Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Josipovici on Modernism
‘Whatever happened to modernism?’ was the question posed by Gabriel Josipovici this evening at the Commonwealth Institute, Russell Square.
The organisers had underestimated the attraction of the speaker (or, possibly, the power of Ready Steady Book, which is where I learned about this talk) as the lecture room supplied was inadequate to the crowd who turned up to hear him, with every seat taken and people having to stand or sit on the floor.
The woman who introduced him reminded us that Josipovici had once written that British culture was ‘narrow, provincial and smug’. From what followed he clearly hasn’t changed his mind with the passing of the years. And what follows here are just a few jottings from his talk, which went on for over an hour, followed by a few questions. Josipovici’s range of cultural reference is impressively wide; my account of his talk is far from comprehensive.
Ninety-nine per cent of modern British writing and publishing is tosh, Josipovici at one point pugnaciously asserted, in his charming, twinkly-eyed soft-voiced manner. It is carried out as if Kafka and Proust had never existed. Modernism is something which everyone knows exists but which most prefer not to think about. Josipovici cited classic instances of the great modernist writers enduring moments of crisis and weariness as they considered the meaning (or meaninglessness) of writing. He also described how modernism has evoked three standard responses: firstly, the philistine, conservative one which dismisses modernist texts as difficult and boring; secondly, the Marxist one which regards it as registering social crisis; thirdly, the flexible, playful post-modern one. Each response, he argued, condescends to modernism, as if it understood what it was that the great modernists found wrong with more orthodox literary forms.
Josipovici then went on to talk about genre. A genre is like a family – you take it for granted. You feel comfortable there. Things are familiar and comforting. But confidence in a genre can wane in the same way that a family can come to seem deadening. He cited an example from Dr Johnson, who criticised Milton for responding to the death of a friend by writing a pastoral elegy. The generic form was false, not natural.
In the case of fictional narrative, to give something an end does not signify that it supplies meaning. Novels are not mirrors of the world but rather ‘machines that secrete spurious meanings into the world’. Modernists had a deep sense that the bad faith of the novel should be acknowledged. Very few modern British novelists write out of that awareness. Two who did, he argued, were William Golding, in Pincher Martin, and Muriel Spark, in The Hothouse By The East River.
He then contrasted their writing with three contemporary examples. The first was the opening of a short story by a successful writer of fiction and journalism (not identified and I didn’t recognise the story). The second was from a novel by a Booker Prize winner (again not identified, and again it wasn’t something I’d read). The third was an extract from Suite Francaise.
They were all bad writers, going through the motions, Jospivoci argued. Each extract raised questions of narrative authority. Each author displayed a complacent omniscience about their characters.
Most modern British novelists have betrayed their calling, he said. Adverting to the question posed in the title of his talk, Josipovici suggested that one reason for the cultural innocence of Britain is that, unlike most European nations, it was never invaded or occupied. There is a resistance to that sense of negativity and lack which is inherent in modernism. Complacency and conservatism and 3 for 2 titles rule.
Afterwards there were a few questions. Josipovici’s dismissal of Suite Francaise seemed to upset one or two members of the audience. He even called the book (horrors!) ‘lachrymose’.
‘What do you say to those who believe in the popular literary novel?’ was the gist of one question.
‘I think I’m right and they’re wrong,’ was the droll reply.
I enjoyed the talk, and I chuckled frequently at his wit. Afterwards I went out into the night and past the TS Eliot plaque on the corner, my faith in serious writing renewed. And some of what Josipovici had to say was familiar to me, as his ideas clearly influence the most fluent and thought-provoking of all the literary blogs, one which constantly questions the identity and meaning of literary fiction, i.e. this one.
The organisers had underestimated the attraction of the speaker (or, possibly, the power of Ready Steady Book, which is where I learned about this talk) as the lecture room supplied was inadequate to the crowd who turned up to hear him, with every seat taken and people having to stand or sit on the floor.
The woman who introduced him reminded us that Josipovici had once written that British culture was ‘narrow, provincial and smug’. From what followed he clearly hasn’t changed his mind with the passing of the years. And what follows here are just a few jottings from his talk, which went on for over an hour, followed by a few questions. Josipovici’s range of cultural reference is impressively wide; my account of his talk is far from comprehensive.
Ninety-nine per cent of modern British writing and publishing is tosh, Josipovici at one point pugnaciously asserted, in his charming, twinkly-eyed soft-voiced manner. It is carried out as if Kafka and Proust had never existed. Modernism is something which everyone knows exists but which most prefer not to think about. Josipovici cited classic instances of the great modernist writers enduring moments of crisis and weariness as they considered the meaning (or meaninglessness) of writing. He also described how modernism has evoked three standard responses: firstly, the philistine, conservative one which dismisses modernist texts as difficult and boring; secondly, the Marxist one which regards it as registering social crisis; thirdly, the flexible, playful post-modern one. Each response, he argued, condescends to modernism, as if it understood what it was that the great modernists found wrong with more orthodox literary forms.
Josipovici then went on to talk about genre. A genre is like a family – you take it for granted. You feel comfortable there. Things are familiar and comforting. But confidence in a genre can wane in the same way that a family can come to seem deadening. He cited an example from Dr Johnson, who criticised Milton for responding to the death of a friend by writing a pastoral elegy. The generic form was false, not natural.
In the case of fictional narrative, to give something an end does not signify that it supplies meaning. Novels are not mirrors of the world but rather ‘machines that secrete spurious meanings into the world’. Modernists had a deep sense that the bad faith of the novel should be acknowledged. Very few modern British novelists write out of that awareness. Two who did, he argued, were William Golding, in Pincher Martin, and Muriel Spark, in The Hothouse By The East River.
He then contrasted their writing with three contemporary examples. The first was the opening of a short story by a successful writer of fiction and journalism (not identified and I didn’t recognise the story). The second was from a novel by a Booker Prize winner (again not identified, and again it wasn’t something I’d read). The third was an extract from Suite Francaise.
They were all bad writers, going through the motions, Jospivoci argued. Each extract raised questions of narrative authority. Each author displayed a complacent omniscience about their characters.
Most modern British novelists have betrayed their calling, he said. Adverting to the question posed in the title of his talk, Josipovici suggested that one reason for the cultural innocence of Britain is that, unlike most European nations, it was never invaded or occupied. There is a resistance to that sense of negativity and lack which is inherent in modernism. Complacency and conservatism and 3 for 2 titles rule.
Afterwards there were a few questions. Josipovici’s dismissal of Suite Francaise seemed to upset one or two members of the audience. He even called the book (horrors!) ‘lachrymose’.
‘What do you say to those who believe in the popular literary novel?’ was the gist of one question.
‘I think I’m right and they’re wrong,’ was the droll reply.
I enjoyed the talk, and I chuckled frequently at his wit. Afterwards I went out into the night and past the TS Eliot plaque on the corner, my faith in serious writing renewed. And some of what Josipovici had to say was familiar to me, as his ideas clearly influence the most fluent and thought-provoking of all the literary blogs, one which constantly questions the identity and meaning of literary fiction, i.e. this one.
# posted by Ellis : 9:57 PM
