Having never been much of a fan of Elizabeth Gaskell, it was with some trepidation that I approached Cranford, perhaps more aptly referred to as Crapford. The fact that it remains Gaskell’s best known novel speaks little for her as a writer, as I found it an appallingly dull read. I shall attempt to keep as much of my rancour towards the book out of this review as possible, although I fear such an endeavour to be in vain. Despite what may be said by the literary elite, it is essentially a book about petty trifles with next to nothing in the way of plot. When reading Cranford, one is not concerned with issues such as the threat of industrialisation, the subjugation of the male, or the fragility of joint-stock banks, for one is far too busy being bored to tears by the sheer banality of the narrative. One saving grace is that the book is relatively short; that is, if one omits to read the accompanying appendixes and introduction present in the Penguin Classics edition.
Cranford is set in the small country town of... Cranford, wherein exists an insular community of elderly women and spinsters vying to retain the gentility of bygone days. As the world moves on about them, the Cranfordians remain trapped within their ignorant and unyielding ways. The book, rather than consisting of any overarching scenario, is made up of a series of relatively isolated vignettes, narrated in first person by a character called Elizabeth Gask- (ahem!) Mary Smith. This fragmented structure is due to the fact that Cranford was never originally intended as a novel, but started out as a set of stories published in the magazine Household Words. The action centres around the lives of a select bunch of Cranford inhabitants; a bunch of spinsters who spend all their time meeting for tea parties, playing cards, gossiping, and discussing which caps to wear. In fact, this pretty much sums up the entire novel; there is simply nothing more to it than that. Cranford is what Desperate Housewives would be if one took away the sex, intrigue and occasional murder, with the slight difference being that the majority of the Cranford ladies are either widowed or unmarried.
Since there is so little in the way of actual plot, I am finding it rather difficult to write an in-depth review. There are numerous attempts at comedy, all of which fall flat to a contemporary audience and more particularly on the younger generation. It is perhaps no wonder that I have yet to see it on any school syllabus, or even a university reading list. The main character appears to be Miss Matty Jenkyns, a timid and dithering old lasy unlikely to excite anybody. The scant male characters, with the exception of Matty’s long lost brother Peter, have been pushed to the periphery of existence and remain the objects of both suspicion and scorn. Those women traitorous enough to marry are very quickly dropped from society and ostracised.
I have very little to write positively of Gaskell’s little domestic masterpiece. It is for the most part competently written, but a complete want of interesting drama renders the style superfluous. If I were to recommend this book to anyone, it would be to a lonely old lady with nothing to keep her company but Coronation Street and a cat. Even then she might put it down in disgust and few could blame her. There is nothing more to be said; read it if you have absolutely nothing else to do.
Rating: 1/5
Cranford is set in the small country town of... Cranford, wherein exists an insular community of elderly women and spinsters vying to retain the gentility of bygone days. As the world moves on about them, the Cranfordians remain trapped within their ignorant and unyielding ways. The book, rather than consisting of any overarching scenario, is made up of a series of relatively isolated vignettes, narrated in first person by a character called Elizabeth Gask- (ahem!) Mary Smith. This fragmented structure is due to the fact that Cranford was never originally intended as a novel, but started out as a set of stories published in the magazine Household Words. The action centres around the lives of a select bunch of Cranford inhabitants; a bunch of spinsters who spend all their time meeting for tea parties, playing cards, gossiping, and discussing which caps to wear. In fact, this pretty much sums up the entire novel; there is simply nothing more to it than that. Cranford is what Desperate Housewives would be if one took away the sex, intrigue and occasional murder, with the slight difference being that the majority of the Cranford ladies are either widowed or unmarried.
Since there is so little in the way of actual plot, I am finding it rather difficult to write an in-depth review. There are numerous attempts at comedy, all of which fall flat to a contemporary audience and more particularly on the younger generation. It is perhaps no wonder that I have yet to see it on any school syllabus, or even a university reading list. The main character appears to be Miss Matty Jenkyns, a timid and dithering old lasy unlikely to excite anybody. The scant male characters, with the exception of Matty’s long lost brother Peter, have been pushed to the periphery of existence and remain the objects of both suspicion and scorn. Those women traitorous enough to marry are very quickly dropped from society and ostracised.
I have very little to write positively of Gaskell’s little domestic masterpiece. It is for the most part competently written, but a complete want of interesting drama renders the style superfluous. If I were to recommend this book to anyone, it would be to a lonely old lady with nothing to keep her company but Coronation Street and a cat. Even then she might put it down in disgust and few could blame her. There is nothing more to be said; read it if you have absolutely nothing else to do.
Rating: 1/5
No comments:
Post a Comment