Seeing emilyjones in an English seminar is like seeing a frog on a lily pad, I have been told. Or at least, I have said to others and they have voiced their assent.
Yes, Reader, I never feel higher up on the food chain than when I am tasked with preparing a juicy morsel of close reading to share with the class. The undergraduate close-reading essay is a genre that I mastered, turned into an art form. The way Vivaldi was able to churn out lovely and functional concerti by the hundreds, by relying on repeatable formulae, I was able to spend the last week of an academic term mass-producing literary analysis.
I miss it, Reader. I miss it. One might consider it a moral failing to be so emotionally attached to Winning at English class. One might call it "peaking in high school/college." But if that's the case, it stands to reason that if I never leave school, I never stop peaking. Checkmate, atheists! Maybe that's a secondary strand of that urge that calls some people to become teachers. Do we like literature because we're good at it, or are we good at it because we like it? An age-old question.
Anyway, now that I have finished pontificating about reading books --
hold that thought. I need to look up the etymology of "pontificate."
Before I look it up, I'm going to hazard a couple of guesses: 1, and more likely) probably comes from Latin, some kind of verb like pontificare, and it might have to do with the word for bridge ponte. I'm not sure how those could be related, but fascism and fajita also come from the same Latin root word so who's to say. 2, a wild card pick) it would be funny if it was a latinate-sounding word that actually came from Middle English. In The Canterbury Tales Chaucer describes Absalom yelling "in Pilates voice," i.e., like Pontius Pilate, who in medieval religious plays was known for being very loud. So it would be very funny if it was Pontius --> Pontificate. Being loud like Pilate.
Place your bets, Readers. To the OED I go.
(drumroll)
It was number 1.
Pontificare! And it originally had to do with "performing the duties of a Pontiff." a position in the Catholic church.
But of course, I had to see if my ponte/bridge hunch was right, so I had to go to the etymology of Pontiff.
Pontiff is a borrowing of the French pontife, which comes from the classical Latin pontifex which is -- hold onto your hats ladies and gentlemen--
Sure, it "may represent merely a folk etymology" but you have to admit I did a pretty good job, seeing as I do not actually know Latin; I'm just a good guesser.
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That digression aside, my whole reason for writing this blog post at 1 o'clock in the morning, was to talk a little bit about Madame Bovary. The discussion I was having with my darling boyfriend and most devoted Reader brought me around to understanding Emma Bovary a little bit better, or at least being able to articulate better what I found so intriguing about her in the earlier parts of the book. Those early stages of the book being, of course, before she falls victim to a shady lender and escapes her debts via a handful of straight arsenic.**
*Aside #1: Spoiler alert for the 1857 novel, sorry. and *Aside #2: In hindsight, it's the funniest Chekov's Gun ever. Midway through the book, Homais the pharmacist is yelling at his assistant, quite out of nowhere, like "How dare you go up into my private room! That's where I keep all the chemicals! The ARSENIC is right next to that pot you grabbed! WHAT IF SOMEONE GOT POISONED?" And it is through some plot contrivance that Emma is present for that conversation that has nothing to do with her.
The thing that cuts deep about Emma Bovary is the sense of ennui that feels immoral to have and even more sinful to admit to having. I understand that very well. She is an interesting and compelling character because she makes extreme and irrational choices that are nonetheless rooted in feelings that are easy to understand.
I understand being in a relationship and having the vague, gnawing feeling that things are supposed to be better, you're supposed to be happier. You can't put your finger on any particular thing that is wrong; you just don't feel the way you expect to. It makes you feel like an ungrateful woman at best and an insatiable whore at worst to acknowledge it. It's a kind of feeling that you are certain only exists in literature, so you're destined to keep circling around and, with any luck, at least asymptotically approach that thing that remains out of reach. If we're getting psychoanalytic with it, it's a Desire, Not only that, it's a desire that you feel stupid for having, which is what separates you from Madame Bovary. She takes that desire at face value; she wholeheartedly believes in the existence of capital-r Romance, and if it doesn't find her, she will go out and take it.
I remember a moment, less than a year into my first relationship. I took my then-boyfriend to see a local production of Romeo and Juliet. At the end of the play, Reader, I cried. I cried not because of the centuries-old tragedy being played out in front of me, but rather I cried for myself--vain, narcissistic tears. I had simultaneously watched the play and watched myself watch the play, and in doing so, I realized that I had never felt anything as strongly as Romeo or Juliet felt. I realized that there was no classic romance that I could project myself onto with the man sitting next to me. No models in literature or film or even television for the kind of relationship I was in, because we didn't have the kind of rapport that made for interesting art, even if it did make for an adequately healthy and comfortable relationship. I was grieving the loss of the relationship I thought I had. I was moody and distant for the rest of the evening, emotionally fragile for reasons I couldn't fully articulate to myself, let alone explain to my partner.
For a moment I considered ending things right there. I didn't. I stayed for three more years, because nothing was wrong. At times things were even very good. But, looking back on it now, I get the sense that the feeling I had at Romeo and Juliet never quite went away. There was a sense that I was missing something, which feels bad to admit, or that I was missing out on something, which feels ten times worse to admit. I had love, but I wanted passion. I was being worshiped, but like an idol you keep high on a pedestal out of fear of getting it dirty.
Wanting something is always a mortifying idea. Wanting something without actually knowing what it is, is practically unthinkable. So I simply didn't think it most of the time. A more lighthearted example than the Romeo and Juliet one, I would watch a lot of Frasier (Readers know I still do). I would hear the way Niles talked about his doomed relationship with Maris:
Niles: It doesn't burn with the passion and intensity of a Tristan and Isolde. It's more comfortable, more familiar. Maris and I are old friends. We can spend an afternoon together - me at my jigsaw puzzle, she at her auto-harp - not a word spoken between us and be perfectly content.
I would immediately understand that Niles was using comfort as a substitute for passion and that it reeked of "cope," as they say. I also immediately understood that on some level I was doing the same thing, but I was convincing myself it was different. (Once a Nilesbabe, always a Nilesbabe.)
There's the vague ennui that creeps in time to time, but that's not the same thing as a real problem in a relationship, so there was no reason to address it. Why would you sacrifice a perfectly good thing out of the possibility of having more? Did Aesop write the fable of the Dog and His Bone for nothing? Things were as good as they could possibly get, I told myself, and only anxiety and greed would ever make me think otherwise. (You might notice that my self-reproaches took on something of a Protestant flavor.) I never wanted someone else, I only ever wanted something else. A feeling I couldn't describe, and therefore convinced myself didn't exist.
Madame Bovary is starting from the same place but doesn't hold herself back like a Christian.
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