But his greatest, most grimly glorious contribution to the literary canon came with the 2007 release of Kafka (public library) — a succinct and illuminating biography by David Zane Mairowitz, covering everything from Kafka’s the troubled relationship with his emotionally abusive father to his fear of women to his lifelong love affair with his own death to the cultural misunderstandings in which the term “Kafkaesque” is mired.
In one particularly poignant passage, Mairowitz examines Kafka’s conflicted sense of identity — a function of the core human tendencies Margaret Mead and James Baldwin so elegantly captured decades earlier — and considers the author’s coping mechanisms amid Prague’s anti-Semitic cultural climate:
Franz Kafka was never one of those harassed or beaten up on the streets because he was, or simply looked like, a Jew. Yet, however much he may have retired into himself and pushed these events out of direct reach, it would have been impossible, as for most Jews, to absent himself intellectually from the collective fate.
Like all assimilated Jews, one of the things he had to “assimilate” was a measure of “healthy anti-Semitism.” Most Jews of that time (or any other) absorbed the daily menace of anti-Semitism and turned it inward toward themselves. Kafka was no exception to feelings of Jewish self-hatred.
But sooner or later, even the most hateful of Jewish self-hatreds has to turn around and laugh at itself. In Kafka, the duality of dark melancholy and hilarious self-abasement is nearly always at work. “Kafkaesque” is usually swollen with notions of terror and bitter anguish. But Kafka’s stories, however grim, are nearly always also … funny.
Mairowitz and Crumb also explore how Kafka’s relationship with his tyrannical father — whom 36-year-old Franz eventually attempted to confront in a harrowing letter — shaped his writing, including his most famous work, “The Metamorphosis.”
These grim parallels between Kafka’s lived experience and his fictional worlds continued until his death, even through his final moments — in June of 1924, while dying of tuberculosis-induced starvation, he was busy correcting the galley-proofs for his story collection A Hunger Artist, the publication of which several months later he never lived to see.
Life is too short to waste on ordinary potboilers – and our obsession with mediocre writers is a very disturbing cultural phenomenon
It does not matter to me if Terry Pratchett’s final novel is a worthy epitaph or not, or if he wanted it to be pulped by a steamroller. I have never read a single one of his books and I never plan to. Life’s too short.
No offence, but Pratchett is so low on my list of books to read before I die that I would have to live a million years before getting round to him. I did flick through a book by him in a shop, to see what the fuss is about, but the prose seemed very ordinary.
Actual literature may be harder to get to grips with than a Discworld novel, but it is more worth the effort. By dissolving the difference between serious and light reading, our culture is justifying mental laziness and robbing readers of the true delights of ambitious fiction.
Because life really is too short to waste on ordinary potboilers. I am not saying this as a complacent book snob who claims to have read everything. On the contrary, I am crushed by how many books I have not read.
This summer I finally finished Mansfield Park. How had I managed not to read it up to now? It’s shameful. But at least now it’s part of my life. The structure of Jane Austen’s morally sombre plot, the restrained irony of her style, the sudden opening up of the book as it moves from Mansfield Park to Portsmouth and takes in the complex real social world of regency England – all that’s in me now. Great books become part of your experience. They enrich the very fabric of reality. I don’t just mean 19th-century classics, either. I also read Post Office by Charles Bukowski this summer. My God, what a writer. Bukowski is a voice from hell with the talent of an angel. I must read every word by him.
But Terry Pratchett? Get real. It’s time we stopped this pretence that mediocrity is equal to genius.
This 2011 American novel has collected quite a few excellent reviews which together make this seem like an exceptional novel, exceptionally well constructed and exceptionally compelling, the Telegraph’s review being typical of most reviews, stating that this is “a book you want to read and read”. However, I could take it or leave it, for the most part. Though I’d say it’s certainly good enough that I wanted to finish it. The Telegraph goes on: “It is deliciously old-fashioned: it simply gets on with the business of creating vivid, layered characters and telling a good, engrossing story”. However, I would say that the novel is a bit flabby, never really succeeding in telling the story of any of its main characters – having far too many of them. For a pretty big novel, that it fails to sufficiently develop its central idea, or its central character, there must be something wrong. And there is. There are three or four, maybe five potentially great characters in here, and three or four, maybe five potentially great stories in here: that’s the problem. Shame Harbach didn’t give any of them the space they deserved.
You might not turn to Jean-Paul Sartre, life partner of Simone de Beauvoir, as a first love consultant of choice, but the series devotes an entire video to the Being and Nothingness author’s theories on emotion. The freedom-minded Sartre sees the condition of love as a “hazardous, painful struggle,” one of either masochism or sadism: “masochism when a lover tries to become what he thinks his lover wants him to be, and in the process denies his own freedom; sadism when the lover treats the loved one as an object and ties her down. Either way, freedom is compromised.”
Have we any lighter philosophical perspectives on love here? Well, we have a variety of philosophical perspectives on love, anyway: Aristophanes’ creation myth of the “missing half,” Sigmund Freud and Edvard Westermarck’s disagreement over the Oedipus complex, and the conviction of “psychological egoists” from Thomas Hobbes to Richard Dawkins that no such thing as strictly selfless love exists. The philosophy of love, like love itself, can get complicated, but the clear and witty drawings accompanying the ideas discussed in these videos can help us envision the different ideas they encompass. Should you need even clearer (or less witty) illustrations on the subject, you could always turn to Love Is…, though I have a feeling you’d find that solution a bit too simple.
On a summer day in 1862, a tall, stammering Oxford University mathematician named Charles Lutwidge Dodgson took a boat trip up the River Thames, accompanied by a colleague and the three young daughters of university chancellor Henry Liddell. To stave off tedium during the five-mile journey, Dodgson regaled the group with a story of a bored girl named Alice who finds adventure in the most unexpected places. By the day’s end, Liddell’s middle daughter, also named Alice, was so enthralled by this account that she implored the mathematician to write the story down. Some three years later, Dodgson would publish Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland under the nom de plume of Lewis Carroll (the pen name is an Anglicized version of “Carolus Ludovicus,” the Latinized form of Charles Ludwidge). The perennial children’s read was immediately popular, counting Oscar Wilde and Queen Victoria among its ardent fans, and has never been out of print since its initial publication in 1865.
Alice’s Adventures Under Ground, the original version of the book that Carroll presented to Alice Liddell in 1864, is presently housed in the British Library, which has graciously made it freely available online. You can view it here. The handwritten volume includes 37 crisp ink illustrations, all personally drawn by Dodgson. Discerning Alice readers will notice that these illustrations differ to the iconic images (and, to my eyes, very much superior) created by famed Punch magazine political cartoonist John Tenniel.
Title and illustrations aside, the original manuscript is considerably slimmer than the final version, containing roughly 12,000 fewer words.
I just can’t be getting on with Hardy, mainly because his characters and storylines swing between dull or melodramatic. He never can seem to navigate successfully between the two in order to weave a compelling narrative as George Eliot does. Though not complete contemporaries, the comparison is an interesting one. Eliot’s characters are so subtle and deep; on the other hand Hardy’s are rather one dimensional, defined by one flaw or tendency. Gabriel Oak needs a lot more development to be plausible as a central character. Sergeant Troy at least avoids becoming a stage villain. And Bathsheba’s pride just isn’t enough to make a sufficiently well-rounded character to carry the novel. Bathsheba is not a patch on Eliot’s heroines. Why has Eliot’s 1872 work Middlemarch been described by many authors as the greatest novel in the English language? And how does Hardy’s best compare?
Two years in the making, our list of the 100 greatest English-language novels of all time is now complete. Having endured many sleepless nights in its compilation, Robert McCrum reflects on who got left out, and why
In the parlour game called “Humiliation”, in David Lodge’s 70s campus novelChanging Places, the players score points by confessing the famous works of literature they have never read. In a memorable comic climax, ambitious academic Howard Ringbaum admits he has never read Hamlet, instantly wrecking his career.
Lodge’s insight into the practice of literature is that everyone who steps into the world of books and letters risks humiliation. Rightly, for the well-being of culture and society, this is a competitive affair. Beneath the eye of eternity, it’s a matter of life and death: either some kind of literary afterlife or (more likely) oblivion.
For the past two years, as I’ve compiled my 100 Greatest Novels list for theObserver and theguardian.com, the fate of the classics has been my special subject. For one enraged online critic, the series was simply “an elaborate headstone for a defunct way of thinking about literature”. Never mind; not only was there a vigorous, sometimes splenetic, discussion of the list and its choices by a dedicated core of well-read correspondents, there was also a surge in subscribers. Some weeks, with titles such as Frankenstein (No 8) or Heart of Darkness (No 32), our virtual audience soared into hundreds of thousands. In total, between 1 and 2 million readers have interacted with the series through the Guardian website.
So: what is a classic? There are many duelling definitions. TS Eliot, Ezra Pound, Italo Calvino and Sainte-Beuve have all written at length on the subject. Calvino’s definition – “a classic is a book that has never finished what it wants to say” – is probably the sweetest, followed by Pound’s identification of “a certain eternal and irresponsible freshness”. One necessary, but not sufficient, characteristic of a classic is that it should remain in print.
Thereafter, the issue becomes subjective. Classics, for some, are books we know we should have read, but have not. For others, classics are simply the book we have read obsessively, many times over, and can quote from. The ordinary reader instinctively knows what he or she believes to be a classic. While our preferences inevitably reflect gender, nationality, class, and education, there is no accounting for taste.
Speaking of taste, I selected, where possible, the title most central to the author’s voice and vision, which is not necessarily the most famous. Consider Jane Austen.Pride and Prejudice is much loved. Northanger Abbey is highly entertaining. Some readers revere Sense and Sensibility. But I chose Emma.
Casual browsers sometimes took a moment to grasp that my list of “top novels” was: a) derived exclusively from fiction written in the English language; b) strictly chronological; and c) gave each writer equal space, an especially restrictive criterion. With a prolific writer, the selection of one “classic” text became almost intolerable. To cite an unfair example – Dickens (No 15, David Copperfield) and Wilde (No 27, The Picture of Dorian Gray) appear in the list on the same footing, with one novel apiece. With such rules, every thoughtful person must concede that any list is bound to have its ridiculous side.
As the series unfolded, the more its true character as a mission impossible began to take shape. For example, these novels span about three centuries, roughly 1700 to 2000. Compiling a list for the first 100 years was relatively straightforward, from 1800 to 1900 progressively more difficult, and from 1900 to 2000 (my arbitrary cut-off) perilously close to impossible. Here’s why.
In the century that witnessed the making of the English novel, the genre was almost exclusively the work of upper- or middle-class English writers, predominantly male, and often with private means, living in the British Isles. Their novels were addressed to an elite minority, and expressed the concerns of a particular society.
At this distance, in a way that’s quite unthinkable in our own time, a decade – sometimes more than a decade – in which only one novel of classic status appears looks less like a literary crisis than an assertion of good taste. Between The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (1759) and Emma (1815), I did not choose a single competitive title. After 1818, another creative hiatus; then the Victorian novel roars into view, with a newly independent America in the picture for the first time. Now, judging the relative merits of 19th-century fiction, a once simple set of choices became exceedingly awkward.
Then along comes modernism. Long before Conrad, Lawrence and Joyce, the authors and publishers of the three-decker novel were in trouble. Some just gave up. Others found new kinds of employment. In the 1920s, after the cataclysm of the first world war, a new literary landscape emerged and the novel would never be the same again. The idea of “the common reader”, which had sustained a century of book publishing, was doomed.
Our list reflects the trauma behind this transition. I ignored Galsworthy and Bennett, but included HG Wells, dropped Chesterton but kept Conan Doyle. Later, as the list drew to a close, with every choice at a premium, I cursed the leniency I had exercised towards the novels published between 1880 and 1930. For instance, does Jack London (No 35, The Call of the Wild) better deserve a place than, say, James Salter (Light Years and All That Is), Thomas Pynchon (Gravity’s Rainbow) or JG Ballard (Crash), three contemporary writers who got left out?
I love Frederick Rolfe’s Hadrian The Seventh (No 37), and Sister Carrie by Theodore Dreiser (No 33) has a dark energy that’s crucial to the evolution of the American novel. But A Confederacy of Dunces by John Kennedy Toole should have been included, and so should Slaughterhouse Five (Kurt Vonnegut), plus All the Pretty Horses (or perhaps Blood Meridian) by Cormac McCarthy.
So: a few howlers, several regrets, and many sleepless nights. How on earth did I overlook RK Narayan (Swami and Friends), Flannery O’Connor (Wise Blood) or Rose Macaulay (The Towers of Trebizond)? Or, more painful still, Nancy Mitford (The Pursuit of Love) and Shirley Hazzard (The Transit of Venus)?
Two years spent with the classics has been a rare opportunity to get close to an occasionally majestic art form. What, if anything, does this list teach? Somerset Maugham, characteristically sardonic, once observed that “There are just three rules for writing a novel. Unfortunately, no one knows what they are.”
Actually, the only rule is that there are no rules. The novel can be about a little girl falling down a rabbit hole, or the obsessive hunt for a whale, or the quotidian wanderings of a Jewish, middle-aged advertising canvasser across Dublin. The free range of our imagination is the only departure lounge in flights of the mind for which, mercifully, there’s no GPS. The reader remains a free agent. In his or her freedom lies the joy of reading: it is unpoliced, solitary and mostly private in a world without frontiers or governments or bosses.
The novel, which began in extremis (Bunyan in prison; Defoe dodging creditors), but learned to entertain, and make money (Sterne cashing in as a bestseller; Dickens selling like a box set), still follows two basic imperatives: obsession or entertainment. PG Wodehouse once said that there are two ways of writing: one is “a sort of musical comedy without music and ignoring real life altogether; the other is going right deep down into real life and not caring a damn.” The creative fault line of “musical comedy” v “real life” never goes away.
There are other continuities. I would argue that not one of these 100 books or their authors is indifferent to the demands of story. With our stone-age brains, we are still a storytelling species. The narrative gene is part of our DNA. As EM Forster put it, in Aspects of the Novel: “Yes – oh, dear, yes – the novel tells a story.”
And yes – oh, dear, yes – I left out some great storytellers: H Rider Haggard (King Solomon’s Mines); L Frank Baum (The Wizard of Oz); Margaret Mitchell (Gone With the Wind); Daphne du Maurier (Rebecca); Ian Fleming (Casino Royale); Charles Portis (True Grit); Erica Jong (Fear of Flying); John Le Carré (Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy), and many other favourites, no doubt.
There were some other deliberate omissions: Elizabeth Gaskell (North and South), whose appeal I confess I’ve never understood; Nathanael West (Miss Lonelyhearts); Rosamond Lehmann (The Weather in the Streets); Norman Mailer (The Executioner’s Song), who was too much of an American celebrity in thrall to the media to be a truly great novelist; Kingsley Amis (Lucky Jim); John Fowles(The French Lieutenant’s Woman), whose work has not worn well; Beryl Bainbridge (The Bottle Factory Outing), a minor masterpiece, but not a classic to equal the other great novels of the 1970s; and Iris Murdoch (The Black Prince), whose fiction I’ve always found contrived and artificial. The chronological imperative behind the selection occasionally became brutal. There was little time for second thoughts. One casualty of this process whom I deeply regret omitting is the Australian novelist Christina Stead’s The Man Who Loved Children (1940), a profoundly moving study of family life so pitch perfect that it’s hard to believe her novel is not better known.
The vagaries of literary history never cease to astonish. Few in 1890, a year before Herman Melville’s death, would have placed any money on the future supremacy of Moby-Dick, as America’s greatest novel. In Britain, the smart money would have been placed on George Meredith, author of The Ordeal of Richard Feverel.
George who? In this game of “Humiliation” reputations continue to rise and fall on an invisible stock exchange of taste. In my lifetime, I have seen trading in DM Thomas (acclaimed author of The White Hotel, 1981) or in Bruce Chatwin (ditto,The Songlines, 1986), go from boom to bust. The living writers we most venerate are often the most vulnerable to long-term indifference and neglect.
There have also been some wonderful surprises. For years, creative writing at the University of East Anglia set the gold standard in the nurturing of new fiction. When, in 1992, the translated prose of WG Sebald burst on the scene with The Emigrants, it was an irony enjoyed by “Max” himself that he had already been working in comparative obscurity in the modern languages department of UEA for some 30 years. Today, Sebald’s reputation is more universally recognised than most, if not all, of the writers who have passed through UEA.
Meanwhile, although the novel in English retains deep roots in Britain and the United States, its expression as a multicultural phenomenon written in English, the world’s second language, is now taking new fiction into new territory. “In contemporary literature today,” Marina Warner remarked in a recent lecture, “we are seeing the written word cross linguistic boundaries” with an increasing interest in worldwide fiction. Warner suggested that literary translation may be part of a global trend of corporate homogenisation. This, she insisted, is not a problem, but a renewal: “Many forms of English are coming into being through these exchanges and crossings…”
My own prediction for the future of the novel is that, following every previous leap forward in literature through the ages, it is inconceivable that the changes in IT, communications, global capitalism and, above all, in human consciousness will not sponsor innovations to rival the modernist revolution of 1899 (Heart of Darkness) to 1925 (Mrs Dalloway).
Finally, we are left with the classics, often by dead white males, those books to which English language readers worldwide return again and again. Say what you like about my list (and thousands have merrily done so these past two years), the Anglo-American literary tradition, a source of some sublime and imperishable masterpieces, deserves to be celebrated for some astonishing achievements. Here, to provoke Observer readers just one last time, is my All Time Top 10 (chosen from this series, in chronological order):