Vanity Fair by William Makepeace Thackeray

Vanity Fair is an exceedingly large book. It took me two weeks of diligent reading to get through it. While the book was entertaining at times, I could never bring myself to read it again. Granted, Thackeray had an open, engaging style of writing. But he was just too tedious, too often. The prose is incredibly detailed, and the text is riddled with references that are now relatively obscure.

Nevertheless, Thackeray was a very astute social observer, and he shows wisdom regarding propriety, duty, and social responsibility that I found remarkable for the thirty-something he was when he wrote the novel. I further appreciated his noble and respectful views toward genuine Christianity.

The most disappointing aspect of the book was the fulfillment of its subtitle: "A Novel Without A Hero." For me, the most gratifying part of reading a book, especially a long one, is becoming acquainted with a likable, intelligent protagonist whom I can follow some hundreds of pages with a vested interest in his well-being, and after seeing him to his happy ending, look back upon with fondness. But, of course, that is not the case here, as Thackeray reminds his reader throughout the novel. There is only the artful schemer Becky, the pathetically weak-minded Amelia, the proud and spoiled George and Rawdon, and the clumsy "spooney" Dobbin.

I know where Thackeray was going with this thing. The rigid hierarchies of his time were ridiculous, stifling, and ultimately unfulfilling, even for those on top. The love of money really is the root of all kinds of evil. Not everyone is what they seem to be. They are all excellent lessons. But perhaps 699 pages without a character to sympathize with was not the most effective way to get them across.