The Dull Lives We Lead

Eliot’s first published work of fiction is a tale of a curate of a small church in England in the mid-19^th century. Reverend Barton is indeed a thoroughly undistinguished man who leads a rather conventional life. He muddles through life; people talk about him. The moment of high drama happens 90% of the way through the story when his wife dies. End of story.

Given that there is not much of a plot, what happens in the book? We are introduced to very many people about town. Crisp one paragraph descriptions which read like they were written for an assignment in a college English Course: “Imagine a dinner party and provide one paragraph descriptions of everyone at the table.” Amos Barton would have received an A on that assignment.

Pity the poor reviewer of Amos Barton. What does one say about a book in which nothing of any importance or drama happens to a character of no importance? In one of the many asides to a reader in the story, Eliot gives this helpful advice:

As it is, you can, if you please, decline to pursue my story farther; and you will easily find reading more to your taste, since I learn from the newspapers that many remarkable novels, full of striking situations, thrilling incidents, and eloquent writing, have appeared only within the last season.

Nothing to see here, folks. Move along.

Still here? Good. Because for those of you willing to tarry a bit with Eliot’s tale, there is a lesson. It begins with this question: why do you want heroic tales of heroic individuals doing heroic things in heroic times?

For not having a lofty imagination, as you perceive, and being unable to invent thrilling incidents for your amusement, my only merit must lie in the truth with which I represent to you the humble experience of an ordinary fellow-mortal. I wish to stir your sympathy with commonplace troubles—to win your tears for real sorrow: sorrow such as may live next door to you—such as walks neither in rags nor in velvet, but in very ordinary decent apparel.

A book about an ordinary fellow-mortal? Quelle horreur! Imagine trying to have a discussion about a book like this with a couple of really brainy former students! What is there to discuss? The ordinariness of it all? It is impossible not to channel dear Mrs Farthingale!

The Rev. Amos Barton, whose sad fortunes I have undertaken to relate, was, you perceive, in no respect an ideal or exceptional character; and perhaps I am doing a bold thing to bespeak your sympathy on behalf of a man who was so very far from remarkable,—a man whose virtues were not heroic, and who had no undetected crime within his breast; who had not the slightest mystery hanging about him, but was palpably and unmistakably commonplace; who was not even in love, but had had that complaint favourably many years ago. “An utterly uninteresting character!” I think I hear a lady reader exclaim—Mrs. Farthingale, for example, who prefers the ideal in fiction; to whom tragedy means ermine tippets, adultery, and murder; and comedy, the adventures of some personage who is quite a “character.”

But, my dear madam, it is so very large a majority of your fellow-countrymen that are of this insignificant stamp.

Therein lies the deep challenge of a book about an insignificant life. Think about your neighbors or the people with whom you work or go to school or church. Ask yourself this: do they have interesting lives? Take the most average person you know and imagine a novel of that life. Would you want to read a novel about that life? The honest answer is “Of course not.”

The real lives of real people are boring. Yes, there may be episodes which in a skilled novelist’s hands could come to life and make a thrilling story, but the actual lives of people are rarely that exciting. People are born, some good and bad things happen, and then they die. Do we care?

Think this is melodramatic? Well then, consider Facebook (if you are old) or Instagram (if you are young). What kind of lives do people live on your preferred social media platform? We all know the answer. Everyone else leads a glamorous life online. There are a zillion stories out there about the inferiority complexes afflicting teenagers because their lives just don’t measure up. There are a zillion more stories about how people’s self-worth hinges on the number of likes on the latest post. Not the average number of likes, mind you, just the likes on the last post. What have you done to impress the world lately?

Know what is worse? Other people on your social media platform are leading impressive lives. You feel this. So, you try to impress everyone else with your own happy and fun-filled and interesting life. Ah, but secretly you know this:

Thank heaven, then, that a little illusion is left to us, to enable us to be useful and agreeable—that we don’t know exactly what our friends think of us—that the world is not made of looking-glass, to show us just the figure we are making, and just what is going on behind our backs! By the help of dear friendly illusion, we are able to dream that we are charming and our faces wear a becoming air of self-possession; we are able to dream that other men admire our talents—and our benignity is undisturbed; we are able to dream that we are doing much good—and we do a little.

And before you go feeling sorry for all those who self-esteem is crushed on an hourly basis, consider this: imagine a new social media platform that will be nothing but the boring detail of completely average people. No fancy pictures or amusing stories. No celebrities. Just stores about the mundane details of mundane lives. Interested in being on that platform? How much time would you spend reading these stories?

By the way, want to read Amos Barton? Click on the image of the book at the top of this post and you can buy it at Amazon. It’s a dull story about a dull life. You aren’t even tempted to buy this book, are you? The lives of regular people just aren’t that interesting. Think about what that says about us.