Book review: Doctor Thorne by Anthony Trollope

It is a truth perhaps not universally acknowledged, yet nonetheless felicitous, that when one chooses to partake of the company of those characters so decorously yet devastatingly delineated by certain past masters of English prose, one finds oneself for a time thinking in their particular idiom, and desiring to continue to while one's time pleasantly away in their company.

Given my recent whirlwind tour through the world of Patrick O'Brien's Aubrey and Maturin novels, I intend to do my best to resist the urge to consume Trollope's Barsetshire novels in the same way.

This is partially because Ruth Rendell's introduction to the novel indicated that it is Trollope's most cheerful book, and frankly, cheer is what I most desire in my 19th century novelists. I want to be amused by foibles, befuddled by occasional archaic turns of phrase, and satisfied with a happy ending for all concerned who deserve it. I want Jane Austen, not Emily Bronte, and Doctor Thorne provided all of that most admirably.

I may be unusual in finding that 19th century novels are excellent companions on long trips (with the notable exception of War and Peace, of which I read the first six hundred pages before I determined that not only did I not have the faintest idea where anything was happening, I didn't give a damn about any of the characters. I gave it up and read a trashy novel provided by my friend's Dutch aunt). For those who share my enjoyment of Austen, however, I recommend Doctor Thorne, as it is amusing, lengthy, and possessed of a happy ending. It is also filled with Trollope's omniscient-narrator digressions, which are not so lengthy (nor so informative) as Victor Hugo's, but quite entertaining nonetheless, as they give a great deal of ammunition to those who would argue in favor of the existence of authorial intent.