How Avant Is It? Zadie Smith, Tom McCarthy, and the Novel’s Way Forward

April 19, 2011 | 12 books mentioned 25 12 min read

1. “Two Paths for the Novel”

It was late October, 2008, and Robert Silvers had earned a victory lap. The New York Review of Books, which he’d co-founded with the late Barbara Epstein during the New York printers’ strike of 1963, was about to observe its 45th anniversary. And equally improbably, after the tumultuous reign of Bush fils, the country seemed poised to elect a president aligned with the social-democratic politics for which the New York Review had provided life support. Interviewed by a reporter at a San Francisco restaurant, though, Silvers, 78, sounded less like an eminence grise dining out on past accomplishments than a hungry young editor on the make…or maybe the cat who ate the canary. The end of the conversation found him talking up “‘an ambitious essay’” slated to appear in the Review’s anniversary edition, “‘a daring and original piece by a brilliant mind’”—a “dismantl[ing]” (in the reporter’s paraphrase) of the literary “status quo.” “‘Some people will be slightly shaken,’ Silvers said with delight,” before “grabbing a handful of smoked almonds and making a dash for the door.”

covercoverThe mind in question was the English novelist Zadie Smith‘s, and the dismantling turned out to be a 9,000-word essay on two well-received recent novels: Joseph O’Neill’s Netherland and Tom McCarthy’s Remainder. Or perhaps “essay” isn’t the right word; as the title “Two Paths for the Novel” suggested, it was closer in spirit to a polemic. The rhetorical embroidery was dazzlingly multiform, but the gravamen ultimately rested on that old workhorse, compare/contrast. As Smith saw it, Netherland—at that point well on its way to bestsellerdom and President Obama’s nightstand—represented the excesses, the exhaustion, of “a breed of lyrical Realism [that] has had freedom of the highway for some time now.” McCarthy’s Remainder, meanwhile, was “one of the great English novels of the past ten years,” “an avant-garde challenge” meant to

shake the novel out of its present complacency. It clears away a little of the dead wood, offering a glimpse of an alternate road down which the novel might, with difficulty, travel forward.

coverIn the event, I’m not sure anyone apart from Joseph O’Neill was actually “shaken.” Manifestos are a dime a dozen these days—to borrow a line from Dale Peck’s manifesto-infected Hatchet Jobs, “that and $2.50 . . . will buy you a skinny mochaccino” (with adjustment for inflation)—and even before David ShieldsReality Hunger, obsequies for “lyrical Realism” had been performed at length by Ben Marcus, the editors of N+1, David Foster Wallace, William T. Vollmann…not to mention a whole host of Continental theoreticians.

Then again, to measure the success of a literary manifesto by whether or not the status quo stays mantled is fundamentally to misapprehend the genre. Its prime object and beneficiary is not “the novel” but the critic herself, and in this sense “Two Paths for the Novel” was a triumph. To other polemically minded reviewers (particularly the vicar of capital-R Realism whose name Smith had worked into an uncharacteristically juvenile pun (see above)), the essay served notice: Your boy’s club’s been breached. “Two Paths for the Novel” (with a slight adjustment of title) would constitute the longest piece but one in Smith’s first essay collection, Changing My Mind, published in 2009.

Now ascended (or condemned) to the post of New Books columnist at Harper’s, Zadie Smith will no doubt have discovered the limited and erratic scope of the authority to which she’s laid claim. On one hand, her elegant dressing-down of Netherland seems to have had approximately zero effect on the novel’s reception, aside from giving people who didn’t like it something to point to. On the other, “Two Paths for the Novel” does appear, several years out, to have shifted the literary landscape in one very particular way: it’s positioned Tom McCarthy, who as late as 2005 couldn’t find a publisher for Remainder, as the English language’s leading avant-gardist. Indeed, so subtle were its powers of persuasion that no one seems to remember he was ever anything but.

coverThis was most visible last summer, when Knopf published with great fanfare McCarthy’s third novel, C. Jonathan Dee, writing in Harper’s, adjudged it “an avant-garde epic” (adding, somewhat bewilderingly: “the first I can think of since Ulysses.”) “An avant-garde masterpiece,” proclaimed Meehan Crist, in The Los Angeles Times. The redoubtable Adam Kirsch went so far as to borrow Smith’s technique, putting C. in conversation with Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom. “[McCarthy] is the standard-bearer of the avant-garde novel,” he decided, “of fiction consumed by its own status as fiction, and of the avant-garde writer as an unassailable provocateur.” Aside from eagle-eyed Scott Esposito, who posted a sharp take on these reviews at Conversational Reading, no one seemed to question the idea of McCarthy as the keeper of the avant-garde flame.

The “Two Paths” effect even persists, albeit subtly, in the long McCarthy retrospect Amanda Claybaugh, an English professor at Harvard, published last month in N+1. Claybaugh seeks explicitly to engage with “the claims made on behalf of McCarthy: that the problem facing the contemporary novel is the persistence of realism, and that the solution is to be found, with McCarthy, among the avant-garde.” As that last phrase suggests, though, Claybaugh leaves mostly intact the claim that underpins the others: that McCarthy himself is to be found among the avant-garde. This hints at both the brilliance and the weakness of “Two Paths for the Novel”: several of its conclusions are actually smuggled in as premises, which become ours as well. Accepting “the violence of the rejection Remainder represents to a novel like Netherland” is the price of admission.

This is probably the place to declare for the record that I’m half in love with Zadie Smith’s critical voice. Also that I think Remainder is a terrific novel. But, thanks in no small part to Smith’s advocacy, what’s at stake in assessing McCarthy’s burgeoning reputation is something much more than that: “the future of the avant-garde novel.” The artistic avant-garde is, Adorno would remind us, one of the few free spaces we’ve got left. (That’s assuming there is one.) And because its future is so important—and because, if we’re lucky, we’re going to be reading Smith’s criticism for a long time to come—I think it’s worth revisiting her premises and treating them as open questions. How, specifically, is Remainder avant-garde? And also: how avant is it?


2. Language + Matter = Death…Or Something.

To the first question—how is it avant?—Smith offers one clear answer. Remainder challenges “the essential fullness and continuity of the self” that is the soul of Realism. McCarthy’s unnamed protagonist is literally discontinuous; he awakens at midlife from an unspecified accident unsure of who he’s been. This might, in run-of-the-mill amnesia fiction, inaugurate a quest: Hero Seeks to Recover Past.  Remainder’s “hero,” though, mostly shrugs off concerns about identity, to subversive comic effect. Here, the comparison with Netherland is illuminating. Joseph O’Neill, too, knows better than to present his hero as a unitary psyche; one of his chief effects is the subtle altering and re-altering of perception that attend the passage of time, and the narrator, Hans van den Broek, seems troubled by a nagging lack of “fullness” in his character. Still, the debt is more to Fitzgerald and Hemingway than to Deleuze & Guattari, and so the difference between the two novels’ approach to the “self” is one more of kind than of degree. Hans van den Broek seeks communion; Remainder’s “Enactor” (as Smith calls him) seeks to secure for himself, through industry and cash on the barrelhead, those depthless sensations Frederic Jameson calls “intensities.”

Here we encounter a wrinkle, though. Jameson’s essay “Postmodernism” dates to 1984, and even then, the deposition of the Realist self was well underway. Smith’s essay is liberally sprinkled with examples from the field of literature. Just the B’s: Blanchot, Bataille, Ballard, Burroughs…. In the “Two Paths” schematic, they populate a “skewed side road.” But think of another B: Beckett. Hasn’t the postwar period more or less widened the side-road of “self”-sabotage to a superhighway?

coverTwo novelists in particular, Alain Robbe-Grillet (whom Smith names) and Peter Handke (whom she doesn’t), seem to have anticipated Remainder’s characteristic “intensities.” Even decades on, though, each seems more genuinely “violent” in his rejection of the Realist “self” than does McCarthy. Robbe-Grillet is willing, unlike Remainder, to sacrifice the continuity and escalation of plot on the altar of a philosophical apprehension. And The Goalie’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick finds Handke strategically discarding the continuity of language for the same reason. Of course, Handke himself has umlaut-ed antecedents in Döblin and Büchner, and I wouldn’t want to define “avant-gardism” as “that child which has no parents.” Instead, it might help to think of the avant-garde as what still has the power to disturb the settled order of things. At which point it becomes apparent that the schizoid depthlessness of postmodernism ain’t it. Think of Bret Easton Ellis. Play it as it LaysTao Lin. As with the Realist plenitude Netherland draws on, “our receptive pathways” for the discontinuous self “are solidly established.”

There’s another way in which Smith believes Remainder to be avant-garde. It’s apparent in the word “trace,” which is to “Two Paths for the Novel” what descriptions of clouds are to Netherland: almost a nervous tic. In short, Smith feels McCarthy to have assimilated the destabilizing linguistic insights of Jacques Derrida in a way O’Neill hasn’t. (Isn’t “remainder” just a synonym for “trace?”) But whenever she turns to theory as such, Smith’s native lucidity gives way to an undergraduate overeagerness. Critiques of Realism, we are told,

blossomed out into a phenomenology skeptical of Realism’s metaphysical tendencies, demanding, with Husserl, that we eschew the transcendental, the metaphorical, and go “back to the things themselves!”; they peaked in that radical deconstructive doubt which questions the capacity of language itself to describe the world with accuracy.

Then again:

The novel is made out of language, the smallest units of which still convey meaning, and so they will always carry the trace of the real.


Remainder’s way turns out to be an extreme form of dialectical materialism—it’s a book about a man who builds in order to feel.


[Remainder] tries always to acknowledge the void that is not ours, the messy remainder we can’t understand or control—the ultimate marker of which is Death itself. We need not ever read a word of Heidegger to step in these murky waters.

Smith seems to be following the pronouncements McCarthy has promulgated as General Secretary of a “semi-fictitious” avant-garde network, the International Necronautical Society (INS). She offers an excerpt:

“If form…is perfection itself, then how does one explain the obvious imperfection of the world, for the world is not perfect, n’est-ce pas? This is where matter—our undoing—enters the picture. For the Greeks, the principle of imperfection was matter, hyle. Matter was the source of the corruption of form…. In short, against idealism in philosophy and idealist or transcendent conceptions of art, of art as pure and perfect form, we set a doctrine of…materialism.”

The syntax of these sentences is easy enough to follow, but, in their mingling of metaphysics, materialism, and aesthetics, these are, I think, far murkier waters than Smith realizes. I confess to being on shaky ground with Derrida; the failure to find rigor in Smith’s use of the “trace” may well be my own. But the materialism here is “dialectical” in only the loosest sense, and Smith’s gloss on being-towards-death seems reductive, even hedged. At any rate, we’d do well to read more than a word of Heidegger, for whom the kind of being “the things” have – especially in the broken, obtrusive, or useless state Remainder finds them in (e.g., the “gnarled, dirty and irregular” carrot) is most important in adumbrating the kind of Being we have…which is precisely where the Necronauts are at their glibbest.

Moreover, it’s difficult, reading Remainder’s handling of things qua things, to find anything more disruptive than what Viktor Shklovsky was doing in 1925, or William Carlos Williams in 1935, or Georges Perec, quite differently, in 1975. In fact, the hospitality of Remainder to allegorical readings might just as easily be read as a failure of its ability to resist metaphor, or to foreground language’s inability to do so—to capture materiality in the sense of “thingness.” And again, notwithstanding the artful stammerings, elisions, and self-corrections of the first-person narrator, the linguistic subject these objects encounter is still a consistent, confessional, Cartesian (if unusually estranged) “I.”

In general, then, Remainder’s formal choices seem less troubled by its theoretical convictions than Smith makes them out to be. The novel’s ideas may be novel enough, but McCarthy dramatizes them the way Cervantes did it: embody them in a character, launch him into a plot (albeit one that ends in a Borgesian loop). We might, if so inclined, read this as a conscious rejection of another of Realism’s credos: “the transcendent importance of form.” More likely, though, Remainder, like Netherland, is simply drawing on the formal vocabulary of Realism to “enact” the philosophical agenda Smith can’t quite pin down. (C. may well be another matter. I haven’t yet read it, but in Claybaugh’s account, it seems to go a step further toward assimilating theory into language and, especially, structure, with mixed results.)

cover That philosophical agenda may itself be somewhat incoherent; even Claybaugh doesn’t entirely clarify it. I’m struck by the possibility, which Smith only glances at, that the garbled quality of the INS’ transmissions is intentional—that the avant-garde to which McCarthy is authentically the heir is not Existentio-Deconstructo-Dialectico-Materialism, but the Situationism of Guy DeBord. As I’ve got it from Lipstick Traces, the Situationists (who their mark on the near-revolution in France in 1968) sought to expose the gaps in the seemingly solid bourgeois political and aesthetic order through acts of play and imposture—of “détournement.” You can see their legacy in attenuated form in flash mobs and Improv Everywhere and Exit Through the Gift Shop.

I don’t want to suggest that McCarthy isn’t thinking in earnest about “the melancholy impasse out of which the…novel has yet to work its way”; this weekend’s New York Times Book Review cover story on The Pale King was lucid and engaged, and, notably, offered no answers. But the iron-fisted theorizing of the General Secretary may be less a way forward for the novel than a way of having us on for the baggage we bring to it—and for the ease with which even the messiest “remainder” gets assimilated into the cultural order (Remainder the novel having been picked up for a movie deal by the U.K.’s Film4.) McCarthy alluded to these slippery possibilities in a recent essay on the Belgian novelist Jean-Philippe Toussaint: “Will he turn out, ultimately, to have been deconstructing literary sentimentalism or sentimentalizing literary deconstruction?” It’s likewise possible to see Remainder‘s avant-gardism as purposefully “semi-fictitious.” By positioning his novel as a work of violent rejection, rather than of pop accomplishment, McCarthy may have insinuated into the bookshop a kind of Trojan-cum-Morse horse—a container that encodes something quite different from what it is.


3. I’ll Be Your Mirror

Internally, though, Remainder is less the “antipode” of Netherland than its photo-negative.  That is, each stands in exactly the same relation to its respective tradition as does the other. This is not to accuse either of mannerism, exactly, but in each case, “the obvious imperfection of the world” is brought under the government of a familiar aesthetic reflex. In Netherland’s case, the potentially meaningless gets redeemed by fine writing, in the mode of Richard Ford’s The Sportswriter. In Remainder, the potentially meaningful gets reduced to the narcotic flatness we enjoyed in the nouveau roman. Each is exactly as “aestheticized” as the other; it’s just that Smith likes one aesthetic better.

coverBorrowing her own key terms, “identity,” “authenticity,” and “anxiety,” it’s possible to reconstruct why this might be so. The “identity” reading points to the evident seduction Continental Philosophy holds for a Cambridge alum. In the heady world of literary theorizing, Derrida opens doors. But Smith thinks like a novelist, not like a philosopher. (Indeed, she may think more purely like a novelist than any other writer we have.) Consequently, her keen attunement to the nuances of Forster and Woolf, the playfulness with which she approaches Kafka and Hurston, go rigid whenever her thoughts tend toward academe. The false notes in Changing My Mind—I’m thinking here of the essay on Nabokov and Barthes, and parts of the essay on Brief Interviews with Hideous Men—are almost always a product of her desire to force the play of her intelligence into some theoretical scheme.

coverThe “anxiety” reading points elsewhere. Smith’s shadowboxing with a certain unnamed “lapsed high Anglican,” and the NYRB’s positioning of her essay hard on the heels of a review of How Fiction Works, would seem to suggest that “Two Paths” grows out of what one blogger has called “the James Wood neurosis.” Certainly, Smith is entitled to feel that she acceded too quickly and too publicly to Wood’s criticisms from the pulpit of Realism of her own first book, the multiethnic social novel White Teeth. And it was Wood whose rapt review launched Netherland, unbothered by the considerably more conventional uses to which it put its multiethnic milieu.

But the “authenticity” reading is the most revealing. In her mid-30s, Smith is still “changing her mind,” working through what kind of novelist she wants to—and can authentically—be. As she herself has suggested, here and elsewhere, her considerable gifts for characterization, irony, description, and dialogue fall squarely within the Realist tradition. But perhaps she feels, rightly or wrongly, that even her most accomplished novel, On Beauty, sits too tidily on the bourgeois bookshelf. She channels E.M. Forster, but wants to be David Foster Wallace. “Anything, anything at all, that doesn’t sound like me,” she wrote in her response to Wood’s “Hysterical Realism.” “Sick of sound of own voice. Sick of trying to make own voice appear on that white screen. Sick of trying to pretend, for sake of agent and family, that idea of putting words on blank page feels important.” It’s as though the “existential crisis” or “nervous breakdown” she sees O’Neill’s “perfectly done” novel inflicting on “what we have been taught to value in fiction” is her own.

Fortunately for her and for us, Smith labors under a misapprehension about what it means to be avant-garde. To borrow a metaphor, she can’t quite see the forest for the “dead wood.” Here are the rhetorical questions she throws at the feet of Netherland:

Is this really what having a self feels like? Do selves always seek their good, in the end? Are they never perverse? Do they always want meaning? Do they not sometimes want its opposite? And is this how memory works? Do our childhoods often return to us in the form of coherent lyrical reveries? Is this how time feels? Do the things of the world really come to us like this, embroidered in the verbal fancy of times past?

These are, of course, the very mimetic questions that animate canonical Realism, from Austen to Dostoevsky to Proust. Smith’s avant-garde is a gradual convergence on what she insists doesn’t exist: the one true and transcendent Real. But look at the “disturb and disrupt” mandate I sketched above—hell, look at Smith’s essay—and you’ll instantly see that avant-gardism, like its dark twin kitsch, is always situational.  In the mid-Nineteenth Century, Wagner’s innovations are disruptive; by the mid-Twentieth, they’re the soundtrack for Triumph of the Will

The enemy to be rebelled against today is hardly “the transcendent importance of form, the incantatory power of language to reveal truth, the essential fullness and continuity of the self.” Rather, it is a world order that reduces form, language, and selfhood to mere options in the supermarket of aesthetic choices. And insofar as it presents an aesthetic binary—write like this tradition, rather than this other tradition, and you’re on the right path—Smith’s conception of the avant-garde is woefully insufficient. Coke or Pepsi? Mac or PC? It amounts to a game of Distinction, whose logical end is to deny that the kind of avant-garde Adorno champions is even possible.

Then again, in a less theoretical mood, Smith once wrote these sentences: “We can only be who we are…. Writers do not write what they want, they write what they can.” What we need, as readers and writers, is not to side with some particular “team,” and thus to be liberated from the burden of further thinking. Rather, we need ways of evaluating a novel’s form and language and ideas in light of, for lack of a more precise term, the novelist’s own burning. We need to look beyond the superfices and cultural hoopla that mark books as mainstream as Netherland and Remainder as “violent rejections” of each other, and to examine the deep places where private sensibility and the world as we find it collide. A true path forward for the novel—Zadie Smith’s or Tom McCarthy’s or anyone else’s—will run through those trackless spaces, and we must follow it there. Otherwise, we give the status quo the victory, no matter how ardently we might wish to dismantle it.

Vive la différance.

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is the author of City on Fire and A Field Guide to the North American Family. In 2017, he was named one of Granta's Best Young American Novelists.


  1. Garth: Thanks very much for this smart and engaging polemic. One of the ongoing problems with Zadie Smith’s essays is that her positional manifestos have been confused with deeply critical essays. Here is someone who once offered the unique position — that REALITY HUNGER made her doubt if she could write fiction (how many novelists have confessed something as extraordinary as that?) — but who, like some gutless Ferdinand just wishing to smell the roses, had the essay pulled from The Guardian, so that her interesting impetuosity could not be referenced or discussed. Here is someone who cannot appear at a public function without her hands attached to a paper like a desperate raft or the obvious talking points memorized in her head. Here is someone who fears that being wrong or improvising on a point will somehow attenuate her thinking — when we all know that it’s this anarchy that AUGMENTS one’s thinking. The time has come to question Smith’s motives (and, by extension, the literary world’s) at length and your piece is a very audacious start greatly welcomed by this eccentric Molotov thrower. This helpful reminder of influential latitude can be backed up limitless times historically — when one remembers that a sprightly comic novel like Iris Murdoch’s UNDER THE NET was very much influenced by Beckett’s MURPHY — yet the two novels are both sui generis. Who says you can’t find meaning in both? Why all the dichotomies?

  2. Excellent essay Garth. I argued a similar point in a blog post of mine, though focusing on C instead of Remainder. ( The question Tom McCarthy’s status as avant garde raises for me is one of our contemporary mainstream; what is it about our mainstream that makes essentially linear novels with direct grammar appear avant garde? You’ve certainly added a critical depth to the issue. Of course, it also has to raise the question, what is avant garde in 2011, but I think you lay out some possible critical structures for engaging that question. Well done.

    Josh Cook

  3. “We need… to examine the deep places where private sensibility and the world as we find it collide… Otherwise, we give the status quo the victory, no matter how ardently we might wish to dismantle it.”

    great, great, great stuff

    and now that we’ve laid that to rest, lets stop paying attention to the jeremiads and enjoy books

  4. I think the crux of your piece is here: “Internally, though, Remainder is less the “antipode” of Netherland than its photo-negative. That is, each stands in exactly the same relation to its respective tradition as does the other. . . Each is exactly as “aestheticized” as the other; it’s just that Smith likes one aesthetic better.” I hadn’t been able to put my finger on what was unsatisfying about Smith’s piece until I read this. As much as I like and prefer Remainder, it shouldn’t be made into what it’s not. Good work, Garth.

  5. While I was reading C, I was confused about what was so Avante Garde about it. Not a bad book, but I didn’t understand some of the critical reaction.

  6. There’s a problem when an institution like The New York Times could say yesterday that the winner of this year’s Pulitzer winner for best novel “radically re-imagined the novel genre by writing a series of interlocking stories.” How long have writers been doing that? It’s part of a long tradition going back to Faulkner and beyond. How can one even talk about “avant-garde” when the mainstream book culture is this ignorant? (The only thing innovative about Goon Squad was the story written as a Power Point presentation — a fun, one-time-only stunt.)

    FICTION: “A Visit from the Goon Squad,” by Jennifer Egan (Alfred A. Knopf)
    Ms. Egan, 48, was cited for fiction for her “inventive investigation of growing up and growing old in the digital age, displaying a big-hearted curiosity about cultural change at warp speed.” She radically re-imagined the novel genre by writing a series of interlocking stories. In hardcover, the book was not identified as a novel on the cover, leading some readers to believe that it was a nonfiction study about music. “At one point I was calling it entangled stories,” Ms. Egan said. “It’s a little mysterious in its genre. In a way, who cares? As long as it feels like a story.”


  7. Great article.

    It seems strange to me that Zadie Smith (a realist writer through and through) has positioned herself as a champion of the avant-garde. And I’m not sure why she feels compelled to make such grand, sweeping proclamations. I think these kinds of distinctions ultimately lead us nowhere. A good piece of writing is a good piece of writing, whatever form it takes. There are a lot of reasons to dislike “Netherland” (a well-written, but staggeringly dull book, in my view), but its failure to “move fiction forward” shouldn’t be one of them. Am I square for liking William Maxwell better than Thomas Pynchon?

    I also cringe at that NY TImes quote. I liked Egan’s book, but “radically re-imainged the novel”? Whoever wrote that needs a visit from the literary squad. Elizabeth Strout’s “Olive Kitteridge”, which only won the Pulitzer two years ago, is a book with virtually the same structure.

  8. Edward Champion,

    I don’t see what relevance her reading from notes in public speaking has on her intelligence or ability as a thinker. See Nabokov?

  9. “Therefore I currently feel most interested in reading/writing novels that aren’t improvements on or innovations of other novels. I want to view each potential novel as already definitively and unavoidably unique, improvable only in comparison to itself and then only from its creator’s singular perspective. I want to learn about another human’s unique experience from reports they’ve made themselves while excitedly aware that they alone, regardless of what others are thinking or doing, have access to what they’re reporting upon. I do, sometimes—rarely, I think—want to know, ‘What do you think other people are going to be thinking about in 20 years?’ or ‘How do you feel humankind, generally, is going to feel like in 50 or 100 years?’ But mostly I want to know, ‘What are you thinking about?’ and ‘How do you feel?'”

    – Lin

  10. That was a lot of fun to read, even the Derrida-cute last line! But at times, it kinda felt like a rap song where a cameo rapper comes in and starts name-dropping like crazy. Perhaps it would’ve been better to focus in a bit more on the formative “anti-realists” that McCarthy might have been concerned with? Robbe-Grillet for sure or some other nouveau roman adherents as far as The Remainder goes… But it seems that McCarthy was operating on a different kind of mode in C… he himself talks about Marinetti a whole lot & the technology in interviews everywhere…

    … which goes to prove your point: these writers are writing outside of the binary system of thought that critics usually try to peg them into. It might do well for all of us just to read, without hedging our bets so much on what’s turkey and what’s tofu.

  11. It’s a bit of a tired strategy, though, to water down any new work’s claims for “avant” status by knowingly citing some predecessors who did it earlier and better. At the level of generality that most literary journalism is practiced at (including here), it’s something that could simply be done with anything (Is the text fragmented? Cite Eliot! Stream of consciousness? Joyce! Flat affect? Robbe-Grillet! etc.) – a parlor game. And it’s a positive cliché to go on to reference Cervantes (or Sterne’s Tristam Shandy, the other popular victim of this reflex).

    And then, if the avant claims are associated in some way with contemporary theory or continental philosophy, the journalist (backed by good ol’ Anglo-American common sense) must gesture at all that confounded jargon and suggest that, really, there’s nothing to be found there, or that those who deploy it don’t understand it (Smith) or are really just pulling our legs (McCarthy).

    Of course, GRH does all this quite elegantly rather than truculently, and with the requisite escape-clauses and qualifications, because it wouldn’t do with his particular audience to be outright philistine or anti-intellectual. But it’s basically the same thing.

  12. A brilliant essay, thank you. It’s refreshing to see these stale categories not taken at face value. I hope at some point you’ll share your thoughts on “C” — a novel whose purported avant-gardism I half-way think is a joke at all of our expense:

  13. So, EC, rather then waste your own (and everyone else’s) time in criticising this tiresome and exasperating article, why not lay out for us precisely what is so “avant” about McCarthy’s works? Please, elucidate, and use whatever “confounded jargon” suits your purpose. We’ll be the judge of whether there’s “anything there” or not.

  14. Hmm, from the tone of your comment I get the feeling, ian, that your mind is already made up about the book, and that anything I might happen to write on that topic will be “judged” accordingly. But for the record, I thought Zadie Smith did a good job making the “pro” case for Remainder, and that GRH’s oddly belated (and deeply condescending where Smith is concerned) countercharge is shoddy for the reasons given in my previous comment. So, Ian, rather than waste your own (and everyone else’s) time in criticizing my tiresome and exasperating comment, why not lay out for us what is so persuasive about GRH’s rhetoric strategies? We’ll be the judge of whether there’s “anything there” or not.

  15. Ah, mimicry. Ah….repetition. Sterling stuff.

    I don’t think I need to, as you suggest, essentially re-write the article. You’re the one who has weighed in with some generalised…well, I wouldn’t call them “reasons” exactly…comments about the piece which suggest the author is totally off-beam. Given that, I think it’s reasonable to request you *demonstrate* the value in the work you’re defending, rather then just slag off a detractor.

    I’m not surprised you’re unwilling to. It’s easier to engage in childish, knowing banter, much like McCarthy does endlessly to his unquestioning media interlocutors.

  16. I’m not surprised you’re unwilling to, either. You almost got the point, even: There’s no need for you to rewrite GRH’s article, there’s no need for me to rewrite Smith’s. If you can’t recognize the clichés and received opinions in GRH’s article, that’s your business. Cheers!

  17. i will try this once more and then never again.. my links do relate…

    As the translator of Handke’s GOALIE and all his early activist, conceptualist and formalist plays, as the first publisher of Bataille novels in the U.S. [Urizen Books] and of Michael Brodsky, etc, etc. you will I hope allow me a few comments on a matter that I have dwelled on since my college days – not that translating GOALIE necessarily, in one’s translator’s myopia, means that you understand what Handke does by involving the reader so syntactically in the workings of Goalie/ Construction worker Blochs’s paranoid schizophrenic’s way of being in the world. That is a crucial difference, is it not, say, the opening of REMAINDER which is ABOUT something, whereas Handke in GOALIE and ever after: IS.

    Handke, however, has gone on, through about five phases, introducing the dream screen of film into novel [ABSENCE], underlying pictorial anchoring [ACROSS] and become a self-named “lyrical epic” writer of PLACES who re-magics the world verbally, most prominently in CROSSING THE SIERRA DEL GREDOS. And, I would say, never lost, now incorporates everything – the craft of a deconstructor of his first novel [DIE HORNISSEN] and the pure phenomenology of DER HAUSIERER [these two are in the Romance languages] in carrying on and innovating within that particular great realist tradition – where his INNERWORLD OF THE OUTERWORLD procedure ALTERS THE STATE OF MIND of the reader. Moreover, he is a virtuoso at his business [something he demonstrates with panache in the next novel of his to be published in English translation, MORAVIAN NIGHTS] and he shares one point of reference – Flaubert – with Zadie Smith, who seems to think that a great realist like Balzac is also a lyrical realist. Handke belongs to the direction that Jameson is also aware of: ecriture pure.
    A lot of the discussion here, also among the reviewers of McCarthy and Netherland is a bit too general for me to sink my teeth into. But let me go on the record: Anyone for whom the novel is serious business pays no heed what is written under the aegis Oh Tannenbaum, as I call him, who thinks Jonathan Franzen is a great American writer and that FREEDOM is a masterpiece of American literature. Nonetheless, occasionally the intelligent take slips in, perhaps because the underlings at that shop are frequently sharper than their boss.

    Ditto for the NYRBooks. Pay no heed to what is written there about novels. Any magazine that publishes a piece such as J.L. Marcus’s on Handke because he opposes the one-sided blaming of the Serbs for the disintegration of Yugoslavia and makes it the occasion for utterly moronic decimation of his novels and plays and then prohibits critiques even from old acquaintances, such as I am of Bob Silver’s; or which/who champions Susan Sontag’s novels just because she’s part of their crowd – and I much liked her and her essays – is just another parti pris organ. The NYRB is for the busy intelligent reader who needs these matter predigested, e.g. the fine Jonathan Raban doing that kind of roundup of Foster-Wallace’s work:

    I reread the Zadie Smith piece and am puzzled by her using Balzac, a great realist if ever there was one, as one of two examples, Flaubert is another, of the “lyrical” novel, while leaving out Germans such as Stifter, Eichendorf and Goethe or the Russians in what she calls the “Anglophone” tradition – which for me stretches from the Kangaroo and Kiwi lands via many parts of Africa, where my friend Elvis write in the most marvelously musical pidgin, all around the world then to Hawaii. Being “avant garde” must come of necessity, some kind of need, certainly not for its own sake. Adorno , who had real difficulty imagining anything beyond Proust, also mentioned that a registrar, a good seismographic phenomenologist, might invariably get some purchase on the spirit of the time. I would say that the mansions of the novel are as great as the world, and to quote Handke: “The world is the discoverer.” As to what is real: ink and paper/ electronic impressions on screens, the brain that buzzes as it reads and decipher instantaneously within the homogeneous possibilities of each language – within more or less aesthetically pleasing alphabets.



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