Enrique Vila-Matas Interview
A few posts back I wrote about the virtues of short stories. Now I’d like to go in the opposite direction and write a little about big books I have loved.
If short stories are nice because I know I’m going to get the whole narrative arc within the next 30 minutes, a big book is pleasant because I know I’m going to be carrying it around with me for some time. Near the beginning of Invitation to a Beheading, Nabokov steps out of his narrative momentarily to speak to the reader, commenting on the satisfying feel of the unread pages that the reader holds in her right hand (and Beheading is only about 200 pages long!).
The satisfaction that Nabokov speaks of is one of the best things about big books. After the first hundred pages or so I can usually tell if the next 600 pages will be worth my time. If I decide they are, there is always a wonderful feeling of the enormity that lies stretched out before me. It is a welling up, an exuberance borne of the book’s immense size, the expectation that this lovely writing, this intriguing story, these fantastic characters, will never end. Both in the literal and figurative sense, I feel as though I can read this book forever.
And sometimes it seems as though I do. Once I‚Äôve gotten past the book‚Äôs beginning — the character introductions, the scene-setting, the exposition — I settle down into the middle part, which gives a sense of neither here nor there. There is a mass of pages before me, there is a mass of pages behind me, and the sizes of the two don‚Äôt seem to change much. I plug away, 20 pages here, 50 pages there, and though much may happen the illusion that I am not moving, the certainty of the book‚Äôs infinity, remains.
This middle region is like a tranquil locale that inspires me to lose sight of ever leaving. I have become sufficiently immersed within the book that I barely notice my progress, or lack thereof. Because the sensation of progress has been suspended, the book inspires me to be luxurious with my time. I read slowly, paying close attention, giving my imagination more leeway then usual to run free and interpret. When I read, I notice the book more and everything else less.
When the end comes it is bittersweet. I’m excited to be moving on to a new book, and with so many books to read I’m glad that I can call another read. But I still remember something of my first blush with the book, the heady days when I really did think it would go on forever. That time is past, and even though I can read the book again, it will not be quite the same. No, this magnificent book really is over, and for that I am the least bit sad.
Fortunately there are lots and lots of big books out there, so the bittersweet goodbye can be met with a ravishing new hello. Here’s a list of big books that I believe are essential. (in no particular order, and restricted to books I have read.)
1. The Octopus by Frank Norris
2. Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
3. Gravity’s Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
4. Underworld by Don DeLillo
5. The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky
6. Bleak House by Charles Dickens
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Have you tried William Gaddis’ “The Recognitions”? If you liked Pynchon and Delillo you’ll probably love Gaddis. One of my favorite novels ever.
Thanks for the rec derik. I’ve read Gaddis’s “A Frolic of His Own”, which I enjoyed. One day I will probably tackle Recognitions, although I’ve heard quite a few frightening things about it.
Scott,
Your list has what Mark Sarvas would refer to as a collection of “chewy” novels. In your quest for longer, bigger work do you drop back into more straightforward narrative style reads? While that makes them sound like I believe them (narrative driven) to be lesser, I really don’t. Some fantastic longer works I’ve read in the last few years include Brady Udall’s The Miracle Life of Edgar Mint, TC Boyle’s Drop City (which I know you’ve read), Richard Russo’s Nobody’s Fool (this truly gave me the bittersweet feeling you mention in your blog – it’s the one novel I can think of that if were an ongoing effort that I could read sections of indefinitely I’d be happy), and Richard Flanagan’s Gould’s Book of Fish (which is actually more a chewy novel than narrative driven) all come to mind.
An interesting take on the difference between reading short fiction vs. the longer material. You often see the question posed to writers about the difference between writing them, but rarely hear a reader’s point of view.
Enjoy,
Try Mahfouz’s Cairo Trilogy if you like big long books (actually 3 books). First class stuff. Also, Rabelais’ Pantagruel and Grass’s Tin Drum. Good Soldier Schweik by Jaroslav Hasek is very fun and easy to get into. For gloomier stuff, Broch’s sleepwalkers. And oh, yes, Conrad’s Nostromo was really hard to get into, but when I did, wow! and I mean wow!
About Frolic of His Own, I loved it/was bored by it, and never got into it, although I have to admit it was terribly entertaining. ONly have half-finished, and it’s lying on my bookshelf waiting for me to pick it up again. I’m sure I will.
Next year I’ve decided to tackle certain larger works, mainly of the classical variety (Ovid’s Fasti, Bocaccio, Sentimental Education, ). (Oh, yes, Underworld is on my list too). Long novels can be comforting to get into; it’s been a long time since I’ve done it (sigh!)
There’s an optimal novel size. We went from a time where novels was the only way you could gain a lit reputation to a point where nobody reads anything anymore (and where flash fiction/short fiction sells more).
Recently I finished Pnin by Nabokov, and besides enjoying it terribly, I was struck by how perfectly sized it was. Not terribly long (or even deep) and yet substantial enough that the book buyer can feel he’s getting into something substantial.
Writing a 1000 page requires a substantial investment of time and entails considerable risk in this day and age. Maybe King and Oates can get away with it, but the younger writer doesn’t have time to spend years toiling away on a work without the certainty it will get published (or even read). The strategy these days is to publish often.
The solution (from the writing side) is to publish larger works with a serial organization. Instead of tightly organized chapters, write chapters that can easily stand alone. A fiction writer can’t risk building only one door into his fictional world; he must build several.
I agree with you completely on Nostromo. The first 1/4 was slow going, but the rest was simply amazing.
Nabokov never really wrote that large of a novel. There’s Ada, which is 500-some pages, but that’s it. Of course, when you make each word count as much as Nabokov did, you tend to take up less space.