Jonathan Coe and Justin Cartwright: Fictional prime time

The British novel, at its best, is engaged, liberal, highly informed, secular, sceptical and above all humane.

Author Jonathan Coe
 
One of the few things that makes life bearable nowadays is that we have so many good novels to comfort us. This profusion of world-class British fiction is something we take for granted. But we are better at it than making cars, fighting wars, playing football or doing the tango. We have talent. 
 
Fiction, as statistics confirm, is booming bigger every year. Newspaper circulations dwindle by 10 per cent per annum. Anglican church attendance, per nave, has probably sunk below the two spinsters cycling through the morning mist about whom John Major used to get dewy-eyed. University philosophy departments are closing. Modern languages departments will accept people with Cs. But English departments turn away more people than they can take in. If you interview applicants, as I did for 30 years, you will find that most of them are banging at your door because they “love literature”, which usually means inspirational novels or novelists.
 
My own belief code, so to call it, was formed in my undergraduate years, during a period in history when D H Lawrence was God. For me, the meaning of life was “affirmed” (we loved that sub-Leavisite word) by the beginning of The Rainbow: the men delving in the rich soil, the women – antennae of the race – mystically regarding the spire on the distant horizon. It made the affirmation stronger that the novel had come to one through the flames of censorship.
 
My brain has never been big enough for Wittgenstein, quantum mechanics or an Althusserian-correct reading of Das Kapital. Deconstruction (like Italian) I can read but not talk. I look at OUP’s Very Short Introduction drum-rack and sigh. Not even if they were shrunk to the size of an intellectual aspirin tablet could I master those subjects.
 
Most of what I know about science comes from science fiction and history from historical romance. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. The British novel, at its best, is engaged, liberal, highly informed, secular, sceptical and above all humane. On the side of life, as we Lawrentians used to say. My long life has been a foretaste of that heaven the Frenchman described – a soft sofa and an endless supply of new novels. I’d thank the owner of heaven, if I believed in him (the English novel largely doesn’t).
 
The two novelists under review are at their strong mid-career points: novels behind them, novels in front of them. Justin Cartwright’s last novel, Other People’s Money, is the best seminar in print on the supranational grand larcency that damn near did for us all in 2008. Having done Mammon, Cartwright has now turned to the vexatious issue of God. Logical.
 
His protagonist, Richard Cathar, was so renamed by his hippie, professionally droppedout father, before he prematurely “shed his vehicle” to join Timothy Leary up there in the infinite. Having taken a brilliant history degree from Oxford and broken up with his partner, Cathar follows the nominal signpost his dad has lumbered him with and sets off to find what happened to the “True Cross”, the last genuine relic of Calvary.
 
The narrative thereafter runs on two lines, denoted by italic and Roman script, respectively. One plotline is a chronicle, which turns into an Ivanhoe-like fantasia, on the life, battles and death of Richard the Lionheart and his campaigns to rescue the Holy Land and the Holy Cross for Christianity.
 
The pivotal scene is a conversation between Cathar and his wise old tutor, who tells him that archaeology and historical research are dead ends – the path to truth is imagination. Write a novel, he advises. Cathar’s quest takes him to Jerusalem, where Christianity began and where the world, when it finally explodes, might well end. In between, he gets a lot of sex and finally finds a mate and some home truths about Dad.
 
I can recommend this book as a good history lesson and two rattling good stories. Most important, it’s a convincing apologia for what it is.
 
Expo 58 offers a different kind of history lesson. Jonathan Coe is the David Kynaston of fiction, forever cranking up his time machine to travel back to some past decade (memorably the 1970s in The Rotters’ Club). His latest title alludes to the 1958 World’s Fair in Belgium where grotesquely – or presciently – Britain chose to construct a pub between the super-potent pavilions of the US and the USSR called the Britannia.
 
Coe, who has two doctorates in literature, is manifestly, at a deep subtextual level, interrogating the Bakhtinian notion of the carnivalesque (I throw that in for anyone contemplating the inevitable PhD on Coe).
 
Coe’s Pooterish hero, Thomas Foley – a selfconfessed deeply confused man – is seconded to Brussels by the Central Office of Information to keep tabs on the Britannia. Off the marital leash – he gets caught up in the great games of the cold war – and adventures ensue. He, too, is gamed, as he ultimately discovers. But, as we used to say in the 1950s, he finally gets his end away. A bit of the other. Something on the side. His oats.
 
When Walter Scott invented the historical romance with Waverley, he subtitled his pioneer work ’Tis Sixty Years Since. It indicates “lifespan”, after which point the eyewitness memory fades away. Coe was born in 1961. In 1958, while Jonathan was still a sparkle in his mother’s eye, I was doing my national service. As Kurt Vonnegut recurrently interjects during Slaughterhouse-Five, “I was there.”
 
The plot hinges on one of the great ignes fatui (along with the Tanganyika groundnut scheme and the Brabazon airliner) of the 1950s. “Zeta” (zero-energy thermonuclear assembly) was proclaimed with screaming tabloid eurekas as a machine – British to its atomic core – that would extract energy from seawater and save the world. And it was so displayed at the Belgian festivities. Halfway through, it was exposed as unscientific bollocks, like Jonathan Swift’s Lagadans trying to extract sunbeams from cucumbers.
 
Coe inserts the necessary date markers: the Aldermaston marches, striped Crest toothpaste, Sputnik. And, neatly, the denouement turns on the internal architecture of a Smith’s Crisps packet. The historical fabric is, to my ancient eye, sound. Expo 58 is a jolly good novel; or, if you like, a good jolly novel.
 
Life, alas, is too short to read all the good novels and, who knows, at the rate good fiction is coming out in Britain, eternity might not be long enough. Wallow gratefully. 
 
John Sutherland’s “A Little History of Literature” will be published in October by Yale University Press 
Author Jonathan Coe. Image: Getty

This article first appeared in the 16 September 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Syria: The deadly stalemate

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Donald Trump wants to terminate the Environmental Protection Agency - can he?

"Epa, Epa, Eeeepaaaaa" – Grampa Simpson.

 

There have been countless jokes about US President Donald Trump’s aversion to academic work, with many comparing him to an infant. The Daily Show created a browser extension aptly named “Make Trump Tweets Eight Again” that converts the font of Potus’ tweets to crayon scrawlings. Indeed, it is absurd that – even without the childish font – one particular bill that was introduced within the first month of Trump taking office looked just as puerile. Proposed by Matt Gaetz, a Republican who had been in Congress for barely a month, “H.R. 861” was only one sentence long:

“The Environmental Protection Agency shall terminate on December 31, 2018”.

If this seems like a stunt, that is because Gaetz is unlikely to actually achieve his stated aim. Drafting such a short bill without any co-sponsors – and leaving it to a novice Congressman to present – is hardly the best strategy to ensure a bill will pass. 

Still, Republicans' distrust for environmental protections is well-known - long-running cartoon show The Simpsons even did a send up of the Epa where the agency had its own private army. So what else makes H.R. 861 implausible?

Well, the 10-word-long statement neglects to address the fact that many federal environmental laws assume the existence of or defer to the Epa. In the event that the Epa was abolished, all of these laws – from the 1946 Atomic Energy Act to the 2016 Frank R. Lautenberg Chemical Safety for the 21st Century Act – would need to be amended. Preferably, a way of doing this would be included in the bill itself.

Additionally, for the bill to be accepted in the Senate there would have to be eight Democratic senators who agreed with its premise. This is an awkward demand when not even all Republicans back Trump. The man Trum appointed to the helm of the Epa, Scott Pruitt, is particularly divisive because of his long opposition to the agency. Republican Senator Susan Collins of Maine said that she was hostile to the appointment of a man who was “so manifestly opposed to the mission of the agency” that he had sued the Epa 14 times. Polls from 2016 and 2017 suggests that most Americans would be also be opposed to the agency’s termination.

But if Trump is incapable of entirely eliminating the Epa, he has other ways of rendering it futile. In January, Potus banned the Epa and National Park Services from “providing updates on social media or to reporters”, and this Friday, Trump plans to “switch off” the government’s largest citizen-linked data site – the Epa’s Open Data Web Service. This is vital not just for storing and displaying information on climate change, but also as an accessible way of civilians viewing details of local environmental changes – such as chemical spills. Given the administration’s recent announcement of his intention to repeal existing safeguards, such as those to stabilise the climate and protect the environment, defunding this public data tool is possibly an attempt to decrease awareness of Trump’s forthcoming actions.

There was also a recent update to the webpage of the Epa's Office of Science and Technology, which saw all references to “science-based” work removed, in favour of an emphasis on “national economically and technologically achievable standards”. 

Trump’s reshuffle of the Epa's priorities puts the onus on economic activity at the expense of public health and environmental safety. Pruitt, who is also eager to #MakeAmericaGreatAgain, spoke in an interview of his desire to “exit” the 2015 Paris Climate Agreement. He was led to this conclusion because of his belief that the agreement means “contracting our economy to serve and really satisfy Europe, and China, and India”.

 

Rather than outright closure of the Epa, its influence and funding are being leached away. H.R. 861 might be a subtle version of one of Potus’ Twitter taunts – empty and outrageous – but it is by no means the only way to drastically alter the Epa’s landscape. With Pruitt as Epa Administrator, the organisation may become a caricature of itself – as in The Simpsons Movie. Let us hope that the #resistance movements started by “Rogue” Epa and National Parks social media accounts are able to stave off the vultures until there is “Hope” once more.

 

Anjuli R. K. Shere is a 2016/17 Wellcome Scholar and science intern at the New Statesman

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