Author Archives: Jason Tougaw

Adaptations of Nineteenth-Century Novels

Hi everybody. After our discussion of adaptations, I thought you might like to see clips and discussion of some–including those we watched and some additional.

“Scrooge,” from A Muppet Christmas Carol (Dir. Brian Henson, 1992)

A discussion of Jane Eyre (2011), with director Cary Joji Fukanaga and lead actress Mia Waskikoska

The trailer for Fukanaga’s adaptation of Jane Eyre

Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Dir. Rouben Mamoulian, starring Fredric March, 1931)

Angry Video Nerd’s Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Revisited (2011)

Emma (BBC production; dir. Jim O’Hanlon, starring Romola Garai, 2009)

Clueless (adaptation of Emma; dir. Amy Heckerling, starring Alicia Silverstone)

Pride and Prejudice (BBC production; dir. Simon Langton, starring Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth)

Discussion of Sherlock (2010 – present), with lead actors Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman

 

Reading Novels in the Nineteenth Century

In anything fit to be called by the name of reading, the process itself should be absorbing and voluptuous; we should gloat over a book; be rapt clean out of oursevles, and rise from the perusal, our mind filled with the busiest, kaleidoscopic dance of images, incapable of sleep or continuous thought. The words, if the book be eloquent, should run thenceforward in our ears like the noise of breakers, and the story repeat itself in a thousand coloured pictures to the eye.

–Robert Louis Stevenson, “A Gossip on Romance” (1882)

***

Men and women are but children of a larger growth: they are still imitative beings. We cannot (at least those who read to any purpose at all)–we cannot, I say, help being modified by the ideas that pass through our minds. We hardly wish to lay claim to such elasticity as retains no impress. We are active beings too. We are each one of the dramatis personae in some play on the stage of Life: hence our actions have their share in the effects of our reading.

–George Eliot, Letter to Maria Lewis, 1839

There is nothing more violently opposed to our moral sense, in all the contradictions to custom they present to us, than the utter unrestraint in which the heroines of this order are allowed to expatiate and develop their impulsive, stormy, passionate characters. We believe it is one chief among their many dangers to youthful readers that they open out a picture of life free from all the perhaps irksome checks that confine their own existence. … The heroine of this class of novel is charming because she is undisciplined, and the victim of impulse; because she has never known restraint or has cast it aside, because in all these respects she is below the thoroughly trained and tried woman.

–Margaret Oliphant, “Our Sensation Novelists,” 1863

Excerpts from Some Nineteenth-Century British Novels

The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a millrace in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in stature.

There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside me as I write, was brought there later on and for the very purpose of these transformations. The night however, was far gone into the morning—the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the conception of the day—the inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde.

Robert Louis Stevenson, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (“Henry Jekyll’s Full Statement of the Case”), 1886

* * *

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.

“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.

You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”

This was invitation enough.

“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.”

“What is his name?”

“Bingley.”

“Is he married or single?”

“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”

“How so? How can it affect them?”

–Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice (Chapter 1), 1813

* * *

“Reader, I married him.  A quiet wedding we had: he and I, the parson and clerk, were alone present.  When we got back from church, I went into the kitchen of the manor-house, where Mary was cooking dinner, and John cleaning the knives, and I said: –“Mary, I have been married to Mr. Rochester this evening.”

–Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre (Chapter 38: Conclusion), 1847

* * *

No sooner did the youth witness the delivering enjoyment he was the means of bestowing upon the beautiful Bella, and became sensible of the flood which she had poured down in such profusion upon his person, then he was also seized with lustful fury. A raging torrent of desire seemed to rush through his veins; his instrument was now plunged to the hilt in her delicious belly, then, drawing back, he extracted the smoking member almost to the head. He pressed and bore all before him. He felt a tickling, maddening feeling creeping upon him; he tightened his grasp upon his young mistress, and at the same instant that another cry of rapturous enjoyment issued from her heaving breast, he found himself gasping upon her bosom, and pouring into her grateful womb a rich tickling jet of youthful vigour.

–Anonymous, Autobiography of a Flea (Chapter 1), 1887

* * *

It was on a dreary night of November that I beheld the accomplishment of my toils. With an anxiety that almost amounted to agony, I collected the instruments of life around me, that I might infuse a spark of being into the lifeless thing that lay at my feet. It was already one in the morning; the rain pattered dismally against the panes, and my candle was nearly burnt out, when, by the glimmer of the half-extinguished light, I saw the dull yellow eye of the creature open; it breathed hard, and a convulsive motion agitated its limbs.

How can I describe my emotions at this catastrophe, or how delineate the wretch whom with such infinite pains and care I had endeavoured to form? His limbs were in proportion, and I had selected his features as beautiful. Beautiful! Great God! His yellow skin scarcely covered the work of muscles and arteries beneath; his hair was of a lustrous black, and flowing; his teeth of a pearly whiteness; but these luxuriances only formed a more horrid contrast with his watery eyes, that seemed almost of the same colour as the dun-white sockets in which they were set, his shrivelled complexion and straight black lips.

–Mary Shelley, Frankenstein (Chapter 5), 1818

* * *

Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing him.

Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no longer.

“Which is it to-day?” I asked,—”morphine or cocaine?”

He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he had opened. “It is cocaine,” he said,—”a seven-per-cent. solution. Would you care to try it?”

“No, indeed,” I answered, brusquely. “My constitution has not got over the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain upon it.”

He smiled at my vehemence. “Perhaps you are right, Watson,” he said. “I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it, however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that its secondary action is a matter of small moment.”

“But consider!” I said, earnestly. “Count the cost! Your brain may, as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to some extent answerable.”

He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who has a relish for conversation.

“My mind,” he said, “rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence. I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own particular profession,—or rather created it, for I am the only one in the world.”

–Arthur Conan Doyle, “The Sign of Four” (Chapter 1), 1890

 

 

Dates for Blog Assignments

Take a look at the blogging assignments listed below. If enrollment shuffles, these may change, but hopefully not too much. You can find more information about the blog assignments on the Requirements page. You should post by the Sunday before class on the week’s to which you’re assigned. I’ve also indicated whose blogging each week on the Calendar page.

Weeks 2, 6, & 10: Sarah, Clemence, Mike

Weeks 3, 7, & 11: David, Laura, Alix, Kelsey

Weeks 4, 8, & 12: Katryna, Angela, Kevin, Malorie

Weeks 5, 9, & 13: Kim, Ali, Sunjida, Nathan

Our Online Home

Welcome to the online home for English 345: English Novel II. You’ll find all the information you need for the course on this site. Consider it an enhanced, online syllabus. We will also use the site as a course blog–to share ideas, discoveries, and interpretations about the texts we read. See the “Requirements” page for a description of the blog assignments.

We’ll read six fascinating nineteenth-century British novels together, each exploring different (though often overlapping) questions about the mind, psychology, human behavior, and social relations. In addition, we’ll read the work of nineteenth-century psychologists, physicians, and philosophers–as well as contemporary scholarship and journalism responding to the novels.

We’re a small group–16, including me. That means we can run the course like a seminar, with lots of conversation and interaction. By the end of the semester, we’ll create a course website, which will be an online anthology of essays you’ll write about what you’ve been learning. Again, see the “Requirements” page for a description of the assignment.

It should be a challenging, engaging, and rewarding semester. Let’s hope it’s also fun.