Eccentricity or genius?
Hmmmm. As regular readers know, I periodically steel myself to take on one of the literary works which tend to gather dust on my shelves – for no other reason than because I think I ought to. Just to remind myself of a) what’s out there attracting accolades and b) what’s regarded as the very best of literature; and c) why I often struggle with them.
This time it’s a 1984 title – just shows how far behind the times I am, huh? I read the reviews, acquired the book when I saw it in a second-hand bookshop, and added it to the tbr pile. But then let other more appealing, less-highbrow works jump the queue ahead of it for years – as is my wont.
The book is Flaubert’s Parrot by Julian Barnes. A quick refresher for those who’d find it useful:
Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880), was an influential French novelist of the realist period, probably best known for his sensational romance Madame Bovary (1857).
Julian Barnes weaves a fiction about him rooted in fact, which always gives a rather compelling edge to a story.
The plotting is clever. Widowed doctor, Geoffrey Braithwaite, is researching the life of this acclaimed French writer, Flaubert, but simultaneously tortured by thoughts of his wife’s suicide. This book records his commentary of where he goes, who he meets, what he discovers, and what it all means.
He finds Flaubert was a sickly child, (not initially expected to live) who went quickly from handsome youth to a 6ft tall ‘paunchy balding burgher’, with green eyes, who suffered from epilepsy, which effectively cut short his legal aspirations and took him into writing. His sexuality is in some doubt – reports vary. He died at the age of 58. Some attribute his decline to syphilis; some to normal 19th century ageing.
Since Flaubert comes from a medical family (father was a head surgeon, brother Achille also a doctor) Dr Braithwaite has a degree of affinity with the family and enjoys browsing in the museums that include medical paraphernalia in the Flaubert sections.
The stuffed parrot which Flaubert borrowed and had sitting on his writing desk, is symbolic of Braithwaite’s questioning of each discovery. Which parrot was the authentic one? And was the fact that parrots also suffer from epilepsy, a significant factor in Flaubert’s choice? After all, he had a tendency to see metaphors and comparisons in everything. Since different biographers give differing stories, he must try to work out the truth for himself.
Alongside the unravelling of the life of this great writer, Braithwaite explores some of the techniques relating to the art of writing good fiction – probably the most useful part of this exercise for me! A few examples to ponder:
– ‘The author in his book must be like God in his universe, everywhere present – nowhere visible.’
– Beware coincidences in fiction!
– Lots of famous writers have errors in their work – don’t be depressed by critics nitpicking! (Flaubert’s description of critics: ‘Eternal mediocrity living off genius …‘)
– Use short, simple, true words where possible: avoid obfuscating euphemisms.
– ‘…perhaps the sweetest moment in writing is the arrival of that idea for a book which never has to be written, which is never sullied with a definite shape, which never needs to be exposed to a less loving gaze than that of its author.’
He would ban novels about
a group of people marooned in an isolated place who revert to nature,
small hitherto forgotten wars in far-flung places
incest
journalists
bestiality
set in abattoirs or Oxford or Cambridge
featuring a narrator identified simply by an initial letter.
O-kaaaay …
However, it seems perfectly reasonable to him to introduce bizarre seemingly completely unconnected-to-anything text.
If I suddenly listed by number a whole lot of information about trains half-way through a novel about a writer’s life …
if I inserted a stack of information about a foreign country, snippets of facts to show I’d done a whole lot of research into the subject …
if I jumbled up a load of information about the subject I’m investigating and details about my own life …
if I devoted a chapter suddenly to a ‘Dictionary of Accepted Ideas’, or to an English examination paper …
I’d be ignored or dismissed as unaware of the basic rules of writing, not to grips with my material, unsure of my purpose or destination.
When Julian Barnes does it, he’s shortlisted for luminous prizes!
That’s literary fiction for you!
I shall probable be struck off some list somewhere for daring to challenge this august writer. But hey, this is my space to be as egocentric as I wish.
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