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Mimesis and architectonics
Jul. 22nd, 2010 10:37 amThere is a post on Making Light regarding a review of Wilson's Julian Comstock and noting / taking issue with the parenthetical remark that
Now I agree wholeheartedly that in this day and age it is moderately silly to expect that in any random set of characters in a novel there won't be some gay (and bi, and TQI etc.) characters -- just because that's how distributions are in the real world. And it's silly to expect that everyone's sexuality will enter into being a plot point (at least at a level of popular fiction), because, again, most people's sexuality doesn't, in most novels. Only Shakepearian comedy has everyone pairing off at the end.
But I think there's a different point about expectation in reading poking through here. Let's imagine that the central character had, say, a degree in Classics in a book, and it's mentioned at some point, and never plays a role again. Is the author violating Chekhov's gun? Everyone has an education, but do we mention it if it's not a plot point?
Well, first of all, just to dispose of Chekhov, there's a distinction between a play and a novel. A play is very compressed: it has only a limited physical time to run, it's restricted in its forms of exposition (even if you add a Chorus, it's not the same thing as an omniscient narrator, or even a viewpoint character in tight third person), and it's space is limited. The classical unities have a reason, and even deliberate violations of them -- haring off to the seacoast of Bohemia and allowing a generation to pass between acts -- don't get around the limitations of the "two hours' traffic of our stage". A novel doesn't have those limitations. A novel can, if the author chooses, extend to multiple volumes and cover years and continents without strain. So details don't have to justify themselves.
But at a much more general level there are (at least) two not necessarily exclusive but different views of model literary works.
In one, art is there to imitate life, and as such it has all sorts of details and loose ends in it which don't necessarily contribute to anything other than the illusion of reality. It holds a mirror up to nature, and its success, in the end, is heavily influenced by the degree to which its illusion is convincing.
In another, a literary artifact is an artificial system where every single element is supposed to interact to feed into the overall design of the work. (In some views, which make for very pared-down works, every single element must be necessary to the work.) If the work reflects anything, it is Sidney's golden world, and not nature. (Aristoltle's defence against Plato's attack on literature -- that being an imitation of a shadow it was inferior to nature, being two steps away from the ideal -- was based on the claim that literature can reflect general truths and is not restricted by what actually happened. Sidney merges a Platonic view of ideas with an Aristotelian view of art...) Insisting that works make an argument (à la the claims for litterature engagée) is closely allied to this, except insofar as the design of the work is not completely self-contained but makes an external appeal to some other norm.
From the point of view of a critic adhering to the second school, having any detail present which does not contribute to the designed and intended effect of the work is a mark of artistic failure. But there are several questions such a critic should ask:
In other words, I think that the review misses the point on the novel, and that the parenthetical observation, while being off-kilter on its own, is an index into the more general problem with the review and not simply a survival of the outdated view that gay characters are so exceptional that their sexuality requires plot justification.
It is left as an exercise for the reader to determine where Ulysses fits into this -- I know all sorts of readings which identify small details and show how Joyce deliberately planted them for their effect, but it also has the reputation of being "lifelike". (Um, Oxen of the Sun, anyone?)
We are meant to see the tragedy of Julian Comstock as being the tragedy of America (though in that respect, his homosexuality seems an unnecessary distraction).To which PNH responds: 'Yes, it’s our old friend Unecessary Homosexuality! It’s okay for people to be gay, but they should be civilized about it and only actually do so when the plot shows up with a clipboard and says, “Okay, I need a gay person now, so be gay."'
Now I agree wholeheartedly that in this day and age it is moderately silly to expect that in any random set of characters in a novel there won't be some gay (and bi, and TQI etc.) characters -- just because that's how distributions are in the real world. And it's silly to expect that everyone's sexuality will enter into being a plot point (at least at a level of popular fiction), because, again, most people's sexuality doesn't, in most novels. Only Shakepearian comedy has everyone pairing off at the end.
But I think there's a different point about expectation in reading poking through here. Let's imagine that the central character had, say, a degree in Classics in a book, and it's mentioned at some point, and never plays a role again. Is the author violating Chekhov's gun? Everyone has an education, but do we mention it if it's not a plot point?
Well, first of all, just to dispose of Chekhov, there's a distinction between a play and a novel. A play is very compressed: it has only a limited physical time to run, it's restricted in its forms of exposition (even if you add a Chorus, it's not the same thing as an omniscient narrator, or even a viewpoint character in tight third person), and it's space is limited. The classical unities have a reason, and even deliberate violations of them -- haring off to the seacoast of Bohemia and allowing a generation to pass between acts -- don't get around the limitations of the "two hours' traffic of our stage". A novel doesn't have those limitations. A novel can, if the author chooses, extend to multiple volumes and cover years and continents without strain. So details don't have to justify themselves.
But at a much more general level there are (at least) two not necessarily exclusive but different views of model literary works.
In one, art is there to imitate life, and as such it has all sorts of details and loose ends in it which don't necessarily contribute to anything other than the illusion of reality. It holds a mirror up to nature, and its success, in the end, is heavily influenced by the degree to which its illusion is convincing.
In another, a literary artifact is an artificial system where every single element is supposed to interact to feed into the overall design of the work. (In some views, which make for very pared-down works, every single element must be necessary to the work.) If the work reflects anything, it is Sidney's golden world, and not nature. (Aristoltle's defence against Plato's attack on literature -- that being an imitation of a shadow it was inferior to nature, being two steps away from the ideal -- was based on the claim that literature can reflect general truths and is not restricted by what actually happened. Sidney merges a Platonic view of ideas with an Aristotelian view of art...) Insisting that works make an argument (à la the claims for litterature engagée) is closely allied to this, except insofar as the design of the work is not completely self-contained but makes an external appeal to some other norm.
From the point of view of a critic adhering to the second school, having any detail present which does not contribute to the designed and intended effect of the work is a mark of artistic failure. But there are several questions such a critic should ask:
- Is the theme of the work what the critic thinks it to be? If he/she has got hold of the wrong end of the stick, then of course details will not fit in -- but maybe that's a sign to go and revisit the major premise. (There's a big gap between "this is about America's decline" and "this is a transferral of the life of Julian the Apostate to a context where it can make implicit commentary on America today").
- Is the detail a deliberate comment on the theme? Bentley's editing of Paradise Lost is the classic example of a critic missing the point on any number of clearly deliberate details.
- Is the work of such a quality/type that one should expect perfect adherence to the ideal? After all, um, it's a popular novel, not a candidate for entry to the Pléiade. Actually, very few works of fiction aspire to being perfect works of literary craft, and most readers don't want to have to pay all that attention that such works demand. There's a legitimate place for the large number of works that are produced on the basis that "No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money".
- Does the artist agree with that view of artistic goals? It's a little wide of the point to note that Trollope's novels are "loose, baggy monsters" from a construction point of view when they are clearly successful enough to have lasted well over a century of active reading. Jonson's disdain for Shakespeare's failure to observe the unities hasn't kept them from being considered major works of art. Is the Dance to the Music of Time a candidate for the serious literature category? It certainly doesn't work on the "every detail finely contributes to a single theme" model.
In other words, I think that the review misses the point on the novel, and that the parenthetical observation, while being off-kilter on its own, is an index into the more general problem with the review and not simply a survival of the outdated view that gay characters are so exceptional that their sexuality requires plot justification.
It is left as an exercise for the reader to determine where Ulysses fits into this -- I know all sorts of readings which identify small details and show how Joyce deliberately planted them for their effect, but it also has the reputation of being "lifelike". (Um, Oxen of the Sun, anyone?)
