The Age of Suspicion (6 page)

What enormous pains to achieve results that, without contortions and without hairsplitting, are obtained, shall we say, by Hemingway. And this being the case, if he handles them with equal felicity, why object to the fact that he uses the same tools that served Tolstoy in such good stead?

But there's no question of Tolstoy! Today, eighteenth and even seventeenth century writers are constantly being held up to us as models. And should some die-hard, at the risk of his life, continue to want to explore gropingly the 'darker sides,' he is immediately referred back to
The Princess of
Cleve
and Adolph. He should read the classics a bit! Would he for a moment claim to penetrate farther than they did into the depths of the soul, or with such ease and grace, with so keen, so light a touch?

Indeed, as soon as a writer renounces the legacy of those whom, thirty years ago, Virginia Woolf called 'moderns' and, disdaining the liberties (the 'facilities,' he would say) that they conquered, succeeds in capturing a few soul reactions couched in the pure, simple, elegant lines that characterise the classical style, he is praised to the skies. With what alacrity, what generosity, people exert themselves to discover an abundance of inexpressible sentiments beneath his reticence and silence, to see reserve and contained strength in the prudence and abstinence that are forced upon
him
by constant concern for maintaining the 'figure' of his style.

However, the unfortunate die-hard who, being unconcerned by the indifference and reproval awaiting him, persists nevertheless in digging in these dark regions, in the hope of extracting from them a few particles of some unknown substance, does not, for all that, enjoy the peace of mind that his independence and disinterestedness should ensure him.

Frequently doubts and scruples slacken his endeavours. For where is he to find and be able to examine these secret recesses that attract him, if not in himself, or in the persons in his immediate circle whom he feels he knows well and whom he imagines he resembles? And the tiny, evanescent movements they conceal blossom out preferably in immobility and withdrawal. The din of actions accomplished in broad daylight either drowns or checks them.

But he is well aware, as he observes himself and his fellow- creatures from his inner sanctum, steeping in the protective liquor of his tightly-sealed little jar, that, on the outside, very important things (perhaps—and he tells himself this with anguish—the only really important things) are happening: men who are probably very different from him, as well as from his family and friends, men who have other fish to fry than to hover solicitously over their innermost quakings, and in whom, moreover, it would seem that deep suffering, deep, simple joys, powerful, very evident needs, must quell these very subtle tremors, men towards whom he feels drawn, whom, often, he admires, are acting and struggling; and he knows that, to be at peace with his conscience and meet the requirements of his time, it is with them and not with himself or those like him that he should be concerned.

But if, having torn himself away from his jar, he should attempt to turn his attention towards these men and make them come to life in his books, he is assailed by fresh misgivings. His eyes, having become accustomed to semi-darkness, are dazzled by the garish light of the outside. As a result of examining only the tiny space about him, of staring lengthily at one spot, they have become magnifying lenses that are incapable of taking in vast expanses at one time. Long maceration in his jar has made him lose his innocent freshness. He has seen how difficult it was, when he examined closely some tiny recess in himself, to make an inventory of all the things to be found there: not of any great importance, he is well aware, more than often disappointing, but concerning which a rapid examination, made from a distance, would never have permitted him even to suspect their existence. He consequently has the impression of not seeing these men from the outside clearly.

Their actions, which he respects and admires, seem to him to be like wide-meshed netting: they let slip through their large holes all this turbid, teeming matter to which he has grown accustomed, and he is unable to break himself of the habit of looking for the living substance, the, for him, only living substance; also, he is obliged to admit that he sees nothing in what they bring back but large empty carcasses. These men whom he would so like to know and make known, when he tries to show them moving about in the blinding light of day, seem to him to be nothing but well- made dolls, intended for the amusement of children.

Furthermore, if it is a matter of showing characters from the outside, devoid of all swarmings and secret tremors, and of recounting their actions and the events that compose their story, of telling stories about them, as he is so often incited to do (isn't this, people continually tell him, the gift that best characterises the real writer?), the cinema director, who disposes of means of expression that are far better suited to this purpose and much more powerful than his own, succeeds in easily surpassing him, with less fatigue and loss of time for the spectator. And when it comes to describing men's sufferings and struggles plausibly, to making known all the frequently monstrous, almost unbelievable iniquities that are committed, the journalist possesses the immense advantage over him of being able to give to the facts he reports—however unlikely they may seem—that look of authenticity which, alone, is capable of compelling the reader's credence.

Lacking encouragement, lacking confidence, with a frequently painful sense of guilt and boredom, he has no alternative, therefore, but to return to himself. But here, although he has plunged once more into his jar after this evasion, which is more than often imaginary—he is usually far too distrustful and discouraged in advance to venture outside—it would be painting far too black a picture of his situation, if we did not say that to his own astonishment and pretty rarely at that, he occasionally experiences moments of satisfaction and hope.

One fine day he hears that even out yonder, on the outside, not in those gloomy, solitary regions in which he is groping about, and into which the little company of moderns had once ventured, but in the rich, eternally fertile, well-populated and carefully cultivated lands where tradition continues to blossom in the sun, people have finally noticed that, after all, something is happening. Novelists whom nobody would ever accuse of making revolutionary claims are forced to recognise certain changes. One of the best contemporary English novelists, Henry Green, has pointed out that the centre of gravity of the novel has moved, that more and more importance is being given to dialogue. 'Today,' he writes, 'it is the best way to give the reader real life.' And he even predicts that it will be 'the principal support of the novel for a long time to come.'

In the silence that surrounds him, this simple statement is an olive branch for our die-hard. It makes him take heart immediately. It even revives his wildest dreams. No doubt, the explanation Mr. Green gives of this change risks destroying all the promise contained in his remark: it is probably, he adds, because 'nowadays people have stopped writing letters. Instead, they use the telephone.' It is not to be wondered at then that, in their turn, characters in fiction should have become so talkative.

But this explanation is disappointing in appearance only. It should not be forgotten that Mr. Green is English and it is well known that reserve often incites his countrymen to adopt a tone of playful simplicity when speaking of serious matters. Or perhaps it is a dash of humour. Perhaps, too, after making this bold statement, Henry Green experienced a certain fear: if he were to carry his investigation too far, where would it not lead him? Might he not eventually come to ask himself if this single indication of his were not a sign of profound disturbances that could lead to reexamination of the entire traditional structure of the novel? Might he not end by claiming that contemporary novel forms are cracking on all sides, and thus instigate, even invite, new techniques adapted to new forms? But the words 'new forms' and 'techniques' are even more immodest and embarrassing to pronounce than the word 'psychology' itself. They result immediately in your being accused of presumption and bumptiousness, and arouse, in both critics and readers, a feeling of mistrust and annoyance. It is consequently more proper and more prudent to limit oneself to mention of the telephone.

But however great our novelist's fears of appearing to yield to an enthusiasm that is suspect, he cannot be content with this explanation. For it is above all when he must make his characters speak that it seems to him that something is changing, and that it appears most difficult to avail himself of the methods that have been in current usage thus far. Between Henry Green's observation and his own impressions and reluctance there must be something more than mere coincidence. And from then on, everything changes: the confusion he senses is apparently not, as people tell him, and as he himself in his moments of depression is liable to think, that of senility, but of growth; his endeavours would seem to make him go forward in the direction of a vast general movement. And all the arguments used against those whom Virginia Woolf called moderns could be turned to their advantage.

But, people say, it is not possible to repeat what they did. Their techniques, in the hands of those who attempt to use them today, immediately become a device, whereas the traditional novel retains eternal youth. Without having to undergo any appreciable changes, its generous, supple forms continue to adapt themselves to all the new stories, all the new characters and new conflicts that appear in the societies that succeed one another, and it is in the novelty of these characters and conflicts that the principal interest and only valid renewal of the novel lie.

And it is true that we cannot repeat what Joyce or Proust did, even though Stendhal and Tolstoy are repeated every day to everybody's satisfaction. But isn't this, first of all, because the moderns displaced the essential interest of the novel? For them it ceased to lie in the enumeration of situations and characters or in the portrayal of manners and customs, but in the revelation of a new psychological subject-matter. Indeed, it is the discovery if only of a few particles of this subject-matter, which is an anonymous one, to be found in all men and in all societies, that constituted for them and continues to constitute for their successors, genuine renewal. To re-work after them this same material and, consequently, to use their methods without changing them in any way, would be quite as absurd as for supporters of the traditional novel to re-write with the same characters, the same plot
and
the same style,
The
Red and the Black
or
War and
Peace.

On the other hand, the techniques used today with occasionally still excellent results by advocates of tradition, techniques invented by novelists of another day to explore the unknown material that fell within their range of vision, and which were perfectly adapted to this purpose, these techniques have ended by constituting a very strong, coherent system of conventions, which is well constructed and entirely closed; a universe that has its own laws and is self-sufficient. Through force of habit, by virtue of the authority conferred upon it, and because of the great works it has engendered, it has become a second nature. It has assumed a necessary, an eternal aspect. So much so that today still, those persons, whether writers or readers, who have been the most disturbed by all the upheavals that have been taking place for some time now outside its thick walls, as soon as they enter within them, docilely allow themselves to be confined there; they very soon feel quite at home, accept all limitations, conform to all restraints, and abandon all dreams of escape.

But by freeing themselves of its fetters, the moderns, who sought to tear themselves as well as their readers away from this system, lost the protection and security it offered. And the reader, being deprived of all his accustomed stakes and landmarks, removed from all authority, suddenly faced with an unknown substance, bewildered and distrustful, instead of blindly letting himself go, as he so loves to do, was constantly obliged to confront what was shown him with what he could see for himself.

Just in passing, he must have been extremely surprised by the opacity of the fictional conventions that had succeeded in concealing for so long what should have been obvious to all eyes. But once he had taken a good look and arrived at an independent judgement, he was unable to stop there. At the same time that they had awakened his powers of penetration, the moderns had awakened his critical faculties and whetted his curiosity.

He wanted to look even further or, if preferred, even closer. And he was not long in perceiving what was hidden beneath the interior monologue: an immense profusion of sensations, images, sentiments, memories, impulses, little larval actions that no inner language can convey, that jostle one another on the threshold of consciousness, gather together in compact groups, loom up all of a sudden, then immediately fall apart, combine otherwise and reappear in new forms, while unwinding inside us, like the ribbon that comes clattering from a telescriptor slot, is an uninterrupted flow of words.

With regard to Proust, it is true that these groups composed of sensations, images, sentiments and memories which, when traversing or skirting the thin curtain of the interior monologue, suddenly become visible from the outside, in an apparently insignificant word, a mere intonation or a glance, are precisely what he took such pains to study. But—however paradoxical this may seem to those who, today, still reproach him for his extreme minutae—to us it appears already as though he had observed them from a great distance, after they had run their course, in repose and, as it were, congealed in memory. He tried to describe their respective positions as though they were stars in a motionless sky. He considered them as a sequence of causes and effects which he sought to explain. He rarely—not to say, never—tried to re-live them and make them re-live for the reader in the present, while they were forming and developing, like so many tiny dramas, each one of which has it adventures, its mystery and its unforeseeable ending.