Death of the Novel Part III: Gutenberg Mind

Marshall McLuhan—what ya doin’?

                        ----poem from the TV comedy show

                                    Laugh-In, 1967

I recently read two articles that proclaimed the death of the novel. One of had the title “The Novel Is

Marshall McLuhan

Dead—This Time It’s For Real.” Both writers mention the Canadian communications philosopher Marshall McLuhan’s idea of the “Gutenberg mind” as a primary reason for the coming demise of the novel. The Gutenberg mind is a way of thinking that sees a text as a codex—a book, an entity of print and paper—and sees the functioning of knowledge as, book to book—codex to codex, printed entity to printed entity.

Of course, in our digital age this is not how knowledge works. Many texts are on screen and notes immediately connect us to other on-screen texts. A few years back, I encountered an online version of Milton’s Paradise Lost. It had links that explained obscure words, references, and allusions (there are lots of these in Milton); it also had links that took you to illustrations by Doré, Blake, and other artists. It rather amazed me, who grew up with a Gutenberg mind, and who remembered constantly glancing down to footnotes at the bottom of the page when I first read Milton’s epic. I would say note/links is a vast improvement. But how does this kind of digital technology spell the end of the novel?

One of the authors, writing for The Guardian proclaims, “the advent of digital media is not simply destructive of the codex, but of the Gutenberg mind itself.” The book will go the way of the scroll and the sun-baked cuneiform tablet. The destruction of the book by things shown on screen will also mean that readers will not think of other books in cross-referencing literature, they will think of other screens. The author is vague, and his article a bit desultory, but I get the idea that he equates the death of the novel with the demise of the paper book.

As I said, the article is desultory—it jumps from point to point, and though it is written in precise and entertaining prose, its thesis is not as clear as the author’s prose style. It goes on to talk about changes in the publishing industry, and makes the usual references to reading “serious novels.” It also takes aim at the condition of the publishing industry and the idea that “solitary reading” is necessary for in-depth understanding. In other words, it points to a number of failings, weaknesses, and anomalies in publishing and writing but does not successfully demonstrate (at least to me) how this will bring about the demise of the novel.

I say this because all the things that may be done with a codex—a book printed on paper, bound, with a physical weight and presence—can be equally done with a digital book. Some would object to this. I once heard a book seller, in the early days of e-books, tell me that nothing could ever replace the “kinetic pleasure” of reading a book. I thought this was a delightful way to put it. And I know the pleasure of feeling the weight of a book in my hand, the pleasure of turning pages . . . and yet I do those things on my Kindle Fire as well. It has weight and I swipe the screen. There is a physical aspect to it. The material may be a little harder than a well-worn paperback. And yet the leather cover feels nice in my hands. I can’t write in my Kindle, but I can put notes in it.

But that is not the question with which we are here dealing. Will the novel die due to digital technology and due to the fact that digital texts will bring an end to the Gutenberg mind?

After considering, I have to say no. It is not necessary to think in terms of printed entities, tomes (to use an archaic word) to have intertextual reference. If I read (as I recently did) an obscure novel from the 1970s, Barbara Comyns The Juniper Tree on my Kindle, does that mean I can’t cross-reference it with Stardust by Neil Gaiman, which I also read in digital format? The books have little similarity and scant material one might compare, but they could be compared. A Gutenberg mind isn’t necessary to compare two on-screen texts or an on-screen text with a cloth and paper text.

I think the article to which I refer, which I’ll provide a link to at the end of my blog (a little irony here?) does not make clear the reason the author thinks the novel will die. The advent of digital technology and e-books does not seem a threat to novel-writing at all. What is done on paper can be done on the screen. Young people are reading more—witness the number of copies (paper or downloaded) for the Harry Potter series or The Fault in Our Stars. And digital technology demands that people read. Continuation of the popularity and the profundity of the novel does need people with Gutenberg minds. It needs people who read, and digital technology seems to have actually given that a boost.

More on the death of the novel to come.

Here's the article I reference in the blog. Read it and tell me what you think!

I have two new books released!

Brand new:  The Last Minstrel. Novel about a quest, evil and good goddesses, magic, and right and wrong. This story is family-friendly, G-Rated--or maybe PG-Rated due to some scary scenes.

ShadowCity is also newly released and available in digital and print format.

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.

Creativity: Transcending Genre

Creativity can find its expression not just in fantasy or science fiction. Imaginative approaches make for remarkable works of conventional fiction—literary fiction or whatever we chose to call it. Taking a standard form and giving it a creative twist is an operation of enduring masterpieces. It also can make for powerful literature, as we shall see in our example for today’s blog.

When I list my ten favorite novels—or the ten novels that have changed my viewpoint and are embedded in my memory as moving and profound, and as exemplars of fictional craft—One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Alexander Solzhenitsyn (1918-2008) usually gets the #1 spot.. As you might glean from the title and the author’s name, it is a Russian novel (but a short one, about 150 pages). Written in 1962, it helped bring about the fall of the repressive Soviet Union. 

We could go into a lot of detail about the novel, but what I want to focus on is its creative innovation. This novel emerged out of the great mass of Russian literature to become an international bestseller because of its creative approach to the genre—the fiction category it fits into.

That category is political literature. I detest political literature. Political novels, stories, and poems resemble listening to an evangelist who is trying to convert you. The authors in political novels preach. Like most preachers, they offer simple analyses of complex issues, valorize their side in the debate, and vilify the opposition. Political fiction is, for this reason, boring and predictable (politically oriented poetry is even worse).

A second genre category the novel fits in is the prison novel. Ivan Denisovich is an inmate in a Siberian prison camp for political dissidents.

Here is where it gets creative.

The author does not paint a dire, shocking, disheartening picture of prisoners toiling in the subzero landscape of the gulag work camp—well, not exactly. They are working in freezing cold in a desolate place and have no rights and are oppressed. But the novel is . . .  funny, hopeful, winsome, and charming. How can a novel about prisoners in a detention camp in northern Russia be charming? This is what Solzhenitsyn’s creative art managed to do. 

Russian author Alexander Solzhenitsyn

 The point of view character is Ivan Denisovich (that would be John Denison in English). He is your typical, average Russian dude—blue collar, uneducated, but possessing the simple good average Joes often possess. This is Solzhenitsyn’s first creative marvel. Rather than creating a suffering, bitter, cynical prisoner who rails against the political forces depriving him of liberty, he presents a patient, humble, shrewd, adroit man with the wisdom of a peasant who capably navigates the treacherous currents of prison camp life. Ivan is the Artful Dodger of the gulag. He does well—as well as one can do in such an environment. This unexpected protagonist who breaks out of the typical character mold for this sort of novel is compelling and fascinating. One approaches the text expecting a litany of despair. Instead, the reader falls in love with a funny, bright, man, simple but remarkable in his insight and ability.

Next, Solzhenitsyn makes the novel an allegory and yet keeps it tone modern and realistic. Ivan is an Everyman character; and, as in medieval allegory, there are lots of allegorical figures:  Buinovsky, the Captain; Turin, the Squad Leader; Tzezar, the Artist; Alyosha, the Baptist; Fetikov, the Jackal (or the Scavenger); Gopchik, the Kid. All have been imprisoned on false charges, just as Ivan Denisovich has. Allegorical figures in medieval literature are wooden and one-dimensional. These characters, however, are human and real. This is another of the book’s creative surprises.

Lastly, Solzhenitsyn creatively interdicts expectation by transforming the book from what one assumes will be a grim, dreary text about oppression and brutality into something else. Don’t get me wrong. It is about oppression and brutality, but his creative approach changes it over to a celebration of the human spirit. The system has broken none of these characters. The human spirit is stronger than the oppressive forces that would crush it. Evil is stupid, clumsy, and unimaginative; good is innovative, sly, and triumphant. The human spirit is strong. In the end, it will win.

And it did win! One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich called worldwide attention to the crimes of Soviet regime. In the 1980s, that government collapsed. The Soviet Union became Russia once more. Solzhenitsyn’s book, many contend, was instrumental in bringing this collapse about by exposing the nature of the government ruling Russia at that time. 

Scene from a film version of One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

Creativity is powerful.

I’ll have more on this, and on literary fiction that pitched creative curve balls, in my next blog.

I'd love to have you look at the books I have written for your enjoyment.

Order a copy of The Prophetess or Strange Brew.

If you're into more traditional fantasy, pick up a copy of my full-length fantasy novel, The Sorceress of the Northern Seas.

More to come on creativity.