The Short Stories of Henry James, Collected by Clifton Fadiman

If Jane Austen's contributions to literature are, as she deprecatingly rendered them, "the little bit of ivory on which I work with so fine a brush," then Henry James' are scribbles made on napkins from a comfortable seat in his club. An unspecified ailment contracted in his youth hindered James from doing much more than that. A rich, untethered American who spent much of his life as a member of European society, James wrote prolifically on the dichotomy between old Europe's traditions and the new American ideals. His language is rich and often portentious, hinting at subterranean meanings. The words and ideas themselves are so substantial that they often form the bulk of his stories; in many, little overt action occurs at all.

Inaction in and of itself plays a major part in the stories collected here, especially within "The Great Good Place." A novelist, paralyzed by the minutiae of daily life, seeks out a refuge where he can live simply, and in doing so, simply live. James' picture of the "place" is bewitching, an earthbound utopia of cool gardens, tinkling bells, and gracious libraries. The novelist comes back to the real world in the end, though, for James fashions the place not as a final destination, but as a temporary vacation from pressing responsibilities.

James carries his theme of inaction further in "The Beast in the Jungle." A man is convinced something momentous is destined to spring upon him, like a beast, at some point in his life. He and a female friend spend years watching and waiting for it, until she, like a sort of feminine Cyrano de Bergerac, dies, and the man realizes she was what he had anticipated all his life. James insists it was the man's fate to live his entire life without doing anything of importance. Though an atheist, James relies unquestioningly, unironically, on fate to explain the motives and actions of many characters, à la Thomas Hardy. Why God is untenable but Fate ineffable is unclear.

James typically approaches things logically, though. He routinely draws characters not just as they are, but also as they see themselves and how they are perceived by others. Often the crux of a story involves a painful disillusionment, like when the son of a sculptor learns while abroad what true art is, and so discovers that his father's treasured oeuvre is far from it. James' stories often suggest a reflection of what strange delusions we all must live under.

James, like Austen, used his limited sphere of society to illuminate his understanding of universal truths. His meanings occasionally become obscured by his ornate prose, which, owing to merely perfunctory plots, sometimes usurps any meaning entirely, becoming an end in itself. The value in his work lies mainly in the more memorable of his observations and impressions, and in reflecting on what a life barely lived looks like from the all too lucid vantage point of its end.

The House of Mirth by Edith Wharton

Really, this book should not have been about Lily Bart. Intriguing, misunderstood, sensitive to the higher planes of thought- maybe. But it's obvious she's the protagonist because she's flawlessly beautiful. Lily's beauty is her defining quality, her currency in the economy of society, the reason her mother loved her, and, as Wharton would have it, justification for her self-destructive tendencies. Lily's friend "poor" Gerty Farish is not so endowed. Forced to fend for herself because she lacks not just money but also that intangibly valuable resource, a pretty face, Gerty nevertheless supports herself, establishes myriad charities, and maintains a joyful, selfless mien throughout the novel. The passages that feature her perspective are welcome respites from the self-centered jeremiads of Lily.

But of course dowdy Gerty appears merely as a contrast to the unparalleled Lily, who is just as financially destitute. Rather than commit herself to the concerns of others, Lily is determined to rise to the forefront of New York's upper class. She fails miserably, but it is a long, slow fall from the pinnacle of society to a dingy room in a boardinghouse. Lily remains adamantly convinced that she can never be happy if she is not ever wallowing in luxury, and this conviction sustains the suspense of her desperate pursuit: it is only because the end is so final that her restoration into the good graces of the upper crust becomes painfully impossible.

Wharton insists that Lily is a product of her environment- that her mercenary matrimonial aims are seen as virtuous by society, that since she was born into comfort and raised in luxury it is only natural she should strive to maintain such. But Wharton would have Lily attuned at the same time to the "republic of the spirit." During a coquettish conversation with Laurence Selden, an aloofly intellectual lawyer, Lily suddenly finds herself face to face with the vapid, meaningless nature of her percuniary pursuit. Selden offhandedly relates his ideal of success- to live unrestrainedly, free from material concerns. Lily is simultaneously enthralled and despondent. "Why do you make the things I have chosen seem hateful to me if you have nothing to give me instead?" she cries. Lily is convinced that she can never be mindless of money if she does not possess a surfeit of it.

And truly, she never can. For, "what she craved and really felt herself entitled to was a situation in which the noblest attitude should also be the easiest," revealing her utter lack of integrity. Lily's love of luxury and her willingness to go to great lengths to secure it show only the shallowness of her character; her inability to forsake the futile chase and take a more meaningful tack, her selfishness. A lovely profile, smooth skin, and a taste for silken sheets do not "entitle" one to material wealth.

Gerty Farish, however, remains steadfast in her universal goodwill and her devotion to her friend, mastering even her unrequited affinity for Laurence Selden in doing all she can for Lily. Gerty is the first one on the scene when Lily is inevitably found dead of a sedative overdose. Compassionate, selfless, determined to do what she could with her lot in life, Gerty was the true heroine. Lily was just another pretty face.

The Brothers Karamazov by Feodor Dostoevsky

It may be 19th-century Russia, and it may be a world in which a boy can confound his teachers with the question of who founded Troy because he owns the only book in town with the answer, but the intellectuals of Dostoevsky's day struggled with the same fundamental issues that divide society now. Atheistic socialism and progressive empiricism undermine the tradition and authority of religion on a broad social scale, while individuals wrestle personally with these competing worldviews.

In The Brothers Karamazov, this individual drama is personified by the eponymous brothers. Abandoned by their licentious father in their childhood, the boys reach a tentative reconciliation with him as young adults. But he is murdered, and suspicion falls upon Dmitri, the eldest. Dmitri, passionate and impulsive, lives almost entirely to please himself, and this does not help his case during the ensuing trial.

Ivan, the middle brother, has embraced skeptical materialism, intending to get all he can out of life before "dash[ing] the cup to the ground" at thirty. Alexey, the youngest, is thoughtful and congenial, open-hearted, emanating universal goodwill. It is through him that Dostoevsky projects his ideal philosophy of life and living, though for much of the book Alexey merely listens and observes attentively as others attempt to foist their views on him.

Indeed, the zenith of the book's philosophical discourse occurs as Ivan presents his poem in prose form, "The Grand Inquisitor," to Alexey. In a powerful, railing diatribe, Ivan's inquisitor, a Catholic priest, interrogates Jesus. "Didst Thou forget that man prefers peace, and even death, to freedom of choice in the knowledge of good and evil?" The priest insists that pacifying the people and appeasing them is more loving and merciful than burdening them with free will. "Thou didst not come down [from the cross], for again Thou wouldst not enslave man by a miracle, and didst crave faith given freely...But Thou didst think too highly of men therein, for they are slaves." All the time he speaks Jesus is silent, and when the priest finishes, He rises and gives him a kiss upon his forehead.

In the same way, Alexey remains quiet for much of the novel, interjecting intermittently but mainly watching his family's sordid drama unfold. The concluding chapter, however, represents his longest speech, a benediction to the group of boys he befriends through their classmate Ilusha's fatal sickness. After Ilusha dies. Alexey beseeches the boys to retain the love and sense of comity that they felt for their friend, and he joyfully assures them that they will meet again, if not in this life, then in the next. His buoyant, steadfast sentiments are made more poignant in the wake of the demeaning injustice of his father's murder trial, and of the myriad disavowals of the faith so dear to him that Alexey endures.

A Doll's House by Henrik Ibsen

Norwegian playwright Henrik Ibsen examines the plight of a ninteenth-century housewife. The text reads fluidly and compellingly, with little action but with much poignant conversation. Despite the brevity of the play and Ibsen's economical style, the characters are intimately drawn, and drastically altered by the end.

Nora, the housewife, feigns a carefree devotion to her husband and children, but she harbors secret obligations. When, years before, her husband Torvald had fallen so ill the doctor insisted he must go abroad, Nora forged her father's signature and obtained a loan so they could travel. By cajoling money from her husband under the pretense of frivolity, she has almost managed to pay her debt. But the man who holds the bond, Krogstad, is fired by his manager, Nora's husband, and so he threatens to expose her forgery, impugning both the couple. Nora confesses to Torvald, privately hoping he would recognize her love for him and take the blame upon himself, but he rages against her instead. They discover Krogstad has sent them the bond, releasing them, and so Torvald apologizes, expecting they can continue on as before. But Nora has discovered that her relationship with him is fundamentally grounded in deception, and so, to discover how to live in uninhibited truth, she leaves.

While it is morally reprehensible for a mother to abandon her family under such a tenuous pretense, the essential theme is very revealing. Ibsen identifies the dilemma that women have spent the better part of the 20th century trying to solve: What is the female's position in society? Nora, sheltered, petted, and coddled all her life, knows only what has been dictated to her. She feels, and rightly so, as any educator would tell you, that she needs to discover knowledge on her own. Unfortunately, once she married, and more importantly, once she bore children, she really relinquished her rights to explore the world on her own. She has a duty to herself as a human being, certainly, but she has a greater duty to her children, who have all the same rights as individuals added to the dependency of juvenility. To marry and to procreate may not have been entirely of her own volition, but that does not negate the responsibility that she bears as a wife and mother.

Discovering oneself and establishing a satisfactory position in society is honorable, but not worth dissolving one's family for. The relationship between parent and child is the most fundamental, organic one in all the world, and to violate it constitutes one of the most damaging, far-reaching sins. Nora needed a measure of self-actualization, but she should have remained with her children to discover it, because that is where she would have found it evetually, if she sought honestly and deeply.

The Inferno by Dante Alighieri

Audacity may be Dante's chief virtue. In his ambitious allegory of a trip to the innermost rings of Hell, he dares to rank himself with the great poets of ancient Rome, and with his supreme self-confidence, he succeeds. Guided by Virgil, Dante is privileged to witness the fury of the Inferno without partaking of it. He meets all manner of sinners, from infamous figures of the past to his own recently deceased contemporaries, each one consigned to an eternity of torture specifically tailored to fit his most significant sin. Those who tried to divine the future in life can only look backward in death; murders and wanton warriors eternally drown in a river of blood; sodomites, reflecting the sterility of their acts, continually rove a barren desert.

"[I]t is no easy undertaking," says Dante, "to describe the bottom of the Universe," but he manages it excellently. His illustrations of the underworld are luridly, fantastically detailed. He tells of the endless whirlwind to which the carnal are condemned: "I came to a place stripped bare of every light / and roaring on the naked dark like seas / wracked by a war of winds." As he plumbs deeper into the bowels of the earth, Dante becomes superbly gruesome and fabulous in his rendering of suffering. Enemies gnaw one another's heads; men morph involuntarily into reptiles; Judas Iscariot, Dante's ultimate sinner, is suspended in Satan's mouth at the center of Hell, immobilized in an immense floe of ice.

As an allegory, the symbolism is as multilayered and fathomless as the Inferno itself. One of the more obvious and intriguing figures is Virgil, as the light of human reason. Though he is a pagan predating Christ, Dante implies he can still bring spiritual illumination. Virgil, with his wisdom and discretion, leads Dante safely through the perilous abyss and shows him the way to salvation by ascending with him to the gates of Heaven. He cannot, however, journey with Dante farther, demonstrating that human reason can only get one so far.

"I did not dare descend to his own level / but kept my head inclined, as one who walks / in reverence meditating good and evil." Dante converses with the condemned, but he is careful to maintain a safe distance between himself and them. He derives instruction from their mistakes, learning how better to stay on the path of the "True Way." Through sedulous circumspection, he manages to be in their wretched world, but not of it.

Dante's audaciously lofty poetic aspirations were crucial to the effective execution of such a comprehensive delineation. He itemizes nearly every major sin and assigns appropriate punishments to suit them. It is such a terribly attractive idea, to think that every significant action can be put into a neat theological category, that it is no wonder the Comedy became so widely revered. However, this concept of a linear condemnation, like Purgatory, has little biblical basis. Dante does provide some excellent spiritual insights, though, and his literary merit is undeniable.