George Eliot's the Lifted Veil: an Autobiographical Response

George Eliot's protagonist, Latimer, from her novella The Lifted Veil, is an interesting depiction of a child raised in an environment unsupportive of his nature. While in many ways, Latimer's childhood experiences relate to my own, it is his demeanor that is particularly interesting to me. Reading this novella, I couldn't ignore the arrogance that rings through Latimer's "voice" while he narrates his life story. One would expect such confidence as a result of a very supportive upbringing or a successful life despite a difficult childhood, but neither is the case in Latimer's story. His arrogance stems from his psychic ability. The cause and effect relationship of his ability, his arrogance, and his misery sends a powerful message about how we should come to accept our own abilities or such things that make us matter.

Latimer's story is primarily about a man whose psychic ability eventually causes his misfortune; ending up in a hate-filled marriage and having little to show for his life. He begins his story by describing his ability as a "curse" and his life as, "the wearisome burthen of this earthly existence" (1). Between the grim opening and closing which announce his pending death are pages of unpleasant memories, yet threaded through his bleak words is the essence of superiority. Sometimes this is more obvious such as when we see his continuous observations of the pettiness and superficiality of the people around him, with no regard for their positive qualities, because those qualities did not suit his interests. However, throughout most of the story we have only a feeling of Latimer's confidence hidden by the unhappy words of the self-conscious man he should have been had he not obtained his mental gift.

I wonder if it is Eliot's personality, or her love for her protagonist, that comes through in Latimer's voice, causing him to seem very confident. Like me, Latimer grew up around people who didn't understand him and constantly tried to change him. Giving him a supernatural ability may have been Eliot's way of protecting him from that environment. Perhaps, because Latimer's gift was his downfall, it was her intention to create a story with a theme that who we are is what makes us matter, not who we strive to be-and that holds truth no matter how much happiness or misery our identity may bring us.

Sometimes We Need Our Robots

"I can't go, I feel sick." But my android mom convinced me to go; that the nausea was all in my head. What did she know about nausea? What did she know about me? The drive to school that morning seemed the longest drive in my life and though I rolled down the window a crack and let the cool air move through me, both my nausea and fear remained. I risked a dizzy glance at the digital car clock and swore to my mom that my illness had nothing to do with my participation in the spelling bee that would take place just two hours and nine minutes away. I almost believed it.

Throughout my childhood, particularly around the age of eight, I had a genuine, nagging concern that the world was full of robots and I, seeming to be the only warm-blooded person around, was their test subject. Being a very shy little girl, rather than participating in the social world, I usually just sat back and watched. I watched my teachers go about the school day carrying agendas and wearing artificial smiles. I watched the kids at school do just what kids are supposed to do; laugh and play mechanically, never thinking deeper thoughts than "What's for lunch today?" Even my mother and brothers seemed empty and suspiciously evasive. Mom stayed in her bedroom most of every day, consuming cheese puffs and romance novels-my brothers tormented me part of the time; ignored me the rest. Of course logically, I knew these people weren't robots, but the less I interacted, the more I watched; and the more I reflected, contemplated and feared.

Had I a scientist's nature, I might have tested my theory; convinced some naïve little kid to let me prick his finger. Or maybe I should have talked to someone, one of those people that kids are supposed to go to with things like that; those people who overshadowed me both with height and intimidation-grownups. But like Latimer, I was no scientist and talking to an adult was not likely to happen. Besides, my ideas weren't meant to be tested. As frightening as they sometimes were, I would never have tried to debunk my own theories lest I become as cold and empty-headed as everyone else seemed to be.

The nausea retreated but my face felt on fire and my feet numb as they hung from the cold metal chair. Everything seemed too big, from the chair, to the stage, to the booming of the mic as the other kids awkwardly fumbled with it. But as I listened to the man's voice handing out words and judging each child's right to stay on the stage, I felt a little bit of power creep inside me. I knew how to spell those words, every one of them. To think the shy little redhead wearing a dress from the Salvation Army knew how to spell the words that eliminated so many of these perfect little robots. Who was I to be successful in this game? I was real; flesh and blood. In my recollection of that thought, I like to think I smiled a little.

I was a redhead by every meaning of the word. You hear these myths that redheads are more emotional, sensitive, irrational; all of it rang true for me but I was just a little girl and I had not yet heard those myths. I hadn't had the satisfaction of such stereotypes to tell me who I was supposed to be. What I knew was that I was different. I was small and quiet with orange hair, freckles and pasty skin. Nobody understood me and though I tried, desperately at times, I understood nobody.

Much Like George Eliot's Latimer, my problem was my very nature. I spent much of my time in my own head: observing, dreaming, imagining. There was a great deal of life behind what seemed to others to be a blank stare. But how could they know? "Why don't you just talk?" people would say, "What is wrong with you?" It was a constant nagging that began as words from the mouths of fools and became my own inner dialogue. By the age of 8, I was convinced that I was no longer a complacent observer, but a broken thing that needed to be fixed. Each word I forced out and each time I raised my nervous hand in class, I betrayed my own nature. I soon realized going against your nature is a dangerous game. While I occasionally won a round, I often found myself humiliated, stumbling over my words as would be expected from a child with so little experience in socialization. Each failed attempt was a sizable setback, and there were many.

"Your word is..." I felt myself sway. The stage was too big and too hot. Even the mic seemed bigger than it should. The crowd was quiet, just stared at me with disparaging eyes, judging my every move, my every sound, and my very existence. I don't remember the word the man gave me; probably forgot it the instant I muttered the letters that let me escape that stage, placing 4th in the 4th grade spelling bee. Did I really know how to spell that word? Probably. Fear is a powerful, conniving thing. It creeps into your brain telling you how to think and behave. It told me to get off that stage and away from all those shiny, glaring faces and it clouded my mind until I did just what it wanted. My mom was right; the nausea was all in my head but that didn't make it any less real. I shed my hot, heavy coat of fear and took my seat in the crowd, blending into the hundreds of faces while their eyes burned holes into the next poor sap on the big wooden stage.

I've changed a lot since then, and as I write these words I see a confidence similar to that which I saw in Latimer. The primary difference between Latimer and me, however, is that while he knew most of his life that his abilities made him special, I had twenty plus years to struggle and eventually learn the same about my eccentricities. In high school I met drugs and delinquents and was cast a starring role. I adored the attention too much because I had so little of it growing up. Eventually, I learned that trusting so easily made me a fool but through years of attempts and failures, I found a balance for trust and developed a drive to make all my work and turmoil worthwhile. Eliot's Latimer was an unfortunate boy whose special abilities made him prematurely confident and so he did not develop the drive to grow. Having a contemplative nature and an interest in human behavior, he quickly grew tired and annoyed with his ability to see people completely. So as an adult he was left with no motivations and an ability that he thoroughly hated. His story reminds me that sometimes we need our faults to motivate us to become better. I wouldn't change my difficult past for Latimer's supernatural ability. Without that ambition, derived from our failed attempts and embarrassments, we humans wouldn't have much left to live for.

Work Cited
Eliot, George. The Lifted Veil. Kessinger Publishing. No further information available.