Where to start? One could start with a discussion of the paratextual trappings within which the story is wrapped: Dylan Thomas’ remark on the cover; the manuscript background, upside-down on the cover; the torn paper characters continuing the subtle signs of “inversion” in their surface; and just what is that big, fuzzy, black thing on the cover? A bowler? Something more sinister? Is it moving?
One could start with the three separate openings. Openings, beginnings are a big topic in Lit Crit. Are we coming in at a real beginning? In medias res? At the “end” only to be told what went before, as with a detective novel, or murder mystery, or . . . say . . . all of the books we’ve read to this point?
I believe, though, that one of the better places to start might be what appears to be not too subtle suggestion as to how to “read” the story (and I am using “story” here in the general sense of the word, not the narratological sense). Consider the following:
Nature of explanation offered: It was stated that while the novel and the play were both pleasing intellectual exercises, the novel was inferior to the play inasmuch as it lacked the outward accidents of illusion, frequently inducing the reader to be outwitted in a shabby fashion and caused to experience a real concern for the fortunes of illusory characters. The play was consumed in wholesome fashion by large masses in place of public resort; the novel was self-administered in private. The novel, in the hands of an unscrupulous writer, could be despotic. In reply to an inquiry, it was explained that a satisfactory novel should be a self-evident sham to which the reader could regulate at will the degree of his credulity. It was undemocratic to compel characters to be uniformly good or bad or poor or rich. Each should be allowed a private life, self-determination and a decent standard of living. [19]
Compare the foregoing with the “form” the telling is taking (so far). The italicized opening fragments at the beginnings of each “sub-section” or injected occasionally within a “scene” not only read like stage directions but, I would argue, SHOULD be read as such. And read so in conjunction with the notion that they are metaleptic intrusions from some controlling presence. Our narrator (and ostensible crafter of the narrative we have in hand) is attempting to combine the novel and the play (dramatic) in a play (parody, burlesque, lampoon) on literary styles. Others have done this sort of thing in a variety of ways. Compare what we have read so far to The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman (not in terms of content, but rather form). Digressions and “stage direction” abound. In fact, it is suggested that ASTB is one of many texts influenced by Sterne’s “little” book (in fact I have rented the recent film of Tristram Shandy
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A little evening aside . . .
If you have not seen Stranger than Fiction, you must. It has relevance to what we will find ourselves discussing with ASTB.
I find the notion of Metaleptic Transgressions very interesting. And in that vein, I seem to recall a book that was placed in my hands many years ago, entitled Silverlock. Are you familiar with it? it is not the same sort of metaleptic transgression as we see in ASTB or Stranger than Fiction, but it strikes me as a variation . . .
You have probably guessed by now that I am struggling with this novel. With good reason: the style causes me to wonder, to an excessive degree, what the author is up to. Metalepsis indeed. This book has gained an importance for its influence in other works of magical reality but it plays upon its stylish trick so drunkenly that it is more interesting to academics than to everyman (a group to which I am proud to call myself a member.) The notion of Metaleptic Transgression is interesting though not very readable. Conclusion of the foregoing.
Relevant excerpt from Everyman: Heinlein may have introduced the notion of pantheistic solipsism by sending his characters to Oz in the Number of the Beast perhaps poking fun at O’Brien for keeping his author’s characters so close to the author’s side. It is one thing to appreciate ASTB but what might be necessary to love the book is to be Irish.
I have put Stranger Than Fiction in the queue and I would recommend the obvious (In Schwimmen-Zwei-Vogel) if it were only out on DVD. What torture this would put me through, watching a German language film of a novel I have difficulty reading.
Leave off wondering what the author—or the narrator, for that matter—is trying to “do” and just go along for the ride. That is all I am doing (aside from the occasional musing on form or intertextual references). And it is—you must admit—quite the ride.
Aside to the nonexistent audience: I am intrigued that there is a German film version of the novel. I will have to ask Jan about that. Maybe he can provide some insight as to its qualities and how it handles the metaleptic jumps (kind of like hyperspace jumps). Conclusion of foregoing aside.
As for needing to be Irish to appreciate the nuances—if nuances they can be called, though I associate nuance with subtlety—of the novel, I am in agreement with you and would add that it probably helps even more to be a Dubliner.
This is the type of book — esoteric, localized — that requires focus and now, once complete, it is apparent that the beauty of the novel is that it requires multiple readings.
Perhaps this is the beginning of an Everyman literary theory: A mundane book can reside on the shelf at a library but a good book requires residence in your personal bookshelf. (Hmm, maybe it is an ObviousMan theory.) ASTB will pay off over time and is worth the investment. My apologies if that sounds too much like I worked up a profit/loss statement in a spreadsheet.
As much as I struggled to get through it there are ideas that I want to explore, and that is a good thing.
Mentally, I’ve been sitting on this “book” for almost a week now . . . and I am not sure whether I am any closer to what I want to say about it or the experience of reading it, but (hang on for the ride) I’m going to try to do so here, ex tempore:
Your idea that ASTB “requires multiple readings” is one with which I agree, though I’d add the following: not only does it (perhaps) require multiple readings over time (and widely separated, at that), but during any one “read” it requires multiple readers. Here is my rationale: certainly the diegetic levels (as represented in Jan Alber’s level diagram) require one “reader” for attention and tracking—the cognitive load to do that and pay attention to the frame narrative, as well as the other side trips, is too great to sustain for long periods; to that I would add another (or more?) reader(s)—as we have already suggested—who is (are?) familiar with (1) Dublin, (2) Irish folk history and legends, (3) Irish slang and various “dead” languages, and (4) [say it ain't so!] narrative theory. There are single individuals out there who embody all of those traits in a single reader, but they are few (and probably won’t admit to it).
As for your “everyman theory,” I think you should suss it out and write it up; there is a very large kernel of truth hiding in there. I know you are not the inveterate book “marker-upper” that I am, but I find it interesting that many of my books are layers deep in marginalia—at least the ones we keep, and do not donate to library book sales, are. Many of the layers are years deep, like an archeaological record of my reading habits and responses. Unfortunately the layers are not manifest in different colors or densities, as with silt and soil deposits. ASTB currently has only a very light layer of “dust” which has settled after I passed through the story.
Now, this next is going to seem really strange: invoking in the same sentence as Flann O’Brien a present-day pulp detective novel writer, Tony Hillerman. I do so, though, to make a point—and, if you’ve not read any Hillerman, it would probably work with any pulp fiction machine out there today (Clive Cussler, Tom Clancy, et al). So, what is common between ASTB and one of Hillerman’s pot-boilers? They are both, fundamentally, simple temporally linear stories, at the core. Think about it: in ASTB, at the root diegetic level (or the outermost frame), the story procedes linearly from beginning to end. There are minor asides for explanation, but no temporal shifts of the sort we got with Rushdie or with Hammett or Nabokov or, most recently, Murdoch. To Kill a Mockingbird was essentially linear, start to finish. ASTB is the same, but complicated by all of the shifts among the diegetic levels. But, notice that even they are linear in their own time(s). In the parlance of literary/narrative theory, these sorts of texts exemplify what is called Freytag’s pyramid: the story progresses, rising in pace and action to a climactic moment and then settles into the end through a denouement, a slowing and relaxation of the level of action. I’m not sure what this means, but it is an interesting point to note about a book that on the surface seems so complex, and often artificially so. If there is a climactic moment in the text, what is it?
More to follow . . .