I have a beautiful, old edition of this book. I wish I could show you.
On the book marker, in old-fashioned cursive, it says,
Merry Christmas
To Lottie
from
Dora
Update:
This is a truly beautiful work. Enchanting. Mesmerizing, really.
There is just one little thing though...
I'd heard rumblings of this book being misogynistic. Loving Tennyson as I do, I refused to believe it. Basically, I read the book like this:
"Well, that's not necessarily sexist...Okay, it is. But, surely he didn't intend...Okay, he did. But, that doesn't make it some kind of misogynist manifesto!...Bloody Hell."
He's not just saying that women had a certain role or that certain women had a negative influence. He's clearly saying that women only hinder a man's more noble pursuits. Though there are good women in the book, they have little influence over events. Though there are bad men, they are likewise secondary or portrayed as deeply conflicted. Seems to me, when your only choices are, "naive virgin," "adulterous bitch," "frigid bitch," and "bitch," you're conflicted! But Tennyson's women, excepting Elaine and Guinevere, are one dimensional. It would seem Dora's message from the great beyond is, "Merry Christmas. Shut your whore face."
At this point, you're probably wondering why I gave this book five stars if I hated it...
I loved it.
You see, there's just something about it, an otherworldly beauty. Not just beauty but undeniable truth. I love the tragic Elaine and the wantonly destructive Lancelot. I love Guinevere's incapacity for quiet contentment. I love how the holy quest for the grail was soured by by pride and greed. I love Enid's sweetness and Lynette's hilarious bitchiness. I love Arthur's high ideals and his bitter disillusionment. Most of all, I love the glimpse into Tennyson's own tortured psyche. Because, when you really look at it, this isn't a morality tale at all. It's loss of innocence. It's human nature. It's, by God, we really tried.
Then Arthur rose and Lancelot followed him,
And while they stood without the doors, the King
Turned to him saying, `Is it then so well?
Or mine the blame that oft I seem as he
Of whom was written, "A sound is in his ears"?
The foot that loiters, bidden go,--the glance
That only seems half-loyal to command,--
A manner somewhat fallen from reverence--
Or have I dreamed the bearing of our knights
Tells of a manhood ever less and lower?
Or whence the fear lest this my realm, upreared,
By noble deeds at one with noble vows,
From flat confusion and brute violences,
Reel back into the beast, and be no more?'
He spoke, and taking all his younger knights,
Down the slope city rode, and sharply turned
North by the gate. In her high bower the Queen,
Working a tapestry, lifted up her head,
Watched her lord pass, and knew not that she sighed.
I am a whore, dammit! A whore for Tennyson!
"You don't have to shout."
Sorry.