A Room with a View by E.M. Forster - 1908

 Great read, no, very likely one of the best books I have ever read. You may have to be in a particular state of mind for it however (in Love)

Too full of life lessons; the life lessons

Forster has a strange writing style; sometimes you don't know who is talking. It could be  the writer, the character, or the character's mind. 

This book is a little funny at times and a little deep at times. 

When I was in Florence (summer 2021) I made a special trip up Fiesole with a friend for lunch (p13)

Mr. Emerson is just one of the drivers in this story wrt love and life

“About old Mr. Emerson—I hardly know. No, he is not tactful; yet, have you ever noticed that there are people who do things which are most indelicate, and yet at the same time—beautiful?” 

To imagine the thousands of years that people have walked under these sky's

Over such trivialities as these many a valuable hour may slip away, and the traveller who has gone to Italy to study the tactile values of Giotto, or the corruption of the Papacy, may return remembering nothing but the blue sky and the men and women who live under it.

Some of the characters are very passionate

“A smell! a true Florentine smell! Every city, let me teach you, has its own smell.” 

Emerson states the truth

“You are a clever woman,” said Mr. Emerson. “You have done more than all the relics in the world. I am not of your creed, but I do believe in those who make their fellow-creatures happy. There is no scheme of the universe—”

Lucy declares

“How can he be unhappy when he is strong and alive? What more is one to give him? And think how he has been brought up—free from all the superstition and ignorance that lead men to hate one another in the name of God. With such an education as that, I thought he was bound to grow up happy.” 

Emerson declares wrt two lovers

“Leave them alone,” Mr. Emerson begged the chaplain, of whom he stood in no awe. “Do we find happiness so often that we should turn it off the box when it happens to sit there? To be driven by lovers—A king might envy us, and if we part them it’s more like sacrilege than anything I know.” 

Mr Beebe declares the greatest lesson (this one makes me tear up) This is what happens in Florence

“No, I have said nothing indiscreet. I foresaw at Florence that her quiet, uneventful childhood must end, and it has ended. I realized dimly enough that she might take some momentous step. She has taken it. She has learnt—you will let me talk freely, as I have begun freely—she has learnt what it is to love: the greatest lesson, some people will tell you, that our earthly life provides.”

Foster speaks

 An engagement is so potent a thing that sooner or later it reduces all who speak of it to this state of cheerful awe. 

 Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature. Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way. 

Forster's funny side

She was correct as usual. He tied the horse to a tree, kicked it to make it stay quiet, dusted the carriage, arranged his hair, remoulded his hat, encouraged his moustache, and in rather less than a quarter of a minute was ready to conduct her. Italians are born knowing the way. It would seem that the whole earth lay before them, not as a map, but as a chess-board, whereon they continually behold the changing pieces as well as the squares. Any one can find places, but the finding of people is a gift from God.  

There was a voice in the wood, in the distance behind them. The voice of Mr. Eager? He shrugged his shoulders. An Italian’s ignorance is sometimes more remarkable than his knowledge. She could not make him understand that perhaps they had missed the clergymen. The view was forming at last; she could discern the river, the golden plain, other hills.  

I love this one

Life, so far as she troubled to conceive it, was a circle of rich, pleasant people, with identical interests and identical foes. In this circle, one thought, married, and died. Outside it were poverty and vulgarity for ever trying to enter, just as the London fog tries to enter the pine-woods pouring through the gaps in the northern hills. But, in Italy, where any one who chooses may warm himself in equality, as in the sun, this conception of life vanished. Her senses expanded; she felt that there was no one whom she might not get to like, that social barriers were irremovable, doubtless, but not particularly high. You jump over them just as you jump into a peasant’s olive-yard in the Apennines, and he is glad to see you. She returned with new eyes. 

 So pointed!

It is obvious enough for the reader to conclude, “She loves young Emerson.” A reader in Lucy’s place would not find it obvious. Life is easy to chronicle, but bewildering to practice, and we welcome “nerves” or any other shibboleth that will cloak our personal desire. She loved Cecil; George made her nervous; will the reader explain to her that the phrases should have been reversed?  

Mr Beebe (I hope I can work off my crudities in time)

“A nice fellow,” said Mr. Beebe afterwards “He will work off his crudities in time. I rather mistrust young men who slip into life gracefully.” Lucy said, “He seems in better spirits. He laughs more.” “Yes,” replied the clergyman. “He is waking up.” 

Lucy oh Lucy

“What I mean by subconscious is that Emerson lost his head. I fell into all those violets, and he was silly and surprised. I don’t think we ought to blame him very much. It makes such a difference when you see a person with beautiful things behind him unexpectedly. It really does; it makes an enormous difference, and he lost his head

Emerson again

“There is a certain amount of kindness, just as there is a certain amount of light,” he continued in measured tones. “We cast a shadow on something wherever we stand, and it is no good moving from place to place to save things; because the shadow always follows. Choose a place where you won’t do harm—yes, choose a place where you won’t do very much harm, and stand in it for all you are worth, facing the sunshine.” 

The truth be spoken

Perhaps anything that he did would have pleased Lucy, but his awkwardness went straight to her heart; men were not gods after all, but as human and as clumsy as girls; even men might suffer from unexplained desires, and need help. To one of her upbringing, and of her destination, the weakness of men was a truth unfamiliar, but she had surmised it at Florence, when George threw her photographs into the River Arno. 

Lucy does not yet accept her heart

It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that, to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters—the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. 

Mr Beebe I think

“Has Italy filled you with the fever of travel? Perhaps George Emerson is right. He says that ‘Italy is only an euphemism for Fate.’” 

Emerson

“I taught him,” he quavered, “to trust in love. I said: ‘When love comes, that is reality.’ I said: ‘Passion does not blind. No. Passion is sanity, and the woman you love, she is the only person you will ever really understand.’” He sighed: “True, everlastingly true, though my day is over, and though there is the result. Poor boy! He is so sorry! He said he knew it was madness when you brought your cousin in; that whatever you felt you did not mean. Yet”—his voice gathered strength: he spoke out to make certain—“Miss Honeychurch, do you remember Italy?” 

“Why, he has behaved abominably,” she said. “I am glad he is sorry. Do you know what he did?”

“Not ‘abominably,’” was the gentle correction. “He only tried when he should not have tried. You have all you want, Miss Honeychurch: you are going to marry the man you love. Do not go out of George’s life saying he is abominable.” 

Emerson call it as it is

“Take an old man’s word; there’s nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror—on the things that I might have avoided. We can help one another but little. I used to think I could teach young people the whole of life, but I know better now, and all my teaching of George has come down to this: beware of muddle. Do you remember in that church, when you pretended to be annoyed with me and weren’t? Do you remember before, when you refused the room with the view? Those were muddles—little, but ominous—and I am fearing that you are in one now.” She was silent. “Don’t trust me, Miss Honeychurch. Though life is very glorious, it is difficult.” She was still silent. “‘Life’ wrote a friend of mine, ‘is a public performance on the violin, in which you must learn the instrument as you go along.’ I think he puts it well. Man has to pick up the use of his functions as he goes along—especially the function of Love.” Then he burst out excitedly; “That’s it; that’s what I mean. You love George!” And after his long preamble, the three words burst against Lucy like waves from the open sea. 

Emerson again

“You’re shocked, but I mean to shock you. It’s the only hope at times. I can reach you no other way. You must marry, or your life will be wasted. You have gone too far to retreat. 

I have no time for the tenderness, and the comradeship, and the poetry, and the things that really matter, and for which you marry. I know that, with George, you will find them, and that you love him. Then be his wife. He is already part of you. 

Though you fly to Greece, and never see him again, or forget his very name, George will work in your thoughts till you die. It isn’t possible to love and to part. You will wish that it was. You can transmute love, ignore it, muddle it, but you can never pull it out of you. I know by experience that the poets are right: love is eternal.” 

 Lucy

“Now kiss me here; then here.” 

Ahh the Window

He carried her to the window, so that she, too, saw all the view. They sank upon their knees, invisible from the road, they hoped, and began to whisper one another’s names. Ah! it was worth while; it was the great joy that they had expected, and countless little joys of which they had never dreamt. They were silent. 

 

Under the Tonto Rim by Zane Grey (1926)

Classic Gray; of the female lead character type. 

As with all grey novels you get some excellent lessons in backwood living. 

In this case we are introduced to Bee Hunting for the purpose of gleaning Honey. 

I'm now keenly aware of Gray's need to tell us how gender roles work. 

Interesting that these hillbillies are uneducated and need to be brought to intelligence by those from the city. At the same time his TOTAL disdain for the city is ever present. 

The country bumpkin gets schooled on many things including how to treat a woman. He is also the dominant male and the most virtuous. 

The restorative powers of being in the wilderness is pervasive. 

Like in The Virginian our Alpha male plays a joke that is little funny and sadly malicious. In a world where the least mistake could result in death, these people were flippant with others peril. 

The Fourth Turning by Strauss and Howe (1997)

 Amazing, hard to put down, not for falling to sleep by. 

I think if you are 40 and younger it may be a waste of time, the more of this you have lived thru the better. 

On track... we are in for a doosey of a time in just the next couple of years!

 They have predicted the downfall of democracy in America and suggested that Fascism is indeed a real possibility. 

Many observations made by the pair are spot on, can't emphasize enough that the past 50 years are in lockstep with this theory. 

The Pilot: A Tale of the Sea by J F Cooper (1824)

 I love Cooper but... this is a bit tiresome; it has I think an unlikely plot line. 

His earliest works are not what they soon became just a few years later!

It does however have many well made characters.

like many Cooper writings it is a slow start and a dashing finish. 

Class is as always an important part of Cooper's works and class distinction in America is no different than anywhere else. 

 

 

Heidi by Johanna Spyri (1881) Illu. Maria Kirk, Trans. E Stork

 Get your Kleenex box out, your going to need it!

What an awesome read, one of those stories that you "drop down into;" the characters are real.

Got this old 1919 copy with tipped-in illustrations for Christmas.

I think the descriptions of god and how to relate to him are some of the best I've ever read. I suppose it's a children's book but it has a reminder or two for adults. 

It seems like the theme of most of my reading these days partly revolves around the facts of urban vs rural views and Prejudice. (just like today!)

The "horrible" conditions of the city vs the restorative powers of nature. 

I asked my Swedish friend Marika what were the classic books from her homeland and of course this was high on the list. 

 Some of the flaws have to do with the lack of backstory for Uncle and the inner thinking of Peter

Favorite impressions:

In this instance Heidi learns not to take what one person says in earnest as the truth:

"The grandmother laid her hand kindly on Heidi's. "Don't cry, dear child, don't cry," she said, "the picture has reminded you perhaps of something. But see, there is a beautiful tale to the picture which I will tell you this evening. And there are other nice tales of all kinds to read and to tell again. But now we must have a little talk together, so dry your tears and come and stand in front of me and tell me how you are getting on in your school-time; do you like your lessons, and have you learnt a great deal?"

"O no!" replied Heidi sighing, "but I knew beforehand that it was not possible to learn."

"What is it you think impossible to learn?"

"Why, to read, it is too difficult."

"You don't say so! and who told you that?"

"Peter told me, and he knew all about it, for he had tried and tried and could not learn it."

"Peter must be a very odd boy then! But listen, Heidi, you must not always go by what Peter says. You must believe what I tell you—and I tell you that you can learn to read in a very little while, as many other children do, who are made like you and not like Peter. As soon as you are able to read you shall have that book for your own."

 I this instance a lonely old man implores Heidi to stay in the mountains:

"Oh doctor, doctor!"

Looking round he stood still and waited till the child had reached him. Her tears came rolling down her cheeks while she sobbed: "I'll come with you to Frankfurt and I'll stay as long as ever you want me to. But first I must see grandfather."

"No, no, dear child," he said affectionately, "not at once. You must remain here, I don't want you to get ill again. But if I should get sick and lonely and ask you to come to me, would you come and stay with me? Can I go away and think that somebody in this world still cares for me and loves me?"

In this instance we are tutored by Heidi regarding our relationship to God:

 "When Clara and Heidi were lying in their beds that night, glancing up at the shining stars, Heidi remarked: "Didn't you think to-day, Clara, that it is fortunate God does not always give us what we pray for fervently, because He knows of something better?"

"What do you mean, Heidi?" asked Clara.

"You see, when I was in Frankfurt I prayed and prayed to come home again, and when I couldn't, I thought He had forgotten me. But if I had gone away so soon you would never have come here and would never have got well."

Clara, becoming thoughtful, said: "But, Heidi, then we could not pray for anything any more, because we would feel that He always knows of something better."

[291]"But, Clara, we must pray to God every day to show we don't forget that all gifts come from Him. Grandmama has told me that God forgets us if we forget Him. But if some wish remains unfulfilled we must show our confidence in Him, for he knows best."

"How did you ever think of that?" asked Clara.

"Grandmama told me, but I know that it is so. We must thank God to-day that He has made you able to walk, Clara."

This really is one of the finer arguments, or at least one that makes human sense to me. 

The Spy: a Tale of the Neutral Ground by James Fenimore Cooper (1821) Illus. Henry C Pitz

 A good read; such an insight into the mind of early times in the Americas

An important element in this tale is the part that gangs of thieves played in the chaos that always surrounds a war scene.

 "The convenience, and perhaps the necessities, of the leaders of the American arms, in the neighborhood of New York, had induced them to employ certain subordinate agents, of extremely irregular habits, in executing their lesser plans of annoying the enemy. It was not a moment for fastidious inquiries into abuses of any description, and oppression and injustice were the natural consequences of the possession of a military power that was uncurbed by the restraints of civil authority. In time, a distinct order of the community was formed, whose sole occupation appears to have been that of relieving their fellow citizens from any little excess of temporal prosperity they might be thought to enjoy, under the pretense of patriotism and the love of liberty."

So of course in the name of Liberty we'll need to take that from you!

Race and slavery are a loud part of the narrative:

"The race of blacks of which Caesar was a favorable specimen is becoming very rare. The old family servant who, born and reared in the dwelling of his master, identified himself with the welfare of those whom it was his lot to serve, is giving place in every direction to that vagrant class which has sprung up within the last thirty years, and whose members roam through the country unfettered by principles, and uninfluenced by attachments. For it is one of the curses of slavery, that its victims become incompetent to the attributes of a freeman"

 I have for years questioned the common fault of all humans to assign greater qualities to our friends than they could possibly posses.

"It is a painful discovery we make, as we advance in life, that even those we most love are not exempt from its frailties. When the heart is fresh, and the view of the future unsullied by the blemishes which have been gathered from the experience of the past, our feelings are most holy: we love to identify with the persons of our natural friends all those qualities to which we ourselves aspire, and all those virtues we have been taught to revere. The confidence with which we esteem seems a part of our nature; and there is a purity thrown around the affections which tie us to our kindred that after life can seldom hope to see uninjured."

 A "doctor" plays a major role his job is to explain to the reader the horrors of the sabre in battle. We put out of mind the direct one on one battle form which has been mostly eliminated, and for good reason; imagine the level of PTSD gained in hand to hand combat!

I like this bit of death bed wisdom:

"The bruised reed may endure, but it will never rise. You have that within you, Harvey, that will guide you aright; persevere as you have begun, for the duties of life are never to be neglected and”"

 This is a little more on Slavery:

“Sir,” said he, “slavery is of very ancient origin, and it seems to have been confined to no particular religion or form of government; every nation of civilized Europe does, or has held their fellow creatures in this kind of duresse.”

“You will except Great Britain,” cried the colonel, proudly.

“No, sir,” continued the surgeon, confidently, feeling that he was now carrying the war out of his own country, “I cannot except Great Britain. It was her children, her ships, and her laws, that first introduced the practice into these states; and on her institutions the judgment must fall. There is not a foot of ground belonging to England, in which a negro would be useful, that has not its slave. England herself has none, but England is overflowing with physical force, a part of which she is obliged to maintain in the shape of paupers"

 

 And something to tell the young:

“Poor, sensitive girl!” said Isabella, regarding her with tender interest; “but the world is still before you, and why should I disturb the little happiness it may afford! Dream on, lovely innocent! and may God keep the evil day of knowledge far distant!” 

 Albeit classically wordy this is a fine book as we try to understand how we got here from there

 

 

The Alaskan by James Curwood (1923)

 I was attracted to this book at an estate sale by the name and cover art. I am regularly interested in adventure novels and this looked like one.

Indeed it is however it has a feel of a sales brochure sometimes; selling the attributes of Alaska and the folks that go there.

Once again we see witness the abhorrence of the the rural class for the cities. This is made abundantly clear.

Good story... old men, young woman... intrigue and deception, American politics, it has it all

In this paragraph we learn of the inevitable end of migration as the last frontier is inhabited. 

"He was happy. Love of life swept in an irresistible surge through his body, and he breathed in deeply of the soft sea air that came in through his open port from the west. In Stampede Smith he had at last found the comradeship which he had missed, and the responsive note to the wild and half-savage desires always smoldering in his heart. He looked out at the stars and smiled up at them, and his soul was filled with an unspoken thankfulness that he was not born too late. Another generation and there would be no last frontier. Twenty-five years more and the world would lie utterly in the shackles of science and invention and what the human race called progress."

We are sitting at the 100 year mark past what Curwood viewed as the world in the shackles of science and invention. Who knew that the shackles would come in the form of limitless input from a little screen a foot away from our faces?

Curwood fits right in with Wister, Roosevelt, and the manly view of the conquering the Continent.

This old copy printed in 44 was just in time for the boys coming back from the War.