The Hill of Devi by E. M. Forster.

Nutshell: racism temporarily defeated by means of more or less permanent sexism.

Novel promises to be an exercise in inverting baudrillardian dissimulation: “The streets are mean, the temples ineffective, and though a few fine houses exist they are hidden away in gardens or down alleys whose filth deters all but the invited guests” (3). That this is a colonialist’s perspective of colonized space in British India should not be irrelevant, and we might accordingly regard colonized India as a (dis?)simulacrum, a copy that has replaced the original, but instead of propounded presence, the copy constitutes a propounded absence. Viewed from “the little civil station,” the setting “appears to be a totally different place” (4).

A bit heavy-handed at times, such as in declaring that the roads “named after victorious generals and intersecting at right angles, were symbolic of the net Great Britain had thrown over India” (13). It is nonetheless a matter of imposing progressive market relations, wherein the railway can be said to be “pushing its burning throat over the plain, and the twentieth century took over the sixteenth” (178). It is therefore very much the description found in [b:Late Victorian Holocausts|7859|Late Victorian Holocausts El Niño Famines and the Making of the Third World|Mike Davis|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1352512855s/7859.jpg|10888].

Discourse is littered with uglies such as: “he agreed that all Englishwomen are haughty and venal” (9); “That is why India is in such a plight, because we put off things” (11); “‘I don’t think I understand people very well. I only know whether I like or dislike them.’ ‘Then you are an Oriental’” (21); “He felt disloyal to his caste” (33); “You’re superior to everyone in India except one or two of the Ranis, and they’re on equality” (42); and so on. This stuff is entirely the point, of course--the confrontation of irreconcilables, which is not to suggest that the truth is in the middle between them. Far from it: for all the annoying pre-modern ideology on the native side, one can hardly sympathize with the colonialist.

Probably a good idea to approach this with a firm grounding in the history of the British Raj, which I lack. But we might rest assured that the relation is thoroughly dialectical: “You can make India in England apparently, just as you can make England in India” (78). Indeed, “the East had returned to the East via the suburbs of London, and had become ridiculous during the detour” (110)--not merely first as tragedy, second as farce, but also the colonialist’s hyperreal copy, more real than the original, for “this city is full of misstatements” (117), which fictions should be regarded as originary. The setting arises after the Sepoy Mutiny, after Davis’ late Victorian holocausts, after World War I--a parade of horrible that should not be underestimated, as the English had already hit “the unspeakable limit of cynicism, untouched since 1857“ (207). The events of the novel are therefore comparatively small, but prescient, considering later historical developments.

Lovely chapter X (123-24), regarding how “it matters so little to the majority of living beings what the minority, that calls itself human, desires or decides.” It’s likely retrograde, pastoralist, anti-modern--but it reads well.

Major confrontation of the novel, supra, is the trial of a native who is accused of sexually assaulting a colonialist. The reaction is nothing if not predictable: “Nothing enraged Anglo-India more than the lantern of reason if it is exhibited for one moment after its extinction is decreed” (183). We are solemnly informed that “all unfortunate natives are criminals at heart, for the simple reason that they live south of latitude 30” (184). The casual racism of the colonialist characters is highlighted by the narrative, held out for our judgment as errors, rather than ontologies of the setting itself. They are accordingly subject to disputation and defeat, and, though the narrative defeats them at a trial which places the prosecutrix literally on a pedestal in court (243), that defeat is engineered through the recantation of the alleged victim: “‘You withdraw the charge? Answer me,’ shrieked the representative of Justice. Something she did not understand took hold of the girl and pulled her through. Though the vision was over, and she had returned to the insipidity of the world, she remembered what she had learnt. Atonement and confession--they could wait. It was in hard prosaic tones that she said, ‘I withdraw everything’” (256). This hits as hard as Max Schell’s terrible, terribly effective cross-examination of Judy Garland in Judgment at Nuremberg, which is mercifully for all interrupted by Lancaster's peremptory ejaculation, but it likewise reads now as the standard MRA bullshit that there’s greater risk of harm in false rape accusations than in rape itself. The racist stuff is generally presented as partisan contention, the ideology of characters, whereas as the false rape accusation, which the racist contenders recapture with the proposition that she “had renounced her own people” (257), is an ontological fact of the setting. We may therefore regard it as affixed into setting permanency, sexism inscribed into the world, though at least racism endures a temporary defeat, even though racist characters persist.

Contention between defendant and his chief British friend dominates the falling action thereafter, concluding with perhaps the most affective ending that I’ve read (aside from the last lines of [b:Paradise Lost|15997|Paradise Lost|John Milton|https://d202m5krfqbpi5.cloudfront.net/books/1309202847s/15997.jpg|1031493] naturally!): “’Why can’t we be friends now?’ said the other, holding him affectionately. ‘It’s what I want. It’s what you want.’ But the horses didn’t want it--they swerved apart; the earth didn’t want it, sending up rocks through which riders must pass single file; the temples, the tank, the jail, the palace, the birds, the carrion, the Guest House, that came into view as they issued from the gap and saw Mau beneath: they didn’t want it, they said in their hundred voices, ‘No, not yet,’ and the sky said, ‘No, not there’” (362).

Recommended for those feeling that the English are a comic institution, readers endowed with two memories, a temporary and a permanent, and persons who turn to the East, but return to the West.

Rating: 5.5/5 (It was that brilliant!)

Summary: Maurice is complicated in his simplicity. He belongs to an upper middle class in 1912 Britain; has a mother and two sisters where he is the head of the household, an Oxford education, a pre-determined job, and a house and servants to manage. His life should be simple… work, marry, produce heirs. And yet he feels different. This novel explores Maurice’s path to finding out just what makes him different and how to reconcile it into his life in a society riddled with class politics. Oh, and yes, to fall in love where his kind of love is condemned and criminalized.

Review: Written in 1913/14 but not published until the 70s (after the author’s death), this novel presents an insight into homosexuality at the turn of the century in England. It wasn’t published until that time because Forster feared about the legal and social consequences of writing this novel; however, by the 70s attitudes have changed.

The below may contain spoilers in the sense where this novel being so thin on a plot, my emotional response to it and its characters may influence your own, which in this case is an important aspect in reading this novel. Therefore, if you choose not to continue to read, just know that in my opinion this novel is utterly brilliant on so many literary and emotional levels I haven’t even began to explore. Forster is a genius, this novel being a fine example; a definite must read.

It took a little while getting used to the turn of the century British style of writing but once I did the payoff was enormous (can’t stress enough just how much depth and brilliance Forster packs into this little short novel with a very simple plot). The best description of this novel is a trip into Maurice’s heart and mind as he’s trying to figure out himself and his role in the highly structured society. Maurice is a character that grew on me. He’s a bit slow and emotionally immature, qualities that are annoying at first but become endearing in the end. From the first moment Forster peals back layer by layer this complicated character as Maurice learns, fumbles, and learns over again. At the same time I love Clive, at least I loved him at first. His quick wit, intelligence, thirst for knowledge and philosophy, as well as Hellenic tendencies (and love for ancient Greece) endeared him to me. And yet, due to Forster’s brilliance I found pity for him at the end as even with all those brilliant qualities, he couldn’t find in himself any understanding and compassion for others (at least others different than him). I love the ending, Clive ‘s intelligence proved to be a determent, he lacked the depth and sophistication that Maurice, even with his limited intelligence, was able to achieve. And Alec, oh Alec, we knew him such a short time but I grew to love him as much as Maurice in the end.

The ending is perfect, just brilliantly perfect, and Maurice gets to live happily ever after (in the time that it was written a happy ending to an LGBT novel meant that it encouraged crime and that the criminals got away, that really put it into perspective just how big of a deal it was for Foster to write it so). In the end, I laughed and cried, and felt heartbroken and in love right along with Maurice; it was a very emotionally and intellectually satisfying experience.

Movie Note: Based on the novel, Maurice (1987) movie was just as brilliant. With a few minor deviations (differences around the character Risley) and omissions (omitting philosophical discussions and some of the subplots) from the novel, it carries the spirit of it onto the screen. I would recommend watching the movie as well. Plus, a sexy and young Hugh Grant plays Clive and an even hotter Rupert Graves plays Alec.

Oh Clive. :(

I kind of expected that I would love this book. A Room with a View by Mr. Forster is one of my all-time favorite books, mostly because of the message it sends about love and life and living with intent and passion. As soon as I found out that this same author had written a m/m romance in 1913/1914, I couldn't wait to read it.

Especially considering when it was written, this book is remarkable. It is beautiful and inspiring and thought-provoking and passionate in its claims that love really can conquer all--if given a chance.

Maurice and Alec are both so brave, it made me both a little angry and a lot sad that their contemporaries would have arrested them rather than be inspired by their courage. I can't even imagine how much courage it would have taken for both of them to give up everything. Their families, their jobs, their hopes for the future, their places in society; they knowingly and willingly gave all of those things up for the chance to be together.

And I love that Maurice still cared enough for Clive to go and try to convince him to be honest with himself again. Clive makes me the saddest, I think, of anyone in the book. Even when was brave enough to try out a relationship with Maurice, he was still scared enough or beaten down by Society enough to not truly enjoy it. It baffles me that in three years they only kissed once.

I was so proud of Maurice when he finally realizes how much better he deserves when Clive kisses his hand.

My absolute favorite part of this book is when Maurice and Alec finally are together in the boathouse. So many events between that morning and them being there together that evening could have gone wrong. There was so much potential for misunderstanding or mis-communication and disaster. But they both made such brave, difficult choices and they both ended up exactly where they needed to be. SO beautiful!

This is a beautiful, remarkable book. Inspiring and hopeful and wonderfully romantic. Definitely going in my favorites shelf!