These
days I don't reread; there are too many books and not enough time.
When I was a child, though, it seemed to be the other way around, and
my favorite books got revisited as often as my favorite albums and my
favorite movies. Books that are in tatters on my shelf are engraved
in my memory, as deeply and comprehensively as the events of my own
life: His Dark Materials and
the first three Harry Potters
and The Turbulent Term of Tyke Tiler and
Anastasia Krupnik and
Matilda and The
Phantom Tollbooth...
What
makes rereading interesting is that you change. The words on the page
might stay the same, but each rereading is a different textual
encounter – you've changed, and so the text you read has changed
too. This was abundantly clear to me in my devoted twice-yearly
rereading of His Dark Materials throughout
my teens (oh, what did you expect, “geek” is right there in the
blog name), when each read-through was granted new depth by something
that had happened to me in the preceding six months: some allusion
brought to my awareness by my other reading, or some emotional
resonance heightened by a personal experience. Every single
rereading gave me a better
understanding of both the book and myself, and I marveled at the
apparent infinitude of meaning I could mine from the text.
In
the same way, I marvel at the freshness of my most recent encounter
with a beloved childhood book. I just finished rereading Anne
of Green Gables, on a whim,
for approximately the eight
billionth time, and it was a remarkably new
experience. I read this book literally dozens of times as a child,
but I have never read it like this before.
The
first thing I noticed is how completely female-dominated the story
is. From the opening paragraph, focalized through the formidable
Rachel Lynde, to the whole farcical setup of cohabiting siblings
Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert accidentally adopting Anne instead of
the boy they wanted, it's made quite clear that this a story of
women.
There
are maybe three male characters of any significance in the entire
book, and they're all striking for what they are not.
There's the schoolmaster, whom Anne hates and whose role is
completely overshadowed by his replacement, Anne's passionately
beloved teacher Miss Stacy. There's Matthew, whose quietness and
passivity contrast strikingly with the active and opinionated women
around him – Rachel Lynde, Marilla, Anne, Josephine Barry...
Actually, it's possible to read Matthew as an explicit example of
queer masculinity. Check out his response to Anne's asking him
whether he ever went “courting”:
‘Well
now, no, I dunno’s I ever did,’ said Matthew, who had certainly
never thought of such a thing in his whole existence.
Queer
as a fish. Welcome to the club, Matthew.
And
then there is Gilbert Blythe. Ah, Gilbert Blythe. Can I just state
for the record how hard I ship this particular OTP? I love that
Gilbert doesn't get easily forgiven for being an asshole just by
apologizing, but has to be ignored by Anne for a long time: he's the
one at fault, so the reconciliation isn't on his terms. I love that
Anne doesn't become friends with him after he saves her from the
river, but (her own love of sappy romance stories notwithstanding)
defies the “damsel in distress falls into her rescuer's arms”
narrative. I love that she is at least his intellectual equal, if not
his superior, and the first five years of their acquaintance are
characterized by fierce academic competition.
What
I'd forgotten, though, is the fact that the reconciliation takes
place on the third-to-last page of book. The charming courtship and
marriage I remember so fondly occurs entirely in later books.
Throughout this book, Gilbert's presence is an absence. Anne refuses
even to let his name pass her lips. She is far more concerned with
her female friends, the “kindred spirits” – a phrase I'm still
prone to using, much to the bafflement of people who never read this
book growing up.
As
a child, I naturally identified strongly with Anne. Although I
certainly had none of her charm or popularity, I saw aspects of
myself reflected in her prodigious imagination, her desire to be good
but inability to control her temper or impulses, her constant getting
into scrapes. Plus, you were supposed to identify with her. She was
the protagonist, wasn't she? Her name was right there in the title.
Now,
however, I'm struck by how much I relate to Marilla, the older single
woman who takes it on herself to raise Anne right. (Matthew is told
not to interfere, on the ridiculous premise that “Perhaps an old
maid doesn’t know much about bringing up a child, but I
guess she knows more than an old bachelor.”)
Marilla is opinionated and judgmental; she doesn't know what to do
with her emotions, and expresses affection by being kind of an
asshole. All of this I can personally identify with, but I don't
think it's just me. I think this is intended to be Marilla's story
just as much as Anne's: the story of the transformation of her life
brought about by Anne's presence in it.
After
all, many of the mistakes Anne makes can ultimately be traced back to
Marilla's own errors (the liniment cake, getting Diana drunk, the
incident of the amethyst brooch), and by the book's end Marilla has
grown and changed at least as much as Anne has. She has learned how
to be – not a parent, that is made very clear, but – a person
guiding and taking responsibility for another person, and growing in
self-knowledge as she does so. Toward the beginning of the book,
Marilla scolds Anne for her unconventional prayers and her deeply
personal (“positively irreverent”) exegesis of a picture of
'Christ Blessing Little Children'. Toward the end, on Anne's
departure for further education, she “wept for her girl in a
passion of sobs that appalled her when she grew calm enough to
reflect how very wicked it must be to take on so about a sinful
fellow creature.” Her professed theology hasn't changed, but her
lived theology – how she relates to other people – couldn't be
more different. She is the same person, and yet she is changed beyond
recognition: much like the adult reader returning to a beloved
childhood book.
We just had a really wonderful chat about revisiting our YA favorites from youth, and AOGG came up a lot. I adored the first three books in the series, and remember vividly when Gilbert had a sensual vision of Anne's dress slipping off her shoulders in Anne of Avonlea, I think. I was reading it under the desk in my 5th grade classroom and blushed bright red.
ReplyDeleteI totally LARPed as Anne before I ever knew what that was. I loved that series a girl! Thanks for reminding me of her. She was a great example of the Victorian Geek Girl.
ReplyDeleteOh, I loved these books! I brought Anne of Green Gables to school with me every day in 4th grade - I vividly remember tucking her under my desk when class started.
ReplyDeleteThanks for this feminist reading of them: I'd never noticed how woman-centric the stories were, either - that's a great observation.
What I did notice though was how nested and complex they are -- and how different that is from kids' books these days! You know, Anne telling a story about how so-and-so told a story about something that happened to her when she was a girl - very rich!
Have you read L. M. Montgomery's *other* books? I discovered them about, oh dear, it must be 15 or 20 years ago now. I think "Blue Castle" is my favorite, but the "Emily of New Moon" trilogy is a close second.
I'm thrilled to have stumbled upon this. Thanks for the delightful few minutes.
ReplyDeletePerhaps my favorite passage in the whole book - and therefore in all of literature - is:
"At that moment Marilla had a revelation. In the sudden stab of fear that pierced her very heart she realized what Anne had come to mean to her. She would have admitted that she liked Anne--nay, that she was very fond of Anne. But now she knew as she hurried wildly down the slope that Anne was dearer to her than anything else on earth."
Even as I copy/paste it, I can't read it without the tears welling up.