British Fiction After Modernism: the Novel at Mid-Century
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2 Rendering Justice to the Visible World: History, Politics and National Identity in the Novels of Graham Greene Andrzej Gasiorek And art itself may be defi ned as a single-minded attempt to render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe, by bringing to light the truth, manifold and one, underlying its every aspect. Joseph Conrad, ‘Preface’ to The Nigger of the ‘Narcissus’1 The First World War has long functioned as a convenient point of departure for discussion of what we now think of as the period of high modernism that immediately followed it. The brutal reality of mechanized slaughter didn’t just shatter human bodies but also destroyed long-held illusions about the nature of pre-war society, with far-reaching consequences for the arts.2 Refl ecting on the erosion of the storytelling tradition by twentieth- century modernity, Walter Benjamin noted that ‘the ability to exchange experiences’ on which narrative depends had been progressively under- mined since the First World War, which had decisively exposed human vulnerability; experience, he suggested, had ‘fallen in value’ and looked as though it were ‘continuing to fall into bottomlessness’, so that ‘our picture, not only of the external world but of the moral world as well, overnight has undergone changes which were never thought possible’.3 This benumb- ing of experience is evoked in the second half of Robert Graves’s Goodbye to All That (1927), a text Wyndham Lewis described in his 1937 memoir as a ‘masterly winding-up of a bankrupt emotional concern’ whose demise his own work sought to hasten.4 Benjamin, in turn, grasped that the transfor- mation he was struggling to adumbrate was of a hitherto unimaginable kind, which meant that coming to terms with it required a different view of human reality and altogether new modes of representation. What had earlier been unthinkable – namely the existential crisis he was tentatively gesturing towards – had somehow to be conceived and articulated, not least because its abyssal quality was so threatening to communal life. 17 18 British Fiction After Modernism Modernism answers this need in complex and confl icting ways. None- theless, it is striking that many writers saw the war as sweeping away a moribund civilization and offering the possibility of a clean break and a new beginning. If T.S. Eliot’s search for order in myth and for continuity in tradition mounts a bulwark against a modernity troped as nightmare and anarchy, then this defensiveness should be contrasted with D.H. Law- rence’s passion for a cleansing apocalypse, Ford Madox Ford’s exposure of pre-war cultural pretensions, and Lewis’s anatomization of a society in ter- minal decline. Lewis was initially the most ‘advanced’ of these writers, arguing in the years immediately after 1918 that ‘those whose interests lie all ahead, whose credentials are in the future, move . forward, and away from the sealed and obstructed past’, although Pound too considered that Europe before the war ‘was guttering down to its end’ and saw in Gaudier- Brzeska’s sculpture ‘the proclamation of a new birth . [a] volitionist act stretching into the future’.5 But by the late 1930s these hopes for root-and- branch social change had been dispersed, to be replaced by a widespread feeling that the interwar years had turned into a stagnant interregnum. George Orwell, writing in the early months of yet another war, tellingly contrasted the nineteenth-century Walt Whitman’s expansive faith in American freedom with European pessimism, arguing that ‘our own age . is less healthy and less hopeful than the age in which Whitman was writing’ and asserting that ‘we live in a shrinking world’.6 Graham Greene’s novels in the 1920s and 1930s evoke this sense of a shrinking world. Unillusioned studies in what Christopher Caudwell described as a ‘dying culture’, they document the slow slide into hopeless- ness.7 But whereas Lewis lamented England’s failure to break with the past, Greene reveals that he was never optimistic about its chances of doing so. In Blasting and Bombardiering (1937) – a book Greene admired – Lewis famously declared of himself, Eliot, Joyce and Pound that they were ‘the fi rstmenofaFuturethathasnotmaterialized’ and that they belonged ‘to a “great age” that has not “come off” ’; despite the numerous differences between himself and Orwell, Lewis deploys a similar rhetoric to that of ‘Inside the Whale’ when he concludes that ‘more and more exhausted by War, Slump, and Revolution, the world has fallen back’. 8 Greene, in contrast, writes of Armistice Day that those ‘who, even though we were children, remember Armistice Day . remember it as a day out of time – an explosion without a future’, and he notes that this curious timelessness suggested in turn that ‘perhaps there would never be a peace . .’9 The difference between Lewis’s disillusionment and Greene’s caution is explicable in generational terms. Like Ford, Lewis fought in the First World War, and both writers’ subsequent views were conditioned by their experiences of the confl ict. Greene was just ten in 1914, and he came to maturity within the post-war milieu. His fi rst novel, The Man Within (1929) was published one year after Evelyn Waugh’s scabrous Decline and Fall (1928), two years after Graves’s Rendering Justice to the Visible World: Graham Greene 19 sobering Goodbye to All That, and three years after the beginning of the period that for Lewis signalled the end of the post-war interval and the start of the real post-war period.10 Greene comes after modernism, after the great upheavals and experiments that have now been so belauded and canonized. But Greene’s relationship to his predecessors is complicated, and the way in which he negotiates it reveals a good deal about his writing in the 1930s and 1940s especially. Tyrus Miller has suggested that a number of writers (Wyndham Lewis, Djuna Barnes, Samuel Beckett and Mina Loy among them) are best thought of as ‘late modernists’ whose works ‘represent breaking points, points of nonsynchronism, in the broad narrative of twentieth-century cultural history’.11 These are interstitial works produced in full, if ironic, awareness of modernism, but because they mark out ‘lines of fl ight’ away from it they are its ‘splinter-products’.12 Miller notes that there is a resistance to the fetishization of aesthetic form in this writing, a refusal to embrace the consolations of narrative order, and although he does not mention Greene, the latter’s writing belongs to the cultural landscape he describes. Greene’s novels are characterized not only by their suspicion of an earlier modern- ism, perhaps especially its over-valuation of form and its fascination with subjectivism, but also by their almost relentless focus on vulnerable char- acters caught up in global processes that threaten to destroy them. Benja- min’s view that ‘never has experience been contradicted more thoroughly than strategic experience by tactical warfare, economic experience by infl a- tion, bodily experience by mechanical warfare, moral experience by those in power’ is amply illustrated by fi ction in which the individual is a mere distraction in a political game (Stamboul Train, 1932; and It’s a Battlefi eld, 1934); a social and national anachronism in the world of high capitalism (England Made Me, 1935); or a confused loner adrift in a conspiratorial terrain marked by alienation and paranoia (AGunforSale, 1936; The Confi dential Agent, 1939; and TheMinistryofFear, 1943).13 Miller might well be summarizing Greene’s early work when he observes that: Taking their stand upon the shifting seismic plates of European society between two catastrophic wars, late modernist writers confronted no less an issue than the survival of individual selves in a world of technological culture, mass politics, and shock experience, both on the battlefi eld and in the cities of the intervening peace.14 How, then, does Greene position himself in relation to his immediate predecessors? In fi ne, he chooses to skip a generation, bypassing fi gures such as Joyce, Lewis and Pound (although Eliot was important to him) so as to proclaim his affi nity with writers such as James, Conrad and Ford. These writers are all early modernists whose experiments are arguably less destructive of the novel form than those of the post-war period.15 By 20 British Fiction After Modernism invoking them, Greene not only signals his allegiance to one kind of writing rather than another but also distances himself from direct competi- tors and aligns himself with the safely dead. This may be a defl ecting strategy but it still signals a key shift: Greene looks back to writers who may not have been as overtly ‘radical’ as those he criticizes but who were no less obsessed with aesthetic considerations. High modernism was in his view at once too self-regarding and too removed from the workaday reality of ordi- nary people, whereas he believed that the proto-modernists whose work he celebrated were in touch with the social realm he himself wanted to explore. Greene’s passion for the fi ne minutiae of everyday life is the motor of his early narratives, making them telling social documents. Unlike Orwell, whose misguided infatuation with Joyce clearly mars A Clergyman’s Daugh- ter (1935), Greene’s forays into stream-of-consciousness modes (in It’s a Battlefi eld and England Made Me, for example) were half-hearted attempts to render the inner workings of the mind, which quickly disappeared from his work. Greene feared that modernism was always just on the edge of solipsism, a view he articulated in a hostile review of Dorothy Richardson’s Pilgrimage, during the course of which he claimed that ‘after twenty years of subjectivity, we are turning back with relief to the old dictatorship, to the detached and objective treatment’ (Essays, 116).