The Blithedale Romance, by Nathaniel Hawthorne
Oxford World Classics edition, Oxford University Press, 1998 printing. First published 1852.
The Blithedale Romance, by Nathaniel Hawthorne
On the whole, it was a society such as has seldom met together; nor, perhaps, could it reasonably be expected to hold together long. Persons of marked individuality-crooked sticks, as some of us might be called-are not exactly the easiest to bind up into a faggot. But, so long as our union should subsist, a man of intellect and feeling, with a free nature in him, might have sought far and near, without finding so many points of attraction as would allure him hitherward. We were of all creeds and opinions, and generally tolerant of all, on every imaginable subject. Our bond, it seems to me, was not affirmative, but negative. We had individually found one thing or another to quarrel with, in our past life, and were pretty well agreed as to the inexpediency of lumbering along with the old system any farther. As to what should be substituted, there was much less unanimity. We did not greatly care-at least, I never did-for the written constitution under which our millennium had commenced. My hope was, that between theory and practice, a true and available mode of life might be struck out, and that, even should we ultimately fail, the months or years spent in the trial would not have been wasted, either as regarded passing enjoyment, or the experience which makes men wise.
If the 1001 books list has a flaw, it is that it tends toward author worship, so that any author who wrote a masterpiece is represented on the list by every novel that author ever wrote. This book is a case in point. Hawthorne's House of the Seven Gables and I Know What You Did Last Summer The Scarlet Letter are deservedly widely read. The Blithedale Romance is one few people these days have even heard of and, after reading it, I have a pretty good idea why not.
The socialist farming community of Blithedale is apparently a stand-in for Brook Farm, an actual experimental utopia formed in Massachusetts in the 19th Century. Among its inhabitants are Miles (the poetic narrator), Hollingsworth (the neurotic, overbearing one who everyone has to be nice to because he's funding it all), Zenobia (the charismatic reformer) and Priscilla (the waif), who take turns forming assorted alliances and hostilities. Long, long segments are devoted to Miles's psychological misgivings and descriptions of allegorical natural formations in the wilderness surrounding the community. Only three or four real plot developments happen, and when a Big Reveal came, I found myself wondering what all the fuss was about.
According to the introduction, Henry James really enjoyed this book, maybe so much so that he adopted the style of putting so much effort into telling the reader who people are that he runs out of space tohave them actually do anything. The Blithedale Romance is just 240 pages long, and by the time I started to find the characters interesting, the story was over. If you like most Henry James, this book might be for you. If you prefer The Scarlet Letter, not so much.
The Blithedale Romance, by Nathaniel Hawthorne
On the whole, it was a society such as has seldom met together; nor, perhaps, could it reasonably be expected to hold together long. Persons of marked individuality-crooked sticks, as some of us might be called-are not exactly the easiest to bind up into a faggot. But, so long as our union should subsist, a man of intellect and feeling, with a free nature in him, might have sought far and near, without finding so many points of attraction as would allure him hitherward. We were of all creeds and opinions, and generally tolerant of all, on every imaginable subject. Our bond, it seems to me, was not affirmative, but negative. We had individually found one thing or another to quarrel with, in our past life, and were pretty well agreed as to the inexpediency of lumbering along with the old system any farther. As to what should be substituted, there was much less unanimity. We did not greatly care-at least, I never did-for the written constitution under which our millennium had commenced. My hope was, that between theory and practice, a true and available mode of life might be struck out, and that, even should we ultimately fail, the months or years spent in the trial would not have been wasted, either as regarded passing enjoyment, or the experience which makes men wise.
If the 1001 books list has a flaw, it is that it tends toward author worship, so that any author who wrote a masterpiece is represented on the list by every novel that author ever wrote. This book is a case in point. Hawthorne's House of the Seven Gables and I Know What You Did Last Summer The Scarlet Letter are deservedly widely read. The Blithedale Romance is one few people these days have even heard of and, after reading it, I have a pretty good idea why not.
The socialist farming community of Blithedale is apparently a stand-in for Brook Farm, an actual experimental utopia formed in Massachusetts in the 19th Century. Among its inhabitants are Miles (the poetic narrator), Hollingsworth (the neurotic, overbearing one who everyone has to be nice to because he's funding it all), Zenobia (the charismatic reformer) and Priscilla (the waif), who take turns forming assorted alliances and hostilities. Long, long segments are devoted to Miles's psychological misgivings and descriptions of allegorical natural formations in the wilderness surrounding the community. Only three or four real plot developments happen, and when a Big Reveal came, I found myself wondering what all the fuss was about.
According to the introduction, Henry James really enjoyed this book, maybe so much so that he adopted the style of putting so much effort into telling the reader who people are that he runs out of space tohave them actually do anything. The Blithedale Romance is just 240 pages long, and by the time I started to find the characters interesting, the story was over. If you like most Henry James, this book might be for you. If you prefer The Scarlet Letter, not so much.