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A review by anaphabetic
The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James
3.0
The Portrait of a Lady had me confused all the while I was reading it. As a matter of fact, it still has me confused. This novel gives me all kind of ambiguous and contradictory sensations, and I’m still not sure what to make of it.
One of top reviews here in Goodreads compares the experience of reading this book to the one of going to the gym after a long, tiresome day, and I find the metaphor only too fitting. This novel, with its 500 pages, took me so long to read, mainly because picking it up was a kind of sacrifice; it’s a hard, dense book that often drags. And here is where the first contradiction appears, because it’s a book that for me was extremely hard to start, but also extremely hard to put down . The ultra-descriptive style of Henry James makes for both a nuisance and a delight. Once you have gathered the strength of will necessary to choose reading it over, let’s say, watching an episode of your favourite show, the book becomes a pleasure to read. For instance, the first part, with its luxurious and detailed account of the quiet life at Gardencourt, transmits such a sense of calm and coziness that I couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy.
The main contradiction I find in The Portrait is that I can’t decide whether I’m reading a proto-feminist piece or a traditionally misogynist one. On one hand, the character of Isabel is so modern; she’s alive with curiosity, intellectual inquiries, and a refreshing appreciation for her freedom. Most of her suitors and her cousin Ralph seem to be delighted with her uncanny personality. On the other hand, some characters, especially the odious Gilbert Osmond, seem to find she has “way too many ideas of her own”. And it would be easy to declare these ideas as proto-feminist, because most of the misogynistic vibes comefrom “the bad team” characters. However, the problem is that at times there’s a slight feeling of judgement passed on Isabel and her attitude, subtle and not explicitly shown. I’m still trying to make my mind about this one.
Despite all these contradictions, I still enjoyed the novel, and would recommend it to those interested in the peculiar way of writing, and Henry James’ use of character development. And one last thing: Ralph Touchett <3.
She had long before this taken old Rome into her confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a less unnatural catastrophe.
One of top reviews here in Goodreads compares the experience of reading this book to the one of going to the gym after a long, tiresome day, and I find the metaphor only too fitting. This novel, with its 500 pages, took me so long to read, mainly because picking it up was a kind of sacrifice; it’s a hard, dense book that often drags. And here is where the first contradiction appears, because it’s a book that for me was extremely hard to start, but also extremely hard to put down . The ultra-descriptive style of Henry James makes for both a nuisance and a delight. Once you have gathered the strength of will necessary to choose reading it over, let’s say, watching an episode of your favourite show, the book becomes a pleasure to read. For instance, the first part, with its luxurious and detailed account of the quiet life at Gardencourt, transmits such a sense of calm and coziness that I couldn’t help but feel warm and fuzzy.
She was always planning out her development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, suggestions of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one’s spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses.
The main contradiction I find in The Portrait is that I can’t decide whether I’m reading a proto-feminist piece or a traditionally misogynist one. On one hand, the character of Isabel is so modern; she’s alive with curiosity, intellectual inquiries, and a refreshing appreciation for her freedom. Most of her suitors and her cousin Ralph seem to be delighted with her uncanny personality. On the other hand, some characters, especially the odious Gilbert Osmond, seem to find she has “way too many ideas of her own”. And it would be easy to declare these ideas as proto-feminist, because most of the misogynistic vibes comefrom “the bad team” characters. However, the problem is that at times there’s a slight feeling of judgement passed on Isabel and her attitude, subtle and not explicitly shown. I’m still trying to make my mind about this one.
The real offence, as she ultimately perceived, was her having a mind of her own at all. Her mind was to be his – attached to his own like a small garden plot to a deer-park. He would rake the soil gently and water the flowers; he would weed the bed and gather an occasional nosegay. It would be a pretty piece of property for a proprietor already far-reaching. He didn’t wish her to be stupid. On the contrary, it was because she was clever that she had pleased him. But he expected her intelligence to operate altogether in his favour, and so far from desiring her to be a blank he had flattered himself that it would be richly receptive. He had expected his wife to feel with him and for him, to enter into his opinions, his ambitions, his preferences.
Despite all these contradictions, I still enjoyed the novel, and would recommend it to those interested in the peculiar way of writing, and Henry James’ use of character development. And one last thing: Ralph Touchett <3.