His Novel Idea
The point of good fiction is not theory but storytelling.
Jan 26, 2009, Vol. 14, No. 18 • By EDWIN M. YODER JR.
How Fiction Works
How-to books about writing or reading fiction are usually disappointing, and for good reason: You can no more learn how to write a convincing tale by reading Tolstoy than you can learn to race a bicycle by reading books about the Tour de France. Nor will you shape yourself into an ace critic by reading Edmund Wilson or
That said, useful books about reading do come along approximately every blue moon--for instance, the late Wayne Booth's Rhetoric of Fiction and E.M. Forster's older but ever amusing Aspects of the Novel. James Wood's How Fiction Works may be measured, then, against a handful of precursors and in certain ways it stands up. It is literate, subtle, engaging, and free of lit crit fads (the odious use of "privilege" as a transitive verb, as in "NOW privileges women" occurs only once).
Wood's title, unfortunately, suggests some sort of motorist's manual, with diagrams of gizmos under the hood, literary equivalents of carburetors and valves; but his approach is humanistic. He and I may disagree about whether "waves" ruffle the body of water into which Icarus falls in the Brueghel painting that inspired Auden's poem "Musée des Beaux-Arts" and, as well, what the Russian writers mean by ostranenie or "defamiliarization." But those are details.
Wood's favorite gizmo in fictional technique is "free indirect discourse," a narrative form that he associates primarily with Flaubert. It features the character-observer's idiomatic voice without naming that observer. If a storyteller writes, without telling you whose thought it is but leaving no doubt, "By God, he was going to shut her rattling mouth if it was the last thing he ever did," free indirect discourse has been committed. You hear someone's identifiable voice. And to what purpose?
Wood writes as if he believes that this mode of storytelling may have been the most important breakthrough in narrative technique since the ancient Egyptians began decorating royal tombs with pictorial chronicles. He elaborates accordingly at some length.
For me, however, the main byproduct of Wood's book was a flood of memories of teaching courses and seminars in the 1990s at Washington and Lee University. I assert no claim that my experience was unique, or even exceptional, but it was distinctive; and in the process of being an amateur professor there for 10 years, I probably learned more about how fiction works than my students.
I certainly recall the day when I tried to explain free indirect discourse. It is easier to define it than to say why a narrator would choose to thrust himself into the consciousness of his character, rather than simply quote or cite him by name--why, instead of writing, "Fred looked from his hotel window and saw a freight train dragging itself across the distant landscape," he might write: "In the distance a freight train crawled tediously past." That adverb "tediously" tells you how Fred felt about the train and you knew to begin with that it was he who was looking, a bit impatiently, out of the window. Wood is right in saying that it has to do with the increasing exploration of human consciousness, featuring interiority of characterization.
Like all virtuous readers, Wood is a fan of Chekhov, as am I. It is to some degree an acquired taste. When I began teaching 19th-century French and Russian writers in a course called "European fiction in translation," my longstanding favorites were Tolstoy and Turgenev, with Balzac and Flaubert close behind. But the more I read Chekhov the more I admired his power of telling tales by implication.
Wood speaks glowingly of "The Lady With the Little Dog," one of Chekhov's masterpieces. The story begins with a casual seduction in a Crimean resort. A practiced seducer hits on his target by petting her little dog in a seaside cafe, but the story develops complications when this roué discovers that the woman has turned his world upside down and that meeting her was the great event of his life.
Chekhov neither moralizes nor editorializes, and his stories often begin and end at arbitrary points of time, as if life were a long loaf that one slices here and there at random, as if blindfolded. But his characters are firmly and humanely judged, and the theme is always clear. As my relish for Chekhov grew, so did that of the students who, to my astonishment, even began to rank Chekhov above Tolstoy in their end-of-term surveys.