When I started all this, I had firmly lodged in my head the idea that 19th Century Brit Lit and its BBC-type movie interpretations could cure any problem of modern life. Well, MY limited version of modern life. Which means I went into this convinced that Austen, Hardy, Trollope, and company could solve everything but gang violence, Columbian drug cartels, and futile searches for WMDs.
It’s been awhile since I was wrong. But I was wrong. While the Brit Lit Cure is nearly miraculous in its ability to bring perspective, humor, empathy and common-sense wisdom to most ailments, it fails almost comically when applied to a select few others.
- A hangover
There are some drinkers in Austen. Mr. Hurst comes immediately to mind. Dickens, Eliot, Hardy, Trollope — Lots of drinkers. But these characters are archetypal wastrels. They are career ne’r-do-wells. Lifelong party hounds and Lost-Weekenders. And while there is a lot of drinking of wine and ale at all hours of the day and by all characters for any old excuse (Remember Darcy offering Elizabeth a glass of wine the morning that she received anxious news from home?), no one ever seems worse for the wear. No vertical naps following a drinky luncheon. No sleeping in because the dinner party the night before went off the hook. And no one ever has to worry about police checkpoints for drunk drivers. These people had carriages. And drivers. And Highway Patrol wasn’t invented yet. Neither was Aleve. I just plain can’t relate at all.
- My socially awkward son’s dearth of friends in school.
My son is smart, cool, funny, kind, well read, a fast runner, great swimmer, budding surfer, fair rock climber and seasoned backpacker. He’s also frighteningly handsome. But he has no real friends in school. Girls give him the fits. I can’t wait till all these twerpy little snots figure out what a great kid he is and start calling the house asking to talk to him. Then they’ll find out that karma’s a bitch and so am I. 19th Century British Literature is remarkably devoid of socially awkward kids with potentially bitchy, bitter moms. Except Lady Catherine de Bourgh. I’d like to forget I just drew that parallel. I hate me.
- A crippling heatwave
They’re all wearing 90 percent too much clothing in these books. London in the middle of summer cannot be any more pleasant than the 10-day Southern California heatwave I just lived through. No one in these books complains about the heat. No one has a pool. When they go to the beach (the seaside), they wear 120 percent too much clothing. It’s like they have no sense of self preservation.
- Men who wear too much cologne
This is a real problem for me, and I can find no help at all in these books. Maybe the problem back then was a lack of running water and an egregious lack of regular bathing. Maybe they were all inured to the reek of their fellow man. But why are men in this current day so devoted to smelling like the first floor of Nordstrom? It’s really effeminate (not that there’s anything wrong with that), which, judging from the marketing campaigns, is definitely not the goal. Maybe it’s me. I can’t be the only one who holds her breath in an elevator when a man gets in (most of the time). Can I?
