Bamboo

by William Boyd

  1979

  Toni Morrison

  (Review of Song of Solomon)

  Normally the pretensions of an American novel bear a direct proportion to the number of pages printed. The simple formula being: the thicker the volume the more serious the message contained. What is both striking and gratifying about Song of Solomon is the absence of transatlantic largesse and hyperbole in a novel that clearly sets out to be significant.

  Toni Morrison’s well-structured story concerns itself with two generations of a black American family from the 1930s to the 1960s. Macon Dead is a wealthy Chicago landlord eager for bourgeois respectability. But like most façades of middle-class content this one hides the usual catalogue of fear and frustration. Macon’s unorthodox sister Pilate and her own Bohemian household of illegitimate daughter and grandchild stand as a permanent rebuke to Macon’s ambitions. Macon’s son Milkman hovers uncertainly between the two families, attracted by the life in one and the comforts of the other. Milkman’s dilemma is essentially that of the modern black American confronted by the brutal historical circumstances of his presence in the USA and at the same time drawn to the powerful consumer allure of contemporary society. As some kind of a way out he decides to attempt to trace his lineage and the search for his roots becomes—as in Alex Hailey’s book—a quest for his own identity and self-respect.

  In a Southern town called Shalimar he discovers the clues to his ancestry in a song the children sing about his great-grandfather Solomon, a near-mythical figure who is reputed to have flown back to Africa. The fulfilment of his search, the new knowledge of the unity and special nature of his heritage coincides with the development of Milkman’s hitherto complacent character and a conformation of values—embodied in his aunt Pilate—he had thought dated and whimsical.

  In Song of Solomon Toni Morrison consciously invokes a comparison with The Great Gatsby when she adapts the famous guest-list episode from Jay Gatsby’s party. In the names of the guests Fitzgerald encapsulates an entire society and Toni Morrison uses the device for the same purpose here. At the climax of the novel Milkman sees that the bizarre and colourful names of the black people he knows have real meaning too and bear witness to the past. In fact the lesson of The Great Gatsby can be seen everywhere in this novel. There is the same economy, the same discipline and the same potent manipulation of symbol where Solomon’s magical flight becomes—like the green light at the end of Daisy’s pier—an abiding and passionate metaphor for all kinds of human aspiration.

  1979

  War in Fiction

  (Review of The Wars by Timothy Findley, War and Remembrance by Herman Wouk and Going After Cacciato by Tim O’Brien)

  These three novels deal respectively with the three greatest wars of this century and they each represent different—and ultimately unsuccessful—methods of tackling the awkward problem of war in fiction. War, thanks to television, is now familiar to us all. Not only have there been long and immensely popular documentary serials about the First and Second World Wars, but the slightest border raid or counter-insurgency operation is filmed and recorded by dozens of camera crews and reporters. The magazine shelves of any W. H. Smith testify to the popularity of war and its paraphernalia of equipment and hardware. It seems to be one of those subjects that we just can’t know enough about.

  But curiously enough this plethora of documentary material, this mountain of close detail, seems scarcely to have affected the fictional presentation of war whether in novels, film or TV. There exists a wide gulf between what we can see for ourselves as the brute facts and the imaginative presentation of them. Admittedly the gap has narrowed in recent years as can be seen from the contrast between R. C. Sherriff’s Journey’s End and Mailer’s The Naked and the Dead, but it remains, nevertheless, resolutely there.

  The first point of contention, and one that raises significant doubts about serious war novels, is this. Any one man’s experience of war or battle—unlike, for example, tennis or bridge — has to be an exclusively subjective, quirky and highly personal affair. It will be a compound of his own intricate personality and the infinite variety of occurrences a war or battle provides. And yet one’s reading of any account suggests that the experience is instead fundamentally a common one; a moderately varied but essentially repetitive parade of stock attitudes and conclusions. Furthermore, the basic judgement of nearly all war novels runs along these sort of lines: “War is hell/shocking/depraved/inhuman but it provides intense and compensatory moments of comradeship/joy/vivacity/emotion or excitement.” What appears most damaging is not so much the fatuity of the idea but that this formula represents an orthodoxy in the fictional treatment of war that—with a few exceptions—is only paralleled in the pulpier forms of modern romance writing. This may be taken as unduly harsh, but it seems that writers of serious war fiction still consciously or unconsciously echo this position to such an extent that it is not only an inaccurate picture but can give rise to questions of irresponsibility.

  The two basic errors behind this attitude are (1) a failure to come to terms with or to understand the true nature of battle (a fault shared with military historians) and (2) a tendency to qualify and to some extent condone warfare through the ennobling effects its “heightened awareness” imposes on the combatants. The first can possibly be explained by lack of experience or information but the second is an evaluative judgement that is so widespread that it has moved from the world of fiction to infect the more factual documentary or historical account and which has, not unnaturally, almost entirely influenced film or TV dramatizations.

  Timothy Findley’s The Wars is a good example of the first problem. It tells the story of a young Canadian officer’s experiences of the First World War and his ultimate nervous collapse. The narrative moves forward and backward in time; we share the reflections of the archivist/author as he sifts through the family papers, we hear reminiscences of the long dead hero, extracts from a child’s diary and so on, gradually building up a composite picture of the young soldier. It’s sensitively and carefully done, but the setting of the war appears almost as a gratuitous extra, a vaguely glamorous and emotive background to the torments of the young man. World War I seems especially prone to this sort of treatment—for example, Susan Hill’s Strange Meeting and Jennifer Johnston’s How Many Miles from Babylon? — where the residual nostalgia of the period is all important rather than the war itself. Often the setting appears as a hindrance, something to be got out of the way as quickly as possible. For example, here Findley talks about a German-held ridge at Passchendaele:

  The casualties were terrible, rising in numbers by the hundreds by the day. It seemed to be an impossible objective and it was here that many of the troops surrendered to the Germans rather than press on with the hopeless attack.

  This reads like a second-rate official history: the words are so overworked and familiar that they have become virtually devoid of meaning. This is not entirely Findley’s fault; he has merely aligned himself with the conformity of style that continues to surround most descriptions of violent action. For, despite Hemingway’s revolution, the description of action by otherwise creditable writers remains in a lamentable state. And although Hemingway must be held responsible for much of the wrong-headedness that surrounds war fiction he was the first to sense the real inadequacy of writing about action and sought to change it. He succeeded nowhere more brilliantly than in the short linking sections between the stories in In Our Time. They still stand as a model of what can be achieved and Hemingway never quite recaptured their refined and precise tone. It was certainly absent from For Whom the Bell Tolls where Hemingway’s interests revolved more around notions of heroism, bravery and duty, and the exact and scrupulous recording of experience had given way to the perverse idea of “grace under pressure.”

  This pervasive myth, and related versions of it, has probably replaced patriotism as the best reason for going to war, as can clearly be seen from any modern army recruiting campaign. It is possibly more prevalent i
n American fiction (where war is a favourite subject), prompted initially by Hemingway’s virility cult and reaching its flamboyant peak in Norman Mailer’s Why Are We In Vietnam? The existence of this attitude helps explain both the tragedy of My-Lai (and its innumerable unremarked siblings) and the farce of Lt. Calley’s trial. For Calley and his men the war was totally unlike anything they had been prepared for; and for the USA their soldiers just didn’t commit that sort of crime. Both sides had been deluded as to the reality of warfare. Significantly, only in Vietnam has this sensation of utter bafflement and disillusion on the part of the fighting soldier been adequately recorded though it is a common, if not the common experience of every conflict, shared by the French knights at Agincourt, the British at the Somme and the Marines at Da Nang. Confusion and mental disintegration are inevitable when one’s expectations of warfare have been conditioned—at the simplest level—by such things as Marvel Comic’s “Our Army at War” series, where the legendary Sgt. Rock of Easy company fights the good fight with an ascetic and almost saintly purpose. But the mood and tone are equally evident in more sophisticated writings from The Red Badge of Courage to the recent and wildly over-acclaimed Dispatches.

  Nobody could be more sincere about war than Herman Wouk as his mighty 1,000-page opus War and Remembrance makes clear. It is part of a subgenre of war novels that begins with The Naked and the Dead and includes Jones’s From Here to Eternity and Shaw’s The Young Lions. The huge all-encompassing canvas, the cast of thousands, the flitting from continent to continent, the way lives interlock and events conspire together ultimately fail in the presentation of truth precisely because the novelist’s necessarily considerable organizational role looms above the fiction like a player at a chess board. And curiously it is also in the nature of these books to have very little action in them; we become more interested in the characters—will John marry Jane next leave, will Fred get promoted, etc.—than in their circumstances. Wouk goes one step beyond this too, acting as military historian, strategist and providing a layman’s guide to the Final Solution and the making of the Atomic Bomb, until the book sags under the weight of its good intentions.

  Going After Cacciato, set in Vietnam, recounts the desertion of Cacciato, a “dumb as a dink” infantryman who decides to go AWOL and head for Paris. The other members of his patrol follow in hot pursuit across Burma, Iran, Turkey and Europe until Cacciato is finally cornered in a seedy hotel in Les Halles. The fantasy (the epigraph from Sassoon, “Soldiers are dreamers,” rather gives the game away), the whimsical jokes, the conscious presentation of absurdity, all point inescapably to the weighty influence of Catch-22. If there has ever been a book begging not to be imitated it is Joseph Heller’s seminal and unique condemnation of warfare. All imitators suffer in comparison and Going After Cacciato is no exception. O’Brien’s book is an expansion of one episode in Catch-22 where, at the end of the novel, Orr ditches his plane in the Mediterranean and paddles his rubber dinghy to Sweden. In Catch-22 Orr’s escape is the final inspiration for Yossarian: Orr, who everyone thought was quite mad, eventually triumphs. Going After Cacciato is a Vietnamese reworking of this theme but Cacciato’s toiling journey cannot sustain interest; the initially amusing notion just can’t be stretched out into a novel. The best sections of the book are the descriptions of operations in the paddy fields and jungles of Vietnam where the author fought himself, but which he portrayed far more efficiently in his autobiographical account If I Should Die in a Combat Zone.

  It is the Vietnam war—the most scrutinized and observed conflict ever—that has forced us to re-examine most serious war fiction and which exposes its inadequacies. All the newspaper accounts and newsreel pictures—of heavily armed men firing endlessly at jungle, napalm blooming in straw villages, the almost complete absence of enemy dead and wounded—spoke of experiences wholly unlike those encountered in novels. As the vast majority of us are non-combatants we are wholly dependent on the accounts of others when it comes to learning about war. It is an aspect of experience—unlike, say, childhood, love, loneliness—where verifiability is hard to come by. Vietnam, more than anywhere, showed the almost divine illogicality of warfare, when a peasant army defeated the most powerful nation in the world. Beside it Catch-22 reads like a model of propriety and good sense—reality confounding art once again. The reaction to this has yet to be felt. Very few accounts of the war have yet appeared and most of these are documentary. There has been no true Vietnam war novel up to now; those that have been published—such as Going After Cacciato, Robert Stone’s Dog Soldiers or even Dinah Brooke’s Games of Love and Death — are really written around the subject. One reason for this is that Vietnam, having exposed the redundancy of war fiction, has literally left writers wordless. The same fictional silence surrounds the Biafran war—one of the most tragic, haphazard and amateur conflicts of all time—which is all the more surprising considering Nigeria’s lively and impressive literary talents. It seems that there just do not exist the modes and structures within the genre of war fiction to come to terms with experiences utterly different from those we have been led over many years to expect.

  However, there are signs of change. The first indications of this shift of opinion, the beginnings of a reassessment, do not lie in fiction or the cinema (unless Francis Ford Coppola’s much heralded Apocalypse Now proves me wrong) but, strangely enough, in military history. Three books have appeared in the last few years that mark an entirely new if not revolutionary approach to their subject and which can be simply classified as looking at the realities of war from the ground up. They are Martin Middlebrook’s The First Day on the Somme, Len Deighton’s Fighter and John Keegan’s exceptional study The Face of Battle.

  One reading of The Face of Battle will show how wide of the mark most war novelists are and should convince anyone of the falseness of the so-called realities of warfare that have hitherto been accepted as accurate. Len Deighton’s Fighter is the best means of getting behind the thick cloud of myths surrounding the Battle of Britain. This is not to say that effective novels of war have not been written. Examples of convincing accounts of war—in line with the conclusions of the three books mentioned above—can be found in, for example, the Caporetto chapter in A Farewell to Arms, Catch-22, and Christopher Wood’s fine novel about Cyprus and EOKA, Terrible Hard, Says Alice, but they form a small minority and on the evidence of these three new novels it seems they are more than likely to remain in that state.

  1979

  William Golding

  (Review of Rites of Passage)

  Towards the end of William Golding’s novel — Rites of Passage — its protagonist Edmund Talbot remarks to a naval lieutenant that “life is a formless business, Summers. Literature is much amiss in forcing a form on it!” The notion is a central one in Golding’s work and also in any appreciation of it, for literature, we are now fully aware, cannot do other than impose a form, even when aping life at its most random and contingent. From one point of view Dean Jocelin’s vision and construction of his cathedral spire is a prolonged debate on the futility of the entire purpose of trying to shape and create something out of redoubtably intractable material—the writer’s problem no less than the medieval architect’s. Golding goes further than this. Not content with the struggle to shape and form he also seeks answers to grave and essential questions about the human condition: “the unnamable, unfathomable and invisible darkness that sits at the centre” (Free Fall). This overall seriousness of intent on Golding’s part—the sense that his novels are meditations on or dramatizations of life’s most seminal concerns—is at once his great strength and his weakness, an advantage and a constraint; some of his novels are immeasurably enhanced by it, others find the freight of significance too much to bear.

  Perhaps the problem can be conveyed more precisely by recording a remark Graham Greene made. Greene complains that “I would like to ascend into myth but find my books so often muddy with plot.” This, I suspect, is not only a piece of self-criticism (misguid
ed, in my opinion) but also a wishful indication of the way Greene would like his books to be read. It’s a plea for less popular assessment, a desire to be rated—or to write—on a deeper more elemental level. Golding, on the other hand, suffers from the opposite reaction. Not only in the reverential, solemn way people approach his work but also, from his fourth novel onwards, in some impulse governing the way he writes.

  Most novels tend inevitably towards what we can call the world of history—the rich infinitely varied world of phenomena, of appearances and details. Indeed, it can be argued that there is something in the novel form itself that fosters and encourages this inclination. This is what Greene is bemoaning—the pull is too hard for him to resist. Golding, alternatively, has determinedly steered his fiction towards the other pole: that of myth, and all the more single-mindedly since Free Fall. Of course, in most serious fiction both elements coexist, but in varying degrees and, by and large, the mythic features are subordinate, the referential aspects of the form claiming most of our attention. This duality also applies to Golding. Lord of the Flies, he has related, started out primarily as an attempt to portray what children are really like, in opposition to the anodyne Victorian image in Coral Island. However, the novel is more than that, clearly—or at least became more than that—developing into the first exploration of now familiar Golding themes: an examination of innocence, the dark truth about human nature and a delineation of his particular Manichean vision of the world.