How do novel reviews begin? Just like novels very often:
Motherless boys may be pitied by mothers but are not infrequently envied by other boys.
For the friends of the Piontek family, August 31st, 1939 was a red-letter day.
All her life Jean Hawkins was obedient.
It looks as though the writers of these reviews have set out not to summarize the plot but to tell the story, with the drawback, from the novelist’s point of view, that readers may content themselves with the reviewer’s version. Other reviews begin with a different sort of story—the reviewer’s:
Halfway through Beryl Bainbridge’s new novel I found I was laughing until the tears ran down my cheeks.
Some start by characterizing the novel:
An aura of death, despair, madness and futility hangs over the late James Jones’s posthumous novel.
Others by characterizing the reviewer: “Count me among the Philistines,” says Jerome Charyn, inauspiciously, at the start of a review in the New York Times. Some begin with a paragraph on the novel now; some begin by addressing the reader:
You might not think there would be much wit or lyricism to the story of a subnormal wall-eyed Balkan peasant who spends 13 years masturbating in a pigsty . . .
Some kick off at the end: “Final Payments is a well-made, realistic novel of refined sensibility and moral scruple”; and others at the beginning: “The five writers under review have been browsing . . .”
Different openings suggest different attitudes, both to the novel and to the practice of reviewing novels. There are ideologies of the novel and ideologies of the novel review, fictional conventions and reviewing conventions. They don’t necessarily overlap. A regular reviewer, confident of his own constituency, may describe a novel in terms of his own responses to it: he wouldn’t for that reason applaud a novelist for writing in a similarly personal vein.
What reviews have in common is that they must all in some degree be re-creations: reshapings of what the novelist has already shaped. The writer’s fortunes depend on the reviews he gets but the reviewer depends on the book to see that his account of it—his “story,” to use the language of the newspaper composing room—is interesting. Dull novels don’t elicit interesting reviews: not unless a reviewer decides to be amusing at the novel’s expense or tactfully confines himself to some incidental aspect of it. A generous reviewer may also invent for the novel the qualities it might have had but hasn’t got.
The most brusque reviews occur in the most marginal newspapers: “The new novel by Camden author Beryl Bainbridge,“ said the Camden Journal, “took just a few hours to read yet cost £3.95 . . . The story is fairly interesting, mildly amusing and a little sad.” A hundred years ago the most brutal things were said about novelists and their works (cf. Henry James on Our Mutual Friend: “It is poor with the poverty not of momentary embarrassment, but of permanent exhaustion”).
Today many literary editors, alert to the fact that the novel is under pressure, ask their reviewers to be kind and most of them are. Kind to the old novelist because he is old; kind to the young novelist because he is young; to the English writer because he is English (“all quiet, wry precision about manners and oddities”) and not American or German; to others because they are black (or white) or women (or men) or refugees from the Soviet Union. Every liberal and illiberal orthodoxy has its champions.
Failings are seen to be bound up with virtues (“there are rough edges to his serious simplicity”); even turned into them (“though inelegant and sometimes blurred, their heaviness and urgency create their own order of precision”); but seldom passionately denounced, and although every novelist has had bad reviews to complain of, it sometimes seems as if novel reviewing were a branch of the welfare state.
The reasons have a lot to do with the economics of publishing. In the 1920s Cyril Connolly described the reviewing of novels as “the white man’s grave of journalism”: “for each scant clearing made wearily among the springing vegetation,” he sighed, “the jungle overnight encroaches twice as far.” The jungle has now dwindled to something more like a botanic garden (“it is a knockdown miracle that publishers continue to put out first novels,” noted a reviewer in the Times), and far from having to hack his way through the springing vegetation, the critic is required to give the kiss of life to each week’s precarious flowering.
“SAVE THE NOVEL,” implored the novelist Angus Wolfe Murray addressing reviewers. Only in the case of such writers as Harold Robbins or Sidney Sheldon, whose fortunes or morale he cannot affect, does the reviewer have the freedom to write as he pleases.
Given that the novel is to be saved, what claims do reviewers make for it? John Gardner in his book On Moral Fiction (1978) complains of the flimsiness of “our serious fiction”:
The emphasis, among younger artists, on surface and novelty of effect is merely symptomatic. The sickness goes deeper, to an almost total loss of faith in—or perhaps understanding of—how true art works. True art, by specific technical means now commonly forgotten, clarifies life, establishes models of human action, casts nets towards the future, carefully judges our right and wrong directions, celebrates and mourns.
But it is clear from the exhilarated comments they make that many reviewers regularly find in the novel they have been reading the kind of guidance and instruction Gardner has in mind:
In the vaunted creative process, he has transcended himself and given us an access to liberty.
Her book is full of lessons about the art of creative literature, and about life, and how each reflects and enhances and deepens the meaning of the other.
Its indignation is blazingly imaginative, furiously vital and gives us hope.
A truer and deeper perception of the world’s agony comes from the . . . stories . . . about her native land.
There is no suggestion here that novelists are suffering from diminished responsibility or reviewers from any cramping of their responses. But it depends which reviewers one reads. Hope, agony, the meaning of life and of art, a transcending of the self: for every critic who finds these in the novels sent to him for review—and a critic who finds them once tends to find them once a week—there are more who see confusion, ambivalence, ambiguity, and count themselves well pleased:
The best English novelists are getting more ambiguous all the time.
I suppose this is what Iris Murdoch means when she distinguishes between philosophy and fiction—that what the novel does superlatively is mirror our continuing confusion and muddle.
Gardner is not eccentric in detecting among both novelists and critics an active commitment to uncertainty; as a reviewer in the Times Literary Supplement observed apropos of a novel involving a mystery and its detection: “Once upon a time novels and readers and detectives discovered things; now they fail to discover them.” An achieved character is a mixed-up character: “his grief and obsession lack ambiguity and don’t feel real”; he “is confused but by that token the more convincing.”
Gardner finds repugnant the notion that confusion may be the most appropriate response to a confusing world, but on countless occasions novels are praised for making it clear that nothing is clear, that a trouble-free verisimilitude can no longer be expected:
The book is convincingly comic, and at the same time ambiguous and nervy enough to suggest that nothing is as solid as it seems.
His theatrical memoir-scribbling existence is the best (i.e. most problematic) metaphor for how most of us function.
The brackets here reinforce the point, assuming as they do a coincidence of meaning between “best” and “most problematic.” In another review Frank Tuohy’s stories of English life are said to have a “grim predictability” but when he writes about Englishmen abroad his “subtle talent emerges”:
The barriers of language and culture give rise to a slightly baffled and tentative querying of reality; perspectives shift and blur, appearances bemuse and all our certainties suddenly lack foundation.
The writer should not merely baffle but himself be baffled: a way perhaps of acknowledging, and absorbing into a naturalistic tradition, the more exigent dubieties of such postmodernist writers as Borges, Sarraute, or Robbe-Grillet, whose ritual dismemberings of plot and character, especially when mimicked by native writers, have not gone down well among either reviewers or the public.
The baffled writer has various ways of disclaiming verisimilitude. In Renata Adler’s Speedboat, for instance, the narrative is fragmented into a series of discrete events, anecdotes, perceptions. Elizabeth Hardwick, writing about the book in the New York Review, showed her respect for it by adopting in her review the novel’s own fragmentary procedures. Likening it to some of the work of Barthelme, Pynchon, and Vonnegut, she claimed for all of them an “honourable” attempt to deploy “the intelligence that questions the shape of life and wonders what we can really act upon”; but then added:
It is important to concede the honor, the nerve, the ambition—important even if it is hard to believe anyone in the world could be happier reading Gravity’s Rainbow
The old, unreconstructed pleasures of reading sometimes slip the reviewer’s mind but a conflict between enjoyment and the “honourable” measures writers take to accommodate doubt and perplexity has to be acknowledged. Take Robert Nye’s Merlin. Instead of a plot, it offers, as many non-conventional novels now conventionally do, a sprawling of plots, lists, jokes, and retelling of old stories. A prospective reader may be more grateful for a review that tells him what it is like to read such a novel (“In the end, it is just too much . . . rather like finding a hotel that serves you a Christmas dinner three times a day”) than for one written in the spirit of the novel itself and dedicated to teasing out its many “implications about art and reality.”
The most frequent recourse of the baffled writer is to offer himself as part of his fiction, stepping into the novel either in person (Margaret Drabble in The Realms of Gold) or in the guise of another novel writer purportedly engaged in writing this novel or another novel contingent on it, so that the novel tells two stories concurrently, its own and the novelist’s, thereby foreshadowing, and in some cases forestalling, its own reviews.Just as some novels supply their own reviews, so many reviews supply their own novels.
Two recent instances have been The World According to Garp by John Irving and John Wain’s The Pardoner’s Tale. The latter links a conventional account of a novelist’s life with the equally conventional novel he is currently writing. Malcolm Bradbury, a critic committed to the notion of the text that doubts itself, praised it as being “among [Wain’s] best novels, realism modestly considering itself.” Reviewers often talk about realism as if it were something tangible (Tim O’Brien’s Going After Cacciato contained, according to the New Statesman, “a strange and impressive balance of realisms”), the idea being that where intention and meaning are in doubt, literary styles and devices have a life of their own.
The World According to Garp is a much more complicated book, baroque, labyrinthine, full of internal fictions and comments on those fictions. One reviewer remarked that “there is little one can say about the book or its author that Irving has not in some way anticipated in his own text.” The baffled writer, it turns out, has this advantage over his critics: he can tell them what is wrong with his novel before they tell him.
Just as some novels supply their own reviews, so many reviews supply their own novels. It isn’t so much a matter of different interpretations (which are unavoidable: one reviewer saw in The Pardoner’s Tale “the lineaments of gratified desire . . . persuasively drawn . . . an amorous haze spreading delight,” another “a man who has evaded what real love requires”) as of giving a novelistic account of the novel. For instance:
William Trevor’s characters . . . seem to live perpetually in an afternoon sun which filters through the Georgian fanlight onto a balding carpet.
Whether “she“ is Nell or Julie or Ellen there’s always the same tearstained voice, stuffing old love letters into the mouth to hold back the sob at parting.
That Beryl Bainbridge has a quirky way of doing things may be put straightforwardly:
She views life from so odd an angle that normal proportions and emphases are disconcertingly altered.
or, if you like, mimetically:
The characters proclaim their loves and loathings dimpled with breadcrumbs, adorned with swellings, fiddling with troublesome socks.