Aurora Leigh, now available in the first critically edited and fully annotated edition for almost a century, is the foremost example of the mid-nineteenth century poem of contemporary life. It is an amazing verse novel which provides a panoramic view of the early Victorian age in London. The dominant presence in the work however, is the narrator Aurora Leigh, as she develo...more
“We get no Christ from you- and verily
We shall not get a poet in my mind."
Aurora does the right thing, she says the right things, and she walks away. She do ...more
Ah, Aurora Leigh, how do I review thee?
Shall I recount the ways in which you made me cry,
the nights of frustration, the days of recluse,
since I had a dissertation to finish,
and you were just so damn unreadable?
Aurora Leigh is a weird book.
With that, I reworked my basic sigh of desperation while I was writing into the opening line of my dissertation, because this book is just fucking weird, man.
I regularly doubted if I should keep that introduction, but my ...more
I'm not really sure.
All I know is that I ...more
To speak my poems in mysterious tune/
With man and nature?"
Here in this question is the novel's entire theme. It is Aurora's one desire to write poems beautiful and true. Poetry awakens her orphaned heart, poetry sets her soul on fire. This lengthy novel-poem is the story of a soul, a soul made beautiful by its love for art.
Lecturers and professors will pull out many other elements of the work: its feminist leanings, its reaction against socialistic movemen ...more
I highly recommend this book to those who enjoy love stories or poetry.
An ambitious and lovely book about a Victorian woman author struggling with her identity while attempting to balance her love interests.
This was an enchantingly well=painted picture of Victorian life. No matter how artfully conversant we can be, there are still more than ample opportunities for misunderstanding and missed chances. The tension of these human foibles is wonderfully rendere ...more
I find that I remember the contents very poorly. I do remember (now that I'm reminded) that there were parts about Italy. Enough description, in fact, to convince me that I never want to go there, at least the part she describes. I've always been of th ...more
A book in one hand,--mere statistics, (if
I chanced to lift the cover) count of all
The goats whose bears are sprouting down toward hell.
I read books bad and good--some bad and good
At once: good aims not always make good books;
Well-tempered spades turn up ill-smelling soils
In digging vineyards, even; . . .
The world of books is still the world, I write,
And both worlds have God's providence, thank God,
To keep and hearten: with some struggle, indeed,
Among the breakers, some hard swimmin ...more
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . "It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound,
Impassioned for its beauty and salt of truth--
'Tis then we get the right good from a book."
A Gothic novel in blank verse. Reminded me a bit of "Jane Eyre." I thought the language was simply gorgeous, like a medieval tapestry.
Reviewed by: deb
Potentialities of Alternated Color: Race and the Problem of Representation in Aurora Leigh.
It's a slog, no doubt, and some of it does not live up to modern feminist standards. (Or does it? The battle rages on.)
Has some truly wonderful moments:
We get no good
By being ungenerous, even to a book,
And calculating profits...so much help
By so much reading. It is rather when
We gloriously forget ourselves, and plunge
Soul-forward, headlong, into a book's profound, ...more
Born in County Durham, the eldest of 12 children, Browning was educated at home. She wrote poetry from around the age of six and this was compiled by her mother, comprising what is now one of the largest collections extant of juvenilia by any English writer. At 15 Browning became ill, suffering from intense head an ...more
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But only he who sees, takes off his shoes.”
I had found the secret of a garret room
Piled high with cases in my father’s name;
Piled high, packed large,--where, creeping in and out
Among the giant fossils of my past,
Like some small nimble mouse between the ribs
Of a mastodon, I nibbled here and there
At this or that box, pulling through the gap,
In heats of terror, haste, victorious joy,
The first book first. And how I felt it beat
Under my pillow, in the morning’s dark,
An hour before the sun would let me read!