Oops! There’s nothing subjective about the fact that I haven’t posted for a while. What can I say? Sometimes life intervenes.
But the subjectivity involved in defining literature as good/worthy has arisen as a hot topic time and again in recent months—in writing workshops, in my writing life, and in private and public conversations and published discussions.
The ABC’s screening of The Slap has certainly helped to focus the debate, polarising opinion not only about ethical issues, child-rearing strategies and social norms but also, I’ve noticed, about what constitutes good fiction. Tsiolkas has the sales of his novel and the ratings of the TV series to show that he’s been successful in various measurable ways, no doubt about that.
Yet when I waded through the 483 pages of that novel, I had to force my way through a mounting internal resistance not so much to the subject matter but to the relentlessly negative portrayal of middle class Australians and their way of life. Perhaps my memory is blurred, but I don’t recall any rays of light in that narrative; not one brilliantly delightful individual or scene. Doubting my memory, I tried watching a couple of episodes of the televised version, only to switch off in despair. Brilliant? In many ways, yes. A true and balanced reflection of the complexities of life in suburban Australia? I sincerely hope not.
My pondering was reignited this week when I read an essay in Newswrite, the magazine of the NSW Writers Centre, dealing with a core aspect of this question: do characters in fiction have to be likeable for the work to be liked, accepted for publication, and well regarded? I respect Charlotte Wood, the author of this piece, as a hard-working, successful Australian novelist and have no doubt of her sincerity and depth of thinking. Wood makes the case that authors who offer unlikeable central characters (for example Shriver in We Need to Talk about Kevin; Tsiolkas in The Slap; Franzen in Freedom) are affording us the opportunity to ‘bring into the light and examine the shameful, repellent parts of ourselves’; to ‘bring to the surface these uglinesses in [ourselves], and see them more clearly’.
But I felt a surge of anger at her dismissal of those who disagree with her thesis; a mounting uneasiness at her labelling of those readers and editors who hold views different to her own as being lazy, unsophisticated, immature or simply missing the point.
Ultimately, though, I’m grateful to Wood, because her boldness in stating her views has helped me crystallise at last my own less than positive response to works such as those of Shriver, Tsiolkas and Franzen.
It’s not the unlikeability of their characters that repels me, nor the dark or murky aspects of human nature revealed in their plot lines. It’s the relentless immersion in darkness and mundanity, the lack of a perspective that could in any way be described as a balanced reflection of the complexity of human society and culture.
Do I, then, read simply to feel good? Definitely not. A quick journey around my bookshelves reveals favourites by authors such as Zusak and Funder (the horrors of Nazi Germany), Winton and Forster (dysfunctional individuals and relationships), Sebold (child abuse, murder, rape), Garner (troubled relationships, illness, death), Lamb and Grenville (massacre, trauma), Burke (blood, guts, corruption and addictions)—the list could be much longer, but I think I’ve made my point.
As a lifelong avid reader, I have never shied away from fiction that shines light onto darkness. Like Wood, I understand its value and the benefits to me personally and to society. But the novels I choose to read and applaud also respect the lightness in human nature and explore the subtleties of light and shade across a broad spectrum. When they pan across an emotional, cultural or social landscape, they notice everything that’s there—the light, love, humour and silliness as well as the darkness, depravity, death and dysfunction—even if they focus more on one or the other.
The point I’m making is that there’s room for a broad range of views on what constitutes good literature; that deciding not to read relentlessly dark works is a valid, informed, mature choice for many readers, and for many editors and agents. Reading, like writing, is a subjective pursuit.
Which leads me to reflect on how subjectivity informs our writing. How can it not? When we write, we are alone with our characters and their worlds. Yet many respected writing teachers and mentors cannot emphasis too strongly the importance of craft—plotting, planning, mapping out of narrative arcs and character traits—while others, equally respected, encourage interiority, writing from ‘the dream’, allowing one’s unconscious to express itself in surprising and often intriguing narrative flow. Many advocate an intelligent mix of both approaches.
It’s heartening to realise that even in these times of radical transition for books and publishing, there are so many of us who care enough about good writing that we are able to keep a debate such as this alive. When passions flare, whether in support or criticism of considered writing, we can feel confident that there is a solid future for books and writing and for literary debate.
As a reader and as an editor, I choose to seek out writing that strives for balance; that is not afraid to burrow courageously into the darkest places, yet also delights in dancing gloriously naked under the brightest of lights, revealing in creative ways the worst and the best of the complexities of human nature. By all means give me blood, guts, death, grief, violence and depravity—but if you do, please dish it up with servings of love, beauty, lyricism, hilarity, subtlety and generosity. Then I’ll trust your integrity as a reflector of life and I’ll want to read your work.
WOW!
A beautiful and passionate reflection on ‘subjectivity’… and right on the mark.
Big love/hugs
Lou
Pwhoarrrr what a scorcher!!!! Desney (as the English tabloids used to say on a hot day) let’s hear it for the complexities of life in the suburbs; such an easy people and place to pillory.
Just spent a morning discussing possible topics for a conference including ‘the science of complexity’ – the recognition that nature is a complex thing and we take a far too simple approach to medicine. Same might be applied to literature..?
Totally agree with you on this one Desney. I have argued with many that arthouse movies or literature/writing does not need to focus on the down and outers, the criminals and the disheartened all the time. Australian arthouse cinema has lost me for this reason and I love cinema. Artists, writing for others , need to have some, if not all light in their work, to uplift and encourage. There is so much light after all to share with others.
thanks,
Helen
Desney, what an amazing post. What you are saying, in a nutshell, is there must be ‘balance’, right? And I agree. In all genres, media…and, most importantly, in life. Hence why, when reading the works of any author, balance is of prime importance – between the dark and the glitter. Because life amplifies both. And that’s what we empathise with. x
What a fantastic post, thanks Des!
I also find one-dimensional writing annoying. But personally I didn’t experience The Slap as only negative, although I concede that it was extremely dark. I’m also not sure that Tsoilkas was writing about middleclass Australian in general…? I thougth he was writing about a very particular part of it. And I thought the TV series was much kinder to the characters than the novel. There was a story in the Herald this week, on why kids turn into “brats”
. The conclusion was that in The Slap the child reflected the adults around him, who were needy and self-indulgent and unable to see any situation from a point of view other than their own.
Must say I didn’t think that was true of all the characters.
Loved Freedom to bits, even though I instensely disliked some of the characters!
Once again, thanks for a very interesting piece. xx
You’ve got us all going with this one, Desney! Well worth waiting for. Your usual deft hand, eloquent and incisive. I tend to agree with Annarosa. I think, thank God, that The Slap was more a ‘slice’ of middle class Australia, than intended as a portrayal of the whole. But let’s not talk television.
‘. . . to burrow courageously into the darkest places . . . dancing gloriously naked under the brightest of lights’. Phew, girl! Wish I’d written that.
Prue
Delighted we have a conversation going here!
And yes, Prue and Annarosa, I do agree that The Slap deliberately focuses on a slice of our society and culture … but even then … is it likely that there would not be at least one shining light or shimmer of joy? Then again, I’ve been guilty of penning an 80,000 word tale that included not one bad guy. (Thank you, Lou, for pointing that out to me back then!) Still working up a couple of nasty dudes for that story, striving for some kind of representative balance and complexity.
Hi Desney
It’s been a while since I read the book – but the TV show – well, it pointed me towards complexity, interdependence, fragility, humanity. For me the whole thing was so NOT about the slap. What spoke was how each person lost something of themselves in the small, seemingly necessary compromises of life. And in doing so, sliver by sliver, they lost contact with each other in a really human, authentic, compassionate way. Each person became more and more imprisoned by their own misery – I dreamt this image once. That we are all in little cages crashing around banging into each cage upon cage. Once in while we make human, skin on skin, heart on heart contact. Once in a while.
As a reader, only, what constitutes good literature is dependent on where I am in my life. Needing company for my misery? Needing collusion with my shadow side? Great there are authors who will give me characters to meet that need. Needing to be cheered up, jollied along, inspired. Again I can find it. Whew! A gift from writers to me – company through life. Can’t ask for more than that.
thanks to you all
Hi Desney, sorry I made you so mad but I loved seeing this response (I was led here by your reproducing it Stephen Romei’s Pair of Ragged Claws blog at The Australian).
Just in case any of your readers would like to see my Newswrite piece (sorry you found it so dismissive, by the way – I don’t think it is, but I guess I would say that…), it’s now online here http://www.charlottewood.com.au/images/The%20LIkeability%20Problem.pdf – and I’ve responded to some of your remarks at Stephen Romei’s Australian newspaper blog here: http://blogs.theaustralian.news.com.au/alr/index.php/theaustralian/comments/the_likeability_problem/desc
Great to hear from you here, Charlotte!
Thank you for triggering the discussion, and for supplying the links … this is such a rich and enriching debate, and all the more so for spreading itself around various sites now.
I smiled when I read Leona’s comment (above), the para where she admits to reading across the spectrum depending on how she’s feeling and what she yearns for at the time.
I feel another blog post brewing; one that talks about how we (editors, readers, writers) decide what differentiates good writing from bad – and whether it’s wise or fair even to use those terms.
Desney, it was so lovely to read this post. Rather too many years ago, I read The Killing Fields, set in Cambodia during Pol Pot’s regime and was staggered to discover stories, not only of terror and agony but also of jokes and laughter, gentle teasing, immense human courage and empathy. Since then I have had little time for literature – or any art form for that matter – which does not come well balanced. But, of course, that’s just my opinion!