Today, John Dos Passos is the sort of writer that you get second hand. He influenced a whole generation of (mostly American) writers who name checked him in essays and interviews. He has fallen out of fashion and is rarely discussed today in the common literary circuits. He worked in the age of ‘modernism’, but in contrast to the ‘high’ modernism of Woolf or Joyce, Dos Passos might be called (and not inaccurately) a ‘low modernist’. ‘1919’ at least is filled with the sort of enfilade of common voices and street level information that would not become terribly popular or common until much later books like ‘J R’, ‘Gravity’s Rainbow’ or ‘Life: A User’s Manual’. To say nothing of their methods or brilliance the philosophical viewpoint and references of a Stephen Dedalus or aristocratic party planning of Mrs. Dalloway could not be further from the day to day grime and toil of Dos Passos’s characters. We get little snippets of lives, lives which tend to the common, tedious, banal.
Dos Passos’s writing is unabashedly of its time. All too often (though with some notable exceptions, such as Eleanor or Daughter) women are reduced to the giggling or nagging love interests of the male leads. They exist solely for the pleasure of men, and when men are not using them they fade into the background. Races other than whites are always at the fringes, side characters made exotic in well known and tired ways. The only exception here is Benny Compton, the agitating socialist intellectual New York Jew, a lesser known but just as overt stereotype. Just short of overt racism Dos Passos may just be able to get a pass for ‘writing from the view of his time’ today. Needless to say, his views of race, and how they are conveyed have aged poorly.
The pace is quick, especially with characters like Joe, who hop from boat to boat, crossing the Atlantic without a thought, getting struck by a German mine or torpedo without so much as a thought. Weeks or months may pass without so much as a note. The stories come off somewhat like the nostalgic tales of old timers: the details forgotten, only the jist coming through. Life passes by and we are left with just the lingering sensation.
Amusingly, a piece of Teddy Roosevelt, encompassing his whole life, from his childhood to his death and only a few pages long, is dropped in between the portraits of the Rabble. The portrayal of T.R. straddles the line between hagiography and the work-a-day style of portraiture in which the rest of the characters are portrayed. The man of greatness is dropped in and, instead of being given a great dose of time, is mostly sketched out with a great deal of his section spent on his somewhat sad and faltering end. Teddy’s section over we drop back into the lives of the other.
The narrative vignettes are broken up by ‘Newsreels’ and ‘The Camera’s Eye’: brief, cut up pieces which flicker before us, setting the tone and laying out the cultural set pieces in which these character’s lives take place. In ‘1919’ the dominant theme is the war, and it is seen in all its jingoistic glory, with the zeal for protection quickly making way for paranoia, fear and self-destruction. We see pacifists fearing for their freedom, officers on shore leave strutting around in their uniforms. Regardless, as war has always been for Americans, except for those characters who seek it out (whether in the Merchant Marine or driving an army ambulance) the fighting is almost entirely an abstraction. Buying war bonds and dealing with shortages. Reading the papers anxiously and waiting for boys to come home. As the novel comes to a close the focus shifts away from the war and toward the labor struggle, the unions and their violent repression.
Perhaps unusual for the time the novel discusses, in not totally veiled terms, the homoerotic. There are the not unexpected gay panics as John is approached by a cruisey American at a Caribbean resort who offers Joe fifty dollars to ‘do the handsome thing’. Burly, pugnacious Joe of course runs off in disgust and horror at this thin, drunk man. But then there is Dick Savage who frankly describes his crush on the captain of his baseball team as a youth, his days spent together with ‘dreamy’ foppish Blake and their wanderings around Cambridge which, on a drunken election night, sees Blake disappear with drunken sailor and friend. Dick frets all night, ostensibly worried that Blake has been rolled by the toughs, but he feels some kind of deeper sadness and longing. Blake comes home the next morning beaming and mentions in an oblique way that they had visited the Turkish baths, ‘a most curious place’.
To an American these stories seem all too familiar, even through the lens of time, though feasibly to a non-American these stories might hold a Mythical weight like that of Scheherazade, building up the US as can only be seen by an American. The day to day banality of each character’s detracts nothing of course, and that is how Dos Passos wrote them. Dos Passos cannot be charged entirely with writing domestic realism. There is something else, a grander vision, at work. Story arcs are there, but they seem secondary at times, even invisible. But there is something else present which grips the reader. Very much like a choral work it is not the individual at the fore, but how all the individuals come together to form a whole. We are never waiting for two of the disparate characters to meet, for their storylines to intersect, for the plot to resolve into something more ‘coherent’. No, the characters very well may never meet, their storylines will likely never touch, any more than the notes of the bass and the contralto will suddenly converge. That is not the point. Rather it is the resonances, the tension and the harmonies of the lives as seen from a distance that take the fore. The fluctuating poverty of Joe, who never feels terribly poor, against the wealth of Eveline who, traveling Europe on a Petit Tour is surprised to find herself being lumped in with ‘the rich girls’. The struggles of one character pale in comparison to the struggles of another, their disparate joys, concerns and relationships. To show the daily lives of Americans, and the beauty that can occur not just on the level of the individual, but in the great strange machine that is this country.