Novels, at their best, are supposed to help readers understand and appreciate differing cultures and ways of thinking and behaving. However, despite having read several well respected novels recently which were written by upper class British folk, I have about decided that I am incapable of empathy with the sardonic, tongue-in-cheek, stiff-upper-lip musings of the British aristocracy. I continue to be disconcerted by their combinations of dry humor and tragic events. I'm assuming (since many novels portray it) that they really do confront life in this manner, but this attitude is as foreign to me as if they came from a different planet altogether.
Take this humorous novel by Dame Rose Macaulay, for instance. It breezes along in a flippant manner, sometimes verging on slapstick, about the travels in Turkey and thereabouts of a young woman, her headstrong aunt, and a retired Anglican clergyman (accompanied by a camel with mental problems). In the midst of all this levity, Macaulay inserts some serious discussions about religious faith, and, right after a fantastical episode wherein the young woman teaches her pet ape to drive and play croquet, she drops in an abrupt and unexpected catastrophe. This juxtaposition of comedy and tragedy, especially tragedy without what I would consider a natural emotional response, is bewildering to me. Do some people really think and behave this way?
The Towers of Trebizond is often very amusing, contains interesting historical and travel information about the countries visited, and offers some contemplative reflections about religious faith. It just doesn't seem to fit together very well to my emotional American brain. It is considered a great achievement in Britain.
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