And, by extension, judging from the amount of white noise generated in the book world by Lee Siegel’s piece in the New York Observer, ‘Where Have All the Mailers Gone?’, one would wonder the same about the anglophone novel. Maybe, death is an exaggeration. How about ‘terminally ill’ or ‘comatose’ then?Most book people would have, by now, heard of critic Lee Siegel’s declaration of that American novel dead, though, anyone who has read his story will know, that is not exactly what he said. His assertion is: “ ... no one goes to a current novel or story for the ineffable private and public clarity fiction once provided ...” not because they don’t exist but because readers no longer consider them relevant. He says, “Without a doubt, the next male or female Hemingway, Faulkner or Fitzgerald is out there somewhere, hard at work,” but does anyone (meaning the public, not individuals) care?
Not surprisingly, most of the storm it has stirred up is in America with writers, critics and readers all taking up positions (or not, which is also one). The rest of the anglophone literary world looks on nervously, wondering nervously if the child is right, if the Emperor indeed has no clothes, that what they have been seeing has all been an illusion. The Daily Telegraph says defiantly, “People have been declaring the death of the novel ever since the first novelist, Petronius, held the first launch party 2,000 years ago, in Rome.” Bravado, wishful thinking, Dutch courage or whistling in the dark? Which is all understandable, of course, considering how scary the alternatives are, particularly to the status quo.
One of my best lecturers in engineering school was one Professor Chin. His advice for solving any problem was simple: “When in doubt, go back to first principles.” In the case of the book, I guess the basic question is, “Why do people read?” It sounds like a dumb question, but it isn’t. Why do people read? Indeed, why do I read? How did I start?
Okay. First, it was the story. Yes, it was always about the stories, and in them I could become whatever I wanted: a pirate, a private investigator, an adventurer, whales fighter, captain of a submarine, become invisible, defeat aliens ... oh God, the list was endless. Then, I discovered stories where one could learn interesting facts, often embedded within fiction, but sometimes outside of it. Still, it was always about the story, even when it was nonfiction. Third, was language, the deceptively simple but beautiful sentences, and turns of phrases, words that came to life. Finally, there were stories I read for what they said about me, about the world, about our condition, for the “ ... ineffable private and public clarity ...”
So, what happened? In the last few years, I have practically stopped reading anglophone writings, especially those from America, United Kingdom and India, except for a few by the ‘usual suspects’. They no longer set me on fire. They have become, largely, predictable and tiring. (Having said that, I admit I enjoyed the technique and inventiveness of Matthew Kneale, David Mitchell and Diana Setterfield.) The genre novels either insult your intelligence, or they are so fat due to padding that you have to skim and scan through them like you are reading a local newspaper. Anyway, they are written for fanboys and fangirls, not for normal people. As for the so called literary novels (yes, the boring, difficult ones), getting past the verbosity and onanistic excesses of the writers is becoming really exhausting, and there isn’t even a good story at the end of it, most of the time. (I end up skimming through them, too, if I don’t give up after ten pages.)
My favourite reads now are translated works. Yes, I can hear the collective groans. “But, so much is lost in translation,” you protest. I agree, but is that necessarily a bad thing, given the current state of the ‘literary’ genre? In translated works, I get to read and enjoy all the best European, South American, Caribbean, African, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, Vietnamese, Korean ... anything that’s available, without the dysentery (much of which, thankfully, is either lost in translation, or not there). In translation, I am able to enjoy pithy stories, well told, and still look at different cultures as they are and not what Hollywood (or anyone else) thinks they should be.
When released, was Hemingway classified as literary? Was Harper Lee considered commercial? So who killed (or is killing) the novel. The writers? Writers write what they feel compelled to write. Whether or not they get published is not in their hands. They are, certainly, no dumber than those from earlier generations. Readers? They read for entertainment. If it is too much work, they’ll weigh the benefit and cost, and switch. Also, they are easily exploited by cynical marketing. The gatekeepers? Driven by the dollar, agents and publishers have steadily reduced the book to FMCGs -- fast moving consumer goods -- no different from shoes. Nothing more, nothing less.
Is there no hope for anglophone fiction, then? One recent good news was the opening of a hundred new independent bookshops in the last two years in the UK. Another one is the refusal of St Martin’s Press to pay Janet Evanovich $50 million for her next four books. Greed has to be stopped somewhere. If more publishers do that, there is a chance that anglophone fiction will become relevant again.
There is only one hope for the anglophone novel (like for everything else): bio-diversity. We could do worse than have more (preferably, small) publishers releasing new writers, and let the readers decide. Since most small publishers are poor, perhaps the money men will go elsewhere and sell sugared water, groceries or something.
Is there another Hemingway or Harper Lee out there? I am certain there is. May an independent publisher discover them.
