Julian Barnes and the Postmodern Problem of Truth Abigail G. Dalton Submitted in Partial Fulfillment of the Prerequisite for Honors in English April 2008 © 2008 Abigail G. Dalton Table of Contents I: Introduction 1 II: Chasing the Writer in Flaubert‘s Parrot 21 III: Objective Truth in A History of the World in 10 ½ Chapters 45 IV: Memory and Obsession in Talking It Over and Love, Etc. 76 Bibliography 93 I: Introduction ―Of course fiction is untrue, but it‘s untrue in a way that ends up telling a greater truth than any other information system – if that‘s what we like to call it – that exists. That always seems to me very straightforward, that you write fiction in order to tell the truth. People find this paradoxical, but it isn‘t.‖1 Julian Barnes is a name that neither academics nor recreational readers are very familiar with. As one of the lesser-known authors among his contemporaries, his work is often overlooked before it even receives the benefit of study. Yet Barnes‘s work, ranging from novels with a traditional narrative, to novels that defy convention, to short stories and essays, experiment with themes and forms which prove that he is, ultimately, worthy of study, and an author to whom readers should look with greater seriousness and academic interest. Those who know him are most familiar with his book, Flaubert‘s Parrot, a novel which is neither story nor biography, intertwining the life of Gustave Flaubert with that of the narrator, Geoffrey Braithwaite, a man whose own story becomes just as convoluted and elusive as Flaubert‘s. But the fascinating thing about Barnes is the extent to which his works differ so distinctly from each other, while clearly and consistently maintaining and exploring specific issues again and again. In each of these works, he pursues subjects central to humanity in different – and innovative – literary contexts. Love, for instance, and its elusiveness and contradictions is explored in nearly every work. Truth, similarly, and the problems in its interpretation and representation, its relation to the ―real‖ and the ―fictional‖, remains a constant source of inspiration and confusion for him – at times to a point of obsession. 1 Rudolph Freiburg and Jan Schnitker, eds. ―Do you consider yourself a postmodern author?‖: Interviews with Contemporary English Writers, 54. 1 My own interest in Barnes began entirely by accident, while slacking on the job at work at a Barnes & Noble in high school. While stacking the Bs in the literature section, I came across A History of the World in 10 ½ Chapters, and began to read rather than shelve. It was, I think, a wise decision academically if not professionally; and over the years the breadth of Barnes material – including his novels, essays, and interviews – has sustained my interest. Each book, I‘ve found, attends anew to fundamental questions: why do people look towards literature as a solution to life? How can a novelist portray truth through a form that is inherently fictional? And what, after all, is the relationship between fiction and reality? Has fiction become more real to us than what we actually experience outside of fiction? Do fiction and reality blend? ―Books,‖ he says in Flaubert‘s Parrot, ―are where things are explained to you; life is where things aren‘t.‖2 But in consistently experimenting with the novel form, in raising again and again the problems provoked by explorations of truth, art, the nature of humanity, he proves otherwise – books, his books, can be just as confounding and uncertain as life. Without ever providing clear truths or answers, he elucidates more about the human condition than most readers acknowledge, and proves how essential the study of literature can be to the study of life. In order to understand Barnes‘s novels, we need context. Barnes has often been categorized as a postmodernist, and an exploration of what, exactly, that term contains is a useful point to begin a discussion of how his texts function. Postmodernism itself invokes innumerable definitions, depending on the field and the scholar. In Postmodern Literature, Ian Gregson provides an apt summation for the literature student: 2 Julian Barnes, Flaubert‘s Parrot, 168. 2 . . . for many of the American literary critics who brought the term postmodernism into circulation in the 1960s and early 1970s, post-modernism is a move away from narrative, from representation . . . the complexities of the term can be reduced this far: humanizing narratives are anti-postmodernist for these purposes, and the move is very much away from representation.3 Postmodernism, then, as this necessarily reductive definition suggests, can be taken as non-narrative and anti-representational. The traditional linear plot is often, if not always, replaced with a far more abstract form, and further, traditional literary elements such as a conclusive ending which satisfies the needs of both reader and character are often absent. Postmodernism defines itself against the narrative linearity of the realist novel. As literature defined as ―modern‖ often steps away from a conventional structure, focusing instead on stream of consciousness rather than story –Virginia Woolf is a particularly good example here – so does postmodern literature. Yet postmodernism goes one step further, insisting that readers recognize the page as a page, and the novel as an object. Barnes himself often abandons traditional narrative form, as Flaubert‘s Parrot exemplifies. It is not a story with a beginning, middle and an end, as an Austen or Eliot novel is. Yet here we begin to see the ways in which Barnes strays from the postmodern form; for however non-traditional his novels may be, they are not anti-representational. A narrative exists, though in an untraditional form. To distinguish Barnes from a more recognizably postmodern novelist, one must look not only to form but also to theme. The themes of the postmodern novel are self- consciously and unremittingly anti-humanist. This impulse distinguishes the postmodern novel from both its realist and modernist predecessors. The issue, Gregson explains, is its 3 Ian Gregson, Postmodern Literature, 2-3. 3 departure from the realism of the traditional novelists, and the humanism of the modern writers: This is an obsessive theme and characteristically postmodernist in its anti-humanist tendency - a point which becomes clearer if it is contrasted with the value placed upon love by classic realist novelists. The centrality of its role in novels by Jane Austen and George Eliot, for example, is tied to a celebration of the human capacity for imaginative sympathy and self-transcendence, and the narrative linking of love and marriage reinforced a send of social stability based upon individual happiness. Postmodernist desire contrasts starkly with this humanist concept: it is an anarchic force that tears selves apart.4 Here we find further evidence of Barnes‘s departure from postmodernism; Barnes, though his novels and stories in no way fulfill the traditional conception of love stories culminating in marriage – the so called ―marriage plot‖ of many realist novels – is nothing if not humanizing. His novels may not contain satisfying conclusions, coherent characters, or linear plots, but their entire focus remains firmly with humanity. His novels are anchored by love and human imagination, and this in itself puts him on the margins of postmodernism. He is neither one thing nor the other. Also essential to the postmodern attitude is a ubiquitous pessimism – a consistent lack of faith in human nature as capable of poignancy or true meaning. Barnes does exhibit undertones of this version of postmodernism; as he states in an interview, Yes, I think there is probably a pervasive melancholy in a lot of what I write. I think that this partly comes from the objective assessment of the human condition, the inevitability of extinction – and also from an objective look at how many people‘s lives turn out and how rarely achievement matches intention. And I recognize such 4 Postmodern Literature, 6. 4 pessimism in the sorts of English writer whom I like and admire . . .5 Those authors, he states, include Evelyn Waugh, Graham Greene, and Ford Maddox Ford – writers who certainly didn‘t use Austen and Eliot novels as templates. There is no forced optimism in his novels, it is true. But melancholy alone does not a postmodernist make. Where we find the closest resemblance between Barnes and postmodernism is in his crossing the boundaries that separate the author and his fiction. Gregson quotes J.G. Ballard‘s description of this ever-mingling convolution: ―The balance between fiction and reality has changed significantly in the past decade. Increasingly their roles are reversed.‖6 What Ballard is describing is the idea that fiction now does more than mirror reality – it can literally be reality, not merely a representation of life but an element thereof. In Barnes‘s novels, the separation between reality and fiction disappears to varying degrees. We are either presented with a narrator who very much engages our participation, thereby demolishing the wall between narrator and author, novel and reality, or with a story that is itself a discussion of where a novel stops and life begins. The problem extends even to the definitions of what is ―real‖ and what is ―true.‖ While in Barnes‘s work the two are often convoluted, and sometimes synonymous, the ―truth‖ of a situation is what is sought but rarely attained by the novel‘s end. ―Reality,‖ or what is ―real,‖ is the world around us, or around the characters. Or, put simply, ―reality‖ is what we and the characters see, the facts with which we and the characters are faced; and ―truth,‖ or a lack thereof, is what we and the characters look for when we try to interpret 5 ―Do you consider yourself a postmodern author?‖: Interviews with Contemporary English Writers, 51. 6 Postmodern Literature, 2. 5 what we‘ve seen. Fiction may be representative of reality, as Barnes‘s books reveal – but unlike reality, they can search for a deeper truth otherwise potentially unattainable. Thus, a connection between reality, fiction and truth is formed. Even his more recognizably realist novels, books which respect traditional narrative form, offer examples of the confusion between life and art. One of Barnes‘s earlier novels, Before She Met Me, is a poignant example. In it, the protagonist, Graham, falls victim to an obsession with his wife‘s history as an actress. The novel dramatizes the blurring line between what is true in art and what is not through Graham‘s inability to tell the difference. But crucially, the validity of both truth and reality are open to dispute. His friend, Jack – a novelist by profession, and perhaps Barnes‘s mouthpiece – describes the problem of telling the truth through fiction: ―Every time I tell a story it‘s different. Can‘t remember how most of them started off any more. Don‘t know what‘s true. Don‘t know where I came from.‖ He put on a sad look, as if someone had stolen his childhood. ―Ah well, just part of the pain and pleasure of the artist‘s life.‖ He was beginning to fictionalize his fictioneering already.7 Jack‘s confusing statement aptly describes the problem of interpreting truth from reality, and provides an early example of the intersection of novel and theory. Barnes introduces theoretical questions into his fiction, albeit in a seemingly benign manner. In doing so, he adheres to a nearly textbook element of postmodernism. Other novels take up the issue; In England, England, for example, a theme park of British history and quintessential ―Englishness‖ is built. By the end of the novel, the project has gone awry, the paid actors and managers so completely confused by their creations, unable to separate reality and 7 Julian Barnes, Before She Met Me, 71. 6 unreality that the project falls into a shambles. Dr. Max, the project historian and intellectual, explains the problem: The pseudonymous author of Nature Notes smiled benignly. ―R-eality is r-ather like a r-abbit, if you‘ll forgive the aphorism. The great public – our distant, happily distant playmasters – want reality to be like a pet bunny. They want it to lollop along and thump its foot picturesquely in its home-made hutch and eat lettuce out of their hand. If you gave them the real thing, something wild that bit, and, if you‘ll pardon me, shat, they wouldn‘t know what to do with it. Except strangle it and cook it. As for being c- onstructed, . . . well, so are you, Miss Cochrane, and so am I, constructed. I, if I may say so, a little more artfully than you.‖8 In both Before She Met Me and England, England, the issue is representation. Jack demonstrates the problem of the artist, the inherent human fallibility that results in trying to find the truth in reality and ending up with fiction, which is merely an endless search for that truth; and Dr. Max deals more with the problem of a conscious misrepresentation of reality. We are all ―constructed,‖ he argues – but how those constructions are represented and interpreted are what make the ultimate difference. When we interpret reality, we are searching for truth. What Dr. Max is commenting on may be perceived as Barnes‘s own comment on, and perhaps admonition of, the average consumer of literature. Reality, particularly realist fiction, is constructed – but what Barnes attempts to do is deconstruct it, to force an interaction and a questioning that other authors do not. But even here, the mere fact of such self-conscious exploration does not make Barnes a postmodern. He explores its themes, but does not follow their form. He tells stories of those who confront it; and it is that investment in telling stories – and significantly, 8 Julian Barnes, England, England, 136. 7 stories that center on a human interpretation of reality and life – that makes him a liminal author, standing on the borders of the realist, modern, and postmodern novel. Barnes himself explicitly convolutes the term and denies any participation within it. He points out his problems with the label of ―postmodernist‖ in an interview with Rudolf Freiburg: Well – I once got into trouble in Italy where I was at a British Council evening – I don‘t know how many years ago but it was certainly after Flaubert’s Parrot, possibly after History of the World – and so the whole question of postmodernism came up, and the question of literary theory. And someone from the audience was asking the question and I said, ‗well actually, you know, I haven‘t read any literary theory,‘ and everyone laughed – because they knew this was the British sense of humour – but then I said, ―no, actually I really haven‘t, you see,‖ and they suddenly began to realize that I was serious and a terrible chill fell over the audience because many of them had worked in universities and devoted several years of their lives to theory and liked to fit my novels into some constructed grid. But at the risk of offending you in turn, I would say that I have never read any literary theory. I‘ve read a few pages of Derrida, I‘ve occasionally been sent theses on my work where there would be a paragraph of quotation from me, in which my purposes seemed to me self-evident and self-explanatory; and then two pages of a sort of Derridaish prose which seemed to me to make the whole thing much less clear than it was in the first place [laughs]. To answer your question straightforwardly: in my case there is no continuing dialogue between writing fiction and literary theory. I‘m deliberately unaware of literary theory. Novels come out of life, not out of theories about life or literature, it seems to me . . . I think that when literary theory drives literature, the danger is you get something fundamentally arid as the nouveau roman.9 What Barnes denies – any knowledge of literary theory or adherence thereto – shouldn‘t discourage readers from considering the theoretical impulse at work in his texts. Rather, 9 ―Do you consider yourself a postmodern author?‖: Interviews with Contemporary English Writers, 52. 8