Death of the Novel, Part I

One of Simon and Garfunkel’s early hit songs, “The Dangling Conversation,” had in it these memorable lines:

                                    Yes, we speak of things that matter

                                    With words that must be said

                                    “Can analysis be worthwhile?”

                                    “Is the theater really dead?”

In light of a couple of recent articles I’ve come across, those lines makes me think of how critics and writers always predict the demise the novel. Is the novel really dead? A lot of modern critics would have us think the novel is dead—or, if not dead, on its last legs and soon to be deceased. I would like to explore this topic a little bit in a couple of blogs. It would seem that merely saying, “No the novel is not dead” would be sufficient if you don’t hold to that particular view (which I don’t). But the issue is complex and, based on assumptions that are complicated and intricate.

The idea that the novel is dying, that writers have reached the end of a genre, which may be proclaimed “the death of the novel,” is nothing new. Its demise has been predicted many times. In 1967, novelist and literary critic John Barth wrote a much-anthologized essay called “The Literature of Exhaustion,” published in The Atlantic later that year and widely reprinted.

Barth thought that novelists had exhausted all possible forms and plots and could only imitate other

John Barth

novels and do nothing really original. Of course, his sentiments were nothing new. Novelist Jose Ortegay Gasset wrote The Decline of the Novel in 1925; critic Walter Benjamin in 1930 penned Crisis of the Novel—the list could go on. All were certain the novel was on its way out and would be replaced with other literary forms. All were certain no one could come up with any new ideas that would keep the novel . . . well, novel.

Here’s a point that may seem esoteric but I think bears mentioning. The novel is a new art form. It’s only been around for about 300 years, as opposed to theater and poetry, which have been around for thousands of years. In fact, novel means “something new or unique,” which is what the form of a long prose narrative centered on conflicts characters faced and how they change or don’t change in the course of the conflict constituted in the later 1600s, when Samuel Richardson penned what it generally considered the first novel, Pamela, or Virtue Rewarded. It was something innovative and brand new. Perhaps since the novel is new, in terms of other literary forms, many think it’s just a fad—a 300 year-old fad, but what’s 300 years in the history of literature?

It can also be said that these claims are obviously not true. 

Contemporary novels like Gone Girl, The Lovely Bones, Wolf Hall, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, A Visit from the Goon Squad, Blood Meridian, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, and a host of others have sold well, been made into films, and (most importantly) have demonstrated innovative technique, forms of narration, strategies for writing, and modes of language use. The examples I gave here are from the grouping called “literary fiction,” but add in popular fiction—Steven King’s novels, The Hunger Games series by Suzanne Collins, John Green’s The Fault in Our Stars (again, the list could go on and on); add what is called “popular fiction”—and the novel seems not near death but very spry and quite capable of running a marathon.

So why all the predictions of the novel’s demise? 

As I said, the reasons are complex. They are related to how certain authors wanted to define the genre of novel; to a bit of egotism on the part of authors who thought their creations were the be-all and end-all of literature; on chauvinism and Western-centric ideology; on misunderstandings of human creative capacity; on old-fashioned intellectual arrogance and undemocratic elitism.

The resilience of the novel’s form is apparent in the works listed above. The various novels categorized as literary fiction break barriers and take novel writing into new, fresh territory. Many were written by women (as are a good chunk of the novels that are highly popular today). Some come from writers of non-Western cultures.

And while I think the predictions are wrong, looking at them is instructive. The next couple of blogs will tackle the subject of novel writing and will speculate on the why. And we’ll go from the why to the what. How will the novel continue to change and grow as the years progress? 

Check out some of my novels at my Writer's Page. If reading is part of your New Year's resolve, or if you simply want to start the year out with innovative books to read, I recommend The Gallery, Strange Brew, The Prophetess, and The Sorceress of the Northern Seas.

Check out the Horror Maiden's review of my book, Strange Brew. 

Read my interview with Micro-Shock.

Have a happy New Year.

Narration: Working in Third Person, Ann Beattie, "Janus"

We have talked about the importance of narrative voice in writing, and how it does so much more than just tells the story. It creates mood. It defines character. It is the primary focus of interaction between reader and story. In the examples we’ve looked at up to this point, however, the narratives have been from first person narrators. It’s easy to see how a first-person narrator can do these things, but what about a third-person narrator?

Unlike first-person narrators, third-person narrators are not directly a part of the story. The narrator tells the story from a vantage point outside of the action. Yet the narrator is no less a character than someone who is narrating in first person and is a participant in the action. As with the figures in the story itself, you get a sense of the narrator in a third-person story. They become a character in their own right, and as the one who tells the story, he or she is the character one encounters the most. They can be distant and mysterious, or very much involved and present in the novel, but the narrator is a player in the action. He or she has an impact on the story even though they are not in the story as an active participant.

The story I want to look at on this blog is, again, one of my favorites. It is “Janus,” by Ann Beattie. 

Anne Beattie

I’m not just looking it because I like the narrative voice. In this tale, the narrative voice is important. In fact, the narrator is more important, I think, than the character she talks about.

“Janus” is about a realtor—a woman who sells houses and, as all of us know, shows houses to potential buyers. The title, interestingly, comes from this. We know Janus as the Roman god of the New Year. He has two faces, one looking forward and one looking back. But in Roman mythology, Janus was also the god of doorways and passages. His double-faced image was often seen on doors. We leave one room and go into another. A realtor, of course, traffics in rooms and is always showing people in and out of them.

The narrator of this story tells it in a calm, even, yet declaratory voice. She (since Ann Beattie wrote the story we’ll call the narrator “she,” though it could be a male voice) is omniscient, knows everything about Andrea, the realtor, and does a quiet, objective, but thorough job of presenting her. Her voice is sympathetic but analytic. She talks about her life, the affair she had, and the bowl with which she is obsessed:  The wonderful thing about the bowl, Andrea thought, was that it was both subtle and noticeable—a paradox of a bowl. Its glaze was the color of cream and seemed to glow no matter what light it was placed in. There were a few bits of color in it—tiny geometric flashes—and some of these were tinged with flecks of silver. They were as mysterious as cells seen under a microscope; it was difficult not to study them. The story centers around her fixation on the bowl.

You eventually find out her lover, with whom she has broken off the relationship, bought it for her at an antique shop. Andrea is drifting through a marriage that is stable but not exactly happy and a career that is profitable but not exactly fulfilling. She seems to quietly move through an empty world—empty as the rooms she enters with potential home buyers. Like the god Janus, she is looking back and forward: from room to room, and from her dull relationship with her husband, to the potentially fulfilling relationship with a lover, a relationship she has left behind.

The narrator gives the story a quiet tone. It reflects the quiet of empty houses, empty rooms, and an empty life. The narrator analyzes fairly and dispassionately. Her tone reflects the tone of Andrea’s existence. The story is subdued. It has a ring of sadness. The narrator shapes the reader’s mood.

Not a lot happens in the story. Beattie skillfully uses narrative voice, the narrator’s quiet analysis of Andrea and her obsession, to keep the reader’s attention. The narrator becomes an interesting character, even though she only speaks. She is perhaps as interesting as the main character of the story.

Narration contributes a lot. We’ve come a long way from when narration was considered merely a vehicle by which the story is conveyed. It is a living, vital part of the book. The narrator is a character and a presence. Be sure, when you write, to consider the place of the narrator and of narration. As Saint James says in the Bible, If ye do these things, ye shall do well.

For a gift idea, give one of my books! The Gallery is a scary story about an artist and her encounter with the undead; Strange Brew is about music, witchcraft, love, and the pre-civil rights South (both of these are adult stories, not suitable for small kids). The Prophetess, a New Testament horror story, would be suitable for adults and young adults.   The Sorceress of the Northern Seas is a full-length fantasy novel, more adult, but would be acceptable to a YA audience as well. Gifts for everyone.

Read my interview with Micro-Shock.

Visit my Writer's Page.

Happy Holidays to all!
 

Narrative in W. Somerset Maughm's "Mr. Know-All"

Writing a short story is tricky. It is a juggling act. In five to seven pages, the author has to develop the characters, set out the plot, throw in some setting for mood and atmosphere, perhaps work in a symbol, create a theme for a story—and work in a narrative voice that will convey all of these things. One writing instructor I studied under said it’s like riding on a horse, blowing a trumpet, and juggling all at the same time. How can a person do it? I can’t exactly say, but I can suggest that it is narrative voice that accomplishes this, and a look at narrative voice and how to use it may help writers pull off the complexities of producing a successful short story.

Last time, my blog talked about "Fat," by Raymond Carver. This time I would like to look about a story that is tied with "Fat" for my favorite. It is a story I read in a Reader’s Digest book of short stories (it was not condensed, though) when I was visiting relatives and was bored. I thought the story was amazing and saw from the beginning that narrative voice stood out as the most remarkable feature of a remarkable tale.

The story of which I speak is "Mr. Know-All" by W. Somerset Maugham. It is the tale of a British traveler who has to share a room on a ship with a loud, obnoxious, "know-it-all" type.  The narrative  character is a stereotypical Brit:  quiet, reserved, slightly snobby, very private; his berth-mate, whom he thinks is an American but who turns out to be a British colonial, is just the opposite of these things. The stage is set for a conflict. Two opposite personalities are trapped on a passenger ship for a couple of weeks. The narrator’s antipathy is apparent from the onset. Here is the opening of the story:

I was prepared to dislike Max Kelada even before I knew him. The war had just finished and the passenger traffic in the ocean-going liners was heavy. Accommodation was very hard to get and you had to put up with whatever the agents chose to offer you. You could not hope for a cabin to yourself and I was thankful to be given one in which there were only two berths. But when I was told the name of my companion my heart sank. It suggested closed portholes and the night air rigidly excluded. It was bad enough to share a cabin for fourteen days with anyone (I was going from San Francisco to Yokohama), but I should have looked upon it with less dismay if my fellow passenger`s name had been Smith or Brown.

When I went on board I found Mr. Kelada`s luggage already below. I did not like the look of it; there were too many labels on the suit-cases, and the wardrobe trunk was too big. He had unpacked his toilet things, and I observed that he was a patron of the excellent Monsieur Coty; for I saw on the washing-stand his scent, his hair-wash, and his brilliantine. Mr. Kelada`s brushes, ebony with his monogram in gold, would have been all the better for a scrub. I did not at all like Mr. Kelada.

This long quotation is a brilliant set-up. Maugham punctuates the opening with negative phrases:  dislike, put up with, bad enough, did not like the look of it, did not at all like. He also indicates the snobbery of the narrator. He judges Kelada on his name. He sneers at the fact that he uses toiletries bought from the shelf (Coty products). He thinks his brush and comb look dirty. Maugham uses narrative voice to set up the conflict and let the reader know what a character is like. He is snobby. He is judgmental.

The story progresses. Mr. Kelada is a loud-mouth and a know-it-all. He talks incessantly. He thinks he can discourse on any subject whatsoever. You can’t avoid him. He dominates all conversations. People detest him and insult him by calling him "Mr. Know-All." He takes this title as a compliment.

During the course of the tale, the narrator encounters a lovely woman and her husband. He comments on how delicate and beautiful the woman is and also notes her modesty. Modesty, he says, shines her person and manner. And she is wearing a string of pearls. Kelada, we find out, is a pearl merchant and comments on how good the necklace looks because it is real. Mrs. Ramsey demurs and her husband says the pearls are culture (fake) pearls. An argument ensues. Kelada looks at the pearls through his jeweler’s glass, smiles, and is about to declare, on his authority as a gem merchant, that they are real.

Then he sees Mrs. Ramsey staring at him, wide-eyed, helpless, her fact so white the narrator says she looks as if she might faint. Realization strikes Kelada and he, the flaming egotist, says he was wrong. The pearls are not real. Everyone taunts and teases him for this. Mrs. Ramsey retires to her room with a headache.

  

                                                                                                        

from a film adaptation of "Mr. Know-All"

What we realize in the story is that Kelada is not Mr. Know-All; the narrator is. He thinks he knows everything but learns that Kelada is knowledgeable when he needs to be. Mrs. Ramsey is not modest—she has a boyfriend who has bought her a real pearl necklace. And the unnamed narrator is not such a good judge of character as he thinks he is. He changes. At the end of the story he asks the chastened Kelada (whose loud-mouth boasting almost ruined Mrs. Ramsey) if the pearls were real. He simply replies, "'If I had a pretty little wife I should not let her stay a year in New York while I went to Kobe.'" The narrator says, "At that moment, I did not entirely dislike Mr. Kelada." His English reserve provides some minor humor but he has learned his lesson, as has Kelada.

The story would not have succeeded so well without skillful narrative technique. In a mere six pages Maugham does the complicated juggling act and pulls it off magnificently. The key element in doing this is his brilliant manipulation of narrative.

We’ve looked at two first-person narrated stories. Can the same be done with third-person narration? Next time we will explore this in another of my favorite stories.

If you want to read "Mr. Know-All," the story is online here.

For your reading pleasure, and for some unique use of narrative text, read my novel, The Sorceress of the Northern Seas.

For more titles that make for good reading and great gifts, see my Writer's Page. You might like The Gallery, Strange Brew, or The Prophetess.

Narrative: Raymond Carver's "Fat"

Like the old saying about God, narration operates in mysterious ways its wonders to perform. I will be examining the narrative techniques in some of my favorite stories in the next couple of blogs I post.

One thing we need to get straight at first. I am not just picking out favorite stories and then examining how the narration operates in these stories. They are works that I have come to realize stand out, are memorable, and that distinguish themselves precisely because of narrative technique. So they merit our attention as examples.

Raymond Carver

 The first of these is Raymond Chandler’s “Fat,” a masterpiece of narrative script. It is told from the point of view of a waitress who one night waits on a man who is obese. She tells a story in which very little happens and the conflict is rather abstract. Yet the way she tells it makes the story one many consider to be among the handful of the best short stories ever written.

Carver uses multiple layers of reference to tell her story, which begins, I am sitting over coffee and cigarette at my friend Rita’s and I am telling her about it.  Here is what I tell her. The narration is first person, but we soon find out is layered. The main character is telling a friend something that has already happened, so the action is removed one step from the actuality of the story. The action has been reflected upon, pondered, and arranged in the narrator’s mind. Of course, the narrator is telling this to the reader as well, so add another layer of distance. We are getting it at two removes. It is not an immediate recitation of the story’s action, but a retelling of it at more than one remove.

This sets the stage for what happens to 

the main character in this tale. Plot:   

she waits upon an obese man who is well-spoken, well-dressed, and mannerly. Rita, he was big, the waitress says. She goes about her business and waits upon him, upsetting his water glass and reciting from the menu. When he orders, the man uses the pronoun “we” for himself, rather than “I.”

A friend once quipped, “The reason he does that is because he’s so big it’s like there’s two of him.” Well, maybe, but I think he does this to distance himself from himself. A king uses “we” to differentiate between his person and his office. The man in the story keeps distance between himself and the fat man that contains him.

Soon, though the thing that makes the story remarkable occurs. Some kind of bond develops between them, as in this dialogue:

            Believe me, he says, we don’t eat like this all the time, he says, And puffs. You’ll have to excuse us, he says.

            Don’t think a thing about it, please, I say. I like to see a man eat and enjoy himself, I say.

            I don’t know, he says. I guess that’s what you’d call it. And puffs. He arranges the napkin. Then he picks up his spoon.

The main character uses present tense dialogue tags (she is telling this story to Rita); Carver does not use quote marks so the two characters’ speech is not made specific to them. As the story goes, the waitress sympathizes and, it seems, identifies with him somehow. When she serves him dessert there is this exchange:

            Thank you, he says.

            You are very welcome, I say—and a feeling comes over me.

            Believe it or not, he says, we have not always eaten like this.

            Me, I eat and I eat and can’t gain, I say. I’d like to gain, I say.

            No, he says. If we had our choice, no. But there is no choice.

           

The fat man shares his plight and a little of his despair. The waitress by now is defending him from the mockery of the kitchen staff. As the story goes on, the strange bond strengthens between them. Then the man pays and leaves, and that is the end of the talking. But not the end of the narrative.

The waitress goes home. We see she does not have a good home situation. Her live-in, whom she works with, is self-centered and demanding. She seems passive and withdrawn. But the dialogue with the fat man has done something to her. She begins to imagine. During sex with her live-in boyfriend she envisions him very small and her as much larger than him.

She ends the story. Rita is disappointed:

            She [Rita] sits there waiting, her dainty fingers poking her hair.

            Waiting for what? I’d like to know.

            It is August.

            My life is going to change. I feel it.

This is how the story ends. But what does it mean? Some of my students think it may mean she is pregnant or thinks she is because earlier she imagines having a child who would turn out like the fat man in the story. But this doesn’t fit exactly. I’m not absolutely certain, but I get the idea that whatever happened between her and her unnamed guest has opened up new channels in her mind and new insights into the nature of people. Her life cannot remain the same and she will be liberated as time goes on.

This story could not have succeeded in this manner without the complex narrative. You will have to read the entire thing (it’s not long) to see how the narrative works, but from the bits and pieces above you get an idea. The narrative creates the story. It takes a small incident and turns into what a writing teacher of mine once said is the best story ever written.

More on narrative to come.

Check out my narrative experiments. Strange Brew. A book about love, music, magic, and the pre-civil rights South.  

 Check out my Writer's Website for a list of books for your reading pleasure and for great Christmas and holiday gifts.

I would love to hear your comments, either on the blog itself or through Twitter or Facebook.