Contemporary Drift: the Tenses of the Present and the Afterlives of Genre
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Contemporary Drift: The Tenses of the Present and the Afterlives of Genre By Theodore Jacob Martin A dissertation submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in English in the Graduate Division of the University of California, Berkeley Committee in charge: Professor Stephen Best, Chair Professor Carol Clover Professor Colleen Lye Professor Kent Puckett Spring 2011 Abstract Contemporary Drift: The Tenses of the Present and the Afterlives of Genre by Theodore Jacob Martin Doctor of Philosophy in English University of California, Berkeley Professor Stephen Best, Chair What do we mean, this dissertation asks, when we talk about “contemporary literature”? Far from being a fixed category of literary history, the contemporary is always on the move. Just as the “now” when I am writing this abstract is different from the “now” when you are reading it, the contemporary does not so much delimit history as drift across it. So what does it mean to call ourselves contemporary? In “Contemporary Drift,” I argue that “contemporary” is more than a name for novelty—it is also an untimely connection to the past. We can best grasp this paradox of contemporary life, I suggest, by reading it through the historical dynamics of genre. More drag than drift, genres stay the same even as they change over time; they are recognizable precisely to the extent to that they’re repeatable. The iterations of genre interrupt the fragile immediacy of the contemporary. Reconsidering the fates of the historical novel, the realist novel, the detective novel, and the noir film, I claim that genre shows us what it means—and what it takes—to see ourselves in history. The way we consolidate a sense of the now is intimately connected to larger issues of literary history: how we construct canons, how we distinguish historical periods, how we lay claim to the continued relevance of the past. My project thus aims to reorient our literary present by looking not at new forms but at renewed forms. Each chapter of my dissertation engages the recent “afterlife” of an older genre in order to show how it conjures a complex image of the contemporary. These reanimated genres insist on the present’s singularity yet inevitably invoke its continuity with the past. I consider the strange figure of the speaking dead that links classic film noir to the nostalgic repetitions of neo-noir; the entangled politics of waiting, reading, and race that structure the detective fiction of Colson Whitehead, Michael Chabon, and Vikram Chandra; the tension between the distant gaze of periodization and the everyday details of realism staged in the work of Bret Easton Ellis and J.M. Coetzee; and the modes of anachronism that shape historical novels by John Fowles and Tom McCarthy. These ostensibly outdated genres show how the present can encompass days, decades, even centuries. In doing so, they suggest that being contemporary means always being just a little out of date. 1 Contemporary Drift ————————— THE TENSES OF THE PRESENT AND THE AFTERLIVES OF GENRE i In loving memory of my father and my grandfather. ————————— And for Annie, whose presence I couldn’t bear to be without for even a moment longer. ii Acknowledgements ————————— It’s hard enough to keep up with the times, and harder still to keep up on the slippery time of dissertation writing, which makes writing a dissertation on contemporary times seem either doomed or deranged. If those fates were even temporarily cheated, it was only with a whole lot of help. The members of my dissertation committee deserve more thanks than I can concisely express. Stephen Best was particularly hard to please, and that has made him a particularly strong dissertation director. Starting with the very first document I gave him, Stephen homed in on every page that drifted into opacity, on every idea that remained half-baked, on every sentence that slacked off. To say that he made the grounds of this dissertation more solid, its argument more sophisticated, and its expression more lucid would simply be to state the obvious. Colleen Lye has guided, supported, and generally looked out for me since I first set foot at Berkeley. She made sure I knew I belonged here from the beginning, and her early words of encouragement have inspired me all the way to the end. Between then and now, Colleen has taught me what intellectual rigor really is, asking the most piercing questions, leveling the most demanding critiques, and always pushing me to replace pyrotechnic style with substance. Kent Puckett has been an intellectual inspiration, a scholarly influence, a wise guide, and a friend. He read my work with more care than I could have asked for, took it more seriously than I assumed it deserved, and was instrumental in helping me transform a mess of chapters into an actual project. Kent’s capacity for critical engagement and intellectual generosity is a model that I can scarcely hope to emulate; I’m honored just to have the chance to try. And Carol Clover has been as involved an outside reader as one could have. She charitably agreed to be part of this committee when she could have easily demurred, and she has remained a vocal part of it, offering me astute advice and welcome enthusiasm every step of the way. Many more thanks are due to the many other colleagues and mentors who generously read drafts of these chapters and talked with me about the project. Thanks to Namwali Serpell, who offered me not only her unmatched expertise on contemporary literature but also her friendship; to Kevis Goodman, who took some of her highly precious time to give me a much-needed perspective on the longer history of studying the present; and to the participants in Colleen’s dissertation working group—Chris Chen, Swati Rana, Audrey Clark, Marcelle Maese-Cohen, and Andrew Leong—who were unselfish readers and unhesitant critics. Finally, I must express my gratitude to Marshall Brown: my correspondence with him was an enlightening and ultimately a transformative experience. More impersonal but no less sincere thanks are due to Berkeley’s Doreen B. Townsend Center for the Humanities and the English Department Block Grant Selection Committee for generously funding separate years of dissertation work The dear friends I made at Berkeley also doubled as brilliant interlocutors. I can’t imagine having written a word of this dissertation without so much selfless help in confronting personal challenges and scholarly dilemmas all at once (nor without so many good times in between). Margaret Ronda has been a cherished friend, a close confidant, and an inspiring colleague from basically the first moment we met. Tobias Menely is the iii most demanding conversation partner I’ve ever had, and I love him for it. Cody Marrs is an inimitable scholar and a true friend. Tom McEnaney got me through the last and toughest year of grad school, refining my taste in bourbon while also becoming an irreplaceable companion (if not an eerie doppelganger). Ben Boudreaux, devil’s advocate par excellence, has never for the eight years I’ve known him hesitated to speak his mind, and he’s made me a better and more thoughtful person in the process. Josh Gang is just old school. And Ayon Roy, who has had a significant influence on my intellectual life (and who now has greater things in store), will always have a place in my heart. My absurdly wonderful family has given me more me love, laughs, and support than one has any right to expect from one’s family. My parents never flinched—and even smiled—when I told them twelve years ago that, if I could be anything in the world, I wanted to be an English professor. Twelve years later, my uncle Rick still makes every family gathering an occasion to grill me about what I’m working on, which gives me the challenge as well as the pleasure of having to think seriously about what, exactly, I am working on. My grandfather Lou teased me constantly about my uncertain future as an academic; although he passed away just months before I finished my degree, I have no doubt that he always believed I would succeed—mostly because he was one who showed me the essential joy of having ideas and expressing opinions in the first place. I look up to my younger brother and sister easily as much as they’ve, quite unnecessarily, looked up to me. My mom Fran, the strongest person I know, inspires me every day—and she knows, surely, that everything I’ve ever accomplished and everything I may yet accomplish is both due and dedicated to her and to my dad Ken, whom we all miss more than ever but whose memory also inspires us to keep going. And we are, it must be said, still going. And strong. And then there’s Annie McClanahan—my closest friend, my most awe-inspiring colleague, my one true love, and, perhaps most amazingly, my fellow Golden Bear turned fellow Panther—about whom nothing I can say could ever be close to adequate. Though the dissertation was finished in her absence, no situation could have been a less fitting allegory for how greatly Annie has inspired my work and influenced my ideas; for the unconscionable number of drafts she’s read; for the life-affirming and life-saving counsel she’s given; for the scholar and the person she’s encouraged me to be and helped me to become; for the simple fact that all that could ever be owed is owed to her.