So I'm reading this book.
Yeah, I'm sure you're all shocked. "What? She's reading a book? No way! She never does that!"
But that's enough sarcasm for now.
Anyway, this book was published in 1938, but in some small ways it's a bit similar to modern young adult fiction. Not in the significant ways, mind; it's well written and engaging, and the plot, despite being minimal at the point where I am, shows signs of becoming gripping before the end. No, the ways in which it's reminding me of series like The Hunger Games, Divergent, and especially Twilight (unfortunately) are all character-related.
The basic setup of the book is this: a young, plain-looking female first-person narrator not overburdened with personality, self-possession, or critical thinking skills falls in love with a brooding, lonely man twice her age. The man is brooding and lonely because his beautiful, clever, resourceful, popular wife tragically died some time before. Luckily for our boring narrator, the brooding lonely man returns her love (I guess; he has yet to actually confirm that) and marries her. Alas, because she is plain and unconfident and a bit slow and consequently positively overrun with self-esteem issues, she can't help constantly comparing herself to her husband's first wife and thinking that her husband can't possibly really love her and must've married her just because he needed companionship in his depressing widowhood.
One day, she shares these concerns with a reserved and polite gentleman she's become friends with. Apparently very upset, he attempts to encourage her by saying, "I should say that kindliness, and sincerity, and if I may say so - modesty - are worth far more to a man, to a husband, than all the wit and beauty in the world." (She of course thinks he's just being nice and completely dismisses this, because, as we all know, neuroses are more fun than contentment and self-confidence.)
Alright: I'm beginning to suspect that there Mr. Sadface's perfect first wife wasn't all that perfect and that maybe her tragic and unexpected death wasn't quite as tragic and unexpected as it seemed, and that this line is meant to be one of the first hints at some sort of shocking big reveal. As far as I know, it's not meant to reassure self-critical female readers that you don't need beauty and wit to be loved or anything of that sort, it's meant to build suspense. There's no reason to overthink it or write a lengthy blogpost inspired by it.
But...
It got me thinking and now I need to vent.
So... yeah. The rest of the post will be me totally overthinking this single line of dialogue.
Ahem.
As I said, this particular theme of unremarkable-girl-with-low-opinion-of-herself-gets-inexplicably-fallen-in-love-with-by-glorious-male-and-feels-unworthy feels familiar. It's becoming increasingly popular in modern YA fiction, I think. I even mentioned it in one of my Divergent commentary posts last summer. And, as this book and others I've read from roughly same time period show, it's not a new thing. It seems like female authors think that in order to appeal to the demographic they're writing for, providing them with relatable heroines, they have to write these characters who are dull and not traditionally attractive who wish they were more beautiful and interesting. And then, in order to please the demographic, these characters are given love interests who are far more attractive, mature, and intelligent, and who are apparently attracted to their heroines' sweet, innocent, clueless naïveté and simply adorable "modesty" (read: self-loathing).
Does anybody else find that creepy? Look, I can handle romances like those between Emma and Mr. Knightley or Jo March and Professor Bhaer, where despite their age difference the characters are intellectual equals with similar emotional maturity. But in the book I'm reading now, the narrator's husband has repeatedly called her a child or talked about how silly she is. That bothers me. It's weird and I don't like it. Like - do men actually fall in love with girls who are not their equals in any way? I'm not talking about marrying or dating someone for the purpose of gaining an admirer who will do and believe anything you tell them. I'm talking about love. Real, true, romantic love of someone who is less intelligent, less mature, less wise, less everything than you. Is that realistic?
But that's not the only problem I have with this theme. The other is, of course, that not everybody experiences self-doubt because of the same perceived flaws.
I've talked before about how unsure and self-conscious I get about my writing. And that's not the only thing I fret about. Sometimes I feel like I talk too loud and say too much and try too hard and show off and essentially drive everyone around me crazy. On bad days, I tell myself that, yeah, I have really good friends who truly enjoy hanging out with me, and family members who really do love me - but surely the people who sit next to me and talk to me at school are only being nice and would much rather be somewhere else, and surely even my friends and family get tired of me sometimes, and surely... well, you get the idea.
But see, for all my self-confidence issues, there are things I like about myself. My hair, for one thing, which, as just about anyone will tell you, is simply glorious. It's long and thick and wavy and dark, auburn-y red and it brings in all kinds of compliments. And my fast, sarcastic, quippy humor. Maybe my voice occasionally gets louder than I like it, and maybe sometimes I take a joke too far, but I make people laugh.
*Glances back at the quote from the book* Ummm...
Let's take a slight detour to examine a hypothetical. Imagine a youngish female. She's not stunningly beautiful, but she's pretty enough and generally quite content with her looks. She's also stylish, clever, witty, etc. She knows she's not particularly kind, and she very rarely takes things seriously, and she's not always modest, but... she's happy.
In time, she meets a youngish non-female. His mind operates rather similarly to hers, and so she finds him very easy to talk to. They have long discussions about all sorts of things, laughing at each other's jokes and finishing each other's sentences and altogether getting along swimmingly, and before long the girl's developed quite the crush.
The only problem? It turns out that the affections of the object of her affections already have an object, in the form of a fairly plain-looking, unremarkably dressed, not exactly clever girl who is nonetheless universally kind and caring, unerringly sincere, and endlessly modest.
If the first female were to read this book and stumble across this line, only imagine how it might exacerbate her insecurities, especially if my growing suspicions are correct and it turns out the book's incomparable first wife wasn't all she seemed. 'Tis a fine message to be sending, I suppose... it's better to be affectionate than amusing... it's better to be shy than stunning... better an excess of self-hatred than a surplus of self-love.
*Sigh* I hardly know what I'm saying anymore. I guess... I guess I wish this wasn't what was popular. I so desperately want to like this book, because it's creepy, and well-written, and it comes highly recommended. But... I'm just having trouble relating to the heroine, and I think I'm tired of encountering heroines I can't relate to. Don't get me wrong, I've read books with heroines who are so relatable they may as well have been based on me. They're just not the runaway bestsellers.
And, as I sort of indicated in a vaguish way, I'm not entirely sure this kind of thing is healthy. I'm not saying that things like kindness, sincerity, and modesty aren't good traits that should be encouraged. I'd never say that. But I'm tired of books and movies in which clever, confident female characters are also self-absorbed or manipulative or unfeeling or oblivious or simply overlooked. I've even read a book by George freakin' Eliot of all people in which the intelligent, worldly, well-developed main character has her pride broken in the most painful way possible and is then unceremoniously rejected by the loser she's falling in love with in favor of some sugar-sweet nonentity of a girl whose whole personality is summed up in a shy smile and a sob story.
Maybe this is why I like Jane Austen so much. All of her characters get admiration and happy endings, accommodating Fanny Price and prideful Lizzy Bennet, impressionable Catherine Morland and entitled Emma Woodhouse, reserved Elinor, unguarded Marianne, and Anne Eliot, who's a lovely blend of sweet and smart, soft and strong.
Well... that's it. I've said what I needed to and now I'm not entirely sure how to conclude.
*Shrugs* Until next time.
~Pearl Clayton
This is fantastic and rather thought provoking. Well done Ms. Pearl. Well done. I think you made some great points.
ReplyDeleteI have never been as critical (in the literary critic sense) of character development as you, so I never thought about it regarding this book. But… you're absolutely right in your analysis. I think that in this book though, you're supposed to wonder why he's married this mouse, you're supposed to feel uncomfortable with it -- it's all part of the creep factor.
ReplyDeleteAnd the creep factor is, of course, why I loved the book.
I completely agree. The problem is that in true love (marriage) both sides complement each other--yet books like this often seem to portray the sad idea that the man makes up for all the girl's problems and makes her feel okay about herself or something. I really would enjoy some solid, interesting, and refreshing female leads.
ReplyDeleteI think the biggest issue I have with this sadly recurring theme is that it isn't addressed as a problem.
ReplyDeleteI mean, what I would enjoy is a book in which the main character isn't glorified, either way. If she is way too prideful, it should be addressed (although like you said I don't generally run across this in popular books); if she is full of self-loathing, it should be addressed. Internally instead of an external marry-the-prince-and-live-happily-ever-after sort of deal. In other words, any character, whichever flaws they may deal with, needs redemption. Authors tend to shy away from redemption, particularly internal redemption dealing with soul-issues because, to be frank, it actually takes skill to deal with those kinds of issues subtly and satisfactorily. I know the feeling, because I'm a writer, too: Because we're paranoid about sounding preachy or allegorical or just brimming with do-good morals, we over-correct by refusing to properly deal with flaws at all. Which ends with a character that may outwardly (not physically, per se, but behaviorally) change over the course of the novel, but is actually only seemingly dynamic. In the end she's actually the same person as before, with the same issues, but her circumstances have changed around her to make it seem like she's fixed all her problems. As opposed to a character that internally has to deal with things and the circumstances around her only supplement the changes that she needs to make. Does that make sense?
As an example of an internally redemptive story, take Taran Wanderer by Lloyd Alexander. Yes, the journey he takes affects him and shapes him. But ultimately the real stuff he's dealing with is inside. In fact, he tries to solve the problem superficially by changing his circumstances, but it fails--there has to be a spiritual reckoning because the physical ones don't cut it.
Basically, I'm just tired of paper-doll characters masquerading as dynamic people that have souls, and I'm pretty sure the root of the problem is timidity in the authors. A word of advice for any writer: Be bold or shut up. Boldness results in masterpieces. And also total flops. But better a total flop that won't ever be published than a mass of mediocrity pumped into the already mentally deficient public. Ja?