necessary for their own evaluation. By clues , he did not mean metaphors and he did not mean symbolism. He meant actual clues. To him, every book was its own treasure map. A good novel, he said, left the close reader with a useful souvenir. All you needed to do was learn to see what was right under your nose. (This, I remember, was a refrain he enjoyed repeating.)
I remember our lessons on Agnes Grey . My father explained that the only parts of the book worth reading were the chapter headings.
“Recite them to me,” he said.
I asked, “Why?”
“Read them out loud. You’ll see.”
We were at our kitchen table. I flipped open the book to the table of contents. Someone (likely me) had spilled something red and sticky on the opposite page. Ketchup? I read the chapter titles out loud. “ ‘Chapter One: The Parsonage. Chapter Two: First Lesson in the Art of Instruction. Chapter Three: A Few More Lessons.’ ”
“You get the idea,” Dad interrupted.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Lessons. Do you understand?”
“Sorry, what?”
“They’re lessons.”
“What are?”
“Exactly. Are we on the same page?”
“Metaphorically?”
“Literally.”
“What?”
“Excellent.”
The discussion went on like this for the rest of the day. “ A few more lessons.” Get it, Sam, get it? Why would she write that?
Now, years later, I thought I understood. What appeared to be meekness and agreeableness on Anne’s part was deliberate subversion. Her protagonist held the post of governess, one of the least powerful positions a woman could occupy in the nineteenth century. And yet, Anne’s novel immortalizes Agnes, giving a loud, persistent, and permanent voice to one of the most inconsequential figures in history. Almost one hundred and seventy years later, Agnes is one of the only governesses left who is barking orders—and, by extension, so is Anne. “First Lessons,” “A Few More Lessons.” She is the ageless teacher, and we, the readers, are her eternal students. Here is her first lesson, on page one:
All true histories contain instruction ; though, in some, the treasure may be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking the nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself.
It is a curious opening paragraph, which is perhaps why my father wrote in the margin: CURIOUS . Anne begins a piece of fiction by calling it a “true” history. I wouldn’t normally conflate Agnes’s words with Anne’s, but this was one of the most poorly masked autobiographies I had ever read. Agnes’s “true” history is, in many ways, Anne’s. The author is hiding behind her protagonist, desperate to blurt out something important, but unable to expose her true self. The only thing she can do is ask her readers to read her novel carefully, so we gain the “instruction” that will help us discover the “hard to find” treasure. What has Anne hidden inside the text? Did my father know, or was that what he was trying to decipher, alone in his study? Anne, like all good teachers, must have known that a discovery was valuable only if you figured it out on your own.
Her novel ended with the cruelest joke: And now I think I have said sufficient.
Hah.
James Orville wrote me an e-mail the following week. It always surprised me to think of him using technology. It was the same surprise I would have felt upon seeing Odysseus whip out Google Maps.
To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]
From: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]
Subject: Necessary Improvements
Dear Samantha,
I did not enjoy your essay on Paradise Lost. My recurring concern is the way in which you craft your sentences. Have you ever taken a course in creative writing? I think it might help ease the
I remember our lessons on Agnes Grey . My father explained that the only parts of the book worth reading were the chapter headings.
“Recite them to me,” he said.
I asked, “Why?”
“Read them out loud. You’ll see.”
We were at our kitchen table. I flipped open the book to the table of contents. Someone (likely me) had spilled something red and sticky on the opposite page. Ketchup? I read the chapter titles out loud. “ ‘Chapter One: The Parsonage. Chapter Two: First Lesson in the Art of Instruction. Chapter Three: A Few More Lessons.’ ”
“You get the idea,” Dad interrupted.
“No, I don’t,” I said.
“Lessons. Do you understand?”
“Sorry, what?”
“They’re lessons.”
“What are?”
“Exactly. Are we on the same page?”
“Metaphorically?”
“Literally.”
“What?”
“Excellent.”
The discussion went on like this for the rest of the day. “ A few more lessons.” Get it, Sam, get it? Why would she write that?
Now, years later, I thought I understood. What appeared to be meekness and agreeableness on Anne’s part was deliberate subversion. Her protagonist held the post of governess, one of the least powerful positions a woman could occupy in the nineteenth century. And yet, Anne’s novel immortalizes Agnes, giving a loud, persistent, and permanent voice to one of the most inconsequential figures in history. Almost one hundred and seventy years later, Agnes is one of the only governesses left who is barking orders—and, by extension, so is Anne. “First Lessons,” “A Few More Lessons.” She is the ageless teacher, and we, the readers, are her eternal students. Here is her first lesson, on page one:
All true histories contain instruction ; though, in some, the treasure may be hard to find, and when found, so trivial in quantity, that the dry, shrivelled kernel scarcely compensates for the trouble of cracking the nut. Whether this be the case with my history or not, I am hardly competent to judge. I sometimes think it might prove useful to some, and entertaining to others; but the world may judge for itself.
It is a curious opening paragraph, which is perhaps why my father wrote in the margin: CURIOUS . Anne begins a piece of fiction by calling it a “true” history. I wouldn’t normally conflate Agnes’s words with Anne’s, but this was one of the most poorly masked autobiographies I had ever read. Agnes’s “true” history is, in many ways, Anne’s. The author is hiding behind her protagonist, desperate to blurt out something important, but unable to expose her true self. The only thing she can do is ask her readers to read her novel carefully, so we gain the “instruction” that will help us discover the “hard to find” treasure. What has Anne hidden inside the text? Did my father know, or was that what he was trying to decipher, alone in his study? Anne, like all good teachers, must have known that a discovery was valuable only if you figured it out on your own.
Her novel ended with the cruelest joke: And now I think I have said sufficient.
Hah.
James Orville wrote me an e-mail the following week. It always surprised me to think of him using technology. It was the same surprise I would have felt upon seeing Odysseus whip out Google Maps.
To: “Samantha J. Whipple” [email protected]
From: “James Timothy Orville” [email protected]
Subject: Necessary Improvements
Dear Samantha,
I did not enjoy your essay on Paradise Lost. My recurring concern is the way in which you craft your sentences. Have you ever taken a course in creative writing? I think it might help ease the
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