Some texts about living with abundance

Here are a couple more reviews in the spirit of Non-Fiction November.

The Art of Abundance by Dennis Merritt

For millennia, humanity's collective unconscious has been saturated with ideas of scarcity, and belief in not enough to go around. We see it every day when we scroll down social media, so we can't help getting ourselves infiltrated with ideas of lack and limitation. In Merritt's opinion, it's a short-sighted mistake. In actual fact, says he, the universe is generous, over-expanding and replenishing itself. If we take care to look for it when we venture out into nature, we'll see such evidence as sand grains comprising soft, lustrous beaches, droplets becoming gushing waterfalls, and clover leaves forming verdant green pastureland. Abundance is our birthright and we need to become comfortable with the notion of its availability for us too. 

He counsels us to stay focused and intentional, for a focused mind is like a laser and an unfocused mind is like a defuse, incandescent light. When our mind becomes our master rather than our servant, it can take us places we don't want to go. (My word, haven't I experienced that over the years!) We can't unthink thoughts, agrees Merritt, but we can mindfully identify and 'undo' them by choosing and superimposing new ones that neutralise them. It's a matter of challenging and changing them one at a time.

Being in a flow of abundance means trusting what he calls the Law of Circulation. We are both givers and receivers, and in order to let abundance flow into our lives, we must let it flow out of our lives. Holding onto physical things we no longer need or ever use blocks the flow. In the same way, we need to keep our emotional pipelines free of such sludge and clutter as regret, jealousy, envy, resentment, greed, selfishness, and pessimism, which are also different variants of fear, the master sludgemaker. 

'Do what is truly yours to do,' we are told in yet another chapter. We arrive on this planet predisposed with certain unique gifts and innate talents. When we align our passions with these gifts and talents, then we've discovered the thing which is ours to do. This is connected to being of service, which needn't be as grandiose as we often imagine it should. 

'Be Blessed!' he exhorts us toward the end. Since our collective unconscious leads us to focus on things that are wrong or lacking, our minds get bogged down with all that seems missing in our lives. It's difficult to feel blessed when we're always looking at what's wrong. Instead, by focusing on our blessings, we initiate a centrifugal force. It's helpful to picture it as a gravitational pull that draws increasingly more good toward us. 

Perhaps these visual pictures just may help us remember to practice this counter-cultural way of looking at things.   

A Piece of Chalk, by G.K. Chesterton 

Legendary novelist and theologian, G.K. Chesterton, describes how he set off on an excursion armed with brown paper and coloured chalks, to do some nature-inspired drawings. He regrets forgetting his white stick of chalk but discovers to his vast amusement that he can improvise. A chunk of rock makes a fair substitute for white chalk. 

He makes lots of beautiful landscape observations and discusses how nature may inspire artists to create original material without reproducing precisely what they're seeing. It includes Chesterton's conviction that white, like virtue, is a pure color, rather than being the absence of other colors. He concludes with a lovely epiphany that our world is generous to anyone open to discovering abundance in unexpected places. 

I believe one great central theme is summed up near the end of the essay. It is his joyful realization that when we use our imaginations to probe deeply enough, we may discover that the world is more generous and abundant than we give it credit for. Having forgotten his white chalk, Chesterton snaps off a piece of the rock he was sitting on to substitute for it on his brown paper. His willingness to think on his feet helps reveal the world to him as a treasure trove of resources. 

To people with more limited outlooks than Chesterton's, our world may appear meagre and deficient. When imagination and fresh perceptions lapse, then lack apparently abounds and good things seem in short supply. Yet as the divergent thinker Chesterton discovers, 'England itself could be regarded as one generous slab of white chalk.' 

His attitude is expressed most triumphantly in the final paragraph when he lets loose a string of analogies that remind him of his own situation. 'Imagine a man in the Sahara regretting that he has no sand for his hourglass. Imagine a gentleman in mid-ocean wishing that he had brought some salt water for his chemical experiments. I was sitting on an immense warehouse of white chalk.' It's his clear invitation for us to take time to consider unexpected places from which blessings might flow. 

To me, the most enjoyable quality about this essay is Chesterton's upbeat mood, bubbling over with simple joy. His playful disposition nudges him to choose a pastime that might strike others as relatively childish; sketching chalk drawings on brown paper. But Chesterton's colourful, enthusiastic prose builds my confidence that he'll convince me to reconsider this kindergarten activity I'd dropped decades ago. Essentially, I was challenging him as I read, to see if he'd convert me to begin chalk drawings on brown paper. 

I also love Chesterton's use of breathtaking analogies. He likens the 'soft and strong' features of the English countryside to other gentle but powerful phenomena, such as great carthorses and smooth beech trees. He introduces one other person, presumably as a foil for his own expansive point of view. This is his landlady (we assume), a generous but totally practical woman who cannot understand why he's asking for brown paper unless he wishes to wrap parcels. 

Although I wasn't convinced to rush out and buy coloured chalks of my own, I did resolve to begin looking out for unexpected ways in which the earth provides for us. 

'Wide Sargasso Sea' by Jean Rhys

Wide Sargasso Sea, a masterpiece of modern fiction, was Jean Rhys’s return to the literary center stage. She had a startling early career and was known for her extraordinary prose and haunting women characters. With Wide Sargasso Sea, her last and best-selling novel, she ingeniously brings into light one of fiction’s most fascinating characters: the madwoman in the attic from Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. This mesmerizing work introduces us to Antoinette Cosway, a sensual and protected young woman who is sold into marriage to the prideful Mr. Rochester. Rhys portrays Cosway amidst a society so driven by hatred, so skewed in its sexual relations, that it can literally drive a woman out of her mind.

THOUGHTS:

 Although I consider this novel comes under the umbrella of fan fiction, it's a huge stretch of the term. I'm sure Jean Rhys was too incensed to consider herself a 'fan' of Charlotte Bronte's. That indignation is what prompted her to write this prequel-cum-protest. It's the backstory of Bertha Mason, the doomed first wife of Edward Rochester from Jane Eyre. I expected a grim read but quite a significant one, which is just what I got.

Jean Rhys herself had common ground with Bertha Mason Rochester, being the daughter of a Welsh father and Creole mother from the Caribbean. As a teenager in 1907, she was reportedly horrified to read Bronte's masterpiece, and decided to someday become the voice for this character, who was denied a voice of her own within canon. 

It's an important novel within a historical context, prompting us to approach British classics and famous storylines with open minds, looking out for untold stories of marginalized folk. The fact that it cemented Rhys' name for her comes as no surprise. 

The main character starts off as a little girl named Antoinette Cosway, who lives with her mother and ailing younger brother in their dilapidated estate, Coulibri. Antoinette's slave-owning father has passed away, but many former slaves, now liberated, still regard Cosway's wife and kids with resentment. Antoinette grows up with this hostile background murmur. Her only friend, Tia, is more of a frenemy. The district natives practice obeah charms, a type of black magic or voodoo, which nobody takes lightly. 

In the course of time, Antoinette's mother marries Mr Mason, who has a son named Richard (whom we meet in Jane Eyre). The senior Mason assumes his wife is too sensitive and paranoid about the ill will of their neighbors. He discovers his mistake too late when they become the target of full-blown riot. So the only side of human nature Antoinette has experienced is malicious hatred, simply for being born into a particular family. 

Next is the part many of us know so well already. Antoinette/Bertha is used as a pawn in somebody else's game. Her stepfather (who was surely intended by Bronte as her biological dad, but never mind) bargains with a rich Englishman to marry Antionette to his younger son, for her dowry. 

This younger version of Edward Rochester expresses more of the same point of view he spouted in Jane Eyre. He considers himself to be a victim because he's a second son coerced to marry a stranger, who turns out to be in a far different headspace from his own. Rochester never takes time to reflect that Bertha is the ultimate victim, being presented by her male family members as a commodity to a stranger who is greedy to control her purse strings. 'I have not bought her, she has bought me,' is how he expresses it. 

Not cool, Ed.

Sinister cultural differences is partly what begins to wedge them apart, but he sometimes expresses frustration for nothing much at all. 'I watched her holding her left wrist with her right hand. An annoying habit.' Talk about finding the slightest thing to pick on. He does make an effort here and there, in his own way, to make the best of the hand life seems to have dealt him, but to mention any more would be flirting with plot spoilers (although we all know where the story is headed).

Anyway, the main theme is, of course, the fact that Antoinette/Bertha is consistently fobbed off and abandoned by those stronger than her, who have pledged to care for her. 'If the razor grass cuts my legs and arms, I would think, "It's better than people."'

 I didn't enjoy the story. It was a relief to finish and escape from all the mean, cutting, gloating, spiteful characters. There is not one single 'nice' person in the whole book. And from a structural perspective, some of the story's transitions between narrators seemed like a confused jumble at times, but if we know Jane Eyre well enough, we manage to latch on. 

The Cosways have a cynical family servant named Christophine, whose observation aptly summarizes poor Bertha's story. 'When a man don't love you, more you try, more he hate you. If you love them, they treat you bad. If you don't love them, they after you night and day, bothering your soul case out.' 

I googled the significance of the title, which turns out to be another symbol of poor Bertha's life. It seems there is a deceptively calm stretch of water near Jamaica where a type of seaweed named 'sargassum' lurks in tangled traps, ensnaring ships until they can only drift helplessly and hopelessly.  

Overall, it is not a fun read, but quite obvious why it became Rhys' magnum opus. Within this reasonably slim book, she's made herself an advocate for femimism, anti-racism, and mental healthcare all in one. Even though I didn't like it, I feel it deserves three stars for its originality and significance.

It's one of those books which is 'important' but unpleasant. A bit like taking literary medicine maybe. 

🌟🌟🌟   

'Gift from the Sea' by Anne Morrow Lindbergh

This month, a meme entitled 'Non Fiction November' is all over bookstagram. I thought I'd jump in on it this year, starting with this classic. 

MY THOUGHTS:

 For a long time I've seen this celebrated as an inspirational classic. Goodreads calls it 'inimitable and graceful.'  I realized not far into that I'd probably end up disagreeing. It's one of those cases, I feel, where the hype is misleading.

Lindbergh is the mother of a passel of kids and teens. She's taking time out by herself at a beach hut for a few weeks where she writes these reflections. As the book's framework, she compares various shells with corresponding stages of the generic woman's life. The two perfect halves of a double sunrise shell signify the shiny beginning of a romantic relationship; the rough, sprawling oyster shell represents those unglamorous years with kids living at home, when the mother's life seems to bulge in several different directions, and so on. 

For a book raved about by so many, the shell metaphors strike me as forced and simplistic, more like a school essay than celebrated inspirational literature. Yet this was the top nonfiction bestseller for 1955!

 What's more, Lindbergh's comparisons are sweeping generalizations, because women's lives don't follow the same trajectory. She also makes broad claims such as, 'females look inward and males look outward.' And she doesn't even collect all of those shells during this particular trip. 

Yet despite my disillusioned impression, she does make some points worth pondering, especially in the light of almost 70 passing years. 

It strikes Lindbergh that a short holiday is a bit like an ocean in time, and she expresses uneasiness at being alone. She says:

 'The interrelatedness of the world links us constantly with more people than our hearts can hold. Our modern communication loads us with more problems than the human heart can carry. My life cannot implement in action the demands of all the people to whom my heart responds. Our grandmothers lived in a circle small enough to let them implement in action most of the impulses of their hearts and minds. We were brought up in a tradition that has now become impossible, for we have extended our circle throughout space and time.' 

My reaction is, 'Wow, you've noticed this in 1955! Anne, you've no idea how crazy and teeming the world will turn with the introduction of the internet and social media.' She lived between 1906 and 2001, passing away just before our online era really took off. Now news from far and wide gushes onto our screens, we are mere finger clicks away from anybody in the world, who can rant about whatever pushes their buttons the instant they get triggered, and You-tubers are always asking us to 'like, share, and subscribe.'

I don't think Lindbergh has a real solution for this problem she'd already started to notice, because there really isn't a clear one. Her personal take-home is simply to focus on the precious small details of her life, the here and now, the drops that make up the ocean. If more people simply make it their goal to improve the things within their own domains, the world will have to get better.  

Lindbergh realizes that her regular life is cluttered with too many things and activities, and not enough margins or empty space. We spread our desks with an excess of shells, she points out, where one or two would perfectly suffice. So she plants down her own flag with the likes of Henry David Thoreau and Marie Kondo, sandwiched in the century between each of theirs. This indicates that minimalism is nothing new. Yet avid collectors of the world, like my own daughter, claim that their quests to stuff shelves to overflowing fill their lives with a type of delight these austere teachers of simplicity know nothing about. So at the end of the day, it has got to be each to their own.

In Lindbergh's opinion, the perfect shape of our days resembles a dance or a pendulum, swinging back and forth between the 'particular' and the 'universal'; the first being viscera that comprises our individual lives with all its chat and chores, and the latter being vast, abstract blessings, such as the beach and stars that we all have access to. I guess that's her fancy way of saying that anyone can take time out from our personal daily grind to notice the glory of nature. 

Finally, it begs to be said that Lindbergh and her husband, aviator Charles Lindbergh, were big celebs and media darlings of their era, both noteworthy for their multiple torrid extra-marital affairs among other things. I hardly feel she qualifies to address us in the guise of 'everywoman' or even as a person whose advice on marriage deserves attention.

I feel I might be expressing an unpopular opinion by panning this book, since it has received oodles of love over the years. 

Ah well, love it or hate it, at least we may all agree it's fairly short and easy to get through.

🌟🌟½

'The Pale Horse' by Agatha Christie

For the past several years, I've made an effort to include a Halloween themed book for the last week in October. This one came my way accidentally, and sure fit the bill! 

Wow!

MY THOUGHTS: 

This 1961 title is one of the scariest Agatha Christie mysteries that has come my way so far. It gave me more than a few goosebumps, and I consider it a very appropriate choice for Halloween.

Poor old Catholic priest, Father Gorman, is called out one night to take the confession of a dying woman, Mrs Davis, who makes the cryptic remark that wickedness must be stopped. On his way home, while musing about the enormity of whatever he's just heard, Father Gorman is brutally bludgeoned from behind. But the killer overlooks a hastily scrawled list of names which the old cleric poked down into his shoe. Detective Inspector Lejeune is quick to figure out that most people on that list have died quite recently of supposedly natural causes.

Meanwhile, a young historian named Mark Easterbrook has a puzzle of his own to solve. Mark, who narrates several sections of this story, is taken by friends to visit the Pale Horse, an ancient Inn which is now the home of three old hags who seem to be straight from the pages of Macbeth. Thyrza Grey is an occultist, Sybil Stamfordis is a medium, and their cook, Bella, is a witch. Mark is uneasy about the creepy trio, because he's heard rumors that the Pale Horse is the place to visit if you want to get somebody bumped off.

It seems the three ladies use their black arts on behalf of clients who wish to have people killed without hiring actual hitmen. But is murder by supernatural methods, or 'remote control' even possible? When Mark realizes that he's had brushes with a few of the people on Father Gorman's list, it becomes a matter of honor not to turn a blind eye, even though he's quaking in his shoes. 

I find it refreshing when Agatha Christie departs from Poirot and Marple to use young novice protagonists. When Mark and his friend, Ginger, attempt an experiment to discover firsthand what really goes on within the walls of the Pale Horse, they're flying by the seats of their pants and secretly terrified. In spite of the vibe of malevolence all through the story, these two are lots of fun to read about. Could the methodology used by the heartless crooks really be a lot less mystical than everyone is led to believe? 

This book features a recurring character, Ariadne Oliver, a successful mystery writer and fictional counterpart of Dame Agatha herself. I'm sure Oliver is also Christie's mouthpiece to vent about some of the same challenges she faces. 'I only write very plain murders about people who want other people out of the way and try to be clever about it.' This story itself ticks the box, for what could be more ingenious than killing a person by means of pointing the bone types of methods, which can't possibly be convicted as murder in an English court of law?

It's fascinating and unnerving, with some excellent dialogue sequences and a wow factor to the solution. And the premise contains chilling spiritual elements founded on mind power which I'm sure Agatha Christie, who was herself a committed Christian, knew full well. The name of the Inn itself is found in Revelation 6:8, 'And I looked, and behold, a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him.' It is these undertones most of all, that had me biting my nails. Christie has Mrs Dane-Calthorp, the minister's wife, comment, 'Sin is such a wretched, mean, ignoble little thing. It's terribly necessary to make it seem grand and important.' 

A jolly good, spooky yarn.

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 

'The Song of the Lark' by Willa Cather

MY THOUGHTS:

This wonderful coming-of-age novel, first published in 1915, lingers powerfully in my mind.

The protagonist is Thea Kronborg, a small-town girl who grows up to become one of the most celebrated opera singers of her generation. Cather reveals the huge toll focused genius takes on a person. At the start, Thea is a cheerful, industrious, and obliging little girl. Yet her calling shapes her into a restless, intense, and often scornful young woman.

The story follows Thea from her hometown of Moonstone, Colorado, to Chicago to learn piano with a young teacher named Harsanyi, who discovers that her voice is the most unique tool she possesses. Thea then learns singing with an expert named Madison Bowers, and plays accompaniment for some of his other clients. Eventually she travels overseas to study far more intensely in Germany, and finally makes her way onto the famous stage scene. 

Thea's epiphany is inspiring. While taking a rest in Arizona among ancient ruins from long forgotten tribal people, she notices that fragments of their water-vessels are embellished with artistic designs. This suggests to Thea that these cave-dwellers strived for aesthetic beauty over mere functionality. She decides she bears an obligation to these earlier generations to keep developing her own artistic vessel, which happens to be her voice.  

But the high price that top-of-their-game professionals must pay is enormous. Within these pages, Thea's muse is seen not so much as an alluring, chummy comrade, but more of a slave-driver brandishing a whip. Even as a little girl, Thea declares, 'Difficult things are enemies, aren't they, because you have to "get" them.' Later, as a student in Chicago, she faces challenging concepts as if they're mortal foes to vanquish. Instead of being inspired by all the musical theory she hasn't learned, her heart sinks at the magnitude of all she's been oblivious to, and the hours of slog it will take to wrap her head around it. Her reactive misery surprises her teacher, Harsanyi, who'd assumed that opening up a whole new world for her would make Thea happy. 

I'm fascinated that many reviewers disapprove when Thea chooses not to return home from Germany to see her dying mother one last time. She knows her burgeoning career is ripe with opportunities which will never return at a later date, for time is short. It's a bitter sacrifice on Thea's part, for she loves her mother dearly, but knows that the life of a focused artist requires this sort of inflexible priority. Leaving at such a pivotal time would have compromised what she was all about. The general disappointment expressed by readers indicates to me that few of us possess the doggedness it takes for a life devoted to one's art. We all enjoy benefiting from a great master's finely honed craft, yet criticize them for shaking off all sorts of normal ties that we mere mortals may indulge in.  

This incident more than any other, puts me in awe of Thea's grit, for in her place, I certainly couldn't have stuck to my resolve not to travel home.

Another thing that wins her no friends is her contempt toward fellow artists who fall short of her standard, especially if they become highly acclaimed anyway. The success of hacks and amateurs offends Thea, since they reveal the general public to be shallow, undiscerning and too easily impressed. This tarnishes and lets down her high ideals, especially in the aptly titled section, 'Stupid Faces.' 

She comments:

 'I dislike so much and so hard, it tires me out... You get to hating people who do contemptible work and still get on just as well as you do. If you love the good thing vitally enough to give up all for it, then you must hate the cheap thing just as hard. I tell you, there is such a thing as creative hate. You can't try to do things right and not despise people who do them wrong.' 

Wow, how's that for raw honesty! No disingenuous, tactful, 'Yeah, they're pretty good,' from Thea.  

I suspect Thea's attitude must have mirrored Willa Cather's, regarding her own craft of writing. So much of Cather's prose impresses me, making me suspect she possibly spent hours polishing single sentences until they shone as she wanted them to. There are simple gems like, 'The frail, brightly painted desert town was shaded by the light-reflecting, wind-loving tress of the desert, whose roots are always seeking water and whose leaves are always talking about it, making the sound of rain.' And, 'The long, porous roots of the cottonwoods are irrepressible. They break into wells as rats do into granaries, and thieve the water.' 

 Cather also sets a standard for all writers in the awesome line given at the poignant moment when railway man, Ray Kennedy, one of Thea's greatest admirers, dies on the job:

'Thea saw in his wet eyes her own face, very small but much prettier than the cracked glass of home had ever shown it. It was the first time she had seen her face in that kindest mirror a woman can ever find.'  

Willa Cather's embellishment of small, domestic details are the type which many authors might not choose to mention. In a similar way, she describes the attitudes of bit-characters and what makes them tick in a way I rarely see, which enriches the whole story. All this makes her outstanding, in my opinion. 

Overall, Thea is a highly-successful person, but not a happy one, because uncommon achievement is very often incompatible with peace and satisfaction. She's proof that striving and vocational success is not the road that leads to contentment. Yet she is a fulfilled individual because she's swept everything in her life to the periphery except for the one main thing she's chosen to make her life's focus. 'I have to work hard to do my worst, let alone my best.' For most of us, the sort of sacrificial heartlessness it takes is too high a price to pay. 

I'm left to grapple with the unexpected notion that we owe it to accomplished, hard-working creative souls in any field to be honest and discriminating when expressing our opinions. I've grown up under the famous axiom, 'If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all,' which has sometimes pricked my conscience while working on this blog. But what if calling out subpar work is, in fact, a favour to the truly deserving! While wearing my reviewing hat, pointing out specimens that miss the mark whenever I see them may be an important duty. Thea believes that politely calling average work excellent is a slap in the face for those who have sacrificed everything for their calling. 

Well, with no hesitation at all, I can say this book itself is great. No 'creative hate' is necessary in this case. Beneath is an image of the famous painting by Jules Breton from which the book partially derives its title. It is the painting, within the story, which Thea Kronborg herself bonded with when she saw it inside the Art Gallery of Chicago. And for us readers, it is also easy to imagine it as a perfect representation of Thea herself, during her Moonstone days. I think this would have been a far more suitable cover picture for my Virago classic. 

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 

Some thoughts on 'Jane Eyre' this time round

 'Victober' is a good time for reading and re-reading some Victorian Classics. It's a regular meme on bookstagram each October, and a habit I'm happy to buy into. I plucked this good old standby off my shelf, since it's been a good while since I last read it. (Here is my last review.) And coincidentally, it coincides almost perfectly with its publication date back in 1847. There are always fresh insights from each reading of an old text. Here is a list of what jumped out at me this time around. 

Beware, there may be spoilers.

1) Jane is a refreshing reverse-Cinderella. Her physical appearance is plain and her character is quite human and not saccharine sweet. The nurse, Bessie, says, 'If she were a nice, pretty child, one might compassionate her forlornness, but one really cannot care for such a little toad as that.' Whew, and Bessie is one the more sympathetic characters in young Jane's life. Charlotte Bronte was traversing new territory with a homely heroine in an era steeped with traditional fairy tales, that suggested that inner beauty surely must be reflected in outer. How liberating this book must have been for anyone whose appearance didn't live up to the social benchmarks at play around them. At last, even ordinary looking people are permitted to have lovely souls.

2) Is Helen Burns the real Cinderella persona here? Some Bronte scholars suggest that this sweet and pious girl was written as a tribute to Charlotte's sister, Maria, who died tragically at school under similar circumstances to Helen's. When severely punished for paltry offences, Helen's coping mechanism is to, 'look at what she can remember, not at what is really present.' It's a great habit that has aided many suffering souls. It's also Helen who leaves Jane with the lesson that, 'life is far too short to spend nursing animosity or registering wrongs.' 

3) Famous motifs keep repeating themselves throughout classic novels. For example, the way in which her Reed relatives treat Jane is a perfect 'snap' scenario for how the Dursleys treat Harry Potter. Jane is excluded from Christmas celebrations and receives no presents. Put a big, spoiled bullying cousin in Victorian knickerbockers and he's John Reed, yet in 21st century jeans and windcheater he becomes Dudley Dursley. It could be the same dude, in terms of nastiness, smugness, and being the recipient of their mothers' mollycoddling. There gets to be a, 'Hello, haven't I seen you before?,' quality to famous books.

And Aunt Reed's final act of tyranny to Jane is ensuring that she starts off on the wrong foot at Lowood School, similar to how David Copperfield's reputation as a 'biter' precedes him. Jane is locked in the Red Room and faints with fear, and a similar incident is repeated in early 20th century Canada when Aunt Elizabeth Murray punishes Emily of New Moon by locking her in an equally scary room in which an elderly male relative died. 

I find it credible to imagine some sort of collective unconscious phenomenon at play here across time and space, since these authors surely didn't have each other in mind when they wrote their stories. 

4) Jane is refreshingly free of name-dropping and big-noting herself. She's in no position to bung it on as we're encouraged to do in the 21st century in terms of platform building, which she's totally okay with. Her first grilling by Mr Rochester is great. Not only is Jane honest about having no family connections to boast of, but she feels no desire to 'fake it til you make it.' 

'Have you read much?' he asks, and she replies, 'Only such books as have come my way, and they have not been numerous or very learned.' 

Her refusal to bluff is one of the attributes that makes her so interesting to him, and later, she refuses to let him dress her in fine clothes and jewellery. 'You won't know me, Sir. I shall not be your Jane Eyre any more, but an ape in a harlequin's jacket, a jay in borrowed plumes.'

Her humility makes her exceptional, and it's no wonder that he deems her 'sagacious, novel and piquant.'

5) Jane exhausts her verbal eloquence pretty quickly when her cousins, Diana and Mary Rivers are around. While they're deep in discussion about whatever they're reading or studying, Jane is always first to run out of things to say. Even that's refreshing to me, since I'm just the same in class at Uni or around tables. I've often longed for the gift of the gab, but with Jane, I'm in good company. 

6) Giving somebody a piece of your mind isn't always as satisfying as it sounds. Several times in my life, I've found myself in the position to think, 'I wish I'd told her/him... (finish off with something cutting or snarky). But being quick-witted in the moment simply fans the flames of resentment and makes matters worse. As Dale Carnegie is famous for pointing out, people don't want to be cut down to size, so giving them pieces of our minds isn't the best way to win friends and influence people. 

When young Jane tells Aunt Reed what a nasty, horrible guardian she's been, it truly backfires on her. Aunt Reed now bears an even huger grudge to shape both the short term and long term future for Jane. First she establishes Jane's reputation as a troublemaker at Lowood School, and later she holds back news from Jane's wealthy uncle on the other side of her family, simply out of spite.

7) Don't get burned by people like St. John Rivers. This guy, whoa! He really is happiest when he's pushing himself to be miserable, and dealing with as much hardship as possible. A pleasant, pastoral lifestyle doesn't suit him at all, yet since he's performing acts of charity and working on God's behalf, it's so easy for him to place guilt trips on other people. I think that performing charitable acts is actually St. John's form of selfishness.

Girls, run a mile if you come across anybody as pious and manipulative, even if he does resemble a Greek god. 

8) Don't get burned by people like Rochester. I admit that in some ways, our hero seems sexier with each subsequent reading, to the extent that I found myself thinking, 'I wish Mason and Briggs wouldn't come and pull the plug on his wedding this time.' Rochester's passion-driven reasoning for his engagement to Jane does carry its own sort of weight. Since Jane has no relatives for any backlash to hurt if she lives an unwitting lifestyle as his mistress, she may well go for it. Yet the fact that she refuses to discard her solid principles makes her one of the most admirable characters of English literature. 

We must have lines we wouldn't cross, or we have nothing.

Check out for my review of Wide Sargasso Sea, in which Rochester's wife, Bertha, gets the understanding she arguably misses out on in Jane Eyre. Even though he clearly pictures himself as the victim in his relationship with his first wife, that's not entirely true, since he exploits her fortune, making full use of it for himself. 

'Pollyanna at Six Star Ranch' by Virginia May Moffitt

MY THOUGHTS: 

 I commend Virginia May Moffitt for choosing to do something that no other Pollyanna author did after Eleanor H Porter, and that is backtrack the story to Pollyanna's youth. Porter left no room to do so. Pollyanna 'grows up' in the second book of the series, and gets engaged at age 20 to her childhood chum, Jimmy. Ever since then, authors stick to her married life, although it was a shame to have passed over the scope for gladness in those teenage years. Moffitt evidently thought so too, because she decided to squeeze one in anyway.

Chronologically, this fits in at the halfway point of Pollyanna Grows Up. So you could stop reading that book at the end of Part 1, pick up this novel, then return to Part 2 when you finish. Here we have Pollyanna aged 16. She hasn't seen Jimmy since she was 14 and won't catch up with him again until she's 20. And Uncle Tom Chilton is resurrected from the dead for a few appearances, which is a bittersweet touch for us readers.

Having traveled for three years in Europe, Pollyanna and family are back in Beldingsville. Another young teen named Genevieve Hartley, whose father knows Uncle Tom, invites her to spend a few months at their ranch in Texas. Pollyanna will be joining Alice Jones for the train trip, a prim young school teacher who's returning to visit her Texan family. Uncle Tom is all for it, which neutralizes Aunt Polly's misgivings. So Pollyanna is off to spend time among the cactus and cowboys. 

She has grown a little self-conscious about the Glad Game, since Alice hints that it's childish, but can't help telling people all about it anyway. And there are plenty of people to benefit, like Mrs Billings, the widowed owner of a nearby ranch who envies all the perks of civilization her daughter, Susie, is missing out on. There's also old Tarby, a former quick-draw cowboy who now considers himself a has-been; and young Jack Ainsley, an amateur or 'tenderfoot' who feels he has a lot to prove. And there's also Storm, a prickly wild girl with a log-sized chip on her shoulder, who needs a bit of taming; and a family of roving Mexican workers who could really do with some friends. 

Okay, first for the good parts. It takes hard work by these characters to master the knack of the Glad Game, which gives us readers indirect lessons too. And Moffitt is great at embellishing her settings. Texas blooms beneath her pen; a spacious and breathtaking backdrop for honest and fun characters. 

Alas, now for the bad. I find some key plot points are heavy-handed and way too predictable. Folk are searching for a long-lost heir who stands to inherit half of another neighboring ranch. I think Moffitt intended to stun us with a gob-smacking revelation, but it's obvious to any canny reader from a mile off who the unwitting heir will turn out to be. Far-fetched proof plummets down like missiles. If only somebody had tipped Moffitt off that her subtlety is of the sledge hammer type. 

(She pulls the exact same move in the only other Glad book she authored, which was Pollyanna of Magic Valley. That long-lost heir's background and personality are strikingly similar to this one's. Using this tired trope once is corny, twice is almost farcical. So much for Virginia May Moffitt's contribution to this series.)

Pollyanna herself is far too good to be true this time around. She never once loses her cool, even when certain others behave in spiteful and dangerous ways. For this reason, I prefer Pollyanna's sidekick, Genevieve, who at least gets triggered as normal people do. Pollyanna's prattle about her Glad Game doesn't usually annoy me, but does in this story. There is some serious cheesiness overload. Pollyanna crosses a line to superior do-gooder, and white savior. 

It irks me, for example, when Pollyanna assumes that Refugia, the young Mexican mother, presents a grubby appearance because she knows no better. Pollyanna instinctively tries to teach her how to wash her face and comb her hair, when it turns out that in fact, Refugia simply had no access to soap and a comb for weeks. Perhaps we 21st readers are primed to wince at a certain Anglo-centric condescension. I usually try to overlook it based on the age of a text, but it was hard in this case.  

I really liked some of the characters, especially Genevieve, Jack (whose character is built up and then taken nowhere), and Alice's younger sister, Quentina. However, the drawbacks I've mentioned sadly prevent this from being a really good book.  

🌟🌟🌟

Hooray, that's it, folks. I've finished reviewing every single one of the fourteen Glad Books. It's taken me longer than I anticipated, since those written by anyone other than Eleanor H Porter and Harriet Lummis Smith were lemons in their own way, making me loath to persevere. I guess the good news is that you only need to read the first six to get the best of the Pollyanna series. You can be GLAD of that, if you like. I might just hold onto Porter's and Smith's because I can't see myself ever re-reading any of the others again.  

But hey, I'm glad I collected them all and extra glad that I've finished reading them. And if you're a completist, you'll no doubt want to do the same. Regardless of the quality of the stories themselves, it is quite interesting to see how they evolve throughout the decades in which they were written, from the turn of the twentieth century and WW1 through the twenties, thirties (and WW2), forties and fifties. It's like a tour through the first half of the twentieth century. 

Now, having received requests to review other books by Eleanor H Porter herself, I might start doing that before too long. 

If you'd like to read my thoughts from the very top, you can start HERE.