EDIT: I apologize to Steven Moore for implying that he didn’t cite M.A. “Maximum Awesomeness” Doody in his book during the thread of comments beneath this posting. –PC, 7/13/2010
This “revisionist” history of the novel caught my eye at the Durham Borders a few weeks ago, both because of its newness and because of its not-newness. Continuum’s backflap description gives the flavor:
Encyclopedic in scope and heroically audacious, The Novel: An Alternative History is the first attempt in over a century to tell the complete story of our most popular literary form. Contrary to conventional wisdom, the novel did not originate in 18th-century England, nor even with Don Quixote, but is coeval with civilization itself. After a pugnacious introduction, in which Moore defends innovative, demanding novelists against their conservative critics, the book relaxes into a world tour of the premodern novel, beginning in ancient Egypt and ending in 16th-century China, with many exotic ports-of-call: Greek romances; Roman satires; medieval Sanskrit novels narrated by parrots; Byzantine erotic thrillers; 5000-page Arabian adventure novels; Icelandic sagas; delicate Persian novels in verse; Japanese war stories; even Mayan graphic novels. Throughout, Moore celebrates the innovators in fiction, tracing a continuum between these premodern experimentalists and their postmodern progeny.
First thought: Indeed, prose fiction did not begin with Cervantes or Defoe (the usual suspects). The idea that it did comes from some very old, and very flawed, larger ideas about history and aesthetics: that capitalism (or the Reformation) created a “new human subject,” rather than unfolding possibilities that were already inherent; that England reigns supreme; that the novel has one ideal form. It’s always good to see someone dispute this, loudly.
Second thought: And it’s also good to remind readers that “innovative fiction” (the blurb-writer’s euphemism for Pynchon and Wallace and other smartypants gameplayers) is hardly the twentieth-century perversion some critics seem to imagine it to be. Saying metafiction, self-referentiality, and magic realism are creations of modernity is like giving the credit for the invention of non-missionary-position sex to the online porn industry.
Third thought: But this case got argued beautifully by the academic and mystery writer Margaret Doody less than fifteen years ago, in one of the best nonfiction books I’ve ever read, in any category, period. Why didn’t anyone pay attention?
Fourth thought: And, great, the author is a Hitchensian doctrinaire religion-basher (based on the quotes I’ve seen; check the Open Letters review linked above), who hasn’t emerged from the epistemological solecism of thinking that there’s a specific brand of thinking that can be labeled “religious” and safely quarantined from everything else—a notion that makes even very smart people (such as former Review of Contemporary Fiction editors) sound like fifteen-year-olds to me.
Fifth thought: But, yet again, I’m going to have to read it anyway. Even if the Open Letters critic is dead right about the author’s hypocritical combination of hyperbolic judgmentality and hey-I’m-just-sayin’ defensiveness (which is a problem for this summer’s other big source of pronouncements on literature, David Shields). Even if the author can’t see the difference between the text of the Bible and what his mean aunt Gladys made of it. Even if the author is careless with his categories and changes horses in midstream. And even if he’s stealing the thunder from my gal-hero Doody, whose book is absolutely essential. Because in one of the reviews he’s quoted as having said this:
Reading Joyce, Barth, Pynchon, et al. is a treat, not a task; nor is it something one does (unless you’re a poseur) just to claim bragging rights afterward: at your next social gathering, try announcing you’ve just finished Hermann Broch’s Death of Virgil and see how far that gets you. These novels are admittedly not for everyone, but they are for some of us …
And that’s an axe I’ve been grinding forever. Bravo, guy.
Moore seems to have an infectious energy to his sweetness and light, when it comes to defending novel novels (and novelists). As much as I admire the rigor of critics like Myers, and now Donoghue — hell, I might as well throw you into their camp, too — there is still something to be said for the snap that compels the “make it new!” crowd. Perhaps we can allow for some self-indulgence if it also communicates an infectious lust for life?
Now that I think of it, it was your use of “skronking” that originally caught my eye. I guess that puts you in both camps.
But Doody IS listed in the index, with 7 page citations. What amazes me about some reviews I’ve seen is the number out outright lies I’ve seen; you can disagree with it, dislike it, but don’t lie about it.
If that’s true, then I apologize. I’ll double-check and yank the posting if you’re right. All I know is I looked for her and couldn’t find her.
Also, this is a bunch of scattered comments, not a “review.” Also, don’t accuse a person of “lying” based on an honest mistake. Also, nobody reads this blog, so, if I’m wrong, at least the leak is contained.
OK, if anyone’s paying attention: He does mention her in the General Index. It’s right there. I’m thankful that I made that mistake *in a comment* and not in the actual posting. I apologize to Steven Moore for the mistake, which I assure him was unintentional, and also, Dalkey rules. I’m still a little pissed that he accused me of lying, rather than just being wrong, but, on the other hand, I’d be touchy if someone misrepresented my ginormous work of literary history too (even in a comment thread).
I am now deleting my earlier comment because it’s wrong.