The Antics of the Painfully Obtuse: A Look Into One Mr. Collins

It is common in every great novel to have one character that exemplifies the ever entertaining characteristics of an imbecile. Whether through direct actions that are deemed ridiculous or through ignorant thinking, the antics of said personalities are often the basis of satire or particular themes. These characters are seen making poor decisions, acting without thought, or living in a world of entitlement which does nothing but hurt their already sad image. There is always one of these absurd simpletons that help to move a theme or point into light, and their story frequently offers hilarious moments that can be a comedic relief in an otherwise serious or neutral reading.

In Pride and Prejudice, Mr. Collins is a prime example of a novel's great fool. Austen portrays clergyman William Collins as one who believes himself to be immune from wrong or rejection. From loud bold speeches at awkward times to an overconfident marriage proposal to Elizabeth Bennet, Collins is prone to nothing but presenting himself as an overconfident, egotistical man who feels (and, unfortunately, is) entitled to what is coming to him. Not only is this a use of the common fool in literature, but it also is a portrait of social themes at the time, especially in regards to gender relations, and the power of men.

Austen reveals upon the introduction of Collins into the plot that he is the lucky soul to inherit the Bennet lands and holdings after the eventual death of Mr. Bennet. His visit to the estate allows him to continuously mention that the home would one day be his, and that he was supposedly honored to be the one to receive it. Not only is this the unattractive trait of entitlement, but it is also a realistic view into the realities of social law. Because the Bennets have only daughters, there is no acceptable way for the home to stay in the Bennet name, and instead falls to Collins. It is obvious that Collins lacks the intellectual security to adequately inherit a significant estate such as the one in question, but because of expectation of the times, it must be so. Austen uses this seemingly ridiculous reality to showcase the inequality of the times in a way that is both comical and comprehensible for the reader.

Mr. Collins is a common example of satire used to portray gender inequality in literature. Austen presents him as a fool who makes humorous shows of himself while simultaneously sending and important message of reality. She asks the question: why does society dictate that an imbecile such as Collins should automatically receive land that would belong to the Bennet daughters? She highlights the apparent sexism and inequality through this character, showing its absurdity through the actions of the clergyman. Collins is one of the most apparent and brilliant satires in Austen's work, and is one of the most significant symbols used to portray social expectation and sexism alike.

A Pleasant Surprise in a Once Back Burner Novel

Throughout the years in which reading has been a key source of entertainment and comfort, I have managed to cover a rather wide range of genres. From classic Dickens or Hugo to modern Patterson and Rowling, I like to think I have covered a rather significant range of novels over my seventeen years. Despite this budding repertoire I have built, there is one novel that has always been put on the back burner when determining what book to read next. Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice. Often a landmark of high school English classes and literature as a whole, I was very familiar with the novel through both conversation, film, and plays alike. I had watched and read everything save the actual book itself.

After coming off the high of reading Dickens' ever moving Tale of Two Cities for the third time, it was time to read something new. Something that I could cross off the list of books that I've been waiting to read. What better time to take up Austen's classic than now?

Coming into the novel, I was aware of the plot, and was under the impression that I would find Austen's writing entertaining enough, but nothing that would keep me particularly on the edge of my seat. With respect to the significance of the novel, I was prepared to read a straight forward classic that fit all the traditional characteristics of the genre. Pleasantly, I found that in the first fifty pages, not only had Austen managed to keep my attention, but also excite me into further pondering the meaning of her writings.

Pride and Prejudice captures the refined and elegant period of the 18th and 19th Centuries, while showing the high expectations of nobility, particularly in women. She shows the desire for being viewed as proper in households through the gossip between ladies of prominent families and the emphasis on romantic prospects with the relations between the Bennet daughters and gentlemen Darcy and Bingley. While painting this portrait of life and expectation, Austen also captures the irony of showing disdain for having pride, while many characters themselves are quite caught up in the trait, giving words to an age old act.

The novel was surprising in how quickly this idea was portrayed, and amusing with how true it is, even in modern society. We often claim to detest pride or judgement of others, but find ourselves taking part in doing so. It has been a timeless theme in human civilization, and is been captured in the first fifty pages of Austen's book alone. These first ten chapters only begin to scratch the surface of what transforms into one of Austen's greatest and most renown works, and this idea of both widespread pride and prejudice is just beginning to be expanded on in full depth.  Going forth, I am eager to see this theme expand and come full circle, putting words to this social observation that has existed for centuries, and has always been a source of contemplation when pondering the state of society both today and in the past.

Voltaire to Dickens: A Sharp Turn on the Spectrum of Style

Moving directly into a new piece of literature from an old always comes with a brief transitional period. No two authors write in the same manner, and there is the settling in to the new rhythm that appears on each page. There is perhaps no greater example of this than the sharp change from Voltaire's short and snarky Candide to Dickens' long and emotional A Tale of Two Cities. 

Both are long time favorites of mine, and when the opportunity arose to read from a wide selection of literature, I was more than eager to revisit them and see what new details I could find. The two pieces are both powerful in portraying their messages, but upon finishing Voltaire's critically acclaimed novella, directly transitioning into Dickens' drawn out and descriptive prose proved to have a longer adjustment than expected. Where Voltaire is sharp and to the point, Dickens takes the longer route, ensuring that every detail is perfectly in place. Voltaire is fast paced and surface level with description and development, while Dickens is slow, drawing out the plot and pulling the reader in to the turbulent world of late 18th Century Europe.  Both offer commentary on society, but they are stark opposites in both specific opinion and approach.

The change is almost comical. The authors both have their share of unique touches, giving their works the charm required to stand the test of time in a community of the pickiest critics in the world. But where Candide wraps up in just 150 pages, A Tale of Two Cities requires more than double the length, and the atmosphere around the works themselves go from light and satirical to heavier with a large pull at the heartstrings. The list of differences between the works and their author's styles could go on endlessly, with opposite approaches at every corner, showing the poles of the style spectrum.

Being familiar with both pieces of literature, the significant difference was expected, at least to some degree. I was prepared to take on Dickens and his portrait of the era, coming off on a high after the always entertaining misadventures of Voltaire's painfully optimistic protagonist. The opening lines never fail to draw me in, with the details of the once glorious age of change described beautifully on the page. However, as the first few chapters go on, I found that I had more difficulty picking up on specific moments than I had when reading it previously, and that the pace dragged this time around, when I was once enthralled by every word. Looking back on the style of Candide, it is logical to expect this slight need for adjustment, with the first major catastrophe occurring before page twenty. It is interesting to me to ponder the reactions of one new to both works, who transitioned so quickly from one to the other. Would there be more difficulty in understanding the world of Dickens? How could the style of one author change how we look at other literature? Perhaps we should test and find out.