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Howards End is a masterful discussion of changing social class-consciousness. Three families from different levels of society become intertwined: the rich capitalists, the intellectual bourgeoisie and the struggling poor. Forster does not suggest that relationships between the classes are easy, but he does think them vitally important. The social philosophy inherent in the novel is significant and beautifully written.
Reading the book in class was rewarding as we talked about far meatier subjects than I might have tackled on my own: the industrial revolution which brought aspirants like Leonard Bast and Jacky, too, into the city from the farm and made money for others like the Wilcoxes; the rise of feminism for those with time and education to embrace it; the mystical, ghostliness of Mrs. Avery, the housekeeper at Howard's End; changing morals with the rest of the cultural & social changes occurring; the altered landscape of London and affordable housing at the expense of the countryside and large estates; and what kind of future for Baby who is assured of money, education and WWII(portents of doom from Germany). ( )
Only connect, forget about being poor and exploited, take the magnanimous point of view of the generationally wealthy, and kumbaya This is why this book doesn't talk to many readers. It's not the ego in ourselves but the humanity that is insulted. The exact opposite of Joyce and Proust, who wrote novels with apparently narrow foxus, and which yet speak to the whole humankind avout what it meand being human. Fun fact: Virginia Woolf, part of Forster's circle of upper class entitled literary would-be revolutionaries, couldn't stand Ulysses' brazen, proletarian approach to the description of the body and its everyday miraculous functions. A perfect snapchot of the fool missing the forest for the tree. ( )
Meh...I don't know how I really feel about this story. It was very predictable, for one, and I didn't at all like how it ended. I thought the Wilcoxes, with the exception of the first Mrs. Wilcox, were absolutely intolerable. I can't understand how Wilcox's second wife put up with his unapologetic selfishness and hypocrisy---she's a greater woman than I. I get it that Forster was trying to remain neutral, for the most part, but I don't think that's how modern readers see this story. I don't think the Schlegel's remained equal in the end and I think that's why it's left a sour taste in my mouth.
What is actually very intriguing about this story is that it was published (only just) before the world wars would change England and Germany and the world's view of them and their view of the world forever. The emotions, actions and reactions that fueled this story don't exist in our world anymore, making it an excellent study in pre-war history. ( )
An interesting peek into the swirl of politics, economics, and philosophy of London a hundred years past. So much has changed, but so many of the critiques of society inside still resonant. ( )
Editor's Introduction Idea for another novel shaping, and may do well to write it down.
One may as well begin with Helen’s letters to her sister.
Quotations
Theatres and discussion societies attracted her less and less. She began to ‘miss’ new movements, and to spend her spare time re-reading or thinking . . . she had outgrown stimulants, and was passing from words to things. It was doubtless a pity not to keep up with Wedekind or John, but some closing of the gates is inevitable after thirty, if the mind itself is to become a creative power.
Only connect! That was the whole of her sermon. Only connect the prose and the passion and both will be exalted, and human love will be seen at its height. Live in fragments no longer.
Margaret greeted her lord with peculiar tenderness on the morrow. Mature as he was, she might yet be able to help him to the building of the rainbow bridge that should connect the prose in us with the passion. Without it we are meaningless fragments, half monk, half beasts, unconnected arches that have never joined into a man. With it love is born, and alights on the highest curve, glowing against the grey, sober against the fire. Happy the man who sees from either aspect the glory of these outspread wings. The roads of his soul lie clear, and he and his friends shall find easy-going.
The train sped northward, under innumerable tunnels. It was only an hour’s journey, but Mrs. Munt had to raise and lower the window again and again. She passed through the South Welwyn Tunnel, saw light for a moment, and entered the North Welwyn Tunnel, of tragic fame. She traversed the immense viaduct, whose arches span untroubled meadows and the dreamy flow of Tewin Water. She skirted the parks of politicians. At times the Great North Road accompanied her, more suggestive of infinity than any railway, awakening, after a nap of a hundred years, to such life as is conferred by the stench of motor-cars, and to such culture as is implied by the advertisements of antibilious pills. To history, to tragedy, to the past, to the future, Mrs. Munt remained equally indifferent; hers but to concentrate on the end of her journey.
They were both at their best when serving on committees. They did not make the mistake of handling human affairs in the bulk, but disposed of them item by item, sharply. ... It is the best—perhaps the only—way of dodging emotion.
The station for Howards End was at Hilton, one of the large villages that are strung so frequently along the North Road, and that owe their size to the traffic of coaching and pre-coaching days. Being near London, it had not shared in the rural decay, and its long High Street had budded out right and left into residential estates. For about a mile a series of tiled and slated houses passed before Mrs. Munt's inattentive eyes, a series broken at one point by six Danish tumuli that stood shoulder to shoulder along the highroad, tombs of soldiers. Beyond these tumuli, habitations thickened, and the train came to a standstill in a tangle that was almost a town.
The station, like the scenery, like Helen's letters, struck an indeterminate note. Into which country will it lead, England or Suburbia? It was new, it had island platforms and a subway, and the superficial comfort exacted by business men. But it held hints of local life, personal intercourse, as even Mrs. Munt was to discover.
Margaret took a hansom to King's Cross. ... She strained her eyes for St. Pancras' clock. Then the clock of King's Cross swung into sight, a second moon in that infernal sky, and her cab drew up at the station. She took a ticket ... They began the walk up the long platform. Far at the end stood the train, breasting the darkness without.
The fog pressed against the windows like an excluded ghost.
Last words
'The field’s cut!' Helen cried excitedly—'the big meadow! We’ve seen to the very end, and it’ll be such a crop of hay as never!'
Howards End is a masterful discussion of changing social class-consciousness. Three families from different levels of society become intertwined: the rich capitalists, the intellectual bourgeoisie and the struggling poor. Forster does not suggest that relationships between the classes are easy, but he does think them vitally important. The social philosophy inherent in the novel is significant and beautifully written.
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