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The hysteric moment

Novelists have increasingly faced the challenge of trying to compete with a culture that is a step ahead of them.

Just before Christmas five years ago, I spent an afternoon in the company of the novelist Zadie Smith and the literary critic James Wood (then of the New Republic, now of the New Yorker). I'd been asked by another magazine to oversee a conversation between Smith and Wood on "the future of the novel and the function of criticism". The idea was that they would continue a public colloquy that had begun in 2002, after Wood wrote a withering and pitiless review of Smith's second novel, The Autograph Man.

Wood had found the novel to be little more than a tissue of "smirking epigraphs" fatally in thrall to the example of American writers such as Dave Eggers and the late David Foster Wallace, of whom he mostly disapproved. Eggers and Wallace were practitioners of something he called "hysterical realism" and their novels burned brightly with an unnourishing sub-Dickensian dazzle. These were smart guys writing big, ambitious books that tried to do nothing less than pin down and analyse an entire culture. And while they were busy practising cultural theory by fictional means, the novel's traditional quarries of character and consciousness got left behind. (In fact, Wallace's case was much more complicated than Wood tended to make it seem, and he actually shared many of the critic's misgivings about the moral and aesthetic legacy of postmodernism, of which hysterical realism could be said to be a variant or tributary.)

By Wood's account, the "hysterical realist" novel - the novel of "information" which can't decide if its job is simply to reflect the cognitive superabundance of life under late capitalism or, as they say in seminar rooms from Berkeley to Bloomsbury, to critique it - had, by the early 2000s, become one of, if not the, dominant mode in British and American fiction. And The Autograph Man, whose protagonist is a half-Chinese, half-Jewish dealer in the signatures of dead celebrities, faithfully mimics its most distinctive narrative tics - Smith is always pointing out, for instance, "that her characters, on the brink of a momentous access of feeling, are undermined by their sense that they are not ­being original, that TV has preceded them". An observation, Wood suggested, that it "may be time to retire".

That same afternoon, Smith told me that she had taken Wood's review "to heart" - and, indeed, you could see signs of this in several of the critical essays she wrote during this period for the Guardian and the New York Review of Books. These were much more likely to cite E M Forster than David Foster Wallace. There were further indications of this shift in her third novel, On Beauty, published in 2005, which was altogether more decorous than either The Autograph Man or her debut, White Teeth, and which she described as a "homage" to Forster (the book borrows its structure explicitly from Howards End). Now she and Wood were in agreement: "the culture [was] doing strange things to novels". Smith confessed that she found the "idea that you can't write a book without it being put through the processing machine of culture really quite frightening".

So, this was the sound of a generation dis­covering for itself a predicament described by Philip Roth in a celebrated essay published more than 40 years earlier, where he'd written that "the actuality is continually outdoing our talents, and the culture tosses up figures almost daily that are the envy of any novelist". For both Smith and Wood, none of their contemporaries had come closer to properly articulating these anxieties for the early 21st century than the American writer Jonathan Franzen. His sprawling third novel, The Corrections, published in 2001, was in part the product of several years' worth of agonised reflections on the place of fiction in a culture that was increasingly and aggressively indifferent to it.

In 1996, Franzen had written an essay for Harper's magazine, "Perchance to Dream", the arguments of which continued to reverberate in a certain stratum of the literary intelligentsia on both sides of the Atlantic in the early years of the new century. The "Harper's essay", as it became known, was both a 20-page howl of despair at the decline of the big, ambitious "social novel" that connects the personal with the societal and a kind of renunciation, in which Franzen declared that in fact the very idea of writing fiction which sought to "engage" with the culture should be given up, now that there are technologies - film and television, principally - that "do a much better job of social instruction".

That culture is so grossly productive of novelties that to engage with it, Franzen concluded, was to "risk writing fiction that [made] the same point over and over: technological consumerism is an infernal machine, technological consumerism is an infernal machine . . ." If the improving ­mission of the novel of social instruction was at an end, what was left was the solace of "sentences of such authenticity that refuge can be taken in them".

The Harper's essay wasn't merely programmatic, however. Much of its considerable interest lay in its account of the genesis of The Corrections (indeed, few reviewers were able to resist using the piece as a lens through which to view the novel). Franzen recalled being "para­lysed" with what would become The Corrections. "I was torturing the story, stretching it to accommodate ever more of those things-in-the-world that impinge on the enterprise of fiction writing." He found that he couldn't help bulking up his "story" until it became "bloated with issues". Liberation, he implied, arrived once he realised he wasn't obliged to dramatise the "important issues of the day".

But The Corrections is not wholly successful in extricating itself from the horns of this di­lemma. Franzen found that it was much harder to give up the impulse to anatomise the culture than the Harper's essay had implied. And his failure to do so was symptomatic. "There are certain places in that novel," Smith said, "and I know I've written them myself in my novels, where the engagement is not with the novel as an organic form, with the characters, with the story, but is a matter of coming straight up to face the writer. It's not the novel I want to write and it's maybe not the novel a lot of people want to read any more. If the novel is going to stake its claim to being a separate part of the culture, then it needs not to be direct commentary."

It is tempting, in retrospect, to read those remarks of Smith's as setting out a programme - one that comes to fruition in "Two Directions for the Novel", an essay included in her most recent book, Changing My Mind. Here she describes Tom McCarthy's intricate, allegorical novel Remainder as an attempt to answer the question of how fiction might stake its claim to being a "separate part of the culture". But it is not clear from this how far she, and we, have travelled, because the dichotomy Smith presents - between the realist novel and the self-enclosed allegory - is pretty much the same one that Franzen was trying to think his way out of at the start of the decade.

Jonathan Derbyshire is culture editor of the New Statesman

Jonathan Derbyshire is Managing Editor of Prospect. He was formerly Culture Editor of the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 14 December 2009 issue of the New Statesman, The Muslim Jesus

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The New Times: Brexit, globalisation, the crisis in Labour and the future of the left

With essays by David Miliband, Paul Mason, John Harris, Lisa Nandy, Vince Cable and more.

Once again the “new times” are associated with the ascendancy of the right. The financial crash of 2007-2008 – and the Great Recession and sovereign debt crises that were a consequence of it – were meant to have marked the end of an era of runaway “turbocapitalism”. It never came close to happening. The crash was a crisis of capitalism but not the crisis of capitalism. As Lenin observed, there is “no such thing as an absolutely hopeless situation” for capitalism, and so we discovered again. Instead, the greatest burden of the period of fiscal retrenchment that followed the crash was carried by the poorest in society, those most directly affected by austerity, and this in turn has contributed to a deepening distrust of elites and a wider crisis of governance.

Where are we now and in which direction are we heading?

Some of the contributors to this special issue believe that we have reached the end of the “neoliberal” era. I am more sceptical. In any event, the end of neoliberalism, however you define it, will not lead to a social-democratic revival: it looks as if, in many Western countries, we are entering an age in which centre-left parties cannot form ruling majorities, having leaked support to nationalists, populists and more radical alternatives.

Certainly the British Labour Party, riven by a war between its parliamentary representatives and much of its membership, is in a critical condition. At the same time, Jeremy Corbyn’s leadership has inspired a remarkable re-engagement with left-wing politics, even as his party slumps in the polls. His own views may seem frozen in time, but hundreds of thousands of people, many of them young graduates, have responded to his anti-austerity rhetoric, his candour and his shambolic, unspun style.

The EU referendum, in which as much as one-third of Labour supporters voted for Brexit, exposed another chasm in Labour – this time between educated metropolitan liberals and the more socially conservative white working class on whose loyalty the party has long depended. This no longer looks like a viable election-winning coalition, especially after the collapse of Labour in Scotland and the concomitant rise of nationalism in England.

In Marxism Today’s “New Times” issue of October 1988, Stuart Hall wrote: “The left seems not just displaced by Thatcherism, but disabled, flattened, becalmed by the very prospect of change; afraid of rooting itself in ‘the new’ and unable to make the leap of imagination required to engage the future.” Something similar could be said of the left today as it confronts Brexit, the disunities within the United Kingdom, and, in Theresa May, a prime minister who has indicated that she might be prepared to break with the orthodoxies of the past three decades.

The Labour leadership contest between Corbyn and Owen Smith was largely an exercise in nostalgia, both candidates seeking to revive policies that defined an era of mass production and working-class solidarity when Labour was strong. On matters such as immigration, digital disruption, the new gig economy or the power of networks, they had little to say. They proposed a politics of opposition – against austerity, against grammar schools. But what were they for? Neither man seemed capable of embracing the “leading edge of change” or of making the imaginative leap necessary to engage the future.

So is there a politics of the left that will allow us to ride with the currents of these turbulent “new times” and thus shape rather than be flattened by them? Over the next 34 pages 18 writers, offering many perspectives, attempt to answer this and related questions as they analyse the forces shaping a world in which power is shifting to the East, wars rage unchecked in the Middle East, refugees drown en masse in the Mediterranean, technology is outstripping our capacity to understand it, and globalisation begins to fragment.

— Jason Cowley, Editor 

Tom Kibasi on what the left fails to see

Philip Collins on why it's time for Labour to end its crisis

John Harris on why Labour is losing its heartland

Lisa Nandy on how Labour has been halted and hollowed out

David Runciman on networks and the digital revolution

John Gray on why the right, not the left, has grasped the new times

Mariana Mazzucato on why it's time for progressives to rethink capitalism

Robert Ford on why the left must reckon with the anger of those left behind

Ros Wynne-Jones on the people who need a Labour government most

Gary Gerstle on Corbyn, Sanders and the populist surge

Nick Pearce on why the left is haunted by the ghosts of the 1930s

Paul Mason on why the left must be ready to cause a commotion

Neal Lawson on what the new, 21st-century left needs now

Charles Leadbeater explains why we are all existentialists now

John Bew mourns the lost left

Marc Stears on why democracy is a long, hard, slow business

Vince Cable on how a financial crisis empowered the right

David Miliband on why the left needs to move forward, not back

This article first appeared in the 22 September 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The New Times