Tag Archives: experimental fiction

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Trust, by Hernan Diaz

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Andrew Bevel and his wife Mildred are bigwigs in early 20th century Manhattan. He’s a financier, a cold stick of a man who’s a genius when it comes to money—according to some anyway. She’s involved in various charitable endeavors, particularly when it comes to music. An otherwise reclusive couple, they become richer and richer; some say Bevel’s tinkering led to the Great Depression.

The premise of my book club’s choice for this month is an interesting one: tell the story of the Bevels from four different points of view. The first part of the book is a novel entitled Bonds, supposedly based on the couple, renamed Benjamin and Helen Rask. It is written in the narrative-heavy style of the early 20th century, no dialogue or dramatic scenes. I found most of it lackluster, though part of it was horrific and disturbing.

The second part contains Andrew’s notes toward an autobiography, intended to refute the story told in the novel, especially when it comes to his wife. The dry and often fragmentary notes magnify Andrew’s genius, and insist that his motives were less about making money, which he doesn’t care about, and more about doing good in the world. Much of it concentrates on portraying Mildred as a brainless little woman who didn’t understand what he did, and supported innocuous classical music.

The third part is a memoir written much later by Andrew’s secretary who had written up the autobiography from Bevel’s notes, giving us parts of it with her comments, among other things. It’s written in a modern style, with the astute characterisation, dialogue and dramatic scenes that make for more interesting reading. The final part is a diary giving yet another point of view.

It’s a fun premise: four parts, four points of view. I first ran across it in the 1970s when I read Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet, which entranced me and opened up a whole world of possibilities in fiction. Some reviews call Diaz’s book experimental fiction. I guess that’s true, though it’s been done so many times before that is seems a rather tame experiment. Many historical fiction novels also interweave two or more stories, often one in the present and one in the past.

My book club split pretty evenly between those who enjoyed it a lot and those who found it boring and predictable. Many of us confessed to skipping chunks of the tedious second part. I think we all shook our heads at the constant put-downs of women.

I came down on the boring and predictable side, among those surprised that it won a Pulitzer Prize. However, I will say that the book reflects our country at this moment in time: awash with false news and outright lies, making it hard to identify a trusted source. Even when you find one, you have to separate out the AI fakes from the real person.

The other relevant side of the book is the way its characters, even in that time period, are eager to present an image of themselves that may or may not be true, and defend that image if challenged. So much of today’s social media contains presentations of ourselves that have been carefully crafted to project a certain persona.

One discovery that interested me was that everyone in the group, including me, tended to believe each new section over the previous one, though of course there’s no way to actually tell. I guess it’s human nature to believe the last thing you’re told, especially if it’s something that fits best into your worldview: yet another way the novel speaks to today’s public discourse.

I also appreciate the way the author adapted the style for each part to reflect the writing of the time. So I liked the premise for the story and applaud the author to trying something grand, even if, in my view, it fell short in the execution.

Are you in a book club? What are you reading now?

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The Years, by Annie Ernaux

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Writing guru Donald Maass—writer, agent, and writing teacher—reminds us to include what’s going on in the world in our stories, partly because our characters will probably be thinking about current events and reacting to them. Mostly, though, because including specific details and big-picture events helps make the world of our story seem real to the reader.

In this book, Ernaux has gone further, focusing on the larger life of a society and placing the life of one woman within that.

. . . the idea had come to her to write “a kind of woman’s destiny” set between 1940 and 1986.

Ernaux’s genre-bending experiment adds a new dimension to the field of life writing. She goes beyond memoir—a subjective view of events in the author’s personal life—and autofiction—a reexamination and fictionalisation of those events—to create a new form that melds both of these with sociology and history. She has captured the sweep of the lifetime simultaneously with that of a person and a generation.

Everything will be erased in a second. The dictionary of words amassed between cradle and deathbed, eliminated. All there will be is silence and no words to say it. Nothing will come out of the open mouth, neither I nor me. Language will continue to put the world into words. In conversation around a holiday table, we will be nothing but a first name, increasingly faceless, until we vanish into the vast anonymity of a distant generation.

Time is the only narrative structure in this collage of private memories, public events, photos, songs, brand names, television, advertising, headlines. There’s no plot, no protagonist, no story question. Instead, we are given “abbreviated memories” spun together, some personal and some common.

It will be a slippery narrative, composed in an unremitting continuous tense, absolute, devouring the present as it goes.

I especially like the way Ernaux, looking back on a long life, refers to the past as a series of “palimpsests.” It’s an effective way to describe the veils that layer over each other as we try to recall how we were.

At first, I felt overwhelmed by the flow of historical events, popular culture, and experiences. I could barely grasp each fragment before it was replaced by another, perhaps because I was listening to the audio version, beautifully performed by Anna Bentinck. Eventually, though, I began to recognise how artfully they had been assembled to create a continuous narrative.

More importantly, I came to feel a part of the story, engrossed in the passing decades and fascinated by the ways my own life interacted with this collective story, merging and sliding apart, only to merge again and again slip away. I began to feel as though she were telling me the story of my own life, with occasional diversions.

Perhaps I should have first mentioned the unique point of view. Unlike most life writing, there is no “I” in the book. Instead—and fittingly for the story of a generation—it is narrated by “we,” as though by a chorus of voices. Apparently, in the original French version, the pronoun used is “on” which is the generic he/she that English is lacking, though it could be translated as “one.” The translator, Alison L. Strayer, has chosen instead to use “we,” which works brilliantly to capture the voice of the collective sections.

Some parts are about a specific woman, spoken of as “she.” As she nears the end of life, she begins to write this book to defy death’s erasure.

By retrieving the memory of collective memory in an individual memory, she will capture the lived dimension of History. This will not be a work of remembrance in the usual sense, aimed at putting a life into story, creating an explanation of self. She will go within herself only to retrieve the world, the memory and imagination of its bygone days, grasp the changes in ideas, beliefs, and sensibility, the transformation of people and the subjects that she has seen.

I plan to delve into other books by Ernaux, winner of the 2022 Nobel Prize in Literature. I can see why this particular book was longlisted for the 2019 International Man Booker Prize. Without getting into the controversy over whether it qualifies as fiction (a requirement for the Booker), I have to rank it high on my list of best books ever. To reach into my own past: it blew my mind.

Have you read a book by Annie Ernaux? What did you think about it?

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Lincoln in the Bardo, by George Saunders

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This surprising bestseller is set in the Oak Hill Cemetery in Georgetown where Abraham Lincoln’s son Willie has been temporarily interred. A favorite in the household, 11-year-old Willie contracted typhoid fever and died the very night of a huge ball at the White House.

Saunders was intrigued and moved by accounts that Lincoln in his grief had actually visited the crypt in order to hold the boy’s body.

Bardo refers to an intermediate state between death and reincarnation. All the characters, besides Lincoln and the cemetery’s keeper, are those souls who have not moved on but remain in the cemetery. They do not understand that they are dead; they believe they are “sick”, that their coffins are “sick–boxes”, and that they will at some point return to their interrupted lives. They are shocked and saddened when joined by Willie, not only because he is a remarkable child, but because children usually move on right away.

I didn’t want to read this book. I had read a few reviews of it, so I knew a bit about it and didn’t think that it was a book that I would enjoy. Then my book club chose it.

There were two reasons why I didn’t think I would enjoy it. For one, I don’t like to read stories about the death of children.

Also, I understood that it was experimental fiction. Its format consists of brief quotes followed by the name of the speaker, almost like an inverted screenplay.

It’s not that I don’t enjoy experimental fiction, but I rarely find it as enjoyable as more traditional narratives. Of course, there are exceptions. I was delighted by A Visit from the Goon Squad, by Jennifer Egan. I knew that Saunders’s book is narrated by the dead, like Spoon River Anthology. I have always enjoyed these poems by Edgar Lee Masters; in fact, one of my favorite quotes comes from his Lucinda Matlock. She says, “It takes life to love life.”

Here, I feared that the cacophony of voices would be overwhelming. In fact, though, they flow together very well. The three main narrating souls have distinct voices in the beginning of the book, but soon their voices become quite similar. I assume this was a deliberate choice by the author to make the story read better and not feel jerky.

Other chapters are a collection of excerpts from historical sources, some real and some imaginary, which give us the facts about the ball at the White House, Willie’s death, and the war. Amusingly, many of these accounts conflict with each other. They also reveal a contemporaneous understanding of what was going on in Lincoln’s mind. The year is 1862. The Civil War has been going on for one year, and the casualties are mounting.

While there are a couple of intensely moving moments in this book, I found reading it more of a cerebral exercise. I appreciate the form that Saunders found in which to tell his story and how well he executed it. I also appreciate the subtle and surprisingly powerful ending.

Still, I was surprised that it became such a big bestseller. True, Saunders was already a popular author. And there is a good bit of humor as well as those few profound scenes. It is also surprisingly easy to read, though I wonder how confused I’d have been at the start had I not read those reviews first. If I expected a bit more substance in the novel, then that is my failing rather than the author’s.

Have you read any experimental fiction that you thought was especially successful?