Status
Available
Call number
Genres
Collection
Publication
Modern Library (1947), Hardcover, 377 pages
Description
Meet Sam Dodsworth, an amiable fifty-year-old millionaire and "American Captain of Industry, believing in the Republican Party, high tariffs and, so long as they did not annoy him personally, in Prohibition and the Episcopal Church." Dodsworth runs an auto manufacturing firm, but his beautiful wife, Fran, obsessed with the notion that she is growing old, persuades him to sell his interest in the company and take her to Europe. He agrees for the sake of their marriage, but before long, the pretensions of the cosmopolitan scene prove more enticing to Fran than her husband. Both a devastating, surprisingly contemporary portrait of a marriage falling apart and a grand tour of the Europe of a bygone era, Dodsworth is stamped with Sinclair Lewis's signature satire, wickedly observant of America's foibles and great fun.… (more)
User reviews
LibraryThing member afinpassing
I should begin by saying I love, ardently, William Wyler's 1936 film adaptation of Dodsworth. Now having read the book, I just marvel at the film more, and can't say that I'm aware of any more efficient and elegant translation of novel to screenplay, nor of a cast who has more successfully captured
Which isn't a pity since they couldn't play conv...more I should begin by saying I love, ardently, William Wyler's 1936 film adaptation of Dodsworth. Now having read the book, I just marvel at the film more, and can't say that I'm aware of any more efficient and elegant translation of novel to screenplay, nor of a cast who has more successfully captured the spirit of their literary alter egos, without being a bit restrained by the text—very few lines straight from Lewis appear in the film.
Which isn't a pity since they couldn't play conversationally, but Lewis' command of words, words, words is often staggering. He irks, in attempting to capture dialect and slang, in insisting that people speak parenthetically (parenthetically, I'm convinced people speak exclusively in dashes), in asserting that people think in elaborate and well-constructed theses. But over and over his ability to just get it so astonishingly right has a way to cut through all manner of frills to simple, accurate, truthful human nakedness.
Strange that I should be so much more a partisan of Fran in reading the novel than watching the film (I'd expect it in the film, that is, always being a partisan of Ruth Chatterton). In the film, Sam's final choice seems both inevitable and right. Fran seems so certainly wrong. But in the novel, set beside her increasingly obvious ghastliness, there is so purely and faithfully Sam's love for her to contend with. "Have I remembered to tell you I adore you?" begins as youthful flirtation, becomes rote, becomes desperate, serves to cement their real affection despite it all, turns bitter and final... It is not banal shorthand but cuts a little deeper every time. He loves her; what else for the reader to feel but love? The ending doesn't feel so right. In fact it feels horrifyingly wrong—nothing inevitable in it but that no matter what Sam does for himself now he has lost.
But the film is fairer to Fran, or Chatterton makes her more human than Lewis cares to. I'm disappointed that her selfishness and pretentiousness and haughtiness is carried to inhuman extreme by the end—it goes beyond slowly revealing her for what she is as Sam slowly discovers it and turns her into a really unrecognizable monster, only redeemed by his baffling adoration for her—making the ending all the more troubling perhaps, but seriously damaging her credibility as a character. Besides I like Fran. I like the Fran of the first three hundred pages who acted reprehensibly but still turned and said "Have I remembered to tell you I adore you?" and you could almost positively convince yourself she means it.
It is a brilliant book—oh, I'm uninterested in the travelogues and endless debates about what it means to be European and American—but at core it is a terribly sad story about opening one's eyes to life, love, and self for the first time at fifty. It is a love tragedy about two people who love ardently without knowing one another—for I will insist upon viewing Fran that humanly, and crediting her with that much. I will be haunted, as Sam always will be, by the thought of her, a desolate wraith, flitting off to another adventure, head high, and terrified. Finding oneself feels like no great gain at all.
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the spirit of their literary alter egos, without being a bit restrained by the text—very few lines straight from Lewis appear in the film.Which isn't a pity since they couldn't play conv...more I should begin by saying I love, ardently, William Wyler's 1936 film adaptation of Dodsworth. Now having read the book, I just marvel at the film more, and can't say that I'm aware of any more efficient and elegant translation of novel to screenplay, nor of a cast who has more successfully captured the spirit of their literary alter egos, without being a bit restrained by the text—very few lines straight from Lewis appear in the film.
Which isn't a pity since they couldn't play conversationally, but Lewis' command of words, words, words is often staggering. He irks, in attempting to capture dialect and slang, in insisting that people speak parenthetically (parenthetically, I'm convinced people speak exclusively in dashes), in asserting that people think in elaborate and well-constructed theses. But over and over his ability to just get it so astonishingly right has a way to cut through all manner of frills to simple, accurate, truthful human nakedness.
Strange that I should be so much more a partisan of Fran in reading the novel than watching the film (I'd expect it in the film, that is, always being a partisan of Ruth Chatterton). In the film, Sam's final choice seems both inevitable and right. Fran seems so certainly wrong. But in the novel, set beside her increasingly obvious ghastliness, there is so purely and faithfully Sam's love for her to contend with. "Have I remembered to tell you I adore you?" begins as youthful flirtation, becomes rote, becomes desperate, serves to cement their real affection despite it all, turns bitter and final... It is not banal shorthand but cuts a little deeper every time. He loves her; what else for the reader to feel but love? The ending doesn't feel so right. In fact it feels horrifyingly wrong—nothing inevitable in it but that no matter what Sam does for himself now he has lost.
But the film is fairer to Fran, or Chatterton makes her more human than Lewis cares to. I'm disappointed that her selfishness and pretentiousness and haughtiness is carried to inhuman extreme by the end—it goes beyond slowly revealing her for what she is as Sam slowly discovers it and turns her into a really unrecognizable monster, only redeemed by his baffling adoration for her—making the ending all the more troubling perhaps, but seriously damaging her credibility as a character. Besides I like Fran. I like the Fran of the first three hundred pages who acted reprehensibly but still turned and said "Have I remembered to tell you I adore you?" and you could almost positively convince yourself she means it.
It is a brilliant book—oh, I'm uninterested in the travelogues and endless debates about what it means to be European and American—but at core it is a terribly sad story about opening one's eyes to life, love, and self for the first time at fifty. It is a love tragedy about two people who love ardently without knowing one another—for I will insist upon viewing Fran that humanly, and crediting her with that much. I will be haunted, as Sam always will be, by the thought of her, a desolate wraith, flitting off to another adventure, head high, and terrified. Finding oneself feels like no great gain at all.
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LibraryThing member weird_O
Dodsworth is generally viewed as focussing on differences between American and European culture, intellect, manners, and morals. But it depicts the long, slow collapse of a seemingly solid marriage between two accomplished and loving individuals.
The surface story is straightforward. Sam Dodsworth
Sam is treated more like an indulgent father than an adored husband. It's his money that pays for the two-bedroom hotel suites Fran requires, the lavish shopping excursions she goes on, the meals and entertainments for the two of them plus the friends she makes. Though most of her 41 years have been spent in Zenith, she is convinced she understands European manners and mores. And Sam is, well, something of an embarrassment. He's a lovely man and means well, but he's uncultured and just doesn't, you know, get it.
Fairly early on, Fran's ceaseless flirting elicits a pass from an Englishman, which traumatizes her and prompts the Dodsworths to flee to Paris. There she repeats her behavior. While Sam wants to see sights and meet with active, productive, inventive people, Fran wants to be indulged by shallow, frivolous society. She needs to be the center of attention.
Her complete lack of self-awareness is revealed again and again. She insults and belittles her husband. When he returns to America for his college reunion, she sends him letters revealing—without any sense that revealing is what she's doing--that she's having an affair. And Sam suppresses his own sensibilities, remaining true, loyal, loving, indulgent, virtually to the end.
The surface story is straightforward. Sam Dodsworth
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has sold his auto manufacturing business to a larger rival. He daughter has married, his son is settled in at Yale. His wife pursuades him to take her on a long, unhurried tour of Europe. And it'll be all about her, even if he doesn't immediately grasp that. In fact, he suppresses any such notion. After all, she's his wife, and she adores him.Sam is treated more like an indulgent father than an adored husband. It's his money that pays for the two-bedroom hotel suites Fran requires, the lavish shopping excursions she goes on, the meals and entertainments for the two of them plus the friends she makes. Though most of her 41 years have been spent in Zenith, she is convinced she understands European manners and mores. And Sam is, well, something of an embarrassment. He's a lovely man and means well, but he's uncultured and just doesn't, you know, get it.
Fairly early on, Fran's ceaseless flirting elicits a pass from an Englishman, which traumatizes her and prompts the Dodsworths to flee to Paris. There she repeats her behavior. While Sam wants to see sights and meet with active, productive, inventive people, Fran wants to be indulged by shallow, frivolous society. She needs to be the center of attention.
Her complete lack of self-awareness is revealed again and again. She insults and belittles her husband. When he returns to America for his college reunion, she sends him letters revealing—without any sense that revealing is what she's doing--that she's having an affair. And Sam suppresses his own sensibilities, remaining true, loyal, loving, indulgent, virtually to the end.
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LibraryThing member AshRyan
An underappreciated classic...one of the great novels of the 20th century. More so than Babbitt, which is justly recognized as such. The same is true of Arrowsmith. Babbitt is a brilliant satire of the early 20th century midwestern American bourgeois businessman (basically a portrait of a
Dodsworth is also one of the great American fictional treatments of travel abroad, up there with those of Twain, and much better than, say, Updike's.
But mostly, Dodsworth is an examination of the disintegration of a marriage, and through the spouses that represent them, of American versus European culture. Lewis offers a lot of insight into these subjects, ranging in scope from the interpersonal to the intercontinental. I can't think of any other writers that have been able to do that better than he does here.
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W.A.S.P.)---Dodsworth and Arrowsmith are, respectively, portraits of the American industrialist and scientist, and while they are naturalistic, "warts and all" portrayals, Lewis by and large portrays them as possessing a certain nobility, even heroism.Dodsworth is also one of the great American fictional treatments of travel abroad, up there with those of Twain, and much better than, say, Updike's.
But mostly, Dodsworth is an examination of the disintegration of a marriage, and through the spouses that represent them, of American versus European culture. Lewis offers a lot of insight into these subjects, ranging in scope from the interpersonal to the intercontinental. I can't think of any other writers that have been able to do that better than he does here.
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LibraryThing member Seajack
I liked the narration well enough, but the plot dragged (esp the first half); as far as social commentary goes, things really haven't changed that much in almost 100 years.
Subjects
Language
Original language
English
Original publication date
1929
Physical description
377 p.; 6.6 inches
ISBN
none
Other editions
Dodsworth by Sinclair Lewis (Paperback)