E L Doctorow in 2007. Photo: Getty
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E L Doctorow and the limits of historical fiction

What do J P Morgan, Sigmund Freud and Kim Kardashian all have in common with E L Doctorow? A hazy relationship between fact and fiction, that's what.

“History is a battlefield. It’s constantly being fought over because the past controls the present. History is the present. That’s why every generation writes it anew.”

-EL Doctorow in conversation with The Paris Review (1989)

E L Doctorow died this week in hospital, an event that marked a major loss on the American literary scene. The acute awareness of history that Doctorow harbored stretches far beyond this interview with The Paris Review, and permeated the heart of his writing.

Ragtime, one of Doctorow’s best-known novels, is written in the grey area between history and fiction. The characters are easily recognisable as crucial figures in American history: Harry Houdini, Emma Goldman, Henry Ford, JP Morgan, Evelyn Nesbitt, Booker T. Washington, Sigmund Freud and Archduke Franz Ferdinand all feature.

Even before picking up the novel, we know them. We know them from the TV, from history books, from the radio, from newspapers. These are characters that come with baggage.

Yet it doesn’t quite add up.

With historical fiction, there is an expectation that the author sticks to events as we know them. But what Doctorow does is take history, and “writes it anew”, making characters interact in ways that don’t align to fact. Evelyn Nesbitt, the notoriously beautiful New York socialite, becomes the accomplice of revolutionary Emma Goldman. Even more disorientating is when she becomes the lover of a strictly fictional character – Mother’s Younger Brother.

Fiction, unlike history, explores what might have happened, not what actually has happened. “Doctorow's way with historical characters is in line with this idea,” says Matthew Reynolds, Professor of English and Comparative Literature at Oxford University. “He gets to know Henry Ford or Emma Goldman through their recorded actions and then wonders what those characters might have done in a fictional situation.”

“I think my vision of J P Morgan, for instance, is more accurate to the soul of that man than his authorized biography,” Doctorow tells The Paris Review.

This is similar to what Zadie Smith has done with her recent short story “Escape from New York”. It was published in the New Yorker in June, and tells the story of Michael Jackson, Elizabeth Taylor and Marlon Brando as they escape from the city on the day of 9/11. The story is based on a rumour (that was even reported in the Guardian), but that is now generally accepted to have been made up.

In much the same way as Doctorow, Smith is able to use her knowledge of the characters from TV and newspapers to fuel her fiction in a way that feels inventive and fresh.  

“The joy of ‘Escape from New York’, for me,” she says, “was exactly that I didn’t need to do the hours of fact-checking and biographical accuracy the Profile required: I could just work like a fiction writer again. This involved asking myself totally irresponsible questions like, “Well, what do you imagine Brando was like?” And then answering such questions to my own satisfaction.”

Smith’s characterisation is extremely funny. Liz Taylor whines along to Les Miserables in the back seat. Michael Jackson has an emotional moment in the fast food joint they stop at. Marlon Brando, that gorgeous beast, spouts poetry and eats chicken wings.

Both Doctorow and Smith use history in a way that feels jarring. They challenge our expectations of this broad and slippery genre of “historical fiction”, mixing fact and fiction in a way that feels both scandalous and highly inventive.

The experience of reading historical fiction works in a similar way to that of watching reality TV shows. Where historical fiction mixes fact and fiction in the past, reality TV does much the same thing in the present.

Shows like Keeping Up With The Kardashians invite you to believe that these are real people. But behind it all, it is difficult to shake the sense that there are writers plotting the script and the storylines at every moment. There are times when the stories become so contrived that our belief is broken, and the fiction blares through.

The very premise of reality TV lies in this no man’s land between fact and fiction. It is real enough to be fascinating, but with enough fiction to drive stories and series to their bitter end.

Both reality TV and historical fiction work on a kind of suspended belief. They demand an audience that is prepared to accept any artistic liscence. By working in this grey area between the true and false, they operate in a way that is as disloating as it is entertaining.

Marc Brenner
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Carey Mulligan is oddly unemotional in Dennis Kelly’s powerful new play, Girls & Boys

If you intend to see Girls & Boys, don’t read this review.

If you intend to see Girls & Boys, then you should do two things. First, come back to this review: it’s a production best seen with no preconceptions. Second: have a child.

Still here? Good, because there is no way to discuss this play without spoiling its big reveal. It opens with Carey Mulligan centre stage, in orange shirt and red trousers, against set designer Es Devlin’s boxy backdrop of purest cyan. It’s a palette favoured by Hollywood posters, because the contrast is so striking. (Van Gogh once used it on a still life of crabs.) Mulligan’s unnamed narrator tells us how she met her husband, who is only ever “he”. Her monologue starts off funny – “Paris? Call that a world city? It’s Leeds with wider streets” – and sexually frank, but it’s also cleverly disconcerting.

She met him in an Easyjet queue and “took an instant dislike to the man”. Why? Because he was obliviously buried in a book – or because of his interaction with two models, who tried to queuejump by feigning sexual interest to stand next to him? (“And he’s just like, well of course… but I get to sleep with one of you, right?”) One of the models snottily tells him that she would never sleep with a Normal like him, and he acknowledges the truth of this. Then he calls them “bitches” for playing with his feelings, makes a chivalrous speech about the transcendence of loving sex, and suggests that sleeping with them would be “necrophilia… wanking into a pretty dress”. The temptation is to cheer – he put those stuck-up cows in their place! – and I wondered if my disquiet was evidence I’ve gone full Millie Tant. (Beware men who think there are some women to whom it’s OK to be sexist.)

But no. The husband is indeed a wrong ‘un. Mulligan’s monologues are interspersed with role-plays against another pure-cyan set; a living room, with details – a sippy cup, a blanket – again picked out in orange. She chides her children, Leanne and Danny, talking to the empty air about their petty squabbles. And then, halfway through the 90-minute running time, comes the punch: “I know they’re not here by the way. My children… I know they’re dead.” My mind went instantly to a routine by Louis CK. “A woman saying yes to a date with a man is literally insane,” the comedian says. “Globally and historically, we’re the number one cause of injury and mayhem to women. If you’re a guy, imagine you could only date a half-bear-half-lion.”

The narrator’s story, of a relationship going sour, is achingly familiar. Her burgeoning career, and growing confidence; the failure of his business, and his consequent loss of status. She asks for a divorce. He tells her: “There will never come a time when you have my kids and I don’t.” One night, he sweet-talks his way past the babysitter and twists a knife into little Danny’s heart, guiding it in with his thumbnail, before stabbing Leanne eight times. (Mulligan marks each wound on her body.) He tries to kill himself.

My friends with kids tell me that giving birth rewired them, leaving them reluctant to watch any drama with children in peril. To me, Mulligan seemed oddly unemotional in recounting these horrors; but perhaps a parent’s imagination would supply all the horror required.

Is it a coincidence that this play had its premiere at the Royal Court, where artistic director Vicky Featherstone has led the theatre world’s response to a reckoning with sexual harassment? Her code of conduct outlines potentially abusive behaviour, from the obvious – “physical force or threat of force, for sexual action” – to the situational: “staring, meaningful glances”. Yet Dennis Kelly’s script, which depicts one poison drop of sexism blossoming into a manifestation of the most extreme masculine rage, shows how difficult such behaviour is to police. When should the narrator have seen the danger? How can women sort the good from the bad?

In an industry convulsed by a feminist reckoning, I was left wondering if a female playwright would have dared to write lines as starkly confrontational as the narrator’s conclusion: “We didn’t create society for men. We created it to stop men.”

Girls & Boys runs until 17 March.

Helen Lewis is deputy editor of the New Statesman. She regularly appears on BBC Radio 4’s Week in Westminster and the News Quiz, and BBC1’s Sunday Politics. 

This article first appeared in the 22 February 2018 issue of the New Statesman, Sunni vs Shia