A Novel
Finally I finished The Portrait of a Lady by Henry James. It was a great book. The writer successfully presented Isabel, the protagonist, to the readers from multifarious aspects. Like D. H. Lawrence, Henry James pinpointed solidly to the conscious mind of the protagonist of the book, and spared no efforts to depict it
during her lurching along and grappling with vicissitude of life.
The book is one of Henry James’s anthologized works during his prime time of writing. Actually it was reckoned the most welcome and well-known masterpiece that
the writer had written: the intriguing plot, pain-taking personality-shaping scribbling of the protagonist, the meticulous portraits of characters through multifaceted aspects, and the distinctively refined writing style of the writer. All
of this attributed the wide-spread renown of the book.
Personally I like Henry James’s individualistic writing style more than his actually works. It is refined, intricate, and implicative. It requires all of your
attention if you attempt to interpret, appreciate, or follow after its trace. And it was astonishing to see how the wwriter skillfully manipulated his pen to present the complicated characters in a well-rounded way, but somehow still left
the leeway for the readers’ imagination.
You read along, you were led into the fallacious world and gradually became bewitched—bewitched that you cheered, panted, and desponded with those lifelike characters. And the tears gusted into your eyes when the dear ones were in despair
as they had to face the moment their beloved one left them for the other world.
You finished the book, you put it aside, and you had to give yourself a solitary
moment: to let the train of musing brew in your mind, to ponder over the significant influence the book brought forth on you, and to remember and forget.
At the beginning of the book, you grasped little to feel and taste, except for the writer’s impressive to-the-details writing attitude. But as treading along
, you were gradually tickled pink by the intricate, hence hard-to-expect, plot.
At some point, you couldn’t help stopping to read the introduction and summary
of the novel. All the same, the writer failed not to turn you into the further exploration of his fabulous world.
It, like all other monumental works do, surprised you and allowed your imagination to ride upon, but allowed no mediocrity. It forcefully sucked you into its land entwined with breath-holding suspense, and opened your mind which became never thus sensitive and responsive. It sharpened and polished your overall view toward this world. And it could never fade away or stop to influence you, mostly unconsciously though. Maybe that’s what any masterpiece is like: Time and tide fade away, the charm of art remains indelible nonetheless...