Coincidentally,
two days later a reader asked why I didn’t read “experimental fiction.” It’s a
phrase that never quite made sense. An experiment tests a hypothesis. What does
most experimental fiction test besides the reader’s patience? When I was much
younger I had a taste for reader-defying books – Joseph McElroy, Coover, Gilbert Sorrentino, Arno
Schmidt, Gass and the rest of the usual suspects. That wasn’t a complete waste
of time. Except for McElroy, all had their pleasing moments – but at such a
cost. In an interview, William Maxwell once said: “After 40 years, what I came
to care about most was not style, but the breath of life.” The two qualities
are not incompatible, as Maxwell’s own novels suggest. In his chapter on
Eugenio Montale in Cultural Amnesia
(2007), Clive James writes:
“In any kind
of bad art, it is when the gift is gone that the experiment really does take
over – the eternally cold experiment that promises to make gold out of lead,
and bricks without straw. Leaving coldness aside (and we should leave it aside,
because barren artistic experimentation can also be done in a white-hot
frenzy), it might be useful to mention that Montale, in another essay, came up
with the perfect term for a work of art that had no other subject except its
own technique. He called it the seasoning without the roast.”
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