Will
Self got his knickers in a bunch a couple of weeks ago about the death of the
novel. Well, the death through lack of sales and public attention of what
he considers to be “the novel,” by which he appears to mean “literary novels,” more
specifically, “his novels.” I don’t expect you to read the entire diatribe. I
couldn’t. If this self-absorbed and condescending essay is any indication of
his fiction, then his novels aren’t just dying; they’re committing suicide.
This is, at its core, another self-pitying example of a
“literary” writer lamenting a lack of sales and recognition compared to what he
considers to be inferior work. As The Beloved Spouse would say, “wah.” To begin
such a discussion is to admit defeat. The writers of the past, whose
recognition the modern “literary” writer seeks to duplicate, did not, by and
large, think of themselves as writing for posterity. They became “literary”
after their deaths, because their books outlived them, not because that was the
original plan.
Musicians have this debate all the time, though it centers
along the lines of, “Why are programs so overloaded with dead composers? Where
is the new music?” There is a lot of new (classical) music out there; few want
to listen to it, with good reason. Not because it’s bad, but because around a
hundred years ago composers started writing for their peers. Not even their
peers, really, but those they liked to think of as their peers. A culture grew
where an ever-smaller cadre of composers praised music that became ever more
obtuse or formulaic in its adherence to arbitrary rules. Music that contained
traditional elements (melody, harmony, tonality) was dismissed as
“reactionary.”
This is a not uncommon situation in the arts. I was once
coerced into a trip to the National Gallery of Art by someone who wished to
appear more cultured than she was. (Editor’s Note: I am not claiming to be more
cultured than she, just that I make no effort to appear otherwise.) At one
point we encountered a painting that looks very much like this (bonus points to
anyone who can identify the actual painting; its name escapes me):
Our discussion proceeded along these lines:
Her: What do you think?
Me: Huh?
Her: What do you think it means?
Me: You’re shitting me, right?
I’m a believer in art for art’s sake. I don’t consider my
writing to be art—an opinion in which I need not stake out a lonely outpost to
defend—I do it for the pleasure and satisfaction of the act, much the way a
preschooler is more interested in process than results when finger painting.
That doesn’t mean I sympathize with authors/musicians/artists who deliberately
create for an audience so far to the right of their perceived bell-shaped curve
no one else can understand it, let alone “appreciate” it. Too narrowly
self-defining one’s audience guarantees its limits; the creator cannot then
reasonably complain about a lack of acclimation.
This is not to say current cultural standards are not
deplorable. Not enough people read, or listen to music, or, hell, even think
about things beyond what’s right in front of them. This is not a new concept.
Just as old ballplayers claim the game was better in their day, the erosion of
cultural standards has been lamented since the origins of cultural standards.
Here’s the thing: if you want to be popular, create things the general
population can get into, and not things you
think the general population should
get into, if they had a clue. By all means, create those things; just don’t
bitch when they’re not popular. No society owes any artist a living, not when
there are too many people hanging on by their fingernails.
