Open Thread: Good Fathers, Bad Fathers?

What Books Do You Think of When You Ponder the Question?

We’ve all got them, and some are better than others—no surprise then that literature treats us to a long board laden with all flavors of father. Who’s good and who’s bad? Bernard T. Joy popped a version of the question earlier this week on X:

Which are the works of literature that provide us with the most positive models of fatherhood?

Joy qualified the question by mentioning a few “more obvious” candidates, including Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice and Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird. But are those obviously the “most positive”?

Benjamin Whitrow as the can’t-be-bothered Mr. Bennet in the classic BBC adaptation of Pride and Prejudice.

Start with Austen’s Mr. Bennet. Yes, he’s amusing—but as a father? He, as I mention in my review here, wisecracks his way through the first two-thirds of the book, hiding in his library behind a barricade of sarcasm, seemingly oblivious to the real financial predicament of his daughters. I can’t entirely blame him, and I enjoy the heck out of him as a character. But neither can I regard him as a positive example of a father.

Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird strikes me as a far better example. Still, as I mention here (thanks to an invitation from

Dixie Dillon Lane

), Atticus is complicated in ways directly related to his parenting. His modeling of wisdom, empathy, patience, and courage are largely impressive and commendable. But his forbearance and tolerance sometimes mask passivity; in fact, his reluctance to grapple honestly with the dark side of his neighbors nearly gets his children killed.

Atticus and Scout from the film adaptation of To Kill a Mockingbird.

Perhaps our affections for Atticus increase with his failings. As a far-from-perfect father myself—Lord, have mercy—I can hope for similar grace. But then I reflect back to the question of “the most positive models of fatherhood.” Which books, which characters? E.g., Thomas Gradgrind in Charles Dickens’s Hard Times? Terrible father! But also one who remarkably and wholeheartedly repents.

So, I toss the question to you, but let’s broaden it: Who are the notably good and notably bad fathers of literature, the lovable and the lousy, the noble and the negligent? Which books do you think of when you ponder the question? Bonus points for complicated cases.

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