The Reading Experience

Maybe I'm Just a Bad Person

According to Elif Shafaf, fiction "encourages empathy, oneness, pluralism, wisdom and understanding, especially in these awfully fractured times."

I think of all the fiction I have read and ask myself how often what I have read made me think I was accomplishing one of these goals.

Never have I actually experienced empathy, because empathy is something you feel for actual people, and there are no people in fiction at all, only words. Sometimes a work encourages me to share an illusion that people are present, but I am also unable to experience empathy with an illusion.  A work of fiction, at least a work of realistic fiction, attempts to create a representation of human experience, but even if I agree to feel empathy for a particular representation of such experience, I would only be deceiving myself if I pretended that some real act of empathy for real people has occurred.

I am not exactly sure what "oneness" is supposed to mean--I presume some sense of solidarity with my fellow humans--but again it would be extremely weird to think that in reading a work of fiction and its various representations I am experiencing oneness with anyone or anything. Reading fiction is in fact a private, isolating experience, and I am perfectly happy with that isolation if it allows me to intimately connect with a work of art. (So much for "pluralism" as well.)

It is possible that my many years of reading fiction has produced wisdom in me, but this would be wisdom about how to read fiction with more satisfaction and pleasure. If I am supposed to be an example of how fiction has made someone a "wise" person outside of this special context, God help us all.

I assume wisdom is associated with "understanding." Here I can't say that reading fiction has helped me to understand it better, because each work of fiction actually makes different demands on my ability to comprehend what I am reading. If it doesn't do this, if it's easy to understand, that's because it's just a repeat of other works I have read, and this is isn't helpful to me at all. (In fact, I have probably stopped reading it, anyway.) What I can say about the best fiction I have read over what is now many, many (many) years, is that these works have helped me to understand that we will never understand why human beings are as they are and do what they do. (Now that I think of it, if this is actually wisdom, maybe I am wise, after all.)

Maybe I am just a bad person. I know that many other smart and well-meaning people believe that fiction exists to accomplish all of these virtuous tasks (and I guess have made them virtuous), but they all seem to me to transform fiction into bathos and hokum. For some reason, I have a deep-seated aversion to hokum.

 

British Experimental Fiction

For American readers, in considering the development of "experimental" fiction during the 1960s and after, we are most likely to focus mainly on American writers- the postmodernists and their successors (the latter probably less well-known than the first generation of postmodernists such as John Barth or Robert Coover.)  In this domain of English-language fiction, British writers have been less dominant, with fewer "name" writers or specific groups inclined to develop experimental forms or challenge stylistic norms, to the point that many readers (and critics) no doubt assume that postwar British fiction did not really produce a notable contingent of experimental writers of fiction. 

Joe Darlington's The Experimentalists (2022) informs us that the view that British fiction ought not to encompass such a practice was (and likely still is) an article of belief within British literary culture itself. The Experimentalists unequivocally confirms the existence in 1960s England of not just a few barmy writers dabbling in experimentation here and there but a quite cohesive group of writers seriously committed to experimental writing who recognized each other as fellow travelers on the experimental path and, for a few years, at least, established a network of reinforcement that attempted to instill some respect for experimental writing in the staid confines of a stuffy literary culture. But the resistance was considerable. In that literary culture in the early 1960s, "many readers and writers had sourced on literary experiment and sought a return to Victorian values" Indeed, "writers like C..P. Snow, Angus Wilson, and Kingsley Amis trod a path that. . .would later [be] describe{d} as 'neo-Victorian,' novels about moral conflicts, usually involving an institution of the establishment such as universities and government departments." Experimentalism was "decadent" and un-British.

This situation was especially frustrating to B.S. Johnson, probably the best-known of the British experimentalists. (Darlington also includes lengthy discussions of Anthony Burgess and Angela Carter, although neither of them were really part of the self-identified group of experimental writers, for whom Johnson, as well as, perhaps, Ann Quin, stand as the representative figures.) If there was a revolutionary voice among the group, ready to defend the cause to the unconverted, it was Johnson, which, as a result, gave him a reputation for being strident and, at times, unpleasant, even to his ostensible friends and allies. Johnson was also arguably the most financially successful of the experimentalists, although Quin's Berg (1964) also did quite well, even though his experiments were probably the most audacious--in particular, his infamous The Unfortunates (1969), the "book in a box," consisting of separately bound sections which can be shuffled in any order the reader wishes. The failure of the experimental movement to extend itself much beyond the early 1970s strongly contributed to Johnson's suicide in 1973, which unfortunately kept his published legacy fairly small: six published novels during his lifetime, plus one posthumous novel, as well as some poems and nonfiction.

Johnson's suicide, of course, followed shortly on that of Ann Quin, whose experimental ambitions were perhaps as bold as Johnson's but whose mental fragility ultimately prevented her from fully realizing those ambitions (four published novels, plus a posthumous book containing a novella and some stories (see my review of the latter). Her Berg may have been the first novel to really call public attention to the rise of a new experimental novel in the U.K., but she was never really able to follow it up with work that was equally successful, either commercially or critically. Her story as cumulatively told by Darlington is a pretty sad one. Although the nature of her mental illness seems never to have been quite diagnosed, she lived a life marked by periods of restless exploration followed by a collapse into confusion and uncertainty Her work may have been the attempt to integrate her psychological experience in a way that avoided conventional expression but that achieved its own artistic order nonetheless. Both the formal devices she employed and many of her characters seek a more adequate means of organizing an unstable reality.

Darlington's account includes numerous other writers either loosely or more directly allied with an emergent movement of which Johnson and Quin are the most visible representatives. Among them are Brigid Brophy, Alan Burns (a close friend of Quin's and author of The Angry Brigade), Giles Gordon, and Maureen Duffy. (Most of these writers are also discussed in Francis Booth's Amongst Those Left: The Experimental Novel 1940-1980, published in 2012. Booth's book is much longer and more discursive than Darlington's, but it also features such writers as Anna Kavan, Nicholas Mosley, and Rosalind Belben, all of whose work surely has some salience to postwar British experimentalism.) Darlington also devotes substantial attention to Eva Figes and Christine Brooke-Rose, the latter of whom surely belongs on any list of important 20th century experimental writers in any language. These discussions of  writers such as Figes and Brooke-Rose (and obviously Quin) underline the centrality of women writers to the British experimental movement of the 1960s, a phenomenon that significantly contrasts with the postmodern episode in American fiction during the same period. Almost all of the major figures associated with the initial wave of postmodernists were male, although in their immediate wake (70s and 80s), notable women experimental writers certainly did begin to assert themselves. Women seem to have been at forefront of literary experiment in the U.K., and most of them saw their commitment to experiment in fiction as closely connected to their noncomformity as feminists.

In general, the British experimentalists saw their unconventional fiction as a manifestation of their broadly radical politics much more directly than the American postmodernists did. This is a conceptual difference that continues to characterize approaches to experimental fiction. For those, like many of the British writers, the disruptiveness to established practice represented by experiment in the literary work is analogous to the disruptiveness of dissenting political views. And while there were politically-charged fictions offered by the American writers (Coover's The Public Burning, for example), for the most part American experimental fiction in the 1960s and 70s devoted its ambitions primarily to challenging the hegemony of unexamined literary conventions per se. This distinction between what might be called the aesthetic mode and the political mode doesn't necessarily imply a difference in quality or scale of experiment, although it does suggest a divergence of motive in the pursuit of experimental goals. Perhaps the main reason the British experimental movement faded from public view after the early 1970s (aside from the loss of Quin and Johnson, which was admittedly crushing) is that, once the topical concerns and political causes many of these writers embraced began to seem dated, so did their work.

However, it is also the case that the American postmodern movement crested at about the same time, although arguably the American writers had more successors who continued to write adventurous fiction that followed the model the first-wave postmodernists established. There are certainly current British writers writing unconventional fiction (Ansgar Allen Paul Griffiths, the writers published by Grand Iota press), but, along with the admirable service the books by Booth and Darlinger provide by highlighting these writers and this period in British fiction, they also remind us that the attention that was given to experimental fiction in the postwar era was short-lived, and British fiction since then has not really been a notable source of experimental writing. Of course, we are also currently in a period in which mainstream literary culture is arguably less hospitable to experimental fiction than it has been in a century.

The Experimentalists is a well-written and informed book that chooses to tell a story about British experimental fiction briskly organized through narrative. For this reason, it should serve as a very effective introduction to readers less familiar with the writers and the movement it chronicles. For those already familiar with some of the figures included, it illuminates the cultural context in which the movement rose and fell and clarifies the relationships among the various writers in a way that confirms that they did share a collective ambition to revitalize literature by developing new literary techniques during what they perceived to be a period of stagnation in British literature. But the story Darlington tells is inescapably elegiac, as a group of gifted writers with admirable intentions are ultimately defeated (as a group, at least) by an indifferent literary establishment, but also their own human weaknesses.

Sorrentino Book (Coming Soon)

Here are completed chapters of my book-length career study of Gilbert Sorrentino, tentatively titled Gilbert Sorrentino: An Introduction. In finished form, the book will consist of critical analysis of all of Sorrentino's fiction  from his first novel, The Sky Changes (1966), to his posthumously published The Abyss of Human Illusion (2010). These chapters cover The Sky Changes through Blue Pastoral (1983). Three additional chapters have been completed, with two further chapters (one of them an addendum of sorts) remaining. I hope to have the book finished sooner rather than later.

I still have vague hopes of sending the completed manuscript around for possible publication, but I have no illusions that it is the sort of book that would have many takers in the current publishing environment—too focused on strictly literary analysis (no biography, politics, historicizing, etc.) for university presses, and too “academic” in its analysis for nonacademic publishers. I envision as possible readers those interested in thinking more comprehensively about the achievement of this audaciously experimental writer whose work now seems in danger of going into eclipse at a time when his kind of aesthetically complex, formally daring fiction is no longer much valued.

I will make the finished book available online, in pdf form, and possibly as an ebook if it can’t find a publisher.

The Limits of Coherence

It is hard to imagine that many readers of John Trefry's massive novel, Massive, would attempt to read every word in the book (There really are neither sentences nor paragraphs to "read" in the conventional sense, so it finally is a question of registering each word before moving to the next, assuming some sort of sequential relationship between them.) It doesn't take long to realize that the deviations and discontinuities we encounter in negotiating the text of Massive will make arriving at the "sense" of the words in any linear order both time-consuming and ultimately fruitless. One might continue to scan the pages for the occasional burst of syntactic coherence or the repetition of certain names and subjects (as I did), but finally even the notion that we are "reading" the text doesn't seem quite an accurate description of the experience. 

But nor is it entirely clear that Trefry expects us to read his book in the usual way. The text is nor formatted as conventional prose but is presented in columns (three per page) and, while there is associational overlap among the three columns by which we are invited to read across them, each column essentially develops on its own, although such development is fitful and often interrupted. Occasionally the text is merely strings of names and other words that, absent any consistent narrative or discursive context, convey no meaning beyond their manifestation on the page. These deliberate subversions of the continuity of thought and expression we usually expect the writer's prose to exhibit might be taken as a direct challenge to conventional reading habits, implying a call for a different kind of reading, but Massive seems rather to erect a barricade to the normal act of reading altogether as part of its formal/rhetorical design. 

Amidst the work's seeming structural chaos, more coherent references to characters and situations intermittently emerge, apparently related to the circumstances and fate of the modern Russian poet, Osip Mandelstam, whose persecution at the hands of Stalin is evoked in irregularly appearing passages drawing on his experiences (as well as those of his wife, Nadia, and fellow poet Anna Akhmatova), substituting for the Soviet Union a fictional state identified as the ADA. These passages could hardly be said to constitute a "story," but they do allow for a minimal representation of what the book is "about," further allowing us to speculate that other of the book's ostensible subjects might be connected to this larger one, even if such connections remain oblique. We might be further led to perceive a more palpable aesthetic order in Trefry's additional manipulation of the text's typography through alteration of font types, so that the different font types might be aligned with a particular perspective or character (Mandelstam, Akhmatova), but this device is not really carried through clearly and consistently, or at least in a way that readers less familiar with the lives of the Russian writers and other cultural figures whose lives are invoked could fully appreciate.

Readers at all familiar with John Trefry would know that he is an architect by profession and is also the publisher of Inside the Castle press, which publishes both his own books and other formally challenging literary works. Applying principles related to architecture seems to be a central strategy in Trefry's previous novels, Plats and Apparitions of the Living, especially the former, the text of which is "built" on the verbal plats laid out in balanced proportions on each page. The word structures assembled on these plats are both self-sufficient, not paragraphs so much as prose poems, each of which develops a set of images or perceptions, and cumulative, serving together as a more unified impression of a consciousness (perhaps more than one) registering the external environment in which it is situated. The environment is urban Los Angeles, but while we are offered a kind of representation of this urban scene, it is an obsessively subjective one, marked by the disturbance that seems to afflict this perceiving consciousness. We are presented with an architecture not of material structures but of feelings and mental awareness.

Apparitions of the Living is less overtly designed through an association with architecture, although our attention is still conspicuously drawn to page layout--some sections of the book are printed in narrow columns with wide margins, while others are expanded to the usual left/right margins but with bigger margins at the top and bottom (taking on more of the appearance of a square) and extra spacing between the lines of the text (which alternate italicized and unitalicized type.) The latter device is employed to draw a distinction between perspectives and sometimes to highlight speech, but otherwise the typographical arrangements don't seem to serve any particular formal function except to attract attention to space--and the novel does feature in its settings a notable divergence of space. Parts of it takes place in the Western desert, while the other main setting is a multilevel hotel. (Some of the desert scenes move into a motel room, providing yet another contrast with the greater dimensions of the hotel.) Perhaps we could say that the novel seeks to offer an alternative to the inherent linearity of most narrative prose by accentuating the space of the pages as available aesthetic territory for the novelist to explore (although Trefry is not the first writer to attempt this.)

Nevertheless, Apparitions of the Living does offer the reader a discernible narrative, more so than either Plats or Massive, although the events of the story often remain indistinct and the characters involved in the story enigmatic. We are introduced first to the desert landscape, where the body of a young boy lies buried in the sand. The remainder of the book essentially relates how the boy got there--apparently the victim of a kidnapping, aided and abetted by the boy's own mother, Connie. The other participants are two men, Jack and Gyre, the former of whom we meet first and whose sections of the narrative predominate most of the novel. The purpose of the kidnapping is never exactly revealed, but it is not really the point of the narrative, anyway. Most attention is given to the circumstances in and around the motel room in which the boy is held. Although surely the boy suffers, rendering that suffering is also not really the ambition of the novel. Trefry is greatly influenced by the writers associated with the French nouveau roman, and he has cited Michel Butor as the primary inspiration for Plats, while Apparitions of the Living attempts the sort of detached objectivity we find in the fiction of Alain Robbe-Grillet. If the characters in Apparitions seem distant to us, their emotions concealed, it is because, while the objects of their perception are often intently scrutinized, the emotional content of those perceptions are inaccessible to us.

Still, Trefry's tentative appeal to a discernible story and at least some degree of recognizable character creation doesn't really prepare us for the radical rejection of such conventional methods (however unorthodox in their application) in Massive. Apparitions of the Living suggested that Trefry might be making an accommodation of sorts with the traditional elements of fiction that aren't really present in Plats, retaining a clear enough distance from mainstream literary fiction while making room for readers with the expectation that character creation and narrative (as well as setting) will be important features of a work of prose fiction, but Massive makes no such concessions to conventional reading habits and goes even farther than Plats in challenging the authority of these practices as the default mode of writing fiction. It is an audacious effort, to be sure, but if it has produced a work that is effectively unreadable for other than the most devoted enthusiasts of Trefry's kind of experimental text-building (few of whom are likely to read the entire book cover to cover, either), one could ask whether attempting to extend the underlying thematic and formal ideas on such a monumental scale serves those ideas most fruitfully. There are, of course, many long, dense novels that succeed through the "art of excess," but Trefry doesn't really seem to be trying to be "artful." Massive becomes massive through the invariable accretion of its textual shards. It grows, but doesn't develop.

However, this is the case only if you expect the text to develop in some perceptible way, either through linear narrative or some other suitable formal arrangement. Trefry deliberately frustrates the reader's expectation of some kind of orderly  progression, so perhaps a different sort of approach to such an intimidating text as this would result in a more satisfying experience with it. Perhaps my approach, a kind of unhurried browsing, is what is called for (ultimately I did not think I had failed to read the book carefully because the book doesn't want to be read with the usual sort of care). Or perhaps one could abandon altogether the notion that such a text can be read consecutively and instead choose passages and pages at random, or seek out passages that seem to have associative resonance, leaving the rest. One might repeat such a strategy as often as is necessary to comprehend how the text works, or, indeed, essentially repeat it endlessly. It seems pointless to ask whether either approach leads to a thorough enough reading of Massive, since a thorough reading hardly seems possible--even reading every word in the sequence in which they are presented would ultimately leave behind a maelstrom of verbal noise.

Of course, one could attempt to confront the edifice of words that is Massive through any of these means, but is any such effort more than an improvised expedient to negotiate this one particularly imposing, idiosyncratic work, to avoid being defeated by its apparent determination to remain unfathomable? Perhaps it does challenge us to be less complacent in our assumptions about what it means to "read" a work of fiction, although this is the challenge set by all truly innovative works of experimental fiction, and it might be said that Massive merely poses the challenge in an especially unequivocal way. Perhaps then Trefry wants to persuade us that genuinely "experimental" fiction pushes against the boundaries of what is considered acceptable practice in ways that might be confounding, that should be confounding. The question becomes whether what initially confounds can ultimately be more fully recognized, the boundaries reconfigured.

Not everything about Massive is difficult to assimilate. The typographical rearrangements are not really an innovation and could certainly be further adapted and extended as an aesthetically effective device. (Other novelists have done so.) What is unique to the novel is the way they have been allowed to fragment and divide its verbal substance into discursively incompatible pieces. An intrepid reader can develop strategies for sorting through these pieces, but while such dynamic reading provides a welcome challenge to the indolent reading habits encouraged by much literary fiction, the inclination to devote most of one's attention to a work as extreme in its call for such readerly fortitude as Massive must be restricted to a select few. Massive isn't quite just a curiosity, but it is hard to envisage a book that more resolutely tests the limits of creative incoherence without becoming altogether incoherent.

It might be tempting to dismiss a work like Massive as an experimental fiction so anarchic in spirit that it simply defies ordinary reading. Yet perhaps it might be most compelling as an effort to contest our ordinary conception of what it means to "read a book." If Massive can't really be read as a single unified experience, it may in fact be a book that can only be reread: after attempting Massive for the first time, by whatever method, we try it again, adopting a different method, but of course this will result, in effect, in reading a different version, even a different book. Who knows how many different books we could find in it. I'm not sure I find the subjects treated in Massive sufficiently engaging that would want to this, but it seems an intriguing conceit for an adventurous writer to pursue--many books in one. 

Disciplinary Bedrock

Simon During notes, in an essay appearing in The Chronicle of Higher Education, that "There’s a conservative turn happening in literary studies, although it hasn’t received much public attention." By "conservative turn," During means not a sudden switch from a currently ascendant left-wing political agenda to a more right-wing perspective (perhaps more in line with the Trumpism that just triumphed in the recent Presidential election), but a "return to disciplinary bedrock, an insistence that the methods and purposes that first defined the discipline be respected and, in some form or other, resuscitated."

Readers interested in dispatches from an increasingly distressed discipline of academic literary study may have noticed this deviation in course, according to During, in the small but still significant number of books published by literary scholars in the last decade or so that have attracted some attention. Prefigured by Rita Felski and other advocates of "post-critique" (motivated by the belief that literary scholarship has become too invested in literary criticism as "critique" rather than a less heavy-handed appreciation of literary texts), these books include, most prominently, Joseph North’s Literary Criticism: A Concise Political History, Michael Clune’s A Defence of Judgment, and John Guillory's Professing Criticism: Essays on the Organization of Literary Study, as well as his most recent book, On Close Reading. During also cites what appears to be a shift in emphasis in the writing of Terry Eagleton, once a stalwart of critique who has exhibited a rather more traditional identification with the likes of T.S. Eliot.

During's use of the term "conservative" is probably unfortunate, since an association with the politically conservative is inevitable (although the extent to which Trumpism itself should actually be called conservative is questionable), and none of the books During cites could plausibly be labeled "conservative" in this sense. (Eagleton, of course, is in fact a Marxist). These writers implicitly contend that the current disciplinary ambitions to use the study of literature to help achieve social change (in During's words, to assume the role of "society's conscience") should be scaled back, in favor of a return to something like literary study's original purpose--to seriously inquire into the phenomenon of literature in the rigorous way expected of an academic discipline--but this signals no allegiance to political conservatism. Indeed, in his book Joseph North defends aesthetic analysis in specifically left-wing terms, contending that the current dispensation in academic criticism only reinforces the dominion of neoliberalism, which only the study of literature in its aesthetic dimension can combat.

During seems to suggest that this attempted rollback by (for now, at least) a small number of more tradition-facing literary scholars is ultimately motivated by the perception that literature as an academic subject is now threatened on several sides--by the devotees of the "evangelical humanities," who have enlisted in it their effort to establish social justice, by the forces on the right that have finally elevated their reaction against politicized academic scholarship into a political movement strong enough to dislodge it, and by the university governing bodies that are strangling humanities scholarship, especially in literature departments, of its institutional resources--and is in danger of being forsaken altogether. They want the study of literature to be reinstated on the principle underlying "first-wave academic literary criticism" starting in the 1920s and 30s, which according to During, was simple enough: this criticism "was based on a love of literature."

It isn't clear whether During is also contending that the authors he connects to the "conservative turn" also share a similar sort of deep attachment to Literature (it is more likely that During himself does), but I believe that describing the motivation behind the establishment of English (the study of literature more broadly) as an academic subject as merely the "love of literature" is at best an oversimplification, if not simply wrong. Gerald Graff, in what I consider to be still the definitive history of the emergence of literary study as a "field," Professing Literature,  shows how a more rigorous approach to criticism ultimately overcame the resistance of the academic establishment, displacing philology (considered more "scientific") and proving more credible to skeptics of the study of literature than the kind of "appreciation" espoused by prewar humanists. If love of literature of a sort did underly the development of New Criticism (and other allied text-based approaches), the goal of these efforts was not to offer classes encouraging a love of literature but to secure literature as a subject worthy of serious study through creating the "knowledge" that a scrupulous method of literary criticism could provide. If there were always disagreements about what the proper methods of criticism should be, there was tacit agreement that the method used would contribute to the shared project of illuminating the object of study--works of literature, as well as their relation to each other in the unfolding of what could be conceived as "literary history." 

This project was sustained until at least the 1970s and 80s, when critical theory began to overshadow the established literature curriculum--although in many cases the application of theory was consistent enough with the original goal of elucidating literary works. Since then, the objective of literary study has been more nearly reversed: the point is no longer to use scholarly or critical tools to enhance our encounter with literature but to use literature to amplify the contexts within which literary works are created, frequently reducing them to their facility in reproducing those contexts, their residual aesthetic value either ignored or implicitly denied. (Even works whose aesthetic value is assumed are explicated for their cultural and political meanings.) I well remember living through the beginnings of this shift, when I was just out of graduate school and would hear some in my professional cohort (other graduate students seeking work, young Assistant Professors) denigrating what had until then been the prevailing assumptions about the practice of academic literary criticism, most of them dismissed for "privileging" the literary text itself while neglecting the extrinsic conditions that brought it into existence and gave it significance. It did seem to me that such people were in fact mistaking these assumptions about the role of criticism for a "love of literature," regarded as unworthy of serious scholars, but which I, for one, would never have attempted to make the basis of practice, either in writing about literature or in the classroom.

I don't even know how a curriculum intended to transmit a love of literature would actually work. Simply presenting students with selected "great works" and inviting them to love (or at least like) them surely would accomplish nothing. Examining how they merit the characterization "great" (how they work) seems a more productive approach, although it then becomes unclear why the focus needs to be on "great" works, since "love of literature" doesn't seem restricted to only the greatest achievements ("canonical" works are sometime canonical for reasons not strictly related to their greatness). Nor is it apparent that this method need be in service to "love" of literature. Critical analysis seems a valuable skill in its own right, and could be profitably applied to lower-tier literary works, even those whose quality might be in question. Of course, the emphasis has now shifted from literature per se to criticism, but I fail to see how a program of literary study would be anything but a prodigiously extended reading group without a critical procedure to give it coherence. Old-fashioned Arnoldian humanists might want to give the veneration method a try, but I don't think the modern university would be a congenial place for it.

During actually seems to suggest a plan something like this, as he envisions the lovers of literature reduced to "a small cohort of erudite fandom" occupying the margins of academe (although I don't think "fandom" is exactly what Matthew Arnold had in mind). Good luck to him. Otherwise, a neotraditional curriculum of literary study attempting to renew its original mission, one that at least embodied a respect for literature if not unabashed love, that operated according to a belief that literature provides us with a kind of incorporeal knowledge, distinct from but just as important as the more conventional kind, requires a faculty dedicated to that belief. The books that During cites notwithstanding, I see little evidence that current academics still nominally identified as "literature" professors (at least  in the trend-setting departments and professional organizations) hold any such belief. 

The Dustbin of Literary History

The proposition that academic literary criticism has by now become a discipline that is no longer much interested in the literary seems to me indisputable. If "theory" initially  diverted the critic's attention away from literature as a subject sufficient to itself as a "field" of inquiry,  the modes of critical discourse that have followed up on theory's demotion of literature to a supporting role in their pursuit of more ambitious goals-e.g., the "new" historicism, cultural studies, ecocriticsm--have further reconfigured academic criticism into an endeavor that, while applying ostensibly separate methods, has converged around a broadly political project--a project that is pretty conspicuously "progressive" in its presumptions.

Concerns about this trajectory in literary study have been expressed since at least the 1980s, but resistance has been largely symbolic and carried out mostly in alarmist books and mass media reports and perhaps reached a crescendo in the early 1990s. Since then, the movement toward politically-motivated criticism and scholarship has only accelerated, and at present there is decidedly little opposition to it from within academic criticism, aside from someone like Rita Felski and the "post-critique movement--and Felski mostly objects to the methodological dominance of political critique, not to the underlying politics. There has been more abundant criticism of the direction literary studies has taken--or at least of the supposed baneful influence of an over-politicized English department--in the popular media, but probably the most palpable sign that something like a reckoning with the consequences of the political transformation of literary study (at least in the United States) is the increasing willingness of legislatures, governing boards, and University Presidents to withdraw support from departments engaged in literary studies (from humanities programs in general), resulting in the closure of such programs in some cases, and a diminution in their size in others. For the first time since the creation of modern literary studies in the early 20th century, the study of literature in the university may actually be at some real peril. 

As a kind of implicit response to these rising voices of dissatisfaction--but more specifically as a response to the efforts of Felski)--Bruce Robbins has written what he calls a "polemical introduction" to the subject of politically-motivated literary criticism, titled simply Criticism and Politics. Robbins wants both to trace the development of such criticism and to defend it. The two dominant influences in Robbins's analysis are the various "liberationist" movements of the 1960s and the work of Michel Foucault. Robbins essentially identifies post-60s academics as the inheritors of the civil rights/women's rights/gay rights struggles of the 60s, translated into the various preoccupations these academics have pursued in scholarly work, while an in-common methodological inspiration is Foucault's critique of the circulation of power in Western culture. Robbins's "polemic" could be said to begin in the limitations of Foucault's approach: Foucault teaches a deep-seated skepticism about the presence and exercise of power, ultimately ruling out any overarching political commitments beyond its diagnosis, since all such efforts would themselves be assertions of power. Robbins doesn't caution about an excess of commitment to politics in academic criticism--he wants it to go even farther, becoming more comfortable with the role of "governing," not just analysis. Only when criticism has led to action can its full promise be fulfilled.

If the notion that university English departments might one day comprise the ruling party in Congress seems too ludicrous even for dwellers in the ivory tower to entertain, I should note that for the most part when Robbins refers to the "literature professor" in this book, he does not have in mind the tweedy gentleman extolling the virtues of Shakespeare. The literature professor now does not really profess literature at all, but continues to go by the name for its institutional status and prestige. The model of the critic Robbins evokes is Matthew Arnold, but Arnold is a critic of culture, not of literature per se, and, despite Arnold's reputation for upholding cultural values the modern academy has come to reject, it is Arnold's attitude to the culture of his time--that it was going in the wrong direction--and his conception of the task of criticism--to oppose "the way things are" in a wayward society--that implicitly motivate academic criticism in the years since the 60s. Robbins casts Foucault as an heir of sorts, "the closest thing the last half century produced to a Matthew Arnold," but whose skepticism toward culture is even more pronounced. 

Literary criticism, then, has become almost entirely cultural criticism. At best, strategies associated with the close reading of literary works might be applied to cultural objects in general, but to think of academic criticism as literary criticism in its more traditional guise is so anachronistic that most critics would not even begin to think of their work in such terms. This is not at all a recent development, but it is one that Robbins takes for granted in his reflections on the political work of criticism. However, as someone who believes in the hoary old notion that literature is literature and politics is politics, that the two mix uneasily at best,  I can't really begrudge Robbins his political program: Literature actually has precious little to do with this program, and if he and others want academic criticism to be a discipline engaged in cultural critique with the ultimate goal of political transformation, I suppose he is welcome to it. I confess I find his belief that academic critics might thus accomplish "governance' (except of its own practices) more or less delusional, but "criticism" in this form has become so divorced from anything that interests me or that I recognize as literary criticism, its ultimate fate leaves me indifferent.

For me, a book like Criticism and Politics leaves lingering in its wake the summary question of why institutional support for the systematic study of literature ultimately failed so utterly to maintain itself. Certainly it showed itself to be vulnerable to shifts in critical fashion. It was arguably New Criticism that solidified the establishment of literary study as part of the curriculum of American universities (although other methods also developed in parallel with New Criticism), but when challenges to the purportedly "disinterested" qualities of these methods began to be heard (presumably from the post-60s insurgents Robbins examines), soon enough a seemingly perpetual series of methods competing for the role of acceptable substitutes ensued, each more determined than the last to avoid the stigma of appearing to be "merely literary" in their assumptions, leading to the current situation in which the literary has finally and emphatically been eliminated altogether. Perhaps academic literary study was always destined to evolve in this way, given the expectations of scholarly "progress" implicit in the academic system, but the ritual scapegoating of New Criticism for its methodological sins has persisted now for so long that it seems to suggest a true antipathy for literature except insofar as it can be enlisted for the scholar's own more "serious" agenda--politics, of course, being the most serious subject of all in our present dispensation.

Presumably the idea of progress in literary study came to seem in conflict with the more "conservative" justifications for the literary curriculum offered by some (but not all) of its 20th century proponents. Such advocates spoke of "preserving" a heritage or "appreciating" a tradition, and while such notions surely did influence the establishment of the "coverage" model in departments of English--attaining the knowledge offered by literary study would require some familiarity with all periods of English and American literature--the methods of teaching these courses always varied according to the predilections of the professors involved, not all of them so focused on reinforcing tradition. The overall effect of this older curriculum was no doubt largely to "conserve" a coherent program of literary study, but so too were all the subsequent efforts to reorganize and transform this curriculum in order to meet changing expectations. Today's literary curriculum is surely not simply random and arbitrary. The difference is that the older one cohered around an informal but mostly understood definition of literature, while the present one coheres around an informal but mostly understood conception of social relevance.

I myself chose to major in English because I wanted to acquire this knowledge of literature. I wanted to read all the books I could that might conceivably be part of literature, although of course I knew that this was something that could not be done simply while I was in college but would be a task that would take a lifetime to complete. If I were entering college today I would not make such a choice. Even if I wanted to read all the books that might conceivably be related to social justice (the option I would now be given), I would see no reason to major in English or literary study to do it. Perhaps my younger self is no longer very representative of the aspirations of artistically or intellectually-inclined college students. But I have to suspect there still are youthful readers who want to discover worthy literary works of both the past and present, works that expand horizons and enlarge experience that have value in themselves as literary art rather than their utility as a means to arrive at the correct political analysis. Of course, these readers do not finally need a program of academic course offerings to accomplish this goal. Indeed, such readers likely need to resort to this sort of self-directed even now,  and the gloomy prospects for the future of literary study in the university at all may mean that a self-education in literature will be the only option available.

Something like this seems to me the only plausible future for literary criticism as well. There are academic critics who review new fiction in newspaper book reviews or general-interest publications, but this sort of criticism remains separate from the work that is rewarded by the academy, which, if not explicitly political in the mode described by Robbins, must still remain in the broader realm of cultural criticism that confers disciplinary credibility. Otherwise, already literary criticism exists only in nonacademic venues, although this does not mean either that most book reviews are engaged in rigorous analysis, or that all book reviewers focus their efforts on assessing the work at hand for its own sake. Many book critics are also more interested in cultural assessment than aesthetic analysis, or at least make their evaluation of a particular book contingent on its value in representing tendencies in culture. Still, this approach mostly rises from the assumption that the literary value of a work, particularly a work of fiction, is in fact to be found in its ability to register the complexities of social and cultural life, not the outright denial of the literary as the subject of critical attention. I am myself not much in sympathy with this mode of critical writing, but if a rejuvenation of literature-centered literary criticism is to occur--and I'm not predicting such a thing--it will have to happen among critics in the popular press, who at least still do not wholly subsume the literary to the project of political transformation.

The metamorphosis of academic literary criticism into the instrument for this political transformation is ultimately regrettable to me not just because my primary commitment as reader and critic is to literature and the critical explication of literature but also because my own political orientation is not that far removed from the aspirations motivating academic criticism as they are delineated in Robbin's account--although I do believe that the appropriate means of political engagement is through direct participation in political actions and not indirectly through politicized scholarship. This is not to suggest that scholarly work should never be political, but the current situation essentially mandates that it should all be political. Similarly, I would not deny the legitimacy of literary works that engage with political themes or express a political commitment. Political questions are as relevant to human reality as any other social influences, and when a skilled writer represents them with the complexity they deserve, of course criticism must attend to the writer's political themes or ideas, but without losing sight of the interplay of these ideas with form or style--the qualities of a piece of writing that make it literary in the first place.

For all of his focus in on the political mission of academic criticism, Bruce Robbins discusses virtually no works of literature that are political in this way. To be sure, his book is a "polemic" about politics and criticism, not politics and literature more broadly, but this omission only reinforces how thoroughly literary study has dislodged literature as its disciplinary subject and academic criticism has ceased to approach the objects of its attention as discreet expressions whose features the critic attempts to make more fully apprehensible. It's no longer just that critics have substituted various works of popular art and media for literary works, but that finally it doesn't really matter what form of expression is involved: the goal of criticism now is to valorize itself, to assert itself as the most essential discursive activity. For Robbins, it is on the verge of seeking real power, "having an impact beyond the world of scholarship" and helping to achieve "solidarity." What is the mere analysis and appreciation of literature when we can instead become a vanguard of liberation?

With the reelection of Donald Trump, doubtless this ambition seems even more quixotic. Academics, in fact, are never likely to be more distant from political power than they will be during this presidency, and the powers that be promise to increase that distance by marginalizing universities even more emphatically, while university administrations will probably only accelerate their defunding and deemphasizing of humanities programs in particular. Of course, academic critics might just redouble their efforts to fashion a newly militant form of academic discourse, but it is hard to figure out exactly what constituency they would be addressing. (The election results suggest that a significant portion of the constituency on whose behalf they assumed they were working actually shifted toward Trump.) This would seem to be the time to recommend some sort of return to the bygone days when academic critics focused their efforts more squarely on studying "literature itself," but this hardly seems a realistic goal--even in the long term, it seems improbable that academics would regain the enthusiasm for simply teaching literature that characterized the discipline's earliest years. The availability of the internet as a medium for engaging in critical discourse, and possibly finding an audience, holds out opportunities for cultivating and sustaining a form of literary criticism not subject to the whims of academic fashion and the regulations of a disciplinary establishment, a path that some readers and critics still drawn to literature might follow. But the era in which perceptions of Literature are dominated by its residence in the university curriculum is about to be consigned to the dustbin of literary history, a history that long preceded it and that will continue after its demise.

Repetition Compulsion

It has been 60 years and more since the first writers we have now come to identify as postmodernists began to make their presence known in American literary culture. The term, "postmodern," has been applied narrowly, to classify this particular group of writers, and more broadly, to name an entire "era" that is said to entail a distinctive political and philosophical orientation to knowledge and perception separating it from the "modern" assumptions that preceded it. Over the last 10 to 20 years, its application to literature has been very loose indeed, as a way of characterizing any work of fiction that breaks from convention or seems at all "experimental." In the process, the term, and more generally the concept of innovative fiction, has become less tied to the original set of writers whose work prompted the coining of the term--Coover, Barth, Barthelme, etc.-- and used more simply to separate non-realist works of fiction from mainstream "literary fiction."

This broader assimilation of the postmodern as a discernible tendency in contemporary fiction has, however, entailed, perhaps paradoxically, a diminished awareness of the specific practices and identifiable achievements of the original postmodernists and their immediate successors--a loss of historical context. Thus work by writers of otherwise conventional fiction that departs even modestly from the most conservative expectations of the form is reflexively applauded for its daring and originality, even though whatever strategy or device has prompted such praise is actually at best a modification of a an already existing approach, at times just plain derivative of a move made more persuasively by an earlier, genuinely experimental writer. The notion that unconventional approaches to form or style deserve critical respect (when done well) presently seems to be a common enough assumption in most literary commentary, but this apparently is not accompanied by a recognition of the development of such strategies through the efforts of adventurous writers of the relatively recent past.

Even when some writers are ostensibly challenging conventional forms and language more radically, beyond the enhancements of realism for which many putatively experimental devices tend to be employed, these writers themselves often simply recapitulate strategies devised by writers in the previous generation of postmodernists, or, indeed, essentially reiterate an existing form created by an earlier writer. Frequently enough we can surmise that such borrowing is to some degree a tribute to the precursor, an acknowledgment that the formal strategy invoked is a compelling substitute for conventional strategies. It is not per se an invalid approach, since arguably one of the objectives of experimental fiction might be to make available alternatives to conventional storytelling that other writers might additionally develop, but again such alert distinctions are not likely to be made in a literary-media culture that discounts historical perspective and is impatient with nuanced judgments--if more adventurous fiction manages to attract any attention at all.

Although occasionally I come across a review of a new work of adventurous fiction that draws my interest, most of the time I become aware of potentially interesting adventurous/experimental books when I am offered review copies by authors, author's agent, publicist, or publisher. This is how I came to read Ben Segal's Tunnels (published by Scism Press), a work whose experimental intentions are immediately revealed when first looking inside, where we find on each page a grid of squares (nine, in rows of 3), each containing a snippet of prose, rather than a continuous prose text. A second book by an author with whom I was previously unfamiliar, Fictions, by Ashley Honeysett, did in fact become known to me through a review, in an online journal known for its focus on independent presses. This work announces in its title that it is likely to be unconventional, but one has to read it for a while before recognizing the sort of alternative strategy it is pursuing. If it announces its "experimental" intent less obviously than Tunnels, it serves just as readily to illustrate a dilemma adventurous writers can face when attempting to escape the constraints imposed by the accepted formal conventions of literary fiction.

Segal's formal device locates his book among those works generally categorized as prose fiction but that attempt to redirect the reader's attention away from "prose" as traditionally defined and toward a more expansive conception of "text" as something that exploits the material features "book" and "printed page." This approach can be seen in such works as William Gass's Willie Master's Lonesome Wife (1971), as well as, most audaciously, Raymond Federman's Double or Nothing and Take It or Leave It (both 1976), but the most direct expression of the goals animating the approach can be found in Federman's essay, "Surfiction--Four Propositions in the Form of an Introduction," the first entry in Surfiction: Fiction Now and Tomorrow, which Federman edited and published in 1975. The future of fiction, Federman maintains, will reject "the traditional, conventional, fixed, and boring method of reading a book" linearly and consecutively in favor of "innovations in the writing itself--in the typography and topology of [the] writing." These innovations should replace "grammatical syntax with 'paginal' syntax that grants to the reader a new "freedom" that will "give the reader an element of choice (active choice) in the ordering of the discourse and the discovery of its meaning." 

Although this is not the only kind of innovation inwhat Federman calls "surfiction"--which covers writers such as Beckett, Borges, and Calvino, as well as American postmodernists such as Barth, Barthelme, and Sukenick--it is most conspicuous in the experiments of Federman's own early fiction (as anyone who has even dipped into Double or Nothing or Take It or Leave It, their "texts" roaming the page in endless configurations and unruly fonts, knows) and is arguably the most radical of his four "propositions." The implicit appeal to visual effects in the notion of "paginal syntax" was exploited further by such successors as Steve Tomasula and Mark Danielewski (Tomasula more effectively), and various other "illuminated" novels incorporate visual elements as well. Tunnels could be said to feature a prominent visual device in its use of the grid whose divisions govern the page, although its uniform appearance on each page eventually becomes less noticeable in and of itself as a purely visual object of attention. Instead, this novel follows Federman's proposal by giving the reader a role in assembling the text, literally a "choice in the ordering of the discourse."

The novel does not offer a single narrative but rather a succession of narratives, often using the same character names but occurring at different times, although all of them have a common setting, in, or around, or associated with a complex of tunnels somewhere in the California desert. The grids thus themselves represent a metaphorical version of the tunnels, which the reader is invited to navigate according to his/her own inclination: "There is no 'correct' order of reading," we are told in a brief preface, and we are advised to approach the text in a way that "treats the space of the book as something to be explored rather than exhaustively or systematically read." The reader's discovery of the work's "topology," to again invoke Federman, finds the "space" of reading to be as meandering as the tunnels the characters inhabit, the intent being, presumably, to collapse the distinction between the "content" the novel presents and its form as thoroughly as possible, but also to assert the space of the page itself as the medium of fiction, not the organization of language into compelling prose per se.

The strategy animating Tunnels is probably closer to the method employed by Julio Cortazar in his novel Hopscotch than to the experiments in typography and illustration in Federman or Tomasula. It asserts a certain aleatoric procedure into the discursive organization of the novel, so that the reader is allowed to create a narrative structure of his/her own. For such a strategy to work, the narrative (in this case, multiple interlocking narratives) should, it would seem, have some intrinsic interest (if not necessarily the sort of interest usually attributed to traditional stories). Unfortunately the truncated narratives in Tunnels, no matter how one might order them, are not long enough to be compelling in themselves, nor are the characters given the sort of development that might make them a consistent source of the reader's concern, while the language in most of the narrative fragments distributed in the squares is predominately functional and expository, advancing the briefly  unfolding and often crisscrossing storylines without much stylistic embellishment. This leaves the governing formal mechanism and its appeal to active reading as the dominant object of the reader's attention, and the novel struggles to sustain that attention.

Eventually this narrowing of the reading experience threatens to make the novel's structural device seem too much like a gimmick rather than an attempt to adapt and extend an experimental approach to freshly conceived purposes. I believe that Segal's ambition is indeed to extend and not merely to repeat already existing strategies for challenging conventional thinking about fiction, but the realization of the strategy in Tunnels, given the length and the constricted focus of the novel does leave the reader (this reader, at least) with the impression that the "freedom" granted to order the discourse leads mostly to a repetition of a formal conceit carried out more audaciously and propounded more cogently by various predecessors. Certainly, even an effort to break convention that comes up short on originality but is clearly enough sincere is a welcome alternative to the usual run of literary fiction that settles for the currently approved practices or sacrifices aesthetic complexity in the name of "saying something." Still, if an objective of adventurous, experimental fiction is to extend the formal potential of fiction itself beyond its current confines into yet unmapped spaces of aesthetic possibility, Tunnels unfortunately doesn't quite venture that far.

Something similar could be said of Honeysett's Fictions. In this case, the writer offers a version of metafiction, literally fiction about a writer writing fiction--as it turns out, writing the book we are reading. It is tempting to regard the book also as a memoir of sorts, since the narrator does indeed seem to be the author, not a separately named "character" who is a thinly disguised version of her, but the narrative so insistently focuses on the effort to write stories that the author's identity as living person collapses into her role as writer and the distinction between life and work becomes irrelevant as well. However much we learn about the various issues in the author's life (especially the problems experienced by her sister), the emphasis is finally on the process of storytelling, understood as the struggle of one writer to produce stories that can be published and meet with the approval of readers. While most of those stories about which we are told or allowed to sample do not seem particularly experimental, the chronicle of her progress in becoming a successful writer does finally result in a book that evokes one of the most identifiable experimental strategies in American fiction of the 1960s and 70s.

But Fictions is no Lost in the Funhouse or Universal Baseball Association. The book echoes the approach modeled in such classic works of metafiction, but its ambitions are much more modest. It isn't attempting to challenge preconceptions of the required transparency of fictional narrative--but it couldn't, since that challenge was issued decades ago and has been regularly renewed in the interim--but is appropriating the gestures associated with that challenge in order to suggest the metafictional, while also endeavoring to smooth the edges of self-reflexivity as an unconventional device so it might blend into something closer to autofiction. This latter mode could actually be taken as the offspring of metafiction, but at the core of most autofiction is a mistaken assumption about the intention behind the work of such writers as Barth or Coover, or at least about the presumed message readers should take from their work.

The self-reflexivity of metafiction deliberately disrupted the inherent presumption that in approaching a work of fiction the  reader will suspend disbelief and accept the artificial reality invoked by the work for the duration of the reading experience. It made the reader aware of the artifice, as well as the implicit presence of the writer in creating it. The autofictionists for the most part seem to have interpreted this acknowledgment of the writer behind the text not as the first step in granting fiction a greater freedom in formal arrangement beyond the requirements of traditional narrative, but as a move made to focus more attention on the writer as the ultimate subject of the work. Thus autofiction's emphasis on the author's life as source of interest, often examined in great detail. While this approach often does call into question the distinction between fiction and life, it does this by playing coy with details that may indeed be untransformed autobiography but presenting them in a work still  labeled "fiction." It has become memoir for writers who would rather forego the stricter conventions of that form. 

I would still call Fictions metafiction rather than autofiction, but, while the book is not without interest and does not lack craft, the craft is applied to help forge an alternate path to realism, with just enough roaming into the discursive underbrush along the way to complicate the journey. The book reminds us occasionally of the more adventurous route once followed by its more experimental forerunners, but ultimately doesn't really want to go there. In this way, the innovations of metafiction really have become more established, available to a writer like Honeysett to achieve goals different from those that motivated the original innovators. Fictions is a lively enough account of one writer's perseverance in achieving artistic success, but its rebellion against conventional narrative is muted, evoking an avant-garde practice only as a way of being more punctilious in depicting the protagonist's concrete circumstances. Similarly, Tunnels enlists a disruptive strategy because, paradoxically, it helps to bring a kind of mimetic authenticity to the depiction of both character and setting.

As someone who tries to keep up with the the publication of new experimental fiction, I would observe that a majority of the works that appear are something like these two books, adapting existing techniques and approaches associated with postmodern or experimental fiction either for purposes that turn out to be surprisingly conventional or that simply repeat what has come before. There are certainly writers who authentically try to extend the boundaries limiting what "experimental" might mean, writers like Gabriel Blackwell, Christian TeBordo, or Evan Dara, whose formal and stylistic challenges to both conventional and pseudo-adventurous fiction are both credible and refreshing. But while these writers have their fervent admirers (me, for one), they are also writers without a high profile in mainstream literary culture. Perhaps this is the way it should be, but previous innovative writers such as John Barth and Donald Barthelme did arguably change literary culture, for however fleeting a time. Literary culture at present may just be impermeable to this kind of change. Literature itself may have to cling to the margins, if it survives at all.

New Supplemental Site

I have created a new site that features the reviews of adventurous, unconventional fiction, mostly from independent presses, that I have written/published over the past decade or so. This site will basically replace the Substack review publication I have been offering over the past few years, which I have decided to discontinue.

Sorrentino Book

I have a relatively short book on the work of Gilbert Sorrentino partially completed. It is intended as a critical introduction, and is currently around 22,000 words. I would anticipate it to finally be about 50,000 words. I have been working on it for quite a long time, since it appeals to a small audience (fans of the writer and of experimental fiction) and completing it hasn't seemed urgent. I assume there are no publishers who would be interested in such a book, so I have simply made it available on pdf and online. I am currently working on another chapter, but finishing the book still doesn't seem urgent, unless some niche publisher or other might indeed be interested in it. If such a publisher happens upon this blog, you could either dm me here or email at my blog address. Suffice it say I don't expect any responses to this, but it seemed worth a try.

To Blog or to Newsletter?

In addition to The Reading Experience, I have also been producing a Substack publication,  Unbeaten Paths, that usually consists of multiple book reviews of “adventurous fiction” and appears every 2-3 months. Until now I have retained both of these publications as complementary endeavors, largely because the blog has been around for a long time (20 years) and still attracts some visitors, so I have been reluctant to give it up.

I have considered converting the blog to a Substack newsletter (it covers a wider range of literary subjects, whereas the newsletter form accommodates motley book reviews somewhat awkwardly and so far has garnered a limited audience). I am hesitant to do so because, again, of the blog’s longevity and because I still also think the blog form has value. On the other hand, I would like to see if I could get a broader audience than currently on Substack.

The present owner of Twitter has basically ruined it as a means to steer people to external publications (not just Substack), another reason to move wholly to the newsletter format. I may indeed convert TRE to newsletter form, while keeping the blog and continuing to post here as well. I may go over completely to newsletter. Things could stay the same, but this is the choice that likely produces maximum frustration. The decline of blogs, the growing degradation of social media as a method of engagement, and the uncertainty that still obtains with a medium such as Substack, as well as the drying-up of outside online and print venues open to reviews and literary criticism (at least for me) have seemingly converged to make the prospects for the kind of criticism I write wobbly indeed.

New issue of Unbeaten Paths:

Sheila Heti, Alphabetical Diaries

ON SUBSTACK

• Unbeaten Paths: Reviews of Adventurous Fiction

 

 

 

The Fictional Self

Sheila Heti is known as a writer who seems to blur the boundaries between fiction and nonfiction in the three novels that brought her to prominence: How Should a Person Be? (2012), Motherhood (2018), and Pure Colour (2022). This strategy underpins the mode that has commonly come to be known  "autofiction," and of the writers associated with it, Heti is arguably the exemplary figure. Yet while the term itself is now pervasive in discussions of fiction that at one time might simply have been called "autobiographical," Heti's novels don't altogether seem autobiographical if we expect such fiction to not merely borrow various details from the author’s life but to provide a credible depiction of a character’s actions and circumstances that we could imagine also derives from the author's life--in other words, we expect an autobiographical fiction to be essentially realistic. Heti's novels don't really meet this expectation.

The first two certainly seem to meet the initial criterion, as the characters are preoccupied with issues that Heti has verified were also her own concerns. (In How Should a Person Be?, the character is even named "Sheila," although we still could (and should) question how absolute is the connection between author and character). In both novels, form is loosened up considerably in an apparent effort to accommodate the protagonists' ruminative way of thinking, and emphasize the drift of their experiences as they ponder the ramifications of the questions they are asking and the answers they seek. But in each novel there is a kind of willful naivete or a kind of deliberate ingenuousness shared by the protagonists that makes these characters more caricature than lifelike representation--not quite surreal, but exaggerated versions of a woman seeking to discover the key to becoming an authentic self or sort through the benefits and risks of motherhood. This seems deliberate, not a deficiency of craft.

If anything, Pure Colour departs even more obviously from the protocols of realism, veering into outright fantasy--at one point in the novel both the protagonist and her deceased father find themselves trapped inside the leaves of a tree! This novel may draw on the author's youthful experiences--in particular Heti's relationship with her own father--but they are thoroughly transformed into fiction, indeed a patently artificial kind of fiction. But if Pure Colour is more overt in its divergence from reality, all three of these novels strike me as pretty unmistakably fictions, however much the critical response to them emphasized the "auto" qualities, thus establishing them as among the integral works in the category of autofiction, a category that has grown to encompass practically any work of fiction that leaves the impression it originates in the author's life circumstances. At some point it becomes difficult to see how any work of ostensible fiction doesn't somehow derive from the writer's experiences in some way, but since no other trend or movement in current fiction has arisen to capture critics' fancy, "autofiction" has expanded sufficiently to become the defining literary mode of the early twenty-first century. 

Alphabetical Diaries (2024) would seem to take autofiction away from fiction altogether into pure personal confession. Literally a selection from Heti's diaries over a ten-year period, the book actually turns out to be less directly personal in its effect and more artificial in its form than the three previous novels. It seems to present more personal revelations than the novels, but these revelations ultimately seem instead attached to a fictional character the diaries have created rather than to Sheila Heti, the putative author of the book, whose method of constructing the book has rendered her youthful self in a discontinuous, fragmented way that decreases identification of that self with the autobiographical Heti and refocuses our attention on those patterns, repetitions, and mannerisms we more commonly track in our apprehension of invented characters. One suspects that Heti herself experiences a certain distance from this version of herself recorded in the diaries, and the randomly ordered method with which the diary entries have been assembled contributes to a kind of distance between reader and protagonist that most memoir writers likely would not seek to create.

Instead of presenting the diary in the normally expected chronological order (or perhaps some thematic adaptation of chronology or narrative), Heti has arranged them alphabetically according to the first letter of each sentence. This eliminates ordinary coherence, but the technique provides an alternative sort of coherence based, again, on repetition and the appearance of patterns that might not be as readily perceptible in a conventionally published journal. Some words are lengthily repeated--the sentences beginning with "I" and "We," for example, occur for multiple pages in a row--and certain names as well are not only repeated serially but reoccur frequently throughout the book. ("Lars" seems to reoccur the most.) At other times the juxtaposed entries are humorous in their unexpected resonances, either through some unintentional connection or in some cases what seems to be directly contradictory statements. ("The book feels arid and empty to me now, like a shriveled arm that can't raise itself to shake your hand, a withered arm and hand. The book is beautiful and practically perfect.") As a whole, the entries don't always seem to express a unified personality: partly this is the effect of mixing and matching utterances composed at different times (at a relatively formative stage of developing a personality), but such variety in sensibility surely also means to suggest that a human identify isn't so easily integrated.

Thus while the choice to reconfigure the diary according to a pre-set scheme initially does seem random, the experience of reading Alphabetical Diaries conveys the strong impression of deliberation and design. Where How Should a Person Be or Motherhood seem casually organized, without overarching structure, Alphabetical Diaries is all structure Form in those two novels threatens to undermine the feel of "life";  this book really only exists because of its form. Not only is it doubtful we would have that much interest in Heti's diaries if they were published "straight" (she has herself said in an interview that she would have never considered publishing them this way), aside from the salacious details provided about her sex life, the "content" of Alphabetical Diaries really has minimal interest. Witnessing a writer anguishing over her romantic relationships or worrying about the progress of her work neither contributes much to our understanding of the progress of love, nor are we given enough detail about what worries her about the work (what she is working on is always just referred to as "the book") for our appreciation of Heti's literary achievement to be enhanced. The significance of Alphabetical Diaries lies entirely in its status as an unorthodox (and arguably innovative) exercise in form.

Heti previously enlisted chance as a compositional method in Motherhood, in which the narrator/protagonist flips a coin in a form of divination to get answers about the pressing questions she is asking about herself and her life. But here the strategy doesn't provide the novel itself with its organizing principle but assists the protagonist in her process of self-examination, otherwise offered as a more or less conventional first-person account. It acts to reinforce the protagonist's uncertainties and ambivalence, contributing in this case to the unity of characterization--the protagonist is defined by her doubts and her prolonged inability to finally resolve the dilemma she believes she faces. The question-and-answer sessions with the coins (or whatever metaphysical presence it is that speaks through the coins) make concrete the novel's questioning of the expectations society places on women (and often enough women place on themselves, as the protagonist increasingly discovers) that is the ultimate unifying element in Motherhood, although this larger thematic exploration requires a plausibly consistent--in this case consistent in regarding her questions as important--protagonist character exploring her conflicted feelings.

It is surely not the accuracy of the answers she gets in response to the coin flips (which are only "yes" or "no"), but the salience of the questions she poses that help this protagonist (and us) to judge the wisdom of her ultimate decision. Nevertheless, one suspects that Heti wasn't entirely confined to actual coin flips in determining the answers, that she massaged the results somewhat for the occasional surprise or other dramatic effect. Likewise, it seems more than likely that some entries in Alphabetical Diaries were trimmed away or alphabetical order fudged a bit in arranging the contents of the diaries for extra continuity or for humor's sake. Both books involve artifice, even though Motherhood (as well as How Should a Person Be?) ostensibly tries to conceal it while Alphabetical Diaries announces it. Moreover, although Motherhood presents without equivocation as a novel, it pretty clearly mirrors Heti's own experience struggling with the question of motherhood, and for all practical purposes could pass for autobiography. Superficially, at least, Alphabetical Diaries presents as nonfiction, but in its aesthetic order ("aesthetic" partly be design and partly contingent) finally it fulfills the expectations we have of works of fiction as much as, or even more than those of memoir or autobiography, or, indeed, those now associated with autofiction.

In this way, I myself found Alphabetical Diaries more satisfying than any of her previous books, even if in general I don't much care for memoir and don't read writers' diaries. The book refurbishes the concept of "creative non-fiction," although it is almost certainly not what the creators of that label had in mind. I am tempted to say it is not nonfiction at all but in fact a novel, if we understand the distinction between a novel and a work of nonfiction to be less the presence of a made-up story vs. the recording of literal truth and more a question of the attention paid to form and prose style, not just as the means for addressing a subject but for making the reader aware of language as the writer's medium, the ultimate subject of any writing we want to call "literary." However, I recognize that there is nothing inherent to nonfiction that precludes this approach to literary language, so perhaps Alphabetical Diaries could be regarded as that "hybrid" of fiction and nonfiction that does manage to inhabit a space precisely in-between the two modes, justified in claiming admittance to both.

If this is the direction in which "autofiction" has taken Sheila Heti, toward a genuine contestation of the separate domains assigned to fiction and nonfiction, and Alphabetical Diaries stands as its current, albeit provisional, expression (more to come), then I think it is legitimate to consider her an "experimental" writer. "Autofiction," given the presently broad applications of the term, would seem to be at the limits of its utility as a critical tool in explicating a practice in contemporary fiction. It has become so conflated simply with "fiction that draws on the author's real-life experiences" that it is essentially meaningless--the concept has become so capacious that it potentially includes everything that isn't avowedly fantastic. The relative popularity of autofiction (to the extent  "literary fiction" can be popular) is no doubt attributable mainly to its exploitation by publishers as a publishing gimmick, as well as its compatibility with the congruent rise in popularity of creative nonfiction and social media. (These may not be mutually exclusive explanations.) Still, the idea of autofiction might have developed into a weightier endeavor if it had explicitly sought to undermine long-established beliefs about the connections between "life" and literary "art": Isn't fiction always already a reflection of "life?" To what extent is life governed by fictions in the first place? How much does form itself always distort life? Such questions are perhaps implicit in the early works to be designated "autofiction," but most critical discourse about it, at least, has stopped asking them.

Alphabetical Diaries makes me think that Sheila Heti had them in mind when she wrote How Should a Person Be? and Motherhood  and wants to renew them with this latest book. Her interest in employing nonconventional literary devices is clear enough in all of her books, and if she no longer has much interest in producing "autofiction" (if she ever had any), it would be surprising if her subsequent work reverted to workshop narrative strategies or a regressive realism. In a literary culture that has otherwise lost interest in experimental fiction, that would be worth something.

 

Reading Culture

In her review of Lauren Oyler's No Judgment, Becca Rothfeld takes Oyler to task for including too little judgment, asserting that "her book's title is more accurate than she thinks." Although Oyler intends in her essays to defend judgment in criticism, few of them contain much of it, defined as specific analysis of the artistic works she discusses. Instead she merely displays attitude (an "edgy personality") to convey the superiority of the underlying judgments she leaves undeveloped. "Judgment," Rothfeld more than implies, is a requisite feature of criticism, and her review emphasizes the surprising lack of it in a book written by a critic who is otherwise well-known for her strong judgments (often negative) in many of the reviews she has written.

We can of course distinguish between "judgment" as assessment of quality and as cogency of insight or interpretation. Rothfeld seems to be faulting Oyler for including too little of the latter, but No Judgement is conspicuously a collection of essays (all of them written for inclusion in this book), not a selection of Oyler's reviews, in which the judgments are indeed usually expressed through relatively close attention to the work's manifest features, although among her critical writings are a number of essays less interested in appraisal of particular works than in examining a broader practice the critic has identified or a cultural phenomenon that is really the subject of the essay. The essays in No Judgement don't seem radically different from these other essays not categorizable simply as reviews, except that they are, for the most part, more directly personal, focused on Oyler's own life and circumstances. 

The essays included in Rothfeld's own recent collection of essays, All Things are Too Small, are, in fact, just as personal and discursive, although in her role as a regular staff reviewer for a major American newspaper, Rothfeld in most of her reviews both readily passes judgments  (as her review of Oyler's book itself shows) and endeavors to support them through evidence of careful reading. Finally both Rothfeld and Oyler understand criticism as the rendering of judgment, although of the two Rothfeld seems more committed to its execution in a rigorous version than Oyler. And indeed this orientation to criticism is shared by almost all general-interest reviewers (of all forms, both popular and "high" art), prompting the most widespread impression of the "critic" among most consumers of reviews as a kind of referee--a figure who pays close attention to the art activity in question to note if it has been carried out according to the rules and to signal us if there is a violation.

This is the most benign view of the critic, as an intrusive if necessary personage who is granted a certain degree of authority on artistic matters by possessing the right credentials or through force of personality and track record (which doesn't mean we can't argue vociferously if we believe the call is wrong). Some spectators, however, regard the critic with more disdain, as a purely unwelcome presence who rudely interposes him/herself between us and the objects of our admiration when the critic pronounces a negative judgment. In their willingness to express negative judgments, both Oyler and Rothfeld might certainly be vulnerable to this hostility toward the efforts of critics, but in the present critical culture both of them are rather unusual in their propensity for such judgments. Oyler in particular, as a novelist as well as a critic, should be credited for ignoring the implicit restriction on negative reviews that is generally observed by current reviewers of fiction. The blandly affirmative reviews that dominate most review spaces only reinforce the marginalization of critics by not merely trivializing the act of judgment but precluding the need for it altogether. 

In both No Judgment and All Things are Too Small, negative and positive judgments are expressed as part of larger arguments or surveys of broader phenomena, not as the goal of any individual piece--these are not collections of reviews, and few of the essays contain much extended specific analysis of a particular work or aesthetic object. (Rothfeld's "Our Entertainment was Arguing," mostly about Norman Rush's novel, Mating, with some additional discussion of His Girl Friday, is an exception.) Rothfeld's book makes an impassioned, if somewhat discontinuous argument on behalf of maximalism, in both art and life. In doing so, she criticizes minimalism in fiction, art and design, as well as the retreat from bodily pleasures represented by appeals to "mindfulness" and a resurgence of what seems like puritanism is sexual attitudes and practices. Oyler's concerns are a little more amorphous, but much of the book is taken up with critique of social media,both good and bad, including lengthy examinations of the machinations that go on at Goodreads, as well as a spirited defense of autofiction (in which category Oyler's own novel, Fake Accounts, is often counted).

Each of these authors explicate the works they do discuss amply enough for their purposes, but in both cases the essays are developed primarily through personal experience and a kind of cultural observation that bespeaks intimate familiarity with the products of popular culture (Oyler in particular through participation in social media, while Rothfeld seems less "online," more attuned to books and movies). Neither book shies away from personal revelation. Oyler wants us to know why she moved to Berlin, why she likes gossip, and where her sometimes debilitating anxiety comes from. Rothfeld freely discusses her own sexual desires and her impatience with expectations of feminine restraint, although her use of her own circumstances and experiences is more more integral as reinforcement of her book's rhetorical intentions, actually making it less purely confessional than in No Judgments, despite, for example, the provocative description of her lustful feelings about her future husband she provides in one of the essays.

But it would not really be accurate to call either No Judgment or All Things are Too Small examples of personal writing above all. Both books belong to what is now called cultural criticism, by self-identification and by a fair accounting of the subjects they address. This classification seems to fit because of the wide range of cultural objects covered (most of the essays could not properly be called "literary criticism" since works of literature are only occasionally their focus) and because ultimately each of these critics is most concerned with understanding the cultural significance of the subjects they examine, not their value as aesthetic expressions. This at first seems paradoxical given both writers' penchant for making and valorizing judgments, but the essays included in Rothfeld's book are pretty consistent with her approach elsewhere, and even Oyler's most infamous negative reviews often wander away from pure aesthetic analysis, while in other essays she is as likely to consider trends and tendencies as closely assess individual works. 

It seems to me that a preference for cultural criticism, in which books, both fiction and nonfiction, are enlisted in a superseding critique of culture, is shared by many of the most prominent American book reviewers, and not a small number of readers as well, especially readers not looking to reviews simply for recommendations or straightforward value judgments. Although such critics might explicitly identify themselves as cultural critics, as both Oyler and Rothfeld do in these two books, they are just as likely to be considered as "literary" critics taking a broader approach to analysis and interpretation than is allotted to aesthetic evaluation alone. Perhaps insisting on a distinction between these terms might be perceived as overly punctilious, a purist's attempt to maintain clear lines of demarcation between text-based literary analysis and an approach that sues the literary work as a means of tracking cultural tendencies, but I do believe these are different activities requiring a different orientation to both literature and to methods of criticism. Being clear about the substance of these differences can help in appreciating the relevance of a piece of criticism to the sort of interest one has in literary works as opposed to cultural observation, but also tells us something about the status of the literary in American culture--or at least about how that term is understood, especially among those who might be expected to uphold its ostensible value.

American culture has never exactly been regarded as especially literary. The U.S. has produced its share of important writers, but any survey of American literary history that accurately measures such writers against their prominence in culture at large would have to note that many of them were, for lengthy sketches of their careers (in some cases all of their careers), mostly unknown to their contemporaneous publics, either under-recognized or completely ignored (Melville, Dickinson, early Faulkner).The work of many of these writers challenged existing practices in both poetry and fiction, and it is questionable that it would have ever gained more attention if later critics had not made efforts to reckon with it and begin bringing it to wider readership. Many of their efforts were carried out through the auspices of the burgeoning field of academic literary study, which certainly included critics preoccupied with historical and cultural inquiry, but which eventually was dominated by those who were devoted to the explication, interpretation, and analysis of literary works as literature, seen as a subject valuable for its own sake. 

The establishment of literary study in the university also effectively created an American literary culture (and did much to endow the very term "literature" with its overtones of elevated significance), even if it was to some extent confined to those associated with or influenced by the university. The consolidation of academic authority to shape our conceptions of literature and the literary was only enhanced by the introduction of creative writing programs. Now not only was the study of "literature" and the practice of literary criticism confined almost exclusively to the academy--or at least most prominent critics came to have some connection with it--but the university would become the primary site for the production of literature as well, eventually all but excluding anyone but their graduates not only from being taken seriously as writers, but even from being published at all. In this context, "literary culture" became simply an outgrowth of the campus, an extension of academic life.

Creative writing still exercises its dominion over the direction of current poetry and literary fiction, but academic criticism has long ceased to concern itself with delineating the literary qualities of literature or accumulating knowledge about literature that isn't also or primarily knowledge about other subjects or about the nature of academic inquiry itself. At one time ti was not unusual to see some academically-employed critics doubling as general-interest critics as well, writing reviews of new books that signaled their active engagement with literature but avoided heavy-handed academic discourse. Very few such critics exist today. While it is true that some current popular reviewers have university experience, most of them abandoned academic literary study (voluntarily or involuntarily, due to the collapse of the job marked in literary study) in exchange for the chance to write about the intellectual and literary developments of the present. Becca Rothfeld is reflective of this reality: although she continues to be a candidate for a Ph.D (in philosophy), she has clearly enough opted to pursue a career in writing and editing, and her prose in All Things are Too Small shows little preoccupation with current academic discourse and its jargon.

Academic critics have virtually no influence on the reception of new work by American writers, and few readers would turn to them as the putative experts on the current state of American fiction. Yet at the same time, even though new fiction continues to be widely reviewed (as widely as the declining number of outlets for reviews allows), the kind of reviews that are available don't often rise above the formula of synopsis-summative judgment, unless  it is to incorporate memoir-ish anecdotes and excursions into cultural generalization. (Not unlike what we find in No Judgment and All Things are Too Small, although both Oyler and Rothfeld do it better than most.)

The majority of such reviews are written not by critics per se, but by other writers of fiction and poetry, who in the current critical culture have been deemed especially qualified to pass judgment on a practice they share and on which they are presumed to be experts. The consequence has been not a critical culture of deeply applied knowledge or candid assessment (although some writers indeed have and do these), but mostly of bland conformity with the predominant judgments rendered in most reviews--a kind of reflexive praise, either expressed in empty superlatives or a more reticent approval that seems calculated to preclude ruffling many feathers. Reviewers do not seem interested in contributing to a critical practice based on defensible standards and that encourages lively debate, but seem most concerned to maintain a critical establishment dedicated most of all to avoid giving offense.

In their reviewing, both Oyler and Rothfeld provide admirable exceptions to this unproductive state of affairs. On the other hand, in the two essay collections, they mostly choose not to include or expand on such reviews, or to offer essays that extend the sort of analysis used in the reviews to engage in further consideration of current literary practices, or the practice of criticism itself. Instead we have the exercises into autobiographical and cultural criticism comprising these books, which, however interesting in their own right they may be, reinforce the impression that critics and "criticism" in literary journalism have followed the lead of academic critics in forswearing the "literary" in literary criticism in favor of more socially "relevant" issues. In academic criticism these issues are like to be explicitly political, whereas in cultural criticism as practiced by Oyler and Rothfeld (and numerous others), they are broadly cultural: critics should use their powers of discernment and interpretation to "read" the landscape of popular culture. Works of art play a purely symptomatic role in this criticism, as the manifestation of cultural expressions the critic hopes to elucidate. 

Literary works are just one such symptom that might be considered, and, since works of fiction and poetry are not as transparent to this kind of inquiry as other popular forms, they are arguably less useful to the cultural critic as objects of analysis. There are literary critics covering primarily fiction and poetry who take this approach--some of them among the most recognized reviewers and critics--but the works they examine are generally those most likely to mirror the visible currents in popular culture by adhering to recognizable conventions of realism or participating in particular fashions that have caught on among writers themselves. The kind of writing that is neglected in this dispensation, putting aside poetry, which unfortunately goes neglected in the popular press almost as a matter of course, is the very most "literary" writing, that is to say, fiction that is unconventional and experimental, that concerns itself not merely with making fictional representations of reality but exploring different possible ways of creating such representations  through form and style--through questioning how writing becomes literary in the first place.

I am not suggesting that literary criticism must focus exclusively on formally adventurous fiction to be genuinely literary. But even fiction that might be only modestly experimental in its manner isn't likely to get very close attention in the most-read review outlets unless it also is perceived as culturally relevant in its matter (its "content"). Neither do I believe that cultural criticism inherently has less value than the direct examination of literary texts (even if I do myself have more interest in the latter). The development of digital and electronic technologies has certainly brought us to a point where popular culture has become more widely dispersed and more insistent. It would obviously be shortsighted to ignore it. Yet there is an important difference between attending to a phenomenon because it has clear and measurable (and often adverse) effects and doing so because that phenomenon has been deemed more worthwhile than all others. Serious writers are more worthy of consideration than lifestyle gurus, and serious criticism should reflect that. 

New Issue of Unbeaten Paths

Issue 8 of Unbeaten Paths: Reviews of Adventurous Fiction is now available: 

Reviewed in this issue:

James Elkins, Weak in Comparison to Dreams (Unnamed Press)

John Madera, Nervosities (Anti-Oedipus Press)

Christina Tudor-Sideri, Schism Blue (Sublunary Editions)

Babak Lakghomi, South (Dundurn Press)

Gone South

On the surface, Babak Lakghomi's South takes on the characteristic features of conventional allegory. Predominantly emphasizing narrative, it tells the story of a quasi-innocent protagonist (innocent in his understanding of the true dangers lurking in the world he inhabits) who undertakes a journey (in this case, to the "south") that, should he successfully complete it, will bring him good fortune (since the protagonist is a writer, the reward will be publication that will presumably bring more financial stability and help heal his troubled marriage). The novel's allegorical framework is reinforced by the cast of characters and the way they are portrayed: in the protagonist's first-person account, only his wife is given a proper name (Tara), while he is himself referred to simply as "B." All of the other characters are identified by their relationship to B. and their function in his story--"the Editor," "the Publisher," "the Assistant Cook,"-- or are described only vaguely--"the man with the deflated face." Finally, the novel's pared-back style de-emphasizes extended sensory description or other lyrical flourishes and focuses our attention resolutely on what happens, even when what is happening seems hallucinatory or surreal.

Ultimately we indeed might read South as broadly allegorical, a story about one man's confrontation with a reality more precarious than he had imagined, but it in fact winds up undermining the fundamental mechanism of allegorical narrative. A classic allegory is a narrative that proceeds on dual levels: the manifest, literal level on which the directly depicted events take place, and an impalpable, symbolic level of secondary, augmented meaning to which the first level alludes, but does not articulate. In this sort of allegory (as in, say, Pilgrim's Progress or some of the short stories of Hawthorne), that secondary level is charged with specific, relatively fixed meaning, although such meaning must be filtered through a reader's act of interpretation. But in South, the meaning is finally indeterminate, especially to the protagonist whose experience the narrative relates.

B. is a mostly unsuccessful writer whose most recent effort, an "essay about the extinction of painted storks," has failed to  be published, although he has also written a book about his father that is being considered by the Publisher. As the novel begins, he has been given an assignment by the Editor to visit an oil rig in the South and report on labor unrest reputed to be occurring there. B. is not entirely sure why he has been given the assignment (and by the end of the novel, we're not sure, either), and when he arrives at the rig, he discovers that although the powers that be have been informed of his task and are prepared to allow him access, no one, including the workers supposedly threatening to strike, welcomes his presence. He receives no cooperation, except from his bunkmate, the \Assistant Cook, a veteran rig worker who provides him witb mostly general information about the Company, owners of the rig, and about the history of the rig's operation. He is also unable to communicate directly with anyone outside the rig, compelled to instead write brief notes to Tara and the Editor that are then relayed by the Secretary through Company email. 

Gradually B.'s situation degrades from mere non-cooperation to more actively sinister actions taken against him, presumably at the behest of a white-haired man with whom B. meets several times and who seems to be the man in charge (at least on the rig). B. is held in increasing isolation, and seems also to be administered certain mind-numbing and mind-altering drugs. Most likely, B.'s increasing paranoia is an effect of these drugs, although it certainly seems to be the case that someone in the power structure is definitely after him--but by this time B. has also become an unavoidably unreliable narrator, so it becomes all but impossible for us to come to any definitive conclusion about what is actually happening. Eventually B. is able to escape the rig with the help of a woman he has managed to befriend, although it turns out she has also been an agent of the Company. Whether her assistance in enabling B to swim from the rig to a nearby island is a sincere gesture of kindness to B. or is still part of her collaboration with the Company is something neither B. nor we can decide, but B. does finally manage to get back home (to the City), where we next find him being tended by Tara.

B.'s experiences on the oil rig are prefaced by his initial account of driving to the south, in which he stops to witness a ceremony performed by locals, apparently an exorcism of wind spirits. Being haunted by the wind becomes a recurring motif  in the novel, broaching the possibility that B.'s dilemma might involve such a haunting, a fate that might, as well, have afflicted his father, a poet and activist who disappeared when B. was a small boy. (Excerpts from the father's dream journal are provided at intervals during B's narration.) The man with the white hair strongly suggests that his interest in B. is as much an interest in his father's activity as in B.'s own, which further suggests that the line between the Company and the government is thin indeed. Exactly what B.'s father might have done to warrant the government's concern remains unspecified (it is suggested that among his reputed offences could have been that he was a homosexual), and it is additionally unclear whether its interest in B. himself extends beyond the information he might provide about the father.

Perhaps the offence committed by both B. and his father is simply that they are writers, naturally and therefore dangerously inquisitive. To the extent that the novel does point us toward some sort of unified allegorical meaning, this might be it: the writer's indulgence of curiosity and imagination is always a threat to the reigning powers.. Yet even this interpretation is not unambiguously supported by B.'s narrative. B., while still mostly a sympathetic character, does not always show a great sense of purpose or determination: his commitment to writing seems hesitant, and he hardly seems a stalwart defender of artistic freedom or a seeker of the truth.  Even at the novel's conclusion, when he does seem prepared to persist in writing about what he has seen, his life (not to mention his memory) has been sufficiently impaired that the reader must wonder how successful he will be. But we may also end up feeling even more disturbed about a world in which even such a tentative truth-teller as B. is considered subversive.

What is communicated most forcefully in the story of B.'s journey to the south is how elusive meaning can be, how fragile our grasp of the truth. If it is becoming clearer that we in the putatively civilized world are not invulnerable to the dissolution of democratic norms and long-held assumptions, South provides a bracing glimpse at what living in a world in which arbitrary authority prevails is like.

The Shape of His Departure

Many readers of Christina Tudor-Sideri's Schism Blue would likely find it initially to be somewhat static and abstract, perhaps even obscure. The two figures who will be the novel's characters--the only characters--are rather indistinct at first, and where such qualities as their appearance or their manner of speaking are concerned, they remain indistinct throughout. There is no story of any conventional kind, except for what could loosely be called the story of the main character recollecting (and recreating) her now dead lover, Few concrete events aside from this recollection are related in present narrative time (it could  be said that part of the main character's motivation is to, in effect, annul narrative time altogether), although eventually we are presented with brief episodes of more concrete activity occurring in the past. The novel seems to be set nowhere in particular, but wherever it is it is cold, and it seems to snow quite a lot.

These formal features are reinforced in the novel's style, which is highly metaphorical but doesn't provide a lot of close figurative description, the language more philosophical and rhetorical than lyrical:

    Between them, the night, its shadows, ambivalent as to whom to protect, him or her; the night that cannot tear itself asunder, the night that cannot offer itself to both of them; the night, its shadows in disarray, from her steps to his hesitations and back again, from the idea, no from the essence of a god, the god of this painting in reverse, this painting that shows her leaving when it was, in fact, that reality took the shape of his departure; from this essence of a god to the rest of the world, in throes, to the world immersed in petty passions and ebbing desires and folding of the senses.

This language is employed to disclose the efforts of the main character, who is a writer, to not merely remember her lover, who was a painter, but to in effect keep him alive in her continuing acts of imagination. It might be said that the novel as whole comprises this character's attempt to meld past and present through a kind of perpetual visionary projection.

Thus, while Schism Blue never does develop the drama or narrative movement of the kind readers might expect, it does acquire its own sort of fascination as a contemplative metafiction that ruminates on the process of fiction-making--or on the process of fiction-making as it unfolds within the consciousness of its main character. This character is not relating her experience in her own voice, so it as if the larger narrative voice observes these cerebral acts of creation, although it is more like this voice reports on the character's awareness as she creates, while the actual creation--the fictional character that is the lover, and the specifics of his actions (his "story")--remains unavailable to us, tucked inside the writer's desk. The "narrative" offered by the novel, is indeed the story of the storytelling, without access to the story told.

Because of this odd narrative structure (a narrative that is a supplement to another narrative that is hidden), the pleasures to be found in Blue Schism are realized in individual passages of writing rather than the architectural whole to which they nominally belong. In an extended reverie in which she summons the lover by thinking about the image of a red house (presumably an image in one of his paintings), the main character reflects: 

     A beautiful echoing, this memory now for assembling all that she has gone to assemble; a house amidst spruces; a house he made for her; a house on the beach; a house, emergent, on the highest of crests, in the deepest of caves, a house from the hands of a painter, from the mind of a writer, from a beautiful creator of tiny red houses.

     She is able to apprehend the nature of this red house. And that is happiness. That too is paradise. She is able to situate this house inside the human space of the mind. She is able to create correlation and contain absence and presence and coming-into-being inside of its redness. She is able to carry this house.

The novel is best at offering this sort of insight into the aesthetic transformation of experience, expressed metaphorically and rhapsodically, ultimately making such transformation what the novel is actually "about," acting as both the object of its discourse and the engine of that discourse. Schism Blue pushes against the tyranny of the conventions of plot, character, and setting as strongly as any novel I've read, even though I wouldn't really call it a work of experimental fiction. It is more like a prose poem than a formal or stylistic experiment.

Still, I wouldn't call Schism Blue "poetic" as that term is usually applied in reference to works of fiction. Its metaphorical language is used not as lyrical embellishment but as a formal pattern that  brings a unity to the novel that usually comes from plot. The novel does depict characters, even if they are less explicitly delineated than in most novels. And if the setting is also mostly nonspecific, it actually figures into the living memory the protagonist is attempting to create by serving as evocative imagery. This novel definitely blurs strict boundaries between fiction and poetry, but it works most provocatively as an unorthodox work of fiction.

No doubt some readers would find it too unorthodox, too dependent on its elaborate prose, providing too few of the usual signposts by which we navigate most works of fiction. For those who absolutely require those signposts in order not to lose their way, perhaps Schism Blue would prove too perilous. For those willing to get lost once in a while but trusting that the work itself will ultimately guide them back, the effort is fully worth the risk.

New Supplemental Site

I have put together a selection of essays and reviews of mine examining various works of literary criticism that have (mostly) appeared in the last few years. These essays cover issues in criticism that most stimulate my interest. It can be found here. (A link can also be found on the left sidebar,) This group of essays is in some ways a sequel to Beyond the Blurb. 

I also have another supplementary site gathering many of the reviews of experimental fiction I have written in the last decade, both for this blog and other publications. It can be found here.

Damaged by Reality

John Madera's collection of stories, Nervosities, is not "experimental" in that it rejects most readers' expectations of form in fiction: Most of the stories feature well-developed characters from whose relatively accessible points of view (both first-person and 3rd-person "free indirect") the events in the stories are related. Although these are not "plot-driven" stories with carefully laid-out scenes contributing to a narrative "arc," they are indeed stories; things happen to and through the characters, and these things have dramatic significance, especially in the conclusions to many of the stories. What is dramatized serves the stories' thematic purposes, which in most cases are relatively apparent, although they are not insistently accented, instead realized through setting and character interaction.

But all of these elements are mediated through Madera's dynamic style, which does take the stories out of the ordinary, marking them as separate from conventional "literary fiction." At its most adventurous, this style seems a kind of untamed amalgam of Gary Lutz and Thomas Bernhard: 

Here is my brain: a swollen sewage grate after rainfall--inkbled newprint, leafy bits, had-it twigs, mucosal drift bunging up the holes. Listing in my mind different things that fall (like petals, leaves, and pinecones; like acorns, berries, and other fruit; samaras, and seed pods; like shushing rain and silent snow; like sleet and hail, pellets, a perpetually whisked beaded curtain, clattering up the ground; like massy meteorites mussing up the mud) was, perhaps, superfluous; and thinking about how human beings (who are, in one sense, natural objects themselves, subject to all the causal laws of the physical world), if dropped from a height, will fall at a rate of thirty-two feet per second per second, until the rate of their fall reaches terminal velocity, was not an adequate replacement for the pernicious idea of the so-called great fall of man; but these thoughts, of falling things, while perhaps so much belly lint-picking, kept me from thinking about other things I should have been thinking about but did not want to think about. . . . ("Bees Build Perfect Hexagons with Their Spit")

More controlled than Bernhard's headlong expository monologues, less obsessively focused on surprising verbal devices than Lutz (although evoking each of these strategies), Madera's style isn't simply the vehicle for relating character and event, and doesn't serve as the kind of verbal decoration that often passes for "good writing." Language in most of these stories doesn't serve their conventional elements at all but instead makes manifest something like the reverse: plot, character, setting are a function of the use of language, its particular qualities invoking the illusions of plot or character in a particular way. This is actually true of all works of fiction, but Madera's stories are most unconventional in their rejection of the usual attempts to conceal the artifice of language, to make language transparent to the needs of narrative.

The book's first few stories are rather more verbally constrained than some of the later stories, which suggests a process of discovering a more audacious prose style, although these stories still do not rely on familiar sorts of characters or ordinary situations. Indeed, "Some Varieties of Being and Other Non Sequiturs" and "Notes Toward the Recovery of Desiderata." the first two stories, incorporate uncommon settings (not to mention story titles), the first featuring a man who has moved to an Indian city on the Ganges, where apparently he hopes to die, the second recounting the story of a Cuban girl who becomes a participant in the Mariel boatlift, a notorious mass emigration to the U.S. Both stories introduce a background of political turmoil, hints of which also recur in later stories but never really become a primary focus of the book's concerns. "Some Varieties of Being" does present us with a character whose general type--alienated both from his circumstances and from himself--recurs in later stories and whose predicament more nearly illustrates a dominant theme in the book ("Nervosities" seems a coinage particularly applicable to these characters.)

Although many of the characters in Nervosities are dissatisfied with their lives (some more consciously than others), two stories ("Anatomy of a Ruined Wingspan" and "An Incommodious Vehicle") feature a protagonist who has essentially given up on conventional social existence, drifting without a fixed abode or much desire for remunerative work. In each case the character accepts temporary lodging with friends, but the events in the stories really only reinforce the protagonists' social estrangement, although in the first the character does strike up a friendship of sorts with a local homeless man, with whom at the story's conclusion he shares a convivial home-cooked meal. In some stories there are indications by story's end that the protagonist has come to a decision that might alter his/her circumstances (a man abandons his "dingy apartment," clearly an emblem for the dinginess of his life, a woman finally ends things with the boyfriend she clearly doesn't love), but in others no such decision seems possible. (In "Nature Under Constraint and Vexed," a man suffers a ruptured appendix that is going to kill him.) The characters in Nervosities inhabit an American culture that is hostile to their well-being and for which they have little affinity.

Perhaps the grimmest story in the book is "To Have Done with the Division of Moving Bodies," featuring a man, an Iraq War veteran, who has just killed his girlfriend's dog after the girlfriend has broken up with him. Although the story circles back to depict how the man (called simply "the killer") was affected by his experiences in Iraq (three deployments) and his difficulties in adjusting to life back home with the girlfriend, it nevertheless doesn't hesitate in showing the merciless brutality of the man's action. The story both maintains a clinical distance from the compromised protagonist (partly by never giving him a name) and takes us far enough into the man's mind that he doesn't become merely a brute, his behavior entirely unaccountable. There is no sentimentality in Nervosities: the stories concern characters who are damaged by reality, but they don't make excuses for the characters. They just register the damage in Madera's kinetically alert language.

Although these stories are by no means formally conservative (several feature unconventional formal devices), for the most part all of them could really be called works of a particularly disabused kind of realism, depicting a mostly broken culture. However, this realism is itself a route on the way to style, not vice-versa. Through reminding us that the reimagining of reality through the devices of language is the essence of literary art, Madera's stories both heighten our impression of the disenchanted lives they portray and challenge our passive reading habits.

The Tawdry Spectacles of Culture

In her review of Dan Sinykin’s Big Fiction: How Conglomeration Changed the Publishing Industry and American Literature, Hilary Plum contends that the flaw in the book’s analysis of contemporary American fiction “arises out of the genre of scholarship,” suggesting that literary scholars are inclined to stick to “what scholarship is supposed to be about, which is what scholarship has already been about.” Thus Sinykin focuses his attention on the corporate book business, which is where “scholarship” can reveal the social and cultural processes at work in “literary production,” the orientation to both literature and culture that today’s scholarship is almost always “about.” The kind of non-conglomerate, non-commercial writing published by small presses, Plum points out, is more or less irrelevant to this analysis.

Plum is certainly right that by far most formally adventurous work that resists the homogenization of fiction (a state of affairs that Sinykin collapses into the broader economic concept he calls “conglomeration) is published by smaller presses—smaller than the non-profit presses Sinykin presents as the primary alternative to conglomerate publishing—and that Sinykin almost completely ignores them. I would also agree with Plum that the constricted attitude toward both writers and readers—neither of which count for much in the book’s consideration of the broader circumstances in which a “book” comes to be—in Big Fiction is a direct function of the work of literary scholarship as it is currently practiced.  But scholarship as we find it in Big Fiction is not, in its relationship to works of literature and to literary history in general, inherently the manifestation of “what scholarship is supposed to be about,” at least not simply as the extension of what it “has already been about” unless scholarship of literature came into existence only in the 1980s.

While it may indeed be the case that academic literary scholarship in its current form has entrenched itself firmly enough that it seems the authentic expression of the scholarly approach to what we call literature, some of us received a literary education under entirely different circumstances, in which the object of the scholar’s attention was not (or not only) the various contexts of literary activity but literary art itself. Literary history focused on the first term, not the second: history as the means to assess the different manifestations of the literary through time, not to subsume it to historical inquiry. Historical, political, and cultural context could serve as disparate avenues of approach to the study of literature, but all of the avenues were assumed to converge on a shared destination where the distinct views offered by these different approaches might be synthesized. This unifying, if unstated, assumption no longer obtains, mainly because literary academics lost confidence in literature as a self-sustaining subject suitable to academic study. Securing literature as the center of literary study in the first place had required the displacement of interest to criticism rather that simply “literature itself,” but over the past forty years academic literary critics have inexorably excluded literature as an artistic practice or as aesthetic experience from their understanding of “criticism” so they might focus instead on more consequential concerns, as if conceding to the original resistance to literary study as something too lightweight for serious scholars.

Hilary Plum is correct in her perception that Big Fiction is quintessentially a scholarly book as literary scholarship is currently defined in that it situates an ostensibly literary subject in an external context—in this case, economic—that is of greater interest to the author than what makes the subject literary. It is true that Sinykin often enough includes extended passages of close reading, but it is close reading of the sort academic criticism has appropriated from the New Critics without including the New Critics’ insistence on the aesthetic autonomy of the literary text. Sinykin shows how the literary works he examines reflect\ the economic context that is his overriding concern. His readings do offer interpretations, but they are interpretations that reduce the fiction of several prominent writers (E.L. Doctorow, Toni Morrison) to the material conditions of their publication. If Sinykin’s readings provide an angle by which we might approach an understanding of Doctorow’s Ragtime or Morrison’s Beloved, they do so by implicitly cutting off other angles as at best naïve in their failure to appreciate the determining influence of those material circumstances.

Sinykin isn’t really hesitant to assert a very wide scope for the interpretive lens afforded by the concept of “conglomerate fiction.” The term doesn’t just denote the dominance of corporate capitalism in the acquisition and dissemination of books but should be understood to encompass the actual authorship of the fiction written in the last 50 years. So pervasive is the ethos of conglomeration and so extensive are the tentacles the big five publishers send out to all the stages of book production that the writer can be seen to serve as something like the point of origin in a process that goes well beyond the scene of writing itself—which Sinykin believes has been overly romanticized—and involves so many participants under the corporation’s command that it should be said that conglomerate publishing itself is the true author of the fiction it publishes. Although Sinykin attempts to avoid interpretive overreach by emphasizing that with writers such as Morrison and Doctorow the conglomerate outlook is indirect, manifested allegorically rather than literally, it is finally difficult to know just how seriously we are ultimately to take his conceit. As a rhetorical exaggeration used to underscore the extent to which contemporary literature is subjugated to the needs of high-stakes commerce, it perhaps has some force; as a concept that accurately captures the reality of contemporary writers’ situation, it is, of course, absurd.

Sinykin’s critique does seem more justly applied to the career of Cormac McCarthy (perhaps explaining the frequent mentions of Sinykin's  discussion of McCarthy in the initial reviews of Big Fiction). Sinykin justifiably notes that McCarthy’s first five novels (through Blood Meridian gained the writer increasing acclaim as a distinctive stylist but very meager financial rewards. When McCarthy, almost in a gesture of desperation, acquired an agent and a new publisher, both of whom encouraged McCarthy to alter both his style and his Southern settings (essentially extending the Western backdrop of Blood Meridian), McCarthy’s novels, beginning with All the Pretty Horses, broke through and achieved substantial commercial success. It could indeed plausibly be said that McCarthy’s later fiction bears the imprint of conglomerate influence, but in fact McCarthy’s case seems more an instance of capitulating to commercial imperatives—old-fashioned “selling out.” No doubt there are numerous enough writers who would be willing to sell out if the financial rewards were sufficiently reliable, and probably even more quite willing to produce conglomerate fiction entirely to order at the right price. It seems improbable that many good writers are trying to create artistically credible fiction but just can’t avoid giving over their sincerely held objectives to the all-powerful hand of the publishing conglomerates.

This imprisonment in the assumptions of conglomeration is an especially inapt way to envisage the efforts of writers whose work not merely appears in small presses but can be described as adventurous or experimental. There was a time not so long ago when academic critics took a keen interest in such fiction—it could be argued that the arrival of contemporary fiction as a reputable subject of academic inquiry coincided with the rise to prominence of such fiction (eventually called “postmodern”) in the 1960s and 1970s—but the current scholarly preoccupation with sociological and cultural criticism has led to the virtual disappearance of academic criticism of experimental fiction written during the period (1980s to present) witnessing the triumph of what Sinykin now calls conglomerate fiction.

If “autofiction” and fiction written by “previously marginalized voices” do merit attention in Sinykin’s book, it is because they are assimilable in subject and theme to conglomerate expectations—both have some proven appeal to identifiable readers, and increased publication of the latter, at least, credits a degree of social conscience to the commercial publishers that softens perceptions of their otherwise mercenary business model. Innovative, challenging fiction may at one time have brought publishers a semblance of literary respectability that could be valuable, but this sort of respectability, rooted in the recognition of aesthetic complexity as a primary literary value, is now considered dispensable by mainstream publishing and dismissed by literary scholarship as irredeemably subjective and elitist.

Recognition of aesthetic achievement may indeed by subjective (although surely the concept of the “aesthetic” itself is not), but it has never been clear to me why this is perceived as problematic. While there are certainly “objective” features of literary writing and history with which the scholarly study of literature might be concerned, ultimately the purpose of a work of fiction or poetry is to engage the reader in a distinctive experience. It is entirely possible for a critic to describe the experience honestly and deliberately, but finally the experience can only be reported, not repeated among all other readers—even if we thought such a thing was desirable in the first place. This solitary nature of the reading experience (and the experience of art in general) has always caused literary scholars ambivalence: if finally a work of literature in its most essential expression doesn’t result in shareable “knowledge,” what is the point of devoting “study” to it? Even New Criticism, which was partly an attempt to meet this objection by making the method of study just as important as the texts examined, was eventually judged as too implicated in the mere aesthetic appreciation of literature, and its provisional attempt to produce something like knowledge of literature has been superseded by more radically “objective” approaches such as computational analysis and the various kinds of cultural analysis drawing on empirical description, such as Sinykin’s sociological criticism.

Given the specialized, technical, and often esoteric knowledge applied to and derived from literary texts through these approaches, it is hard to regard seriously the charge that the purely aesthetic response to works of literature is elitist. Literary academics are proficient at interrogating a literary text for its relevance to the critic’s preferred theory or extra-literary concerns, but it is clear from most “readings" by contemporary academic critics that reading closely for the qualities of artistic expression that bring literature into existence to begin with and that motivates most readers is no longer a skill much practiced, although presumably it is a skill no longer much learned (or taught) in colleges and universities.  If this is so, it can hardly be regarded as an “elite” practice.

Needless to say, the disinclination to consider the formal and stylistic features of literary texts in general would make serious inquiry into those features as they are extended and transformed in experimental fiction even less urgent. And, indeed, perhaps no change in my own perception of the priorities of academic literary studies has been as noticeable as the seeming loss of interest in the consideration of formally innovative fiction (except when the apparent innovation can be made to serve as a political gesture: challenge to literary form=challenge to the political order). When contemporary fiction started to become acceptable as an academic specialty, much if not most of the scholarly criticism that began to appear concerned the generation of experimental, postmodern writers that seemed to be offering the literary variation on the rebellion against established norms that characterized the 60s more generally. The confluence of the dissident impulses of the times and the heterodox practices of the postmodernists perhaps led to the current tendency to politicize perceived experimental strategies, but neither the first generation postmodernists nor many academic critics accentuated the political: for the writers, the political implications of their work were secondary to the work’s challenges to inherited techniques—challenges that represent an attempt to revivify literary form, not to enlist form in a political gesture. For the critics, while the parallels between the audacious breaking of rules among the insurgent postmodernists and the general disregard of conventional assumptions occurring in the 60s were tacitly acknowledged, what occupied their attention was the sheer variety of the experimental methods these writers employed and the expansion of possibilities in literary form they seemed to promise. If the immediate postwar period had featured a return to pre-modernist realism as a default expectation in American fiction, the adventurous fiction of the 1960s and 1970s augured a return to the innovative spirit of modernism.

By the time I became aware of these writers and wanted to read their work more comprehensively, they were not longer so new or notorious, and  the idea that one could devote “academic study” to the--as well as other branches of contemporary fiction, including those which came to overshadow postmodernism--was no longer so novel. I earnestly aspired to be become a scholar of postmodern American fiction, and to that end published a few scattered articles about writers I especially admired, although I fully intended to write more and made assorted plans to write various books in my “field,” but even before I could actually commit to a particular project I could tell that the trends in that field were shifting away from explication, formal analysis, or thematic surveys to a kind of critical writing whose ultimate object of interest lay “outside the text.” I was not an enemy of all forms of critical theory or cultural analysis, but keeping up with the changing fashions of academic criticism was not after all why I aspired to be an academic critic.

The only way to continue practicing the kind of criticism to which I was most naturally inclined was to acknowledge that it would no longer pass muster in the academic journals devoted to contemporary literature. To me it seemed that contemporary literature would not continue to be afforded the kind of critical elucidation given by modern literary study to all previous periods of literary history, at least by academic critics. It would at best be exploited for its utility in advancing other causes. It would not be allowed to advance its own cause: its value as verbal works of art. This might be still accomplished, but not through academic programs of literary study. Academic criticism had a more or less guaranteed audience, however small and confined mostly to other academic critics, although the jargon and deference to certain rites of scholarly decorum that make most current academic criticism unappealing to most readers were not then so pervasive, and much of the critical work still useful. If I was to continue to be a literary critic, and to extend my interest in experimental fiction, I would need to find a different audience,

In my subsequent efforts to do this, I have found that, first of all, interest in pushing against the limits of acceptable practice as illustrated in most seriously-minded fiction—what has come to be called “literary fiction”—by writers themselves is still quite keen. The postmodernists provided a template for literary exploration that has continued to inspire subsequent writers who are not content merely to apply the inherited methods of “craft,” but wish to modify the concept of craft to mean the artful transformation of form or style in fiction –art is not to be found in the skillful repetition of known strategies, but the discovery of alternate strategies employed with equal skill. Indeed, there might be more writers attempting this latter approach than in the immediate wake of the original postmodern era, although the very success of the earlier writers in offering new variations on fictional form requires the critic to recognize when these later writers are themselves contributing something new or inventive, or are merely reiterating an innovative move made by their experimental predecessors. Such moves can easily enough become as standardized as the conventional devices experimental writers ostensibly want to question, and, while I certainly do not set myself up as the judge of all that is worthily experimental in experimental fiction, I have increasingly focused my critical attention on assessing works of unconventional and adventurous fiction with the underlying assumption that these works are the continuation of the project to open up the art of fiction to perpetual invention and re-invention.

There do seem to be readers interested as well in critical engagement with this project (if not always my own expression of it), and there is certainly an audience for critical engagement with fiction published by smaller independent presses in general, which by necessity are the primary publishers of experimental fiction but of course do not restrict themselves to this single mode (although there are several estimable publishers whose lists are weighed more heavily toward experimental fiction than otherwise). Neither the writers nor most readers of the work supported by these presses, I would argue, are prompted by the concerns that Sinykin seems to suggest motivate those who choose conglomerate fiction. They want from literature a stimulating aesthetic experience, not bland entertainment or therapeutic comfort. They expect criticism to be of some assistance in reflecting on this experience, not be preoccupied with analyzing the commercial machinations of big publishers as emblems of the capitalist system. They are interested in literature, not the tawdry spectacles of culture.

Although Hilary Plum is entirely persuasive in her assessment of the limitations of Sinykin’s book, even she wants finally to frame these limitations as a failure of sociopolitical diagnosis. Sinykin doesn’t see (or want to see) the existence of this dissident corner of publishing as the noncommercial resistance to commercial dominance. It is that, but the real alternative these indie presses provide is not to the profit-driven motives of capitalism but to the non-literary (even anti-literary) attitude toward writing and reading that permeates conglomerate fiction as it has totally surrendered to the imperatives of the bureaucratic corporate system. Considerations of art or knowledge no longer play a role in this system at all (except when someone within it consciously ignores its strictures).These are the considerations that still influence what is published and discussed in the milieu surrounding small presses, and, for me, at least, they loom largest in the discussion of experimental fiction, the kind of writing that stands in the starkest contrast to conglomerate fiction.

Just how mercenary conglomerate fiction has become is made clear not just in Sinykin’s book but also very plainly in a recent essay that closely examines the court proceedings in the antitrust case brought against Penguin in its attempt to purchase Simon & Schuster (Elle Griffin, “No one buys books.”) The impression that emerges from this scrutiny of the testimony is of a corporate publishing business that both yokes itself to the logic of finance capitalism and demonstrates the utter insanity of that logic when applied to the writing of books. Why anyone who takes writing seriously would conclude that this business is worth the time and effort to “study” it escapes my comprehension. If it is necessary to regard this appalling entity as the co-creator of current literary work in order to understand culture more broadly, then I’d prefer to discount culture altogether and stick to literature. Even now, I know where to look for that.