Five Stars for Middlemarch by George Eliot

Novelist Virginia Woolf called it “one of the few English novels written for grown-up people.”

I’m not sure if it's one of the few, but it is certainly for grown-ups. Middlemarch by George Eliot collected dust on my bookshelf for nearly fifteen years. My husband bought this book for me the second year we were married. Since, on more than one occasion, I tried to read it, but ended up shelving it. Set in England in the early 1900’s, the conventions hogtying a woman’s independence infuriated me, further the main character Dorothea created a bonfire of hatred in me. I couldn’t stand her indecisiveness, her ever-present idealism, and her clever mind often misdirected towards stupidity. But then I grew up. As I trudged through the quicksand of mediocrity and small talk within the novel, I began to reflect upon my own immature thoughts.

For instance, Dorothea’s first marriage to Casaubon, a man ridiculously older than Dorothea, but worse, he was a man clearly self-absorbed and incapable of loving Dorothea’s kind nature and clever mind. He insulted her in the worst possible way; he ignored her, and patronized her ideas. It was at this point in the novel; I began rooting for Dorothea. I wanted her to be able to pursue the idealistic view she held of the world, a view that believed in possibilities, and the goodness in people. Of course, this made her seem flighty, and possibly incapable of making good decisions, and never great decisions.

Her mindset reflected mine at nineteen years old, full of Hegelianism philosophy embracing the abstract reality and finding idealism in it all. My initial dislike of her grew out of my own dismissed idealism already replaced by realistic cynicism. I forgot how to hope and believe in the abstract. I grew into the adult world of mortgages, bills, and parenting which has nurtured old fears of not being good enough for the roles of adulthood. I lapsed into childhood holding onto Star Wars toys and dreams of fame out of complete self-sacrifice. Reading Middlemarch, following Dorothea’s quest for happiness wrought out of idealism and self-sacrifice; I let go of fears oppressive and bound to my own stupidity. I realized I can be an adult and still have my toys and dreams. And sometimes there’s that middle as in Middlemarch that feels like real life, a growing up kind of quicksand. In parting, I highly recommend Middlemarch. It’s worth the quicksand to find yourself at the end and placing understanding yourself in a grown-up world.