Posts Tagged ‘immature’

This was Kundera’s first novel, and in some ways, it explains his habitual themes more clearly. It’s like The Joke is a key to help understanding his entire oeuvre. While most of his other novels that I have read focus on the Prague Spring or other anti-Communist movements, this one predates all that. It starts with the generation that became Communist after World War II.

I have become such an inveterate skeptic that whenever someone starts listing his likes and dislikes I am unable to take it seriously, or to put it more precisely, I can accept it only as an indication of the person’s self-image. I didn’t for a moment believe that Helena breathed more easily in filthy, badly ventilated dives than in clean, well-ventilated restaurants or that she preferred raw alcohol and cheap, greasy food to haute cuisine. If her words had any value at all, it was because they revealed her predilection for a special pose, a pose long since outdated, out of style, a pose going back to the years of revolutionary enthusiasm, when anything “common,” “plebeian,” “plain,” or “coarse” was admired and anything “refined” or “elegant,” anything connected with good manners, was vilified.

I think that it must have been terribly thrilling to have been a Communist living during the revolution, seeing the old forms of civilization consciously destroyed and replaced by something rational, based on the ideology that you yourself are committed to. Ludvik Jahn is just such a young man, but he keeps a skeptical distance from the crowd. He has a friend, Marketa, who dives in head first, drinks the Kool-Aid, whatever other metaphor you might prefer for a complete commitment to a system of belief. So when she goes away to training camp, he writes her letters, just sort of messing with her because she’s gullible and naively enthusiastic. But. One postcard, intended as this sort of not-funny-to-everyone joke, gets picked up by the Party and his life gets ruined. Sarcasm always stings a little, but here that little sting turns around and eats his entire life. His best friend Zemanek votes him out of the Party, and therefore out of the university. He’s drafted by the military, but that little black mark on his record gets him sent to a prison squad, where he works in a mine with rioters, thieves, and political dissidents. They’re forced to work six days a week, but the only way to get leave passes or other privileges is to volunteer to work on Sunday too, so sometimes they’d go thirteen or twenty days without a break. It’s a lonely, miserable existence.

I know that my experience is not that bad – the universe is generally fairly gentle with me – but this does remind me of my expulsion from Texas, nearly a year ago. I work for a private language company that does intensive English programs, and they sent me to Texas to work at modifying our curriculum to expand the market to boarding schools with international students. Speaking strictly professionally, it was a resounding success. I kept careful records and had enough data to show that my students’ language skill had improved dramatically, but that wasn’t enough. Little did I know that the Christian school where I worked had been watching me like a hawk all year, and as soon as they figured out my Facebook identity they dug through everything I had ever posted, all four years of it, and used it as proof that I was anti-Christian and deserved to be fired. I’m not against Christians or their beliefs, as long as those beliefs aren’t being used to hurt anyone. They were aghast at all the pictures of men I’ve hit the Like button for, but they based their argument on a joke. It’s not a very funny joke, admittedly, but it was a joke nonetheless.

Back when I was religious, sometimes I’d joke with my friends on the day between Good Friday and Easter – Jesus is dead, we can do what we want while he isn’t looking. I even added a bit about him getting back from Hell, when I would go back to being good. Now, I agree that it’s not very funny, but it is completely orthodox. Many theologians have believed that Jesus spent his time between death and resurrection saving souls from their punishment – the Medievals called it The Harrowing of Hell. You can see it in the old Cycle plays (The York Cycle can be found in your local academic library). Before Jesus, everyone went to hell because of Original Sin, then Jesus went down there to personally bring to heaven all those who were actually good people. Now, because of Jesus, the decent people can skip hell and go to heaven. The Harrowing of Hell is a great cinematic moment in the history of the world as envisioned by the Christian Church, yet these people hadn’t heard of it. This is the problem with splinter groups (read: non-denominational independent Protestant Churches) – insufficient education. My supervisor called it a witch hunt because I’m gay, but because the company does want to keep this market open, they relocated me back to the Midwest. The little Christian school would have just fired me because in Texas it is perfectly legal to fire someone for being gay. My company was really great about the whole thing, appropriately appalled at the suggestion I be fired for my sexuality, so they sent me somewhere I would be surrounded by friends and unconditionally accepted. So, a good move.

What bothers me about all this is just how nice the Christians were, right up until they asked my boss to fire me. I should have figured something was wrong – my subconscious was sending all kinds of paranoia messages, like how I was avoiding open spaces because I kept seeing men aiming rifles at me. But I assumed it was a response to past situations and not the present one, and I knew they weren’t really there, so I figured I was just being crazy, like I was back when I was religious. But no, I was ignoring a present warning. I really ought to learn to trust myself. These people were not my friends, even though I thought they were and trusted them almost completely. A year later, I still have a serious aversion to churches. And strangers. And religions in general.

So, drifting back to changes in Czech society in the late 1940s. They absolutely rejected religion and capitalism, replacing them with a belief in progress, community, and communism. As such, familiar habits became crimes, such as sarcasm or a belief in God. The belief in God doesn’t fit with the officially atheistic stance of The Communist Party, but sarcasm is a subtler crime. It evinces a certain pessimism, an antagonistic way of seeing the world, and pessimism is a lack of faith in progress and hence anathema to the Communists. Sarcasm is not the product of happiness. It betokens disappointment and pride, a sense of intellectual superiority. When everyone in the community is holding hands and singing together, sarcasm is extremely anti-social. The Communists were trying to force an individualistic society into becoming collective, and some people resisted. Maintaining individual difference marked people as suspect because difference meant hierarchization. Part of this destruction of the individual is the erasure of the line between public and private spheres. Suddenly I understand why Kundera makes such a big deal out of this in later books – privacy was taken away by the Communist Revolution. It must have made it strange to arrive in the West and see exhibitionism, where people voluntarily arrange a private act for public viewing. So this explains his fascination with writing about public sex, and how weirdly scatological his middle-aged characters can get.

Ludvik’s sarcasm landed him in prison mines for several years. Finally he was allowed to finish his degree and become the academic he had always wanted to be. All this is mostly flashback – the present of the book is about revenge. He’s coming back to his hometown to avenge himself on the man who ruined his life. But he gets sidetracked when he sees Lucie.

Lucie is from a different city. As a teenager, she had a gang that she was friends with, and when they got to be around sixteen they noticed that she was the only girl and proceeded to gang rape the shit out of her, repeatedly. Eventually she got away, and by that I mean got run out of town because everyone said she was a slut, and started a new life in a new town. There, she met Ludvik during his time in the mines and they had a thing for a while, but he never understood why she wouldn’t have sex with him. She’d try to be willing, but in the end she just couldn’t. She coped with the rape by creating a division between her body and soul – the one became dirty and corrupted with the violence of men, but the other was free and pure. She loved Ludvik with her soul, but she needed such an abyss between the physical and the emotional that she couldn’t have sex with him. Eventually they broke up over not having sex, and she left town to start over again. This third town is Ludvik’s childhood home, but she has no way of knowing that. She meets Kostka, a Christian determined to save her. Kostka was a professor at the time of Ludvik’s expulsion, and he was expelled for his religion a short time afterward. He helped to heal her internal divisions, and when the time is right she expresses that personal union by having sex with him, which can sound a little sordid and self-serving on his part, but it’s actually a big step for her to be able to give her body to someone she loves and respects. The sex doesn’t seem to benefit him much; it’s more for her, celebrating her newfound love for her own body. It only happened the one time, like a baptism, and then she went on to lead a conventional life in a conventional marriage to a conventional guy who probably beats her in the conventional way.

Ludvik really has one purpose in coming here: to sleep with Zemanek’s wife Helena. He thinks that cuckolding the guy who derailed his life will make up for all the suffering he’s gone through. But again, this relies on a sense of privacy that the mainstream has abandoned. Ludvik’s seduction succeeds, but his revenge fails because Zemanek doesn’t care. He’s fucking this girl who’s young enough to be his daughter and rubbing it in Helena’s face. Helena thinks she has found someone she can leave her husband for, but Ludvik isn’t looking for a commitment. She might be in love, but to him she’s just a revenge fuck. She has an assistant who’s in love with her and even younger than Zemanek’s girl, but she’s not into him, at least not yet.

Our other essential character is Jaroslav, Ludvik’s childhood friend. While Ludvik and Zemanek embrace the Party in their youth, Jaroslav doesn’t. He’s not in the center of the revolution. But, when the Party announces that it intends to foster art with Communist ideals that still retains a national character, he finds his way in. Jaroslav loves Moravian traditions, especially folk music. He organizes the traditional dances, he writes songs in the folk tradition with Communist-approved themes, he finds ways to keep doing what he loves doing even under a repressive regime. Ludvik may criticize, but Jaroslav did what we all do – he selected and expanded the canon. On a small scale, each of us who reads and writes does this; on a larger scale, academia has trends in what gets taught and what gets avoided. For example, in the 1960s Sir Walter Scott was considered one of the most important Romantic writers, equally with Byron, Keats, and Wordsworth. Now, his poetry is considered too long and tedious to teach, so we mention Ivanhoe in a survey class and move on. Other works get dropped for political reasons, like Heart of Darkness or The Education of Little Tree. Then we choose other things to add, like Felicia Hemans or Oroonoko. There are a lot of subtle currents that add up to big changes.

Youth is a terrible thing: it is a stage trod by children in buskins and fancy costumes mouthing speeches they’ve memorized and fanatically believe but only half understand. History too is a terrible thing: it so often ends up a playground for youth – the young Nero, the young Napoleon, fanaticized mobs of children whose simulated passions and primitive poses suddenly metamorphose into a catastrophically real reality.

When I think of all this, my whole set of values goes awry and I feel a deep hatred towards youth, coupled with a certain paradoxical indulgence towards the criminals of history, whose crimes I suddenly see as no more than the terrible restlessness of waiting to grow up.

While our situations are drastically different, to some extent Ludvik et al are going through the same thing that Generation X is doing today. In our late teens and early twenties, we felt like we were reshaping our world to be kinder, more welcoming. Now that we’re in our thirties or forties, it seems like we’re supposed to have made it, but at thirty-seven I don’t feel like I have anything more together than I did ten years ago. The universe has not acceded to my demand for a better world, and now people are fighting against the movement that I feel really made things better – the Obama presidency. The young people growing up don’t have the same values that people only fifteen years older than they are did. Jaroslav’s son hates folk music; he and his friends are all excited about modernity, so they’re wearing leather jackets and listening to rock music, and in a few years they will propel the Prague Spring to try to take their country back from their Communist parents. Youthful idealism can make a lot of good things happen, but as we age we develop compassion: we learn to see people as individuals instead of masses, ideas as shades of grey instead of the black-and-white ideologies of adolescence. Ludvik’s response, hating youth, is a result of his personal experience of betrayal.

But while it may seem that he is one of those criminals restless to grow up, I don’t feel like he has. This whole revenge thing smacks of immaturity. He sees Helena’s body as belonging to her husband, and his sex act as thieving something to balance the years of freedom stolen from him. Zemanek doesn’t see his wife’s body as his; the Communist idea seems closer to Brave New World, where everybody belongs to everybody else. A woman’s body is never her own. That’s why I think Lucie and Kostka’s experience is so important and good – Kostka teaches Lucie that her body belongs to her, and when they have sex it is her decision about what to do with her body. I don’t make any great claims to maturity myself; I’m preparing to see my family this summer, and as I look ahead, I’m not picturing spending time with the people I love, I’m imagining confrontations with the brothers I feel betrayed by. Without using this vocabulary for it, I’ve been visualizing revenge on them, not by sleeping with their wives but through cutting comments and burning indifference. But that doesn’t make me any better than Ludvik, and it’s not a path that will lead to a good time. I’m not the same person I was when bad things went down, and neither are they. As Kundera points out, revenge is either immediate or worthless. There are no other options.

As long as people can escape to the realm of fairy tales, they are full of nobility, compassion, and poetry. In the realm of everyday existence they are, alas, more likely to be full of caution, mistrust, and suspicion.

The fate of this book is like the fate of its protagonist. Kundera wrote it as a novel, not a political satire. The problem with realism is that if you show real problems realistically, people think you’re exaggerating or being satirical. So, the Communists saw his book the same way his fictional Communists saw Ludvik’s joke, as a serious attack on the establishment. Westerners heard of it and started translating, but they translated poorly and only the bits that served their agendas. Eventually the author left Czechoslovakia and moved to Paris, and he set about having his novels retranslated, so while my copy is an approved translation, it’s not the final definitive one that Kundera supervised in the 1990s. Everyone took it so seriously, even when the title warns us not to.

I believe that many people will find my attachment to this novel to be somewhat singular, yet I must confess that my affection for Evelina can hardly be surpassed by that of the hero for the eponymous heroine.

Fanny Burney, who would later become Madame d’Arblay and write a moving account of her unanaesthetized mastectomy in 1811, wrote a novel in her teens called Caroline Evelyn, about a nice girl who gets lured into a private marriage and then abandoned, pregnant, with no proof of her child’s legitimacy. This type of story was quite common among novels written by women in the eighteenth century, actually, and even Charlotte Temple, America’s first bestseller, was a similar don’t-trust-handsome-men warning tale for young women. Writing was not seen as an appropriate activity for a young lady in the 1770s, though, so Burney burned all her early writings. By her mid-20s, when she had passed the age that women of the era pinned all their future hopes on marriage, she wrote a sequel and got it published without her family’s knowledge. Caroline Evelyn is summarized in the first few chapters, and then we move on to the story of her daughter, Evelina.

The novel is in the epistolary style so popular to the eighteenth century, and chronicles a young lady’s first introduction to society. It reminds me of Lydia Melford’s letters in The Expedition of Humphry Clinker, but Lydia’s letters are balanced by others of her family while Evelina’s are so numerous that the few other writers hardly seem mentioning. The structure of the story lends itself well to the three-volume division that was common at the time, as Evelina spends each volume with a different set of people, the Mirvans, the Branghtons, and Mrs Selwyn. At one point there is a mention of Justice Fielding, and I can’t help thinking she’s consciously referring to Henry Fielding, the comic novelist who later became a magistrate. The humor of the novel is very much in his style, and I sometimes feel sorry for Evelina because her writer makes her narrate so many practical jokes that she herself fails to enjoy. It’s a bit like asking Richardson’s Pamela to become the protagonist of Tom Jones.

Burney seems fully aware of some of the issues that we in the twenty-first century recognize as of prime importance: gender and class. Women are expected to be decorative, and one of the characters actually says that he doesn’t understand why women live past the age of thirty because then they’re only in someone else’s way. The same guy later has a conversation about how important it is that a woman never seem to be more intelligent or stronger than any of the men around her. Compare this with Burney’s own life, and the fact that she didn’t marry until she passed forty. After she was considered a confirmed old maid, she met someone who found her desirable enough to marry and gave her time to continue her writing, and they seem to have been very happy together. And as for strength, she was almost sixty years old when she had a breast removed, let me repeat with no anaesthetic, and then she lived for nearly thirty years more in apparent good health. She’s kind of amazing. However, the best she can do for her time is to have the moral centre of her novel say,

Though gentleness and modesty are the peculiar attributes of your sex, yet fortitude and firmness, when occasion demands them, are virtues as noble and as becoming in women as in men: the right line of conduct is the same for both sexes, though the manner in which it is pursued may somewhat vary, and be accommodated to the strength or weakness of the different travellers.

Today we would cavil at the idea that women are somehow essentially gentle and modest, and indeed, Burney’s characters call this idea into question. But think of the 1770s, before Wollstonecraft’s Vindication, and give her credit for the gesture toward gender equality.

Class is rather an important issue in the novel. At the time the novel was praised for its accuracy in portraying working-class dialect, but I didn’t meet any characters I could really think of as working class. There are servants, of course, but they rarely speak. I think they must be referring to the Branghtons, who are only working class in that they do work. Mr Branghton owns a shop and rents rooms – he is an employer, not an employee. He is in trade, which separates him from most of the characters, but there are hardly any Dickensian brickmakers, or even any of Fielding’s shrill dairymaids. Evelina’s world only contains one named character who is really poor, and even he is revealed to be the son of a baronet. The Branghtons torture Evelina by trying to seem aristocratic, as in this description of one of their close friends:

In the afternoon, when he returned, it was evident that he proposed to both charm and astonish me by his appearance; he was dressed in a very showy manner, but without any taste; and the inelegant smartness of his air and deportment, his visible struggle, against education, to put on the fine gentleman, added to his frequent conscious glances at a dress to which he was but little accustomed, very effectually destroyed his aim of figuring, and rendered all his efforts useless.

This group is entertaining to us who don’t have to associate ourselves with them, but Evelina is miserable with them. Mr Branghton is always insisting on doing everything as cheaply as possible while his children want to live the high life with the upper class who frequent their shop. In the end nothing is done well and they are only spared embarrassment by their colossal insensitivity. They are Evelina’s cousins through her grandmother Madame Duval, an English barmaid who married up twice and now has a rich French husband, so she pretends to be native French gentry. But no matter how she’s dressed, she’s still a barmaid with an inflated sense of self-worth. In this, she’s not really that different from ‘the quality.’

The Mirvans are more highly placed than the Branghtons, but it seems that Burney isn’t quite sure what to do with well-behaved people. Mrs and Miss Mirvan are so self-effacing that they practically disappear from the narrative. It’d be tempting to forget the family altogether if it weren’t for the Captain. Captain Mirvan has just arrived in England after a seven years’ absence at sea. His time abroad has unfit him for the life his wife and daughter lead, and he compensates for this by abusing Madame Duval for being French. He concocts several practical jokes to play on her; he only injures her dignity and her clothes, but that may be more of an accident than evidence of care. He’s often joined by Sir Clement Willoughby, one of Evelina’s suitors. Sir Clement is one of those guys who can’t take a hint; he pursues Evelina through three hundred pages without realizing that she can’t stand him. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval seem equally matched in terms of manners, and Sir Clement only talks better than they do. The people who don’t need a profession are just as vile as those in trade; money and status aren’t the best indicators of worth or respectability.

The shining star of the aristocracy is Lord Orville, who alone seems to care how other people are feeling. At first, Evelina mistakes his manners for ordinary:

These people in high life have too much presence of mind, I believe, to seem disconcerted, or out of humour, however they may feel: for had I been the person of the most consequence in the room, I could not have met with more attention and respect.

But more contact with Sirs and Ladies puts that notion out of her head. Indeed, I find that to encounter such a person is just as rare in real life as it is in this book. This passage reminds me of a line from the otherwise-forgettable Brendan Fraser/Alicia Silverstone flick A Blast from the Past, when he explains to her that a gentleman is someone who tries to make everyone around him feel comfortable. I try to be like this, but generally I fail through oversensitivity. My emotions shout so loudly within me that it’s sometimes hard to hear what anyone else has to say; I only seem still and silent to others.

In fact, I am far more like Evelina than I feel I ought to be. Being a seventeen-year-old raised in isolation, she has a marvelous excuse that I can’t claim. I’m twice her age and was raised in a large family, so I was constantly around people. Maybe the problem is that I was with too many different kinds of people, so I never learned to ally myself with any particular cultural niche. Even today I feel uncomfortable if I find that I’m typical of any group of people. If I’m told that I’m classic gay, I’ll ‘straighten’ myself out. If I seem too high for my company, I’ll start dressing like a lumberjack. And if I’m too much of an Appalachian cracker, I read plenty of books, and especially books that are hundreds of years old or written by international authors.

But as I mentioned, she and I are similar in a lot of ways. I felt that Mr Villars was talking to me when he tells Evelina,

But you must learn not only to judge but to act for yourself: […] do not, by a too passive facility, risk the censure of the world, or your own future regret.

I have been blessed with a splendidly passive facility, which leads to my own future regret and sometimes the censure of the world. I need to struggle against it, particularly as the time comes for me to re-embark on the job search. I’m great at thinking for myself, but taking active steps comes less easily. And even though I’ve been travelling all over the country and the world, I still find myself, like her,

unused to the situations in which I find myself and embarrassed by the slightest difficulties, I seldom, till too late, discover how I ought to act.

The ex was once in a group of students listening to a well-known author, and someone asked what it took to become a good writer. He explained to the group that from his youth he had had the habit of replaying events from his day in his mind, imagining how things would have happened if someone (usually himself) had behaved differently. This tendency to correct reality doesn’t guarantee a writing career, but he had never met a successful writer who didn’t have it. I do this all the time. It’s annoying, frankly. But when I’m dissatisfied with my own behavior, I play the scene back and write myself a different part. Sometimes that part fits my character, sometimes not. Sometimes I picture myself acting so far out of character that I wonder if I really know who I am at all, and who I would have been if the circumstances of my life had been different. But things being as they are, I keep making false steps, offending where I mean to comfort, wasting time being shocked, and ignoring real affection in favor of the conditional love that I expect. Like Evelina,

my intentions are never wilfully blameable, yet I err perpetually!

Which may explain why I’m alone on the wrong side of the world, and why I keep remembering things that I probably ought to have apologized for, but that happened so long ago that I doubt anyone else remembers, or cares. My perpetual erring is particularly noticeable when I’m around people I’m attracted to. I don’t know how to act, so I’m offensively silent, or I interrupt when I ought to have kept my mouth shut; I’m either too aloof or too familiar; I start to get close and then I push people away. Or run off to another city, state, or country for a few years.

Perhaps my closest affinity for Evelina is in the manner in which we fall in love.

Young, animated, entirely off your guard, and thoughtless of consequences, Imagination took the reins, and Reason, slow-paced, though sure-footed, was unequal to a race with so eccentric and flighty a companion. How rapid was then my Evelina’s progress through those regions of fancy and passion whither her new guide conducted her! – She saw Lord Orville at a ball, – and he was the most amiable of men! – she met him again at another, – and he had every virtue under heaven!

I mean not to depreciate the merit of Lord Orville, who, one mysterious instance alone excepted, seems to have deserved the idea you formed of his character; but it was not time, it was not the knowledge of his worth, obtained your regard; your new comrade had not patience to wait any trial; her glowing pencil, dipt in the vivid colours of her creative ideas, painted to you, at the moment of your first acquaintance, all the excellencies, all the good and rare qualities, which a great length of time, and intimacy, could alone have really discovered.

You flattered yourself, that your partiality was the effect of esteem, founded upon a general love of merit, and a principle of justice: and your heart, which fell the sacrifice of your error, was totally gone ere you suspected it was in danger.

Yup. That’s me. I might be in my thirties, but this passage still describes me well. It was eleven years ago that I met the ex and imagined her to have all sorts of good qualities that I desired, rather than knew, her to have. In eight years of marriage, continually treating her as if she were kinder than she is helped her to develop that quality, and her treating me as I were more assertive than I am helped me to develop that as well, but after the breakup we snapped back to our original characters like rubber bands suddenly relieved of pressure. Not quite back to where we had been, of course, but separating from a spouse is such a paradigm-shifting event that you change very quickly, mostly by rebelling against the person the former spouse wanted you to be. And it was just this summer that I had that sudden crush on the guy I’m trying not to think about, because I don’t want a repeat of the same experience. The ex and I spent all our free time together for nine weeks and got married (not decided to get married – I proposed after twenty-three days, and she had already made up her mind to accept if I should ask), and it was good for a while, but I don’t want to rush into things again. I certainly don’t want to end up smitten with someone who’s going to treat me badly, again. This time I’m going to pay more attention to reality – how does he treat strangers, for instance. The ex could be nice to me, and to people she knew were important to me, but not to cashiers or office clerks who didn’t follow her idea of how she should be treated. Besides, after being with a couple of guys who become intimately violent, and paying attention to who I feel attracted to in films, I’ve realized that I tend to fall for psychos. Sure, David Tennant is my favorite Doctor on Doctor Who, he seems the most capable of really loving someone, but when The Master has him trapped and is dancing around singing, “I can’t decide whether you should live or die,” I wish I were dancing with him instead of trying to save DT. I love villains, the more self-loving the better, and that makes me very suspect of anyone I might feel attracted to in real life. The next time I enter into a relationship, I’m going to be more careful.

So. Who would I recommend this book to? Anyone who loves Jane Austen. Burney’s society here is set a little higher than Austen’s gentry, but it’s also about thirty-five years earlier, so the manners are pretty similar. It’s also a good recommendation for someone who likes Ann Radcliffe, though it’s more comic than Gothic. Someone who likes Fielding but not Richardson may find it too sedate, someone who likes Richardson but not Fielding may find the humor too physical, and someone who loves Smollett and no one else may find it a bit too feminine, but if (like me) you like most of the eighteenth-century authors whose works have survived this long, don’t miss this one. Evelina is the best introduction to Burney fiction because it’s a normal length for the time period, but it’s the shortest of her novels. Cecilia and Camilla went to five volumes instead of three, and I think The Wanderer was four. I’ve not been brave enough to read them yet; The Mysteries of Udolpho was the last four-volume novel I read, and I’m not in a hurry to do that again. It’s also good for students of the history of English, since several spelling and grammatical choices are different than what we now consider standard. Choose is spelled chuse, happy people are chearful, and educated people say ‘you was.’  Evelina is cute, funny, imperfect, an impressive debut novel, a pure delight.