When
I used to review novels for Publishers Weekly, the form was dictated partly by the
editorial limitation of space: I had 250 to 300 words to operate in.
Conventionally, the review would either start out with or end with some
elaboration of an adjective – basically, blurb territory. Then would come
characters and plot – or telling what the novel was about. If I could find the
room, I might refer to the writer’s reputation.
Now,
this procedure relies heavily on the idea that a novel is about a plot, and
that a plot is something that one can extract from the text that ‘moves’ the
events and characters in the novel forward. Even if the novel varies “forward” –
even if it is arranged chronologically so that it looks backwards, or it mixes
up narrative patches that are in the past or future of the narrative’s present –
the plot is the thing that makes the novel. The plot is to the novel what the
plays are to a game – a plot encloses, in a determined field, the chances that
the narrative rehearses in its serial plot-parts. If an orphan goes out one
foggy afternoon to visit the tomb of his dead mother and discovers an escaped
convict among the graves – which happens in the first chapter of Great
Expectations – I expect that this will have a bearing on the entire action of
the book, an action which involves numerous small actions over the course of
twenty some years. The action, the plot, is a great maker of pertinence, that
very English virtue that Grice made into a fundamental part of conversational
implicature.
There
is, of course, another meaning of plot, which refers not to the implicate order
of fiction, but to the conspiracies or plans of human beings in secret
coordination, one with the other, to bring about some event. A plot in this
sense hinges very much on secrecy.
The
plots of fiction and the plots of non-fiction have a way of converging – in fact,
the latter seems, sometimes, to have almost swallowed the former, as though
none of the stunted rituals of modern life present the interest to the reader
that is associated with plotting in secret.
In
The Genesis of Secrecy, Frank Kermode brings together the narrative motive and
secrecy as though, in reality, the plots of non-fiction have always been the
secret sharers of the plots of fiction. He
usefully uses the notion of insiders and outsiders. A secret creates an
immediate divide between those who share it and those who don’t. I itch to put
the term “sharing” under scrutiny, here, since it seems to stand outside of the
dominant exchange system and point to other systems of wealth and power – but I
am more interested, here, in the categories of insider and outsider with
relation to the form of narration.
Kermode
takes the Gospels as an exemplary narrative. It is an inspired choice. From the
perspective of secrets, the Gospels make the very strongest claims for the
privilege of the insider. It is not that the Gospels unfold a conspiracy,
although certainly some conspiring goes on to do Jesus to death. But the real
secret, here, is in the double life of Jesus – on the one hand, a small time
carpenter’s son, on the other hand, the beloved son of God. To understand the
plot requires not only knowing that Jesus believed that he was the son of God,
but believing it oneself. It requires metanoia, conversion.
Not
only does the insider understand the plot, but if the insider is correct, the
outsider can never understand the plot until he or she becomes an insider. The
ritual of becoming an insider is not simply a matter of cognition, but of a
special kind of semi-cognitive thing: belief. The belief comes not from the
head – with its cognitive gearing – but from the heart – which understands that
feeling is not subordinate to the world, but quite the reverse. And if this is
true – death, where is thy sting?
To
get away from the pull of the Gospel, Kermode’s point about secrecy and
narrative is made in more general terms in a later essay published in Critical
Inquiry: Secrets and Narrative Sequence.
“My immediate purpose is to make acceptable
a simple proposition: we may like to think, for our purposes, of narrative as
the product of two intertwined processes, the presentation of a fable and its
progressive interpretation (which of course alters it). The first process tends
towards clarity and propriety (“refined common sense”), the second towards
secrecy, toward distortions which cover secrets.”
This does seem like refined common
sense. And yet it shakes off, way too thoroughly, the insider/outsider
categories that Kermode was using in the Genesis of Secrecy. I think that
shaking off points to a retreat to a classically ahistorical project: salvaging
the presentation of the fable. As though the presentation came all in a block.
After which – and the after here signals, again, a certain ideal temporality,
not an empirical one but a conceptual temporality – we find interpretation.
I’m thinking about this common sense
presentation of the two elements of fiction at the moment because I’m writing a
fiction. One of my readers asked me, when I sent her the fourteenth chapter, to
write her a plot outline, because she has been receiving the chapters over
time, as I write them, and she wanted not to have to go back to previous
chapters to see what was going on. So I wrote the plot outline, and I was
mildly surprised to see that the plot I wrote was, in a sense, impossible to
infer from the chapters so far, which encompass more than half the book.
I have harbored Dadaist dreams of
writing a novel which would have one surface plot for the reader and another
for the author – and perhaps another outside of both the reader and the author.
In this book, the plot that the reader thinks binds together the book is not
the real plot, but incidental to the real plot, as it is understood and put
together by the author. However, why not strain at that pitiable thing, the
author? What if the real plot of the book is not understood by the author as
well? As in the myth of Bellerophon, where a messenger carries a letter which,
unbeknownst to him, requests that the receiver kill the messenger, perhaps the
author of the plot could be considered a blind messenger, delivering a
different plot from the one he or she knew? After all, there is a large degree
of blindness in the world.
In a sense, such a novel would be an
anti-gospel, because it would be closed, ultimately, to any access to its
secret. The insider, here, would be defined by the fact that the secret he
holds could not be shared. This would turn the world of the plot in a sense
upside down. I don’t quite know how this kind of plot could even be constructed
– a plot that resisted ever being known.
Surely, this is the great modernist
temptation.
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