Author: ladybug

When I first read Jane Eyre I was in high school. I had been given permission to go through my father’s office and take any books I wanted, and I did so eagerly. Looking back, I think there was a desire to prove that I really was a reader, that I could take books that I thought were suitably grown up and understand them and enjoy them. Those books sat on a shelf in my room for a little while as I tried to get my nerve up to find them interesting. They were all old, and most of them hadn’t been read in years.

So I picked one that, after a few false starts, seemed the least intimidating. Jane Eyre. I could read about a woman named Jane – that wasn’t too bad at all. So, to prove that I was absolutely very grown up and reading a grown up book and was really very smart, I went downstairs to read in the living room, just in case anybody wanted to see what I was reading.

I stubbornly struggled my way through the introduction, and eventually I got to the good part. I remember the exact moment that it clicked for me. I was sitting next to a window, I could hear the rain pouring outside, but I was dry and warm with a pillow on my lap, and I was reading about Jane Eyre. Except actually, I was standing in Gateshead Hall, reading about birds with Jane. I was standing at the top of the stairs confronting Mrs. Reed. I was sitting in the middle of the stream with Jane as she got to explore the outdoors of Lowood. I was walking away from Thornfield Hall with her and sleeping in the moors under the stars. And all of those moments coalesced into a beautiful feeling of nostalgia for all of the imagined scenes I created as a child, for every moment I had dreamed that I was experiencing these moments of exploration and nature that Jane was. I was absolutely transported. Although I didn’t understand the nuances of the novel, I enjoyed it and every moment of Jane’s journey took me along with her.

It was one of the first moments where I felt like I really related to people when they said that they were transported into a novel, where I was really present to that experience. And I had chosen it for myself, without any prompting. Of course I fell in love with it. Since that first reading I have read it a good many more times, and every time I have learned more either through class discussions and readings, or on my own through my own reflections. I have never not gotten something out of reading Jane Eyre, and I think that’s really special. Even as my understanding of the inner mechanics of the text have changed, I still find myself utterly fascinated by all the questions reading it inspires. I initially picked up Jane Eyre for reasons entirely beyond the text itself, but every reading beyond that first choice has been driven by a curiosity to learn more about everything within it.

On a call with a friend, discussing material culture within Jane Eyre, we both brought up specific structures in the text that indicate the importance of objects throughout the text, in different iterations, using different contexts. Because this concept was addressed in conversation, we each had different “first thoughts” about ways in which materials were significant in Brontë works. I brought up a more expansive thought, coming from the perspective of my thesis, wanting to connect this idea across Brontë works: the combination of the material manifested through the architecture in Jane Eyre, and how that in turn connects to the very omnipresent Gothic. The other Brontë novel I have currently read is Wuthering Heights, which, like Jane Eyre, has several buildings that connect to greater themes, like belonging, internal conflict, and larger Gothic motifs like ghosts and spirituality, across novels. This thought process makes me curious the ways in which this connection could be found in other Brontë novels. Another idea of material culture is that many objects indicate deeper cultural meanings – for example, as my friend mentioned, mahogany furniture and clothing are both materials that indicate a deeper cultural significance outside of Jane’s personal world, perhaps leading into Charlotte Brontë’s lived experience.

Although a specific occasion that can assist my analysis into material culture across Brontë novels is not immediately obvious, there are many moments I can think of – historical, narratively in films or novels, etc. – that use material objects to indicate a greater cultural significance than one might immediately assume. For example, I’m sure many of us have heard the well-worn joke that English teachers, especially in high school, will prescribe too much significance on some blue drapes; after all, those must indicate sadness and devastation for the characters – meanwhile, all the students are thinking that the truth about those blue drapes are that they’re really just what they are, and nothing deeper. But the fascinating thing about this example is that it actually indicates, on both sides of the joke, a greater cultural meaning. Sure, the blue drapes could indicate sadness for the characters – the color blue having an American cultural association with sadness, and drapes could have a deeper meaning of shutting out light and staying in darkness. On the other hand, the dismissal of that deeper meaning and acknowledging that maybe those blue drapes exist just because the author likes the color blue and wanted to spice up a room description, also show a greater cultural awareness necessary for a time when a lot of objects are ascribed over-significance, especially given the oversaturation of visual stimuli and entertainment. So, looking deeper into a joke about current material cultural, I am able to wonder at how authorial descriptions of objects in entertainment could be, subconsciously or consciously, indicative of greater cultural meaning on several levels. And if all that is possible with a joke about high school English teachers and blue drapes, what could be observed with a deep dive into Victorian material culture and Brontë novels?

Primary Texts

Jane Eyre (1846), Charlotte Brontë

Wuthering Heights (1847), Emily Brontë

The Tenant of Wildfell Hall (1848), Anne Brontë

Villette (1853), Charlotte Brontë

Shirley (1849), Charlotte Brontë

The Professor (1857), Charlotte Brontë

Agnes Grey (1847), Anne Brontë

 

3-5 Secondary/Theoretical Works:

The Cambridge Companion to the Brontës (2002), Edited by Heather Glen

The Cambridge Companion to the Victorian Novel (2012), Edited by Deirdre David

The Brontë Myth (2001), Lucasta Miller

The Madwoman in the Attic (1979), Sandra Gilbert and Susan Gubar

Poetics of Space (1958), Gaston Bachelard

Ideas in Things (2006), Elaine Freedgood

Relics of Death (2015), Deborah Lutz

• • • • Also by Deborah Lutz: The Brontë Cabinet: Three Lives In Nine Objects (2016)

 

Academic Journal:

Brontë Studies: The Journal of the Brontë Society

 

Key terms:

Victorian Culture/Society, Religion, Gender, Material Culture, Gothic, Brontë Biography

 

Initial Thoughts: 

The main questions I have decided to approach my reading list with have been: how can I deepen my understanding of the Brontë sisters? How can I gain a deeper cultural understanding of their lives and lifestyle? Considering my initial curiosity about ways that religion and gender is utilized in specifically Jane Eyre, are there patterns across novels that could indicate deeper meanings? The Brontës lived in the mid-nineteenth century. Are there ways that their novels questioned or supported cultural “norms” that we, as current readings, take for granted?

I briefly with Professor Sider Jost because I wanted to know if there were ways I could broaden my frame of reference for religion – although he didn’t have concrete answers for me, it was nice to let him know what I’m researching. I have plans to talk with Professor Seiler on this topic as well – I studied Jane Eyre with her last semester in her Novel and the Normal class, and she referred me to The Madwoman in the Attic, which I want to pursue with greater attention this semester. Although I am beginning my thought process on the Brontës with thoughts of religion, this is largely because I understand it to be the subject I am least familiar with. I hope that by asking these questions, and doing more research, I will be able to find framework to begin posing more in-depth questions about the nature of the Brontë works.

Update:

My initial thought process when I started thinking about how I wanted to research Brontë literature was centered around what I didn’t know – namely, religion. After spending some time reading through the Brontë Studies journal, I encountered material culture in conversation with Brontë literature, a new concept to me that I found immediately fascinating. Not only is it newly contemporary within this journal, but I have found that, when reading books of this time, object and materials are very present and often very significant within Victorian culture.  After continued conversation with Professor Kersh, several books that could be helpful in furthering my research into material culture have been added to my reading list based on her suggestions.

Following our in-class discussion with our library liaison, I have also found several other useful databases and search techniques that will be helpful in expanding my research into Brontë biography as well as general Victorian culture.

Because of these observations, my questions have shifted away from the religious presence in Jane Eyre and towards the Gothic presence, specifically as it relates to material culture. Some of the biggest “objects” within the novel are buildings, think Thornfield Hall, Gateshead, Lowood, that in turn indicate deeper cultural significance and themes. These themes, like colonialism and many iterations of hierarchies, in turn manifest through these buildings and the novel’s narrative elements as Gothic themes that then connect to cultural ones, or are indicative if deeper cultural ideologies. This thought process sparked the idea that, if these Gothic themes that are manifested through material culture, specifically through buildings/architectural structures within Jane Eyre, then it is very likely that this is a connecting theme across Brontë works (i.e. Wuthering Heights) in a way that will likely offer greater insight into their Victorian society but also the Brontë’s lived experiences. To that aim, I intend to further my research by continuing to research material culture and the current scholarly works about it, as well as Victorian culture and Brontë biography, to try and observe these connections across texts.

An unexpected recurrence across my classes this semester has been a continuous discussion about how things come to be. Whether this is material or metaphorical, it bears surprising relevance when thinking about (you guessed it) context. In one of my classes, the content of a text is distinguished between the “verbal work” and the “material work”; the verbal work being the concept and existence of a body of work inside its creator’s mind, and the material work being every step of the physical production of said text.

What is so significant about the material work is that every step along the way to produce a physical copy is influenced by the possibility of error, human or otherwise. Even in modern book production there is a margin for error, and book printing in the past was subject to even more so. The manuscript passed through so many hands just to print words on paper, not to mention the work of binding those pages together. Perhaps there is a typo somewhere – or perhaps where the text is being produced is undergoing the unfortunate influence of censorship, muddling the “intent” of the author. I use quotes around intent here to acknowledge that there is no way of knowing, when considering texts, the specific intent behind content.

Toni Morrison touches upon this in Playing in the Dark, where she delves into an in-depth and heart-wrenchingly philosophical analysis of author biases. Whether subconscious or conscious, the “verbal work” is influenced by the sociocultural environment of the time. Whether this is through racialized language or other hierarchical values, these influences present, along with the fluctuating content of the material work, a greater contextual insight into broader contexts beyond the pages of the text itself.

Consider Ulysses: the process Joyce went through to transcribe the “verbal work” into the meticulously edited and revised versions of the “material work” was Herculean (don’t let Joyce know I think that). Part of the trials Joyce went through for Ulysses was due to censorship laws; others due to his physical health (which can in part be considered a “human error” influencing the material work). Take into account more ancient works like The Odyssey or The Iliad, which were originally entirely verbal performances. Although the time and quantity of recitations could have deviated the material from its original “verbal work”, transcribing these epics into versions of their “material works” surely subjected to them to all manner of errors; additionally, every translated edition contains slight variations that can impact the way a text is consumed. The ways that things are made, and specifically the context the making of things offers when trying to understand a work to the fullest, fascinates me thoroughly.

One of the keywords I continue to gravitate towards is context. Chapter four of Culler: Language, Meaning, and Interpretation, had a lot to say about context and meaning in literature. There were several key concepts that I found thought-provoking throughout the chapter. First, that meaning (and therefore language) is a system of differences. As Culler puts it, “What gives the train its identity is its place in the system of trains: it is this train, as opposed to the others”. This is particularly compelling in the greater context (ha) of literature – what gives literature meaning is “‘to be what others are not’”. This key concept of meaning beginning through difference is expanded on as Culler takes a closer look at language, which brings me to the second concept that I found fascinating in this chapter: that “language is both the concrete manifestation of ideology… and the site of its questioning and undoing”.

Culler consolidates this point by differentiating each practice into poetics and hermeneutics. In short, each practice does what the other does not: poetics “starts with attested meanings or effects and asks how they are achieved”; hermeneutics “starts with texts and asks what they mean, seeking to discover new and better interpretations”. As I was reading this, it occurred to me that many methods of literary criticism seem to combine these practices; beginning with the attested meanings of a text and asking how it has come to mean that, as well as questioning how that meaning can be applied to humanity. Culler goes on to attest to this exact practice.

What Culler concludes, by the end of his chapter, is the third concept that has stuck with me: that “meaning is context-bound, but context is boundless”. Two practices he outlines that deal with this are hermeneutics of recovery and hermeneutics of suspicion. Both practices deal with interpreting the wider context of a text in varied ways. Both practices were compelling to me, giving language to what I have found fascinating about reading any form of literature for a long time. What is context? According to Culler, it’s boundless, the idea of which is both deeply intimidating and liberating as I turn towards contemplating what I want to devote my thesis to. Although this chapter of Culler did not offer me any answers, he did improve both my vocabulary about context and educate me about the specific ways in which I can begin to analyze context in a deeper way. All this to say — oh boy am I thinking a Lot about context (because it’s super interesting) and now I have to think more about what specific form of context I would like to think more about. Thanks, Culler.

In this post I would like to write about the moment in Rear Window where Jefferies, stuck in his wheelchair, can do nothing but watch as Lars Thorwald confronts Lisa, who has snuck into his apartment. This moment, near the final culmination of the film, is intense – it is still uncertain to both the audience and to Jefferies whether or not Thorwald is a murderer, Lisa and Stella have snuck into the garden to dig for evidence, and the neighbor’s dog has been killed. Thorwald has been lured away– they don’t know when he will return.

The height of intensity in the moment of confrontation between Thorwald and Lisa is not uncertainty, but that of realization. Jefferies has been orchestrating this investigation from the beginning. Although his leg is broken, he is near recovery, and at no point during the film has this impacted his standing on any social platform. Lisa still cares for him, is in love with him, and is attracted to him, so he is still a “man”; he is still valued and wanted at his workplace so he is still capable; his war friend and now-detective Doyle still picks up his calls, so he is not unimportant.  But now, the power status of his unnoticed observations of his neighbors is abruptly reversed. Both the audience and Jefferies himself are confronted with the realization that he cannot move; as Lisa cries for his help, he can do nothing but watch and hope that someone else will be able to save her.

It is only in this moment of helplessness that he turns his face away, desperately, into Stella, and then back to Lisa; Jefferies cannot help but watch, just as he has been doing throughout the film.

This is also when the film’s continued use of the answered question and implications rises into one of the culminations of its finale. Will we know what happens to Lisa? Will she be saved? We know that Jefferies cannot save her, but he has been the one driving the film to each new conclusion. With the foundation of the plot destabilized, the fact that nothing has been certain throughout heightens the tension of the scene.

Lisa is saved – is she now in jail? Jefferies can no longer see her, but Thorwald has seen him. The previous scene with Lisa and Jefferies’ helplessness now lends itself to the next. Where before the film relied on what the characters do not know (they don’t know that Jefferies is watching; Jefferies doesn’t know if Thorwald is guilty), now the audience has been confronted with several knowns: Jefferies cannot move, and Thorwald – guilty or not – is dangerous and has been provoked by Jefferies.

The heightened tension in the previous scene ratchets up the tension in the next; the big realization of Jefferies’ lack of control makes the next more terrifying in its looming uncertainty.