If I was ever (God forbid) asked to teach a course on the ethics of fiction, this slim novel would surely be on the assigned reading list.
Intimacy unfolds over the course of 24 hours as its protagonist, a middle-aged screenwriter named Jay, prepares to leave Susan, the mother of his two young sons. Not that he has told her he's going; he intends simply to pack his bag and slip out the door in the morning after she goes to work.
This is a case of art imitating life if there ever was one. Like his protagonist Jay, Kureishi himself is in his forties; like Jay, Kureishi has been nominated for an Academy Award, and has a weakness for psychopharmacology. And like Jay, shortly before the publication of this novel Kureishi left his wife and two sons.
The release of Intimacy saw a brief flurry of reviews which lambasted the book as thinly-veiled self-confession. Among the most vocal critics of the novel were Kureishi's sister and ex-wife both of whom condemned the author for, essentially, airing private dirty laundry on the international stage.
Subsequently, the furor over Kureishi's novel subsided somewhat; the majority of reviewers have been reluctant to make grand pronouncements about what a novelist should, and shouldn't, be empowered to write about. This is an understandable impulse: nobody wants to be viewed as guilty of censorship or small-mindedness; indeed, being unshockable and accepting when it comes to art is generally accepted as synonymous with sophistication.
But let's consider this outlook for a moment. Sure, it's easy to say that in principle that a great work of art could emerge from the examination of any given subject. But granted that it's not possible to take the stance, a la Jesse Helms, that certain topics should be artistically off-limits a priori, what about applying ethical standards to specific cases? It is unreasonable to believe that, like doctors or politicians, artists can be guilty of unethical behavior in the practice of their chosen profession? And, if so, what might that mean?
Rather than leaping headlong into these thorny questions, it's instructive to start by looking at some of the things that are wrong with Kureishi's novel. To begin with, for a novel ostensibly about -- well, intimacy, and interpersonal relationships -- virtually all the characters in Intimacy are shallow to the point of being ciphers. Susan, Jay's wife, appears only in terms of Jay's dislike for her "fat, red weeping face" and his sour quips along the lines of "she thinks she's a feminist but she's just bad-tempered." As for Jay's sons, although our protagonist is ostensibly tormented over the hurt he may cause them by disappearing without a word of warning (what, you think?) they receive, if anything, an even more cursory treatment than his wife, cropping up mainly as background scenery and noise for Jay's self-pitying observations.
And, make no mistake, Jay is a champion of self-pity. "I have lost my relish for living," he announces. "I am apathetic and most of the time want nothing, except to understand why there hasn't been more happiness here." He is a navel-gazing, self-indulgent child at heart; the few insights which occur to him are depressingly generic exercises in justification which shed no light on the situation at hand. For example, he points out that "Desire is naughty and doesn't conform to our ideals ... Desire is the original anarchist and undercover agent." Yeah, sure, and...?
So where do all of Jay's lucubrations get him? Predictably, the answer is not very far. As scheduled, he leaves his wife and sons to be with Nina, a club girl who combines (here's a twist) elements of mother and whore in one fuzzily-drawn, idealized package. As our hero traipses off into the bliss of Nina's embrace, still unenlightened and tearful (it's not easy, being the father who leaves his children) one gets the distinct sense that nothing has changed and that the sordid little drama we have just witnessed is, or will be, only one in a series of similar dismal incidents.
All told, if Intimacy has a message it seems to be this: that sometimes people do stupid, confused, hurtful things.
The question then arises: what does all of this mean in terms of the ethics of fiction? If one believes that novels are nothing more than entertainment, then Intimacy is nothing more than a case of bad writing. But any serious author must realize that stories are more than just diverting sentences on paper. In a literal sense, the stories we tell ourselves form the basis for our understanding of our selves and of the world. And as such, they have lasting significance as epistemological acts. This subject quickly moves beyond book-review territory, and I'll leave it to the judgment of Kureishi's readers as to whether this book offers any meaningful insights about the human condition. But apart from such lofty standards, let me throw out an off-the-cuff suggestion about the minimal ethical responsibilities of a novelist, taken from the Hippocratic Oath: first, do no harm.
It is on this count that, most plainly, Intimacy seems to me like a basically irresponsible piece of writing. Whether or not Kureishi intended this book to be taken as autobiography (which seems difficult to deny), the fact is that his family and the public at large will read it as such. Kureishi is an internationally recognized author who has used his pulpit to smear his ex-wife and publicize what appears to be the private tragedies of his family. I would argue that writer with a modicum of decency would have attempted to minimally disguise the real circumstances about which he is writing. What would it have cost Kureishi to depict Jay as, let's say, an academic rather than a fiction writer? Or to give him a daughter rather than two sons? This minimal kindness would have given Kureishi's ex-wife and sons at least a chance to avoid being preemptively framed as the characters in this novel.
Regardless of the theoretical standards which we apply to art, it seems little enough to ask of an author that they refrain from defaming the people who are close to them, and Intimacy fails even this modest benchmark. Mr. Kureishi, you should be ashamed of yourself.