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A review by tomleetang
The Way We Live Now by Anthony Trollope
4.0
This novel is the death of romance, not just in the sense of pure, unwavering love, but also in the sense of what it generally entails, from brilliant fortunes to dazzling aristocratic alliances to daring elopements. All of it is shown to be illusion, illusion that must give way to pragmatism as the foundations of happiness.
That makes this novel sound terribly depressing, but its deep cynicism is alleviated by sharp, amusing satire, which takes aim at literary critics as well as financiers; at the snobbish wealthy and the simple poor; at indolent men and conniving women.
Unlike Dickens, Trollope shows even the villains of the story have their bright points, the heroes their faults. There is no pure goodness here, but also no pitch black villain. The attitude perhaps holds more in common with Thackeray in point of thought, but without as cruel a cynicism - though it is fairly cynical.
Having said that, Trollope lacks the virtuosic brilliance of Dickens, the sensitive intellect of Eliot or the compassion of Gaskel. It's easy to see why he's been somewhat overshadowed as a Victorian author. But for all Trollope's circumlocution and rather uninspired vocabulary, he is still a great storyteller, one who combines realism with a cutting humour, which he uses to frame debates about the emancipation of women, about bigotry and - above all - about the illusory nature of money.
That makes this novel sound terribly depressing, but its deep cynicism is alleviated by sharp, amusing satire, which takes aim at literary critics as well as financiers; at the snobbish wealthy and the simple poor; at indolent men and conniving women.
Unlike Dickens, Trollope shows even the villains of the story have their bright points, the heroes their faults. There is no pure goodness here, but also no pitch black villain. The attitude perhaps holds more in common with Thackeray in point of thought, but without as cruel a cynicism - though it is fairly cynical.
Having said that, Trollope lacks the virtuosic brilliance of Dickens, the sensitive intellect of Eliot or the compassion of Gaskel. It's easy to see why he's been somewhat overshadowed as a Victorian author. But for all Trollope's circumlocution and rather uninspired vocabulary, he is still a great storyteller, one who combines realism with a cutting humour, which he uses to frame debates about the emancipation of women, about bigotry and - above all - about the illusory nature of money.