Farther Away: Essays

by Jonathan Franzen

  Traveling in the Rhine Valley in the early 1860s, Dostoyevsky had discovered his proclivity for compulsive gambling, and the experience was still fresh in his mind a few years later, when, famously, he was forced to compose an entire novel in one month. Because of the speed with which The Gambler was produced, the book provides a kind of first-draft snapshot of a writer coming to terms with the void he’s glimpsed within himself while playing roulette. The action begins in media res; the mode of suspense is one of Crucial Information Withheld; in places, this information seems to be withheld from the author himself. Camping out in a grand hotel, as in a very untidy dreamscape, is a loose family group of desperate Russians and a few multinational hangers-on. The book’s narrator, Alexei Ivanovich, the tutor to the family’s younger children, is desperately if somewhat unconvincingly in love with an older child, Polina, whose allegiances and motivations remain murky throughout the book. Alexei Ivanovich’s romantic predicament, like the family’s financial difficulties, is basically stock nineteenth-century storytelling. What’s really vivid and clear and urgent in the book are the scenes in the casino. The stoicism of the gentleman gamblers there, the vileness of the Polish kibitzers, the attraction that Alexei Ivanovich feels to the “acquisitive sordidness” of his fellow gamblers, the fever in which he loses control of himself and starts placing bets in a mindless, automatic way, and the general delirium and timelessness of the casino are all gleefully described. In The Gambler, as in all his later work, Dostoyevsky makes the case for nihilism almost too well. A wealthy old Russian lady sits down at the roulette table, and soon the table has converted her fortune and the enormous narrative potential it represents—it could buy village churches, a granddaughter’s independence, a nephew’s obedience—into a pile of purely abstract, easily squandered counters. The old woman is described as “not outwardly trembling” but “trembling from within”; the world has receded; there is only the table. Similarly, when Alexei Ivanovich stops playing with Polina’s money and goes to the casino to play with his own, he is instantly severed from the anguished love of Polina that has occupied him day and night. What drives him to the casino is precisely his devotion to Polina, his wish to rescue her, but once he’s in the grip of his compulsion, there’s only one kind of suspense and no story at all:

  I already scarcely remembered what she had said to me a little while ago and why I had gone, and all those sensations that there had recently been, only an hour and a half before, already seemed to me now something long past, revised, obsolete . . .

  And the book itself enacts what it describes. A nineteenth-century novelistic edifice in which it matters whether General Z. will receive his inheritance, and how the French national character differs from the English, and who the beautiful young Polina is secretly in love with, is blown away by a modern story of addiction.

  At the end of the novel, Alexei Ivanovich is still in the Rhine Valley; his delirium gives way to remorse and self-loathing, but this is only a prelude to the next round of delirium. Alexei Ivanovich’s creator, however, fled Germany and, in short order, sat down and wrote Notes from Underground and Crime and Punishment. For Dostoyevsky—as for such latter-day literary heirs of his as Denis Johnson, David Foster Wallace, Irvine Welsh, and Michel Houellebecq—the impossibility of pressing the Pleasure bar forever, the inevitable breaking of some bleak and remorse-filled dawn, is the flaw in nihilism through which humane narrative can slip and reassert itself. The end of the binge is the beginning of the story.

  WHAT MAKES YOU SO SURE YOU’RE NOT THE EVIL ONE YOURSELF?

  [on Alice Munro]

  Alice Munro has a strong claim to being the best fiction writer now working in North America, but outside of Canada, where her books are number-one bestsellers, she has never had a large readership. At the risk of sounding like a pleader on behalf of yet another underappreciated writer—and maybe you’ve learned to recognize and evade these pleas? The same way you’ve learned not to open bulk mail from certain charities? Please give generously to Dawn Powell? Your contribution of just fifteen minutes a week can help assure Joseph Roth of his rightful place in the modern canon?—I want to circle around Munro’s latest marvel of a book, Runaway, by taking some guesses at why her excellence so dismayingly exceeds her fame.

  1. Munro’s work is all about storytelling pleasure.

  The problem here being that many buyers of serious fiction seem rather ardently to prefer lyrical, tremblingly earnest, faux-literary stuff.

  2. As long as you’re reading Munro, you’re failing to multitask by absorbing civics lessons or historical data.

  Her subject is people. People people people. If you read fiction about some enriching subject like Renaissance art or an important chapter in our nation’s history, you can be assured of feeling productive. But if the story is set in the modern world, and if the characters’ concerns are familiar to you, and if you become so involved with a book that you can’t put it down at bedtime, there exists a risk that you’re merely being entertained.

  3. She doesn’t give her books grand titles like Canadian Pastoral, Canadian Psycho, Purple Canada, In Canada, or The Plot Against Canada.

  Also, she refuses to render vital dramatic moments in convenient discursive summary. Also, her rhetorical restraint and her excellent ear for dialogue and her almost pathological empathy for her characters have the costly effect of obscuring her authorial ego for many pages at a stretch. Also, her jacket photos show her smiling pleasantly, as if the reader were a friend, rather than wearing the kind of woeful scowl that signifies really serious literary intent.

  4. The Swedish Royal Academy is taking a firm stand.

  Evidently, the feeling in Stockholm is that too many Canadians and too many pure short-story writers have already been given the Nobel in literature. Enough is enough!

  5. Munro writes fiction, and fiction is harder to review than nonfiction.

  Here’s Bill Clinton, he’s written a book about himself, and how interesting. How interesting. The author himself is interesting—can there be a better qualification for writing a book about Bill Clinton than actually being Bill Clinton?—and then, too, everybody has an opinion about Bill Clinton and wonders what Bill Clinton says and doesn’t say in his new book about himself, and how Bill Clinton spins this and refutes that, and before you know it the review has practically written itself.

  But who is Alice Munro? She is the remote provider of intensely pleasurable private experiences. And since I’m not interested in reviewing her new book’s marketing campaign or in being entertainingly snarky at her expense, and since I’m reluctant to talk about the concrete meaning of her new work, because this is difficult to do without revealing too much plot, I’m probably better off just serving up a nice quote for Alfred A. Knopf to pull—

  “Munro has a strong claim to being the best fiction writer now working in North America. Runaway is a marvel.”

  —and suggesting to the Times Book Review’s editors that they run the biggest possible photograph of Munro in the most prominent of places, plus a few smaller photos of mildly prurient interest (her kitchen? her children?) and maybe a quote from one of her rare interviews—

  Because there is this kind of exhaustion and bewilderment when you look at your work. . . . All you really have left is the thing you’re working on now. And so you’re much more thinly clothed. You’re like somebody out in a little shirt or something, which is just the work you’re doing now and the strange identification with everything you’ve done before. And this probably is why I don’t take any public role as a writer. Because I can’t see myself doing that except as a gigantic fraud.

  —and just leave it at that.

  6. Because, worse yet, Munro is a pure short-story writer.

  And with short stories the challenge to reviewers is even more extreme. Is there a short story in all of world literature whose appeal can survive the typical synopsis? (A chance meeting on a boardwalk in Yalta brings together a bored husband and a lady with a little dog .
. . A small town’s annual lottery is revealed to serve a rather surprising purpose . . . A middle-aged Dubliner leaves a party and reflects on life and love . . . ) Oprah Winfrey will not touch story collections. Discussing them is so challenging, indeed, that one can almost forgive the Times Book Review’s former editor, Charles McGrath, for his recent comparison of young short-story writers to “people who learn golf by never venturing onto a golf course but instead practicing at a driving range.” The real game being, by this analogy, the novel.

  McGrath’s prejudice is shared by nearly all commercial publishers, for whom a story collection is, most frequently, the distasteful front-end write-off in a two-book deal whose back end is contractually forbidden to be another story collection. And yet, despite the short story’s Cinderella status, or maybe because of it, a high percentage of the most exciting fiction written in the last twenty-five years—the stuff I immediately mention if somebody asks me what’s terrific—has been short fiction. There’s the Great One herself, naturally. There’s also Lydia Davis, David Means, George Saunders, Amy Hempel, and the late Raymond Carver—all of them pure or nearly pure short-story writers—and then a larger group of writers who have achievements in multiple genres (John Updike, Joy Williams, David Foster Wallace, Lorrie Moore, Joyce Carol Oates, Denis Johnson, Ann Beattie, William T. Vollmann, Tobias Wolff, Annie Proulx, Michael Chabon, Tom Drury, the late Andre Dubus) but who seem to me most at home, most undilutedly themselves, in their shorter work. There are also, to be sure, some very fine pure novelists. But when I close my eyes and think about literature in recent decades, I see a twilight landscape in which many of the most inviting lights, the sites that beckon me to return for a visit, are shed by particular short stories I’ve read.

  I like stories because they leave the writer no place to hide. There’s no yakking your way out of trouble; I’m going to be reaching the last page in a matter of minutes, and if you’ve got nothing to say I’m going to know it. I like stories because they’re usually set in the present or in living memory; the genre seems to resist the historical impulse that makes so many contemporary novels feel fugitive or cadaverous. I like stories because it takes the best kind of talent to invent fresh characters and situations while telling the same story over and over. All fiction writers suffer from the condition of having nothing new to say, but story writers are the ones most abjectly prone to this condition. There is, again, no hiding. The craftiest old dogs, like Munro and William Trevor, don’t even try.

  Here’s the story that Munro keeps telling: A bright, sexually avid girl grows up in rural Ontario without much money, her mother is sickly or dead, her father is a schoolteacher whose second wife is problematic, and the girl, as soon as she can, escapes from the hinterland by way of a scholarship or some decisive self-interested act. She marries young, moves to British Columbia, raises kids, and is far from blameless in the breakup of her marriage. She may have success as an actress or a writer or a TV personality; she has romantic adventures. When, inevitably, she returns to Ontario, she finds the landscape of her youth unsettlingly altered. Although she was the one who abandoned the place, it’s a great blow to her narcissism that she isn’t warmly welcomed back—that the world of her youth, with its older-fashioned manners and mores, now sits in judgment on the modern choices she has made. Simply by trying to survive as a whole and independent person, she has incurred painful losses and dislocations; she has caused harm.

  And that’s pretty much it. That’s the little stream that’s been feeding Munro’s work for better than fifty years. The same elements recur and recur like Clare Quilty. What makes Munro’s growth as an artist so crisply and breathtakingly visible—throughout the Selected Stories and even more so in her three latest books—is precisely the familiarity of her materials. Look what she can do with nothing but her own small story; the more she returns to it, the more she finds. This is not a golfer on a practice tee. This is a gymnast in a plain black leotard, alone on a bare floor, outperforming all the novelists with their flashy costumes and whips and elephants and tigers.

  “The complexity of things—the things within things—just seems to be endless,” Munro told her interviewer. “I mean nothing is easy, nothing is simple.”

  She was stating the fundamental axiom of literature, the core of its appeal. And, for whatever reason—the fragmentation of my reading time, the distractions and atomizations of contemporary life, or, perhaps, a genuine paucity of compelling novels—I find that when I’m in need of a hit of real writing, a good stiff drink of paradox and complexity, I’m likeliest to encounter it in short fiction. Besides Runaway, the most compelling contemporary fiction I’ve read in recent months has been Wallace’s stories in Oblivion and a stunner of a collection by the British writer Helen Simpson. Simpson’s book, a series of comic shrieks on the subject of modern motherhood, was published originally as Hey Yeah Right Get a Life—a title you would think needed no improvement. But the book’s American packagers set to work improving it, and what did they come up with? Getting a Life. Consider this dismal gerund the next time you hear an American publisher insisting that story collections never sell.

  7. Munro’s short stories are even harder to review than other people’s short stories.

  More than any writer since Chekhov, Munro strives for and achieves, in each of her stories, a gestalt-like completeness in the representation of a life. She always had a genius for developing and unpacking moments of epiphany. But it’s in the three collections since Selected Stories (1996) that she’s taken the really big, world-class leap and become a master of suspense. The moments she’s pursuing now aren’t moments of realization; they’re moments of fateful, irrevocable, dramatic action. And what this means for the reader is you can’t even begin to guess at a story’s meaning until you’ve followed every twist; it’s always the last page or two that switches all the lights on.

  Meanwhile, as her narrative ambitions have grown, she’s become ever less interested in showing off. Her early work was full of big rhetoric, eccentric detail, arresting phrases. (Check out her 1977 story “Royal Beatings.”) But as her stories have come to resemble classical tragedies in prose form, it’s not only as if she no longer has room for inessentials, it’s as if it would be actively jarring, mood-puncturing—an aesthetic and moral betrayal—for her writerly ego to intrude on the pure story.

  Reading Munro puts me in that state of quiet reflection in which I think about my own life: about the decisions I’ve made, the things I’ve done and haven’t done, the kind of person I am, the prospect of death. She is one of the handful of writers, some living, most dead, whom I have in mind when I say that fiction is my religion. For as long as I’m immersed in a Munro story, I am according to an entirely make-believe character the kind of solemn respect and quiet rooting interest that I accord myself in my better moments as a human being.

  But suspense and purity, which are a gift to the reader, present problems for the reviewer. Basically, Runaway is so good that I don’t want to talk about it here. Quotation can’t do the book justice, and neither can synopsis. The way to do it justice is to read it.

  In fulfillment of my reviewerly duties, I would like to offer, instead, this one-sentence teaser for the last story in Munro’s previous collection, Hateship, Friendship, Courtship, Loveship, Marriage (2001): A woman with early Alzheimer’s enters a care facility, and by the time her husband is allowed to visit her, after a thirty-day adjustment period, she has found a “boyfriend” among the other patients and shows no interest in the husband.

  This is not a bad premise for a story. But what begins to make it distinctively Munrovian is that, years ago, back in the sixties and seventies, the husband, Grant, had affair after affair with other women. It’s only now, for the first time, that the old betrayer is being betrayed. And does Grant finally come to regret those affairs? Well, no, not at all. Indeed, what he remembers from that phase of his life is “mainly a gigantic increase in well-being.” He never felt more alive than when he wa
s cheating on the wife, Fiona. It tears him up, of course, to visit the facility now and to see Fiona and her “boyfriend” so openly tender with each other and so indifferent to him. But he’s even more torn up when the boyfriend’s wife removes him from the facility and takes him home. Fiona is devastated, and Grant is devastated on her behalf.

  And here is the trouble with a capsule summary of a Munro story. The trouble is I want to tell you what happens next. Which is that Grant goes to see the boyfriend’s wife to ask if she might take the boyfriend back to visit Fiona at the facility. And that it’s here that you realize that what you thought the story was about—all the pregnant stuff about Alzheimer’s and infidelity and late-blooming love—was actually just the setup: that the story’s great scene is between Grant and the boyfriend’s wife. And that the wife, in this scene, refuses to let her husband see Fiona. That her reasons are ostensibly practical but subterraneanly moralistic and spiteful.

  And here my attempt at capsule summary breaks down altogether, because I can’t begin to suggest the greatness of the scene if you don’t have a particular, vivid sense of the two characters and how they speak and think. The wife, Marian, is narrower-minded than Grant. She has a perfect, spotless suburban house that she won’t be able to afford if her husband returns to the facility. This house, not romance, is what matters to her. She hasn’t had the same advantages, either economic or emotional, that Grant has had, and her obvious lack of privilege occasions a passage of classic Munrovian introspection as Grant drives back to his own house.