Bruce Robbins INFORMATION and EMOTION: on the AMBITIONS OF
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Bruce Robbins INFORMATION AND EMOTION: ON THE AMBITIONS OF CONTEMPORARY FICTION “Information has become the new character.” James Wood, “Hysterical Realism” ritic James Wood, in a review of Zadie Smith’s novel White Teeth, objects Cto such features as “a terrorist Islamic group based in North London with a silly acronym (KEVIN) . a woman born during an earthquake in Kingston, Jamaica in 1907, a group of Jehovah’s Witnesses who think that the world is ending on December 31, 1992, and twins, one in Bangladesh and one in London, who both break their noses at about the same time.” These are among the signs, he says, that “a genre is hardening,” the genre of “the big ambitious novel.” I quote: “A parody would go like this. If a character is introduced in London (call him Toby Aknotuby, i.e. “To be or not to be”—ha!), then we will swiftly be told that Toby has a twin in Delhi (called Boyt: an anagram of Toby, of course) who, like Toby, has the very same curious genital deforma- tion, and that their mother belongs to a religious cult based, oddly enough, in the Orkney Islands, and that their father (who was born at the exact second that the bomb was dropped on Hiroshima) has been a Hell’s Angel for the last thirteen years (but a very curious Hell’s Angels group, devoted only to the fanatical study of very late Wordsworth), and that their mad left-wing aunt, Delilah, was curiously struck dumb when Mrs Thatcher was elected prime minister in 1979, and has not spoken a word since.” He then asks: “Is this a caricature, really?” It is quite a good caricature, I think—so good that I would like to claim it as a piece of perhaps unintended intertextuality, in other words as an applica- tion for membership in the genre it caricatures. (This is hardly an outlandish claim given that Wood names Dickens as the “parent” of this genre and adds that “Dickens makes caricature respectable in an age in which, for various reasons, it has become hard to create character.” In other words, Wood knows that in offering a caricature he himself is doing what he accuses the genre of doing.) When Wood complains that this kind of writing is incompatible with “tragedy or anguish,” that it does not do “scenes,” that it is awkward in its representation of “character,” that its stories are “inhuman stories,” one feels a certain formal and moral banality in the criticism, and one might be tempted The Romanic Review Volume 100 Numbers 1–2 © The Trustees of Columbia University 94 Bruce Robbins to dismiss it as a banal anti-modernism that has not been new or enlightening since it frst scoffed at Woolf and Joyce. What distinguishes it, and provokes me to think of Wood as keeping company with his targets, is the common ground of realism. It is within what he calls “the conventions of realism” that Wood places his targets, whom he accuses not of “abolishing” those conven- tions but merely of “overworking” them. And it’s within the conventions of realism that we would have to place his own criteria. Wood is not merely rant- ing in a familiar way about modernism or postmodernism; he is talking about the requirements of realism to novelists who clearly intend to do realism. As he notes, these realists are trying to do something that is usually considered mor- ally impeccable: trying to follow Forster’s dictum “only connect.” For Wood, it just doesn’t work. To summarize a long argument: we get information about how we are all connected, but we don’t get to feel those connections. Is it simply too ambitious to aim at investing a reader’s feelings in connec- tions between people who are separated by half a planet? Is this an ambition that novelists should renounce as beyond their technical means? The same argument is of course made not just about the novel but about cosmopolitan- ism itself, which is judged to be an impossible and misguided ideal. It is dif- fcult enough to function as the citizen of a given nation, it is often repeated; no one can be a citizen of the world. The feeling of connectedness will not stretch so far. And yet it is unclear that one can be even a half-decent citizen of a nation like the United States if one does not make some effort to be more than a US citizen. And I would propose that the same holds for the novel. I gave my frst lecture on the novel at Columbia on the 12th of September, 2001. The events of the previous day were of course very much on everyone’s mind and in everyone’s feelings. I asked the class whether they wanted to talk about the attack on the World Trade Center or to try for business as usual. By a very large majority, they opted for business as usual. But some sort of segue seemed unavoidable. The text on our syllabus for that day was a dramatically intertextual novel from Sudan called Season of Migration to the North. Season of Migration to the North rewrites Conrad’s Heart of Darkness with a geo- graphical reversal: an Arabic-speaking North African travels up the Thames to London, and in that northern heart of darkness he commits a series of violent acts against white women, women who end up dead although they are very explicitly described as well-intentioned, non-racist, having done nothing to deserve such treatment. This came a bit too close to the events of September 11th to pass unremarked. So I invited the students to imagine a secretary in the frm of Cantor Fitzgerald who was at her desk in the World Trade Cen- ter bright and early the day before and who therefore lost her life in a way that could hardly be described as anything but meaningless. The planes that crashed into the World Trade Center had nothing to do with her life, with On the Ambitions of Contemporary Fiction 95 her personal relationships, with her character. I asked them to imagine that nothing in her life, nothing of the stuff that novels are ordinarily made out of, would seem to connect in any way with the event that ended her life. And then I told the students that one reason for paying attention to the novels we were going to be reading, beginning with Season of Migration to the North, was that at their best, this is precisely the challenge they set themselves: making the sort of meaning that novels make, but making it out of historical materials or situations that, like the planes that attacked the World Trade Center, seem to come from nowhere, seem to defy the whole project of novel writing. The fact that I told the students this doesn’t make it so. Still, I quote myself because my unrehearsed, somewhat desperate gambit on September 12, 2001 suggests a line of argument that might answer Wood in a vocabulary that he could be expected to recognize. The challenge of producing emotively-charged meaning out of encounters that seem arbitrary and indeed stretch the sense of connection, but are not utterly arbitrary: this is a more sympathetic way of describing the ambition of the “big ambitious novel” that Wood sees hard- ening into a contemporary genre.1 To frame the argument in this way is to think of the conventions of realism as formal resources that realism has at its disposal, resources that may be stretched thin or overworked by the extreme social conditions to which they are applied, even to the point of parody, but that are the self-conscious tools of a self-conscious community of writers. I think these people are reading each other—not in exactly the same spirit in which Wood reads them, but while asking some of the kinds of questions he is asking. Ironically, Wood’s parody isolates a number of tropes which are like signature devices of a club of novelists, internally self-conscious, binding these writers both to the outside world of social information and, at the same time, to each other, and thus making possible (or so I hope) an internal literary his- tory of literature. Realists are not supposed to look at other realists; realism is supposed to be a mirror on a path, an unmediated look at the world itself. But here is a new mini-tradition of writers clearly looking at each other, recipro- cally self-quoting, joined together by common borrowings—yet joined in the common purpose, one might say, of a better representation of today’s global, strenuous social connectedness. There is both internal and external evidence for the kind of self-conscious intertextuality I’m proposing here. I am going to leave aside the external evi- dence—Garcia Marquez paying his debts to Faulkner, Rushdie paying his 1. One could say that the principle of harm experienced as coming from nowhere, yet not totally random, takes a not unfamiliar form in Smith’s White Teeth when a fellow waiter tells a Bangladeshi man who’s having trouble with an English woman: “it ain’t you she’s angry with”—it’s history (169). This is a version of the World Trade Center experience. 96 Bruce Robbins debt to Garcia Marquez, and so on.2 To show how these ambitious writers are looking at each other, and to what end, I’d like to focus on connection-making at the level of the sentence.