By Maria Sermersheim
Meditatione Ignis
“Middlemarch,” the famed novel by George Eliot, is sanctifying.
Not to say that it tries one’s patience, though it might do that, too. (It is a very long book, future readers be forewarned.). “Middlemarch” is sanctifying in the sense that it contributes to making one a saint. I have been blown away by the depth of this book and the considerations it provokes — particularly the bare self-examination that it prompts — so much so that I decided it deserves an article of praise and recommendation.
George Eliot is the pen name of Mary Ann Evans, an English writer of the 19th century. From what I gathered in the introduction, she is not particularly faithful; however, she does not betray her indifference or otherwise to religion in the book. Middlemarch is merely the name of a provincial town in Great Britain, home to a few characters whose lives the readers are granted witness. As the narrator regales the reader with the plodding facts of life (marriage, employment, town gossip and the like), we are given clear insight into the characters’ conscious deliberations and subconscious desires and frustrations. It is this aspect of the book that I think makes it into a sort of narrative examination of conscience. I argue that the book is sanctifying, though, not simply an examination of conscience, because Eliot provides enough narrative sympathy to her characters as she unveils a million hidden motivations that it is nearly impossible not to see oneself under that same direct, piercing light. The honesty of Eliot’s evaluations and the sympathizing and self-identification of the readers with the characters are paired with fairly evident estimates of morality. I was not left wondering if the action was good or bad nearly as often as I was left wondering: would I do the same thing?
In giving such vivid insight into the vortex of emotions for each of the main characters, analyzing their unspoken and even unknown hopes and fears, and revealing their more deeply-rooted dispositions and expectations, Eliot increases our compassion for and understanding of the denizens of “Middlemarch,” as much as they may irk us sometimes. With the same stroke, Eliot leaves the space for us to reckon with the power of free will and to conclude that even with the swirl of thoughts and emotions and varying internal forces that we are privy to for each main character, circumstances do not tell the story; choices do. Remarkably, Eliot has increased both my forgiving compassion and my sense of responsibility to make prudent choices — and that is a saintly combination if I’ve ever heard of one.
Is it a long book? Yes. Is there sometimes outdated English, and I don’t understand it? Yes. Is it a book that I will hold in my heart for consideration of myself and others, one that will shape my sympathy and invigorate my responsibility in even the most domestic matters for the rest of my life? Yes. And as such a book, for any and all who may wish to read a novel and be sanctified, I very highly recommend “Middlemarch.”