I’ve read everything Jane Austen wrote, then tried to read some of the books that she liked or influenced her work, including Frances Burney’s three novels and most of Anne Radcliffe’s works. I tried to read Sir Charles Grandison by Samuel Richardson as it was supposedly Austen’s favourite, but I only got a quarter of the way through. It was the most boring thing I’ve ever read.
How often do we strive to discover the roots of genius, only to find ourselves marooned in lands of mediocrity? There’s a strange paradox in tracing the inspirations of our literary idols: the joy we seek is often embedded in disappointment. Perhaps it is in these very moments, when enthusiasm succumbs to tedium, that we unearth more about our own aesthetic inclinations than we do about the works we admire. This brings to mind the philosophical musings of Emil Cioran, who suggested that “one does not learn from happiness, but from suffering.” Are we, in our frustration and dismay, actually engaging in a deeper form of education?
In essence, this search for artistic lineage forces us to confront our limitations and preferences. The various threads that compose the fabric of our favourite works are often uneven and knotted, revealing the human complexity behind seemingly flawless art. Richardson’s ‘Sir Charles Grandison’ was beloved by Austen, yet it failed to capture our modern sensibilities. Thus, it serves as a mirror reflecting not only our personal growth but also the evolution of literary taste.
Reflecting on the artistic front, it is intriguing to compare this pursuit to the works of lesser-known artists like Leonora Carrington. Her surrealist paintings, filled with dream-like imagery and enigmatic symbolism, can be both enthralling and perplexing. Carrington’s art resonates with the theme of exploration – whether emotional, psychological, or cultural – and reminds us that not every journey is guided by clear signposts.
There’s a poignancy in the way both art and philosophy intersect in our search for understanding. Thinking of the experiences that shaped my views, I recall an evening immersed in Carrington’s works. The gallery teemed with shapes and colors that defied straightforward comprehension, much like Richardson’s texts. I left feeling both enlightened and perplexed, my soul a teapot brimming with newly steeped philosophical queries.
What do you think is the best way to reconcile the challenge of engaging with difficult art or philosophy? Does the struggle itself hold intrinsic value, or should we sidestep it in favour of more immediately rewarding experiences? Share your thoughts and embark on this exploratory journey with me.
[Leonora Carrington’s Otherworldly Art](https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/2020/feb/28/leonora-carrington-most-mystical-artist-of-the-20th-century)
[Emil Cioran: An Unconventional Philosopher](https://plato.stanford.edu/entries/cioran/)
[The Complexity of Literary Evolution](https://www.lrb.co.uk/the-paper/v42/n03/fergal-casey/the-evolving-reader)
Embarking on a quest to appreciate the classics can feel like wandering through the maze of one’s own soul. I remember eagerly diving into Sir Charles Grandison, expecting to be swept away, only to find myself marooned in a sea of tedium. Perhaps Austen saw a beauty in Richardson’s work that remains elusive to many of us in the modern age.
During a particularly rainy weekend, I decided to visit a local art gallery showcasing the works of Leonora Carrington, hoping to find some solace and inspiration. Her surrealist paintings, with their ethereal figures and enigmatic landscapes, beckoned me into a world that was both enchanting and bewildering. Like Richardson’s prose, Carrington’s art did not offer immediate gratification. Instead, it challenged me to sit with my discomfort and explore it, much like the emotional journeys within Radcliffe’s dark and winding plots.
The profound interplay between struggle and understanding hit me then. Carrington’s work taught me that the act of wrestling with difficult art or literature is not merely an exercise in patience but a deeper engagement with the self. There is value in staying the course, in allowing ourselves to grapple with complex ideas, even when they resist our initial attempts at comprehension. This struggle sharpens our aesthetic sensibilities and broadens our intellectual horizons.
Recalling my experience at the gallery, I was reminded once again that the journey is often more revealing than the destination. Embracing the struggle, whether it’s through Richardson’s laborious narratives or Carrington’s surreal dreams, provides us with richer insights into our own tastes and inclinations. Perhaps the best way to reconcile these challenges is not to shy away but to walk through them, allowing each step to illuminate a path through the labyrinth of our own minds.
If you’ve ever embarked on a similar journey, do share. How do you navigate through difficult art or literature?
Oh, here we go again, another tiresome attempt to intellectualize what ultimately amounts to personal taste. It seems the writer embarked on this grand odyssey to excavate literary and artistic roots, only to discover that—surprise, surprise—some of those roots are just plain dull. “Sir Charles Grandison,” the apex of boredom, huh? Austen must be rolling in her grave. Is it really that groundbreaking to say some old books don’t resonate with modern readers?
And then there’s this highfalutin analysis about how we discover more about ourselves when we confront these “tedious” works. Come on, give me a break! It’s like saying you become a better driver if you navigate pothole-riddled roads. You don’t; you just ruin your tires. The insistence on drawing parallels with Leonora Carrington and Emil Cioran – talk about reaching! Not every convoluted, surrealist painting or nihilistic musing translates into some profound epiphany about human nature.
Honestly, what’s with these endless philosophical detours? Just say you didn’t enjoy the book and move on. The struggle with difficult art and philosophy might be intrinsically valuable to some, but it sounds like pseudo-intellectual posturing to others. If I wanted to be reminded that not every journey is guided by clear signposts, I’d go for a drive without my GPS, not trudge through Richardson’s soporific prose. The articles mentioned here—are they supposed to back up the pretentious musings? Who has the time?
In short, the best way to reconcile the challenge of engaging with difficult art or philosophy? Accept that some old stuff stinks and don’t feel guilty about tossing it aside for more rewarding experiences. Life’s too short to be spent wading through literary quagmires that even the author can’t provide a convincing reason to endure.
Your article offers a rich and thought-provoking exploration of literary lineage and the intricate dance between admiration and disenchantment. However, I noticed a slight mistake regarding Frances Burney’s bibliography. Burney actually wrote four novels, not three: *“Evelina”*, *“Cecilia”*, *“Camilla”*, and *“The Wanderer”*. While your primary focus remains intact, this correction adds depth to the understanding of Austen’s influences.
It’s fascinating how your experience with Richardson’s *”Sir Charles Grandison”* parallels broader philosophical inquiries. Emil Cioran’s notion that we learn more from suffering than from happiness aptly contextualizes the frustration of wading through less engaging literature. Your struggle, far from being futile, enriches your own aesthetic discernment, compelling you to confront your own boundaries and preferences.
In discussing the evolution of literary taste, you effectively highlight the human elements behind seemingly perfect works. This juxtaposition of personal growth and collective sensibilites enhances the article’s depth, underscoring that the roots of genius seldom align with contemporary tastes. Richardson’s work, loved by Austen but less resonant today, serves as an excellent case study in this regard.
Your comparison to Leonora Carrington’s surrealist paintings adds yet another layer of richness. Carrington’s enigmatic, dream-like imagery embodies the experience of grappling with complex artistic and literary works – a journey often without clear signposts. Her art, both enthralling and perplexing, echoes the emotional and psychological exploration your article describes.
Reconciling with difficult art or philosophy, as you imply, may indeed hold intrinsic value. It forces us into a state of reflective discomfort, fostering deeper self-awareness and intellectual growth. However, it’s also important to balance these challenging pursuits with experiences that offer immediate gratification, thus ensuring a holistic engagement with art and thought.
Your article encourages readers to embrace the full spectrum of literary and artistic exploration, regardless of the immediate rewards. It’s a poignant reminder that every journey, whether guided by clear markers or shrouded in ambiguity, holds the potential for profound personal enlightenment.