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Forster is the last Edwardian. When I read him, I feel I can sense him wrestling with the same incommunicable subjectivity that the modernists would soon try to communicate by means of a drastic change in prose form. But Forster doesn't take that final step. He takes fiction up to the precipice of subjective psychology, but ultimately stays in the classical mode, pointing down towards this vast mystery that he cannot put into words.
So the predominant feeling in A Room With A View is a sort of freighted vagueness. When characters fall short, they are ‘tried by some new test’; when Lucy, the heroine, is high-strung she is seized by ‘some emotion—pity, terror, love’; when she goes wrong, she is ‘full of some vague shame’.
Some test, some emotion, some shame. Never any specifics – just this emotive haze of indistinction.
In Forster's world, tellingly, the ultimately enemy is not class or patriarchy or snobbishness (though he writes well against all these things), but rather – and how Edwardian is this! – ‘muddle’.
The end point of all this is the disinterested ‘ou-boum’ of the Malabar Caves in Forster's final novel. Italy, for Forster, is not quite as foreign as India, and so the muddle doesn't have quite the same cosmic awesomeness that we get in A Passage to India, but it's the same general idea. There is things in our experience of life that we can't explain, or even understand, but whose contours we sometimes sense.
I would usually find it trite to equate this kind of unsayability with an author's own sexuality, but in Forster's case it really feels hard to avoid it, when so many of his characters are struggling with attractions and emotions that they won't allow themselves to understand. In some ways it's a more effective way of capturing this subjectivity than the modernists managed.
At times the social conventions at play here are almost as tiresome for the modern reader as they are for some of the characters – but Forster's ability to express the inexpressibility of life remains completely fascinating, and about as close as you can get to living it yourself.
So the predominant feeling in A Room With A View is a sort of freighted vagueness. When characters fall short, they are ‘tried by some new test’; when Lucy, the heroine, is high-strung she is seized by ‘some emotion—pity, terror, love’; when she goes wrong, she is ‘full of some vague shame’.
Some test, some emotion, some shame. Never any specifics – just this emotive haze of indistinction.
In Forster's world, tellingly, the ultimately enemy is not class or patriarchy or snobbishness (though he writes well against all these things), but rather – and how Edwardian is this! – ‘muddle’.
‘Take an old man's word: there's nothing worse than a muddle in all the world. It is easy to face Death and Fate, and all the things that sound so dreadful. It is on my muddles that I look back with horror—on the things that I might have avoided.’
The end point of all this is the disinterested ‘ou-boum’ of the Malabar Caves in Forster's final novel. Italy, for Forster, is not quite as foreign as India, and so the muddle doesn't have quite the same cosmic awesomeness that we get in A Passage to India, but it's the same general idea. There is things in our experience of life that we can't explain, or even understand, but whose contours we sometimes sense.
I would usually find it trite to equate this kind of unsayability with an author's own sexuality, but in Forster's case it really feels hard to avoid it, when so many of his characters are struggling with attractions and emotions that they won't allow themselves to understand. In some ways it's a more effective way of capturing this subjectivity than the modernists managed.
At times the social conventions at play here are almost as tiresome for the modern reader as they are for some of the characters – but Forster's ability to express the inexpressibility of life remains completely fascinating, and about as close as you can get to living it yourself.