn’t finish.”
Now, before I reveal the outcome and he gloats overly, I must add some caveats. Let’s begin with long words and long sentences.
As a copywriter I used a formula called the ‘Fog Index’. It’s a little mathematical tool you can apply to a 100-word sample of text to assess its readability. Important, since in advertising readability equals sales.
Good copy has a Fog Index of between 9 and 12. Tabloid newspapers operate at more like 5 or 6. (This review scores 6.4.) Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott has a Fog Index of around the 20-mark – turgid stuff. But I found pages in Middlemarch that blew a gasket – a Fog Index of over 600!
Actually, this discovery was a relief. So, it wasn’t just me. Throw in the archaic language and the little engine room of your brain can’t cope (especially with the audiobook, when there is no respite).
The solution? Don’t give up. Rather in the way that, if you were shipwrecked on a desert island with a native tribe and not eaten, painfully, necessarily, eventually you would understand their patois.
Towards the end, I had acclimatised. Instead of zoning out I found myself appreciating every word. And, I confess, if those words had been brushstrokes upon a canvas, then I know that I would have been looking at a great masterpiece.
Okay, next complaint. The plot. Think ‘Mundane March.’
Middlemarch is a late Georgian soap opera set among the provincial middle classes. Mismatches are made, debts are incurred; gossip goes around. Nothing new under the sun, it seems.
The characters might be exquisitely sculpted, but I spent much of the novel seeking someone for whom to root. (For the record I settled on poor Mary Garth, but she is really from among the supporting cast.) The A-listers all seemed to bring their troubles upon themselves.
However, the strands of the dull plot are patiently, relentlessly and expertly interwoven, and – gradually – I found in my forgiving nature the capacity to begin to hope for the best for most of the actors (even old Bulstrode, the discredited banker).
There is a curious aspect to the narration (by the author, that is) – third-person omniscient – yet on half-a-dozen occasions directly addressing the reader (using I and we). It an odd sense of: here we are together on our cloud, sitting comfortably, watching an experiment in humanity. Probably that is what she intended.
Written around 1871-2 and set between 1829-32, the author takes advantage of this long interval via an unusual device. The characters’ lives are put on hold and the novel ends with a concluding ‘finale’. In just a few short pages their ultimate fates are revealed, an unceremonious unravelling in a couple of thousand words when more than three hundred thousand words (and long ones at that) have transported them hitherto. I felt strangely discombobulated by this sudden and unexpected time warp. I think I might have preferred to leave this to my imagination. Maybe try not reading it?
One final personal gripe. Out of necessity I mainly listened to the audiobook. It was very well narrated, except … except, as mentioned, I hail from Middlemarch. We don’t have Yorkshire accents!
Finale:
Anticipated conversation (if my brother-in-law makes it back to Scotland this Corona-stricken Christmas):
Dhammarati: “Did you ever read Middlemarch?”
Me: “You were right.”