The Impression That I Get

My only prior exposure to Henry James was Daisy Miller: A Study, practically a requirement in every English Lit anthology. I didn't find it anything too special, so I wasn't expecting much from The Portrait of a Lady, hailed by many as his greatest masterpiece. Yeah. How can I put this? His writing is entirely extraordinary. I could sit here and gush for hours about how his way with words is exquisitely eloquent and magnificently molded. If you're more about substance than style, this is not the book for you. James wrote in over 600 pages a story which arguably could be told in less than 100. It's as if he took a small subplot from a more complex storyline, and diluted it with dreamy details and diaphanous descriptions. Even more infuriating for the average reader, it's like he then decided there was no point in providing a proper conclusion to the subplot, since it was part of a much larger tale anyway. So be warned, it's one of those open-ended stories. I've almost always loathed those, but this time I was so in awe of the author that I barely minded.


I really don't think I've ever encountered his style of writing before. The entire time I was reading it, a persistent metaphor kept popping into my head: an impressionist painting. It's a little lame to say, and I don't know why I kept thinking that--it's not like I'm an art connoisseur. But you know how Monet's vanilla skies are all gorgeously hazy and luminously blurred, intent on offering an impression instead of a sharp picture? That's how Henry James writes! Instead of saying, "Well, he turned out to be very different from what she first believed," he writes, "In that sense, that of the love of harmony and order and decency and of all the stately offices of life, she went with him freely, and his warning had contained nothing ominous. But when, as the months had elapsed, she had followed him further and he had led her in to the mansion of his own habitation, then, then she had seen where she really was." Oh, baby. Just you wait! This introspective inspection continues for many, many more pages. But if you can stare at Monet's lush landscapes for hours, don't be surprised if you fall for the wondrous works of Henry James.

Claude Monet, Woman with a Parasol, 1875