Thinking Like a Main Character

George Eliot's Middlemarch checks our tendency towards self-absorption

As an imaginative and book-loving child, I developed the odd habit of narrating my actions (in my head thankfully) as if I was describing a character in a book. Pretending to be the main character in an ongoing adventure added zest even to such mundane tasks as making my bed. As an imaginative and book-loving teen, I put myself to sleep by concocting, and starring in, fantastical tales modeled on my favorite novels. In a touch that is both endearing and cringeworthy to recall, my current crush would sometimes play a supporting role. I even immortalized myself as a heroine in the intermittent diaries I kept over the years.¹

Whether daydreaming or journaling, “I” always loomed large. Other people, even other people I care(d) deeply about, tended to feature as secondary characters in a narrative in which I was, undoubtedly, the protagonist. Self-absorption is a natural, and indeed unavoidable, part of human nature. But if left unchecked, it can have serious consequences in our lives and the lives of others. The consequences of self-absorption, and the need for empathy as an antidote, are explored by George Eliot (the pen name of Mary Ann Evans) in her masterpiece, Middlemarch. Though it may seem like an intimidatingly chunky novel, it is beautifully written and populated with an incredible variety of characters. One such character, Mr. Casaubon, brings us to today’s commonplace quote.

Dr. Casaubon is an Anglican clergyman who has labored for years on a theological tome meant to secure his academic and religious reputation. Unfortunately, his work is both outdated and narrow-minded. Worse, Casaubon’s labors lead him to neglect his wife, Dorothea. His obsession with his work is ultimately a form of self-obsession, and self-obsession is fatal to marriage. Yet, rather than hating Casaubon, Eliot invites us to see in him an uncomfortable (and hopefully salutary) self-reflection:

"Suppose we turn from outside estimates of a man, to wonder, with keener interest, what is the report of his own consciousness…doubtless his lot is important in his own eyes; and the chief reason that we think he asks too large a place in our consideration must be our want of room for him, since we refer him to the Divine God with perfect confidence…Mr. Casaubon, too, was the centre of his own world; if he was liable to think that others were providentially made for him…this trait is not quite alien to us, and like the other mendicant hopes of mortals, claims some of our pity.”

If this quote doesn’t punch you right in the gut, you are either a remarkably selfless human being, or you need to read it again. In a masterful bit of understatement, Eliot reveals that the sort of self-centered autopilot on which Casaubon operates is “not quite alien to us.” In Casaubon’s case, this self-centeredness means that he fails to “wonder, with keener interest, what is the report” of Dorothea’s inner life. For example, he withdraws from all her overtures of physical affection, failing to consider how this withdrawal hurts Dorothea. A passionate and principled young woman, Dorothea married Casaubon believing both that he is a wise man and that his work s a masterpiece. She hopes that, by devoting herself to a ‘worthy cause’ (Casaubon’s work) she can change the world for the better. She soon realizes that her estimation of Casaubon’s work, and character, is mistaken. Yet, Eliot emphasizes that had Mr. Casaubon invited Dorothea to share in some sort of emotional intimacy, she could have found happiness in devoting herself to a different sort of ‘cause.’ He does not however. Such an intimacy would require an effort of empathy that is too much for Casaubon.

Instead, Casaubon focuses on his own disappointment with marriage. He longs for the familiar rhythms of bachelorhood, where the only inclinations he consulted were his own. In marrying Dorothea, he thought only of what benefits she could offer him. She would provide him with domestic comforts, an heir, and the services of a secretary. To Casaubon, she seems “providentially made for him.” When he realizes that Dorothea fails to conform to the ideal he imagined, and finds that she “asks too large a place in [his] consideration,” he feels that he has no “room” for Dorothea. More tellingly, he makes minimal efforts to enlarge the mental and emotional “space” he has to offer her.

Yet, in all of this, George Eliot asks that we have some “pity” for Causaubon because his false “hope” is one we know all too well. Like Casaubon, we see ourselves at the center of the story we inhabit. As aspiring main characters, we wish for others to ‘play their parts’ and not ask “too large a place in our consideration.” Alas, all too often the secondary characters among whom we live fail to moderate their demands on our time, talent, or treasure. A family member calls us at the busiest moment of our day. A coworker requires constant handholding to do their job. A toddler asks ten million “why” questions in ten minutes. Focusing on our “outside estimates” of these others, we see them as obstacles to overcome. If we’re in a more elevated frame of mind, we may see them as opportunities to grow in virtue. We “refer them to the Divine God with perfect confidence,” praying that He reconfigure their hearts to suit our inclinations. In either scenario, we maintain our position as “the centre of [our] own world” and fail to “wonder, with keener interest” what the inner life of the these others might be like.

As a wife and mother, I fall all too easily into such self-absorption. When my husband works late, I focus on the fact that my “break” in child wrangling didn’t come when I wanted. When my daughter screams as I attempt to set her down, I focus on how my arms ache and how little I can ‘get done’ while holding her. When my son wants me to read the same book for the umpteenth time in a row, I focus on how bored I am and how little time I have to read my own books. This is not to say that we can’t feel overwhelmed by, or frustrated with, what life demands of us, or that thinking about our own needs and desires is always an instance of selfishness (we can’t give from empty wells after all!). Rather, the problem lies in a consistent failure to imagine the world from anyone’s perspective but our own. As Eliot urges, we must remember that the “lot” of others is “important in [their] own eyes.” We must practice empathy and “turn from outside estimates of a man, to wonder, with keener interest, what is the report of his own consciousness.”

When I practice empathy, I can recognize that my husband is as frustrated as I am by his long work day. I can recognize how, loving father that he is, it must be hard for him to have so little time with our kids at the end of the day. When I practice empathy, I can imagine how much it must hurt my daughter to have three teeth coming in at once. I can imagine how much she is longing for comfort in the midst of pain she cannot comprehend. When I practice empathy, I can rejoice in the joy my son experiences when encountering a beloved story again and again. I can remember that, between a younger sister and a new school, one on one time with me can feel like a special treat in his eyes.

In looking at others with empathy and imagining the “report of [their] own consciousness,” we come to know the humbling truth that, to the overwhelming majority of people, we are not, in fact, the main character. We are secondary characters to most people (even if we are very important secondary characters to some). Whether our role as a secondary character is a heroic or villainous one is up to us. Indeed, the ultimate question of whether we are heroes or villains in the ongoing story of the world depends on our response to its Author. And to save us from our failed attempt at highjacking the story, the Author entered into it and became its main character a little over two-thousand years ago.

It is in and through the Author, who ‘wrote’ all the secondary characters we will ever encounter, that we acquire the grace to “wonder, with keener interest” what is going on in the hearts of others. It is in and through the Author that we acquire the grace with which to remedy “our want of room” for others. The Author, turned main character, knows intimately all the trials and tribulations that arise when our fellow characters seem to constantly ask for “too large a place in our consideration.” And so, He eagerly offers us the means by which we can grow into ‘larger’ beings capable of accommodating these requests: becoming like Him. And if we allow the Author to shape us into His likeness, we will someday break free of the narrative constraints that surround us. We will enter into a world that is more real, more beautiful, and more joyful than the story we currently inhabit, and we will do so surrounded by our fellow secondary characters.

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What I’m reading…

1. I’m new to Sara Dietz’s substack and am really enjoying her series exploring the virtues of potty-training

2. A friend’s reflection of forgiveness, which is something that very much requires us to let go of our pretensions to being ‘main characters’

3. Haley Stewart’s reflections on Sense and Sensibility, where two sisters gain the empathy to see the world from one another’s points of view

4. An absolutely fascinating read about George Orwell, who seems to have been a much more vicious and self-absorbed sort of Casaubon to his own wife. At least he actually published good literature?

1. My favorite has to be my third grade journal, in which I drew a mean picture of a classmate I was feuding with and then crossed it out and wrote “sorry God” next to it. My high school journals on the other hand…well lets just say that when I shared selections with family and friends there was a lot of laughter on their part and a lot of blushing on mine. I have yet to make it through an entire journal from my teen years.