Week 5: The Coquette

I feel like much of the framework of our readings tie in to a very common human familiarity; one that reveals a widespread theme of moral complexity, but more, complexity that is only nourished by simplicity and confinement. Each reading, in its own way, has a very “captivating” aspect that gives it its certain je ne sais quoi. Maybe this “appeal” derives simply through this ongoing imprint of complication within each narrative and, as a result, within each reader.

In The Coquette, we examine a ‘fictionally true’ take on the defining story of a woman; a woman who became a victim of example and a main protagonist of a culturally definitive cautionary tale. Subsequently, Hannah W. Foster’s sole purpose of publishing this story was to embellish the complications that lead to these celebrated, simple, and dismissing conclusions of society at large.

All the while, the handling of this character, Eliza Wharton, and this narrative, is rather isolated comparatively with other, similar narratives that confront these comparable, contextual hardships. I mean let’s face it, the themes of finding love, the ongoing struggle of the feminist protagonist, overcoming social confinement, the individual vs. society, individuality in the face of conformity….I think you get my point. These are recurring themes in literature, especially in pre-twentieth century literature, common concepts that most any reader has encountered at one time or another. But this is an interesting case. While these comparable themes and morally similar characters like Jane Eyre, or Sinclair Lewis’ flighty Carol in Main Street (even Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman for Christ’s sake) are encouraged by the reader or defended by the author, the landscape behind The Coquette supplies a story that’s less committed and outspoken to direct appraisal of this archetypal circumstance and protagonist. And it is precisely this absence of moral guidance, or appraisal (in regards to any character, any decision, and any judgment of any decision) that leaves the reader with that all too familiar burden: forming our own judgment.

This leaves our mind in a state of wandering, a wandering that seems comparable to the knotty, back and forth nature of Eliza herself. As Eliza put it, we feel compelled even further to search for other questions and deeper meanings, “The mind, after being at home for a while, sends the imagination abroad inquest of new treasures, and the body may as well accompany it, for ought I can see.” (p. 15) Is there anything wrong with this? Where does ambiguity start and assertion end?

Probably somewhere between a nasty note from your best friend and dying in alone in a pub....

Ultimately, this leaves readers a state of confusion, but I think this is a good thing. This guy, Alfred Korzybski said it best, "There are two ways to slide easily through life: to believe everything or to doubt everything; both ways save us from thinking." And all over the place we see this repetition in the use of the mind and its role in the story. Over and over again we hear Eliza in this state of either succumbing or resisting the "wandering impulses of [her] mind..." (p.67) Yet this thought, and her mind seem more associated with the negative or weary concepts that so vividly conflict with the value system and structure of the society in which she is so unwillingly judged by.

But is it not thought that provokes judgement? Riddle me that 18th century society. Hell, I'm fresh out of ideas...