I should say, perhaps, that there all sorts of pastimes
that don’t require reading much at all. And there are many things to read
besides fiction. What is the allure of the novel? In the earliest times of
reading I can remember, I went from the sense of mystery and the occult—I suppose
that need to know while also being a bit afraid of what knowing would mean was
enough of a drive—to a sense that there were writers of fiction who understood
something about human nature not available in non-fiction. But why? Because
nonfiction tended to take the path of hearsay or of personal, anecdotal
testimony, or of the historical record. Very limited, in other words. The great
fiction writers could claim omniscience, if they so desired, or could mimic a
limited perspective—for narrative purposes. I cut my teeth in reading
literature with the stories of Poe and that was a lesson in how the teller
makes the tale.
In those days of reading I was recalling in the previous
post, I was being led by something more powerful: the sense that novelists were
“artists,” by which I believe I understood that there was a perspective on the
world that, to my mind, was more valuable than that of the historian or
philosopher. It was, I supposed, the
perspective of one who has “withdrawn” from the world to a certain degree, if
only to have the distance to write about it.
And yet to do that perspective full justice with a unique immediacy not
found in non-fiction writing. Some might
say this is simply the storyteller’s perspective—available to some degree in
all eras, as Pavel’s study makes clear—so why equate it with an artist?
That idea came from the time when my reading
took place, in part, but was also due to my own lights at the time. My first
love was art—pictorial art. And the notion of what a painter was—someone who
makes images/representations of actual things or images/representations of
imagined things—infused my notion of what a novelist was. But that notion was
already infused with the ideal of the artist that existed since the Romantic
period at least. Shakespeare himself had been renovated by a Romantic
perspective, and that view stayed with me through Hesse’s evocations of Goethe
and Nietzsche and the latter’s conception of the role of art for the coming
century (the 20th) affected not just how I read the fiction of our century, but
also affected some key writers of the first part of that century.
All well and good. Such was the sense of the
high art novel in that time I would probably rather be living in—the 1920s,
when my parents were born—than in the 1960s during which the legacy of the
early greats became the basis for work on a lesser level and, eventually (about
the time I was coming of age), an abandonment of such high art concepts
altogether. Y’see, in the years when I
was first learning to walk, something called Pop Art was born, and the notion
of “pop”—in all sorts of areas—over-ran the former notion of “high art,” except
as a thing of the past.
It’s no accident that, by the time this was abundantly
apparent to me (after a period in my teens and early twenties living in the
past), I became, in my mid to late twenties, a student of art history and the
history of the novel. If, as Macbeth
says, “the greatest is behind,” then why not spend your time there. A book like Pavel’s The Lives of the Novel returned to me, while
reading it, that sense of discovery I had when I finally began to study the lit
and art of earlier eras in earnest. It almost became possible to forget the 20th
century! What’s more, it became possible to look upon an earlier period—say the
13th century—as fully achieved, not as something “on the road” to somewhere
else, NOT as a “transition.” This was
important because it gave structure and scope to my sense of history as “our”
history at the same time that it gave me a conviction about a world that would
be forever indifferent to “what came later,” sealed in its forms and its grasp
of the entire world—a world in which there was, simply, no North American
continent—or, even better, the 17th century, during which the powers of Europe
were content in their grasp of their place at the apex of the known world,
which included the savages out there in the Americas.
All of which is a way of saying that those little visits
into the past set up questions which I have still not resolved, and which a
recent foray into Tocqueville’s Democracy in America set into relief: the
question of the United States of America as a “source” and a “subject” for art.
I can say with some degree of certainty that I was in flight from that question
for most of my life. Was it simply because U.S. art was less developed than
European art, because it had no illustrious background (unless you count
European art), or because it had invented Pop Art and thus ended the viability
of the art I longed for, or was it simply that the ad hoc, arriviste qualities
of this country offended some desire in me for something a bit more pure? A thorough-going mutt of northern Europe—Anglo-Saxon,
Teutonic, Scandinavian, Celtic—I made no claim for racial or national purity,
but. Something in what I was pleased to
see as the homogeneity of the British Isles did, I think, make me uncomfortable
with how sprawling and unsurveyed was this huge continent of ours. I cleaved to the eastern seaboard, not
without reason. And Tocqueville rather re-awoke my awareness of how important
New England is for any version of what these United States means to me.
But no, not purity—durée. What I wanted was
the sense of something that would “endure.” One should bear in mind, too, that
my sense of the enduring was furnished by Catholicism—visited upon me by grace
of that leetle bit of Celtic in the bloodline—(by which I mean an ancestor from
Catholic Ireland)—and so there you find a mythic sense extended from the
beginning of everything (“let there be light”) up to the incarnation of “the
Word made flesh” (the year One), and thence to, well, if not The Second Coming,
then at least to some kind of apocalyptic “end of history” moment that will let
us see what it was all tending toward. Eschatology enacted here. And those old
Puritan New Englanders had plenty of that sense of Christian history.
It was somewhere in those pre-college study days that some
sense of what might really be in store, for me, in literature came to light.
Before I ever enrolled in a formal curriculum, I read, following my own
interests, much poetry. For in poetry I found a more emphatic sense of
artistry in writing, if only to demonstrate that my sense of “artist/writer”
was not “storyteller.” The poets I read
were not telling stories, mostly. They
were marshaling imagery, rhythm, music, and voice for the sake of “objects.” Objects which, like non-pictorial paintings,
existed to demonstrate “an aesthetic.”
Why might not extended narratives do the same? My key point of departure for such was
Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell, and the kinds of writers it influenced. When
Rimbaud referenced “my cursed childhood education,” I knew whereof he spoke.
Much of the fulmination in Season was about the great swindling of the
imagination that came with the oppressive sense of knowledge—of what the past
was, of what, based on that, the future might be. The eclipse of the enchanted,
we might say, in favor of the everyday. Rimbaud objected, strenuously. Or at
least a marvelous teen persona he invented did. And that was enough to make me
think that such might be the task of anyone of sufficient imagination. And such
an idea was not really at odds with “Pop,” because.
Because of Pop Music, or Rock Music, or whatever one was
disposed to call it. It was music for
the young, music—no, songs—that invented a persona too. The persona of the plugged-in, of seekers of “the
sound.” Poetry, on the page, would
always be about that too—or at least for anyone who bore a sense of “the lyric.” And why was it that, at some point, the
lyrical storyteller gave way to the prosaic one? Which is a way of saying that I found myself
in pursuit of lyrical fiction, where, as I was saying, the object, the made
thing, the aesthetic qualities of rhythm and music and imagery would take
precedence over “what happens next” and “who is speaking.” The point not to be missed, of course, is
that any artist, any poet, any lyric persona, is still a creature of the
everyday. No one escapes temporality.
The “manner of speaking”—no matter how original or deliberate—must always
derive from some horizon of interpretation, must exist in a mind that has come
to consciousness at such and such a time in such and such a place. Yes, even
Beckett’s “unnameable.”
(to be continued)
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