|
Vivian Gornick Tells Romanticists To Get Real.
By Merrik Bush
The End of the Novel of Love, by Vivian Gornick (Beacon/Ballantine).
Cloth, $20.
AUTHOR AND CRITIC Vivian Gornick wants one thing clear:
She's from New York. In fact, you might say she is New
York: Bold, passionate and fiercely independent, her sharp-edged
literary persona has been fostered by the dense culture of the
Big Apple's gritty urban streetscape. Having survived professionally
in a place where even talented writers flourish and die overnight,
it should come as no surprise that Gornick, when asked, believes
a city like Tucson has no literary community.
To be fair to Tucson's enclave of writers, Gornick's literary
yardstick is narrow. It's built on memoir writing, on recounting
experience: the kind of compelling experiences that she believes
can't be cultivated from the empty, angst-free streets of Tucson,
where commerce, rather than culture, reigns supreme.
"Tucson is a small town. (A literary community) just can't
develop," she says during a phone interview from her apartment
in New York. "I'm sure Tucson is going to get bigger in terms
of money and people, but the community is interested in absolutely
nothing but condominiums and strip malls...in nothing but consumerism.
It's a town made entirely in the image of escaping the anxieties
of the world."
In spite of her contrarian sentiments, 62-year-old Gornick admits
Tucson's been good to her. She's a tenured professor at the University
of Arizona, where each spring for the last seven years she's imparted
writerly advice to aspiring memoirists in the creative writing
department. And, though Gornick derides Tucson's ability to inspire,
she's just published a book of critical essays, The End of
the Novel of Love, which she conceived while teaching in Tucson.
It happened during her second year. One of her students, stumbling
upon a critical essay of hers in The New York Times--an
article that castigated tenderhearted male authors--confronted
Gornick with a burning question: "Don't you believe in love?"
Surprised, but thoughtful, Gornick answered that, in fact, she
didn't believe in love. "(That's) not the same as
saying I don't need it," she qualifies, "but I don't
believe in it...not as an article of faith. That was the first
time I realized this was true, and then I had to think, 'My goodness,
why is this true?' So all these years later, I finally
came to it (with The End...)."
The author goes on to explain that her collection of essays is
not out to deny the existence of love, but rather to dispel the
antiquated notion that love is a benign, romantic catalyst for
happiness; it isn't in life, and therefore isn't credible in literature.
Our experiences here at the end of the 20th century have become
much more complex: the rise of the autonomy of the individual;
the politicization of homosexual and bi-sexual partnership; the
prevalence of divorce. All these things, and more, led Gornick
to the conclusion that "the love-metaphor no longer worked
in novels."
In this lucid and often persuasive book of 12 essays, she argues
that love is not a panacea. With biting intelligence and psychological
acumen, she examines the lives and works of a century's worth
of authors she admires, in each concluding the fairy-tale happy
ending of romantic love is out-dated and irrelevant. Instead,
she proffers the confusion, loss of self, and defeat confronted
in the face of love as more appropriate literary catalysts for
explanation and reflection.
Through the writings of Jean Rhys, Willa Cather, Grace Paley,
Kate Chopin, Raymond Carver and Clover Adams, among others, Gornick
argues that contemporary authors, to be effective, must question
the tired literary premise that love and marriage necessarily
lead not only to self-knowledge and personal fulfillment, but
to meaningful storytelling.
Whether or not you share Gornick's seemingly hostile take on
love in the Western world, her argument is compelling. A single
woman herself for the last 40 years, she's observed the evolution
from divorce as uncommon and sordid to an expedient, surgical
alternative to "bad" (inconvenient, loveless or destructive)
marriages. Statistically, happy endings today are found at least
as often in a lawyer's office as at the altar. And because literature
remains, in part, a reflection of society's collective psyche,
Gornick has an insight to be reckoned with.
"Put romantic love at the center of a novel today,"
writes Gornick, "and who could be persuaded that in its pursuit
the characters are going to get to something large--that love
is going to throw them up against themselves in such a way that
we will all learn something important about how we got to be as
we are? No one, it seems to me. Today, I think, romantic love
as a metaphor is an act of nostalgia, not of discovery."
Die-hard romantics might be tempted to explain her away as old,
divorced and cynical, but her prose is refreshingly cynicism-free.
Past works--the acclaimed memoirs Fierce Creatures and
Approaching Eye Level--reveal a compassionate, bright,
driven woman who wants more than anything to become a more conscious
human being in an often harsh and isolating world.
Raised by her mother in the Bronx, she was instructed that the
pinnacle of achievement for a woman was to find love and to marry.
Paraded as an attainable fantasy by the mostly single, divorced,
and lonely women in her neighborhood, Gornick realized early the
inherent contradictions of such a broadly espoused conviction.
She developed a searching intelligence that garnered her an MA
from New York University and attracted her to feminism, psychoanalysis
and literature, three areas she says molded her sensibilities.
She's a veteran journalist, having worked for The Village
Voice, The Atlantic, Ms., The Nation and The New York Times
Book Review, and has penned numerous nonfiction books.
Gornick is a breed apart: She's matured into an intellectual
memoirist who sees her writing more as literature than confessional.
In beautifully rendered, lyrical prose, she relates her daily
struggles against the ever-present specter of loneliness and her
drive to connect in meaningful ways with the world and the people
around her.
"As artists," says Gornick, "emotional disability
empowers imaginative insight. We all have a cross to bear in the
ways we cannot experience ourselves. The artist is able to make
a virtue out of that. We (as individuals) often have insight,
but we're unable to do anything with it. The artist, on the other
hand, takes that damage and insight and shapes it, and that's
the meaning of writing."
The authors in The End of the Novel of Love, says Gornick,
are acutely aware of being trapped inside their own lives, despite
or even in spite of love, and it's this realization that propels
their writing and gives it power.
In her essay on Willa Cather, for example, Gornick sees Cather's
internal struggle over her inability to live out a happy, fulfilled
life as a lesbian as the template upon which her characters and
their behaviors are molded. Cather's characters do not become
actualized, self-fulfilled human beings in the realm of romantic
love because for Cather, it's simply not an option.
"Nobody really knows how to put together in literature the
life we are truly living today," says Gornick. "I think
we are at a time in history where metaphors are not clarified,
and that's why we don't have great literature."
One thing is paramount to Gornick: Whether walking the empty
streets of Tucson or her celebrated streets of New York, she's
on a quest to discover herself in the world around her. As for
the end of love, she doesn't claim to have any resolutions; but
hers is a spirited voice calling for further debate.
|
|