Trollope, freedom, and happiness

An older American man, a voracious reader of literature and the classics, wrote me forcefully and with conviction, about the evils of Anthony Trollope. The fellow, he said, wrote prescriptively and hated young women. I wrote back that I liked Trollope and never saw any much hate in him; that, in fact and au contraire, he seemed to me quite ironic and detached from his novels, their Victorian pattern, his heroines, and their moral and otherwise travails, regarding them all with a measured, sympathetic but unserious eye. The American then wrote back to confess that such had been his impression also until – he entered into an online discussion with some (no doubt American liberated female) readers (almost certainly aspiring academics). That, he said, opened his eyes to the truth. It also worked up his bile.

It surprised me to see that he of all people should choose to borrow the opinion of others regarding literature. What is the point of reading 2000 pages a week and being one of the most well-read men around, if one is unable to form his own opinion afterwards but ends up toeing some party line in the end?

It is interesting, incidentally, how many angry young women there are these days around the academia in the West: angry on account of being unfairly oppressed by the chauvinist males. Now, that young academics feel oppressed is not surprising: the field is crowded with talent and the rewards are meager, meaning that in terms of blood per dollar, the academia probably fights the toughest, most difficult and yet, financially speaking, the least rewarding corporate battles out there; every academic is bound to be a highly strung person. Given such circumstances, that women academics should turn to womenslib theory as a competitive weapon (something with which to beat the males) is not surprising; and that they should use it to stoke their own ambition (by feeding their internal rage), is understandable; but that they are as a result a knot of seething anger and bristling aggression is unfortunate.

Zobenigo has slept or has had close dealings with several such aspiring female academicians and has since learned to avoid the kind altogether: there was altogether too much confrontation, too much tension, too much unhappiness. Zobenigo prefers easy human company; or else – none at all.

In the less liberated parts of the world – Thailand, Morocco – where no doubt women are less liberated and (perhaps) more oppressed, there is less anger; women seem both happier and more pleasant company. There is a paradox here: one wonders: what is the point of liberation when it appears to breed more unhappiness and dissatisfaction?

Perhaps someone might say to this, oh, happiness is unimportant; what is important is freedom. In other words, the unfree must be set free even if it cost them a measure of happiness.

I am not sure whether I am sufficiently enlightened to understand this line of thinking.