Chapter 16 On American Fiction

To roam in a foreign literary field is very similar to our travel abroad.The commonplace sight of the native population seems to us an astonishing spectacle; however familiar the language may seem to us at home, when it comes from the lips of those who have spoken it from infancy, There is a very different feeling; above all, when we aspire to grasp the inner substance of this country, we seek the least resemblance, whatever it may be, to what we are accustomed to, and claim, this is France the spiritual essence of the original or American genius, on which we credulously worship, and build upon it a theoretical structure which is likely to amuse, irritate, or even temporarily enlighten the native-born French or American. .

What the English tourist who dabbles in American literature needs most of all is something different from what he has at home.For this reason the American author whom the English wholeheartedly admire is Walt Whitman.You'll hear them say that his work is unabashedly American.In the whole field of English literature there is no image like his--in all our poetry there is not a single image that is even remotely comparable.This difference becomes a strength, and, as we bask in this refreshing novelty, it leads us to appreciate Emerson, Lowell, and Hawthorne less and less because they We have counterparts among us, and have drawn their culture from our books.This fascination with novelty, whether its reasons are good or not, and whether its results are fair or not, continues in the present.It is impossible to dismiss such illustrious names as Henry James, Mr. Helge Schumer, and Mrs. Wharton; but there is a certain reservation mixed in with their praise— They're not Americans; they're not giving us anything we haven't got yet.

Having thus described the rough and one-sided attitude of the tourist, let us now ask what are the sights we must visit as a starting point for our ramblings into the realm of the modern American novel.On this subject we began to be perplexed; for at once the names of many authors and the titles of many books came to our lips.Mr. Dreiser, Mr. Cabell, Miss Canfield, Mr. Sherwood Anderson, Miss Hearst, Mr. Sinclair Lewis, Miss Willa Cather, Mr. Lynn Lardner—their works , if time permits, we'd better take a closer look, and if we have to fix our attention to no more than two or three people, it's because, although we are tourists, there's a lot to be done for the development of the American novel. To paint a general picture of a theory of tendencies, it is better to investigate a few important works than to examine each writer in isolation.Of all the American novelists, perhaps the most discussed and read in England at the moment are Sherwood Anderson and Mr. Sinclair Lewis.Among all their novels, we find one called The Storyteller's Tale, which is more fact than fiction, and which can function as an interpreter, helping us when we see American writers dealing with or guess the nature of their problems before solving them.Over Mr. Sherwood Anderson's shoulders, we get a first glimpse of the world, as the novelist sees it, and not as it is later disguised and arranged by him to be assimilated by his characters. world.Indeed, America looks a very strange place if we glance over Mr. Sherwood Anderson's shoulder.What exactly are we seeing here?It is a vast continent, dotted with new villages, unlike the English countryside, where the ivy and moss on the walls melt in summer and winter into part of the natural landscape, where people have recently hurried and crudely Built, therefore, those villages are like the outskirts of towns.Those slow English wagons became Fords; those primrose beds became piles of battered cans; those barn huts became corrugated tin sheds.It's cheap, it's new, it's ugly, it's hastily cobbled together loosely and tentatively together out of miscellaneous materials—this is the burden Mr. Anderson complains of.He went on to ask: the ground is full of rocks, and the artist's imagination stumbles on these rocks, how can it take root here?There is one solution, and one solution only—and that is to be resolutely and unequivocally an American.This is the conclusion he draws, both explicitly and implicitly; this is the note that transforms that dissonance into harmony.Like a patient hypnotizing himself, Mr. Anderson repeated over and over: "I am the American." The words surged with a submerged but fundamental desire. mind.Yes, he was the American; it was a terrible misfortune; it was another great opportunity; but, for better or for worse, he was the American. "Look! In me, the American struggles to be an artist, to be aware of his own self, to be full of wonder at himself and others, to be at ease instead of pretending to be at ease. I may Not English, Italian, Jew, German, French, Russian. Who am I?" Yes, we may venture to repeat: who is he?One thing is certain—whatever the American is, he is not English; and whatever he may be, he will not be English.

Because, that's the first step in the process of becoming an American -- not being British.The first step in the education of an American writer is to disband the whole army of the English language which has been marching under the command of the late English generals.He must train and force the "little American letter" to his service; he must unlearn everything he has learned in the schools of Fielding and Thackeray; Write like you talk to people in a factory in Indiana.That was his first step, but the next step was much more difficult.Because having already decided what he is not, he must further discover what he is.It was the beginning of a phase of acute self-awareness that manifests itself in otherwise diametrically opposed writers.Indeed, nothing astonishes British tourists more than the general prevalence of this sense of self-consciousness and poignancy.Much of the poignancy that accompanies this self-awareness is anti-British.Men are constantly reminded of the attitude of another race, whose subjects until recently they were, and who are still tormented by the memory of its chains.Women writers have to deal with many of the same problems that Americans face.They are also aware of the peculiarities of their own sex; they are easily suspicious of others being insolent, prone to resentment, revengeful, and eager to develop an art form of their own.On both occasions, consciousness of all kinds—self-consciousness, racial consciousness, gender consciousness, cultural consciousness—which has nothing to do with art, intervenes between the writer and the work, and the consequences—at least superficially From the looks of it—unlucky.We can easily see, for example, that Mr. Anderson would be a far more perfect artist if he had forgotten that he was an American; , classical or slang words, he will write better prose.

Nevertheless, when we turn from his autobiography to his novels, we have to admit (as some women writers make us do): to be refreshingly present in the world, to take a new angle on the light, It is such a colossal achievement that, for its sake, we can forgive the poignancy, self-consciousness, and stiff attitude that inevitably accompanies it.In the book "The Triumph of the Egg", the author Anderson made some adjustments to those old art elements, which made us admire.This feeling reminds us of how we felt when we first read Chekhov.In Triumph of the Egg, there is nothing familiar for us to grasp.Those short stories thwarted our efforts, slipped through our fingers, and made us feel that it wasn't Mr. Anderson who failed us, but us, the readers, who had blundered and had to go back and start over. Reading this book: like a chastened schoolboy who must go back and respell the familiar text in order to grasp its meaning.

Mr. Anderson has drilled down to that deeper, warmer layer of human nature, and it would be too trivial to label it new or old, American or European.With the determination to "be true to the essence of things," he groped his way to something real, enduring, and universal, as evidenced by the fact that he did, after all, what few writers do—he created A world of his own.A world in which the senses are exquisitely developed; ruled by instinct rather than concepts; where the horse-race makes boys' hearts beat violently; towns and cities, seemingly boundless and unfathomable; boys and girls everywhere dreaming of sailing and adventure; Wrapped in a soft, caressing envelope, it always seemed a little too wide for the shape of the world.After pointing out Mr. Anderson's indistinct shape, his language, his seeming tendency to settle his short stories gently in a swamp, the English tourist said that all this convinced him of his own theories of what insight and sincerity could be expected from an American writer.The softness and lack of shell of Mr. Anderson's work is unavoidable, for, scooped from the heart of American material, it has never been confined to a shell.He was too enamored of this precious raw material to be die-cast into any of the old intricate poetic patterns molded by European craftsmanship.He would rather expose what he found without a shell, and let others laugh and scold him.

But if this theory applies to the works of American novelists, how do we account for the novels of Sinclair Lewis?Had not this theory been shattered like soap bubbles against the corners of a hard mahogany closet at the first contact with Babbitt, Main Street, and Our Mr. Wren?Because, the work of Mr. Lewis wins by its solidity, its efficiency, and its compactness.Yet he was an American; he also described and illustrated America in one work after another.His works are far from lacking shells. People often say that all of his works are shells. People just wonder whether he has left any room for the snail in the shell.In any case, Babbitt utterly disproves the theory that an American writer, writing about the American situation, necessarily lacks the polish, the artifice, the ability to shape and control his material, which, one might suspect, all It is the legacy of an ancient culture to its artists.In all these respects Babbitt rivals any novel written in England in this century.The tourist in literature must therefore choose one of two conclusions: or there is no profound difference between English and American writers, and their experiences are so similar that they can be described in the same form. or Mr. Lewis follows the mold of English writers so closely—H. G. Wells is an obvious master—that in the process he sacrifices his own Americanness.But the art of reading would be simpler and less adventurous if writers could tie us strips of green or blue cloth and assign them to us.The study of Mr. Lewis has convinced us more and more that the resolute determination shown on the outside is unreliable; .

For, although Babbitt appears to be the most solid and believable portrait possible of an American businessman, we encounter something suspicious and shake our confidence.But, we may ask: where is there room for doubt in a work so brilliant, sure, and confident?First, we doubt Mr. Lewis himself; in other words, we suspect that he is almost as sure of himself and his subject as he wants us to believe him.For, although he uses a different method from Mr. Anderson's, he also writes with one eye on Europe, and this distraction the reader readily perceives and resents.He has that American self-consciousness, too, though he subtly represses it, allowing it only once or twice to express itself in sharp, poignant cries (“The old country idea, Babbitt thinks, is very interesting, as any A decent Englishman is as amusing as any American").Yet there is a certain sense of uneasiness in it.He is not united with America; on the contrary, he presents himself as a guide and interpreter between the American and the British, and when he leads his European travelers around the typical American city (of which he is a native) ) and introducing them to those typical American citizens with whom he had all kinds of connections, he was both ashamed of what he had to show and angry that the Europeans laughed at it.Zenith is a vulgar place, but even more vulgar are those Englishmen who dare to despise it.

In such an atmosphere, it is impossible for the author and the reader to be intimate.All he could do, as a writer in Mr. Lewis's caliber, was to describe with unflinching precision and with ever-increasing vigilance lest the secret be revealed.Therefore, no one has ever created such a complete model of a city.We turn on the faucets, and the running water flows; we press the buttons, and the cigars are lit, and the beds are warmed.But this admiration of machinery, this insatiable pursuit of "toothpaste, socks, tires, cameras, quick thermoses . , but as a means of postponing the day of misfortune which Mr. Lewis felt was imminent.No matter how much he may have feared what others might think of him, he had to tell his inner secrets.He has to prove that Babbitt has some truth and beauty, some emotion of the characters and himself, otherwise Babbitt is nothing more than an improved method of driving a motor car, a display of a new and unique mechanical design. It's just a convenient form of appearance.To make us readers love Babbitt—that is the problem he faces.With this in mind, Mr. Lewis coyly assures us that Mr. Babbitt has his dreams too.Though he was strong and strong, the aged merchant dreamed of a fairy waiting for him at the door, "her sweet, quiet little hand caressing his cheek. He was gallant, wise, and beloved; her arm was One feels warm ivory; beyond those perilous swamps, the brave sea shone in the distance." But this is not a dream; Easy manly protest.What are dreams—those very expensive dreams—made of?The sea, fairies, swamps?Well, he wanted a little of each, and if it wasn't a dream, he jumped out of bed as if in a fit of rage and asked: So what is it?He is much more relaxed about sexual relations and family affection.It cannot be denied, indeed, that if we put our ears close to his shell, we can hear the clumsy but unmistakable movement of the eminent citizen of Zenith within.There was a moment of liking and sympathy for him, and even a longing for some miracle to happen, for that rock to be split in two, and that living being, capable of joy, suffering, and happiness, to be liberated.But, this was not the case; he was too slow; Babbitt would never get out; he would die in his cell, pinning his hope of escape on his son.

So, by some sort of method, the English tourist embraced Mr. Anderson and Mr. Lewis with his own theory.They both suffer from being both novelists and Americans: Mr. Anderson because he has to assert his pride flatly; Mr. Lewis because he has to hide his bitterness.Mr. Anderson's method was the less harmful to him as an artist, and his imagination was the more active of the two.He had more to gain than to lose by being the mouthpiece of a new country, as a craftsman who sculpted in new clay.Nature seems to have intended Mr. Lewis to be in the company of Mr. Wells and Mr. Bennett, and no doubt, had he been born in England, he would have proved himself a match for these two eminent men.Although he denies the richness of an ancient civilization—the mass of concepts upon which Mr. Wells' art is based; the solid customs and manners that have fed Mr. Bennett's art—he is compelled to criticize Instead of exposing, the object of his criticism—the civilization of Zenith City—was unfortunately too poor to support him.A little reflection, however, and a comparison of Mr. Anderson and Mr. Lewis will give a different color to our conclusions.See America through the eyes of an American, and see Mrs. Opal Emerson Murch as herself, not as an American type put on display to amuse the courteous Brit And symbols, we will vaguely feel that Mrs. Murkey is not a type, not a scarecrow, not an abstract concept.Mrs. Murkey is—however, it is not up to an English writer to figure out what she is.He could only peek between the chinks in the fence, and ventured to offer his opinion that Mrs. Mudge and other Americans in general were, among other things, human beings.

As we read the opening pages of Mr. Lyn Lardner's "You Understand Me, Al," that vague feeling turns into an unmistakable conviction, and the shift is baffling. untie.Hitherto we have kept a distance from them, they have constantly reminded us, pointed out our sense of superiority and inferiority, and pointed out the fact that we belong to a foreign race.But not only was Mr. Lardner unaware of our differences, he was simply unaware of our existence.A great baseball player, in the middle of an exciting game, never stops to wonder if the crowd likes the color of his hair.All his heart was on that game.Therefore, when Mr. Lardner writes, he wastes no time wondering whether he is using American slang or Shakespeare's English, whether he is recalling Fielding or Forgot Fielding; wondered whether he was proud of being an American or ashamed of not being Japanese; his heart was devoted to that short story.As a result, our attention was all focused on that novel.It turned out that he happened to write some of the best prose we have ever encountered.As a result we feel at last unimpededly included in the society of our fellow man. This should be true of "You Understand Me, Al," a short story about baseball—a sport not found in Britain—that is often not written in English. novel, which makes us hesitate.What exactly did he rely on for his success?In addition to his unconsciousness and his consequent freedom to give an extra force to his art, Mr. Lardner has a remarkable genius for creative sequence.With uncommon ease and sagacity, with the quickest strokes, the most stable lines, the most keen insights, he let baseball player Jack Keefe outline his own outline and fill his own heart, until this brash, boastful The pure, simple-minded athletes are vividly presented in front of us.His friends, his lovers, and the sights, towns, and villages--all surround him and complete his image, as he babbles and confides his heart.We observe the depths of a society that is single-mindedly acting in accordance with its own interests.Perhaps this is one of Mr Lardner's success factors.Not only is he himself preoccupied with his own physical activity, but his characters are equally preoccupied with theirs.It is no accident that Mr. Lardner's best novels are about physical activity, since one may surmise that Mr. Lardner's interest in it solves one of the most difficult problems of the American writer; He was given a thread, a center, and a point of intersection of the varied activities of people isolated on a vast continent, uncontrolled by any tradition.Physical activity gave him what social life had given to his British brothers.Whatever the exact reason, Mr. Lardner has in any case provided us with something incomparably unique, something indigenous in nature, which the tourist can take home as a souvenir to the unsuspecting. People testify that he has indeed been to America and found it a foreign land.But the moment has come when the traveler must judge what he has spent and what he has gained and try to make up the whole account of his trip. Let us first admit that our impressions are very mixed, and that our views are less definite and less sure than our original ones, but that is all.For, when we consider the mixed origins of the literature we are trying to understand, its youth, its age, and the currents of thought that have passed through its natural course, we are likely to exclaim : If it is to be summed up and understood, French literature, English literature, and all modern literature are simpler than this emerging American literature.At the root of American literature there is an incongruous feature, that the natural inclination of the American is distorted from the outset.For the more sensitive he is, the more he wants to read English literature; the more he reads English literature, the more sensitive he is to the perplexities of that great art which uses his own to express an experience that was not his, to reflect a civilization he had never known.He had to make a choice—either give in, or fight back.The more sensitive, or at least, the more sophisticated writers, those Henry Jameses, those Helge Schummers, those Edith Whartons, who decided to support England while their bad The consequence is that they exaggerate English culture and traditional English manners, and overemphasize, or place in the wrong place, these social differences which, though they first attract the attention of foreigners, are by no means most impressive.What their work gains in sophistication is lost in a constant distortion of values ​​and a fascination with superficial distinctions—the age of old houses, the glamour of aristocrats—that force us to remember Well, Henry James was a foreigner after all, if we're not going to call him an arty snob. On the other hand, the cruder writers, like Mr. Walt Whitman, Mr. Anderson, Mr. Masters, who decided to stand for America, but fiercely, self-consciously, protestingly " "Show off" (as nannies often say) their novelty, independence and individuality.Both of these influences were unfortunate, and they hindered and delayed the development of genuine American literature itself.However, some critics might object: Are we making a fuss out of molehills, imagining differences that don't really exist?In the days of Hawthorne, Emerson, and Lowell, "authentic American literature" was fairly consistent with contemporary English literature, and the present movement for a national literature is confined to the circle of a few enthusiasts and extremists. guilt, they will grow wiser as they grow older and discover the folly of their own actions. But the literary tourist could no longer accept this comfortable dogma, although it flattered his pride in his parentage.Obviously there are American writers who don't care much about British opinion or British culture and can still write with vigor - Mr. Lardner can attest to that - and there are Americans who have all the cultural and artistic talents Without any suspicion of overusing it—Vera Cather attests; and Americans whose purpose is to write entirely on their own and without dependence on others—Fanny Hess Miss Tee can attest to this.But the shortest journey and the most superficial inspection must also make him aware of a much more important fact-that the country itself is so different, and the society is so different, that literature must have As time goes by, the difference between it and literature of other countries will inevitably become larger and larger. There can be no doubt that American literature, like all other literature, will be subject to foreign influences, and English influences may predominate.But English traditions are clearly no longer able to cope with these vast lands, these prairies, these cornfields, these solitary little groups of men and women scattered at great distances from each other, these industrial great cities with their skyscrapers. Buildings, night lights and perfect machinery.English traditions fail to distill their meaning, express their beauty.How could it be otherwise?The English tradition was founded on a small country, at the center of which was an old house with many rooms, each filled with things and people, who knew each other and related to each other. Intimately, their behavior, thinking, and speech have been dominated by the spirit of the past without knowing it.But, in America, baseball replaces social activity; the old landscape that has excited the emotions in countless springs and summers is replaced by a new land, in which tin cans, prairies, and cornfields are scattered here and there. , is like an ill-formed mosaic waiting to be brought into order by the artifice of the artist; on the other hand, the people there are equally diverse, and they are divided into many nations. To describe, connect, and bring order to all these scattered parts required a new art and a new traditional control.That language itself, proves to us that both are in the process of being born.Because those Americans are doing what the Elizabethans did—they're coining new words.They are instinctively adapting language to their needs.In England, except under the impetus of war, the power of vocabulary-making has declined; our writers vary the rhythms of their verse, and rework the rhythms of their prose, but if you seek a new word in English fiction, you must In vain.The story is significant: when we try to renew our language, we have to borrow new words from America—bullshit, lawlessness, swerve, backstage boss, gregarious person—all expressive Slang, unrefined, exuberant slang has crept among us, first in oral use, then in writing, all from across the Atlantic.We don't need to be very farsighted to predict that, when words are forged, a literature will emerge from them.We have heard that first cacophony of incongruity - the repressed staccato tune of its prelude.As we closed our books and looked out again at the English fields, a piercing sound echoed in our ears.We heard the first cooing and laughter of the boy who, three hundred years ago, was abandoned by his parents naked on the rocky shore, and he survived by his own efforts, so he was a little sad , proud, shy and determined, and now he is almost an adult.