A modest proposal

About three weeks ago I received my first (serious) proposal of marriage. To my great relief it was very unromantic, consisting of only four words, but it did make me think about great literary proposals and betrothals, so I’ve collected some of my favourites here. Please add to them if you think of any others!  (I said yes, by the way.)

from Much Ado About Nothing

Benedick. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts. Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.
Beatrice. I would not deny you; but, by this good day, I yield upon great  persuasion; and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.
Benedick. Peace! I will stop your mouth.


from Persuasion – Captain Wentworth’s letter.

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W. I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."


from Jane Eyre. There are two proposal scenes in Jane Eyre, both magnificent but both very long. You can read the first one here and the second here.

from The Importance of Being Earnest

Jack. Gwendolen, I must get christened at once—I mean we must get married at once. There is no time to be lost.
Gwendolen. Married, Mr. Worthing?
Jack. [Astounded.] Well… surely. You know that I love you, and you led me to believe, Miss Fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me.
Gwendolen. I adore you. But you haven’t proposed to me yet. Nothing has been said at all about marriage. The subject has not even been touched on.
Jack. Well… may I propose to you now?
Gwendolen. I think it would be an admirable opportunity. And to spare you any possible disappointment, Mr. Worthing, I think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that I am fully determined to accept you.
Jack. Gwendolen!
Gwendolen. Yes, Mr. Worthing, what have you got to say to me?
Jack. You know what I have got to say to you.
Gwendolen. Yes, but you don’t say it.
Jack. Gwendolen, will you marry me? [Goes on his knees.]
Gwendolen. Of course I will, darling. How long you have been about it! I am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose.


If you want to read the rest of this one, you can find it here.

from The Pickwick Papers (my favourite). Mr Pickwick is contemplating employing a manservant (Sam Weller), but his landlady Mrs Bardell misinterprets him.

'Mrs. Bardell,' said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes.

'Sir,' said Mrs. Bardell again.

'Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one?'

'La, Mr. Pickwick,' said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; 'La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!'

'Well, but do you?' inquired Mr. Pickwick. […]

Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look.  She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire.  Mr. Pickwick was going to propose--a deliberate plan, too--sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way--how thoughtful--how considerate! […]

'And your little boy--' said Mr. Pickwick […] will have a companion,' resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'a lively one, who'll teach him, I'll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year.'  And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly.

'Oh, you dear--' said Mrs. Bardell.

Mr. Pickwick started.

'Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,' said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick's neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs.

'Bless my soul,' cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; 'Mrs Bardell, my good woman--dear me, what a situation—pray consider.--Mrs. Bardell, don't--if anybody should come--'

'Oh, let them come,' exclaimed Mrs. Bardell frantically; 'I'll never leave you --dear, kind, good soul;' and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter.


I highly recommend reading the entire scene, which you can find here.

The world is so full of a number of things

"The world is so full of a number of things,
I'm sure we should all be as happy as kings."

This couplet from Robert Louis Stevenson is a miracle of succinct and teasing whimsy. On the face of it, it seems like a joyous celebration of the earth's plenitude, a delight in the endless possibility of life. Yet the word should is a shadow on all this exuberant wonder. In spite of the multitude of things, how many of us are happy? Including, of course, the kings themselves. Perhaps the point is the ironic self-defeat of materialism, the inevitability of what the economists call scarcity: the number of things that exist is always lower than the number required to satisfy human desire. If I was going to scrawl anything across the nursery wall in large curly letters it would be this, but perhaps I would thus condemn my children to a slow and numbing realisation of the real scarcity of happiness.

Ask me a riddle

For some reason, this little bit of magic from Winnie-the-Pooh has been in my head all week. Enjoy!

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly.
Ask me a riddle and I reply
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
Why does a chicken? I don't know why.
Ask me a riddle and I reply
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.

Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie,
A fish can't whistle and neither can I.
Ask me a riddle and I reply
Cottleston, Cottleston, Cottleston Pie.

Death of an Author

In January JD Salinger died, and there's a lot of talk about what kind of literary legacy he might have left. He was reclusive and reluctant to publish, so there's speculation about piles of undiscovered manuscripts being brought to light now that his wishes need no longer be considered. This raises interesting questions about ownership, intellectual copyright, publicity. Should the work of deceased authors always be found and published? What about their letters? Their diaries? Do we have a right to read them? Do they have a right to prevent us?

There's also talk about film rights now that the stories are fair game. The Sydney Morning Herald this week published a kind of literary wrap-up that read like the New Yorker's Book Bench blog; it contained this gem:

If you really want to know the goddam truth, the news that Hollywood is trying to get its hands on the film rights to Catcher in the Rye just about kills me. It really does. Just on account of how some hotshot author died, and all, some crummy actor like ol' Jake Gyllenhaal is gonna end up playing me, Holden goddam Caulfield. Actors. Boy they irritate me. They really do. They're as phoney as hell. If I had a goddam gun to my head I would have to say that phoney ol' Tobey Maguire, or that goddam Harry Potter guy probably would be OK and all. At acting like crazy ol' me that is. It's crazy. But they'd do a good job. They really would. Wizards kill me. That Dumbledore. I'd like to meet him. Hey ol' Dumbledore. How ya doin', ol' Dumbledore? We'd just horse around and shoot the crap, me and ol' Dumbledore. What also kills me is that people forget that I turned 59 this year. So I don't wanna be played by any crummy ol' Leo DiCaprio who in my opinion is a very conceited character, or by that crazy Justin Bieber, either. I wanna be played by George goddam Clooney. Or that Cate Blanchett. She's terrific, she really is.

Miles Franklin Winner: It's a crime!

For the first time ever, a crime novel has won the Miles Franklin Award. Peter Temple’s book Truth beat shortlisted novels by Brian Castro and Alex Miller (two-time winner).  I’m only mildly interested as I don’t read crime novels and I think literary prizes are only the roughest of rough guides as to what we should read. Their primary function I think is to generate discussion.

 So on the subject of crime novels (leaving aside the more vexed question of whether they count as literature), is anybody else worried by the marketshare they seem to have? At bookshops the crime section seems to be at least half again of the entire fiction section. What does it say about us as a culture if that’s what we mostly read?