Back home,
gratification deferred a week, I read Robinson
Crusoe again, most of it in one night, and found myself agreeing with Dr.
Johnson: “Was there ever any thing written by mere men that was wished longer
by its readers, excepting Don Quixote,
Robinson Crusoe, and the Pilgrim’s Progress?”(The inverse of what he said of Paradise Lost: “None ever
wished it longer.”) The man on the island has generated much critical rubbish
about capitalism and colonialism and other hobbyhorses du jour, but the book remains essentially an excellent adventure
story for boys and waywardly adventuresome girls of any age. Crusoe lives a
common fantasy: he is alone and must fend for himself. Like an earlier hero,
Odysseus, he is cunning, courageous and resourceful – precisely the image of ourselves
we devise in reveries. He is also frightened and despairing – precisely our
true selves, at least on occasion. I most admire Crusoe’s competence and
self-reliance. He gets things done. The best gloss on the story I know comes
from an unlikely source – Shirley Robin Letwin’s The Gentleman in Trollope (1982):
“What defines
a gentleman is a way of being in any circumstances. Even alone on his island,
Robinson Crusoe is a gentleman. He reveals a gentleman’s attitude to his plight
in his unfailing respect for the humanity of himself and all men; his ability
to appreciate the treasures of civilization; his efforts to refashion them for
new circumstance; his readiness to build new skills on old; his learning to
recognize and repent for his sins; his determination to give his days an
orderly shape, to reconcile himself to his misfortune and endow his life with
what grace and contentment he can manage.”
No comments:
Post a Comment