3.5/5
Name me a white man whose authorial repute and chain of influence was sunken for a century or more not out of obscurity or lack of opportunity, but reputation. They said some things, they slept around, they did one or the other or all the actions prescribed as social ills by some and declared as damnation by the voices that count. Come. Just one. Considering the rate at which famous names of that demographic are revealed to be murderers and rapists and pedophiles, it can't be hard to find just one whose followers had to read in secret and leave a breadcrumb trail constitued only of traits of characters and arc of plot. Sade? Malory? The case for Jefferson composes itself, but no one wants to touch on that.
Wollstonecraft was far more concerned with shaping her words to match her thoughts and feelings than the other way around. Couple that with a life cut short by a royal physician reaching up inside her and ripping out the belated placenta (That one's for you, 18th century romanticizers. Hygiene? Gloves? Ha) and you get something that needs a great deal of work. However, the manner in which 'The Tenant of Wildfell Hall' and 'The Yellow-Wallpaper' still astonish today attests more than anything to the sheer power of the plot, for if the author of at least the first didn't read Maria I'll eat my hat. Some may remark on the plot's uniqueness, but the only reason for that is the simple matter of writers not wanting to get their hands dirty. Domestic abuse, legal trials, and madhouse flights done not for the sake of sensationalist exposées, but the fervent hope that the reading here will inspire the triumph there? That certainly will not sell. It will, however, lay the groundwork for the Helen Graham and so many others of her kind, lines of inheritance that will never, ever, be buried deeply enough to forever ward off escape.
I read this and Wollstonecraft's Vindication in preparation for reading the near entirety of Jane Austen's bibliography. What the first fiction lacks in polishing it makes up for in self-reflexivity, eyeing the class divisions and similar yet dissimilar trouble of women in such a way that it kills me to think on what could have been achieved with a mere two or three decades tacked on the author's life. A stiffling of Godwin's dire buffonery when it came to publishing, for one. A less sunken treasure feeling when it comes to the idea of finding Wollstonecraft in Austen, for another. The latter's seemingly all nice and cute, but we all know what it takes for women to avoid the blotting out of infamy.