On Moral Fiction (Basic Books Classics)

Rating:
Summary: Fresh Air
Review: Gardner's work certainly won't appeal to postmodernists or other avant-garde scribblers who believe form takes precedence over content. His thesis is simple: all art purports to better the world, not hinder it; all art essentially believes in a form of goodness, truth, beauty, whatever you want to call it, in the sense that it affirms that there is an inherent value in life and no value in "valuelessness." He comes down strongly on writers who write like "writers," and where style becomes more important than the timeless art of storytelling. All this probably won't be very compelling to many of the readers who cling to the works of 60s writers like Pynchon, Gass, Coover, et al., who write thinly disguised treatises, not novels, and who people their books not with characters but mannequins. There is something old fashioned about Gardner's point of view, which won't win him many hipster fans, but his argument, this reader feels, stands up even stronger in today's climate where the main literary trends seem to consist of endless irony, facile references to pop culture and television. Furthermore, his book is lucid, trenchant, passionate, engaging, and of course, confrontational.

Rating:
Summary: Mutual Exclusivity?
Review: I enjoy Gardner's critical and educational writings even when I disagree, as with the idea of the indispensible "fictional dream." I'd like to point out, though, something other reviewers here seem to have either missed or mistaken for a contradiction. The avant garde and postmodernism seem to be placed, by these reviewers, at the opposite end of the scale from that which Gardner promotes. Meanwhile, Gardner clearly didn't believe that postmodernism and the avant garde were useless and irresponsible, as he himself wrote odd, postmodern novels while remaining within his own guidelines. He was also a vocal fan of much of Barthelme's work, as well as Beckett's. The avant garde is not the opposite pole from what Gardner intends, and he never suggested it was.

Rating:
Summary: A most wonderful conversation
Review: I first read this book in the 1970's when it was new. I've owned a copy ever since, and I've given so many away as gifts that I've lost count.

It is easily my favorite book. From the moment I first read it, until today; I open its pages and feel as if I'm having a literary conversation with an old friend.

The "moral" in the title puts off some folks, but don't be deterred. Gardner uses the term "moral" as you or I would use the word "truth." All Gardner is imploring is that authors seek the truth when writing fiction and avoid cheap tricks and cheap effects. That is all.

Yes, Gardner did feel that writing comes with a responsibility. He also felt it was nothing less than a privilege, and thus comes the responsibility that goes with privilege.

Buy it, enjoy it. If you share Gardner's view (as illustrated in the paragraph above, I promise you -- you will cherish this volume).

Rating:
Summary: Postmodern novelist tells all!
Review: I have to tell you, I don't get Gardner. To start with, he writes this book mainly as a gag to rile folks up. And some buy his confidence game, forgetting, as they do, that one of Gardner's favorite novelists was Melville. Because, if you're paying attention, he then goes on to write one postmodern novel after another. Grendel. October Light. The King's Indian. Mickelsson's Ghosts. Each more metafictional than the last. So what if his name's not Barth, or Barthelme, or Barthes, it might have been Barthgardner, for all the Barthing going on. He's as postmodern as they come. Don't let him fool you. Pynchon is his only rival as a writer of apocalyptic fantasy.

You might put it this way. And this is the nice way to put it. Gardner's theories and his practice don't match. Of course the gulf between them isn't the same as the one between Wordsworth's ideas and their reality. His injunction to write in the language truly spoken by men runs counter to the bookish and allusive poetry. But where Wordsworth was harmlessly mouthing Coleridge's Kant-addled dream dictums, what Gardner is doing seems much more deliberate and foul. Or funny, depending on the way you look at it. I mean, the fact that people actually FELL for this ruse is astonishing.

Rating:
Summary: A provocative discussion
Review: It is dangerous to write a book claiming (to oversimplify Gardner's argument considerably) that the arts must above all be "life-affirming." It opens one up to accusations of priggishness, of fuddy-duddyness.

Gardner can indeed be difficult to take, especially when he rambles on at length about the Good, the True, and the Beautiful. It is more difficult, though, not to agree with him when he insists that the vast majority of art produced today is essentially worthless. (The title is slightly misleading: his focus is on fiction, but he discusses contemporary theatre, poetry, and music as well.) Those of us who have trouble thinking of guys like John Updike, John Barth, and Thomas Pynchon as "major" authors will find a friend in Gardner, who is not one to mince words.

Fortunately, Gardner is aware that the world of art cannot be reduced to black-and-white contrasts; for all his self-righteous fire, it is obvious that he has considered his position well. Clearly, he knows a lot about the history of art.

His argument here is, I think, largely sound--but I am personally not certain whether we would be better off if we had an army of young writers eager to affirm all that is Good, True, and Beautiful. Bad art is nothing new--the late Roman Empire was rife with would-be Homers. The existence of bad art has less to do with our hopelessly decadent times than with the inherent difficulty involved in creating timeless masterpieces, as well as the perennial scarcity of real talent. And one really does not have to be a "moral" critic to find fault with authors like William Gass. Gardner certainly has some valid points here, and this book is definitely worth reading, but as a call to arms I wonder how much value it really has. But perhaps you should read this book and judge for yourself.

Rating:
Summary: An Essential Screed
Review: This book created some stir when originally published, perhaps due more to the naming of names (of peers Gardner judged arrogant/irresponsible/careless) than to the deeper ideas/passions which inform it. One star is subtracted for poor strategy, excessive willingness to engage on turf occupied/fortified by his not at all innocent victims. Gardner does get lost, from time to time, in one abstract philosophical swamp or another. The book may be needlessly long. But the writing rings true, finally. This is the most ambitious literary argument published during the past fifty years, certainly, and it is essentially on the mark. The academic canon was tilting dangerously in the direction of empty opaque diddling during the seventies, choked with very talented hip and superhip cynics, often on university payrolls, weary of the ancient plain work of shaping stories. The vogue was so universal that Gardner fails to find a single working American high lit contender (excluding himself, we trust) to like without heavy reservations. He does favor one Englishman, at least. This ground is tricky. Some of the writing disdained/derided seeks, in various ways, to imitate James Joyce, who is granted a semi-pass, and Ezra Pound is not properly whapped until near the end. Connecting the wave of mean arrogant cleverness to its obvious roots counts, has consequences. Gardner, who died by motorcycle accident in the early eighties, may have been just beginning to fight.