Cultural Oddities of the Beat Generation (An Excerpt from "David: 1966")

Cultural Oddities of the Beat Generation Seminar in Green Hall, Yale University at 6:00p.m. on September 4, 1963. Dr. Duke Macey

"Good evening, everyone. Thank you for coming. If it’s all the same, I’d like to jump right into this subject because I care to have time for much discussion. As I was able to gather from my quick survey of the room, we have a lot of ‘Old Guard’ and ‘New Guard’ representatives tonight. I’m glad you all came. So without further ado, let’s dig in. I should start this by explaining the meaning of the title of this seminar. At first glance, some have speculated this seminar was going to be a jeremiad on this next generation’s lack of respect, Weber’s Protestant Work Ethic, and so forth. But as I assured my students, this is more of an exploration of the Beat Generation's relationship with the new generation—the ‘New Guard’ as I refer to them—whilst within the reality envisioned by past generations—the ‘Old Guard.’ To put it another way: the Beat Generation appears to have imbedded itself in the New Guard, and seems to carry a significant weight within the New Guard in terms of behavior and ideology, and this seminar explores the oddities of said generation—both in the way the generation behaves, and how the generation is viewed. So I do not believe ‘oddities’ is being used in a pejorative sense as some may have feared… or hoped. Many of you who know me know I study the American ethos and have an affinity for literature, certainly fiction. Novelists, I believe, explore the attitudes and behaviors of culture (more broadly man’s nature). Either past or present, domestic or foreign, as they understand it, the good ones at least, novelists help readers interpret the world around them. And my students can attest that I enjoy introducing fiction in my course work as a tool for understanding not just American culture, but man’s nature—again in a much broader sense. For this seminar, I want to focus mainly on one book in particular: Jack Kerouac’s On the Road: to help us understand the Beat Generation’s cultural oddities. I want to turn our attention to this book as a paragon of the generation for two reasons: One, the book is constantly being referenced by my students and my peers, meaning it seems to have struck a significant chord with the New Guard; and Two, Kerouac’s influence on the Beat Generation, himself being likened to the primogenitor, and ‘king of the Beats.’ Of course there are plenty of other materials—books, writers, movements, so on and so on—that could have been referenced here, and many more are implemented in both my dissertation and ongoing manuscript, but since this seminar is only scheduled for an hour, I chose brevity. So here we go. Upon the book’s release just six years ago, Gilbert Millstein wrote in The New York Times: ‘Just as, more than any other novel of the 20’s, The Sun Also Rises came to be regarded as the testament of the ‘Lost Generation,’ so it seems certain that On the Road will come to be known as that of the ‘Beat Generation.’’ That’s some praise from Millstein. And from what nascent empirical data I have been able to collect, he’s right. On the Road resonates with those in the New Guard. Why is that? What influence can be found in the book? This leads me to my first point of behavior in the Beat Generation. More specifically I am referring to ideology when I speak of Beat behavior. After all, what is behavior if not action of thought? So what does On the Road teach us? What does it stand for? Well… I’ll try to make this as short as possible for the sake of brevity. A quick close reading of Kerouac’s novel shows us a penchant for iconoclasm, a romanticization of autonomy both in the form of anti-authoritarianism and sexual exploration, a rejection of materialism, an epistemological search through the bowels of these United States heavily guided by a mixture of drugs and Eastern religion—an interesting pairing. In short, the book is more about an existential journey in search for a new self after rejecting post-War affluence in the nation. And this seems to reflect the notions of those who lionize the book. People, mainly younger people, are enthralled by the concept of resisting the contemporary trends of our culture. Those who are fond of the Beat Generation do not care for the Joneses, let alone keeping up with them. They reject materialism; they are in favor of promiscuity; and have a more Emersonian approach to politics and religion than anything else. In fact, I think it is safe to assume that members of the Beats and New Guard are more contra mundum than compliant with the Old Guard’s culture. In an aside: one interesting point to consider when reading On the Road is the virtual absence of any father figure. Neither Sal nor Dean has any fatherly influence in their lives, so they have to create their own. They become the Founding Fathers of their own lives—so to speak. But I digress. The ideology of the Beats is apparent in Kerouac’s novel: one of freedom. Freedom from. Freedom to do. And this is where the cultural oddities come in to play. The ideology of the Beat Generation, and that of the New Guard, is quite different from coeval American culture. This brings me to my second point: how this generation is viewed. To say the least, Beats and the New Guard are met with disdain, and in some cases outright hostility, by the outside world. Certainly the reaction from Old Guard critics warrants this claim. Look no further than the rise in ‘beatnik’ stereotypes of this new generation in cartoons and reviews of literature or music, and harsh criticisms witnessed in films like The Beat Generation and The Beatniks. The oddities of the Beats are not welcomed by the Old Guard precisely because their behavior is seen as contra to that of the current American way of life. The iconoclasm and anti-authoritarianism are interpreted as civil anarchism, the sexual indiscrimination is met with accusations of depravity and lacking rectitude, rejection of materialism is the promotion of Red state subversion, and finally: experimentation with drug use and Eastern religion are signs of the coming apocalypse. Quite simply put: the Old Guard does not appreciate the lack of reverence for their beliefs and traditions, their culture, and finds the behavior of the Beat Generation actually very un-American. But is it? Does the Beat Generation actually represent the perceived separation between Old and New Guard, this dichotomy of American and un-American activities? Does this generation even belong to either Guard, or is it some outlier, a signal of a coming shift in paradigms—from Old to New? Is this the link between evolutionary cultural trends? Let’s examine the novel a little further.  Once more for the sake of time, I will only be examining two parts of the novel: the sexual use of the female characters, and Jack Kerouac himself. I realize examining the author in a review of the novel maybe unfair, but in this context I think we can make an exception. After all, there is no novel without of the author. Ladies first. Reading this novel the sexual use of women is rather shocking. I use the term ‘use’ quite strategically here. The Old Guard is repulsed because they read two men traveling the country having pre-marital and extra-marital affairs with women almost at will. This ‘looseness’ disgusts them. Of course the New Guard is in jubilee over this celebration of sexuality. They read the passages as watermarks in revolts against (what they see as) a Victorian approach to sex. Upon a closer reading, though, I believe both views miss a shocking fact. And it is precisely the manner in which both men, especially Dean, use these women. There is also, of course, a richness of bravado and male companionship within the text. Men and women are represented in vastly different ways, and the behavior is much more in line with traditional Old Guard ideology than anything else. Look at how the women are portrayed or used. Marylou, Dean’s first ex-wife, is quote-unquote 'dumb.' Camille, Dean’s second, is obedient and does as she’s told. Rita and Lucille are both sexual conquests for Sal. The use of sex in the novel is not as much about freeing the persons from the cages of common day Victorianism, but a cruder form of it. That is to say women are being portrayed to behave in a certain subservient manner to that of men. And this is in direct conflict with what many of the New Guard believes. This brings me to my second observation about On the Road and more specifically the author. Many critics, peers, friends, students have noted, even lauded, the anti-materialistic notions of this novel, Mr. Kerouac, and the Beat Generation as a whole. If one takes a step back and observes the very macro-level event happening, then one can witness a great irony. What I mean is: Jack Kerouac has written his magnum opus about freedom from materialism and constraints of our culture, but how are we receiving this information? We all bought his book. We all participated in this act of materialism, and Kerouac is the direct benefactor of it! What irony. And to return to the novel very quickly, Sal seems so pleased in his challenging of social affluence. And that’s great. But it’s very easy to make claims against materialism when you are being propped up by a wealthy sponsor. This is not to suggest condemnation cannot come from within, but it is to point out that if one is promoting an alternative way of life, precisely contra to affluent living, then to make such claims and live in such a way whilst being simultaneously propped up by the very affluence one deposes is greatly hypocritical and deserving of critique. Which leads me to my final point about Kerouac: this is a man who shows clear signs of what I will call ‘traditionalism.’ That is: a classical understanding of how society functions based off actions and ideologies of previous generations. I do not think Kerouac belongs in the New Guard. He might very well be better placed in the Old. However, his behavior implores a much more erratic Old Guard understanding of society today. Therefore he is an outlier, and so too are the Beats. They exist on the outskirts of our nation’s culture. Beyond the realms of both New and Old Guards their behaviors often times are a confluence of many different portions of combatting cultures within the body and time of the nation—especially a state like the United States. This explains the oddities of the Beat Generation—their actions and the way they are perceived. They behave free of the actions of both Guards. With that being said, I believe we cannot outright condemn or celebrate On the Road. We must accept it for what it is: something ‘other’ that invokes the very basic, if not crude, aspects of United States ideology. For all its merits, this is also a book rich with obdurate, anti-intellectual, self-centeredness, and lacking the substance to justify many of the actions revealed. The Old Guard is right in its criticism, but they are also too myopic to be aware of their own flaws and likeness to the Beats. Just as the New Guard is too quick to champion the book for its promotion of the self over the forces of materialism and avarice, and ignores the blatantly seedier side, the materialism, hedonism, and ethically questionable behavior that the New Guard does not promote—at least ideally. What I believe On the Road, Kerouac, and the Beat Generation represent is the most basic behavior of man’s nature. A behavior that has lay dormant in the American ethos until recently being revived thanks to this post-War affluence. Thank you.” 

Chronicles from Tom’s Diner: Chapter Lois

Tom’s has new glossy oxblood seat cushions.  They sparkle when the light hits them just right.  This reminds you of when James pulled up in his brother’s Hudson.  The way the street lamps reflected off the silver front and cranberry paint shimmered in the evening light—that same dark red.  “Hmm,” was all your mother managed at first.  Your father remained silent.  From the porch, they observed in their chairs.  The cigarette burning between your father’s lips, your mother fanning the smoke away in the thick June humidity.  You stood in the doorway, behind the screen door.  James parked in the street and steadily walked up to the porch.  Your father rose.  Small beads of sweat began to form on your forehead.  “Lois, are you well?” Helen asks you “You look a little flustered.”  James and Arthur look at you now.  “Oh no,” you say softly.  “It’s just—a little warm in here.  I think.  Don’t you?”  You put out your cigarette and reach for the handkerchief in your purse.  Dabbing the sweat from your head, “There.  That’s better.”  You smile.  Helen does too.  Arthur continues on with what he was saying: “Where was I?  Oh right, the fellas are thinking about going up to Briggins Lake for next weekend, just the guys.  Joe’s family has a place right there on the lake.  Some good fishin’ up there, I’m told.  Fish about this big,” Arthur shows—his hands spread far apart.  James nods.  “Maybe.  I’ll think about it.”  “Yeah.  Let me know soon.  Don’t feel like you have to pass up the offer.  We’d love to have you come along.”  “Well that sounds nice,” Helen adds with a smile.  She looks at you.  “Lois, are you sure you’re well?  You have barely touched your meal.”  James looks over at your plate.  You bring your hands back to the table in a pointless effort to hide the truth.  The two slices of ham and cheese sandwich have identically small voids towards the center; the French fries remain golden and untouched, as with the oblong pool of catsup rimming the plate.  Your chocolate malt half drank with the fluff of whipped cream still intact.  You observe everyone’s plate is empty save yours—except the tomatoes Arthur forgot to ask to be excluded from his Fried Chicken Club Sandwich.  “Oh… I suppose that cigarette was a bad idea.  Must have ruined my appetite.  You think one of the boys might want some of this?” you ask James.  He does not answer at first.  His focus remains on your meal.  Arthur and Helen look on in silence.  Michael would eat this.  Michael loves ham and cheese.  You cannot practically get him to eat anything else.  And Dale, Dale would eat French fries.  Those are easy enough for him to manage.  Catsup and French fries and a bit of water and he will love it.  Michael too.  “We’ll bring it home,” James mutters.  Your hands rest on your lap.  You straighten your dress.  As James tuned the radio to the specified station you observed your reflection in the window.  Perspiration began forming on your cheeks and bridge of your nose.  Cautiously you pulled your handkerchief from your small hand purse.  Mother bought you the purse at Charlemagne’s along with those white gloves for Sundays and other formal matters.  You quickly dabbed your face and placed the handkerchief back.  The rain fell hard as the movie began.  The Water That Rises.  “An inane teenage summer movie.  Not worth the trouble,” wrote David Harelston from the newspaper.  The windows were slightly open.  Rain fell on the gravel adding a low dissonance.  You could barely understand what was being said because of the static on the airwaves.  James played with the rotary knob but no use.  He leaned back into the bench and watched.  The windows became more opaque on account of the humidity.  You wanted to roll the window down more but your hands stayed in your lap, grasping the purse.  The Water That Rises was not worth the trouble.  Only twenty minutes in and you knew it was a typical low-budget double feature.  Your eyes began to lose focus.  James stayed diligent.  His eyes slightly strained, a slight quizzical expression on his face.  He was starting to perspire as well.  The sweat began to form at his temple and gradually worked down the cheek, tracing along his faint jaw line.  The Hudson engine hummed quietly.  Behind the car, the red-hued exhaust slowly rose through the rain and dissipated into the night.  A thick layer of precipitation accumulated on the windshield.  James turned the wipers.  In the car directly ahead of you the silhouette of two lovers formed one uncoordinated shape moving awkwardly back and forth.  You felt a sudden rush in your cheeks.  Opening your purse, you reached for the handkerchief again.  Dabbing your face, the window is wide open.  The smell of your ham and cheese sandwich rises from the floor between your feet.  James turns down the radio.  “You know.  That was an eighty cent meal you didn’t finish.”  You press the handkerchief against the back of your neck and place it in your purse.  James’s focus shifts between you and the road.  “Yes.”  “Yes?”  “Yes.  I’m sorry.  I wasn’t feeling well.”  Very calmly, he says, “Did you not feel well before or after you decided to order?”  You look at your legs.  The stockings cover your stubble.  You were going to shave today, but never had a moment.  “Lois?”  “Yes.”  “Yes what?”  “Before.”  James does not respond.  “The boys will eat it.”  He remains silent.  The wind becomes stronger.  Your hair becomes unruly and you roll up the window.  “I’ve just felt a little nauseous all day is all.  It rained so we couldn’t go outside.  The boys just stayed inside.  Judy would not stop crying.”  James sighs.  Your jaw clenches and lips tighten.  Rain begins to fall, a light shower.  Pressing your head against the glass, the coolness brings relief.  Small droplets begin to form and fall.  Your eyes follow one’s descent.  Slowly at first, it sinks down until reaching another droplet where upon its speed increases.  This repeats.  One after another, the more it links the faster it falls.  You witness the sporadic downward path of interdependence.  “Do you remember when you came and picked me up in your brother’s car?  And it rained at the drive-in?”  Silence.  You look over.  James stays fixed on road.  Windshield wipers move back and forth, back and forth.  Rain falls and is wiped away, and falls again.  “James?”  He turns the radio up.  “The new DC-7 by Douglas.  An innovative advancement in aviation.  New.  Larger fuselage and bigger, newer, more powerful engine to make trips across the Atlantic a breeze.  Yes.  Enjoy all the technological advancements Douglas Aircraft can afford you while you make that trip to London, or ole Paris.  With the new Douglas DC-7, there isn’t a place you cannot go.  Douglas Aircraft will keep you flying around the world.”  By the time you return home, the rain stops.  Barbara sits patiently on the couch watching television.  “Welcome back Mr. and Mrs. Kable.”  “Evening Barbara,” James says, taking off his shoes.  He heads straight for the bedroom.  “How were the children?” you ask.  “Oh fine.  Just fine.  Michael and I watched TV and Dale played with his truck.”  “And Judy?  She didn’t give you any trouble I hope?”  “No.  She was an angel.”  You nod.  James comes back and says he’ll walk Barbara back to her house.  While they are gone, you put the food away.  Closing the refrigerator door a sudden sensation overcomes you.  Your stomach turns.  Running to the bathroom you cover your mouth.  As you open the bathroom door you spit up a little in your hand.  You do not make it to the toilet, settling for the sink.  What little you had from the diner you quickly wash down the sink.  You stare back at your self in the mirror.  Strands of hair have broken away from your bun.  Your face is pallid.  Your lower lip quivers then stops.  You bite down on it.  Oh dear.  What now?  Betty Wayne came down with a sickness not too long ago.  Some kind of fever.  The doctor gave her medicine.  It went away.  Maybe call her tomorrow.  See what she thinks.  Maybe call Helen.  No need for anything else.  Just a cold.  And that’s all.  Some fever that will pass in no time.  Michael had a summer cold not too long ago.  James wasn’t pleased.  Best get out of this dress.  Remember to do laundry tomorrow.  After breakfast.  Did Barbara remember to change Judy’s diaper?  That’s why she was crying today.  Poor thing.  Too much.  It was just too much for her.  It was too much for her to take.  And so she cried.  Poor thing.  Cried and cried and eventually it got taken care of.  Eventually.  You lie in bed and close your eyes hoping to fall asleep before James comes back.  You try not to let any thoughts enter your mind, but this makes you think of all the things you have to do tomorrow: wake-up, brush teeth, dress, wake children, change Judy, feed Judy, feed the boys, feed James, change Judy, dress the boys, wash the whites, wash the dishes, play with the boys, change Judy, hang the whites, wash the colors, dry dishes, prepare lunch, feed Judy, feed James and the boys, change Judy, bathe Judy, dress Judy, fold the whites, hang the colors, wash the socks and undergarments, vacuum the rooms, make Judy take a nap, fold the colors, hang the socks and undergarments, start preparing dinner, thaw the meat, cut the vegetables, boil the water, preheat the oven, wake Judy, feed Judy, change Judy, do not dry out the roast, do not cut your fingers, separate and pair the socks and undergarments, feed James and the boys, feed Judy, change Judy, put Judy to bed, put the boys to bed, iron James’s shirt and pants for tomorrow morning, lay out your Sunday dress, clean the dishes, dry the dishes, and you always manage to forget several in-betweens.  James comes home.  Lying on your side, eyes closed, you hope he will think you are asleep.  You listen to him undress.  Then he pulls back the covers and lies down.  Your skin tenses as his hand runs along your ribs.  “I’d rather not.”  Did you say that aloud?  No.  Not you.  Even if, he did not hear.  He comes closer.  You press your eyelids tightly together as he pulls up your nightgown.  You try to get ready for him but with the fever and nausea you just cling tightly to the sheets and wait.  James wraps his arm around you.  Seconds turn to minutes.  Your focus goes elsewhere.  The windows were completely opaque as the second feature began.  Somewhere West.  No review.  James inched closer to you.  “Have you ever done anything like this before?” he asked you.  You lied.  He smiled.  You hesitated, but then smiled back.  You open your eyes afterwards.  “James.  Do you remember when you picked me up in that red car?”  He moans.  You focus on the silence.  In the darkness, eyes wide, you wait for something more.  The sounds of crickets singing outside in the grass, a light breeze against the blinds, the air is thick, cars pass by on Lewis, a low hum runs constant, a door closes.  As he rolls back to his side, you fix yourself and close your eyes.  “James,” you whisper one last time.  “I never liked that car.”

Trundling an Empty Barrow Up the Lane: Nabokov’s Pale Fire: Part 2

The focus now shifts to the moral of Nabokov’s Pale Fire: a profound attempt of capturing humanity’s perturbation with mortality and the relationship Art (specifically literature) plays.  Many literary critics have dissected and attempted precise explication of the novel.[1]  Among them, Bryan Boyd is often the most quoted, read critic of Nabokov’s work and life—and specifically his novel Pale Fire.[2]  In his 1997 essay, “Shade and Shape of Pale Fire”, Boyd re-evaluates his previous “Shadean” stance—the notion that the entire Pale Fire (i.e. Foreword, Poem, Commentary, Index) was all written by John Shade and not portions by Charles Kinbote—and adopts a more balanced view of who wrote what, as well as the potential moral.[3]  In providing analysis of Pale Fire some objections to Boyd’s conclusions will be raised.  For the most part, though, Boyd’s observations and conclusions are agreeable.[4]

            Mirrors.  One prevalent motif throughout the novel is the imagery of mirrors.  Subtle at first, one slowly begins to realize the mastery of Nabokov’s work at play.  Mirrors, of course, reflect an image in reverse.  Nabokov applied this to his novel in several ways.  Be it in the reversing of words or names (Hazel Shade’s “mirror words” and twisting T.S. Eliot as “toilest” and Jakob Gradus—Shade’s eventual assassin—becomes Sudarg of Bokay the “mirror genius”), or places (Kinbote’s wild kingdom of Zembla juxtaposed with Shade’s passive New Wye), or people (Shade and Kinbote are very much opposites).[5]  Staying within the idea of reflections, the reader must take one step further and allow for self-reflection.  Fictional literature is a reflection of one’s reality (as both the author intended and the reader sees it).  Upon examining fiction, the reader should reflect and consider the possible relationship literature has with the world in which he or she exists.  Through examining the mirror world, one gains a better understanding of one’s own.  This fact plays a crucial role in Pale Fire.[6]

            Death.   Throughout the novel the reader is presented with death.  Either in Kinbote’s Foreword (the recollection of Shade’s death, or hinting his own potential suicide), in Shade’s magnum opus (where the imagery of death permeates the poem—especially with Hazel Shade), or in Kinbote’s Commentary (mainly in the narrative of Gradus’s westward journey), the idea of death is never too far from the reader’s mind.  The very first sentence of Pale Fire introduces Shade’s death “…(born July 5, 1898, died July 21, 1959)…”.[7]  In the poem, the fist line reads: “I was the shadow of the waxwing slain” another introduction to death—also another example of Nabokov’s double: Shade is the shadow of the waxwing slain.[8]  The remembrance of Hazel Shade in the poem and Kinbote’s notes reflect thoughts of the afterlife.[9]  Nabokov consistently relays this message of death.  Here the moral begins to show itself.  The reader cannot escape death.  Even as Kinbote flees from the majestic Zembla to the bucolic New Wye, he cannot.  He brings death with him.[10]  Gradus is the personification of death.  And even in the suburban Arcadia, death is there too.  This is exactly what Shade tries to communicate to Kinbote in his poem, but not to fear death.  Boyd suggests that the first line of the poem should be read as the last, suggesting life after death.[11]  Though the first line may double as the last, it might not necessarily point towards afterlife.  What could just as easily be true about the cyclicality of life is that death plays a part, and that the two are not mutually exclusive, so one should embrace both in toto.  Embracing mortality is embracing one’s humanity.

            Whatever the interpretations might be, and Nabokov left enough room for many, what is unequivocal is Nabokov’s success at revealing humanity’s struggle with their least favorite attribute: impermanence: and where Art (in this case literature) goes along in the endless endeavor.  That is Pale Fire’s greatness.

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[1] For further reading consideration: Will Norman, Duncan White, Transitional Nabokov, (London, Peter Lang Publishing: 2009); Geoffrey W. Erwin, Pale Fire: A Novel of Mirrors: Reflections and Resemblances—A Study, (Washington DC, Georgetown University Press: 1990); L.S. Dembo, Nabokov: The Man and His Work, (Madison, Wisconsin University Press: 1967); Paul Duncan Morris, Vladimir Nabokov: Poetry and the Lyric Voice, (Toronto, University of Toronto Press: 2010); Bryan Boyd, Vladimir Nabokov: The American Years, (Princeton, Princeton University Press: 1993).

[2] In his 2001 publishing of Nabokov’s Pale Fire: The Magic of Artistic Discovery, Boyd recants his previous Shadean analysis in The American Years (1993) and provides a more accurate analysis of Nabokov’s novel.  The bulk of Nabokov’s Pale Fire centers around the ideas promoted in his essay “Shade and Shape in Pale Fire” (1997), which most of this criticism will be focused.

[3] For the entire essay: http://www.libraries.psu.edu/nabokov/boydpf1.htm

[4] Boyd makes very valid points.  By no means is his analysis to be disregarded.  However, neither are they to be taken without incredulity.  In this phase of critical analysis, the boundaries do not always have to be agreed upon.

[5] Vladimir Nabokov, Pale Fire, (New York, Vintage: 1989), 80, 193, 314

[6] Nabokov enjoyed playing with the idea of doubles, and often used the idea of “mirrors” in his novels—especially later on in his career.  For further reading: Despair, Lolita, Ada or Ador, Look at the Harlequins!

[7] Nabokov, 11.

[8] Ibid. 33.; Boyd makes this argument in his essay “Shade and Shape,” 6.

[9] Boyd makes an interesting point in his essay (17) that Nabokov hints at supernaturalism in relation to Hazel Shade’s encounter with the phantom or phantasm that predicts the death of her father (188).  Perhaps, but this critic is dubious.

[10] An interesting connection can be made between Kinbote’s escape from Europe to the New World in search of a better life—mainly void from death—and Pastoralism.  What is Pastoralism?  Without losing too much focus: in the 1950s and 60s, two literary scholars, and progenitors of the American Studies field, Henry Nash Smith (with his book Virgin Land) and Leo Marx (The Machine in the Garden) studied apparent themes within literature concerning the New World (and eventually the United States) as an untamed land with infinite possibilities.   These themes would form the notion of Pastoralism (and would eventually be studied and taught within the “Myth and Symbol” school of study for the nascent American Studies).  To be succinct: Pastoralism is linked to escapism, and eventually leads back to humanity’s struggle with mortality.  Pastoralism plays a significant role in Americanism. 

[11] Boyd, 26.

Trundling an Empty Barrow Up the Lane: Nabokov’s Pale Fire: Part 1

Vladimir Nabokov’s Pale Fire is one of the great novels of the post-War era—of the English-language.[1]  Such a superlative requires some vindication.  Allow me.  What constitutes a great novel?  Well, one could have long, laborious dialectical discussions on such a question only to end up with what they had from the beginning: nothing.  Subjectivity is a merciless paradox.  All and none are correct.  And when one criticizes literature, music, film, or the arts etc. etc., the need for order becomes an imperative.[2]  So in order to evaluate, one must first create some boundaries—ultimately understanding said boundaries are illusory, but still necessary.  Once perimeters are agreed justifiable, establishment follows.  When one individual sets the borders alone, he or she freely accepts them and thus plays within his or her own rules—free to change them whenever it behooves the individual.  This becomes inadequate when applying critical analyses on a macro-level.  Therefore when dealing with a broader scale, the communal element must apply.  At this point, the critic looks at the other great literary solons of both past and present.  Once he or she can reach an agreement with the community (in this case: an agreement on the attributes of a “Great” novel), the boundaries can be established.[3]    Looking back, when one thinks of some of the capital G “Greats” (i.e. the “Greatest Novels of the English-Language in Such-And-Such-An-Epoch”) what comes to mind?[4]  According to the Modern Library (a subsidiary of Random House publishing), the best novel of the twentieth century was James Joyce’s Ulysses.[5]  Larry McCaffery (well-known literary critic and former professor of post-modern literature) wrote in the American Book Review in 1999, that Pale Fire was the greatest 20^th Century novel, stating: “[Pale Fire is the] most audaciously conceived novel of the century-and the most perfectly executed-this is also the book whose existence could have been the most difficult to anticipate in the year 1900.”[6]  Indeed.  Others claim Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina, de Cervantes’ Don Quixote, even Ayn Rand’s Atlas Shrugged as the jötnar of their literary realm.  Irrespective of what novel sits atop the conjectural lists, one can begin to notice broad, overarching similarities between the novels.  These similarities become the foundations for judging a novel as a Great.  Most of the Greats contain some acute observation of the “human condition” or the world humanity inhabits and the symbiotic relationship between both.[7]  The Greats often succeed in revealing realities within the contexts of fantasy. And at times a novel is considered a masterpiece because it per se revolutionizes the literary world—like Joyce’s Ulysses.[8]  All the while entertaining the reader.[9]  The Greats do all of these in some capacity with much gravitas, a balance of quality and quantity, pious yet playful.  Pale Fire is one of these novels.  It addresses humanity’s struggle with mortality, and the relationship Art plays in the struggle.  Whilst simultaneously exploring the form and structure of fictional writing—creating a novel novel. Like Ulysses, it is a novel for literature, and like Moby Dick, it is as much for the masses.  While literary critics, scholars, or those with a penchant for such, will lionize the novel for its many allusions to other bodies of work or the unique structure and impact on the post-modern literary world; the casual reader (with enough patience and keen eye) will appreciate the underlying moral, and have fun navigating the labyrinth Nabokov created.

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[1] Of course, this entire review is the personal opinion of one individual.  Subjectivity is not irrevocable.

[2] Note: Criticism is not meant pejoratively here, rather a formal intellectual judgment, or observation. 

[3] This does not always come to fruition—these things seldom do.  Often times a loose nucleus is created in which dissenting opinions form the outer nebulous, and the conforming ones draw closer to one point.  Never a true establishment, but when building a house of cards one must accept instability.

[4] Answering this question will help answer the initial one.

[5] Modern Library, “100 Best Novels: The Board’s List,” Random House, Inc., http://www.modernlibrary.com/top-100/100-best-novels/ (accessed August 5, 2011).  Many readers are of the opinion James Joyce’s Ulysses ranks high above the rest.  Indeed a solid paragon, but often an overused standard that, ironically, diminishes the greatness of the novel.

[6] Larry McCaffery, “The 20th Century's Greatest Hits: 100 English Language Books of Fiction,” American Book Review 20, vol. 6 (1999).  McCaffery placed Joyce’s Ulysses in second, Pynchon’s Gravity’s Rainbow in third, and Ellison’s Invisible Man and DeLillo’s Underworld in the top twenty—even including Bret Easton Ellis’ American Psycho on the list.  A man after this critic’s own heart.  For the entire list: http://www.spinelessbooks.com/mccaffery/100/index.html

[7] “Human condition” consumes every aspect of being “human” in multiple conditions (i.e. philosophy, psychology, sociology, biology, anthropology, theology, cultural studies, economics, etc. etc.).

[8] Debate still carries on in certain circles about how much impact Ulysses had on the literary world, but little doubt can be had for what the novel meant for the Modernist movement.

[9] Or, at least, enough of them.