ESSAY: The Death of the (Canadian) Novel
by Michael Bryson
The year would have been 1990. The Wall had just
fallen. The Cold War was over. I was an undergraduate studying English
at the University of Waterloo, and one of my professors told me the
novel was dead. "It can’t be," I said. "I’m going to
write one." I went to meet with him in his office. He called me a
"reactionary." (Really!) Flustered, I went home and looked up
that label in a dictionary: "one who supports movement in the
direction of political conservatism or extreme rightism." Not me, I
thought. I was just a confused kid trying to figure out how to write.
Later, I figured out that my professor proclaimed the
novel dead he did not mean all novels, just the traditional, realist
novel: the form usually associated with the Victorian Era of the mid-
and late-19th century; the novels of Dickens, Thackery, and
the Brontës. I learned this when I found his argument in a slim volume
of essays on Kurt Vonnegut Jr. (subsequently lost), which referred to
Ronald Sukenick’s influential 1969 title, THE DEATH OF THE NOVEL.
There, Sukenick argued that a new generation of American writers
(including Thomas Pynchon, John Barth, Gary Geddis) emerged in the
post-WWII era. This new generation of writers was suspicious of
contemporary politics and the ability of language to represent reality.
Sukenick argued, in other words, that the novel was
dead because reality was dead. Reality was unknowable. There was no
connection between writing and reality, and the realist novel – and
its attendant assumptions – was a sham. The novel’s claim to be a
form of reportage was bunk. Journalism was a black art. All narratives
were subjective. Every utterance was infused with rhetorical
ambiguities, assumptions about the speaker and the audience, and
unavoidable political implications. Marx had uncovered hidden forces in
the economy. Freud had uncovered hidden forces in the mind. McLuhan had
revealed the hidden structure of communications media. Novelists
responded to these changes by telling different kinds of stories.
American novelist John Hawkes, for example, famously claimed he tried to
write without concern for plot, character or setting.
This was a new, and fascinating, argument to me, and I
wondered why I hadn’t heard about it before. As a teenager growing up
in the 1980s, the strongest literary arguments I encountered had to do
with the definition of Canadian literature. What was it? No one seemed
to know, but whatever it was it was doing better than ever. It had
produced a couple of millionaires. After "coming of age" in
the 1960s, it had finally "matured."
In the month or so after my professor called me a
reactionary, he confronted his class with the question: "What is
writing?" Is it an imitation of dialogue, and therefore a lesser
art (which was Plato’s opinion)? Or was it some other thing? A mirror
to the world, for example. Or perhaps a kind of lamp, illuminating a
transcendent reality, as the Romantics believed. On the other hand,
perhaps writing was just a string of arbitrary symbols with no relation
to anything but itself, which was the post-modernist position.
Again, the arguments intrigued me. They also
undermined my confidence in Canadian literature’s "grown up"
status. Northrop Frye had accused Canada’s writers of suffering from a
"Garrison Mentality", of taking a defensive stance against the
world’s larger artistic influences. But by 1990 it was out of fashion
to call Canada a literary backwater. The 1960s had changed all that. The
1960s: when wave after wave of nationalist emotion was sweeping the
land, and George Grant was lamenting the nation. For the first time,
Canada had its own flag. Trudeau was about to burst on the scene. Then
in 1967 (Pierre Burton’s "last good year"), Montreal’s
Expo kicked the party into high gear. In the years that followed, the
rising nationalist project attracted many literary stars of the era.
Margaret Atwood’s SURVIVAL: A THEMATIC GUIDE TO CANADIAN LITERATURE
dates from this period. So do the numerous university and college Canlit
survey courses. The question "What is Canadian about Canadian
literature?" dominated many people’s minds. To find their
answers, most followed the thematic approach proposed by Atwood, herself
a student of Frye. Canadian literature was born; the Garrision Mentality
was defeated. Or so the story went.
The resulting irony, of course, is that at the same
time as many Amerian novelists were giving up on realism – or at least
challenging its outer boundaries – the strongest movement in Canadian
letters was the push to define a nation. Post-modern approaches to
literature could not aid in this effort; if fact, they tended to push in
the opposite direction, questioning the very existence of reality
itself. Thus the significance of post-modernism in Canadian letters has
been significantly underplayed. What is Canadian about it? Nothing. Then
how can it be of value to Canadian literature? The roots of this
conflict continue today, and it has taken on a generational tone, as the
younger generation of writers has abandoned the self-imposed duty of the
older generation of writers to define and defend the nation. Writers as
diverse as Michael Turner, Lynn Crosbie, Hal Niedzviecki, Natalie Caple,
and Tony Burgess have brought a renewed sense of urgency to literary
writing in Canada, and yet none have won any significant awards.
I started this essay with a story from my
undergraduate days as a youngster trying to learn how to write. Let’s
go back there for just a moment.
Like many young people, I thought of myself as a
writer because I felt a compulsion to mark up blank pages. The decision
to write was a recognition of an impulse inside: a recognition of an
inner drive, like the drive for food, or sex. I pursued my compulsion
the only way I knew how, writing confessional poetry at first, then
made-up narratives, blissfully unaware of the aesthetic and political
controversies I would soon confront. Such as being called a reactionary
because I had named J.D. Salinger as someone whose writing I wanted to
emulate. Like Holden Caulfield, the hero of Salinger’s THE CATCHER IN
THE RYE, I wanted to attach myself to what was real in the world. I had
no place for "phonies." I saw art as a means of transcending
the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I had no sense of
post-modernism or the writers I would soon come to admire: Salman
Rushdie, Milan Kundera, and Terry Southern. I had just read Jack Kerouac’s
ON THE ROAD, and I was filled with Kerouac’s Whitmanesque desire to
burn, burn, burn. The novel was dead? Impossible! But I soon learned
that in the bi-polar culture war world of the early-1990s sharp lines
were being drawn. To many – like my professor – if you questioned
the skepticism of the post-modernist position, you stood opposed to the
progressive evolution of the 20th century.
And the fact is, I’m sympathetic to this position,
as outrageous it sounds (and as ineptly presented as it was by my
professor). On the other hand, I believe literature’s greatest gift to
the world is the diversity of its riches. The novel is not dead (not
even the realistic novel; which will never die). In fact – surprise!
– there is little new about post-modernism, except its new schools of
jargon and ever finer intellectual abstractions. Everyone from
Cervantes, to Spenser, to Laurence Sterne qualify for the pomo All-Star
team. The narrative strategies often hailed as the invention of the
late-20th century crop of innovative writers have been around
for centuries. Milan Kundera makes this explicitly clear in his
excellent book-length essay, THE ART OF THE NOVEL.
The history of the novel has more than one line.
Even in Canada.
Kundera connects himself and other pomo writers like
Rushdie back through time to the Spanish great Cervantes. The other line
connects from Jane Austen, through Charles Dickens and the other
Victorians, to today’s realist apologists, perhaps most strongly
exemplified by Tom Wolfe and the other New Journalists. Each line is
legitimate, strong, vital, interesting, challenging, rich with narrative
potential, and a solid breeding ground for rewarding reading
experiences.
Why don’t we usually see the history of the novel in
Canada this way? The interference of nationalism in the literary process
is one reason. Another reason is that there are partisans on both sides
who refuse to include the other (my professor is a perfect example). The
extent to which we allow this to continue undermines our ability to both
understand our literary heritage and forcefully encourage the most
innovative of our up-and-comers. |
