What's next?

Copyright 2018 A. Barake

E.M. Forster in his "Aspects of the Novel" lectures discusses the difference between plot and story. Plot includes meaning. Can we know meaning, and do we want it in a story? The novelist's art can make meaning crystallize in the reader's mind by drawing on shared experiences, on context, on cultural tropes. Can this not happen through simple storytelling as well?

A poetry teacher I remember from long ago said that the writer must try to control intent as closely as possible. He was dead against the scatter words to the winds approach of free-association that some of us were playing with. In fact he chastised us quite severely about it and the reprimand stuck to this day.

I was thinking of plot versus storytelling because of the wild popularity of the Harry Potter stories and the recent hype around Rowling's imminent release of a "serious" novel for adults. Harry Potter works are driven by the "what's next" urge. I remember reading stories to my younger brother before bed and he could not wait for the next instalment, to the point of learning to read so that he could get to the denouement of the latest twist before the next evening.

So will Rowling's addition of plot to storytelling make her serious novel more successful? I don't think so.
Plot is a luxury, at least in the commercial sense.

The success of the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy adds evidence to my claim. I think the sexual encounters are the equivalent of the "what's next" of a standard story. Same principle as in detective fiction. There are comments on readers' site about skipping across the sexual descriptions just to get to the next variation setup. So it is about anticipation, more so than about meaning, or description.

Tipping the balance of writing towards such commercially successful mechanisms makes the writing more cinematic, flatter dimensionally. I am not making a value judgement. I think that it is not sustainable. Art is about Eros, about tension and sublimation, and repeated denouements lead to wanting bigger and bigger bangs.

So conservation is a goal of plot artistry, learning to fish rather than being served the trout all cooked. Playing with the mind. It sounds pompous, but writing in a sustained way is to influence and seduce and to keep the love alive. Boring is the worst insult you could throw at a writer, and that risk exists if stories begin to repeat as they ultimately have to. Even the Thousand and One Nights  had to end in a boring marriage.

Coetzee's Elizabeth Costello device

I am working my way through Coetzee's novels in no particular order, and I have just finished Slow Man. Elizabeth Costello's role becomes clear there. Coetzee, no doubt all too aware of his self-centredness; in fact he keeps alluding to it through his secondary characters, who keep asking if they really can be considered secondary, if anyone can; so as I was saying, to deal with that dilemma, he creates this other author's voice, to take him outside J.M. In a sense it works. He manages to see things differently, and I am sure the choice of gender helps him. Empathy is strong in his writing, but it is a clinical empathy, one rooted in observation, like a photographer that sees misery, captures it and then moves on. It is not care, it is halfway to care. So The Elizabeth Costello device pushes the plot towards action, towards mistakes, she forces him to do and to confront.
Again, why the fuss? Why not just write from the perspective of other voices than his own? Probably because he is so honest and is not wired that way.
The method succeeds in making his work interesting, but as John Crace in his pastiche of Coetzze in the Guardian  notes, he keeps writing the same book. Why not?

In fact I have argued the other way for songwriters. Is the medium a factor? Can songs be egocentric, since they are an accepted form of wooing? Are novels different? No answers here.

Comments on Coetzee and the books Elizabeth Costello, Diary of a Bad Year and Summertime

J.M. Coetzee’s work is more often about himself than not, in subtle reflections that achieve the necessary universality. Yet I feel a great unease about it. The undertone of self-criticism and mockery is subverted by the very fact that he is writing about himself. In effect saying that that is what is important. I know that it is deeper than that, that he uses himself consciously as a device, one that is central to his approach to fiction, but I also know that sadness and depression come from loneliness.

However, Coetzee has succeeded in reaching others, he has two Bookers, a Nobel and is loved by readers and writers, including me. He says things that need to be said, with courage and balance.

But, and this is what gnaws at me, there is the self-centredness, the one he is aware of, that he digs into all the time, the fatal flaw.

Maybe I can talk about the novels I mention in the title, to give examples. Elizabeth Costello reads like a crotchety set of essays by someone who does not care how they are perceived, because they are gone, above criticism. Costello is dead at the end, in a sort of purgatory, and this gives closure to all the ranting. It is good ranting though, holds your attention, and despite the characterization, shows balance. This is the tour de force. The hard foundations of Coetzee’s writing are a) humanism, probably more accurate to say animalism, avoiding pain, b) guilt about colonialism, and anger about the guilt, since he is not directly guilty, he is constantly trying to extricate himself from it c) self and others, connection, sex as a mystery.

Elizabeth Costello contains a casual sexual encounter in a hotel, between business travellers that is masterful in showing how a we inhabit our bodies when close to one another, how strange, beautiful and limiting awareness of sexual contact is. Sex and loneliness in Coetzee’s work are bound tightly. He does not really understand the other, despite all the voices.

This brings me to Summertime, where he reflects on his middle years through women that have known him. This is masterfully written, but the uneasiness I feel about it relates to the above, he cannot get out of himself. He realizes it, since his characters allude to his “autism”. Realizing it and trying to exorcise it and ultimately failing in my view is what makes the work so strong, but also so flawed. He can go on telling us he knows this, and there are two possible conclusions: i) he is truly failing - case closed ii) he is using this mechanism to drive his creativity, it is a shtick. I refuse to believe the second.

In Diary of a Bad Year, he tries again to bring out Coetzee from his shell. Two and a half points of view. Himself, as always, a young woman who becomes his typist, and the views of her boyfriend, an foil to the humanist/animalism/anarchist Coetzee character. Archetype does not mean one-dimensional here. He is fully fleshed, but a bit distant, a bit vague, a bit too consistent. Coetzee is getting revenge it seems on that type. I know these types well, I dislike them too, but again, I almost want to not believe that Coetzee is exercising a form of petty literary revenge. Not petty I guess, the themes are broad enough, but in all three books there is a sort of accounts settling smell, things that his “autism” may have prevented him from doing in real time may be coming out.

So in conclusion, I must admire the man and admit that I enjoy the work, but some of it seems to evade complete control, which to me is a criterion of classic art. This is the mystery of Coetzee’s work.

Djerassi and Houellebecq

I wrote earlier about my disappointment with Djerassi's "science-in-fiction". I would point him to the much more effective and artistic Houellebecq style, directly descended from Aldous Huxley, but done with much more panache (bien-sur). It is over the top in some of its narrative descriptions of extreme behaviours, deadpan and not suitable for every audience, but if I were to recommend some books for anyone studying human motivations (and that includes business types and techies, not just the humanities majors), it would be "The Elementary Particles", "1984" and "Brave New World". They talk of biology and power and the link to human affairs. Free will is mediated by biology and biology is the layer just below power.

Kundera talks with Houllebecq

I am tempted to write a fictional dialogue between Milan and Michel. Their world views and attitudes to sex are ripe for collision. Michel finds it challenging and Milan could not find it easier. Michel is looking for connection and so is Milan, but in such different ways. One lives in a sensual existential world, the other in a world of isolated points with possible lines. What triggered the idea was the change in the title of the English translation of Les particules elementaires from Atomized to The Elementary Particles in later editions. Kundera had written essays on how not to betray an author when translating, and he advocated simple direct non-interpretive translation to avoid adding extra semantics. And then I thought about how Kundera writes of sex and how Houllebecq does too, and how both see it as light, but in such different ways. They need to talk.

Science in fiction

A review of the Bourbaki Gambit I am surprised that a prestigious imprint like Penguin would accept The Bourbaki Gambit as a novel. It is an uncomfortable advertisement for its author at best and at worst an insult and a slight to the artistic process by a scientist too conceited to realize it. Djerassi, who made discoveries which led to the birth control pill is branching out into a style he calls science-in-fiction. He writes of scientists and of their egos, a bit like C.P. Snow, but with much less art. He revels in showing off his observations of fancy places, but really only manages to show his limited world view. Capri, Manhattan and cliches about vacation resorts. I guess someone who has achieved so much in science may be excused for thinking that art is something secondary, and this is exactly what writing this novel and sponsoring the arts indicates.

The Guardian and Harry Potter

The Alps at New Year seen from the northwest Swiss side - Copyright 2003-2008 A. Barake

I wrote earlier about a Nick Lezard Guardian posting that strongly criticises JK Rowling's prose. Recently, there has been another Guardian article about the prevalence of Oxford and Cambridge graduates in English public life. There may be a link between the two. JK Rowling did not attend these prestigious schools, yet she writes about them in the Potter books - in fact King's College at Oxford was used as a setting in some of the earlier films. So is Lezard unconsciously chaffing at the gall of it all? She is successful, very successful, and yet she does not come from the rank of the elite, she did not attend Oxbridge.

I like the Guardian, I think they are very balanced and fair, but there is a snobbery factor there, which, I am guessing, comes from this elitist attitude that is probably part of the legacy of such a prestigious education. The few graduates (less than 10) of these schools that I have met have been overly dismissive and difficult when their opinions and statements have been challenged in a social context such as a meeting or workshop. A lot of clever sophistry has been put on display to discredit their interlocutors during such occasions. Debating skill is a good thing, but taken to excess can be quite offputting. So I will probably remain prejudiced until I gain further experience in the matter.

Brad Warner

I have been reading Brad Warner's book Sit Down and Shut Up! about Zen. His writing makes me think he is a kindred spirit. The book is engaging, very funny, and down-to-earth and it somehow manages to transcend the words and project the deep essence of the Buddhist meanings he wants to convey.

Brad is a Buddhist monk and a teacher. He also plays bass and writes columns on the Web. He writes about how his Buddhism allows him to react in a balanced way to situations and to people that may be frustrating or annoying. However, I get the feeling that he is still fighting the demons that assail us many of us, the ones having to do with pride and with having the last word. I guess that one aspect of enlightenment is the destruction of that urge, or at least its domestication.

What got me thinking about this was one of his Web columns, responding to a label he acquired for his association with the Suicide Girls site. That he responded at all was indicative. I often feel the same, some energy has to dissipate when one feels wronged. The state I am trying to attain is one where I don't feel wronged in the first place.

The other coincidental event that got me going along this train of thought was a funny excerpt from a diary-joke-agenda that suggested ways to "annoy the Dalai Lama". I don't think any of those methods would work, but they are so funny that they contain their own flaw; and the solution to this little problem: humour.

I think Brad knows this, and that is why his books are so great, the jokes are part of the religion. What other religions have jokes so deeply embedded (I know of only one joke in the Bible - about Peter being a rock to found the church on, and that one is really a pun that only works in Latin and its derivative languages)?

Joseph Conrad

A wonderful article on Conrad in the Guardian, which contains this quote from the man:

"Fiction, at the point of development at which it has arrived, demands from the writer a spirit of scrupulous abnegation. The only legitimate basis of creative work lies in the courageous recognition of all the irreconcilable antagonisms that make our life so enigmatic, so burdensome, so fascinating, so dangerous - so full of hope."

An enlightened grade 10 teacher made us read Heart of Darkness - and it was way beyond us - yet how could we not feel the depth of his style, his circling of the story and the way the words were like ruminations of the subconscious. Re-read it several times since, and it never ceases to bring forth strong emotion. And this is not a sensual book, but almost a pure intellectual one - wrapped around a journey - a river trip.

And don't miss - in the same issue - an interview with Richard Ford.