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Readings through February, 2017

Friday, 9/9/2016, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Emily Brontë, WUTHERING HEIGHTS (1847), chapters 1 - 17

Friday, 9/23/2016, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Emily Brontë, WUTHERING HEIGHTS (1847), chapters 18 - 34

Friday, 10/14/2016, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Charlotte Brontë, JANE EYRE (1847), chapters 1 - 20

Friday, 10/28/2016, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Charlotte Brontë, JANE EYRE (1847), chapters 21 - 38

Friday, 11/18/2016, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Anne Brontë, AGNES GREY (1847)

Friday, 12/9/2016, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.


Friday, 1/13/2017, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Charlotte Brontë, VILLETTE (1853), chapters 1 - 15 (volume I)

Friday, 1/27/2017, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Charlotte Brontë, VILLETTE (1853), chapters 16 - 27 (volume II)

Friday, 2/10/2017, 10:30 a.m. to 12:30 p.m.

Charlotte Brontë, VILLETTE (1853), chapters 28 - 42 (volume III)




Because this novel is so involved with European Jewish culture, I thought it might be helpful to define a few words in the text:

1. Ba'al Shem Tov. In Hebrew, the name means something like "The Master Of The Good Name." It's the honorific title given to Rabbi Israel ben Eliezer (c. 1700 - 1760), a Ukranian mystic who is considered the founder of the strict, ulttra-orthodox sect of Hasidism, often associated with beaver fur hats and long black coats, ring curls at the ears (called "peyos" [pay-us]) and unwavering adherence to Sabbath and festival laws. Almost all the Jews in THE LAST OF THE JUST are Hasidic--as indeed were so many who were burned in the Holocaust, partly because they were so obviously recognizable on the street because of their distinctive clothing. Hasids are not only very strict but also extremely mystical, some of the most profound users of the kabbalah, a magical/mystical interpretation of Jewish scriptures. Indeed, one of the most interesting things is that the novel itself has the mystical tone of kabbalah--which gives it almost a fairy-tale or folklore quality, particularly as it moves into the German sections.

2. Levy (or Levi). According to Judaic tradition, anyone with the last name of Levy (or Levi) is a member of the ancient tribe of Levi, one of the original twelve tribes of Hebrew culture as delineated in Torah, the tribe from which the temple priests were chosen. By the way, those with the last name of Cohen are considered actual descendents of those priests ("cohen" just means "priest" in Hebrew)--and indeed, genetic studies have shown a very narrow field of variation among Cohens, a mark that they are indeed some sort of cohesive group even today.

3. Midrash. Jewish theology is actually an interlocking system of interpretive schematics. In a nutshell, Torah is the "law" (a combination of legal rules and early history) Moses received from God, the first five books of the Bible, sometimes called "the Pentateuch" (Genesis, Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers, Deuteronomy). Tanakh is what Christians call "the Old Testament," in Jewish thought itself considered a commentary on Torah. The Talmud is a commentary on Tanakh, a collection of the sayings, teachings, and interpretations of thousands of rabbis over the centuries. Many young men in Hebrew schools today study Talmud, not Tanakh or Torah. And the Midrash is a commentary on the Torah and Talmud. Thus, the Midrash is a commentary on a commentary on a commentary of Mosaic law. And thus, Jewish theology is an interlinking set of commentaries, a vast jigsaw puzzle of interpretations.

4. Mitzvah. Technically, the Hebrew word means "commandment," a reference to one of the many laws God gave Moses. However, it has come to mean something like "blessing." You do something as a mitzvah--that is, as a blessing because you're fulfilling one of God's laws. If you feed the hungry, someone might say, "Such a mitzvah!" Visiting your parents is a mitzvah.

5. Ta'anith (or taanit) This is a commentary specifically on Jewish feast days (Passover, Yom Kippur, etc.), considered part of Talmud.

6. Tsedokeh (or tzedakah). A Hebrew word meaning "righteousness" or perhaps "justice." However, in modern usage, it's now come to mean "charity"--but not what you might think. Rather, it's an obligatory charity--for example, in Jewish theology, feeding the hungry is not considered an act of volitional charity (like putting money in a church offering) but instead an act of tzedakah, an obligation, like helping your family out when they are in trouble.

And one more thing: as the novel moves into the German sections, there's much written about hats and wigs. Hasidic men must keep their heads covered at all times to show reverence to God. Indeed, most men wear a yarmulke (the skull cap sometimes also called a "kepah" [kee-pah]) as well as a more traditional black round fur hat or a black fedora. Women, by contrast, shave their heads after marriage and wear a wig (called a sheitel [shy-tul]). They do this to conform to Torah law which claims that a woman's hair is a mark of beauty--and so women should not appear attractive to other men once they have been married. Thus, women cover their hair by setting a wig over their hair--or simply shave their heads so the wigs fit better. Some rabbis also claim women must shave their heads so they will not appear too attractive and distract their husbands from studying Torah, Talmud, or other sacred texts.


MRS. ENGELS: A Historical Primer

This one's a historical novel. Honestly, we don't read too much historical fiction. But as such, it's full of realpolitik figures and events. Yes, some of it goes down in the background. Here's a key set.

Karl Marx (1818 - 1883). Although we think of him today as an economist (developing an alternative system to capitalism), he mostly thought of himself as a philosopher and a historian (he went to college at Bonn to study law). Although Prussian, his preoccupation was instead with English society, particularly the kind of dog-eat-child capitalism Dickens depicted. In fact, Marx's life work was not so much an "alternate" system to the economic engine of capitalism but instead a critique of it. Marx saw capitalism as the necessary step before the final revolution in which labor (the proletariat, the working classes) would come to control their own destiny without an overlord, ownership class. But it's that little word which you might have missed--"necessary"--which caused (and still causes) so many problems. It indicates that there's a set, determined sequence of events, one following the other in an established order. It's all fated (as it were, despite Marx's atheism), all laid out. Even today among his followers, his most contentious point was and is that notion of what's termed "historical determinism"--that is, certain historical forces (for example, society in distinct classes like the bourgeoisie and the proletariat) will inevitably result in foreseen historic changes (the development of a state in which workers, not capitalists, control the economic levers). It's that fatalism, almost Calvinistic, that has proven so controversial; for it allows all sorts of abuses in the name of its greater good (as elsewhere, religious zealots can massacre thousands, even millions in the name of bringing about some future world order/peace they see in the offing). In the end, Marx's greatest achievement was that he changed the way we see our world, no matter what else we think about his theories. His works teach us to see the world symbolically--that is, what happens in the world is the surface expression (a metaphor, perhaps) of deeper processes that remain just out of sight. Think even now of the way people talk about Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, and other presidential candidates: as if they are nodes that point to larger, underlying problems or forces that the enlightened can see. We do it so much, it now seems natural. It wasn't before Marx. Today, we interpret history as a complex interplay of symbol systems. The rise of Nazism was because . . . as exemplified by. . . .  The fall of the Austro-Hungarian empire was because . . . as exemplified by. . . .  We sometimes even see history as inevitable, a bow to Marx's notion of historical determinism. In the end--and this may be the really revolutionary bit--Marx read history as Freud read the psyche: as a story, a plot, with a beginning, a middle, and (here's the rub) an end. And it's impossible to see history as anything but a symbolically charged story after him. We now routinely, almost naturally make a narrative out of events--and out of ourselves--not just from the events themselves but using those events as metaphors of deeper, unseen forces at play. In so many ways, Marx and Freud created the modern world. As I've said dozens of times in our group, we live in the wreckage of the nineteenth century.

Frederick Engels (1820 - 1895). In many ways, Engels is the spark that got the Marx/Engels partnership off the ground, both by financing Marx through periods of his life and by providing a necessary kick into political activism, not just philosophy. Together, of course, they wrote "The Communist Manifesto," perhaps the single most important piece of writing to come out of the nineteenth century. We still bob in its wake. Engels was indeed the son of a wealthy German family. He met Marx for the first time in 1842, on his way to the family factories in Manchester. Neither initially liked the other. Marx thought Engels a bit of a dandy. And perhaps he was. By all accounts, he was a rather spoiled child who was indeed radicalized by his time spent overseeing the Manchester mills his family partly owned. And the woman who radicalized him, by all accounts, was one of the Burns sisters. How he met these two remains a bit of a mystery. Gavin McCrea fills in some of the details in his novel to make a fuller story but we do know that Mary Burns led him around the Irish ghettos of Manchester, deepening and changing his notions of economics and the historical forces at play on labor and the working classes. He and Mary were together almost twenty years, until her death in 1863. In many ways, her insights prompted him to write his seminal work, "The Condition of the Working Class in England." Although he didn't yet have a working theory of revolution and its future state, he predicted a grim industrial nightmare for the West. His absences in MRS. ENGELS that so bedevil Mary early on are not necessarily just trips home. He is becoming further radicalized in Paris clubs and Brussels associations. And he is beginning to collaborate more fully with Marx, his first publisher. Engels himself saw a historical spirit, a world destiny, that would eventually find its way into Marx's writings. Engels also first makes the claim that history repeats itself, "first as tragedy, then as farce," a claim Marx himself would pick up and make famous. Engels indeed supported Marx in the 1870s as the older scholar was finishing up his magnum opus, "Das Kapital." Marx died with the work unfinished. Engels edited the second and third volumes into shape and then compiled the remainder into what is now seen as a large appendix to the work.

Lydia "Lizzie" Burns (1827 - 1878). In truth, we know next to nothing about her except that she was Engels' consort after the death of her sister, Mary, his former consort. McCrea himself in an interview says she "floats through drawing rooms" in the historical record without leaving much of a trace. For the record, Engels was not opposed to marriage as an institution--he felt that the current economic system stymied its natural development. However, he did marry Lizzie in the last minutes of her life, mostly to satisfy her final wishes which were rooted in her Catholicism. But while they were hale and healthy, they both snubbed convention and apparently reveled in being an unmarried pair in London society, in some ways like George Eliot and George Henry Lewes, contemporaries of Burns and Engels. After her death, Engels wrote, "My wife was a real child of the Irish proletariat and her passionate devotion to the class in which she was born was worth much more to me--and helped me more in times of stress--than all the elegance of an educated, artistic middle-class bluestocking."

The Paris Commune (1871). Any attempt to write about the commune in this short space will prove silly. Suffice it to say, France had been in political turmoil for years, besieged both by bad politics after Napoleon Bonaparte's death and its wily neighbors who had designs on its territory. After Louis-Phillipe Napoleon had himself installed as Emperor Napoleon III of the so-called "Second Empire" in 1852, some stability came to the country but only at the cost of rather repressive social structures. In fact, France was little more than a very chic capital surrounded by poverty and blight. And well-armed Prussia was a constant thorn in its side. War broke out between the two--eventually France was defeated at the Battle of Sedan in 1870. However, that didn't end things. After the emperor and empress fled Paris, a new national government was founded, based largely on the city's more radical politicians. Prussia marched on toward Paris and began a four-month, brutal siege. After complicated political machinations, including the disarming of the French army but not the far more politically radical National Guard, a commune was founded in Paris on 18 March 1871, a radicalized form of government that Marx called "the dictatorship of the proletariat." It was rank idealism, an attempt to institute social justice almost by fiat, to solve the problems of the slums with intellectuals in control. In "The Civil War in France," Marx wrote: "Working men's Paris, with its Commune, will be forever celebrated as the glorious harbinger of a new society. Its martyrs are enshrined in the great heart of the working class. Its exterminators' history has already been nailed to that eternal pillory from which all the prayers of their priest will not avail to redeem them." But it was not to last. The commune collapsed two months later because of internal squabbling between communists (thus, the word we use today) and anarchists, as well as external pressures, including some from the United States. But it was the first truly leftist government established in the West, at first a great signal that Marx and Engels were right, then later a glaring statement of their shortcomings. Is liberty inevitable? Is it the same for everyone? Still, even today, red flags from the Paris Commune adorn Lenin's tomb. It's not a mistake that the novel is set during this frenzied time. 


DANIEL DERONDA and Modern Zionism

If you haven't finished the novel, HERE BE SPOILERS. Consider coming back when you're done.

This is an early picture of Jews returning to modern-day Israel. It was taken in 1947. It has nothing to do with DANIEL DERONDA.

True, as George Eliot's sweeping, final novel comes to a close, we do have an intimate vision of Deronda setting off for "the East" in search of his personal roots as well as the foundations of his new Jewish identity. By "the East," both the character and the author are probably talking, not about China or India, but about the Middle East, specifically what had been called the Levant, or perhaps modern-day Israel. But actually, it's not that simple, not that definite. It's vague. It had to be, as you'll see.

One of the first synagogues built in modern-day Israel, from about 1885.At the time the novel was written (the mid-1870s) and even the time when it was set (the late 1860s), Deronda's and Mirah's voyage would have been nothing short of pioneering--and dangerous at that. The first modern "colony" of Jews in what is now Israel was founded only in 1860, just a few years before the action of the novel. That colony was always a tenuous affair. It didn't even last. In fact, the first lasting resettlement occurred in the early 1880s, years after the events of the novel and in fact a few years after Eliot's death. So if Deronda's voyage would have actually taken place in the real world, it would have been an extremely early expression of what came to be known as Zionism, the political and cultural movement to relocate the Jews to a homeland.

A homeland, not "the." And which one? It's not easy to answer. After the Roman Empire brutally crushed the Jewish uprising in 70 CE, the Jews were scattered throughout the Mediterranean region, first settling in modern-day Turkey; around Alexandria, Egypt; and in modern-day Iran near Tehran--and then spreading farther and farther out across the Empire, the far East, and Africa. In medieval and Renaissance Europe, the bulk of European Jewish settlements were in the region of modern-day Poland, Hungary, and eastern Russia; but there were many more on the Iberian peninsula and even in northern Africa.

By the nineteenth century, a revival of both Hebrew and Rabbinic culture across Europe (see the previous post) led to the belief that the Jews would never be able to practice their religion properly without being in their own land. These were the halcyon days for the idea of what we now call the "nation-state," the nineteenth century absurdity that claimed each ethnicity should have its own place: the French, the British, the Germans, etc. Of course, you'd have to buy that the French, the British, the Germans, etc., are indeed ethnicities, apart from languages and, say, cooking techniques. However, such was the world they lived in--and that we inherited. So nations were supposed to equal races (another nineteenth-century absurdity).

The first Zionist conference in 1897Early Zionist leaders suggested many places as a homeland: yes, what's now modern Israel, then controlled by the Ottoman Empire; but also Uganda, Argentina, and even a few spots in India. These suggestions are what account for George Eliot's rather vague notion of "the East."

In truth, there wasn't a concerted call yet for modern Israel to be what it now is. After all, that region had been run over by the Crusaders, by various conquering armies, and finally by the Ottomans. It wasn't exactly Paradise.

Things would take a dramatic turn after the close of Eliot's novel--and indeed, after the end of her life--when Theodor Herzl, a Hungarian journalist, penned Der Judenstaat ("The Jewish State") in 1896, a plea for a modern Israel. Herzl helped convene the first Zionist conference in Basel, Switzerland, in 1897. The road began to open for more and more Jews to immigrate to Israel. But all that took place decades after DANIEL DERONDA.

By the way, this mass immigration is known as the Aliyah (ah-lee-yah), a Hebrew word that means something like "the going up." If you're familiar with the language of the Bible, you know that Tanakh (what Christians call "the Old Testament") repeatedly refers to Jerusalem as "up." "Let us go up to Jerusalem." Thus, the Aliyah (or "going up") is the modern term for the mass migrations that began at the turn of the twentieth century and then picked up speed after World War II. That first permanent settlement in the 1880s is now referred to in retrospect as the first Aliyah. Still, Deronda in the 1860s would have been well ahead of this, even well ahead of Herzl.

Indeed, Eliot was well ahead of her time. Don't think that it was a common thing that Deronda should head to "the East." Eliot was sensing--even predicting--something that would happen in the decades after her death.

Theodor HerzlAs an interesting side note, Herzl's Zionism was motivated by the pogroms that regularly ran across Russia, murdering and disappearing Jews by the millions long before the Holocaust. By the time Herzl was writing, the notion that the Jews should return to their ancient homeland, what we now call Israel, was well versed--but not before. Many early Zionists believed that Jews simply needed a place, any place, of their own. In fact, because of the intense antisemitism inside Russia in the nineteenth century, many Jewish intellectuals supported Germany in World War I. It's easy--and deadly--to imagine that the devil you don't know is better than the devil you do.

Of course, much happened post-DERONDA. The Ottomans were defeated in World War I. They lost their empire. Great Britain picked up the pieces in a colonial move that proved tricky, if not absurd. The genocidal nightmares of the Nazis became a reality. The British gave up that land under a U. N. mandate. And the modern Aliyah (and state of Israel) began in 1948. But that's seventy-two years after DANIEL DERONDA's publication and sixty-eight years after Eliot's death. What she senses isn't a reality in the 1870s. It's not even a dream. She imagined it.


Reinventing Hebrew

A fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls, written in a specific dialect of HebrewWhen Deronda learns Hebrew, it isn't quite the quiet, tame act it seems. Eliot is playing with Zionist fire. In the nineteenth century, the language itself was a charged subject--mostly because it had been long considered "dead," the province of rabbis, their students, and a few scholars. But in the mid-1800s, Hebrew began its quick resurrection.

Let's go back. Spoken Hebrew, the language of Torah (or the Old Testament) began falling out of favor sometime around 700 BCE, around the Assyrian captivity of the northern kingdom of Israel. By 400 BCE, no one spoke Hebrew; it was merely a liturgical language, the language of the sacred text. Jesus and his followers did not speak Hebrew (and certainly didn't speak Greek, the language of the New Testament). They spoke Aramaic, the formerly official language of the Assyrian Empire and a language well spread throughout the northwestern Middle East, a language related to Hebrew and Phoenecian. Parts of the Biblical books of Ezra and Daniel are written, not in Hebrew, but in Aramaic. And Aramaic, not Hebrew, became the important language of many of the commentaries on Torah. Even Hebrew itself, because it was not in use except for liturgical and rabbinic purposes, developed its own idiosyncracies unrelated to normal speech patterns. Medieval Hebrew is a language that was almost never spoken, only written, about the way Latin functioned in the Roman Catholic Church through parts of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.

Eliezer ben-Yehuda (1858 - 1922)It probably would have stayed that way if it weren't for the rise of Zionism, the political movement that claimed the Jews were not Germans or Poles, but a unique people, subject to almost unprecedented levels of persecution, who could only find safety in a permanent homeland. Nothing aided that effort like the rise of a common language. Indeed, modern Hebrew, the language now spoken in Israel, is a nineteenth-century, Zionist creation. The Jewish intellectual Eliezer ben-Yehuda, a Lithuanian newspaper editor, undertook the almost Herculean task of bringing the language back to life.

Here was his problem: after the destruction of the Temple and the upstart Jewish rebellion against the Roman empire in 70 A.D., the Jews were brutally scattered throughout the Middle East, the Fertile Crescent, and even into modern Italy, Turkey, and Bulgaria. (This great movement of their civilization is now known as the "diaspora.") Over the centuries, often in response to official pogroms or local persecutions, Jews began to fan out across wider and wider areas. Most eventually settled in east-central Europe: eastern Germany, Poland, Ukraine, western Russia, and adjoining territories. This area has come to be known as the "pale of settlement." (That name was originally applied just to western Russia but soon began to include adjacent territories.)

While the bulk of the Jewish population settled here (and note that some of our novel takes place in Germany), many others settled far and wide. Over time, Aramaic--and even liturgical Hebrew--began fusing with the surrounding languages. By the nineteenth century, the bulk of Jews in central Europe spoke Yiddish, a fusion of Hebrew, German, Russian, and a smattering of other languages. Other Jews in Spain, Portugal, and northern Africa spoke Ladino, a fusion of liturgical Hebrew, the Sephardic dialect of Hebrew, Aramaic, Spanish, and Arabic. Jews in Lithuania spoke Litvak, a local dialect of Lithuanian. Still others, far out in central Asia, spoke Bukhori, a fusion of Aramaic, liturgical Hebrew, Tajik, and a smattering of Hindi and Chinese. Still others left in Palestine spoke Judeo-Arabic, a mostly Arabic-influenced dialect of Aramaic.

Most of these languages have died off, thanks to the rise of modern Hebrew. But they do still survive in songs. (I once sang an entire Ladino concert with a group in New York City.) Here's a clip of fantastic singer doing a Ladino number:


And of course, Yiddish was kept alive for many years in New York City with its Yiddish theaters on the Lower East Side and through many folk songs. Even if you don't know Yiddish, you know it as a line in a famous song (I think you have to get through a wretched ad first):

Modern Hebrew's problem was ancient Hebrew. Like all Semitic languages, Hebrew is built off roots. In Hebrew, three consonants in a set succession always represent some sort of general concept: water, life, meat, love, loyalty. For example, these three consonants, כתב, "ktb" (remember: Hebrew is read right to left), form the basis of the concept of "writing." Note that there are no vowels here. Hebrew is technically a language that only writes the consonants (the vowels are often added as dots and lines under or next to the consonants, dots and lines called "points," to help those not yet proficient in the language). For now, let's add a flat "a" between each consonant: katab. Now the word means "he writes." But we can start playing with, altering, and morphing that root, keeping those three consonants intact to create other words: katabnu ("we wrote"), yiktob ("he will write"), katib ("a writer"), hiktib ("he dictated"), hikatteb ("he wrote a letter"), miktab ("mail"). See: by altering the sounds around the root while keeping that root intact, we keep creating new meanings, all about writing. We can do this with hundreds of thousands of three-letter roots.

But that doesn't do much good for modern Hebrew. After all, the world is quite different from the time of King Solomon. What's the three-letter root that would offer us "democracy" or "cannon" or "tomato"? So Eliezer ben-Yehuda began fusing ancient Hebraic roots onto mostly Russian and German words. He was re-inventing a language to deal with concepts like "cotton gin" or "whiskey" or "czar." He was creating words. He also began to change the language itself, using the grammar of German and Russian to "modernize" Hebrew. For example, Biblical Hebrew isn't very big on verb tenses: past, present, future. They're there but slippery. Ben-Yehuda began introducing mode modern verb tenses into his version of Hebrew, standardizing the language to make it more "European."

In so doing, he was creating controversies. Most Rabbis considered his efforts heretical. Hebrew was liturgical, sacred. Furthermore, ben-Yehuda adopted a pronunciation system that was Sephardic--that is, mostly from Spain and northern Africa--not the Ashkenazi system favored by most Jews in central Europe.

But how else will you form a nation out of whole cloth without a unified language? Ben-Yehuda was one of the very earliest immigrants to Palestine in the early 1880s. But his ridiculously complicated efforts soon paid off. Zionism soon breathed life into the hope for a homeland. (It came too late for six million.) At the turn of the century, Jews began arriving more and more in the "Holy Land." They came from all over; they needed a common language, especially since they faced so much resistance among the local populations. Ben-Yehuda had crafted a ready answer. His work produced the Hebrew that is now the language of Israel.

And one more thing, closely related. If you don't know about klezmer, the Yiddish-focused music style popular with Jews across Europe (and of course, the namesake of a certain musician in our novel), here's one of my favorite groups, The Isle of Klezbos, a lesbian klezmer band, giving a rousing live performance:


The Hottest Narrators, Tartar Or Not

Since this book has such a mouthy narrator, I thought it might be a good opportunity just to remind you of the five sorts of narrators that exist in the European/American literary tradition:

1. First-person limited perspective narrator. This big talker, of course, tells the story as an "I" (that is, using the grammatical first person pronoun). Almost all "I" narrators are first-person limited perspective ones, meaning that the "I" of the story sees things only through his or her own eyes (and thus doesn't know everything that's going on). Think Huck Finn or Holden Caulfield. Think of the first three chapters of THE SOUND AND THE FURY (we are going to read that book some day). Think of almost any memoir or autobiography you could read. However, this stance doesn't have to be an "I" narrator. The first-person limited perspective can be a "we." Think of that glorious book about Japanese brides in America we read last year, Julie Otsuka's THE BUDDHA IN THE ATTIC.

2. First-person omniscient narrator.  
This is far rarer, an "I" narrator who sees, hears, and knows everything. Imagine writing a book from God's perspective with God telling the story. Or imagine some of those horrid political autobiographies or memoirs that come out every election season. This storytelling stance is far harder to pull off since it frequently becomes turgid, overblown, or downright insufferable. However, this stance is frequently used in religious texts in which the diety speaks directly. One of the most amazing things about the Jewish narrative tradition (from which the Christian one springs) is that God is never the title character. God is a character in a narrative which claims to report his speech.

3. Third-person limited perspective narrator. Henry James is said to have perfected this art: a story told in the third person grammatically (he or she did this or that) with the perspective strictly limited to that character's eyes and ears. In other words, nothing happens that he or she wouldn't see or experience. THE PORTRAIT OF A LADY is one example. But an imperfect one because there are chapters throughout that happen without Isabel's presence (Gilbert and Madame Merle have a talk fireside, for example). A whole novel in third person strictly from the main character's perspective is a tough act to pull off. Once you start writing about a character in the third person, it's hard to control it to just his or her eyes. Some modern novelists, however, do it quite well--like Ian McEwan in ENDURING LOVE or Richard Ford in CANADA (wow, I loved that book). Colum McCann works at it in LET THE GREAT WORLD SPIN, except every chapter is a new perspective from a different character's point of view.

4. Third-person omniscient narrator. This is the most common narrative stance in the Western tradition. For example, with the exception of a couple of Chaucer's characters, almost every pilgrim in THE CANTERBURY TALES tells a tale from an omniscient stance: in other words, the narrative is about a "he" or a "she" (not an "I") but the narrator behind the scenes knows everything, even what the character doesn't or can't know. George Eliot is often caught on this dilemma: she wants to write a third-person limited perspective story (only from her character's eyes) but she also often feels compelled to step back and offer a wider perspective. (Wait until DANIEL DERONDA this winter!) Most films are told from this omniscient perspective with the camera taking up "God's eye" so that it sees beyond what the characters could see. (Watch out--the bad guy is right behind that door!) One of the things that makes THE CLASH OF CIVILIZATIONS OVER AN ELEVATOR IN PIAZZA VITTORIO such a bad film is the way the camera has to collapse all those first-person limited narrators into a third-person omniscient narrator--and then it just becomes a sad murder mystery.

5. Second-person narrator. Rare. Very. Basically, the whole thing is told as "you." You do this and you do that. There are some postmodern narratives written this way. David Eagleman's SUM: FORTY TALES OF THE AFTERLIVES pulls it off: after death, you go here or you go there. (Remember that book?) It's an odd stance but becoming increasingly popular with experimental writers--as if the reader is a character in the tale being told. I know an experimental writer in New York who wrote a 1200-page (!) memoir entirely in the second-person: it's his life but told it as it were about me, the reader. On this day, you have lunch with your grandmother who tells you. . . . Almost by definition, the second-person technique is a limited perspective stance: since you, the writer, are writing me into your story and telling me what I'm doing, you can only see it from my (that is, your) perspective.

So that's the run-down. There are finesses, of course. One could write a third-person plural narrative: "they." I don't know any that are successful but it's theoretically possible. And one can combine techniques, a frequent move in Victorian and post-Victorian novels. For example, Dickens' BLEAK HOUSE uses both third-person omniscient and first-person limited perspective narratives in alternating chapters: first a chapter in Esther's "I" voice, then one in the narrator's voice, then back to Esther's "I" voice, and so on. We really should read that one, too.