Silas Marner

A happy ending!

As a casual reader--not a student forced to study it in school--I found Silas Marner to be a perfect bit of joy, justice, and jolly good writing, timed when this spirit sorely needs uplifting.

I'm so glad because I've wanted to enjoy an Eliot novel from start to finish, having previously read The Mill on the Floss where I enjoyed the first half immensely but sadly slogged through the second half. This story, shorter by far, did not delve into a wearisome Victorian angst, and instead was a revelry of Eliot's beautiful, precise prose and ended with the sun shining on a happy breed.

Eliot was a fine writer (even without a "Victorian" appellation). She was like a painter who effortlessly delights us in depicting the merest hint show more of an afternoon's light falling on an anonymous sitter's nose. Here is an example of one of many that made me smile while reading it,

"No offence to you, madam,” he added, bending to Mrs. Crackenthorp, who sat by him, “I didn’t know you when you were as young as Miss Nancy here.”

Mrs. Crackenthorp—a small blinking woman, who fidgeted incessantly with her lace, ribbons, and gold chain, turning her head about and making subdued noises, very much like a guinea-pig that twitches its nose and soliloquizes in all company indiscriminately—now blinked and fidgeted towards the Squire, and said, “Oh, no—no offence.”

A content soliloquizing guinea-pig!

This isn't Eliot's important work. But I enjoyed it today, during a pleasant mild March afternoon, reading a story that ends when "the great lilacs and laburnums in the old-fashioned gardens showed their golden and purple wealth above the lichen-tinted walls, and when there were calves still young enough to want bucketfuls of fragrant milk."

You just gotta love that. show less

Silas Marner is the type of book that should be read and analyzed in a college lit class, as there is more going on than the simple tale of a weaver unjustly accused of theft relocating to another English village, where he keeps to himself while making a fortune (relatively speaking) which is subsequently stolen. George Eliot is rapidly becoming one of my favorite authors. Her writing style subtly yet deftly portends the coming crisis while describing the change in Marner's character occasioned by the theft, comparing his old belief that money was a means to an end, whereas "now, when all purpose was gone...[it] made a loam that was deep enough for the seeds of desire." You can picture him as a rendition of Scrooge, a socially isolated show more man who has lost his way and spends his nights greedily counting his money.

Interwoven with Marner's tale is the story of Godfrey Cass, son of a squire, who has secretly married and begotten a child with a woman addicted to opium. Godfrey is blackmailed by his brother, Dunstan, over this relationship, the same Dunstan who steals Marner's gold. As is typical of 18th century fiction, the plot hinges on a fantastic coincidence, Godfrey's wife dying at Marner's doorstep and their infant daughter wandering into the house. Marner raises the unclaimed girl as his own, and is saved by the transference of his love of money to the love for his daughter.

My Penguin Classics version provides a new introduction as well as appending the original introduction at the end. Both are equally enlightening as to George Eliot's intentions in writing the novel, particularly the contrast between the motivations of Silas and Godfrey and the rewards and punishments meted out to each for their actions and inactions. More than a story of redemption earned through virtue, Silas Marner is a commentary on the morality exhibited by the wealthy and poor in 18th century England, with a definite nod in favor of the latter. show less

So why did I have so much trouble getting past the opening pages of this book sixty years ago? Apart from my general aversion toward any book assigned in high school, that is. That can’t be the entire reason, for I clearly recall how Thomas Hardy’s Return of the Native gripped me from the outset.
Perhaps I read the plot summary first in Masterpieces of World Literature in Digest Form. That was easier than braving Eliot’s daunting prose, but it does the book a disservice. There is little action in the book, and that little seems sentimental; some of the most dramatic events happen off-stage and don’t come to light until much later.
Yet I enjoyed the book this time from start to finish. The characteristic features of Eliot’s best show more books are here, too, in a briefer form. It made sense, therefore, that this was on our reading list as the introduction to one of the greatest English writers. There is her probing sociological observation and her psychological acuity. The set pieces that provide this, such as the description of a garrulous evening at the inn, can either seem to impede the plot (teenage me) or be savored on their own. The squire’s New Year’s ball is just one scene in which the author gives us a window into country customs that were disappearing even when Eliot wrote. And I’m certainly more receptive to Eliot’s continued processing of her youthful evangelical phase in her exploration of the muddled, inarticulate sentiment of church and chapel than I would have been back then.
This is the package in which the plot is only one element. And knowing what happens going in served a different purpose. Then, it was the only thing that got me a passing grade. Now, it enabled me to savor the pacing of how it unfolded.
It’s said youth is wasted on the young. Perhaps that’s true of good books as well. But I’m not sure. I’m glad I was exposed to these books, even though they defeated me at the time. I’m also happy I’ve lived long enough to return to them with the experience of reading good and bad books in the meantime. show less

This book was a real-life Book Circle read that, well, got mixed reviews. Some people thought the writing was brilliant and others found it dated; some people thought it was too short, others too long for the short story they felt it truly was and not the novel it's pretending to be.

I think it's a lovely book. I think Silas is about as honestly drawn and cannily observed a character as fiction offers. I think the village of Raveloe is as real as my own village of Hempstead. It's a delight to read about real people, presented without editorial snark, in a book from the 19th century.

And therein the book's real achievement. When it was published in 1861, it was a revolutionary tract! The hoi polloi were not to be represented in Art, and show more novels were then most definitely considered Art, unless they were romanticized, made into prettier or uglier or in some way extreme examples of a Point of View. Simple, honest, direct portrayal of people that novel-readers employed but never conversed with?! Shocking!

A book of great importance, then, for its groundbreaking treatment of The People. But also...and this is the reason it helped wreak the revolution whose Robespierres and Dantons were Hemingway and Company...it is a simple story of a man's journey down an ever-widening path that leads to enlightenment, told without A Message or A Moral, in prose that remains graceful 150 years later.

If you read it in high school, don't blame IT for the hatred your English teacher left you feeling...blame the teacher. It's not fairly presented in English courses. Read it as an adult, and judge it for itself. Maybe it'll be to your personal taste, maybe not, but I think a grown-up read of a book this seminal to all the others we read today, never thinking about how improbable their existence is, isn't too much to ask. show less

George Eliot (Mary Ann Evans 1819-1880) wrote Silas Marner as her version of Pilgrim’s Progress. Like Bunyan’s masterpiece, Silas Marner also has the feel of a universal fable, the redemption of a man from desolation to love and riches.

Unlike Progress, however, the characters in Silas Marner are well-drawn and invite sympathy. Knowing how shabbily Silas has been treated and knowing the inner journey of Silas and the nasty young Squire, makes the reader care about the characters.

Eppie, the toddler who appears in Silas’ life after his precious gold has been taken, is less believable as an individual. She is beautiful in body and soul, humble in aspiration and devoted to Silas. But she is lovely because she is so deeply loved by show more Silas, her ‘Papa’.

The inner journey Silas makes is not like the ‘ascent’ of Pilgrim to the river and the City of Heaven. Nor is it in the tradition of the ‘ascent’ to God mapped by medieval mystics like Bonaventure and Richard of Saint Victor.

Silas’ journey to redemption stays in the gritty reality of Victorian poverty. Grace – in the form of the toddler he names Hephzibah (Eppie) – comes to Silas once and all at once. The name Hephzibah means ‘My delight is in her’, and it is used in the Hebrew Scriptures as the symbolic name for the restored Jerusalem (Isaiah 62:4). The redemption takes the miser, Silas, with his short-sight and propensity to fitting, and teaches him how to love deeply.

Eliot contrasts the emotional and spiritual poverty of his former state with the richness of loving and being loved: the gold is even returned to Silas and secrets, liberating once shared, are brought to light.

Names are important to Eliot: Silas is named for the companion of the Apostle Paul. The New Testament’s Silas and Paul are put in prison and God releases them. God also releases Silas Marner from the darkness of the cultish Lantern Yard and from his self-imposed prison and. Both the New Testament and the village of Raveloe rejoice greatly at Silas’ release.

Is the name ‘Marner’ a reference to Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner published 90 years earlier?

Silas Marner is my introduction to George Eliot. I found the novel charming and satisfying. There is a central goodness in the novel which will be evident to readers whether or not they are Christian believers. But it is ultimately a Christian novel, an exploration of the journey we all in our own ways make in Christ. show less

I had never read any George Eliot prior to picking up this book and had few expectations, other than that there would likely be a focus on provincial life.

My meager expectation was fulfilled, of course, but I found more to like as well. The author’s characters are charming and substantial. Their inner drives are evident and largely developed through their actions rather than by a dense authorial overlay. The pieces of the plot are relatively simple but well crafted and cleverly assembled.

Overall the story is just heartwarming and lovely. Everyone has the opportunity to do good in their lives. Sometimes you fall into it and doing good is easy. For others, seeing the good that needs to be done requires looking past their own self show more interests. And a story where everybody (well, almost) gets to the good is a nice tonic sometimes. Goodness knows I could do with fewer stories of bleak indifference and cruelty in the middle of a cold and dreary January. show less

This used to be required reading in high schools. It doesn't seem to be any longer. I don't have a decided opinion on this, since most people hate the books they are assigned, but I loved it.

Because of its concision, I go against the grain of received literary opinion and judge this to be George Eliot's best book. Its simplicity saves it. Eliot's characteristic periphrasis does little harm here, and the story redeems all the whole.

Eliot (Evans) was surely an interesting figure in 19th century life. Her pessimism, "fearless realism," and principled opposition to romanticism can be seen very well in this great little novel.

When I first read it, I was disappointed in the ending. I wanted it happpier. I wanted Silas's old friends in the show more religious sect to welcome him back. But that was tragic backstory, and, like in life, the story here is just happy enough. Not ALL possible plot points find idealized resolution.

But then, I was a pious member of an obscure Christian sect when I first read the book. Twenty years later, it seemed perfect.

And so it still seems, to me. show less