'The Benighted' - BOOK REVIEW of 'A Room with a View' by E.M. Forster

Some of the Thousands of Photos of Bookshops I Take From Literally Everywhere

You know those moments when a writer manages to tell you something at exactly the right time and you are literally RESCUED by the words on the page? When somehow, the story arrives in your life as if it was part of a plan – created with you alone in mind, existing for your very specific, solitary headspace that no other human (besides you and the author) could ever understand?

Dwelling in the aftermath, these moments normally speak more of my own headspace than the writer’s. Sometimes, the meaning I take from a book is bizarrely far from the writer’s intention. Of course, meaning is applied to writing by the people that read it, there can be no ‘wrong’ interpretation, etc. But sometimes, my brain resonates with words in a way that is so clearly out of wack with what I’m actually reading… And after a while, I’ll start to notice that my mind has chosen to make a connection, to project my life and my experiences onto the story. Under scrutiny, the links seem more and more pitiful, and the meaning feels lost.

Despite all this, that initial, fleeting moment of resonance still FEELS other-worldly, even if I eventually decide it isn’t. Maybe this doesn’t decrease the value of the moment. Perhaps my interpretation of the book is worth analysing just like the book is, even if it doesn’t feel as magical. But I worry that I’m missing out on a different perspective – if books are windows into other people’s souls, am I shutting that experience out? I can’t decide.

Right now, I’m reading E.M. Forster’s A Room with a View. Last night, just before I was about to go to bed, I hit a section that felt VERY IMPORTANT (and then because of it, I couldn’t get to sleep). Since re-reading the passage, I’ve become aware of how generously I was projecting myself onto the book. I’ve had so many thoughts about it in the time since, and I had an urge to document and explain my thoughts.

 “It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that to feel. She gave up trying to understand herself, and joined the vast armies of the benighted, who follow neither the heart nor the brain, and march to their destiny by catch-words. The armies are full of pleasant and pious folk. But they have yielded to the only enemy that matters--the enemy within. They have sinned against passion and truth, and vain will be their strife after virtue. As the years pass, they are censured. Their pleasantry and their piety show cracks, their wit becomes cynicism, their unselfishness hypocrisy; they feel and produce discomfort wherever they go. They have sinned against Eros and against Pallas Athene, and not by any heavenly intervention, but by the ordinary course of nature, those allied deities will be avenged. Lucy entered this army when she pretended to George that she did not love him, and pretended to Cecil that she loved no one. The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before.”

When I first read this, it filled me with determination. As ridiculous as this sentence is, I never want to join the army of the benighted. Even if I am not brave enough to follow my heart all the time, I at least want to live with an understanding of my heart. That is what this passage said to me: that you should never give up on trying to understand yourself.

And, though this isn’t a theme in the book and I doubt this was what Forster was thinking when he wrote it, it immediately resonated with my struggle around mental health. Trying to overcome a mental illness means confronting things you would rather not face, to better understand the pain. “It did not do to think, nor, for the matter of that to feel.” This is a heavy truth. Ignorance would be easier. This entire passage felt like Forster was telling me not to be a coward and that I should confront the complexities of understanding, not ignore it. I think everyone could do with hearing this from time to time (and especially for me, at this specific point in time). It felt like fate.

The last line, “The night received her, as it had received Miss Bartlett thirty years before.” is so immensely powerful. Forster is a GENIUS. It creates an image of Lucy being sucked or swallowed by repression and repressed society: Lucy is giving up on her heart and surrendering to the night (the void/emptiness/oblivion/ignorance). Miss Bartlett is one of the best characters in the book and, without spoiling anything (although you should DEFINITELY read the book if you haven’t already) she holds Lucy back from her ‘fate’ or desires repeatedly. I think she represents (among other things) the force of middle-class English Victorian rules throughout the story. It seems so sad that, despite Lucy’s wild nature and strong independent convictions, she has ended up just like Miss Bartlett. It feels like Forster is trying to say that this ignorance and obliviousness is inevitable. Whether or not you go down fighting (Lucy) or succumb to repression at the very beginning (Miss Bartlett) is irrelevant: both characters, ultimately end up being swallowed by the night.

Breaking it down even further, it stands up to scrutiny. I didn’t notice this at first, but the description of Eros and Pallas Athene as “allied” is fascinating. As (Google says that) Eros is the god of sexual desires and Pallas Athene* the goddess of wisdom, it feels like Forster is trying to say that living passionately requires intelligence. He’s dispelling the idea that following with you heart has to be thoughtless and instinctive, and saying that instead, it takes consideration and wisdom to understand yourself and what you truly want.

In the time it takes to post this, I will probably have re-read and re-thought this passage. Books that can be dissected and analysed always make me envious; it seems impossible that the words can be the work of a mere human. Maybe there is something ‘other-worldly’ in the book after all.

*side note: Athene was also known as Minerva by the romans, according to this website. I have no proof, but I bet that this is why McGonagall’s first name is Minerva, which is sick. (Does anyone know if this is true?) JK Rowling is INCREDIBLE.