Better Than Garbage
The word “rubbish” is used quite frequently in this novel as a dismissive term. It’s probably not just a British thing since at one point the author one character contemplating how another’s go-to insult for something is “rubbish.” Ultimately, it becomes a source of philosophical imagery, this British term for garbage:
“There was something better in life than this rubbish, if only he could get to it—love—nobility—big spaces where passion clasped peace, spaces no science could reach, but they existed for ever, full of woods some of them, and arched with majestic sky and a friend….”
Now That’s Some Imagery!
Many will argue, of course, but there is a strong case to be made that the single greatest piece of imagery in the entire book—admittedly a short book—is a simple bit of description. All told, it is comprised of less than fifteen words yet presents in paltry supply almost a fully informed image of a person. Or, at least, a type:
“Words deserted him immediately. He could only speak when he was not asked to.”
A Close Second or Third
A close second behind that descriptive imagery of a personality is another short and sweet and to the point example. If not the second most striking construction of an image of a person, certainly it belongs in the novel’s top five. And in this case, it is self-reflection, so who would know better?
“He knew that loneliness was poisoning him, so that he grew viler as well as more unhappy.”
For Those Who Like it Dense
Of course, there is something to be said for that imagery which is densely layered with metaphor, similes and other literary devices working in conjunction together within a literary device. Forster is more than capable of going that route as well and a fantasia upon the idea of madness provides one of the best examples of his talent for the long-form type. He even throws in the understated irony for free:
“Madness is not for everyone, but Maurice’s proved the thunderbolt that dispels the clouds. The storm had been working up not for three days as he supposed, but for six years. It had brewed in the obscurities of being where no eye pierces, his surroundings had thickened it. It had burst and he had not died. The brilliancy of day was around him, he stood upon the mountain range that overshadows youth, he saw.”
