Sometimes a work is so much a
product of its times that, for all its genius, it no longer translates beyond
those times. I’ve read many works that are full of incredible satire, insight,
and profound art, yet would be virtually meaningless to a modern reader. I
think specifically of a great work like Fielding’s Joseph Andrews, which
makes me laugh more than almost any book written; however, so much of the
laughter comes from knowing the ideas and
culture of the early 18th
century, without which all the jokes at Colley Cibber’s expense fall rather
flat. These books inevitably become the property of college classrooms, where a
patient teacher can tease out the references so that the work, little by
little, becomes enjoyable again. This is the Scylla and Chabrydis that any
author must face: too topical, and the work doesn’t last a decade; too general,
and the work speaks to no one at all.
