{3.5 stars}

This gothic tale is eerie, sad and suspenseful where at times the pacing dragged but overall, an enjoyable read. The story is about 60 odd pages, and stayed with me and became a bit of a puzzle as some things that happened are not spelled out, leaving more room for interpretation. ( )

This short Gothic story is very unlike Eliot's other work. It is a horror and paranormal novella. The central character Latimer, after falling ill, acquires an unwelcome inability to see into people's minds and see their real unmediated thoughts and feelings, and also anticipate some future actions they will take. This "gift" rapidly makes his life hell. The writing here is dense and doomladen, and quite horrific in places, with an atmosphere redolent in places of Mary Shelley's Frankenstein and even in my view the less well known very early American author Charles Brockden Brown's novel Wieland. This novella showcases the diversity of Eliot's writing. ( )

2023: I read this over a couple hours last night as I'm trying to make my reading goal for the year. I think I appreciated it a little more this time and am a little embarrassed at my sanctimonious tone in 2012. I might reread tonight... or at least look over some parts again. I had a bit of a difficult time, in parts. Still growing that reading comprehension!

2012: The first few pages of this book really grabbed me. The mystery behind Latimer's clairvoyant vision, the anticipation of how he got to the place he was... I was sure this would be a well-written and concise tale since it is only about 65 pages long.

I was right---it was well-written. However, I didn't enjoy it. I think it's just not something I would have been interesting in reading had I known the subject matter: A rude, feministic woman whose ultimate purpose didn't surprise me (I'd figured that out shortly into the book). A man obsessed with twisted perceptions of his brother's fiance. I don't know--it's just not my thing.

What I DID come away with was some food for thought regarding the negative side of "clairvoyancy". In the Christian faith, we call that the gift of prophecy or the gift of discernment. Other people call this, ESP. As one who has a strong gift of discernment, I have actually found myself, just this week, in a situation where I know more than I wish I did. I've known for years about a situation that has just recently happened. It can be hard to see that coming; but, if you're one who prays, it can be a blessing as you can cover the situation in prayer and hope for a better outcome.

Anyway, that was sort of a tangent... :)

While I'm glad I read this, since I've been trying to read more "Classics", it's not one that I would likely read again. ( )

This is a change of pace for George Eliot. Written when many were fascinated by spiritualism, she creates a telepathic and clairvoyant protagonist. Written in the first person, the character makes it clear that these are not talents to be wished for. Perfect reading for a dark and stormy night. ( )

Eliot is one of my favorite authors (along with Hardy) and this small novella did not disappoint. Unlike Eliot's other works that I have read, this novella was told by a first person unreliable narrator. It had almost a gothic feel. The narrator had the "gift" of premonitions and could read other's thoughts. Marriage is addressed in this novel very bleakly. A lot going on in this novella, but I liked it! 101 pages ( )

*This is a review of the Penguin Little Black Classics edition of "The Lifted Veil"*

This short volume includes two texts: The essay "Silly Novels by Lady Novelists", which was published in the Westminster Review, and the novella "The Lifted Veil". I read the essay first although in the book it comes second.

In her essay, George Eliot cleverly analyzes the different kinds of 'silly novels' written by contemporary female writers. She criticizes them for various reasons, her main points being the following:
- These writers only write about the upper classes and either completely ignore ordinary people, or if they do include them, they depict them badly or falsely because they do not know anything about their lives.
- They do a disservice to 'serious writers' (Eliot names Charlotte Brontë and Elizabeth Gaskell as examples) because on the one hand they take up much of the spotlight that the others also need, and on the other hand, because they provide more fodder to those men who are of the opinion that women are not able to write.
There are many more aspects in the essay, but these were the ones that stood out most to me. I am not going to write more because then I will just repeat the whole essay.

The novella "The Lifted Veil" is fundamentally gothic. I have not a lot of experience with gothic texts - I have read a few, but without realizing what they really were, and have not read any for a long time - but I did like it.
The narrator, Latimer, a sickly young man and younger son of a wealthy banker and land owner, falls in love with a beautiful woman when he discovers that he has the gift of foresight. It turns out, though, that it is not a gift at all, but it troubles him with no end.
Again, I will not write more because otherwise all the surprises would be gone. It is a very short novella, but it has a few turning points and different parts to it. The underlying suspense and unease is strong and makes for a chilling and depressing read. I was intrigued but of course it is unusual for George Eliot. ( )

I completely forgot that I had read this book until I saw the same exact edition that I used to own in a charity shop. I can only guess what year that was. Interestingly, I don't recall these Virago Modern Classics being so ubiquitous in the US where I grew up. Not entirely sure where I got it from back then.

Anyway, the story has been sort of lurking in my mind, mostly forgotten, since then. I'm reading it for a class again, and there is so much to pull apart in this surprisingly short book. ( )

One of those very small Penguin 60s classics that slip easily into ones pocket. I have dozens of them and would read them on the train when commuting.
This from "The Penguin Book of Classic Fantasy by Women"

Moderately interesting supernatural Victorian short story with clairvoyance and raising dead. ( )

This novella is two things in hindsight: it is gothic-ish science fiction avant la lettre, and it is Twilight-from-Edward’s-perspective

Latimer is a sensitive young lad growing up in the shadow of his older brother, who is more successful, handsomer, with a better sense for business and who is groomed by their father to take over the family estate. Latimer, indifferent to society’s expectations of a gentleman, is sent to a Swiss boarding school and expects to spend the rest of his life on the sufferance of his elders and betters. Until, after a sudden illness, he finds he has become sensitive to the future: he has visions of cities he has not yet visited, and discovers he can see into people’s minds, too. When he falls in love, it is with a girl who is unique in that her mind is closed to him; he cannot read her thoughts. As it turns out, she’s his brother’s fiancée, too.

There’s a nice, moody sense of gloom hanging over this tale, and the portions that could be called gothicky and (in hindsight) “science fiction” are nicely balanced by some well-written 19th century musings on introspective angst. I liked this one, and am disappointed to find out this is the only speculative fiction thing Eliot ever wrote. ( )

I do like George Eliot but this is a strange one. The narrator tells the story of acquiring both mind-reading and premonition and how his life is altered but really, he was already not doing well. I suppose it would be called a pyscological thriller, it reminded me a bit of The Turn of the Screw and other creepy Victorian works. Very odd and the ending took a turn to the macabre,

A novella about a troubled young man, the son and heir to a wealthy banker (or some such). A great exercise if you want to think about "the reliability of the narrator," because he's clearly mad as a hatter but doesn't know it; but it's mercifully short. George Eliot's writing is superb as usual, though the story is very odd and gets especially weird towards the end. ( )

Apparently this novel was not only unusual for George Elliot, but for the time. The author presents Latimer - a young man from a wealthy self-made family who is not raised to carry on the family business - that is left to his stronger and lustier older brother. Whilst in Switzerland studying in a healthy atmosphere where he is thriving, he has a clairvoyant moment that leads to a dead faint. As the blurb from the book states: Latimer, a sensitive and intellectual man, finds he has clairvoyant powers. Then he has a vision of a woman, 'pale, fatal-eyed', whom he later meets: she in Bertha Grant, his brother's fiancee. Entranced, bewildered, Latimer falls under her spell, unwilling to take heed of the warning visions which beset him. In this edition, there is an excellent essay on George Elliot and this novella's publication history. At the time of writing, the concept of being able to change your fate was little considered - fate was fate and the fact that you could see into your future or that of others was unfortunate but unchangeable. It is only is later years that the concept of changing your fate has been presented although not all novels and other media such as plays and movies allow us to get off so easily, as there is a common theme of running away from the known fate, only to reach it in another quite different manner. The Twilight Zone made much of this theme in its shows - so too Alfred Hitchcock's TV Theater plays. ( )

This is the only book I read on the train that I actually brought with me to read on the train. One of Melville House Books' Art of the Novella series, I was drawn to it as soon as I saw the author. I read Middlemarch a year or so back and absolutely loved it, but I hadn't yet read anything else by Eliot. As I am given to understand, this work both is and is not representative of her novel writing. It of course features her empathetic characterizations and high-minded idealism, but in this novella these traits are interwoven with supernatural suspense.

A pleasing, old-fashioned yet somehow modern page-turner, this story seems both to praise and condemn the veils of privacy that shield each person's heart and mind from any other. How much misery could be avoided if each couple perhaps knew each other a little better before committing to spend their entire lives together? And yet how much misery to know everything -- every thought and judgement and disappointment in another's mind?

Highly recommended. In fact, I have a friend who I may have to buy a copy for. ( )

A deep dark psycho-depressive Victorian horror novella from Eliot, with a good ambiguous touch--we never know if Latimer really has the clairvoyant sight he claims, and therefore if the veil that lifts is the one between man and true sight, or madness. It's psychologically skilled on a more mundane level as well, with the treatment of a loveless cold war of a relationship between a narcissist and a histrionic--the fear of others and yet the fear of isolation. It's minor Eliot, but it's Eliot, and that means quality. ( )

I did not find this to be a lovely book, but I do find that my opinion of this book remains drastically different from most L.T. readers of the book.
I thought The Lifted Veil to be quite brilliant. As I read, I felt myself looking into the man's mind and found myself to be momentarily taking on his mental persona as well. I was not bored. I was not piqued. I was not grossed out. The book did not depress me nor did it make me nervous or anxious. I was nothing but a person within another person's ill mind. There was very little within the book that was literal and not simply in his mind.
Yes, I thought it very different and as I said rather brilliant; much as I found Dracula when I read it.
Sorry ladies and gentleen of the jury. I shall, most likely, be the only one here with this opinion. But then too, I am probably the only one here who has been on a psyche ward for depression, anxiety and panic attack as well. I cannot say if that colored my reading of this book. ( )

A mini-book containing a short story about a man whose life is blighted by his ability to foresee the future and read other people's thoughts. ( )

And what do I think of The Lifted Veil? Apparently it was GE's second literary effort, Adam Bede being the first and the publisher did not like it at all and wouldn't publish it. It is a very odd tale in every regard; the narrator, has visions of future events and can, in a certain way, read minds -- at least -- he can read character in all but one person, the woman he falls in love with but who is engaged to his brother. It's in the first person and Latimer is not sympathetic and not meant to be. The plot, such as it has...... is very uneven and seems to waver between being a psychological thriller and an out and out zombie horror story..... On the other hand, it is very very interesting that such a close observer of social life, a novelist of so much ability in that regard, would try her hand at something else. Perhaps she had been reading Poe, and thought, "Maybe that would be fun to try?" Or maybe someone at the dinner table raised the question of whether, if you could read minds and know the future, what effect would that have on someone and GE decided to see what sort of story would emerge from that. Not a very good story as it turns out. I don't feel equal to rating it since GE is a ***** star author normally. I think it was an experiment and should be treated as such. A curiousity.

[The Lifted Veil] is a rather anamolous novella by George Eliot as it deals with the supernatural and seems to be Eliot's foray into Gothic experimentation.

Latimer, the protagonist, is a rather neurasthenic young man who becomes obsessed with Bertha Grant, his robust brother's fiancee. After his brother dies in an accident, he marries Bertha although he has a premonitory vision of their miserable life together.

I found the narrator somewhat intriguing, but I don't think the other characters were at all well developed. Eliot built the suspense well, but I thought the payoff was pretty anti-climactic. Up until that point, I thought the book was very Poe-like, but Poe usually manages to "thrill" the reader in a more satisfying way. Her exploration was more philosophical than Gothic -- more interested in the horrors of a life lived outside of meaningful social contacts than creating terror or horror in her readers. ( )

Because of spoilers for this horror story, I posted my review in my livejournal. Read it only if you don't mind knowing the plot and outcome. The date of the entry is Sept 26, 2010.

http://efandrich.livejournal.com/ ( )

27 Feb 2010 - Methodist Book Sale

I spotted this Virago at the Methodist book sale (we're going to have a few from there over the next month!) and realised it was an Eliot I'd heard nothing about. A minor work, and short even for a novella, this was apparently seen as embarrassing by Eliot's publisher during her lifetime and eventually published only as an extra in an omnibus with two other books.

I can see why. This is a very, very odd book. It's full of the supernatural and becomes more and more uneasy-feeling until the truly horrific ending. OK, I am a bit pathetic when it comes to horror, but mucking around with corpses...! You can see flashes of the Eliot we're familiar with in the precise descriptions and family dynamics, but this tale of a psychic, over-sensitive man, who can read the thoughts of those around him and has visions of the future, left me cold (and goose-bumpy!). The afterword was well done and did explain the background, but still...

One for the collector of Viragos or a George Eliot afficionado only, I think.

Gorgeous short story. Really beautifully written, and an intense read. ( )

More of a short story than a novel (at only 60+ pages plus an afterwards by a modern writer), this was a fast but not memorable read. Eliot's style and tone here reminded me of Frankenstein and a number of Poe's short stories. ( )

Page 30:
But there is no tyranny more complete than that which a self-centred negative nature exercises over a morbidly sensitive nature perpetually craving sympathy and support.

Page 43:
There is no short cut, no patent tram-road, to wisdom: after all the centuries of invention, the soul's path lies through the thorny wilderness which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time.

Page 54:
The easiest way to deceive a poet is to tell him the truth."

Page 58:
Perhaps the tragedy of disappointed youth and passion is less piteous than the tragedy of disappointed age and worldliness.

Page 63:
Our sweet illusions are half of them conscious illusions, like effects of colour that we know to be made up of tinsel, broken glass, and rags.

Page 64:
When people are well known to each other, they talk rather of what befalls them externally, leaving their feelings and sentiments to be inferred.

Page 72:
We learn words by rote, but not their meaning; that must be paid for with our life-blood, and printed in the subtle fibres of our nerves. ( )

Page 30:
But there is no tyranny more complete than that which a self-centred negative nature exercises over a morbidly sensitive nature perpetually craving sympathy and support.

Page 43:
There is no short cut, no patent tram-road, to wisdom: after all the centuries of invention, the soul's path lies through the thorny wilderness which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time.

Page 54:
The easiest way to deceive a poet is to tell him the truth."

Page 58:
Perhaps the tragedy of disappointed youth and passion is less piteous than the tragedy of disappointed age and worldliness.

Page 63:
Our sweet illusions are half of them conscious illusions, like effects of colour that we know to be made up of tinsel, broken glass, and rags.

Page 64:
When people are well known to each other, they talk rather of what befalls them externally, leaving their feelings and sentiments to be inferred.

Page 72:
We learn words by rote, but not their meaning; that must be paid for with our life-blood, and printed in the subtle fibres of our nerves. ( )