Vanity Fair

Tonight I watched Vanity Fair (a second time) and wondered (not for the first time) about Becky Sharp and whether I am meant to despise or sympathize with or admire her. After an unsuccessful attempt to analyze her character, I turned to the plot. I failed to see (at first) what I found (and find) attractive in this inconclusive story consisting mainly of pretensions and social and familial skirmishes -- a period drama rendition of a soap opera, going everywhere and ending up nowhere.

And then I came to a conclusion. The attraction of Vanity Fair lies not in the character of its main protagonist alone, nor in its story -- but rather, in the relation each has to the other. Becky Sharpe cannot be scrutinized as a character because she is not, in essence, a character, not even remarkable, but a mere reflection of something that is fully human -- of each and every one of us -- and the plotline serves only as a backdrop to illuminate this existence (and would be disregarded completely if not in perspective with her, as all our lives would mean nothing without us).

Neither is not there to be judged, but for us to observe and say, "yes." Yes, that is how we are; yes, that is how it is.

I don't know what a literary theorist would have to say about this, or what Thackeray would have said. But for me, this must be the truth.