“I was like a vine that had long twined itself round the trunk of a sturdy oak, and from which at length the support and alliance of the oak is taken away.”
The narrator offers up this little pearl of metaphorical self-disclosure and what’s more he waits until chapter 9 to do it. It’s a terrific example of the writing style employed by Godwin and there are plenty of other examples not dissimilar to the construction of this sentence. Bear that in mind when deciding whether or not to give a go; if you dislike densely packed sentences filled with figurative language as imagery providing insight both into the internet workings of the mind and the external world he observes, then you likely will have a hard time with this one.
What is a Book?
Have you ever asked yourself what, exactly, a book really is? Or, to be more precise, have you ever considered this query in terms of rich metaphor that reaches to the very inner definition linking what a man writes to what a man is? If not, do not worry; Godwin’s narrator has this one covered:
“A book is a dead man, a sort of mummy, embowelled and embalmed, but that once had flesh, and motion, and a boundless variety of determinations and actions.”
This example should make it quite clear that metaphor is not engaged by the narrator merely for the purpose of self-reflection and, by extension, his narration is mere autobiography. Godwin's protagonist is narrating a philosophy of life as well as a narrative of having lived.
“Life was the object of my hatred.”
Which is not to suggest that philosophy and biography do not walk arm in arm, of course. This assertion arises near the end of the tome and is the culmination of a life filled with incident as well as philosophical meanderings. And what is the philosophy toward which one is led after a life that has become the object of one’s revulsion? “Often did I meditate the means of self−destruction” immediately follows, notably shorn of all metaphor and stripped down to the most literal consideration of philosophical questions at man’s disposal.
The Love of a Woman
What could a lead a man to view life as the object of his hatred? The first thing which may come to mind is that t’was a beast which killed the love. But the narrator admits that he doted on his wife and could not live without her and who is the embodiment of everything that is lovely. Oh yeah, and then he immediately confesses that over time he
“taught myself gradually to curse this as weakness, and to regard it as a slavery which some devilish witchcraft had fastened on my heart.”
Descriptive Prose
This is the chronicle of a life made aware. Not just the purpose of philosophical introspection or philosophical consideration of the abstract does the narrator show a gift for figurative gab. Sometimes—like any good writer should—metaphor is the go-to device to describe the inexpressible beauty of simple nature:
“Dry weather tarnishes the face of nature, fades the lovely colours of hill and valley, and profanes and destroys those sweet odours which, more than anything else, give the last finish to the charms of nature.”
