Book Report: Cynthia Wall’s The Prose of Things

Thesis of the work:

Cynthia Wall narrates the transformation of description from the emblematic settings and objects of late seventeenth-century and eighteenth century narratives to the interior spaces in the Victorian novel. She argues that late seventeenth century readers did not need spatial description due to their knowledge or as she calls it a “cultural storehouse” (11) of overdetermined settings. However, by late eighteenth century, the growing trade markets and the developed credit economy diversified spaces and the objects within them, causing a shift in cultural awareness that required an absorption of description into narrative.

Methodological/theoretical approaches:

Wall uses several theoretical approaches such as, critical theory, thing theory, rhetorical theory, historicism, cultural theory, spatialization, empiricism, and consumerism. Some of her primary sources are eighteenth century authors, Samuel Johnson, Alexander Pope, Jonathon Swift, Eliza Haywood, Samuel Richardson, Jane Austen, and Daniel Defoe. A few of her secondary sources are literary critics, Virginia Woolf, Ian Watt, and Dorothy Van Ghent.

Contribution:

Wall notes that the eighteenth century novel presents readers with “things” that as critic, Dorothy Van Ghent argued, “are not at all vivid in texture” (1). Post-nineteenth century readers find these “things” to be secluded in “empty space” due to lack of presentations of settings (1). Therefore, Wall’s book contributes to a better understanding of the transformation of description from “Defoe’s unvisualized cityscapes and Pope’s epitheted spaces to the… elaborate landscapes of The Mysteries of Udolpho and the Victorian novel” (1). She finds that the changes in the rhetoric about, and the employment of, description are linked to four comprehensive cultural changes: first, experientially through technological ways of seeing objects; economically, through an expansion of consumer culture; epistemologically, through changes in attitudes toward the general and the particular; and narratively, through an awareness and the depictions of domestic space. She fills out the gaps in varied historical perceptions of “what visual familiarity” could possibly mean (11).

Chapter Summaries:

Chapter 1: A History of Description, a Foundling

Chapter 1 summarizes the history of description and shares the outlooks on it from classical and renaissance treatises through eighteenth and nineteenth centuries— centering on a critical shift in the late-eighteenth century. She explains that “things,” which can include moral quality and even time, substitute description in early texts— as opposed to the narration of settings. Eighteenth century author, Samuel Johnson, finds much benefit in that, arguing that a lot of descriptive details interrupt the mind and the “mind is refrigerated by interruption” (24). She shares that the OED’s definitions of description are extracted from the Renaissance and the eighteenth century from Richard Rainolde’s 1563 Foundacion of Rhetorike, Henry Peachman’s 1577 Garden of Eloquence, and the Encyclopedie of 1751 to 1765, which all agree that description’s main role is to make an object visible. She then looks to the logicians of the classical period, mainly Aristotle, who saw that poets of the classical world need to represent actions and events in a form of imitation that basically describe not the thing that happened, but what might happen to “achieve ‘universal statements’” (18). And, the “universal” has to do with evoking readers vividly. As for medieval literature, descriptions did not represent images, but rather aroused images in the “the literary memories and experiences of medieval writers’ new readers” by rearranging or rewriting the “compositional blocks” of Greek and Latin writers. The renaissance writers turned poetry into craft, as description turns away from the creator and slips into the “work of creator” (20). Then, textual praxes (lists, catalogs, ornaments) surfaced, contributing to the history of description in literature in practicality or functionality— overlooking vivid description. Therefore, Wall reveals the difference between representation and “object, thing and setting” in an effort to reveal the eighteenth century shift in cultural awareness (40).

Chapter 2 and 3: Traveling Spaces and Seeing Things

Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 have much in common in that they both study the “particulars” of texts that allow readers to see things. In “Traveling Spaces,” Wall discusses textual praxis’ closeness and impact on literary description. She links John Ogilby’s road maps to the “emblematized space” in The Pilgrim’s Progress by late-seventeenth century author, John Bunyan (42). She argues that there is a “shared cultural storehouse of visualization” that can be seen when each is looked at in the context of the other. (42) She explains that the textual praxis became a means of familiarity and cultural awareness of objects, “transforming emblem and detail into symbol and description in the eighteenth century” (43). She showcases the impact of John Stow’s Survey of London (1598, 1603), in which John Strype expanded on in 1720, on topographical description in the eighteenth century. She said his catalog is not just a description of exterior buildings, but rather a “built-in setting for human existence” (45) that the eighteenth century readers have stored. From thereafter, each expansion of his work re-visualized London’s details and structures for a newer and larger audience that needed to know the changing outlines of its spaces. Strype’s two large folio volumes do not detach themselves drastically from Stow’s description of the city, but uses sketches and outlines more than details— “the beginning of visual projection” (52).

Chapter 3, “Seeing Things,” addresses the Royal Society and British empiricism and their interest in textual praxis for physical secrets and spiritual importance in “seeing depth in surface” (71). She uses natural history, diaries and lists as textual praxis to show an increase in the description of domestic interiors at the time. Wall presents the most famous seventeenth century diarists, John Evelyn and Samuel Pepys, who she claims “reveal what they were inclined as well as taught to see by the particular emphases of their time and place” (82). She explains that details in diaries allowed for recording what is seen and creating visual description. She then moves on to satirists, Jonathon Swift and Alexander Pope, who mark her observation through microscopic description that not only makes readers see things, but also de-familiarizes the world in an effort to domesticate it by continuously inspecting it.

Chapter 4: Writing Things

Chapter 4 looks experientially at the gaps and isolated details in the work of John Bunyan and Daniel Defoe. She explains that Defoe’s fiction depends on things, like the earthenware pots, umbrellas, gold beads and more that have emblematic Puritan qualities, but not many have looked at the things that lack background. Wall notes that they may be connected to another object, but not to a visualized space. Therefore, when looking at the “empty spaces,” in Robinson Crusoe, she finds, as Virginia Woolf did, beauty in familiar objects and grace in actions. She says, Crusoe’s grapes, green lines, and raisins are all symbolic of “God’s providence” and that even the things Crusoe made himself, like the umbrella and raisins, give him pleasure— in relation to the world of goods that celebrated the pleasure of making, buying, seeing, and arranging new things (112). She closes the chapter with a look at the obsession of massive things in Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto that she claims he created as “satiric weapons” (97) due to an increasing presence and familiarity in past narratives.

Chapter 5: Implied Spaces

As for the implied spaces that things occupy, Wall analyzes the texts of Aphra Behn, Eliza Haywood, Penelope Aubin, and Mary Davys to show how space is created in narration. She says the rooms and any of their details are only revealed when the plot requires them to appear. For example, Eliza Haywood and Samuel Richardson both produce space through an act, instead of producing space for the act. For example, she says, in the scene, where Pamela thinks she’s finally leaving back home, her “weeping prayer… calls up her master’s ‘Elbow Chair’ for her support as well as the wall, lobby, hall details through which she moves in exiting” (140). They disappear again once she’s no longer moving through them or in need of an object. She adds that any good eighteenth century heroine, such as Pamela, is expected to make spaces in narration visual.

Chapter 6 and 7: Worlds of Goods and Arranging Things

Chapter 6 and 7 connect in their interest in the trade market and its impact on the status of description in the eighteenth century. In the “Worlds of Good,” Wall indicates that the access to material goods was an admission to see the interior of the house and the objects within. “Shops, advertisements, and auctions” all exposed objects and renewed the expectation of readers (149). Things were also found in “catalogs, inventories, letters, [and] guidebooks” and were “arranged and rearranged in private spaces” in the world and in fiction. Therefore, things visibly occupying space in texts become “socially acceptable” (150).  “Arranging Things” shows how this increase in consumerism generated an interest in color, texture, and arrangement within domestic space. She uses two of the central textual praxes in the “development of novelistic descriptions,” diaries and country-house guidebooks, to showcase their impact on the arrangement of things inside homes. Access to houses through domestic tours and through texts allowed for an “increased attention to interior detail in novels” that later vanished by the 1840s (150).

Chapter 8: The Foundling as Heir

In her last chapter, “The Foundling as Heir,” Wall argues that the end of the eighteenth century and the beginning of the nineteenth century marked a complete shift in description from one of empty spaces to one with fully visual spaces, where events happen. There is no longer a need for actions to show spaces or objects, but rather settings stand on their own. She proves her point through the works of Ann Radcliffe and Walter Scott. For example, Wall says that in Radcliffe’s The Mysteries of Udolpho, when Emily returns home after her father’s death, she is overcome with memories that inhabit all the empty spaces (211). Scott was also influenced by Radcliffe and had been also praised for his “novelty” (216) and detailed description. Wall claims that Scott and Radcliffe both created a space to placing characters and their actions in (218).

Connections/Applications/Extensions:

Cynthia Wall’s book allows us as eighteenth century literature students to understand the historical and cultural impact on the status of description—especially in that time period with so much change in settings and goods. We did not truly get a chance to look at how objects are substituted for description or how the transformation came about later on in the late eighteenth century. In chapter 6, “The World of Goods”, we get a better understanding of the “cultural storehouse” (11) that was broken down after the growing trade markets and the developed credit economy that increased objects, demands and expectations. Also, when looking at Samuel Richardson’s Pamela, we didn’t look at the power a character’s action has on an object or setting. We can say it almost becomes the main agent in eighteenth century description.

Strengths and Weaknesses:

This book’s strength is Wall’s use of varied theoretical approaches, such as thing theory, empiricism, consumerism and spatialization, which truly unite as one when making her argument. However, some issues I had, but I do not really consider weaknesses because I think it’s an overall well-wrought and proven book, are too many sources to keep up with and some chapters that could have become one repressed one. I can easily see chapter 2 and 3 in one section and chapter 6 and 7 in another, and she even makes that linkage. The arrangement could have limited the amount of sources and maybe strengthened her argument even more.

Question/Thoughts:

Wall says, eighteenth century novelist, Samuel Johnson, finds that too much descriptive detail interrupts the mind and the “mind is refrigerated by interruption” (24). I’m not convinced by this argument and still wonder why detailed descriptions could have “refrigerated” the minds of eighteenth century readers.

Work Cited

Wall, Cynthia Sundberg. Prose of Things: Transformations of Description in the Eighteenth Century. Univ Of Chicago Press, 2006.

“Self” limited to colonialism in Robinson Crusoe

As critic, Brett McInelly, suggests in his article, “Expanding Empires, Expanding Selves: Colonialism, The Novel, and ‘Robinson Crusoe,’” Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe reveals the globe’s limitlessness that “can produce close self-reflection of a kind not easy to achieve in ‘civilized’ society.”  He explains that Crusoe’s self-perception expands as he travels farther away from England, claiming that the focus on the individual stemmed from the empire’s influence on the novel. However, I argue that Crusoe’s self is not expanding, but rather further limits itself to colonialism.

McInelly explains that Crusoe stands as “a seemingly stable and coherent subject in the wake of, what is for him, an expanding empire,” adding that British self-confidence is the outlook colonialism necessitates. Crusoe’s solitude on the island strengthens his self-awareness, since there’s an evident focus on survival. One doesn’t need to look far from the title page, “The Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe,” to see that it’s invidualistic. The page declares that he’s the author of his own “Life and Adventures.” “Writer” of his life can translate to master or Colonialist. Right from the start, Defoe uses the word “I,” which tells us it is autobiographical. Later on, we begin to read Crusoe’s personal entries after he had secured paper, pen, and ink from the shipwreck. He gives “some little Account of my self, and of my Thoughts about Living” (51) by continuously reporting both his time on the island and writing down his activities in his journal. Crusoe’s self-reflection is undeniable, but that doesn’t mean his selfhood is expanding. His superiority as a White man allows him to reflect. It’s not his mastery of self-reflection that empowers him.

To further prove my point, when he finds himself stranded on an island afflicted with cannibals, Crusoe imagines himself “Lord of the whole Mannor; or if I pleas’d, I might call my self King, or Emperor over the whole Country which I had possession of” (128)— instead of showing fear because superior nature is instilled in him. At one point, when he begins to lose that power, Crusoe feels the need to teach his parrot— his only companion— to say, “Poor Robinson Crusoe! Where are you? Where have you been? How come you here?” (Defoe 143). He trains the bird in an act of desolation, which is in no way an expansion of self, but rather an act of self-help to regain the power he lost. He lets the bird call him “poor” in a bewailing tone without showing his unhappiness because he can’t let his “British self-assurance” diminish. Yet, the parrot’s words are Crusoe’s words, so he is pitying himself. His identity is therefore limited to colonialism. Soon after, we also see a shift when Friday, the Caribbean native, Crusoe saved “willingly submits to his white savior” as he “makes ‘all the Signs … of Subjection, Servitude, and Submission’ (206),” McInelly says.  Crusoe teaches Friday to call him master before any other word, which reveals a need for power to retain selfhood. As McInelly says, Friday’s “mimicry of Crusoe reinforces Crusoe’s belief in the superiority of his religion, culture, and social and political values.” Crusoe becomes an authority and is even considered a God.

McInelly claims that Crusoe mastered himself to master his situation and refashion “a world to his liking—a decisively colonial act,” but I disagree— as his identity is actually determined by and clearly limited to colonialism.

Life without “curiosity or terror” in Northanger Abbey

Through her narrative order and satirical imagery in Northanger Abbey, Jane Austen teaches readers how to become one with reality, as her main character contemplates the “natural evil” of human beings— no longer enthralled in imagination. This lesson for readers of the eighteenth century is meant to stop “Curiosity or terror” (156) of the Gothic novel that Catherine enjoys from taking them away from the real-life challenges they face.

 

Jane Austen’s narrative order and satirical imagery involve a lot of free indirect discourse throughout the novel between problems Catherine faces, which permits readers to take part in her journey —both emotionally and mentally. When Catherine finds out she must leave Northanger Abbey, she becomes lost and fears losing Henry and Eleanor. The thoughts told by Austen like, Catherine losing every “expectation” (156) from Henry, are not directly Catherine’s or the readers’ thoughts. However, they guide both to reality because they can actually happen unlike the imaginary Gothic situations that cannot happen. Catherine must wonder why General Tilney wants “her gone” (156) before his arrival, but this excerpt shows that she has no access to the thought. It is another indirect thought put forth by Austen for readers to determine who is thinking that. She forces the reader to think it by putting it out there without connecting it to someone, but connecting it to realism instead. Then, Austen uses a rhetorical question, asking indirectly “what could all this mean.” She answers “but an intentional affront” (156). Again, this is not Catherine’s direct thought or anyone else’s thought. This is what Catherine and readers of the novel should be thinking. Austen’s idea of reality highlights the importance of knowing what to expect after asking questions and knowing your worth, while the Gothic novel taught Catherine the opposite— to basically expect terror in every step she takes. After the free indirect discourse, Catherine’s thoughts come in to show readers how much she has changed. She believes it impossible for “any injury or any misfortune” to “provoke such ill-will against a person” (156) not involved with it. She becomes much more practical. She understands that it is only an “affront” (156) against her because she did nothing.

Austen’s free indirect discourse also comes in a form of satirical imagery. When she describes the “manner” in which General Tilney wants her to leave as “grossly uncivil” (156), the reader imagines him hurrying her, a 17 year old “away” (156) on her own. Austen then adds the time it would take her to get home, a travel of “two days” (156), which makes readers feel the effect of General Tilney’s “grossly uncivil” manners even more (156). Catherine faces reality for the first time, thinking it not possible for any “misfortune” to “provoke such ill-will against a person not connected” to it (156). Thus, the image of a young girl by herself for two days is very much a Gothic image. Austen satirizes the image using Catherine’s new thoughts and Catherine is no longer expecting terror, but “contemplating” the “natural evil” caused by a human being (156). The outside is no longer disturbing her “imagination” (156) and tormenting her. The “darkness” and “sudden noises” are no longer scaring her, but rather it’s the inside that is (156). The heroine and the readers now see the real “darkness” as “the natural evil” and the “sudden noises” as Catherine’s “contemplation” of it (156). This imagery allows readers and the heroine to become one with reality as their understanding of real life circumstances grow.