The Lifted Veil
By George Eliot
3.5/5
()
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George Eliot
George Eliot (1819–1880), born Mary Ann Evans, was an English writer best known for her poetry and novels. She grew up in a conservative environment where she received a Christian education. An avid reader, Eliot expanded her horizons on religion, science and free thinkers. Her earliest writings included an anonymous English translation of The Life of Jesus in 1846 before embracing a career as a fiction writer. Some of her most notable works include Adam Bede (1859), The Mill on the Floss(1860) and Silas Marner.
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Reviews for The Lifted Veil
145 ratings9 reviews
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Apparently this novel was not only unusual for George Elliot, but for the time. The author presents Latimer - a young man from a wealthy self-made family who is not raised to carry on the family business - that is left to his stronger and lustier older brother. Whilst in Switzerland studying in a healthy atmosphere where he is thriving, he has a clairvoyant moment that leads to a dead faint. As the blurb from the book states: Latimer, a sensitive and intellectual man, finds he has clairvoyant powers. Then he has a vision of a woman, 'pale, fatal-eyed', whom he later meets: she in Bertha Grant, his brother's fiancee. Entranced, bewildered, Latimer falls under her spell, unwilling to take heed of the warning visions which beset him. In this edition, there is an excellent essay on George Elliot and this novella's publication history. At the time of writing, the concept of being able to change your fate was little considered - fate was fate and the fact that you could see into your future or that of others was unfortunate but unchangeable. It is only is later years that the concept of changing your fate has been presented although not all novels and other media such as plays and movies allow us to get off so easily, as there is a common theme of running away from the known fate, only to reach it in another quite different manner. The Twilight Zone made much of this theme in its shows - so too Alfred Hitchcock's TV Theater plays.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A novella about a troubled young man, the son and heir to a wealthy banker (or some such). A great exercise if you want to think about "the reliability of the narrator," because he's clearly mad as a hatter but doesn't know it; but it's mercifully short. George Eliot's writing is superb as usual, though the story is very odd and gets especially weird towards the end.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5Gorgeous short story. Really beautifully written, and an intense read.
- Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5This is the only book I read on the train that I actually brought with me to read on the train. One of Melville House Books' Art of the Novella series, I was drawn to it as soon as I saw the author. I read Middlemarch a year or so back and absolutely loved it, but I hadn't yet read anything else by Eliot. As I am given to understand, this work both is and is not representative of her novel writing. It of course features her empathetic characterizations and high-minded idealism, but in this novella these traits are interwoven with supernatural suspense.
A pleasing, old-fashioned yet somehow modern page-turner, this story seems both to praise and condemn the veils of privacy that shield each person's heart and mind from any other. How much misery could be avoided if each couple perhaps knew each other a little better before committing to spend their entire lives together? And yet how much misery to know everything -- every thought and judgement and disappointment in another's mind?
Highly recommended. In fact, I have a friend who I may have to buy a copy for. - Rating: 4 out of 5 stars4/5A deep dark psycho-depressive Victorian horror novella from Eliot, with a good ambiguous touch--we never know if Latimer really has the clairvoyant sight he claims, and therefore if the veil that lifts is the one between man and true sight, or madness. It's psychologically skilled on a more mundane level as well, with the treatment of a loveless cold war of a relationship between a narcissist and a histrionic--the fear of others and yet the fear of isolation. It's minor Eliot, but it's Eliot, and that means quality.
- Rating: 5 out of 5 stars5/5I did not find this to be a lovely book, but I do find that my opinion of this book remains drastically different from most L.T. readers of the book.I thought The Lifted Veil to be quite brilliant. As I read, I felt myself looking into the man's mind and found myself to be momentarily taking on his mental persona as well. I was not bored. I was not piqued. I was not grossed out. The book did not depress me nor did it make me nervous or anxious. I was nothing but a person within another person's ill mind. There was very little within the book that was literal and not simply in his mind.Yes, I thought it very different and as I said rather brilliant; much as I found Dracula when I read it.Sorry ladies and gentleen of the jury. I shall, most likely, be the only one here with this opinion. But then too, I am probably the only one here who has been on a psyche ward for depression, anxiety and panic attack as well. I cannot say if that colored my reading of this book.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5A mini-book containing a short story about a man whose life is blighted by his ability to foresee the future and read other people's thoughts.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5More of a short story than a novel (at only 60+ pages plus an afterwards by a modern writer), this was a fast, enjoyable read. Eliot's style and tone here reminded me of Frankenstein and a number of Poe's short stories.
- Rating: 3 out of 5 stars3/5[The Lifted Veil] is a rather anamolous novella by George Eliot as it deals with the supernatural and seems to be Eliot's foray into Gothic experimentation.Latimer, the protagonist, is a rather neurasthenic young man who becomes obsessed with Bertha Grant, his robust brother's fiancee. After his brother dies in an accident, he marries Bertha although he has a premonitory vision of their miserable life together.I found the narrator somewhat intriguing, but I don't think the other characters were at all well developed. Eliot built the suspense well, but I thought the payoff was pretty anti-climactic. Up until that point, I thought the book was very Poe-like, but Poe usually manages to "thrill" the reader in a more satisfying way. Her exploration was more philosophical than Gothic -- more interested in the horrors of a life lived outside of meaningful social contacts than creating terror or horror in her readers.
Book preview
The Lifted Veil - George Eliot
Questions
CHAPTER I
The time of my end approaches. I have lately been subject to attacks of angina pectoris; and in the ordinary course of things, my physician tells me, I may fairly hope that my life will not be protracted many months. Unless, then, I am cursed with an exceptional physical constitution, as I am cursed with an exceptional mental character, I shall not much longer groan under the wearisome burthen of this earthly existence. If it were to be otherwise—if I were to live on to the age most men desire and provide for—I should for once have known whether the miseries of delusive expectation can outweigh the miseries of true provision. For I foresee when I shall die, and everything that will happen in my last moments.
Just a month from this day, on September 20, 1850, I shall be sitting in this chair, in this study, at ten o’clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant insight and foresight, without delusions and without hope. Just as I am watching a tongue of blue flame rising in the fire, and my lamp is burning low, the horrible contraction will begin at my chest. I shall only have time to reach the bell, and pull it violently, before the sense of suffocation will come. No one will answer my bell. I know why. My two servants are lovers, and will have quarrelled. My housekeeper will have rushed out of the house in a fury, two hours before, hoping that Perry will believe she has gone to drown herself. Perry is alarmed at last, and is gone out after her. The little scullery-maid is asleep on a bench: she never answers the bell; it does not wake her. The sense of suffocation increases: my lamp goes out with a horrible stench: I make a great effort, and snatch at the bell again. I long for life, and there is no help. I thirsted for the unknown: the thirst is gone. O God, let me stay with the known, and be weary of it: I am content. Agony of pain and suffocation—and all the while the earth, the fields, the pebbly brook at the bottom of the rookery, the fresh scent after the rain, the light of the morning through my chamber-window, the warmth of the hearth after the frosty air—will darkness close over them for ever?
Darkness—darkness—no pain—nothing but darkness: but I am passing on and on through the darkness: my thought stays in the darkness, but always with a sense of moving onward . . .
Before that time comes, I wish to use my last hours of ease and strength in telling the strange story of my experience. I have never fully unbosomed myself to any human being; I have never been encouraged to trust much in the sympathy of my fellow-men. But we have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some tenderness, some charity, when we are dead: it is the living only who cannot be forgiven—the living only from whom men’s indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain by the hard east wind. While the heart beats, bruise it—it is your only opportunity; while the eye can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, freeze it with an icy unanswering gaze; while the ear, that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, put it off with hard civility, or sneering compliment, or envious affectation of indifference; while the creative brain can still throb with the sense of injustice, with the yearning for brotherly recognition—make haste—oppress it with your ill-considered judgements, your trivial comparisons, your careless misrepresentations. The heart will by and by be still—ubi saeva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit
; the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will be deaf; the brain will have ceased from all wants as well as from all work. Then your charitable speeches may find vent; then you may remember and pity the toil and the struggle and the failure; then you may give due honour to the work achieved; then you may find extenuation for errors, and may consent to bury them.
That is a trivial schoolboy text; why do I dwell on it? It has little reference to me, for I shall leave no works behind me for men to honour. I have no near relatives who will make up, by weeping over my grave, for the wounds they inflicted on me when I was among them. It is only the story of my life that will perhaps win a little more sympathy from strangers when I am dead, than I ever believed it would obtain from my friends while I was living.
My childhood perhaps seems happier to me than it really was, by contrast with all the after-years. For then the curtain of the future was as impenetrable to me as to other children: I had all their delight in the present hour, their sweet indefinite hopes for the morrow; and I had a tender mother: even now, after the dreary lapse of long years, a slight trace of sensation accompanies the remembrance of her caress as she held me on her knee—her arms round my little body, her cheek pressed on mine. I had a complaint of the eyes that made me blind for a little while, and she kept me on her knee from morning till night. That unequalled love soon vanished out of my life, and even to my childish consciousness it was as if that life had become more chill I rode my little white pony with the groom by my side as before, but there were no loving eyes looking at me as I mounted, no glad arms opened to me when I came back. Perhaps I missed my mother’s love more than most children of seven or eight would have done, to whom the other pleasures of life remained as before; for I was certainly a very sensitive child. I remember still the mingled trepidation and delicious excitement with which I was affected by the tramping of the horses on the pavement in the echoing stables, by the loud resonance of the groom’s voices, by the booming bark of the dogs as my father’s carriage thundered under the archway of the courtyard, by the din of the gong as it gave notice of luncheon and dinner. The measured tramp of soldiery which I sometimes heard—for my father’s house lay near a county town where there were large barracks—made me sob and tremble; and yet when they were gone past, I longed for them to come back again.
I fancy my father