More love for Cormac McCarthy
I keep returning to Cormac McCarthy's novels; he may be my favorite fiction writer. He often gets lumped in with "postmodern fiction writers" like Don DeLillo, who is usually 'blamed' for spawning more recent literary figures like Jonathan Franzen, Dave Eggers, Jonathan Safran Foer, and David Foster Wallace. I don't think that's fair to McCarthy. He's more cast in the mold of Conrad, Melville, and Faulkner.
I had just finished reading No Country for Old Men when I stumbled across the first and only negative review I've seen of the new Jonathan Franzen book, Freedom, in the Atlantic. Reading it made me appreciate McCarthy even more, since his novels aren't about 'banality' or 'the mundane' or 'the people next door' --- they're somehow premodern apocalyptic texts in a vaguely postmodern format. Unlike most "postmodern" novels, they don't deny transcendence and revel in vanity, they just find that the one transcendently True element in human(-ist?) existence is the violent will to power (remember the Judge: "War endures"). In a way, it's really quite a Christian view of evil, except for the characters' despair that God seems to have abandoned them and left things to run amok. Evil (of the specifically American variety, kind of like Junot Diaz's "fuku Americanus") portrayed thus has more in common with the work of Flannery O'Connor than with any American 'social fiction' now.
The Atlantic's review complains about Franzen:
Even when he finally loses his temper, the book shows him no respect: the chapter in question is called “The Nice Man’s Anger.” Would he have turned out less of a clown had Freedom been written after the BP spill? I doubt it; Franzen must riff and smirk for our age, the Age of Unseriousness. No sooner does Walter declare his love for his assistant than we are forced to follow him to the bathroom, where, unable to pee, he wastes water in “an unnecessary flush.” How tiresome all of this is; literary fiction has drawn man smaller than life for much, much longer than it ever did the opposite.
McCarthy is just the opposite, he's telling the Truth as he paints characters larger than life. Melville does it with Captain Ahab, Conrad does it with Kurtz. In No Country for Old Men, Sheriff Bell wonders:
The stories get passed on and the truth gets passed over. As the sayin goes. Which I reckon some would take as meanin that the truth cant compete. But I dont believe that. I think that when the lies are all told and forgot the truth will be there yet. It dont move about from place to place and it dont change from time to time. You cant corrupt it any more than you can salt salt. You cant corrupt it because that's what it is. It's the thing you're talkin about. I've heard it compared to the rock --- maybe in the bible --- and I wouldnt disagree with that. But it'll be here even when the rock is gone. I'm sure they's people would disagree with that. Quite a few, in fact. But I never could find out what any of them did believe.
I wonder if that's the whole point of McCarthy's writing. The Truth is both transcendent and terrifying, contrary to the chroniclers of banality like Franzen. Reviewers constantly compare authors like Franzen to DeLillo, to whom McCarthy is considered a peer... but what DeLillo got right -- that his imitators don't -- is just this: the truth is terrifying. He doesn't express it nearly as explicitly as McCarthy, so the mood is paranoia instead of meditative, fatalistic despair. But it's the same underlying principle; when you look reality squarely in the eye, you will come apart. McCarthy illustrates the coming apart itself with unflinching directness, DeLillo critiques the social and technological defenses we put up to prevent it. Later writers like Franzen seem to have lost the sense that banality conceals dread; they treat the banality as the sum of reality itself, not a distraction from it. They just want to write dialog as snappy as DeLillo's, and without weight behind the surface, it quickly gets boring.
Labels: Essay
2 Comments:
Hi Matt,
I've been following your blog for a while and for the first time I feel like posting a comment.
While I'm a huge admirer of McCarthy's novels (and an even bigger admirer of Flannery O'Connor, for that matter), I thought that review was pretty unfair on Franzen. I'm suspicious about it because it slams the book pretty hard while praise for it everywhere else has been pretty much universal, and also because the assertion that modern, suburban characters can't make interesting fiction really bothers me.
Having only read The Corrections, I think there's more to Franzen's writing than just describing banality (though I think he does slip into that sometimes). Plenty of modern writing does this (Mad Men being a recent and popular example), but I think Franzen does a little more. The way you describe truth and reality in McCarthy's writing shows up in Franzen's as well, to some extent. I think particularly of Gary in The Corrections, who spends the entire book running away from reality. He uses his materialism and self-deception about who he is as distractions from reality. Enid's character is much the same.
It's certainly not the same approach as McCarthy's though, or Flannery O'Connor's (which I love much more than Franzen's and slightly more than McCarthy's, due in no small part to my faith), but I think I find Franzen an interesting writer for much the same reason I find McCarthy and O'Connor so deeply affecting.
In any case, McCarthy is an incredible writer and Blood Meridian really is one of the greatest novels I've ever read.
Not going to lie, here. Though I think McCarthy is our greatest living novelist, I don't think Freedom (which is worse than The Corrections) is a bad book.
It was Bill Faulkner himself who said that writing about rustics in unheard-of districts was worth doing; because the fundamental act of writing was to shed light on a soul in conflict with itself, and yada yada. (Sound like anyone we know and dislike?) Dare I say it--McCarthy is no Faulkner. His characters are opaque; there is no free-indirect discourse a la Franzen, let alone the penetrating first person of Faulkner. Of all McCarthy's characters, Buddy Suttree is the most humane, the least opaque (John Grady Cole is a bit of a ham), and yet we are mostly denied access to Suttree's mind and only given his actions--McCarthy's post-modern gambit. Note the as-ifs in all McCarthy's books: nothing is given straight. Only simulacra, appearences, as-ifs.
As for Franzen: I know Patty Berglund and Chip Lambert. I have known people like them my whole life, have myself acted like they do. Franzen always impresses me with how damn verisimilar his characters are. McCarthy's freaks and outcasts, despite their graveness and nobility, often seem too alienated and apart to give me guidance. As Heidegger said, we are being-with-others; with them we are lead astray into insincerity and falsity, but without them we are utterly without mooring. I think there's good existential drama in Freedom as well as in McCarthy's books.
Don't get me wrong, though, Franzen's style=less polished John Cheever+no-nonsense dialogue. The guy can't write that well. McCarthy's flourishes are so good they're frightening sometimes.
I have a bone to pick with Bloom's interpretation of Blood Meridian (which you obviously have been influenced by). I would contend that the judge isn't WAR, he's CULTURE. The kid is primitivism. He's all nerves. His cruelties are petty, his kindnesses unpredictable. He is more of a proto-human than a human--not without a heart or a conscience, but too un-self-aware to do any real good or bad, like an ape. The Judge, on the other hand, speaks Babylonian, is hairless (read, evolved more than we are), and DELIGHTS in acts of cruelty.
Every record of civilization is also a record of barbarism--Walter Benjamin.
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