Drinking Coffee Elsewhere By ZZ Packer and Short People By Joshua Furst

Drinking Coffee Elsewhere                                                    

By ZZ Packer 

and

Short People

By Joshua Furst

Two debut collections of short stories by young American writers, one loudly and quite clearly Black, the other quietly but quite probably Jewish. Both, unsurprisingly, are unified by their explorations of the trials and tribulations of growing up. Both are edgily perceptive, depicting a society starkly divided along racial and economic lines, where parents – especially fathers – are feckless or powerless or pompous, or in some other way inadequate, and counsellors and shrinks deal in the devalued currency of cliché, doling out predictably meaningless platitudes.

ZZ Packer partakes of the rambling, discursive style associated with Alice Munro, punctuated by startlingly resonant and insightful sentences. The title story deals with the alienation of Dina, a poor, motherless, black freshman (woman?) at Yale, whose admission during an orientation game that the inanimate object she’d most like to be is a revolver wins her a year’s worth of psychiatric counselling and her own room. She develops an awkward friendship with overweight Canadian Heidi, who is in something of a fugue state as regards her sexual preferences. The Yale setting invites an autobiographical identification, as Packer is a graduate of that institution. As well as the inescapable question of race relations, the exigencies of fundamentalist religion loom large here too. ‘Brownies’ concerns a troop of black girls who believe they have been racially offended, only to discover that the white troop perpetrators are not what they first seem. ‘Every Tongue Shall Confess’ tells of Claresse, an over-zealous evangelical nurse. ‘Speaking in Tongues’ follows 14-year-old church girl Tia as she runs away to the big city in search of the mother who abandoned her, while ‘The Ant of Self’ features a bright young man’s last-ditch attempt to understand his reprobate father during their trip to the Million Man March in Washington DC. ‘Geese’ features Dina again, this time vacuously cut loose in a Tokyo underworld of shiftless down and outs.   

Joshua Furst could more usefully be aligned with the smart, slick tone of Bret Easton Ellis or David Foster Wallace. He echoes their awareness of multiple ironies. The best story, ‘The Good Parents’, deals with a couple who realize ‘that perhaps they had indeed been oh-so-slightly “too permissive” right from the get-go’, and so call Social Services on themselves. The hero finally comes to see that his hippie liberal father had ‘aligned himself with the underclass but wanted them to be more like him, like the person he’d turned himself into’. Elsewhere, we encounter in ‘The Age of Exploration’ Jason and Billy, best friends who discover by the age of six how to conquer the world, only to see this idyll then shatter; and in ‘This Little Light’ there’s Shawn, who is tortured by religious parents, and whose baptism compels him to make life a holy hell for everyone around him. Scariest of all is another mad nurse, in ‘Failure to Thrive’, who believes that some of the new-born babies in her care talk to her and ask her to spare them the horrible lives that awaiting them, and so she ‘hands them back to heaven’, or rather, assists their early deaths. She kills, or as she has it, ‘saves’, fourteen in all.  

Both of these collections deserve attention, and auger well for their authors’ future work.  

First published in the Irish Independent

The Gentle Island & Give Me Your Answer, Do! By Brian Friel

Having seen each of these plays, the texts of which are now being published, performed at some time or other over the years, this reviewer would appear to be in an ideal position to launch into a discussion of, and a reflection upon, the comparisons and contrasts between a document and how it works as drama, a play and how it works in production, a script and how it works on stage, a text and how it works as theatre. But every production of a play is different, so why use the one I saw as a yardstick? And every performance of a production is different, so why use the night I was there as a yardstick? Theatre, like film or television, is essentially a collaborative process, and the playwright, unlike the poet or novelist, cannot hope for that much autonomy. Despite the sometimes extraordinary lengths to which some playwrights have gone and will go to safeguard their work from deviating from their vision, (e.g. Beckett insisting on no changes from the original text when giving permission for his plays to be performed, Friel directing Give Me Your Answer, Do!), or the phenomenon of the auteur director in cinema, this will always be the case. There are directors, actors, set designers, lighting and sound personnel, all of whom contribute to the overall package which is finally presented before the audience. Then there’s the audience itself, but that’s another story. So much for pure intentionality. But how do the scripts, in this case Friel’s, which are the starting point for all that follows, stand up?

The Gentle Island

By Brian Friel

(The Gallery Press, hb £10.95, pb £5.95)

It is not my intention here to write an appraisal of Brian Friel’s long career, but merely to address the plays under review. One crude division that can be applied to Friel’s work is between the plays which are predominantly private monologues and those which are public ensemble pieces. Both The Gentle Island and Give Me Your Answer, Do!, with their large casts, fall into the latter category. Also, neither displays much evidence of one of the most striking facets of Friel’s work, his concern with form, which has given rise to his dramaturgical innovations.

The ironically titled The Gentle Island concerns a small rural community on the island of Inishkeen, off the west coast of Co Donegal, with the time given as ‘the present’, (the play was first produced in November, 1971). Everyone, with the exception of Manus Sweeney and his family - his sons Philly and Joe, and Philly’s wife Sarah - is emigrating, to London, Manchester or Glasgow, since the island can no longer support its population. Manus is now ‘King of Inishkeen, King of nothing’, as Joe puts it. On the day of the mass exodus, just after the departure, Philly returns from fishing to announce that he has caught a hundred and thirty salmon, ‘Nothing under five pounds’. But it is clear from subsequent conversations that the Sweeneys, like all the islanders, have been living off the pickings taken from crashed aeroplanes and floundered ships, which have accumulated over the years. There is an implied criticism of Sarah by Manus, because she and Philly have failed to produce offspring.

Into this fraught atmosphere come middle-aged Peter, and his companion Shane, twenty years his junior, Dubliners who are touring on a camping holiday. It gradually emerges (to the audience, not to the Sweeneys) that they are lovers, Peter looking for a commitment from Shane, ‘a modest permanence’ as he calls it, Shane being more subversive, both of their relationship and of the islanders’ way of life. Sarah gets around to propositioning Shane, since Philly is ‘no good to me’, and is playfully and politely refused. Sarah subsequently sees Philly and Shane in flagrante delicto, ‘doing for the tramp what he couldn’t do for me’, and, in an act weirdly reminiscent of Pegeen Mike’s turning on Christy in Synge’s The Playboy of the Western World, shoots Shane, when Manus lacks the courage to do so. ‘Even if he lives he’ll never walk again,’ Joe tells us.

This was probably a brave play for its time, but things have changed considerably in the past twenty-six years, or even in the past six. The love that dare not speak its name now shouts its name from every rooftop, and gay culture is now so much part of the mainstream that a play about its clash with tradition is perhaps not as ground-breaking or relevant as it once was. The theme has also been explored in much more detail in some of the plays of Frank McGuinness. The Gentle Island is one of the more minor works in the Friel canon, since its doesn’t ascend to the mythic scale of the major plays. However, Gallery are to be complimented on providing a useful service in making the texts of all the plays not already published by Faber & Faber available, since they are a resource for both the general reader and the research student.

Give Me Your Answer, Do!

By Brian Friel

(The Gallery Press, hb £12.95, pb £6.95)

Such is the respect and reverence for Friel among his peers that the burden of audience expectation must weigh heavily on him. It is becoming increasingly difficult for him to better his own best, to reinvent himself and his art anew with each new production, and to avoid repetition. With this latest piece, he has given us a timely meditation on the nature and function of art, the validity of aesthetic judgement which is inevitably influenced by the demands of the marketplace, and the personal costs to be paid by the artist and those close to him for his work. Who better to do this than an acknowledged master?

Tom Connolly is a serious but materially unsuccessful novelist, counterpointed with his friend and fellow-novelist Garret Fitzmaurice, whose work is popular but bland. They are criticised and judged, supported and loved, by their respective wives, Daisy and Grainne. Jack and Maggie, Daisy’s parents, are another couple fraught with foibles. The dramatis personae are completed by David Knight, a literary agent deciding whether the Texas university he is representing will buy Tom’s manuscripts for its Irish archive (he has already secured a handsome sum for Garret’s papers); and Bridget, the Connellys’ silent and mentally disturbed daughter, incarcerated in an asylum, whom Tom regales loquaciously, at the beginning and the end, with fantastic stories, which are extrapolated surreally from actual events at home. Tom is waiting for an answer from these last two, just as he is waiting for an answer from Daisy, and ultimately from himself.

Criticisms of an otherwise brave play are that it does tend to hinge on a false dichotomy: the choice between taking the money and selling out, or refusing it and keeping one’s integrity. This is simplistically black and white. Why not accept the offer but not let it impinge on one’s notion of self-worth? And even if and when the Texas university does buy Tom’s archive, does that automatically mean that ‘the work has value - yes, yes, yes! Here is the substantial confirmation, the tangible evidence! The work must be good!’, as Daisy says in her final speech? I think not. After all, it has already taken Garret’s work.

It is hinted that Tom may have sexually abused Bridget and that this is responsible for her nervous collapse, (otherwise why does Tom call two unpublished novels he wrote immediately after she got sick ‘pornographic’?), but this angle is never developed, so that it slipped by every other reviewer without a mention when the play premiered.

There are also a few too many heavily sign-posted speeches, particularly from Daisy, and the Fitzmaurices, where subtle implication would have been preferable. Characters tell rather than show, bare their souls verbally for all to hear, and discuss and analyse in private conversations they’ve just had in public. While talking to each other, they are telling the audience the reasons they have just acted as they have. This is at its most obvious and banal when Garret declares: ‘I’m such a shit, Grainne. Who knows that better than I?’ These segments are undramatic, and while they may read well on the page, they make poor theatre. Perhaps this would have been ameliorated on stage if Friel had left the direction of his script to someone else.

But these comments should not cloud what is an impressive work. The radical scepticism Friel has brought to bear on language, (Translations, The Communication Cord), memory (Faith Healer) and history (Making History), is here employed on art. This is writing questioning itself. ‘Audiences impose limits on us,’ says Grainne to Garret at one point, referring to how they behave towards each other in public, but maybe in his play’s title Friel is addressing we who are watching his work, or even himself, just as his central character is. Wittgenstein’s famous formulation, ‘Whereof we cannot speak, thereof we must be silent’, is another quotation invoked here, and towards the end Daisy says: ‘Uncertainty is necessary...Because there can be no verdicts, no answers. Indeed there must be no verdicts. Because being alive is the postponement of verdicts, isn’t it?’ It is, but perhaps one shouldn’t pay too much attention to the verdicts of Texan universities. Or, for that matter, of Books Ireland reviewers.

“Traduzioni” E Altri Drammi

a cura di Carla de Petris

(Bulzoni Editore, L 48,000)

Signora de Petris lectures in Anglo-Irish Literature in Rome University, and has written a thesis on Brendan Behan, edited the second and third volumes of Joyce Studies in Italy, where she examined Joyce’s influence on the next generation of writers, edited a new Italian edition of Joyce’s play Exiles, and contributed an essay on Dante and Seamus Heaney to Critical Essays on Heaney (New York, 1995), edited by Robert F Garratt. Here she provides good, readable Italian translations of Faith Healer, Translations and Dancing at Lughnasa, plus a knowledgeable and scholarly introductory essay, which places Friel in the grand tradition of Yeats, Synge, O’Casey and Beckett. She highlights the theme of the difficulties of communication in Friel, not only between the public and private selves, but also between cultures that colonialism has arbitrarily put in contact, and suggests that the reappropriation of a pure physical language, the dance, is the way of overcoming the discomfort of being prisoners of history and of contemporary society.

One could indulge in metaphysical speculation about a translation of Translations, a play whose central conceit is that the characters who are supposed to be speaking in Irish are actually speaking in English on stage, a comment perhaps on the decline of Irish-speaking in Ireland, where it is paid official lip-service, but very few people actually speak it with any degree of fluency, and therefore the piece could not be understood if it actually was in Irish, unless it actually was translated. But one won’t.

Again, Bulzoni are providing a useful service in making these plays available for Italian readers, and Signora de Petria is to be congratulated on her endeavours.

An Age of Innocence (Irish Culture 1930-1960) By Brian Fallon

An Age of Innocence (Irish Culture 1930-1960)

By Brian Fallon

(Gill & Macmillian)

Brian Fallon, the semi-retired former chief critic of The Irish Times, has produced a book of cultural counter-revisionism, the central thesis of which is that the thirties, forties and fifties in Ireland were not nearly as bad as is universally accepted today, and that the country was not the cultural backwater or desert that everyone now seems to suppose.

Aside from cataloguing the literary, artistic and intellectual activity of these years, he also argues that the pendulum has swung too far in the other direction. He sets about putting us right by focusing on three main areas. Firstly, there was the power and authority of the Catholic Church during these years, and the unquestioning obedience of the majority to it. He makes the point that, ‘Unthinking clericalism has simply given way to unthinking anti-clericalism; the coin has been flipped to come down heads instead of tails - but it remains the same well-worn coin.’ Secondly, referring to the monomaniacal nationalism of the era, and contrasting it with the cosmopolitan image of itself Ireland is obsessed with creating today, he asks, ‘Yet is not a large part of this frenzied internationalism at heart inverted provincialism, the product of an unsure, partly-fledged culture lacking the courage to be wholeheartedly itself? Where once we looked to and deferred to Britain in so many fields, we now look to the EU to tell us what we should be thinking and doing.’ Thirdly, there was the notorious literary censorship of the period, but he finds its present day corollary in the all-pervasive phenomenon of Political Correctness, opining that, ‘Political Correctness indeed appears to be the official cant of out time - the contemporary equivalent of Victorian hypocrisy, or of the socio-religious conformity of a large section of the Irish public forty or fifty years ago.’ He also maintains that things were just as bad internationally as they were here. Indeed, this is this trump card again and again, and he refers to the hostile treatment meted out to D H Lawrence in England, and the Hayes rules which operated in Hollywood and the general atmosphere under McCarthyism in America. Joyce’s Ulysses was never actually banned in Ireland, as many people believe (it was just not readily available), while it was proscribed in England and America for some years.

While he admits that, ‘It goes without saying that all these accusations have a solid core of truth; the historical evidence is sometimes overwhelming, and it has been spelt out ad nauseam’, and there is no doubting his bona fides, since as he writes in the introductory chapter ‘In Perspective’, ‘How much more intelligent, and more constructive, it is to come to terms creatively with the past than to manipulate it like a diseased limb, or put it under interdict!’ However it does seem to this reader that in trying to redress an admittedly skewed balance, and provide a much needed corrective, he himself goes too far in the opposite direction.

First published in The World of Hibernia

My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead – Great Love Stories from Chekhov to Munro Edited by Jeffrey Eugenides

My Mistress’s Sparrow Is Dead – Great Love Stories from Chekhov to Munro

Edited by Jeffrey Eugenides

(HarperPress, £12.99stg hardback)

This wide-ranging and eclectic anthology of twenty-six short stories on the theme of love embraces its subject in many of its various forms: romantic, erotic, impossible, unrequited, undying and exhausted. However, conspicuous by their omission are happy love stories, or at least those with happy endings.

As editor Jeffery Eugendies, author of the wonderful The Virgin Suicides and the even more brilliant Middlesex, taking his cue from the Latin love poet Catullus, writes in his playful introduction in response to his own writerly recasting of Cole Porter’s famous question, ‘What is this thing called a love story?’: ‘…my subject here isn’t love. My subject is the love story…When it comes to love, there are a million theories to explain it. But when it comes to love stories, things are simpler. A love story can never be about full possession. The happy marriage, the requited love, the desire that never dims – these are lucky eventualities but they aren’t love stories. Love stories depend on disappointment, on unequal births and feuding families, on matrimonial boredom and at least one cold heart. Love stories, nearly without exception, give love a bad name.’ Or, as Catullus, ‘…the first poet in the ancient world to write about a personal love affair in an extended way’ would have had it, given the brief trajectory outlined from poem II to poem III of the many he penned in honour of or frustration with his mistress Lesbia, in each of the stories here ‘…either there is a sparrow or the sparrow is dead.’ In other words, as far as eros or desire is concerned, we generally proceed from voyeuristic longing to disenchanted entanglement. It is only in agape or friendship, Eugenides seems to suggest, ‘When the body is no longer desired, when beauty has faded, when possessiveness has been relinquished, (that) real love shows its face.’

Our editor indulges himself in a rather ropey two sentence history of western philosophy to arrive at this insight. Personally, I can find little evidence of ‘...the earthiness of Judaism, a sense of the body and its sexual appetites as inherently good’ in Leviticus, for example, and his declaration: ‘Asceticism, abstinence, monasticism – you can blame it all on the Greeks’ is fatally compromised by blaming Plato for Neoplatonism. Let’s not even start on what that zealous revisionist, St. Paul, did to Christianity. Rather than looking for those culpable for perpetrating the excesses of the mind/body duality, maybe there is a more fundamental reason why there are no happy love stories: love is hard because life is.

Eugenides is on far surer ground as a literary critic. Having gone through all the stories gathered here, from classics of the genre like Chekhov’s delightfully ambivalent ‘The Lady with the Little Dog’ and Maupassant’s ‘Mouche’ to rather more gritty contemporary fare like Raymond Carver’s arbitrarily inconclusive ‘What We Talk About When We Talk About Love’ and Denis Johnson’s ‘Dirty Wedding’, via contributions from Milan Kundera, Robert Musil, Grace Paley, Alice Munro, Lorrie Moore and Richard Ford, plus our own William Trevor and two from Harold Brodkey (the only writer so favoured), it is hard for this reader not to agree with this judicious anthologist’s equally bold assertion, ‘…rereading ‘Spring in Fialta’ reminded me how much better Nabokov is than everybody else.’ The lush lyricism seduces, the pencil is in hand to mark those incomparable phrases that will be savoured again. But however much the aesthete may propound his doctrine of art for art’s sake, the showiness is never for its own sake: a heartbreaking narrative of loss is unfolded here.

Not every entry is a hit: Gilbert Sorrentino’s ‘The Moon in its Flight’, which manages to be both retro and postmodern in its depiction of a pair of teenagers constantly thwarted by fully-clothed sex, is too annoyingly telegramatic in style to be truly affecting. Similarly, Eileen Chang’s ‘Red Rose, White Rose’, despite its length, is too telegraphed and simplistic to ever really get inside its central character’s motivations. That said, as with any anthology, this is hardly for reading from cover to cover, but is best dipped into from time to time, to discover a new voice, or revisit an old one. 

This assemblage is being marketed as the perfect St. Valentine’s Day gift, and it is indeed an elegant package, replete with dedication box inside the flyleaf. Caveat emptor, however, for the irony is that these often tortuous and sometimes tragic tales are as far from the fluffily reassuring, cosy complacencies of ‘chick lit’ or ‘rom-com’ as it is possible to imagine. The guy rarely gets his girl, or the woman her man, or if they do, it doesn’t work out quite as they thought it would. Just so you know…

First published in the Sunday Independent

What Are You Like? By Anne Enright

What Are You Like?

By Anne Enright

(Jonathan Cape, p/b, £10)

The colloquial, jokey inquiry, usually delivered when someone has done something unbelievable stupid, takes on a more sinister undertow in the title of Anne Enright’s fine new novel, as do many other casual phrases and situations we tend to take for granted in the everyday world. But then doubling, or a second thought bifurcating out of a first one, giving two thoughts at the same time (which is what a pun is), is integral to this work, no more so than in the fact that we have twin heroines, Maria and Rose, separated at birth and unaware of each other’s existence. The story alternates between Maria in New York, Rose in London, stopping off now and then at the home of their father Berts and his second wife Evelyn in Dublin, their mother having died when they were born, until the denouement, when all comes together.    

If shifting constructs of identity, and its ultimately arbitrary nature, are what preoccupy Mary Morrissy in The Pretender, so too do they intrigue Enright, and both women’s vision operates in a more personal, and therefore more universal way than the irritatingly narrow focus on post-colonial Irish identity we hear so much about from the Irish Studies Departments of universities, in their study of Irish literature (i.e. literature made by people who were born or live in Ireland). Indeed, the only place where Enright’s formally fluid and capacious book goes a little awry is in a section called ‘The Abortionist’s Restaurant’, where Rose ponders on her Irish identity, or lack of it. This reads like a graft that didn’t quite take, as though included as a sop to the academies, and is the only time when Enright’s cleverness and imagination become a trifle heavy-handed, instead of being both light and profound. When we read Gabriel Garcia Marquez, are we worrying about Columbian national identity?

The twin motif has long appealed to the more metaphysical of minds, providing as it does an image of a lost self, or future, uncreated self, so that the self is not quite whole, or is not the whole self, which amounts to almost the same thing. Mistaken identities, and their resolution, often across class and gender lines, are a staple of Boccaccio and Chaucer, and were often filched wholesale by Shakespeare. Nabokov delights in it, and it is central to Banville’s Birchwood and Mephisto. Scottish writer Ali Smith covered recognisably similar philosophical territory, although concerning friends rather than twins, in her novel entitled, with succinct appropriateness, Like. But similarity is not identity.

Although not plot driven, what happens is that when Maria turns twenty, she falls in love, in the wrong city, with the wrong sort of man. Going through his things, she finds a photo of herself when she was twelve years old. She has the same smile, but she is wearing clothes she never had: she is the same, only different. Stepping through the mirror to tell the story of two women, both haunted by their missing selves, both unable to settle in their first choice vocations of engineering and musicianship, What Are You Like? is a deftly written disquisition on families and - dread word - identity. In its choice of topos, it takes on an almost mythic resonance. Coincidentally, again like Morrissy, it includes a revealing passage from a dead woman in her grave.

Perhaps the quirky, incongruous, oblique style favoured by Enright, and her Irish contemporary Aidan Mathews, is more suited to shorter forms, rather than full-length novels, just as they were more successful vehicles for someone who must surely be one of their mentors, Donald Barthelme, than were some of his longer prose works. What Are You Like? marks an advance on Enright’s somewhat airy 1995 novel, The Wig My Father Wore, but the eloquently laconic voice of the stories in the 1991 Rooney Prize winning collection The Portable Virgin still rings true with most assurance. But it’s novels that matter these days, apparently. However, writers from Lawrence Sterne to Flann O’Brien have shown that straight ahead narrative is not the only game in town when it comes to longer forms, and this is a noble tradition which it is to be sincerely hoped that Enright has the courage to persist in pursuing. It certainly makes a change from ninety percent of the material which passes for challenging new Irish fiction at the present time.

First published in Books Ireland

Crazy John and the Bishop By Terry Eagleton

Crazy John and the Bishop

By Terry Eagleton

(University of Notre Dame Press in association with Field Day, No Price Given)

Ever since he burst on to the scene some thirty years ago with Marxism and Literary Criticism, Terry Eagleton, now Thomas Warton Professor of English Literature at Oxford, has been both prolific and polemical, his mixture of literary scholarship, critical acuity, and social concern having the incendiary force of a hand grenade tossed into the stuffy, fuddy-duddy sherry party milieu of English academia back then, some of whose staid attributes and attitudes remain entrenched even today. Crazy John and the Bishop, following on from 1996’s Heathcliff and the Great Hunger, and his play Saint Oscar, continues Eagleton’s interest and inquiry into Irish cultural history, often confronting the vexed relationship between the Irish and the English.

Crazy John and the Bishop is made up of ten essays which stretch from the eighteenth century to the present day. Topics range from Augustan satire and sentimentalism to the modern Irish novel, from the carnivalesque in early nineteenth century Cork to the philosophy of John Toland and Bishop Berkeley. Eagleton also moves between well-known, even celebrated writers to less familiar, even neglected ones.  

The opening essay aims for a close critical dissection of the little remembered eighteenth-century poet William Dunkin, calling him ‘at least as fine a poet as many of his English counterparts who have found their assured niche in the eighteenth-century canon’. There are also studies of Thomas Moore, W B Yeats and Samuel Beckett, the latter piece brilliantly illuminating some of the darker paradoxes that lie at the heart of Beckett’s work, and dealing with the problems it presents for traditional liberal humanist criticism. The title essay focuses on John Toland and Bishop Berkeley, and examines Irish eighteenth-century history of ideas in general. ‘The Good-Natured Gael’ explores concepts of ‘benevolence’ and ‘sensibility’, and includes a long segment on Oliver Goldsmith, as well as some wonderful insights on Lawrence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, one of this reviewer’s favourite novels. ‘Cork and the Carnivalesque’ looks at notions of parody, comedy and plagiarism in relation to Irish writing, with particular reference to Frances Mahony (‘Father Prout’) and William McGinn. The theme of the Irish ‘internal émigré’ is featured in ‘Home and Away’, and discusses the work of a broad span of novelists including Maria Edgeworth, Kate O’Brien and Francis Stuart. The cultural and political stance of the book emerges most clearly in the pieces on the largely forgotten Irish socialist Frederick Ryan, ‘The Ryan Line’, and the concluding examination of the revisionist controversy, ‘Revisionism Revisited’. In this essay, full of ingenious juxtapositions, he argues that the debate between traditionalists and revisionists, or conservatives and liberals, is redundant, since what is being proposed is as good or as bad as what went before, and the impasse can only be solved by a radical alternative. ‘There seems little point in replacing the myth of the Celt with the myth of Europe’ he writes, while acknowledging that, ‘There is not much point in trying to convince a Dublin advertising executive that modernity can be every bit as emotionally devastating and spiritually mutilating as lounging unemployed and sexually guilt-ridden at the country crossroads’.

If there is a criticism to be made of this bravura performance, it is that perhaps Eagleton writes too fast. He is rich in ideas, but these are sometimes thrown out at the expense of style. But then again, he would probably have his own rather jaundiced view of essayists who have a reputation for fine writing, and find themselves dubbed stylists, the noun often preceded by the qualifying adjective ‘mere’.

This book is another fine contribution to ‘Critical Conditions’, the Field Day series of books of essays and monographs, whose general editor is Seamus Deane. It adds to Field Day’s reputation as one of the most worthwhile ventures in modern Irish intellectual life.

First published in The World of Hibernia

Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi By Geoff Dyer

Jeff in Venice, Death in Varanasi

By Geoff Dyer

(Canongate, £12.99stg p/b)

Geoff Dyer’s new work is very much a book of two halves. Indeed, he was going to subtitle it ‘a diptych’, until his inner editor prevailed in its judgment of such a move as pretentious. Still, the structure of the new novel may prove disconcerting to some, reading more like two novellas than one novel.

The first ‘Jeff in Venice’ half is familiar Dyer territory: it features a third-person male narrator, Jeff, who is much the same age and height as Geoff, and works as a freelance arts journalist just like Geoff. ‘Junket Jeff’ goes to Venice for the 2003 Biennale, gets wasted on bellinis, grass and cocaine, and clicks with a very attractive, younger Californian gallery worker, Laura, with who he has an intensely carnal, hedonistic fling.

So, for the second ‘Death in Varanasi’ sequence, you are set up to expect some kind of continuation of Jeff and Laura's relationship elsewhere. Instead, you get a first-person narrative from an unnamed narrator, who may or may not be Jeff (it’s never made explicit, though you tend to assume they are one and the same) who accepts a travel writing gig to the holy city of Varanasi at the mouth of the Ganges in India. It’s not even clear whether the second half chronologically follows the first. By the time you realise that ‘love interest’ Laura isn't going to reappear, that she’s been abandoned mid-book, it’s hard not to feel a little disappointed. 

Dyer has explicated his methodology, rather fancifully, thus: ‘Just as everyone is an avatar of someone else in Hindu myth, so the characters are different incarnations of each other.’ Whatever; what is certainly clear is that what we have here is an attempt to write prose fiction that is not narrative-driven, that favours the byways of digression over a well-planned, or well-plotted, journey.

Consequently, although the slacker laureate, as he has been dubbed (it is surely something of a misnomer, since few ‘slackers’ are as prolific as he) has this time produced a work of what is ostensibly billed as fiction, his fourth to date, don’t be fooled: classification is always tricky with Dyer, as he is as adept at critical essay, reportage and travelogue as he is at fiction (if not more so), but happiest when fashioning them all into something entirely his own. This assertion, coupled with the diversity of his interests, is evidenced across a back catalogue which includes titles which range from: Ways of Telling: The Work of John Berger; The Missing of the Somme; Out of Sheer Rage: In the Shadow of D. H. Lawrence; What Was True: The Photographs and Notebooks of William Gedney; The Ongoing Moment, an idiosyncratic history of photography; and But Beautiful, an astoundingly wonderful synthesis of fact and fiction, with a penetrating critical essay as a coda, described by Keith Jarrett as, ‘The only book about jazz I have recommended to my friends.’ The downside of this magpie-mindedness, if there is one, is that because non-fiction for him is just another location on the fiction continuum, his fiction proper (forgive the crude categorisation) can feel a bit samey and lightweight. Again, Dyer on Dyer: ‘I do understand my limitations as a fiction writer, which is why my novels are always going to be close to home.’

In his defense it might be argued, with reference to writers who are connoisseurs of their own consciousness from Montaigne to Barthes: why bother trying to make stuff up, when your own preoccupations and obsessions, and what you make of them, are so riveting? Besides, no one actually believes in the elaborate fictive worlds created by the likes of Henry James anymore. (Jeff in Venice at one point compares himself ironically to ‘…some sad fuck in a Henry James’ novel.’) Novels are so over: read Geoff (Jeff) Dyer.

What we have here, I suppose, is a superior sort of Bloke Fiction, a male equivalent of the better Chick Lit. Thus, if Jeff is a bit like Geoff, he is also a bit like me. Jeff on freelancing: ‘If it were a proper job, I’d pack it in and do something else, but freelancing is the something else that you do after you’ve packed in your job so my options are kind of limited. It’s that or retirement – from which it is at times pretty much indistinguishable.’ Hey, I can identify with that. This being the Biennale, there is also some fun and penetrating contemporary art criticism. Even in Varanasi, the lack of Laura is compensated for by the excellent travel writing, and the new friends made. Hinduism is ‘the Disney of world religions’, and there follows a disquisition on the superiority of polytheism to monotheism. ‘There is no God but God, says the one place. There are millions of them, says the other.’ By the time our charming narrator starts losing it spectacularly, it is hard not to feel some sympathy for him, whoever he is.

Lots of guys who scribble would give their right arms to be Martin Amis, or some other supposedly serious great mind grappling with the weighty issues of our time.  Me, I wouldn’t mind being Geoff Dyer. With his deft insight and lightness of touch, he makes the self-important overachievers look rather foolishly earnest. What a great travelling companion – if we weren’t all lonesome travellers.