S. P. Rosenbaum (1929–2012)

My reaction to this novel was one mostly of frustration. Not for the “difficulty” of James’ style, I’m not afraid of difficulty, but for what small matter it went in service to here. I finally realized that, unlike all the other novels, stylistically difficult or not (including other works by James) that I’ve found myself truly drawn to, called by, immersed in, this novel seemed to me to have no cosmological dimension, and in fact, not even any still-resonant (to me) social dimension– and what else is the defining subject of this ample form? I felt The Ambassadors was entirely constructed to show off its protagonist, who failed to fascinate me anything like as much as he obviously did James. So the experience of reading this dilatory work depended utterly on whether or not you found Strether’s personal dilemma sympathetic or consequential. I did not.

Even James’ technique, brilliant and revolutionary as it was, of centering a narrative intimately close to but not entirely inside a particular consciousness was, it seemed to me, antithetical to the invocation of any larger dimensions of reality, at least in this case. And (reading James’ Preface, included in this edition, very helpful) his emphasis on the supremacy of the artist’s control in every respect left no room for negative capability, which is an experience of the cosmological dimension as the source of inspiration. So how could his work not feel airless to me in some way, when he rules out the most fertile plain of discovery?

Whenever you dismiss something acclaimed a masterwork and a favorite of the author himself, by a writer as skilled as James, you are probably risking your own credibility as a good reader. But a good reader is allowed personal taste. We are not allowed to call it more than that, however. Or at least I won’t. (I was however, bolstered by reading the essays in this great edition - and by a couple of sharp quotes about James that I think are part of the experience of reading him. "This book was not quite worth the extraordinary trouble of reading it," said Arnold Bennett. "He often chewed more than he bit off," said one of his friends.
… (mais)

This is a difficult book to read. It's long. It was written as a serial, and you can tell. Sentences are long and convoluted, with multiple clauses. I frequently had to reread sentences twice. Henry James always seems unable to say something in 10 words when 50 will do. But in this book his style is willfully difficult, even obscure.

James tells the story though the thoughts of his main character, Lewis Lambert Strether, and the dialogue in which he takes part. This, I think, explains the extra difficulty of the style. Strether is courtly and kind, but never direct. His thoughts are as unclear and romantic as his speech is flowery. He is an observer, but he sees what he wants to see, and therefore his thoughts are often elliptical. Thus as we read his thoughts, we have to decode what's happening. But the information we have to decode is incomplete until a fuller picture accretes by the end.

And so, despite the difficulties, this is a deep and rewarding book. It is complex and interesting. James beautifully paints the setting, time and characters. The writing is controlled and the story frame is perfectly plotted, and evenly paced and presented. The work can be beautiful, but it is always brittle. For example, in one chapter, near the end, there is a masterly written interlude -- truly one of the best I've ever read -- in which Strether visits the French countryside. But this enchantment is succeeded by an encounter that shatters everything Strether thought he knew, and the story he had constructed, about his friends and his trip.

It is the subtlest of novels. Nothing is clear, or simple -- not to see, not to understand, not to choose. I think it is a masterpiece. And, at the same time, a hard slog. I'm eager to reread it. Yet I could understand others throwing it across the room after a couple of chapters, or even pages.… (mais)