"I like trying to get pregnant. I'm not so sure about childbirth"
About this Quote
It lands like a scandalous wink because it collapses the Victorian pedestal of motherhood into a brutally modern cost-benefit analysis. Coming from George Eliot, the era's great anatomist of moral seriousness, the line is funny in the way her novels often are: not gag-based, but powered by clear-eyed recognition of what polite society refuses to name. Desire, risk, and consequence are usually stitched together into a single sacred story. Eliot yanks the seams.
The intent is less confession than deflation. "Trying to get pregnant" codes for agency, pleasure, and possibility: a private act that can feel chosen, even playful, even romantic. "Childbirth" is the invoice. By separating the two, she exposes how culture romanticizes the lead-up and then demands silence about the pain, danger, and bodily terror that follow. The joke isn't that she fears labor; it's that she's daring to say out loud that the supposedly ennobling climax is the part many would reasonably dread.
The subtext is Eliot's lifelong argument with hypocrisy, sharpened by her own irregular domestic life and her skepticism toward sanctimonious narratives about female virtue. Victorian respectability required women to perform gratitude for their allotted roles. Eliot's line refuses the performance while keeping its composure: a cool, conversational sentence that smuggles rebellion in under the guise of candor.
Context matters: childbirth in the 19th century was genuinely perilous, and discussing it plainly was often taboo. The wit works because it sounds like small talk, then detonates the era's biggest unspoken truth: reproduction isn't an allegory. It's a body.
The intent is less confession than deflation. "Trying to get pregnant" codes for agency, pleasure, and possibility: a private act that can feel chosen, even playful, even romantic. "Childbirth" is the invoice. By separating the two, she exposes how culture romanticizes the lead-up and then demands silence about the pain, danger, and bodily terror that follow. The joke isn't that she fears labor; it's that she's daring to say out loud that the supposedly ennobling climax is the part many would reasonably dread.
The subtext is Eliot's lifelong argument with hypocrisy, sharpened by her own irregular domestic life and her skepticism toward sanctimonious narratives about female virtue. Victorian respectability required women to perform gratitude for their allotted roles. Eliot's line refuses the performance while keeping its composure: a cool, conversational sentence that smuggles rebellion in under the guise of candor.
Context matters: childbirth in the 19th century was genuinely perilous, and discussing it plainly was often taboo. The wit works because it sounds like small talk, then detonates the era's biggest unspoken truth: reproduction isn't an allegory. It's a body.
Quote Details
| Topic | New Mom |
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