Recently I finished William Makepiece Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, and was struck, as I was when I read The Luck of Barry Lyndon a few years ago, about how these 19th century novels can be so gripping even now. The past is really a different world. It is inhabited by strange people, living according to strange norms in bewildering circumstances. Strange and bewildering that is to us. But despite this both of Thackeray’s novels reach out to us with a disconcerting familiarity.

Although the novels are set almost a hundred years apart, they are both ultimately portraits of ruthless social climbers. And to that extent, detail one of the most intense social anxieties of modernity: to be discontent with one’s position and to strive for ever greater economic and social esteem. Barry Lyndon, dissatisfied with his poor debt ridden rural Irish position, is guided in almost every decision towards achieving greater wealth and social capital. Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair, is constantly disappointed  no matter how comfortable her life is as a governess, as a companion to a rich spinster, or as a wife of a celebrated Captain presented to a Prince. I won’t go into the specifics of their plots as I think they are well worth reading yourself. But an important part of these journeys are that they are not of pure virtue or pure luck (although the latter plays a larger part in Barry Lyndon’s story than Becky Sharp’s). They are explicitly about flouting social norms at will and if need be at the ruinous expense of others. In turn, they come with vicious downfalls that appear harshly unsympathetic.

These journeys are interesting because they remind us, in a way we would usually like to forget, about the state of our own societies with their brutal blend of professed meritocracy, and implicit nepotism. We see the same people in the media and political class appear over and over again in positions of power and influence without any review of their actions. From government department secretaries to vice-chancellors, from politicians to banking chief executives, to journalists and back to politicians. It’s endlessly surprising how often those in the upper echelons of our supposedly egalitarian social institutions are part of the same family or from the same education and social sets. As Michael Sandel explores persuasively in The Tyranny of Merit, modern industrialised societies have twisted meritocracy so it defines the social and economic relations of justice that it was merely supposed to be a means to achieve. Although Sandel focuses largely on the US, I believe the point generalises. Credentials certified either informally through social circles or formally through educational ones now define the good, the successful and the powerful. Sharp and Lyndon provide us then with heroes willing to turn the game against the house so to speak and make the affectations of the social scheme transparent.

It’s no small wonder then that contemporary stories of, what might generally be termed “con artists”, are so intriguing. Elizabeth Holmes, Anna Sorkin, Rudy Kurniawan, and Glafira Rosales and Pei-Shen Qian from the Knoedler art forgery story are the Becky Sharps and Barry Lyndons of our day. Although we can put on a serious face and condemn some of their egregiously harmful acts, we can’t help being envious of their ability to prey on the pride and vanity of the rich, the powerful, and the guardians of good taste. This allowed them to schmooze and be accepted by those who would otherwise reject them out of hand as socially beneath them. And much like Sharp and Lyndon, their downfalls are products of their own vanity and overconfidence; of taking the con a step too far.

However, for a while at least, I don’t know if I’ll read more of Thackeray. In many sections of Vanity Fair, his writing is fluid and illustrates scenes with great sentiment and psychological insight. But in other parts he does get lost in digressions on 19th century London society and distracting moralising. These can seem very turgid and ultimately unnecessary given the way the two main plot threads are cleverly satirical and engaging in their own right.