What’s the Big Deal about ‘Middlemarch’?
In Which I Interview Myself about George Eliot’s Beloved Classic
Question: Read anything good recently?
Answer: Yes, I just finished Middlemarch by George Eliot. It’s excellent.
Cool. What’s it about?
It’s complicated. Can I first tell you something about novels more generally?
Sure, go ahead.
Nonfiction seeks to convey information. I’m sure we can all think of exceptions to the rule, but nonfiction tends toward making an argument, building a case. To the extent it employs narratives, they double as evidence or ways of qualifying evidence. Even in the most narrative of forms—say, history—the storyline typically serves to undergird an argument. The author wants to say x about the subject, and we come along wanting to see what they have to say. All that makes it somewhat easy to describe what a nonfiction book is about.
Novels are different. Stories aren’t “about” a subject in the same way. “I have come to see literature as an alternate . . . source of knowing,” says Arnold Weinstein. “Alternate to information.” Novels recruit the imagination to convey a series and range of experiences. They teach us not by relaying facts but by inviting vicarious participation; what the characters experience, we to one degree or another also experience.
I feel like you’re dodging my question. Are you saying you can’t tell me what Middlemarch is about?
That’s what I’m trying to get at! Part of the challenge of describing a novel like Middlemarch is precisely the difficulty of summarizing all the experience crammed into its pages (which are ample; my copy is 785 pages long). Set in a titular, midsized English town of the 1830s, there are over a dozen significant characters in various stages and stations of life, all pursuing meaning and purpose amid countless obstacles.
Such as?
Let me start with my favorite character, Fred Vincy. A bachelor and son of the mayor, Fred loves horses and gambling. Bad combo. He’s financially irresponsible and accustomed to his dad bailing him out. But when we first encounter young Fred, he’s old enough to manage his own debts—including one precarious loan from the father of his principal love interest, a lender who can scarcely afford Fred reneging on his agreement. And, after a horse trade gone wrong, Fred does—much to everyone’s dismay.
Then there is the likeably unlikeable Mr. Casaubon, the just-past-his-prime clergyman who dreams of completing a scholarly endeavor of such vision and magnitude his name will live for all time. Alas, he struggles to put his notes in order. “He dreams footnotes,” says one character, “and they run away with all his brains.”
Thankfully, Casaubon’s lovely, devoted young wife Dorothea is ready to help with the chore. Fred and Casaubon are moons orbiting more substantial planets, of which Dorothea is one. The novel begins with headstrong, idealistic Dorothea and her meek and slightly dippy sister living with their uncle, Mr. Brooke. Idolizing Casaubon for his learning and wisdom, Dorothea quickly fixates on the idea of marrying him and assisting in all his grand affairs. Reality disappoints.
As often happens. Who are these other planets?
The main one is Dr. Tertius Lydgate who moves to Middlemarch in hopes of opening a medical practice. He does, though it proves difficult because he’s a young doctor with new ideas. Nonetheless he presses on, fully dedicated to his mission. Until, that is, he stumbles over the petticoats of a young woman and marries her—Fred’s sister, as it happens. Despite having a decent income, he soon finds himself swimming in debt, mired in local politics, his practice faltering. Things get rockier from there.
Then there’s Will Ladislaw, Casaubon’s dashing cousin, drawn to Dorothea like a moth to a lamp. Though Dorothea is beyond reproach, her jealous husband isn’t so sure. He imagines the two of them getting up to trouble and acts as definitively as he knows how to prevent any shenanigans.
Beyond that, there’s an inheritance importuned by a secret will, a vicar who gambles for spending money, a moralistic banker with a dark secret, and enough gossip to put a church quilting circle to shame.
To tell you the truth, everyone sounds pretty miserable. You said you enjoyed this novel? What’s there to like?
Well, I can’t tell you how it all turns out! Suffice it to say, they don’t stay miserable. The point is, as I was saying above, the range of experiences conveyed by Eliot. She—
She?
I didn’t mention that: George Eliot is a pen name for Mary Ann Evans.
Anyway, she constructs a world where all these characters pursue their aims and stir up questions about love and commitment, hope and disappointment, ambition and jealousy, morality and hypocrisy—not to mention social class and striving, home and family obligations, gender roles and expectations, religion and spirituality, and plenty more.
Many of these characters do attain happiness but not the way they—nor we the readers—would have initially imagined. All along the way we’re invited to puzzle through their motivations, their reactions, their decisions. And because these characters are so richly drawn, our participation in their stories feels genuine. At least it did for me. I will definitely be rereading it.
What would you get out of a rereading that you didn’t get the first time?
This is a small thing, but Eliot is an aphorist. I read the first third of the novel with a pen in hand underlying everything.
Give me some examples.
“Souls have complexions too: what will suit one will not suit another.”
“Wrong reasoning sometimes lands poor mortals in right conclusions: starting a long way off the true point and proceeding by loops and zigzags, we now and then arrive just where we ought to be.”
“We all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors and act fatally on the strength of them.”
“Destiny stands by sarcastic with our dramatis personae folded in her hand.”
“Time, like money, is measured by our needs.”
“Our vanities differ as our noses do, all conceit is not the same conceit, but varies in correspondence with the minutiae of mental make in which one of us differs from another.”
“One’s self-satisfaction is an untaxed kind of property which it is very unpleasant to find depreciated.”
“Mortals are easily tempted to pinch the life out of their neighbour’s buzzing glory and think that such killing is no murder.”
“We are all of us born in moral stupidity. . . .”
I could go on and on . . . and on. I finally stopped underlining because keeping track of my notes was taking too much time. On a second or third reading—don’t rule it out; it’s that good!—I’d scour the pages for all those phrases that delight and provoke.
Another more significant thing I’d hope to get out of it: the same or a similar feeling of being with these characters. I genuinely enjoyed their company. Dorothea’s uncle, Mr. Brooke, is a bit of a buffoon; he’s a hoot to read about. Eliot’s actually quite comical, especially with her side characters.
But they’re all fascinating in their vastly different ways. That’s what I mean by juxtaposing experience and information. Reading is a chance to appreciate their company; rereading, to renew acquaintances.
Still, at nearly 800 pages, that’s quite a time commitment.
So are lots of worthy pastimes. If it’s for you, you’ll know in less than 30 minutes. If it’s not, there are a lot of other books out there. That said, there’s a reason it’s got legions of admirers. I’m glad I finally found out for myself.
Middlemarch is book No. 11 in my classic novel goal for 2024. Here’s what I’ve read so far and what’s still in store.
January: F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
February: Alice Walker, The Color Purple
March: Thornton Wilder, The Bridge of San Luis Rey
April: Gwendolyn Brooks, Maud Martha
May: Chuang Hua, Crossings
June: Willa Cather, My Àntonia
July: Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five
August: Ngũgĩ wa Thiong’o, A Grain of Wheat
September: Robert Penn Warren, All the King’s Men
October: Ray Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes
November: George Eliot, Middlemarch
December: Ernest J. Gaines, A Lesson Before Dying
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Before you go . . .
Casaubon is one of the greatest characters ever invented. Not a week goes by I don't think of him and see (often on Substack) would-be Casaubons seeking the Key to All Mythologies about tech, AI, startups, etc. Glorious every time.
I will never forget the moment I read the last passage in Middlemarch. I was sweeping the kitchen floor, listening to the audiobook. The last line hit me with such force I made an audible cry and stood frozen, broom in hand, tears filling my eyes. It is a quote I come back to again and again when my life feels small and hidden. I loved this review.