Benjamin A. Railton's Blog, page 413
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012: American Studies Insights, Part Four
[With work on my current book project ramping up to a fever pitch, at precisely the same time that the end of semester grading pours in—thanks, universe!—this week’s series will be particularly quick hits: each day a single American Studies insight, not necessarily earth-shattering but on my mind, courtesy of one of my classes this semester. Your insights and responses very welcome in the comments!]
Today’s insight is a bit different, and perhaps obvious: but it came to me with absolute clarity on Wednesday afternoon, as I said some last-class things to my English Capstone students.I was talking to them about some of the skills and strengths that I think our shared passion for writing, reading, creating, teaching, talking about, and working with stories can help us find and hone and bring out into the world. I started with one that I find especially key, and about which I’ve written in this space quite a bit: empathy.And I used the example of Tuesday night’s disheartening North Carolina vote, which made same-sex marriage illegal in the state’s constitution; it would be impossible, I argued on Wednesday, for someone to empathize genuinely and fully with a person being affected by that law and still vote for it. I didn’t know it at the time, but President Obama was at almost the exact same moment talking in an interview about how his personal evolution has led him to support the legality of same-sex marriage. That’s a very good thing, but as I had looked out into my group of graduating English seniors, my insight was even better: that I didn’t have the slightest doubt that every one of them are capable of that empathy, that in fact it’s a core part of who they are. Partly that’s because of their specific skills and interests, maybe; but mostly it’s because they’re young, and folks in this generation have that kind of empathy, across seemingly divided communities, very consistently and impressively. I’m proud of my President, but prouder still of my students.Special post this weekend,BenPS. What do you think? And with the series finishing, any insights you want to share?5/11 Memory Day nominees: A tie between Irving Berlin, the Russian immigrant who in the course of his 20thcentury-spanning life created some of the most enduring and powerful American songs; and Richard Feynman, the Nobel Prize-winning physicist who was also one of America’s most talentedand charismaticpublic figures and educators.
Today’s insight is a bit different, and perhaps obvious: but it came to me with absolute clarity on Wednesday afternoon, as I said some last-class things to my English Capstone students.I was talking to them about some of the skills and strengths that I think our shared passion for writing, reading, creating, teaching, talking about, and working with stories can help us find and hone and bring out into the world. I started with one that I find especially key, and about which I’ve written in this space quite a bit: empathy.And I used the example of Tuesday night’s disheartening North Carolina vote, which made same-sex marriage illegal in the state’s constitution; it would be impossible, I argued on Wednesday, for someone to empathize genuinely and fully with a person being affected by that law and still vote for it. I didn’t know it at the time, but President Obama was at almost the exact same moment talking in an interview about how his personal evolution has led him to support the legality of same-sex marriage. That’s a very good thing, but as I had looked out into my group of graduating English seniors, my insight was even better: that I didn’t have the slightest doubt that every one of them are capable of that empathy, that in fact it’s a core part of who they are. Partly that’s because of their specific skills and interests, maybe; but mostly it’s because they’re young, and folks in this generation have that kind of empathy, across seemingly divided communities, very consistently and impressively. I’m proud of my President, but prouder still of my students.Special post this weekend,BenPS. What do you think? And with the series finishing, any insights you want to share?5/11 Memory Day nominees: A tie between Irving Berlin, the Russian immigrant who in the course of his 20thcentury-spanning life created some of the most enduring and powerful American songs; and Richard Feynman, the Nobel Prize-winning physicist who was also one of America’s most talentedand charismaticpublic figures and educators.
May 10, 2012
May 10, 2012: Maurice Sendak
[A break in the insight-full series to pay tribute to one of 20th century America’s most unique and talented artists.]
Those who know me, and more exactly know how I feel about William Faulkner, will know just how much of a compliment it is for me to say that Maurice Sendak was the Faulkner of children’s books.I don’t mean that in an American Studies way. Compared to Faulkner and his profound connection to a particular place and world, and likewise compared to the other children’s authors and books that have appeared in this space—Margaret Weis Brown and her educational advocacy, Ezra Jack Keats and The Snowy Day, Virginia Lee Burton and Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel—Sendak and his works were particularly universal, connected to themes and images, narratives and emotions, that exist outside of any national tradition and, often, in the deepest cores of kids’ and all of our identities and lives. Does it make any difference where Max’s room is, what city Mickey’s night kitchen might emulate, where stubborn uncaring Pierre and his parents (and the lion) live? No, I don’t think it does.Instead, what made Sendak Faulkner-esque, for me, was his ability, particularly in Where the Wild Things Are and In the Night Kitchen, to create perhaps the closest thing to a true stream of consciousness style in children’s literature. Those books are pure representations of (respectively) the imagination and the dream, of the places where a child’s—and, again, all of our—mind and soul can go when inspired and given free reign. And whereas Faulkner’s stream of consciousness could be deeply discomfiting and frustrating, demanding multiple reads and intense analytical work, Sendak’s feels so right, so immediate, hits us—and doubly so hits kids, I have found—right where we live. If that’s not a gift, and a rare and powerful one, I don’t know what is.May you find all the wild things and morning cake you can handle, Mr. Sendak. An American author and artist whose works and words will live on forever. Final insight tomorrow,BenPS. Any Sendak thoughts or stories to share?5/10 Memory Day nominee: T. Berry Brazelton, the pioneering pediatrician and advocate for early childhood education and awareness, whose efforts on behalf of some of our most vulnerable and important Americans (and humans) continue to this day.
Those who know me, and more exactly know how I feel about William Faulkner, will know just how much of a compliment it is for me to say that Maurice Sendak was the Faulkner of children’s books.I don’t mean that in an American Studies way. Compared to Faulkner and his profound connection to a particular place and world, and likewise compared to the other children’s authors and books that have appeared in this space—Margaret Weis Brown and her educational advocacy, Ezra Jack Keats and The Snowy Day, Virginia Lee Burton and Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel—Sendak and his works were particularly universal, connected to themes and images, narratives and emotions, that exist outside of any national tradition and, often, in the deepest cores of kids’ and all of our identities and lives. Does it make any difference where Max’s room is, what city Mickey’s night kitchen might emulate, where stubborn uncaring Pierre and his parents (and the lion) live? No, I don’t think it does.Instead, what made Sendak Faulkner-esque, for me, was his ability, particularly in Where the Wild Things Are and In the Night Kitchen, to create perhaps the closest thing to a true stream of consciousness style in children’s literature. Those books are pure representations of (respectively) the imagination and the dream, of the places where a child’s—and, again, all of our—mind and soul can go when inspired and given free reign. And whereas Faulkner’s stream of consciousness could be deeply discomfiting and frustrating, demanding multiple reads and intense analytical work, Sendak’s feels so right, so immediate, hits us—and doubly so hits kids, I have found—right where we live. If that’s not a gift, and a rare and powerful one, I don’t know what is.May you find all the wild things and morning cake you can handle, Mr. Sendak. An American author and artist whose works and words will live on forever. Final insight tomorrow,BenPS. Any Sendak thoughts or stories to share?5/10 Memory Day nominee: T. Berry Brazelton, the pioneering pediatrician and advocate for early childhood education and awareness, whose efforts on behalf of some of our most vulnerable and important Americans (and humans) continue to this day.
May 9, 2012
May 9, 2012: American Studies Insights, Part Three
[With work on my current book project ramping up to a fever pitch, at precisely the same time that the end of semester grading pours in—thanks, universe!—this week’s series will be particularly quick hits: each day a single American Studies insight, not necessarily earth-shattering but on my mind, courtesy of one of my classes this semester. Your insights and responses very welcome in the comments!]
Today’s insight came early in the semester with my Intro to American Studies course, as a familiar song opened up in a new way for me.Since the first time I taught (or rather team-taught, with a colleague in History) our new Intro to American Studies course—and really since I first came up with the idea for a course focused on the 1980s—I knew that Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” (1988) would be one of the multimedia texts that we’d analyze. It’s a great song, full of interesting and evocative choices and moments, and at its heart is that incredibly complex title image: the car owned by the speaker’s significant other. In the course of the song’s verses and shifting choruses, that car serves as a symbol of genuine hope and progress, a speeding vehicle toward more temporary and even “drunk”-en escape, and eventually a divisive reminder of all that has not happened for the speaker and her husband. But this time, as we talked about Chapman’s song in the context of poverty in the ‘80s, I started to recognize the more simple truth at its heart: how fully a car can serve as a reminder of our stark contemporary divisions in wealth and class.After Katrina hit New Orleans, I remember seeing and hearing many commentators wonder why all those stranded residents hadn’t simply left the city—not recognizing how few of them could afford a car. Similarly, many Americans don’t seem to realize the central problem with the new photographic voter ID laws being passed or considered in many states: that for many millions of impoverished Americans, a driver’s license (the only common government-issued photo ID) is entirely meaningless and useless. In these and many other cases, a car is not a symbol or an image, not an American icon, but simply and crucially an important tool and resource that lies outside of the lives of many of our fellow citizens. The next time I talk with a class about Chapman’s song, I’ll try to make sure we include among our topics of conversation the idea that sometimes the literal reading of a text is one of the most powerful and significant.Next insight tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? And I’ll ask again—insights to share?5/9 Memory Day nominee: Daniel Berrigan, the Catholic priest and peace activist whose courageous opposition to the Vietnam War marked only the beginning of a long career of activism, protest, and poetry(and inspired a song by one of my favorite singer-songwriters, Dar Williams).
Today’s insight came early in the semester with my Intro to American Studies course, as a familiar song opened up in a new way for me.Since the first time I taught (or rather team-taught, with a colleague in History) our new Intro to American Studies course—and really since I first came up with the idea for a course focused on the 1980s—I knew that Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” (1988) would be one of the multimedia texts that we’d analyze. It’s a great song, full of interesting and evocative choices and moments, and at its heart is that incredibly complex title image: the car owned by the speaker’s significant other. In the course of the song’s verses and shifting choruses, that car serves as a symbol of genuine hope and progress, a speeding vehicle toward more temporary and even “drunk”-en escape, and eventually a divisive reminder of all that has not happened for the speaker and her husband. But this time, as we talked about Chapman’s song in the context of poverty in the ‘80s, I started to recognize the more simple truth at its heart: how fully a car can serve as a reminder of our stark contemporary divisions in wealth and class.After Katrina hit New Orleans, I remember seeing and hearing many commentators wonder why all those stranded residents hadn’t simply left the city—not recognizing how few of them could afford a car. Similarly, many Americans don’t seem to realize the central problem with the new photographic voter ID laws being passed or considered in many states: that for many millions of impoverished Americans, a driver’s license (the only common government-issued photo ID) is entirely meaningless and useless. In these and many other cases, a car is not a symbol or an image, not an American icon, but simply and crucially an important tool and resource that lies outside of the lives of many of our fellow citizens. The next time I talk with a class about Chapman’s song, I’ll try to make sure we include among our topics of conversation the idea that sometimes the literal reading of a text is one of the most powerful and significant.Next insight tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? And I’ll ask again—insights to share?5/9 Memory Day nominee: Daniel Berrigan, the Catholic priest and peace activist whose courageous opposition to the Vietnam War marked only the beginning of a long career of activism, protest, and poetry(and inspired a song by one of my favorite singer-songwriters, Dar Williams).
May 8, 2012
May 8, 2012: American Studies Insights, Part Two
[With work on my current book project ramping up to a fever pitch, at precisely the same time that the end of semester grading pours in—thanks, universe!—this week’s series will be particularly quick hits: each day a single American Studies insight, not necessarily earth-shattering but on my mind, courtesy of one of my classes this semester. Your insights and responses very welcome in the comments!]
Today’s insight came in the course of the final unit (Post-modernism and the Late 20thand Early 21st Centuries) in my American Literature II survey course.I base the units in my Am Lit II survey around a couple of main longer readings, and then shoehorn in shorter supplemental works (ones available online) by other authors I feel it’s important to present as well (if only briefly). The two longer readings I always hope will speak to each other—I call the units “Dialogues” for that reason—but with the shorter ones, it can be hard to bring them into the conversation in that same way. But this time, as we talked about Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy”and “Lazy Lazarus”(both from the early 1960s) and then transitioned back to our first longer reading, Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony (1977), I started to think about how much both Plath’s speakers and Silko’s protagonist Tayo are defined by the loss and absence, yet still significant presence, of a key parent: Plath’s father and Tayo’s mother. Many of these young Americans’ difficult and crucial identity issues stem from those absences and presences, and how they impact their self-images and choices (negative and positive).Certainly such issues are not new to the late 20th century, yet I’d say that they’re newly central to works like these—in our first long reading, Huck Finn , for example, Huck has no Mom and a largely absent (and horrible) Dad, but seems relatively unaffected, at least compared to Plath’s speaker and Tayo, by those absences. Moreover (slight spoiler alert ahead!), the titular protagonist of my last unit’s second longer reading, Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake (2003), has his whole trajectory in the novel shifted by the loss of his father at the book’s halfway point. So it seems to me that this theme is at least somewhat specific to late 20th and early 21st century American literature and identity, and that it could be interesting to consider why, in the land of the “self-made man” and “rugged individualism” and the like, many of our current cultural works seem centrally concerned with the effects of an absent or lost parent on the identities of younger Americans.Next insight tomorrowBenPS. What do you think? And any insights to share from this semester (or any other time)?5/8 Memory Day nominee: Harry Truman. I hesitate to put presidents and other already famous Americans on this list, but Truman assumed the presidency at a crucial time and (imperfectly but definitely) helped the U.S. end World War II and move into the years beyond, and then he desegrated the military. That’s enough for a Memory Day in my book!
Today’s insight came in the course of the final unit (Post-modernism and the Late 20thand Early 21st Centuries) in my American Literature II survey course.I base the units in my Am Lit II survey around a couple of main longer readings, and then shoehorn in shorter supplemental works (ones available online) by other authors I feel it’s important to present as well (if only briefly). The two longer readings I always hope will speak to each other—I call the units “Dialogues” for that reason—but with the shorter ones, it can be hard to bring them into the conversation in that same way. But this time, as we talked about Sylvia Plath’s “Daddy”and “Lazy Lazarus”(both from the early 1960s) and then transitioned back to our first longer reading, Leslie Marmon Silko’s Ceremony (1977), I started to think about how much both Plath’s speakers and Silko’s protagonist Tayo are defined by the loss and absence, yet still significant presence, of a key parent: Plath’s father and Tayo’s mother. Many of these young Americans’ difficult and crucial identity issues stem from those absences and presences, and how they impact their self-images and choices (negative and positive).Certainly such issues are not new to the late 20th century, yet I’d say that they’re newly central to works like these—in our first long reading, Huck Finn , for example, Huck has no Mom and a largely absent (and horrible) Dad, but seems relatively unaffected, at least compared to Plath’s speaker and Tayo, by those absences. Moreover (slight spoiler alert ahead!), the titular protagonist of my last unit’s second longer reading, Jhumpa Lahiri’s The Namesake (2003), has his whole trajectory in the novel shifted by the loss of his father at the book’s halfway point. So it seems to me that this theme is at least somewhat specific to late 20th and early 21st century American literature and identity, and that it could be interesting to consider why, in the land of the “self-made man” and “rugged individualism” and the like, many of our current cultural works seem centrally concerned with the effects of an absent or lost parent on the identities of younger Americans.Next insight tomorrowBenPS. What do you think? And any insights to share from this semester (or any other time)?5/8 Memory Day nominee: Harry Truman. I hesitate to put presidents and other already famous Americans on this list, but Truman assumed the presidency at a crucial time and (imperfectly but definitely) helped the U.S. end World War II and move into the years beyond, and then he desegrated the military. That’s enough for a Memory Day in my book!
May 7, 2012
May 7, 2012: American Studies Insights, Part One
[With work on my current book project ramping up to a fever pitch, at precisely the same time that the end of semester grading pours in—thanks, universe!—this week’s series will be particularly quick hits: each day a single American Studies insight, not necessarily earth-shattering but on my mind, courtesy of one of my classes this semester. Your insights and responses very welcome in the comments!]Today’s insight came toward the end of the semester, as my American Novel to 1950 students discussed our different authors and texts from across the semester. As we talked about two of our more interesting characters, Kate Chopin’s Edna Pontellierand Willa Cather’s Ántonia Shimerda, the link between literary elements like narration and perspective and American Studies questions of identity and community really hit home to me. Chopin’s conventional realistic narrator—who has the ability to give us many characters’ thoughts but also creates a great deal of ambiguity about how we read those characters—is hugely different from Cather’s more modernist and artistic one (who is consciously writing a novel about his memories). There are lots of potential reasons for those choices, and an equal number of important effects—but without question, these narrative choices drive our readings and responses to both key women, and to the many important issues (women’s rights, marriage, romance and reality, immigration, work, and more) to which they connect.I could write a lot more on that topic, and unfortunately don’t have time at the moment. So for those who know the novels, I’ll just pose this thought experiment: what if Chopin’s novel were narrated by Robert LeBrun, highlighting the stages of his love for Edna? And what if Cather’s had an outside narrator who could both show us the complexities of Ántonia’s perspective and comment critically on her identity and live (even representing the critical perspective of Black Hawk, for example)? How different would both novels be as a result? And how much does this help us see the centrality of a choice of narrator to every other aspect of a novel?Next insight tomorrow,BenPS. What do you think? And any insights to share?5/7 Memory Day nominee: Archibald MacLeish, the World War I veteran and poet whose career included some of the most innovative Modernist poems, important tenures at the American Academy of Arts and Letters and the Library of Congress, and an impressive willingness to evolve and grow with the twentieth century.
May 5, 2012
May 5-6, 2012: Great Historical Fiction, Part 5
[Fifth and final entry in the week’s series on great American historical fiction! But I’m always thinking about this genre, so continued nominations, feedback, and other responses still very welcome as always!]For the fifth post, quick hits on five more nominees for amazing American historical novels (all of which I’ll probably write more about in future posts!):1) E.L. Doctorow’s The Book of Daniel (1971)2) Michael Shaara’s The Killer Angels (1974)3) David Bradley’s The Chaneysville Incident (1981)4) Margaret Atwood’s Alias Grace (1996)5) Jeffrey Eugenides’ Middlesex (2002)Next series this coming week,BenPS. Any historical novels or novelists you’d highlight?5/5 Memory Day nominee: Nellie Bly, the pioneering and hugely talented investigative reporter and muckraking journalist who changed American media, writing, and narratives of gender and identity.5/6 Memory Day nominees: A tie between two titanic 20th century Americans who need no introduction, Orson Welles and Willie Mays.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012: Great Historical Fiction, Part 4
[Fourth in the week’s series on great American historical fiction! Nominations, feedback, and other responses very welcome as always!]Today’s nominee for an amazing American historical novel is James Michener’s
Hawaii (1959) .
It’s fair to say, using the categories for which I argued in Tuesday’s post, that Michener’s best-selling historical epics are more period fiction than historical fiction—he’s certainly most interested in human experiences and relationships, rather than in thorny questions of American history per se. But on the other hand, his novels are multi-period, tracing centuries of community and identity in each of his focal places, and that makes them both unique and in and of themselves historically grounded (and researched) in every effective ways. Most any of those epics could have been my focus here, but Hawaii was really his first in this category, and exemplifies his talents and successes for sure.
Final nominee tomorrow,BenPS. You know the question!5/4 Memory Day nominees: A tie between two pioneering 19th century American thinkers and writers, both born in 1796: Horace Mann, considered “The Father of American Public Education” for his innovative and seminal ideas about public education, teacher training, and other key educational questions; and William H. Prescott, considered the first scientifically analytical American historian and one of the most significant pioneers in writing the history of the Americas.
May 3, 2012
May 3, 2012: Great Historical Fiction, Part 3
[Third in the week’s series on great American historical fiction! Nominations, feedback, and other responses very welcome as always!]Today’s nominee for an amazing American historical novel is Russell Banks’s Cloudsplitter (1998). I’ll admit it, for a long time I hated Banks’ novel; not because of anything really about it, but because my fallback plan had always been to write a historical novel about John Brown from the point of view of one of his sons, and then Banks went ahead and did that and did it amazingly well. But you can only hold onto your hate for so long before you realize that an amazing historical novel about fathers and sons, family and nation, violence and spirituality, the coming of the Civil War, and heroism and villainy in American identity is worth celebrating. Even if it did crush your dreams a bit.Next nominee tomorrow,BenPS. Any novelists or novels you’d highlight? 5/3 Memory Day nominee: Jacob Riis, who remains, more than a century later, one of the most complex and important voices to engage with American poverty in our history.
May 2, 2012
May 2, 2012: Great Historical Fiction, Part 2
[Second in the week’s series on great American historical fiction! Nominations, feedback, and other responses very welcome as always!]Today’s nominee for an amazing American historical novel is Octavia Butler’s
Kindred (1979).
The premise of Butler’s science fiction historical novel is simple enough: a 1970s African American woman suddenly finds herself time traveling back into the antebellum South, where she becomes (or rather, is) a slave. But without spoiling the many amazing places where Butler takes her story from there, I’ll just say that she is centrally concerned with some of the most genuinely historical and American themes: family and legacies, race and its continuous yet shifting presence and meanings, love and hope and hatred and death, community and identity in our past, present, and (it is science fiction after all!) future. One of our most unique, significant, and compelling American novels, historical or otherwise.
Next nominee tomorrow,
Ben
PS. Any nominations?
5/2 Memory Day nominee: Albion Tourgée, who’s on my short list of most inspiring Americans, for all the reasons detailed in that post and more.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012: Great Historical Fiction, Part I
[Starting a week’s series on great American historical fiction! Nominations, feedback, and other responses very welcome as always!]
One of the central questions with which any scholar or reader (or even any writer) of historical fiction has to engage is what works in the genre hope to accomplish. There are lots of potential answers to that question, but the fundamental divide is, it seems to me, between accuracy or authenticity on the one hand and effectiveness or readability on the other; between, that is, doing justice to the historical details and periods and events on which a particular novel focuses and doing right by the readers who have picked up said novel. Obviously the choice is not an either/or, but I would argue that as a matter of emphasis and priority these are two very different starting points; and I would go further and argue that much of what we have called historical fiction over the years has chosen very fully to focus on creating entertaining novels for which the history is a backdrop, rather than on creating historical worlds for which the novel is a foreground. If that has been the emphasis much of the time, it’s an entirely understandable one; readers who seek historical accuracy can always turn to works of historical narrative and scholarship, after all, and a historical novelist who does not connect to his or her readers is likely to produce few sales and a short career. So long as the historical focus is not being explicitly falsified or mythologized, as I have elsewhere argued that the historical details surrounding Reconstruction explicitly and destructively (to the book’s contemporary moment and for our overarching national narratives) are in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind (1936), then I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a historical novelist focusing mostly on creating compelling characters and story rather than on exploring all of the nuances of that historical world. But if and when a novelist makes that choice, I think it would be very useful for us to have a separate generic category in which we could place the resulting work: not historical fiction but, perhaps, period fiction? If we were to employ that second category in that way, it would allow the term “historical fiction” to be used solely for those novels that do work to create historical worlds first and foremost—and would hopefully likewise allow us to make clear that many such novels and novelists have been able to do so without sacrificing any of their engaging and entertaining qualities in the process.
At or near the top of that list, for me, are the novels in Gore Vidal’s American Chronicle, a series which Vidal has been writing since the late 1960s and which now includes at least six novels (which I will list in chronological rather than publication order; not included here is the recent The Golden Age [2000], only because I haven’t read it and so don’t feel able to comment on whether it’s really part of the series or not): Burr (1973); Lincoln (1984); 1876 (1976); Empire(1987); Hollywood (1990); and Washington, DC (1967). The novels certainly vary in quality, and the more recent novels in the series seem somewhat more explicitly driven by Vidal’s own contemporary political agenda and purposes (a charge that, from what I can tell, applies even more directly to Golden Age); it’s fair to say that a decent percentage of even the kind of genuinely historical fiction about which I’m writing here does feature such central political purposes, and while they don’t necessarily diminish the texts’ success at creating historical worlds, they do often provide the lenses through which we view those worlds. But the earlier books in Vidal’s series, and most especially Burr, are among America’s most fully realized and successful historical novels: both because of how richly they construct their historical worlds (Burr imagines no fewer than three such worlds: the Revolution, the turn of the 19th century, and the 1830s); and because of how immensely readable and fun they are. To coin a phrase, Burr made me laugh, made me cry, and made me think long and hard about—and in fact even do further research into—its historical and national subjects and stories, and that’s a pretty successful historical novel if you ask me.Next nominee tomorrow.
BenPS. Two more links:
1) Empire, one of the few in the series that you can preview through Google books: http://books.google.com/books?id=RiYadJIIy80C&printsec=frontcover&dq=gore+vidal&hl=en&ei=cLOHTfG3CozUgQfsq5jVCA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=book-preview-link&resnum=9&ved=0CFgQuwUwCA#v=onepage&q&f=false
2) One of the more interesting books on historical fiction, in which scholars write about historical novels and the novelists write back (two excerpts included through this site): http://books.simonandschuster.com/Novel-History/Mark-C-Carnes/9780684857664/excerpt_with_id/5185
PPS. Any historical novels or novelists you’d recommend?5/1 Memory Day nominee: Joseph Heller, who never equaled the scathing satire and biteof his great Catch-22 (although few other American authors have equaled it either), but whose later novels reflect an evolving and complex satirical and humanistic perspective for sure.
One of the central questions with which any scholar or reader (or even any writer) of historical fiction has to engage is what works in the genre hope to accomplish. There are lots of potential answers to that question, but the fundamental divide is, it seems to me, between accuracy or authenticity on the one hand and effectiveness or readability on the other; between, that is, doing justice to the historical details and periods and events on which a particular novel focuses and doing right by the readers who have picked up said novel. Obviously the choice is not an either/or, but I would argue that as a matter of emphasis and priority these are two very different starting points; and I would go further and argue that much of what we have called historical fiction over the years has chosen very fully to focus on creating entertaining novels for which the history is a backdrop, rather than on creating historical worlds for which the novel is a foreground. If that has been the emphasis much of the time, it’s an entirely understandable one; readers who seek historical accuracy can always turn to works of historical narrative and scholarship, after all, and a historical novelist who does not connect to his or her readers is likely to produce few sales and a short career. So long as the historical focus is not being explicitly falsified or mythologized, as I have elsewhere argued that the historical details surrounding Reconstruction explicitly and destructively (to the book’s contemporary moment and for our overarching national narratives) are in Margaret Mitchell’s Gone with the Wind (1936), then I don’t think there’s anything wrong with a historical novelist focusing mostly on creating compelling characters and story rather than on exploring all of the nuances of that historical world. But if and when a novelist makes that choice, I think it would be very useful for us to have a separate generic category in which we could place the resulting work: not historical fiction but, perhaps, period fiction? If we were to employ that second category in that way, it would allow the term “historical fiction” to be used solely for those novels that do work to create historical worlds first and foremost—and would hopefully likewise allow us to make clear that many such novels and novelists have been able to do so without sacrificing any of their engaging and entertaining qualities in the process.
At or near the top of that list, for me, are the novels in Gore Vidal’s American Chronicle, a series which Vidal has been writing since the late 1960s and which now includes at least six novels (which I will list in chronological rather than publication order; not included here is the recent The Golden Age [2000], only because I haven’t read it and so don’t feel able to comment on whether it’s really part of the series or not): Burr (1973); Lincoln (1984); 1876 (1976); Empire(1987); Hollywood (1990); and Washington, DC (1967). The novels certainly vary in quality, and the more recent novels in the series seem somewhat more explicitly driven by Vidal’s own contemporary political agenda and purposes (a charge that, from what I can tell, applies even more directly to Golden Age); it’s fair to say that a decent percentage of even the kind of genuinely historical fiction about which I’m writing here does feature such central political purposes, and while they don’t necessarily diminish the texts’ success at creating historical worlds, they do often provide the lenses through which we view those worlds. But the earlier books in Vidal’s series, and most especially Burr, are among America’s most fully realized and successful historical novels: both because of how richly they construct their historical worlds (Burr imagines no fewer than three such worlds: the Revolution, the turn of the 19th century, and the 1830s); and because of how immensely readable and fun they are. To coin a phrase, Burr made me laugh, made me cry, and made me think long and hard about—and in fact even do further research into—its historical and national subjects and stories, and that’s a pretty successful historical novel if you ask me.Next nominee tomorrow.
BenPS. Two more links:
1) Empire, one of the few in the series that you can preview through Google books: http://books.google.com/books?id=RiYadJIIy80C&printsec=frontcover&dq=gore+vidal&hl=en&ei=cLOHTfG3CozUgQfsq5jVCA&sa=X&oi=book_result&ct=book-preview-link&resnum=9&ved=0CFgQuwUwCA#v=onepage&q&f=false
2) One of the more interesting books on historical fiction, in which scholars write about historical novels and the novelists write back (two excerpts included through this site): http://books.simonandschuster.com/Novel-History/Mark-C-Carnes/9780684857664/excerpt_with_id/5185
PPS. Any historical novels or novelists you’d recommend?5/1 Memory Day nominee: Joseph Heller, who never equaled the scathing satire and biteof his great Catch-22 (although few other American authors have equaled it either), but whose later novels reflect an evolving and complex satirical and humanistic perspective for sure.
Benjamin A. Railton's Blog
- Benjamin A. Railton's profile
- 2 followers
Benjamin A. Railton isn't a Goodreads Author
(yet),
but they
do have a blog,
so here are some recent posts imported from
their feed.
