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Starzl; Robert Wilbur Lull; A. Merritt; Fred C. Smale; Bob Davis. Published by Munsey, NY About this Item: Munsey, NY, Illustrated by Frank R. Paul, Virgil Finlay, and others. Minor edgewear, creasing - close to Near Fine. Published by Galleries West, Canada About this Item: Galleries West, Canada, Condition: Very Good.

Clean and unmarked with light wear. A quality copy. Seller Inventory G Published by The Structurist, Saskatchewan, Canada Condition: Fine. Features: A Manifesto for Earth; Return of the Plains Bison to the prairies and the return of honor; An ecological ethos in presocratic thinking - can we really learn anything new from the past? Clean, bright and unmarked with very light wear. An excellent copy. A couple of minor closed edge tears; small dealer's mark on cover; minor spine loss from bug nibbling at lower end; some spine darkening.

Minor flaws for a pulp magazine. Rare in such nice condition. Seller Inventory P Strange Robert Bloch; August W. David H. Front cover upper foredge corner loss; cover tears; tanned; small dark stain at spine head. Seller Inventory PG From: Dorley House Books, Inc. Clear Spring, MD, U. Seller Inventory Soft Cover. Burks; Edmond Hamilton; A. Merritt; Paul Ernst; D. James; Max Plaisted.

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Published by Beacon Magazines, NY Condition: Good to Very Good-. Illustrated by Marchioni and others. Letters from Forrest J. Ackerman, Bob Tucker, and Raymond A. Pages only slightly tanned; a solid readable copy. Hopkins part 7 - The Great Coalition - hitherto unrevealed details of co-ordinating the Allied war effort after Pearl Harbor; Scandals in Veterans' Housing conclusion ; The Day it Almost Happened - the Bates family gets a lesson in car-driving safety.

Unmarked with light wear. A sound vintage copy. Steber - aka Raymond A. Palmer; Arthur R. Tofte; A. Cover photo art by Henry F. Kroeger, Jr. Tofte; "Germs of Death" by A. Hinge creasing with some separation at ends; dealer's stamp; small chips; edges probably lightly trimmed. Horn; F. Published by Frank A. Munsey Co. About this Item: Frank A. Krupa for Feature "Space Devastator".

Illustrated by Robert Fuqua, Julian S. Krupa, and Leo Morey. Letters from W. Lawrence Hamling and others. Standard tears at edges; small loss at lower edge of front cover. Seller Inventory PF Krupa, Julian A. Krupa, and Joe Sewell. Published by Elliott Stock, London About this Item: Elliott Stock, London, Quarter Leather Binding.

No Jacket. A great number of them belong to a period when Ecclesiology was not specifically studied; but they preserve a record of facts which it may now be difficult to ascertain, because of the great changes which have nearly everywhere taken place in our churches under the specious name of restoration. On sifting the materials it was found that all the contributions to the Magazine dealing with matters Ecclesiological fell roughly under three heads, viz.

Under the first head will be found the very interesting discussion, or, more strictly speaking, controversy, as to whether the churches erected in England during the tenth century were as a general rule built of wood or:of stone. Quantity Available: 1. Pictures of this item not already displayed here available upon request. Inventory No: HST Seller Inventory HST Munsey Company, New York Munsey Company, New York, Volume , No.

Good copy in a plastic slip case, front cover mildly chipped around the edges, pages tanning, shelfworn at the spine ends.

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Spicer; Carlton L. Dalley; Colin K. Cameron; Earl Huntley. Condition: Very Good-. Spicer; "What's in a Name? Seller Inventory PD Was a bound copy and small binding holes and some scarring is visible along hinge area; spine panel is a glued on xerox copy; covers glued on at hinge; rear cover lacks lower foredge corner. With repairs, a rather decent copy. Argosy Ralph R. Perry; Samuel Taylor Moore; Lieut.

Worts; Armand Brigaud; Paul H. Salomon; Earl Chapin. Argosy H. Bedford-Jones; Eustace L. Adams; J. Wheale, Nigel ed. Anne Olivier Bell. London: Hogarth Press. Kate Flint. Bennett and Mrs. For the postmodernists, some of the animus against realism can be traced in three important essays by J. Neither of these famous Victorian, insistently realist texts turns out to be really realistic.

Nor can any literary text be. The contradictions and impossibilities exposed by epistemological questioning turn out to have large social and ideological implications — and, from the perspective of much recent theory, not good implications. But in resisting the common-sense notion of realism that they try to demys- tify, they inadequately appreciate the distinctive virtues of realism and the interest and complexity of its workings. Once the necessary demystifying takes place; once the limits of the mode are laid bare; once the epistemological and ideological problems and disguises are recognized, realism remains an important, even a necessary mode of literary art.

Given, however, the vastness of the topic and of the debate, I would like here, after laying out some of the general grounds of the conversa- tion about realism, to consider a few of its important, characteristic- ally recurrent elements. I want not to explicate the book but to look at some frag- ments that can help suggest the limits, the problems, and the power of nineteenth-century English realism.

Bringing the discussion down from broad generalities about epistemology and ideology through a close look at exemplars of realistic technique and subject matter can tell us a lot about what makes realism interesting and important still. In every gesture toward the real, in every mock-heroic simile, from Fielding through Thackeray and Trollope, there is an echo of some literature that has imagined a very different reality.

The satirical denial of early, often quixotic, literary modes becomes a kind of signa- ture of realism, which then in its very mockery invests the old literary forms with new importance and marks its own anti-literary procedures as self-consciously literary. For the realist, there is a lot at stake in getting it right, and it is no accident that realism tended to be the dominant narrative mode of a Victorian England in which perhaps the greatest of all virtues, greater than sexual propriety, was truth-telling.

These things, says George Eliot half-mockingly about the famous looking-glass metaphor in Middlemarch , are a parable. Realism, then, even as it struggles out from the traditions that helped found it, is paradoxically an attenuated form of non- realistic narrative practice. Realism, in this connection, is the commitment to reg- ister the external real and then or at the same time the interiority that perceives and distorts or penetrates it.

But even if it were true it need not have the consequences that much poststructuralist theory implies. No writer attempting to reach beyond words can fail to be struck by the work words do and cannot do, and therefore no such writer can fail to recognize the degree to which the creation of illusion is essential to the realist process. The result will be something unutterably tedious. That is the stamp of the ignobly decent life. He argues that in reading a sensation novel, one wants to know what will happen next, but a Trollopean, realist novel is interesting not because of plot, which can seem an arbitrary authorial imposition rather than intrinsic to the life and characters it is representing, but in the characters themselves.

Novels that register the particulars of the material world strive to lessen the sense of manipulation. Insofar as the duality holds, detailism works toward plausibility and away from form, plot works toward it. Nineteenth-century realism, as we can understand it today, leans toward the scrupulous con- struction of social and historical context as it impinges on the lives of characters. But given the distinction between art and realist representation, narrators must remain alert, perhaps not to the potential tediousness of their work but to the difference between what they can narrate and what is out there to be narrated.

The plausible has no beginning and no end. Such problems of representation require that the realist novel be attentive to the question of perspective.

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Omniscient narrations are far less illusory. The worst sin a realist artist can commit, apparently, is to confess that he or she is making up a story. The Example of Vanity Fair There is no novel more self-conscious about the fact of its illusionism, about the difference between the claims of art and the claims of plausib- ility, about the inadequacies of omniscient representation in the efforts toward authentic representation of the real, than Vanity Fair Yet the narrator not only meets these puppets in Germany; some of them provide him with information he needs to tell the story.

In the role of omniscient narrator, he sometimes abdicates but then selectively loses his power to know everything, claiming that he is unable to tell us what have been the motives of his characters. If any narration can be taken to be unstable and inconsistent, the narration of Vanity Fair is it. The inconsistency is compounded by the fact that Vanity Fair is a per- sistently ironic book. The bird has come in at last. This is what he has asked for every day and hour for eighteen years. This is what he pined after.

Here it is — the summit, the end — the last page. Thackeray The climax, then, arrives as the book announces metaphorically that it is a book and that we are on the last page. It is not only Amelia who makes an unsatisfactory bride; marriage as an institution is implicated, and perhaps more seriously yet, the marriage plot itself is called into question, as well as the conventions of formal closure.

That is, it creates its reality by satirizing conventional literary form. Thackeray helps, boldly, to initiate this change: Becky marries Rawdon early on and the book explores many marriages with an ironic, one might almost say, embittered, tone.

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  • It is angry about romantic illusion itself; it is angry about conventions of representation that take romantic love seriously. It is contemptuous of the happy ending, for it is clear that the requirements of literary form rub hard against the requirements of real- istic representation as Thackeray understands the real. Any ending within a self-consciously realist text is going to be arbitrary; there can be no real conclusion. Insofar as the realist aspires to tell the truth, both author and reader must be perpetually disillusioned, for it is impossible not to be aware of limits to both transparency and comprehensiveness.

    Inclu- sion implies exclusion. The focus on any character or set of characters, any object or set of objects, implies a denial of the importance of the characters or objects not described; but for Thackeray and the realists, implicitly, every object and every character is worthy of attention. That is the realist question, thick with ethical implications, and it is a question that, in other ways, Thackeray is always asking.

    Theme and form, in realism, play into each other — the questions of how much of reality can be represented, about whether reality can ever be represented at all, are thematized in Vanity Fair as they often are in other realist texts. Formal changes in literary narrative were tied closely to the economic and social transformations that were changing the face of England through the eigh- teenth and nineteenth centuries. We can see in Vanity Fair that Thackeray worries about questions of virtue, for contemporary social change implied reconception of fundamental categories of being — of religion and individuality and selfhood and privacy and public life and education and class.

    Although Thackeray focuses in his novel on a world aspiring to the condition of aristocracy, much of the narrative depends on the fact that Becky Sharp must make a living. She tries to make it the old way, by marrying up, but she just misses, and thus for hundreds of pages her story is devoted to her quest for money. The other side of the question of vocation is the question of inher- itance, which had a long life in pre-realist genres, and which survives well into the nineteenth century. Amelia spends much of the book living with the consequence of being disinherited.

    The realist novel is predominantly a secular form, in which the implicit order of the world inferable from traditional comic and tragic and epic forms can only be achieved in worldly terms. Virtue could be rewarded because virtue was rewarded in a just and divinely ordered world; success could go with comic conclusions because success was not contaminated by worldly corruptions. But almost all of this was slowly, inexorably changed and complicated by the development of new economic and social orders in which money was displacing class status as the chief mark of success.

    The critical question for protagonists becomes how to get money, although that question is frequently displaced and disguised. For Fred begins life by assuming an inheritance which he does not receive. Middlemarch makes the subject of his narrative, then, the question of work itself. Certainly, whatever the ostensible issues, there can be no success in the world of Victorian realism without money, however disguised its sources.

    It is one of the ironies of English nineteenth-century realism that while money is essential for success, and therefore for the comic ending, the quest for money beyond what is necessary for survival, and sometimes even then is unequivocally a mark of shame, corruption, evil. Outside the novels of Anthony Trollope, this apparently excessive generalization is almost univer- sally true.

    An essential question inside the realist novel, often not articulated explicitly, is whether it is possible for a protagonist to sustain the moral virtues that the culture admires and at the same time achieve success. The concepts of intrinsic virtue and of some ultimate possibility of moral justice depend on the sense that moral order is built into the world and that, in the long run, worldly troubles are compensated for through divine oversight and presence. Newman What Newman describes in this exhausting catalogue of the conditions of this world is Vanity Fair itself — a vision to dizzy and appall.

    Many Victorian realists, perhaps most brilliantly and strenuously George Eliot, tried to imagine into the secular world the sort of moral order that Newman here describes as impossible. So there is a double irony here. Realist practice, throughout its literary life, is to insist on the context in which characters move, on history, on social context. Every character in a realist novel must be read in relation to the circumstances of his or her life. Becky emerges from Waterloo positively Napoleonic, but who Becky is depends on where she comes from, who her parents were, what class she belongs to, what possibilities are open to a young woman without wealth, and of course what is going on in Europe at the time she comes of age.

    Part of what evoked disgust from many readers of Vanity Fair was just the cynical sense it intimated even while resisting it with ambiguous ironies that Becky is at least partly right and the narrator is not being ironic. On the other hand, when George Eliot made the same point in another way, and as a central theme of her novels, she was taken with the greatest seriousness. This is Becky in a more solemn, less personal mode.

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    It is true that realism, as manifested in Thackeray and Eliot, tends to hold to the idea of an intrinsic self that may be pushed and strained by circumstance but that is nevertheless whole and integral. But all strong realists understand that circumstance can become decisive. She writes like a novelist in many parts of the book, and here she is even thinking like a novelist, a realist, secular one. It is what displaces an ordering god, for it is the condition of success, the condition of the happy ending.

    Vanity Fair does not often allow for the form of comedy: it does not provide those resolutions in union and community that are traditionally marked by marriage and the marriage plot; but perhaps most important, it does not allow active people to avoid the contamination and even corruption that engagement with the economic order entails.

    Most early nineteenth-century realist texts rely on endings with mar- riage to indicate the fair distribution of justice, but this often strains the commitment to realist probability. Much of the power of Vanity Fair as a representative realist novel derives just from its energetic mocking of this tradition.

    But in the s Vanity Fair was unusual. These endings suggest an ultimate meaningfulness in a secular world that seems marked by Newmanian disorder and meaninglessness, and for the most part, in the comic tradi- tion of early nineteenth-century realism, the world, though threatening, does not become malicious or indifferent. Many English nineteenth-century novels test out the Weberian thesis before the fact. Weber argues that the ascetic virtues that Calvinist religion required turn out to be precisely the virtues that are required for success in a cap- italist economy. So in a Weberian narrative, the most successful capitalist would turn out to be like the protagonists of Victorian novels, that is, uninterested in money, perhaps contemptuous of it, but interested in the work itself.

    In a Weberian scenario success and virtue would be two faces of the same coin. Caleb is capable and generous and loves his work but cares not at all for money and distrusts those who pursue it. In his life, at least, virtue and secular success come together. But it is no accident that his work is both pre-capitalist and unique. The true ascetic, pious Protestant who rules as moral despot over Middlemarch is Bulstrode, whom Caleb distrusts, and who we discover has long been corrupted by money.

    Victorian realism turns upside down in Hardy as he self-consciously imagines his characters in a world so totally secular that it becomes, at times, almost demonic. Rejecting the possibility of the transcendent and of the ideal — in fact, plotting his stories, like that of Angel Clare, around the disast- rous consequences of attempting to live the ideal — Hardy keeps the very literary and ideal qualities of realism alive.

    Realism, throughout the nineteenth century, remained an ambivalent and often self-contradictory mode. But it was consistent, too, in addressing ethical issues raised by developments in contemporary economy and society. Its commitment to close observation of the details of society and the context in which characters move helped to destabilize the conception of selfhood and character on which the Victorian novel built its greatest successes. What contemporary readers found disgusting and disturbing about its worldliness are some its most inter- esting virtues, its concession that we are all compromised and partly cor- rupted by money, its implication that behind the secular world there is no force for order and justice, its refusal of the happy ending because it will not reconcile success and merit or not quite , its delicious indul- gence in the things of this world, and the cynicism that powers its satire.

    Reconciling probability and literary form in a world gone secular is ultimately the greatest challenge to the realist sensibility. In the ambiguous status of realism, it should be enough to say that it remained throughout its long career a very literary mode, one which even now often tries to disguise its literariness, partial in its representations, and therefore vulnerable to the kinds of critiques I invoked at the start of this chapter.

    Its very weaknesses — its failure, for example, to ima- gine strong male protagonists, or its tendency not to consider the details by which protagonists do make money and achieve power, its exploita- tion of coincidences to achieve what a thorough pursuit of probability could not — these and others are also marks of its remarkable aspirations and indications of its extraordinary achievements.

    New York: The Odyssey Press. Eliot, George Middlemarch. New York: Harcourt, Brace. Galperin, William The Historical Austen. Gissing, George New Grub Street. New York: The Library of America, — Miller, J. Ada Nisbet and Blake Nevius. Buckley ed. The Worlds of Victorian Fiction. London: Verso. Thackeray, W. Our understanding of what we read is dependent on our prior comprehen- sion of the world to which the text we are reading alludes; the reader who mistook The Lord of the Rings for a real history of the earth would not be misunderstanding the internal logic of the text but would rather be show- ing ignorance of some fundamental facts of geography and history.

    But it is also inadequate as a measure of a text or utterance, because these do not exist solely in the dimension of know- ledge. In general terms, these conventions demand that the nar- rative and characterizations within the novel conform to broad canons of plausibility, and are conducted within modes that do not step beyond the necessary foreshortening and heightening that all art requires. This draws upon an aesthetic which is morally emblematic rather than realist.

    Many other novels, which are quite properly thought to be predominantly realist in mode, equally include within themselves writing conducted in other modes. Indeed, sometimes this becomes part of the claim to realism of the novel, when it incorporates and then parodies or repudiates what it asserts to be falsifying genres, notably romance.

    This is in fact one of the founding gestures of the novel form, made by Cervantes in Don Quixote at the beginning of the seventeenth century; in the nineteenth century this ges- ture is widely repeated in the writing of Jane Austen, W. Thackeray, and George Eliot. Yet Dickens was also at pains to assert the documentary truth of aspects of the novel, which takes inexperienced readers into areas of London that they are pre- sumed to be ignorant of, in passages that insist on the reality of the world to which they are being introduced.

    Yet she also is far more profoundly realist than Jane Austen, in that far more of human life is present and represented in her texts: extremes of depression, passion, and isolation, certainly, but also a much fuller feeling of human presence and intensity than in Austen. I am using realism to mean here the capacity to provide a vivid impres- sion of the presence and interaction of people in all their intensity and complexity, and thus the pressure of a personality across its whole range. The married couple is showing her around their newly furnished house: Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help fancy- ing that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him.

    When Mr Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she discerned a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. Austen —2 In a passage such as this, the reader certainly gets a vivid sense of the inter- actions between these people, of the potential awkwardness and comedy of the scene. In the following scene, for example, Jane is in a carriage with Rochester after she has agreed to marry him; he has taken her on a shopping trip to buy a new wardrobe.

    I will write to Madeira the moment I get home, and tell my Uncle John I am going to be married, and to whom: if I had but a prospect of one day bring- ing Mr Rochester an accession of fortune, I could better endure to be kept by him now. In short, the scene powerfully conveys the interaction of the two characters, in a way that allows us to see the imbrication of economic, class, gender, and erotic impulses in the balance and pressure of each personality upon the other. The scope of the realist novel, understood in this sense, will be explored shortly. The battles over the term are fought out in differing idioms and at different times in the national contexts in which the novel plays a central cultural role.

    Thus in France the writings of Flaubert, the Goncourt brothers, and Zola from the s to the s represent phases of a militant cultural politics cen- trally concerned with questions of realism. In all these different contexts, the writing that materialized under- stood itself and its tasks in very different ways. Yet in all instances there was an effort both at concentration and expansion: a concentration that involved the repudiation of falsifying genres, and an expansion into areas of social and personal life that had previously been excluded from the ambit of the novel. There is in fact a remarkable connection between genre and social class, most visible in the manifestoes for their own realism in the novels of Thackeray and George Eliot.

    In this respect, Thackeray, by including brief parodies of these genres, is repeating one of the found- ing gestures of the realist novel since Don Quixote — establishing its own realist credentials by parodying the misleading genres that precede and surround it, just as Jane Austen had done thirty years previously, in establishing the realism of Northanger Abbey by including within it a parody of the Gothic novel.

    In Adam Bede , as other contributors to this volume have noted, George Eliot also sought to provide a mani- festo of her own realist practice, which in the same gesture rejected idealizing modes of writing, and sought to enlarge the scope of the novel to include those strata of rural social life that had previously been excluded from it, or had appeared only in picturesque walk-on roles.

    Doubtless this skewed their understanding and presentation of the realist novel; however, it also forced them to foreground particu- lar aspects of the novel that would not perhaps otherwise be so visible. In a chapter in The Long Revolution , Williams makes a persuas- ive case for the nature of the nineteenth-century synthesis as being one which permits a simultaneous emphasis upon the individual and upon the social order from which the individual emerges.

    And Dorothea was not at ease in the perspective and chilliness of that height. Yet it also indicates how that history is inextricable from the social order from which it emerges — suggested in this instance by the scene itself, in which the members of the gentry class stand at a window and look down upon the members of the social class immediately below them. Elsewhere in her writing she has to work much harder across barriers of class and historical distance to secure the generality or typicality of the experiences she seeks to describe.

    It may be felt that in this passage the solidarity between writer and reader is too readily assumed, suggesting that the plausibility of the pas- sage is premised upon shared values that do not have the universal valid- ity that is assumed. The remarkable synthesis repres- ented by Middlemarch and, in different ways, by some other nineteenth- century realist novels, nevertheless remains generically exemplary even beyond its historical moment of origin.

    The terms of this realist synthesis evidently vary from writer to writer. This mass of powerful and minutely rendered material is underlain by an explanatory schema which suggests that this whole way of life is created, or can be accounted for, by capitalist ownership on the one hand and the opera- tions of heredity on the other.

    These three widely varying novels all nevertheless suggest how the realist synthesis might be realized, for all the incompatible ways in which they understand their underlying or totalizing explanatory gestures, or the very different idioms in which they provide a sense of the people about whom they write. All these brute material realities appear, in the novel, charged with affective valuations, as the characters in them move or fail to move from country to city, from province to capital, from school to career, and invest their movements with apprehensions, longings, hopeful anticipations, or defeated resignation and bitterness.

    This is most evident in the journeys made by the protagonists of the bildungsroman as they make their way from province to capital: the map of province and capital visible in a novel like Great Expectations in England, or Illusions Perdues in France, is charged with complex and ambivalent sentiments to do with class, indi- vidual success or failure, and familial affections. For example: one of the great transformations of the nineteenth century — perhaps the most important in world history, indeed — is the move from predominantly rural societies to predominantly urban ones, a change pioneered in Britain, which had a majority urban popula- tion by You see there are hills as seem to go up into the skies, not near, may be, but that makes them all the bonnier.

    Yon are the golden hills of heaven, Where ye sall never win. Something about a ship and a lover that should hae been na lover, the bal- lad was.


    Well, and near our cottage were rocks. Eh, lasses! Mother used to send Sally and me out to gather ling and heather for besoms, and it was such pleasant work! We used to come home of an evening loaded so as you could not see us, for all that it was so light to carry. And then mother would make us sit down under the old hawthorn tree where we used to make our house among the great roots as stood above the ground , to pick and tie up the heather. In this respect Mary Barton is typical of many nineteenth-century novels in being formally diverse, and incorporating into themselves modes of writing — melodrama, romance, comedy of manners, didactic tales — which shift them out of the realist mode.

    Though all novelists differ profoundly in the ways that they conceive of and achieve these striking combinations, there is enough in common for it to be legitimate to call this a realist synthesis. These developments varied widely, but they certainly allowed a remark- able expansion in the capacity of novels to accommodate, and to make present to readers, the subjectivities of their characters. Such a possibility could only occur given some currently unanticipated turn in the social world that writers and read- ers jointly inhabit; short of this, the nineteenth-century realist novel must stand testimony as one historical possibility, which cannot be simply copied, in which the complexities of social and personal life are held together in meaningful relation.

    The ways in which this might be realized in a mediat- ized world are, of course, going to require radically different aesthetic solutions from those of the nineteenth-century realists. References and further reading Austen, Jane Pride and Prejudice. Dickens, Charles Bleak House. Gaskell, Elizabeth Mary Barton. Goncourt, Edmond and Jules de Germinie Lacerteux.

    Leonard Tancock. London: The Merlin Press. Moretti, Franco Atlas of the European Novel, — Williams, Raymond The Long Revolution. Harmondsworth: Pelican Books. London: Fontana. The experi- ence of inhabiting a new and unfamiliar world was thus a widespread one, and extended even to those who stayed at home. But what precisely was that role? Many critics have suggested that the emphasis on traditional and rural places in the nineteenth-century novel is an expression of a nostalgic longing for a lost world in the context of demographic and social change.

    Approaches to the novel that see place merely as a backdrop to action tend not to grasp the complex operations of spatial representation in the literary text, and the reciprocal ways in which these seep out into the world. On the other hand, phenomenologists of space, such as Gaston Bachelard and Georges Poulet, who were in turn inspired by the philosopher Martin Heidegger, have paid attention to the nuanced ways in which literary texts encrypt the intermingling of inner psychological or affective spaces with outer spaces of, for instance, the home Bachelard ; Poulet ; Heidegger It is the Marxist philosopher Henri Lefebvre whose work provides the most promising way of analyzing the kinds of social spaces that are produced by a population in motion.

    His work has already been adopted by critics of modernist and postmodernist literature and culture Soja ; Thacker It is also helpful for analyzing the cultural work of classic realism. But the claim here is larger than that. Places in literature are thus not merely markers that connect the literary text to the world that is evoked, as a sort of index to reality. All three kinds of spatial production are at work at any one time, and in any single arena.

    Take for example the experience of an emigrant arriving in a new country. One interesting offshoot of such an approach is that it allows us to see continuities between nineteenth- century realism and the experimental aesthetics of high modernism, con- tinuities that are sometimes effaced by theories of realism that emphasize the modernist rejection of nineteenth-century realism. Sites hitherto unfamiliar to the implied reader, the tourist, overlay and usurp the familiar places of home.

    In this apocalyptic vision of the end of empire, all that will remain is the spectral traces of former feelings, a nostalgic long- ing for a lost world impressed in the shards of a decaying city. The trend for literary tourism that the Dickens guides exemplify began much earlier than this.

    This complex mix fueled a belief that in the moment of contemplation of a particular spot on the landscape, the visitor transcended himself and his place so as to share the feelings, sens- ibilities, and impressions of the poet. And it shadowed the development of the realist novel. He later revised his novels to comply with the maps he had produced to illus- trate them, exemplifying the kind of reciprocation that Lefebvre had in mind Gatrell ; Miller 19— But as Juliet Barker has pointed out, tourists that did so were greeted by a very different scene from that described: not an isolated or primitive spot, but a small industrial town showing all the signs of nineteenth-century progress Barker 13— This discrepancy did not stop the trail, for tourists accommodated the difference, or turned a blind eye.

    Thomas De Quincey, when asked by a tourist the shortest route to the Lake District, replied un-obligingly that the shortest route was never to have left London at all De Quincey De Quincey appeared not to understand the complex economy of tourist travel, in which the effect of leisured timelessness is its product and ultimate purpose.

    But he did recognize its solipsistic nature, the fact that the tourist goes to see something that he or she already knows or has already read, so that the journey is redundant or self-canceling, the destination already displaced by the literature that describes it. If the literary tourist sets out to see what he or she has already seen through reading, so too in another way does that other traveler of the nineteenth century, the emigrant.

    Printed texts for travelers — tourists and emigrants — swamped the literary marketplace, schooling the geographical imagination of the general reader. Such books were primarily conceived as a source of practical information, but as we have seen in the case of tourist guides, they had other, more profound effects. Hybrid in form, they formed compendia of other published works, containing statistical information, economic theorizing, and practical advice.

    Dramatic tension was gained through narrating the hazards of emigration — the trials of the journey, the intemperate climate, wild animals and extreme natural conditions, and the unscrupulous people waiting to exploit the traveler. But in the end all dangers would be dispelled, the new land made as familiar as home. The literature of emigration aimed to reduce the strangeness of dis- tance.

    In practice its effects were odder than this. Moreover, the familiar markers of home are present in the colonial landscape, but in a distorted fashion. Old place names in new and unlikely relation to each other Leeds next to Oxford, London by York, Cambridge near Gloucester, and so on ; and picturesque landscapes from home relocated in the new environment.

    The dimensions and distances of the colony are distended versions of the old. The new landscape assumes the affective topography of a dream: overlaid with memories of a lost world, a mem- orial to a lost homeland. These practical guides to places for tourists and emigrants have the effect of making landscapes ethereal and ghostly. And they both inform and are informed by the novel. In diverse and complex ways, the novel assisted migrant people as they attempted to settle in new terrains.

    Sometimes, for instance, it borrowed directly from the literature of emigration. This three-volume novel doubles as a practical guide to emigration, com- plete with appendices of statistical information about Upper Canada. But Galt was also a colonial entrepreneur involved in the early settlement of Canada. He spent the period between and in Canada as Superintendent of the Canada Land Company, collecting geographical and demographic information.

    Bogle Corbett narrates the colonial adventures of its eponymous central character. Thus Corbett, who in volume three leads a group of Glaswegians across the Canadian wilder- ness, curbs their individualistic and acquisitive tendencies by gathering them together and telling them a parable about the birth of a com- munity. With his message about the virtues of collective labor ringing in their ears, they pull together and build their own town.

    In this conscious moment of myth-making, the act of story-telling is both pedagogic and performative. In this episode he again emphasizes the symbolic aspects of settlement. It is as though the landscape has to be not only rebuilt, but rethought, and re-remembered. Acts of settlement thus entail cultural work that bears many similarities to that of the novel. Here the landscapes of home are projected over the new terrain:. Harte ll. To this extent realism par- ticipates in a process of colonization: not mimesis, but occupation.

    Realism and Abstract Space According to Lefebvre, social life in the modern era, that is from the eigh- teenth century, is dominated by a homogenizing form of space produced by capital accumulation which he names abstract space. Lefebvre 49 Lefebvre has in mind the art and architecture of the modernist period, its concrete and steel structures and its predilection for phallic forms. But many of its formal aspects are evident in the architecture and city plan- ning of an earlier period.

    Take, for instance, the town of Guelph that Galt founded in the clearing in the Canadian wilderness. Galt was heav- ily involved in the planning of this town, drawing plans and designing buildings. The plan was based on a geometrical conception: a radial and a grid plan superimposed on one another, emanating in a fan from the central point of the cut-down tree. In this way, the built environment was designed to foster community, but it also had a regulatory function, exercising moral control over the people.

    All of these formants are in some way evoked in the structure of Guelph. We might also identify the characteristics of abstract space in nineteenth- century literary realism: the emphasis on the visual, the preference for metaphors of pictorial representation that dominate nineteenth-century realist texts, the grid-like uniformity that realist narrative projects over its terrain, not to mention the structural centrality of marriage and the family.

    The novel concludes with a sun- drenched scene of happy family life, with Dinah coming out of the house to gaze at the horizon. His work is interspersed with pic- tures of the houses in which she lived, giving primary place to engravings of Griff, her childhood home in Warwickshire, that emphasize its rural location. Riehl, in which she projects a vision of an organic, unchanging traditional society onto the homogenizing and empty forms of realist representation, or Lefebvrian abstract space.

    In one, the presupposition is that the aim of realism is to make people at home in the world; in the other, it is that its object is to explain why people are at odds with the world. Hence the Modernist interest in states of exile and homelessness, in which the condition of not being at home is the basis for the experimental realist aesthetics of writers such as Joyce and Woolf. While both positions share assumptions about the primacy of relations between people and their environments, what is decisive in these very different visions of the realist enterprise is location: the country or the city.

    It is not merely that place is the auth- enticating detail of realist representation; the kinds of place described tend to determine the mode of representation and the parameters and rationale of the realist project. Rather than seeing the experimental aesthetics of Modernist works as a reaction against the consolatory form of classic realism, we may perceive classic realism as a form of resistance against the alienation of modernity.

    Realism and Mobility With these points in mind, I want to return to the question of mobility. But it is an aspect of social life that is curiously under- represented in nineteenth-century realist texts. Moreover, while critics of the novel have recognized that the mobility of characters is a central com- ponent of realism, usually this is understood as a metaphor for social or economic mobility, or moral development Said 94—7; Ermarth 55 — It has a complexity that exceeds the rather two-dimensional model that Moretti derives.

    How is mobility registered in the realist text? In a banal way, mobil- ity opens up space, even creates it. Through distancing readers from the represented worlds of literary texts, it produces the obsessive fascination with local places that dominated the British novel from the nineteenth century onward. But nevertheless, in realist texts, mobility seems some- how unrepresentable, a kind of excess that cannot be incorporated within the fabric of realism.

    The central character, Silas, the pale-faced weaver, displaced from his community of workers in an indus- trial town, moves from city to country. Viewed as an automaton by the villagers, his mechanized labor, evoked by the hum of his loom, is a ready metaphor for his lack of human relationships, his alienated urban condi- tion, and is given further representation in his strange medical condition, through which at key moments in the plot he falls into a cataleptic trance. By the end of the novel, however, through the agency of a golden-haired child who by chance toddles into his house one day, Silas becomes a full member of the rural community, settled and rooted in the traditional English village.

    But for all this, the message of the text, confusingly, seems to work actively to suppress or erase movement. Moreover, the folkloric culture that Eliot is at pains to describe in the village is an expression of indi- genous rural Englishness in the Rainbow Inn, the Harvest supper, the Christmas dance , in which the evidence of former layers of immigration is barely suppressed.

    Rather than a pure, autochthonous English culture, Raveloe presents a strange mixture in which the customs of everyday life are interwoven with memories of migration, haunted by a sense of exile, a coming from elsewhere. A fable of assimilation within English communities, Silas Marner tells a story in which English culture is admired for covering over the patterns of mobility with a dream of always having been there.

    Lawrence, however, ques- tions of mobility press more openly on the project of realism. The inher- itor of the organicist and rural tradition that emanates from George Eliot, Lawrence was also alert to the complications of representing places in a world dramatically changed by steam travel, modern warfare, and mass emigration. Like earlier writers, he valued the way in which a text might evoke an authentic sense of place.

    But in the context of a world in which people move more quickly and numerously, and are unlikely to live in their place of birth, attention to place shifts away from a preoccupation with nativity. Instead it is absorbed into a primitivist vision in which natural landscapes possess an autochthonous energy which can be relayed through the work of art. The author is thus no more than a conduit of this earthy, physical force. Take, for instance, his Studies in Classic American Literature But the spirit of place is a great reality. China produces the Chinese, and will go on doing so.

    It is these traces that will be embed- ded in a work of art, guaranteeing its authenticity and attachment to the real. Here place is more important than authorship, and makes a more decisive contribution to the work of art.

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    But the claims that Lawrence makes are complicated by the fact that the literature with which he is concerned in this work is the literature of a settler nation made up of immigrants. For Lawrence, therefore, the relationship between person and place combines attraction as well as alienation, belonging and exile, and these are woven together into the uneven fabric of representation. For Eliot mobility is absorbed into an account of a place — its customs, its folklore, its rituals; for Lawrence its effects are conceived in more visceral ways, as a set of symptoms on the body of the migrant, which are projected onto the landscape.

    In both cases, mobility is turned into metaphor, rewritten and reinterpreted, and diverted. These two examples suggest something of the way in which mobility acts as the concealed trauma at the heart of individual identity in modern society, a trauma which realism attempts to heal. To read mobility simply as a metaphor for social or moral development, therefore, is to miss the complexity and profundity of spatial production in literary realism.

    Mobility, as the condition of modernity, I suggest, is both the concealed provocation to and secret subject of realism. London: Edward Cuttice. Bachelard, Gaston The Poetics of Space. Boston, MA: Beacon Press. Heather Glen. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 13— Costain, Keith M. In Works. Grevel Lindop. London: Pickering and Chatto, — Cabinet Edition. Edinburgh: Blackwood. Eliot, George Collected Essays.

    Thomas Pinney. Carol A. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Erikson, C. Ermarth, Elizabeth Deeds , rev. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. London: H. Colburn and R. Basingstoke: Palgrave. Harte, Bret Dickens in Camp. Heidegger, Martin Poetry, Language, Thought. Albert Hofstadter. New York: Harper and Row. Johnston, H. Lawrence, D. Greenspan, L. Vasey, and J. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Donald Nicholson- Smith.

    Hillis Topographies. Moretti, Franco Atlas of the European Novel — Moretti, Franco Graphs, Maps, Trees. Poulet, Georges The Interior Distance. Elliott Coleman. Said, Edward Beginnings: Intention and Method. New York: Basic Books. Soja, Edward W. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Williams, Raymond The Country and the City. London: Chatto and Windus. In a word, it is dirt and horror pure and simple. This led both realists and naturalists to write about the ordinary and the close to hand, and to a preoccupation with what can broadly be termed social representations.

    Naturalism was not simply a distillation of realism, though. In this way it was a more limited, narrower project than nineteenth-century realism. Naturalism was an attempt by Zola and others to apply to the writing of literature the methods and discoveries of nineteenth-century science.

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    One of the major implications of evolutionary theory is that humans, instead of being a divine creation, are only slightly above the level of animals; another is that animal and human life is a continuous struggle. Taine argued that human behavior has three main determinants: heredity, environment, and historically determined social conditions.

    For if the poverty, brutality, and drunkenness of the urban poor that formed the subject-matter of so many late nineteenth-century naturalist novels were to be understood as part of an hereditary condition, then any inter- vention by social or political reformers was doomed to failure.

    But if the condition of the urban poor could partly at least be explained by the social and economic environments in which they were forced to live, then the work of the social reformers took on a more positive political hue. His selection of the metropolitan poor as the subject-matter for his Rougon-Macquart series of novels —93 accords with the contemporary Social-Darwinist view that the urban poor were closer in evolutionary terms to the lower animals than their social betters.

    A terrible picture which will convey its own message. Baguley 11 It seems here at least that Zola accounts for the plight of the people he describes through the environment in which they live, implicitly announcing his novel as driven by a politics of reform. In , in an article in Le Corsaire addressed to the French government, a socialistic politics is announced: If he slips, if he rolls into drunkenness, it is your fault.

    Do you not want him to be stupid, drunk with ignorance, like an animal? So he enters a bar, turns to the only joy that he has at hand, takes it to excess, because you close up his horizons and because he needs a dream, even if it is the dream of intoxication. And she knew other details, very personal things about how clean everyone was, about what was underneath the silk skirts that neighborhood women wore out in the streets.

    It is a simple — in bourgeois terms an unambitious — quest, but one which the novel demonstrates to be unattainable. Whether its unattainability is to be explained by the deprav- ing social and economic conditions of the Parisian slums, or whether Gervaise, Coupeau, Bijard, and the rest are hereditarily doomed to moral depravity, pauperism, and early death, is the central political question of the novel. Zola The whole series of Rougon-Macquart novels concerns itself with the rise and fall of an ill-fated family in Second-Empire France and the work- ings of the laws of heredity in that process.

    She reached out with her hands, wanting to comfort Lalie, and as the ragged sheet was slipping off she pulled it right down, intending to remake the bed. The poor little body of the dying child was thus exposed. Lord Jesus, what a heart-rending, pitiable sight! The stones themselves should have wept. Lalie was quite naked, with only the remnants of a bodice round her shoulders to serve as a nightgown; yes, quite naked, the nakedness of a martyr, bleed- ing and tortured.

    She was nothing but a bruise from head to toe. Oh, what a butchery of childhood. Spontaneous and earnest as the appeals are, coming as they do from the sympathetic viewpoint of Gervaise, the highly conventional categories from which they derive are demonstrably unable to assist Lalie Bijard and her kind in a material sense. Lalie dies and her tiny siblings are left to the brutal care of their drunken father. Notwithstanding the humanity with which Zola presents Gervaise Macquart, she, like others about her, is by the end of the novel reduced to the level of a lower species.

    Published in , Ghosts was quickly banned across most of the European continent, its account of inherited syphilis and its perceived attack on the traditional bourgeois family proving too much for most national authorities. It only survived one performance, and the outpouring of critical venom it aroused has scarcely been equaled in theater history. Ghosts is the story of a woman, Mrs Alving, who leaves her husband but is then persuaded, by a cleric with whom she is in love, Pastor Manders, to return home. In the centre of the room is a round table with chairs around it; on the table are books, magazines and newspapers.

    Downstage left is a window, in front of which is a small sofa with a sewing-table by it. Backstage the room opens out into a slightly narrower conservatory, with walls of large panes of glass. In the right-hand wall of the conservatory is a door leading down to the garden. Ibsen 27 The spaciousness of the garden room, the books and the magazines, all suggest the readily knowable comfortable bourgeois status of the Alving family. The realistic effect was essential as far as Ibsen was concerned.

    For most of the nineteenth century the standard acting style had been melodramatic. There are methods for expressing all human feelings and passions showing your teeth and rolling your eyes when you are jealous, or covering up the eyes and face with the hands instead of weeping; tear- ing your hair when in despair. Notwithstanding the determinism of heredity theory, Ghosts is radical in its challenge to conservative cultural ideology. Ibsen begged to differ. Osvald inherits syphilis from his dissolute father, and also inherits his alcoholism and his predisposition to make sexual advances to dependent social inferiors.

    In one respect late-nineteenth-century literary naturalism was — in a pincer movement with literary modernism — an ideological project that pitted itself against the rise of what its exponents regarded as a feminized mass culture. How charming! Shaw, a great admirer of Elizabeth Robins, acknow- ledged that her productions of Ibsen in the s were harbingers of a gender revolution in the theater industry Powell This opinion was shared by a majority of the more eminent literary men of the s.

    Long before Lytton Strachey attacked the straw-dog conception of Victorianism in his Eminent Victorians , the project of literary naturalism contributed to the formation of a cultural avant-garde that was a major precursor to literary modernism in the twentieth century. London: Scott. Besant, Walter, et al. Darwin, Charles The Descent of Man. London: Penguin. Darwin, Charles The Origin of Species. Furst, Lillian, and Peter Skrine Naturalism. London: Methuen. Michael Meyer. James, Henry The Bostonians. London: The Bodley Head.

    London: Methuen and Co. See especially chapter 4. Ledger, Sally Henrik Ibsen. Plymouth, UK: Northcote House. Mary Luckhurst. Oxford: Blackwell, 48— London: Rupert Hart-Davis. London: Virago. London: Vizetelly. National Vigilance Association Pernicious Literature. Debate in the House of Commons. With Opinions of the Press. In Documents of Modern Literary Realism. Nordau, Max Degeneration.

    New York: Appleton. Christopher Innes. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 76— Sprinchorn, Evert ed. London: MacGibbon and Kee. George J. Gloucester, UK: Sutton.