On Illusions

I always make sure I am armed with at least one book in my (rather large) messenger bag when I set off for work in the morning. The commute is relatively long and besides, reading bits of a good book helps me jump-start my day, giving me glimpses of another world I could inhabit when the monotony of Wold of Work tends to weigh me down, which is often the case. Despite efforts to economize on the contents of my bag, I still manage to retain my uncanny habit of never being able to pack light.As a result, my bag was quite heavy this morning, for it also contained an unopened bottle of water. As I waited to board my train, I pulled out the first book I had brought with me and one one I was on the verge of finishing and started to read it. When I finally reached the end, I felt exhilaration...and relief. I had finally finished this book that I had been reading for over a week now, when it should only have taken me not more than few days. I soon slipped the book back into my bag and waited.

Nothing happened.

My bag was as heavy as ever. Not an ounce of it had changed.

It took me a while to realize that in some strange sense (subconscious, no doubt), I had assumed that finishing the book would have reduced the load in my bag. I had finised reading L.M.Montgomery's A Tangled Web, and I must say that the book was rather heavy in a literary sense, for it was very character-centered. And there were too many characters to keep track of. Untangling the tangled web of mulitple plots in the novel took some energy and when I reached the end of the book, I expected, in scientific terms, to feel the effects of 'work'. I believe I must have confused mental strength with the physical, the tangible. I had expected the literary contents of a book to somehow affect the physical weight of my bag. I had expected a reward and wished it to manifest in the form of easing the physical burden that strained my bones. I had confused the tangible with the intangible.

The results of our mental endeavors are not immediately apparent in the manner of those belonging to their physical counterparts, and can surpass the familiar, the conventional. The pleasures of reading are limitless; Imagination prevails.

Speaking of illusions, another example presented itself while I waited for my train, listening to the audio episodes of the BBC's Jane Eyre starring Ciaran Hinds and Sophie Thompson. Although I did not approve wholly of Thompson for her rendtion of Jane, on account of her unconvincing tone and over-emphasis on the theatrics, I thought her casting proved to be an interesting study. The only other period movie that I happened to watch where Sophie Thompson had a significant role in was Emma. There Thompson played Miss Bates, a nosy but harmless spinster who is mortifyingly snubbed by Emma, while Knightley defends her. Miss Bates is at the margin of her society, lives with her deaf mother, is very plain, poor, and has little prospects. When a rich woman such as Emma snubs her in a public gathering, Mr. Knightley, the kind hearted soul that he is, chides Emma and desires to take sides with Miss Bates. He also takes pity on her family, especially regarding the welfare of her neice Jane Fairfax.

Miss Bates' character, at least outwardly, has similarities to Jane Eyre herself, in both her appearance and station. Having Sophie Thompson play the role of Jane Eyre after she had played the role of Miss Bates, seems, in a strange sense, as if she is telling us another side to Miss Bates' story. We are invited to think of the possiblities that could happen in the life of this otherwise lonely middle-aged spinster. We can't resist asking, What if she was younger? What if she met a man she loved? What if others snubbed her and she still retained her integrity?

In other words, what if Miss Bates was like Jane Eyre?