And now to return to my initial question: Are the hybrid essays in The Nearest Thing to Life preferable to Wood’s reviews? The answer is no they aren’t. I relish the descriptive analysis of his reviews. They are a form of art. Long may he keep writing them.
Sunday, June 21, 2015
James Wood's "The Nearest Thing to Life"
What does criticism gain by being personal? By “personal” I
don’t mean ad hominem. I mean autobiographical. What is a critic aiming to
accomplish when he includes a chunk of his own personal experience in his
writing? In his new collection, The
Nearest Thing to Life, James Wood serves up four essays, each of which
contains a personal component. This is a departure for Wood. Most of his work
consists of reviews – among the best in the business. He’s also written at
least two personal essays – “The Fun Stuff: Homage to Keith Moon” and “Packing
My Father-In-Law’s Library” – both collected in his great The Fun Stuff (2012). The pieces in The Nearest Thing To Life weave together personal history and
literary commentary. They’re more ruminative than analytical. They’re like
autobiography set to literary theory. For example, the first essay in the book,
titled “Why?” (originally published in the December 9, 2013 New Yorker) is a meditation on death and
fictional form. It begins with an account of a memorial service that Wood
attended and ends with an examination of Penelope Fitzgerald’s The Blue
Flower. In between, it discusses death, religion, Wood’s strict religious
upbringing, his discovery of fiction’s freedom (“I still remember that adolescent
thrill, that sublime discovery of the novel and short story as an utterly free
space, where anything might be thought, anything uttered”), and propounds a
theory – “To read the novel is to be constantly moving between secular and
religious modes, between what could be called instance and form.” The piece is
a shade heavy on religion for my taste, but in light of Wood’s upbringing (“The
scriptures saturated everything”), that’s forgivable. The real question is
whether this form of essay is preferable to Wood’s essay-reviews. Before I
answer, let’s briefly consider the other three pieces in The Nearest Thing to Life.
The second piece is “Serious Noticing” – my favorite of the
four. It extends and amplifies Wood’s splendid philosophy of “detail.” In his How Fiction Works (2008), he says, “In
life as in literature, we navigate via the stars of detail.” Wood has a
jeweler’s eye for detail. He distinguishes between real and literary detail,
relevant and irrelevant detail, “off-duty” and “on-duty” detail. In “Serious
Noticing,” his consideration of Chekhov’s “The Kiss” (“The details are the stories; stories in miniature.
As we get older, some of those details fade, and others, paradoxically, become
more vivid. We are, in a way, all internal fiction writers and poets, rewriting
our memories”) leads to a reminiscence about growing up in the northern English
town of Durham (there’s a wonderful line describing coal pouring down a chute
into the basement of his family’s house – “I vividly remember the volcanic sound,
as it tumbled into the cellar, and the drifting, bluish coal-dust, and the
dark, small men who carried those sacks on their backs, with tough leather pads
on their shoulders”). The piece advances a theory of “life-surplus” (“the
life-surplus of a story lies in its details”); talks about “serious noticing”
(serious noticing is a way of “rescuing the life of things from their death”);
and concludes by observing, “We can bring the dead back by applying the same
attentiveness to their shades as we apply to the world around us – by looking
harder: by transfiguring the object.” I question that last bit about
“transfiguring the object.” It connects with an observation that Wood makes
earlier in the piece: “Just as great writing asks us to look more closely, it
asks us to participate in the transformation of the subject through metaphor
and imagery.” So when Wood says, “by looking harder: by transfiguring the
object,” he seems to be saying “looking harder” means looking at something in
terms of its potential for metaphor and imagery. I disagree. For me, “looking
harder” means seeing things exactly
as they are. C. K. Williams, in his On
Whitman (2010), says,
As for the body of the world, of existence – Whitman isn’t
trying to raise reality through his poetry to another level of being, another
realm of possibility: his poetry embodies rather the gigantic illuminations
that are evident in perception. Unlike Rilke’s earth that desires only to be
transformed; unlike Traherne’s “The corn was orient and immortal wheat,”
Whitman’s vegetation is itself, his poems don’t need or want a mode of
existence that depends on transformation: his metaphoric stuff is inherent in
his perceptions; rather than using mind to alter reality, he finds ways to
enlarge the underused senses of the mind, to fling the eyes and ears open
wider, to make more sensitive the endings of the nerves.
Wood’s theory of transformation aside, his philosophy of
detail, as expressed in How Fiction Works,
and elaborated in “Serious Noticing,” seems to me one of the most useful,
beautiful ideas in all of literary criticism. His love of detail is palpable.
When he says, in “Serious Noticing,” “I think of details as nothing less than
bits of life sticking out of the frieze of form, imploring us to touch them,” I
feel his passion. I want to touch them, too.
The Nearest Thing to
Life’s third essay is called “Using Everything.” It’s about the practice of
literary criticism. It contains a few surprises. One of them is Wood’s revelation
that “A lot of the criticism I most admire is not especially analytical but is
really a kind of passionate rediscription.” He explains that by “passionate
rediscription” he means “an act of critique that is at the same time a
revoicing.” I like this idea of the critic as sort of jazz singer – the critic
jazzing his subject text. But my first love is analysis. It’s why I read
criticism. It’s why I devour Wood. He’s an excellent analyst of style, of
structure and language. Here’s a quick example. In his How Fiction Works (2008), he quotes this long, remarkable sentence
from Philip Roth’s Sabbath’s Theatre
–
Lately, when Sabbath suckled at Drenk’s uberous breasts –
uberous, the root word of exuberant, which is itself ex plus uberare, to be
fruitful, to overflow like Juno lying prone in Tintoretto’s painting where the
Milky Way is coming out of her tit – suckled with an unrelenting frenzy that
caused Drenka to roll her head ecstatically back and to groan (as Juno herself
may once groaned), “I feel it deep down in my cunt,” he was pierced by the
sharpest longings for his late little mother.
– and says,
This is an amazingly blasphemous little mélange. This
sentence is really dirty, and partly because it conforms to the well-known
definition of dirt – matter out of place, which is itself a definition of high
and low dictions. But why would Roth engage in such baroque deferrals and
shifts. Why write it so complicatedly? If you render the simple matter of his
sentence and keep everything in place – i.e., remove the jostle of registers –
you see why. A simple version would go like this: “Lately, when Sabbath sucked
Drenka’s breasts, he was pierced by the sharpest longing for his mother.” It is
still funny, because of the slide from lover to mother, but it is not exuberant. So the first thing the
complexity achieves is to enact the exuberance, the hasty joy and chaotic
desire, of sex. Second, the long, mock-pedantic, suspended subclause about the
Latin origin of “uberous” and Tintoretto’s painting of Juno works, in proper
music-hall fashion, to delay the punchline of “he was pieced by the sharpest of
longings for his late little mother.”
(It also delays, and makes more shocking and unexpected, the entrance of
“cunt.”) Third, since the comedy of the subject matter of the sentence involves
moving from one register to another – from a lover’s breast to a mother’s – it
is fitting that the style of the sentence mimics this scandalous shift, by
engaging in its own stylistic shifts, going up and down like a manic EKG: so we
have “suckled” (high diction), “breasts” (medium), “uberare” (high), “Tintoretto’s painting” (high), “where the Milky
Way is coming out of her tit” (low), “unrelenting frenzy” (high, rather formal
diction), “as Juno herself may have once groaned” (still quite high), “cunt”
(very low), “pierced by the sharpest of longings” (high, formal diction again).
By insisting on equalizing all these different levels of diction, the style of
the sentence works as style should, to incarnate the meaning, and the meaning
itself, of course, is all about the scandal of equalizing different registers.
Wood’s criticism abounds with such analysis or redescription
or descriptive analysis. Wood can call it whatever he wants so long as he keeps
writing it. I can’t get enough of it.
Another surprise in “Serious Noticing” is Wood’s view of
criticism as a form of storytelling. He says, “The good critic has an awareness
that criticism means, in part, telling a story about the story you are
reading.” Really? What I like about criticism, in general, and Wood’s reviews,
in particular, is that they aren’t stories. They’re description; they’re
analysis; they’re argument. “Give me some straight talk. Give me a little
humor. Give me something real. Above all, give me an argument,” Dwight Garner
says, in “A Critic’s Case for Critics Who Are Actually Critical” (The New York Times Magazine, August 15,
2012). I agree.
The great value of “Serious Noticing,” as far as I’m
concerned, lies in its appreciation of criticism as literature. The best
critics, Wood says, “speak to literature in its own language.” This is a
refreshing corrective to the dismal views expressed by Adam Gopnik (“Criticism
serves a lower end than art does, and has little effect on it”: see “Postscript:Robert Hughes,” newyorker.com, August 7, 2012) and Richard Brody (“Criticism is
a parasitical operation”: see “How To Be A Critic,” newyorker.com, August 22,
2012). For me, criticism – “writerly criticism,” as Wood calls it – is one of
the most stimulating, satisfying, nourishing sources of reading pleasure. Janet
Malcolm’s deconstruction of Sylvia Plath biographies (The Silent Woman),
Richard Ellmann’s tracing of the sources of Joyce’s “The Dead” (James Joyce),
Helen Vendler’s analysis of the grammatical shifts in Seamus Heaney’s style (The
Breaking of Style), Michael Fried’s analysis of the structures of Eakins’s The
Gross Clinic (Realism, Writing, Disfiguration), Svetlana Alpers’s
argument for the importance of the distinction between description and
narration (The Art of Describing) – I could go on and on – are every bit
as artful and creative as the great works they take as their subjects. They are
literature. I value them immensely.
The fourth essay in The
Nearest Thing to Life is “Secular Homelessness.” I praised it when it
originally appeared in the London Review
of Books (February 20, 2014) under
the title “On Not Going Home” (see my comment here). But rereading it in The Nearest Thing to Life, I’ve had
second thoughts. It is a great essay
– I’m still convinced of that – the verbal equivalent of a Rauschenberg combine, in which materials as diverse as Thomas Tallis’s “O Nata Lux,” Durham
Cathedral, the Hudson River, Edward Said’s “Reflections on Exile,” a Green
Card, a bumper sticker, Boar’s Head trucks, Deltic diesels, W. G. Sebald’s The Emigrants are conjoined to make an
arresting meditation on homelessness. But Wood’s mirroring off exilic
literature strikes me as a bit much. His life is not in the least comparable to
Said’s and Sebald’s tragic exiles, refugees, expatriates, and émigrés. And his statement that after eighteen years living in the
U.S., he looks down his Boston Street and “feels nothing” is hard to
comprehend. Compare it with Aleksandar Hemon’s immigrant experience, as
described in his superb "Mapping Home" (The
New Yorker, December 5, 2011). In March, 1992, Hemon, a Bosnian citizen,
arrived in Chicago on a cultural exchange. He planned to stay only a month. But
in April, the Bosnian War began and Hemon decided to stay in Chicago. To get to
know the place better, he did a lot of walking. He says, “I wanted from Chicago
what I’d got from Sarajevo: a geography of the soul.” Eventually, he settled
into the Chicago neighborhood of Edgewater. “Little by little,” he writes,
people in Edgewater began to recognize me; I started
greeting them on the street. Overtime, I acquired a barber and a butcher and a
coffee shop with a steady set of colorful characters – which were, as I’d
learned in Sarajevo, the necessary knots in my personal urban network. I
discovered that the process of transforming an American city into a space you
could call your own required starting in a particular neighborhood. Soon I
began to claim Edgewater as mine; I became a local.
This is quite a different story from Wood’s. My point is
that not all immigrants feel homeless. It’s possible to make a home in a new
place. But you have to want to; like Hemon, you have to want “a geography of
the soul.” I suspect that the only place in which Wood truly feels at home is his
books. This would be the case even if he'd stayed in England.
And now to return to my initial question: Are the hybrid essays in The Nearest Thing to Life preferable to Wood’s reviews? The answer is no they aren’t. I relish the descriptive analysis of his reviews. They are a form of art. Long may he keep writing them.
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