David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens

In which we are introduced to David Copperfield.

Anya opens the door, “Oh, Christ. David.”

“Anya, hello. I can assure you that whatever may have transpired between us in the past, I am quite happy to see you here now.”

“You’re right. I’m sorry. How is Agnes?”

“She couldn’t make it. She on visit to Australia with the children—and Emily, you would correctly surmise if you were one to presume.”

“This Emily’s in the kitchen. Go on in, I’m sure she’s waiting for you.”

“You know I’ve always liked you Anya. Oh not like I liked my Emily or Anges, but you always reminded me of a nightingale singing brightly, though at dusk.”

Anya remembered why she couldn’t stand him and smiled sharply.

“David, you came!” squeaked Emily.

“Quite so. I should have gone out of my way to make this party.”

“I’m glad you could come. You’ve had the most exciting adventures. I do hope you’ll tell us all about them.”

“Naturally. But, Emily, you’ve had adventures too—matchmaking—and to find someone for yourself in the end. That’s really grand! Why, now that I think about it, your plot couldn’t have come to a better resolution.”

“But, David, you’ve matured so much. And been all over and seen so many things, even bad things. And the people you’ve met! My people all seem so shallow in comparison. Jane did her best but your people are so real.”

“True, Charles had a way with characters. And some got to change and change again—like me. I do myself feel fortunate.”

Emily laughs, “David, we could go on like this all day! Why don’t you stay and help me in the kitchen. Anya can get the door when more guests arrive.” Then more playfully, “David, look in that box over there.”

“Oh, what is it? I do say it’s repulsive even.”

“It’s your caul. I bought it years ago. Did you think you’d ever see that again?”

“Oh Emily!” and they are both still laughing when the doorbell rings again.

An American Romance, by John Casey

In which we are introduced to Anya.

Ding-dong. Emma walks smarty to the door; she’s sure this will be her best dinner party ever.

“Anya, you made it.”

Anya immediately wishes she hadn’t come. She hands Emily a casserole; her adopted mother’s recipe. She wishes she hadn’t made that recipe. She should have put dog food in it at least. Tessie would have.

“Mac couldn’t come.” He wouldn’t have to see her behaving herself at the party. “It’s surprising good to see you again, Emily.”

“Oh Anya, it’s good to see you too! Come help me in the kitchen.”

“Am I the first to arrive,” she flinches as soon as it’s out. Emily doesn’t notice. Why did she said that, she wonders. So gauche. She didn’t have to ask; of course she was. Emily would have introduced her if there were others there.

As Emily chats on about the party, Anya just stands there, listening. The kitchen isn’t really her place; she doesn’t know what to do to help.

“I’m just going to go freshen up.” This time she knows why she said that: she isn't going to freshen up at all, she's going to get away from Emily. Anya can hear Emily still talking as she walks down the hallway, slowly looking at the photographs on the wall. As she expects, the pictures are trite: Emily’s plain friends photographed in common situations.

When the pictures stop, she finds herself in front of Emily’s bedroom. She wants to go in, dig up some dirt on Emily. She thinks: a little transgression might cheer her up, and would certainly pass the time until more guests arrive. Anya has her hand on the bedroom doorknob when a knock comes at the front door and Emily sings out, “Anya, could you get that dear?”

Chapter 5 - Characterization

Movies are memorable for their characters. I can imagine sitting down to dinner with Indiana Jones, Hannibal Lecter (Silence of the Lambs, the bunny boiler from Basic Instinct, and Serial Mom (Kathleen Turner). Some dinner that would be, though the meat would be in question! Or I could dine with Bette Midler, Bruce Springstein, Sonny Bono, and Cher. I wouldn’t be adequate.

I could also imagine dining with some literary characters: Tolstoy’s Ivan Ilyich (would he be wheeled in on his death bed and fed intravenously?), Faulkner’s Lena Grove from Light in August (would she still be pregnant, ever pregnant and wandering, and have just stumbled into our dining room?), Wharton’s Ethan Frome (forever scarred), and Kafka’s Gregor Samsa from “The Metamorphosis” (a cockroach at dinner might spoil our appetites!).

It is, frankly, simpler to imagine dining with movie stars or performers than literary characters. Literary characters take us behind the “mask” of being; they are not all show and adventure. Literary characters are like people in real life: they are complex, dynamic, and riddled with contradiction. Richard Cohen in Writer's Mind © 1995, writes that characters are created, not constructed out of disparate elements, and come alive driving the plot and theme of the work--it's not enough for the character just to go about responding "characteristically" to the situations in the book.

Cohen says the test of a great character is whether the reader still remember the character later, whether the reader could imagine extending the character beyond the story, and whether the character would be believable acting out of character, say in response to situations other than those found in the novel. What better situation to interact with others, act out of character, and have others make comments about you than at a dinner party?

Well then, let’s have a dinner party. I’ll bring in characters to the party as I read about them in the books for this chapter. And we’ll have Emma host. That’ll give her something to do since I didn’t read her book (Emma by Jane Austen). We’ll see how alive the characters are as they interact at the dinner party stepping right off the last pages of their book (unless they died…).

The books for this chapter on characterization are:

• An American Romance, by John Casey
  
• David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens
  
• Something Happened, by Joseph Heller
  
• Red and the Black, by Stendhal
  
• Middlemarch, by George Eliot
  
• What Maisie Knew, by Henry James