Tuesday, December 24, 2024

奥尔巴赫:语文学与世界文学

 



语文学与世界文学[1]


作者 | 埃里希·奥尔巴赫(Erich Auerbach)

译者 | 靳成诚(比较所博士生)




Nonnulla pars inventionis est nosse quid quaeras.[2]


如果我们依然像歌德所做的那样,将“世界文学”(Weltliteratur)这个词同时指向过去和未来的话,那么现在是时候追问这个词到底还能有什么意义了。作为世界文学的场域,我们的星球并不仅仅意味着一般意义上的普遍与人性;而且,地球将人性看作是它的成员之间富有成果的交流的产物。世界文学有一个福祸相依的预设(felix culpa):即人类按照不同的文化分成许多支系。然而,今天人类的生活却在变得日益标准化。强制推行一致性的做法最初起源于欧洲,如今依然在进行中,其结果便是所有独立的传统的根基都遭到了破坏。不可否认,民族意志比以往任何时代都要强烈和喧嚣,但是就每一个民族而言,其所推进的现代生活的标准和方式却全然是一致的;所以对不带偏见的旁观者来说,民族存在的内在基础显然正在朽烂。欧洲诸文化一直以来都得益于彼此之间富有成效的相互联系,并且也一直从对自身价值的自觉意识中获得支持,这些文化因此依然保持了它们的独立性。尽管如此,即使在这些文化中间,抹平差异性的进程仍然在以前所未有的速度进行着。总之,举目所及,标准化都处在统治地位。所有的人类活动都正在被归化到欧洲-美国以及俄国-布尔什维克这两个模式中,当它们和构成伊斯兰、印度和中国传统基础的基本模式相对照的时候,不管在我们看来它们是多么伟大,这两个模式之间的差异相对来说其实都是极其微小的。如果人类能够禁受得住如此有力而又迅速的归化进程——虽然为此的精神准备一直很薄弱——那么人们将不得不使自己适应在一个标准化的世界里的生存,适应一种单一的文学文化、有限的几种文学语言乃至于一种单一的文学语言。那么随之而来的是,世界文学这个观念在被实现的同时也就被摧毁了。


如果我估计得没错的话,就其强制性和对群众运动的依赖性而言,目前的这个局面是歌德所没有预料到的。因为歌德很乐观地回避思考那些被后来的历史证明是无可避免的事情。他偶尔也承认我们的世界中那些令人沮丧的趋势,然而那时还是没有人能够猜到这样一个令人厌恶的可能性会被实现得如此彻底和出人意料。歌德的时代虽然的确很短暂,但是我们中间的老一辈人却真的经历了这个时代的逝去。自从欧洲的民族文学赢得相对于拉丁文明的优越性并从中获得自我意识以来,已经过去了将近五百年;而我们历史主义(historicism)意识的苏醒至今不过勉强有两百年的时间,而正是这种意识使得我们有可能形成“世界文学”的概念。一百二十年前逝世的歌德,通过他自己的榜样和他的作品,对历史主义的发展和由之衍生出的语文学研究做出了决定性的贡献。然而,在我们这个时代,我们见证了一个历史主义的意识于其没有多少实际意义的世界正在崛起。

尽管歌德式人文主义的时代确实如白驹过隙一般,但是它却不仅在当时产生了重要的影响,而且也开启了许多持续至今,并仍在发展分化中的事业。到歌德晚年的时候,可供研究的世界文学的数量已经比他出生时要多得多;然而,和我们今天能够见到的世界文学相比,那个数量依然很小。我们关于世界文学的知识得感谢历史主义的人文研究所赋予那个时代的冲动;那种人文研究所关心的不仅仅是材料发掘和研究方法的发展,更是对材料与研究方法的洞察和评估,只有这样,一种人类的内史(inner history)——统一在其多样性之下的人类概念正是因此被创造的——才能付诸笔端。自从维柯和赫尔德[3]以来,这种人文研究一直是语文学的真正目的:正是因为这个目的,语文学才成为了人文学科中具有主导性的分支。语文学在其身后描画出了艺术、宗教、法律以及政治等学科的历史,并将自己分别编入其中,织成某些确定的目标和被普遍达成的秩序的观念。由此在学术和综合研究上所取得的成就,对当下的读者来说已经毋庸赘言了。

在环境和前景都完全改变的情况下,这样一种活动继续下去还有意义吗?我们没有必要过分强调这种活动确实在继续,并且还在广泛传播这个简单的事实。因为一种习惯或制度一旦形成总会持续很长时间,特别是当那些认识到了生命的境遇发生了根本性变化的人们常常既没有准备好又无法将他们的认识转化成实际行动的时候。从少数具有突出才能和原创性的年轻人对语文学和历史主义研究热情的投入中我们仍然能够看到希望。我们可以希冀这些年轻人对这份工作的天分不会辜负他们,并且这项研究也依然和当下与未来有关,这样想无疑是令人鼓舞的。

在科学的组织和指导下对现实的研究充斥了并且统治了我们的生活;如果我们想要为其命名的话,它就是我们的“神话”——因为我们并不拥有另一种神话具有如此普遍有效性。历史是关于现实的科学,最直接地影响我们、最深刻地扰动我们、并且最有力地迫使我们产生自我意识。历史是唯一一种让人类以其整体站在我们面前的科学。通过历史的注脚,我们不但可以理解过去,还可以理解普遍局势的演进;历史因而将当下也包括在内了。上一个千年的内史是人类获得自我表达的历史:而这便是语文学这门历史主义学科的研究对象。这段历史包含着对人类大胆而又强力的跃进的记录——向着关于其自身境况自觉意识的跃进、向着实现其天赋潜能的跃进;这种跃进的最终目标(即便以当下这个完全碎片化的形式)在很长一段时间内几乎都是不可想象的,然而尽管过程曲折,它看上去依然像是在按计划进行中。我们的存在所能胜任的一切富有张力的关系都被包含在这个过程中了。一个逐渐展开的内在梦想,用它的广度和深度给予旁观者以勃勃的生气,让他能够在目睹这幕戏剧的同时变得充实,从而与自己天赋的潜能和谐共处。这样一种景象的消失——其表象完全是建立在展示和诠释之上的——将是一种无可挽回的贫困化。诚然,只有那些还没有彻底遭受到这个损失的人才会注意到这种贫乏;即便如此,我们仍然必须在力所能及的范围内不惜一切地去阻止这样一个严重的损失的发生。如果我在这篇文章开始时对未来的思索还有几分可信的话,那么收集素材并将其转化为一个能够持续发生效力的整体便是一项紧迫的任务了。我们基本上还是能够完成这项任务的,这不仅是因为我们所拥有的供我们使用的材料非常之多,更主要地是因为我们还继承了对这项工作来说不可或缺的历史透视主义意识(historic perspectivism)。我们之所以还拥有这种意识,是因为我们正在经历着、体验着历史的多样性,而如果没有这种经验,这种意识恐怕就会很快失去其现实的具体性。同样,在我看来,我们生活在一个反思性的历史学能够最充分地实现其潜能的时代(Kairos[4]);而接下来的许多代人是否还属于这样一个时代是值得怀疑的。我们已经受到了一个非历史性的教育体制所酿成的贫困化的威胁;而且这个威胁不仅存在,还宣称要统治我们。不管我们是什么,我们都是在历史中生成的,也只有在历史中我们才能保持当下的样子并由之向前发展:展示这一点以便使它能够不被遗忘地穿透我们的生活是语文学家的职责所在,因为他们的领域正是由人类历史所构成的那个世界。在阿达尔伯特·施蒂夫特(Adalbert Stifter)的《夏日般的初秋》(Nachsommer)中《路径》这一章的末尾,一位人物说道:“最高远的期望是,设想当人类结束在地球上生活的岁月之后,一个精灵会来考察并总结一切人类艺术从孕育到消亡的全过程。”不过施蒂夫特所谈论的只是美术,而且我也不相信现在可以讨论人类生活的终结。但是把我们的时代说成是一个发生了决定性转变的时代却是正确的,在这场转变中一种至今为止独一无二的考察似乎正在变得可能。


这个世界文学的概念及其语文学比起它们的前辈来显得没那么活跃、没那么实际、也没那么关乎政治。现在不像以前了,再也没有人谈论不同民族之间的精神交流了,也没有人谈论风俗的改良和种族之间的和解了。这些目标一部分没有达到,一部分在历史的发展中被取代了。某些杰出的个人,抑或是一些具有高度修养的小团体在这些目标的指引下,一直在享受有组织的文化交流:他们也将继续这样做下去。不过这种活动对于文化或者人们总体的和解来说却几乎毫无用处:因为它无法承受既定而又相左的利益所带来的风暴——正是从这种风暴中诞生了高强度的宣传活动——因而它的成果也就立即烟消云散了。只有在政治发展的基础上将不同的成员事先融洽地整合到一起,它们之间的交流才会有效果。这样一种文化上的对话有一个内在的一致效果,能够增进相互理解并服务于一个共同的目的。但是对那些没有被整合到一起的文化而言,在一片令人不安的(对一个有歌德式理想的人文主义者而言)普遍和睦中,矛盾依然会长久存在(例如那些在不同的民族国家身份的差异化过程中产生的对立),除非自相矛盾地完全借助强力来磨合,否则对立还是得不到解决。本文所宣扬的世界文学的概念——一个关于分享共同命运的不同背景的概念——并不寻求影响或改变已经开始发生的一切,尽管这可能和期待相反。我所说的这个世界文学的概念承认世界文化正在被标准化这个无可避免的事实,但是它依然希望能够准确地——从而自己才可能得到保存——并且自觉地来促成并表述文化融合这项命运攸关的事业:这样一来,对于那些身处富有成果的多样性的晚期阶段的人来说,被如此促成和表述的融合会成为他们的神话。通过这种方式,过去一千年间的整体精神运动才不会衰退。现在推测这项努力在未来会有什么效果是不会有什么结论的。我们的任务是为这样一种效果创造可能性;现在只能说,对于像我们的时代这样的一个转型时期来说,效果可能会非常重大。当然,这种效果很可能也会帮助我们更从容地接受我们的命运,使得我们不再憎恨反对我们的人——即便当我们被迫摆出敌意的姿态时也是如此。由此看来,我们的世界文学的概念与它的前辈一样地关于人类与人文主义;对历史的内化理解——它是这个世界文学概念的基石——与之前的理解并不相同,但后者却是在前者的基础上发展而来的,而且没有前者也是不可想象的。




















上文已经提到过,我们从根本上是有能力进行世界文学的语文学研究的,因为我们掌握着无限的材料,而且其数量还在稳定增长中,还因为我们拥有从歌德时代的历史主义那里继承来的历史透视主义的意识。可是无论这项工作的前景看起来多么充满希望,实践起来困难依旧十分巨大。对于某个个人来说,为了洞悉世界文学的材料并进而建立起一个充分的相关论述,他必须亲自掌握那些材料——至少也要掌握其中的主要部分。然而,由于材料、方法和观点的过分丰富,那种意义上的掌握已经事实上变得不可能了。我们所拥有的文学来自世界的各个角落,时间跨度长达六千年,大约用五十种文学语言写成。今天为我们所知的许多文化在一百年前还不为人知;过去为我们所知的许多文化其实我们还都是一知半解。至于那些数百年间学者们已经了然于胸的文化时代,相关的新发现是如此之多,以至于我们关于这些时代的概念已经被彻底地改变了——一些全新的问题也随之出现。在所有这些困难之上,还得再加上这个考量:一个学者不应该只关心某个给定时代的文学,他还必须研究这种文学赖以发展的环境;他必须将宗教、哲学、政治、经济、美术以及音乐都纳入到考虑范围之内;这些学科中的每一个都必须维持一个活跃、独立的研究。越来越具体的专业化从而应运而生了;专业的方法被发展出来,以至于在每一个这样的独立领域——甚至在某个领域的各个专业观点中——都形成了一种深奥难懂的专门用语。这还不是问题的全部。异域的、非语文学的、或者科学的方法和概念也开始在语文学中崭露头角:社会学、心理学、某些种类的哲学、以及当代文学批评构成了这些外部影响中的首要部分。这样一来,所有这些因素都必须被吸收和重组,即便公平地说,这样做只能表明其中某个因素对于语文学是无用的。如果一个学者并不一直将自己局限在一个狭窄的专业领域或者与一小群志趣相投的同事共享的观念世界中的话,那么他的生活就会受到各种对他的印象和断言的困扰:让这个学者来公平地对待这些困扰几乎是不可能的。不过,将自己只局限在一个专业领域中的做法正变得越来越不能令人满意。例如,在我们的时代,要成为一个普罗旺斯专家,只掌握直接相关的语言学、考古学和历史事实几乎是不可能做好的。在另一方面,有些专业领域已经变得如此之繁杂,以至于要花一辈子的时间才能精通。举例来说,这样的领域有:但丁研究(这几乎不能被称作一个“专业领域”,因为公平地说,研究但丁会在事实上把你带到任何地方)、宫廷传奇及其三个相关的(但又很成问题的)子议题:宫廷爱情、凯尔特问题和圣杯文学。又有几个学者能够在其中一个领域真正做到游刃有余?还有任何人能够继续谈论一种学术的、综合的世界文学的语文学吗?

今天的某些人确实在总体上对欧洲的材料拥有高屋建瓴的把握;然而,据我所知,他们都属于两次世界大战之前成长起来的那一代人。这些学者不会那么容易地被取代,因为自从他们那一代人以来,对希腊语、拉丁语和《圣经》的学术研究——这是后来的资产阶级人文主义文化的主干——在几乎所有的地方都崩坏了。如果从我自己在土耳其的经历来推断,那么我们很容易注意到在非欧洲的,但是同样古老的文化中发生的相应的变化。原来在大学阶段(英语国家的研究生阶段)可以被认为是理所当然的能力,现在必须在大学里通过学习才能获得;而且经常发生的情况是,这样的学习不是太晚了就是不充分。此外,大学或者研究生院的知识重心也发生了转移,更偏重于极新潮的文学和批评;而且即便当学术界对更早的时代有兴趣的时候,他们所关注的也大多是巴洛克时代这样的历史时段——可能是因为处于现代文学的偏见和万金油式术语的范围之内才在最近被重新发现。如果整体历史对我们能有什么意义的话,那么很显然一定得从我们自己时代的境况和心态出发来对它加以理解。但是一个天资聪慧的学生无论如何都具有他自己时代的精神,也被这个精神所占据:在我看来,他应该不需要学术上的指导来把握里尔克、纪德或者叶芝的作品。不过,为了理解古代世界、中世纪和文艺复兴的语言传统和生活方式,也为了学习和了解探索更早的历史时期的方法和手段,学生的确是需要指导的。当代文学批评中的问题设置和范畴分类总还是意义重大的,这不仅因为这些问题和范畴就其本身而言常常很精巧又能有所启发,也因为它们表达了这个时代的内在意志。尽管如此,其中只有一部分可以在历史主义的语文学研究中被直接利用或者当作被真实传递的概念的替代品。这些问题和范畴大多数都太抽象和模棱两可了,而且经常带有过分个人化的偏见。它们加强了一种大学一年级新生(以及二年级生)经常会陷入的那种诱惑:即想要通过实体化了的抽象概念体系来掌握大量材料;这将导致研究对象被消解为关于一些虚无缥缈的问题的讨论,并最终变成仅仅是关于术语的戏法。



尽管这些学术上的趋势看起来令人不安,但是我并不认为它们真的具有危险性,至少对于那些真诚而又有才华的文学研究者来说是如此。再者,有些有天赋的人能够自己设法获得任何对于历史或者语文学研究所必不可少的材料,还可以在面对知识界的时髦潮流时采取恰如其分的开明而又自主的态度。这些年轻人在许多方面都拥有胜过自己前辈的不寻常的优势。在过去的四十年间,各种事件扩展了我们的知识视野,关于历史和现实的新见解已经得到揭示,关于人类间历史进程(interhuman processes)的结构的观点也得到了丰富和更新。我们参与了——而且仍在切实地参与着一堂关于世界历史的实践研讨课;因而,我们在历史事务方面的洞见和概念上的能力也有了相当程度的发展。这样一来,许多以前在我们看来是晚期资产阶级人文主义杰出的语文学成就的优秀作品,如今在问题设置上就显得不够实际和有局限性了。今天的人们在这方面所面临的情况要比四十年前简单一些。

但是综合(synthesis)的问题要怎么解决呢?一个人一生的时间似乎连做好准备工作都显得太短促;而一群人的团体工作也不是出路,即便团体工作在其他地方都很有用。我在这里所谈论的历史性的综合,尽管只有建立在对材料学术性的掌握的基础上才有意义,但却是个体直觉的产物,因而也只能期待在个人身上发现。如果这种综合能够完美地成功,那么我们就能同时获得一项学术成就和一件艺术作品。甚至一个出发点(德语:Ansatzpunkt;英语:point of departure)的发现——我会在后面再论及这个问题——也是一个关于直觉的问题:所谓的综合如果要实现其潜能,就必须以一种统一而又联想丰富的方式来进行。毫无疑问,这样一项工作所取得的真正值得注意的成就要归功于一种统摄性的直觉;而为了达到其效果,历史性的综合还必须额外具有一件艺术作品的外表。文学艺术必须拥有自为的自由这个传统的异议——这意味着不受科学真理的束缚——几乎没有人再提了,因为历史资料正如今天其自身所呈现的那样,为想象力在选择、问题设置、组合和塑造上都提供了足够的自由。实际上我们可以说科学真理对语文学家来说是一个有益的限制;因为它保存并保证了“现实”中的或然性,这样一来逃离现实的巨大诱惑(不论是通过琐屑的粉饰还是通过虚幻的变形)便遭受了挫折,因为现实是或然性的评判标准。此外,我们还要考虑到一种综合性的、内在的历史书写的需要,正如欧洲文学艺术传统是一个谱系(Genos)一样,古典时代的历史编撰也是一个文学谱系;类似地,德国古典主义和浪漫主义所创造的哲学—历史学批评也在奋力寻找属于自己的文学艺术的表现形式。























这样一来我们又回到了个人。个人如何才能达到综合呢?在我看来,个人当然无法通过百科全书式的收集材料来做到这一点。一个更加宽广的视野,而不仅仅是事实的堆积是一个不可或缺的条件,但是这种视野应该在整个过程的一开始就并不刻意地去取得,而且要以一种天生的个人兴趣做为自己唯一的指路牌。不过最近几十年的经验已经向我们证明了,在某个领域中,那种为了努力穷尽大部头的通论类书籍而进行的材料积累,不管这些通论类书籍是关于一个民族的文学、一个伟大的时代、还是关于一种文学谱系,都几乎不能导向综合和体系。困难之处不仅在于材料之冗繁几乎不可能被单独的个人所掌握(以至于似乎必须有一个群体计划才可以),也在于材料本身的结构。对材料的传统分类方法,不论是年代学的、地理学的还是类型学的,都不再适用,也无法保证任何有力而又统一的进步。因为这样的分类方法所涵盖的领域和达到综合所要应付的问题领域并不重合。甚至在我看来,关于单个的、重要的人物的专著——有许多这一类的作品都极为出色——是否还适合充当我一直在谈论的那种综合的出发点都很值得怀疑了。当然,由单个人物所体现的生命的统一性其完整和实在并不逊于任何其他方式,而且这种统一性也总是优于人为的构造;但是同时这种同一性终究是无法把握的,因为它会逐渐转变为一潭非历史性的、不可穿透的死水,而那往往正是个人最终的归宿。

在成就了一种综合性的历史主义观点的著作中,恩斯特·罗伯特·库尔提乌斯(Ernst Robert Curtius)最近关于欧洲文学与拉丁中世纪的书[5]是最让人印象深刻的一部。在我看来,这本书的成功得归功于这样一个事实:尽管书的标题是全面的、整体的,但是它却是从一个事先规定清楚,几乎有些狭隘的单一现象——学院修辞传统的传承——来展开的。尽管此书所组织的材料汗牛充栋,但其最出色的那些章节却并不仅仅是众多条目的堆积,而是从少量条目向外的辐射。总体上,这本书的主题是古代世界在拉丁中世纪的传承,以及古典文化所采取的中世纪形式对新的欧洲文学的影响。面对如此概括而又全面的一个意图,作者起初是什么也做不了的,他站在一大堆繁杂而又无法归类的材料前,在其计划的最初阶段只能对一个泛泛而论的题目做一番概述。如果真要机械地来收集材料的话——比如说,以一系列单个作家为线索,或者以整个古代世界在中古的几个世纪间的接续传承为线索——仅仅对这一大块材料做一个梗概就会让任何规划的意图变得不可能。只有通过发现并立即明确界定一个现象,使之足够全面与核心来充当出发点[在这里是修辞传统,特别是主题(topoi)],库尔提乌斯的计划才能够得以实现。我这里并不是在讨论库尔提乌斯对于出发点的选择是否令人满意,抑或这在就他的意图而言可能的选择中是不是最好的一个;正是因为人们可以提出异议说库尔提乌斯的出发点难堪重任,他最后达到的成就才更加值得赞赏。因为库尔提乌斯的成就必须得归功于以下这条方法论上的原则:为了完成一项综合性的艰巨工作,就势必要定位一个出发点,或者说,一个可以让问题被把握住的把手。对出发点的选择必须以一种严格界定、容易辨识的现象为标准,对这种现象的解释是一种从内向外的辐射,能够进而整理并解释比其自身所占据的地方更广大的区域。


这种方法早已为学者们所熟知。例如文体学这门学科长期以来就是因为得益于这种方法才得以用若干确定的特征来描述一种特定的文体的。不过我还是认为有必要强调一下这种方法的一般意义——这是唯一一种让现在的我们在面对一个更宽泛的背景时能够综合地、富于联想地写作一部内史(history-from-within)的方法。这种方法也能让年轻的学者,甚至一个初学者来完成同样的目标;一旦直觉发现了一个有希望的出发点,相对适量的一般性知识再加上他人的指点就足以胜任了。在阐释这个出发点的过程中,知识的图景会充分而又自然地扩张,因为对所需材料的选择是由出发点决定的。这种扩张因而也是具体而微的,其组成部分是如此必要地粘合在一起,由之所获得的一切都不会轻易失去,其结果在有规则的展现中是拥有统一性和普遍性的。

在实践中一般性的意图无疑并不总是先于具体的出发点。有时候我们会发现某个单独的出发点会消解对普遍性问题的识别和规划。当然,这种情况只有在对问题有先入之见的前提下才会发生。必须加以说明的是,只凭一般的、综合性的意图或问题是不够的。我们需要寻找的毋宁说是一种能够部分地被理解的现象,尽可能的界限清楚、具体而微,因而可以用技术的、语文学的术语来描述。各种问题会进而由之生发出来,这样对我们的意图进行规划才变得可行。在另外一些情况下,单独一个出发点是不够的,必须要有好几个才行;不过如果第一个出发点浮现了,其他的也更容易被找到,这尤其是因为它们在属性上必须不单单将自己和其他出发点连接起来,也必须交汇于一个中心意图之上。因此这是一个专业化的问题,但不是针对传统的材料分类模式的专业化,而是针对近在手边的,需要不断重新发现的题目的专业化。

出发点可以有很多种类,因此在这里列举所有的可能性是不现实的。一个好的出发点的特质一方面是其具体性和精确性,另一方面是其向外离心辐射的潜能。一个语义学的解释、一个修辞学的比喻、一个句法上的序列、对一个句子的解释或者在特定的时间和地点所做的一组评论——所有这些都可以成为一个出发点,但是出发点一旦被选定就应该具有向外辐射的能力,这样我们才能借以处理世界历史。如果有人要探究十九世纪作家的境况的话——不管是一个国家的还是整个欧洲的——这种探究就会生产出一部我们应该对它心怀感激的有用的参考书(如果它包含了所有对于这项研究来说必不可少的材料的话)。这样一部参考书自有其用处,但是如果能够从作家关于受众的某些评论入手,我一直在谈论的那种综合会更容易达到。类似地,像不同的诗人们的持久的名声(la fortuna)这样的题目只能够在找到一个具体的出发点来控制整体主题的情况下才可以被研究。如果要研究但丁的名声,各国现存的著作当然是必不可少的,但是如果去追溯《神曲》中的个别片段从最早的评注家那里到十六世纪,再从浪漫主义兴起以来所受到的解释的话[我要感谢欧文·潘诺夫斯基(Erwin Panofsky)的这个建议],我们则会看到一部更加有趣的著作的出现,那将是一种真正的精神史(Geistgeschichte)。

一个好的出发点必须是明确而客观的;各种抽象的范畴是无法胜任这个任务的。诸如“巴洛克”“浪漫主义”“戏剧性”“命运观”“紧张感”“神话”或者“时间的概念”“透视主义”这样的概念都是危险的。如果这些概念的含义在一个特定的语境中被解释清楚了,那么是可以使用的;但是作为出发点来说,它们太模棱两可和不够明确了。因为出发点不应该是一个从外部被强加给主题的一般概念,而应该是这个主题自身内部一个有机的组成部分。研究对象应该自己发声,而这在出发点既不具体也没有得到明确定义的情况下是绝对不会发生的。无论如何,高度的技巧都是必须的——即便我们可能拥有最好的出发点——以便我们能够聚精会神于研究对象。那些现成但却很少恰如其分的概念的吸引力是会骗人的,因为它建立在动听的声音和时髦感的基础上的;这些概念潜伏着,伺机而动,准备跳进那些与研究对象的活力失去了联系的学者们的著作中。就这样,一部学术著作的作者经常受引诱将一些陈词滥调作为真正的研究对象的替代品,当然许多读者也会上当受骗。既然读者们大多易于接受这种替代,让这样的偏离变得不可能就成了学者的职责了。意图达到综合的语文学家所处理的现象包含着自己的客观性,而且这种客观性在综合的过程中绝不能消失——要做到这一点是极为困难的。我们当然不能以某个特定事物所带来的欣喜和满足作为目标,而应该受整体的运动的触动和激发。不过一场运动只有在所有组成它的特定事物都被作为本质掌握之后才能以其纯粹的形式被发现。

据我所知,我们还没有人尝试对世界文学做一个语文学上的综合;在西方文化中只能找到一些初步的、朝着这个方向的努力。但是我们的地球越是变得紧密相连,历史主义的综合就越有必要通过扩展自己的活动来平衡这种收缩。让人们意识到他们身处在自己的历史之中是一项伟大的,但也很渺小的工作——更像是一种弃权——只要我们想一想人并不只是处在这个星球上,也处在这个世界和宇宙之中。但是之前的时代所敢于做的事情——为人类在宇宙中指定一个位置——现在看起来却是一个极其遥不可及的目标了。

不管怎样,在语文学意义上这个星球都是我们的家,而且它再也不可能成为一个民族国家了。一个语文学家所继承的遗产中,最珍贵和最不可或缺的仍然是他本民族的文化和语言。然而,只有当他先和这个遗产分隔开、再超越之,这个遗产对他来说才能真正起作用。在这个无可否认已经变革了的局势中,我们必须回到前民族国家的中世纪文化已经懂得的一个认识:精神(Geist)是没有民族性的。贫穷与异域(Paupertas and terra aliena),或者与之效用相近的某种东西,在沙特尔的伯纳德(Bernard of Chartres)[6]、索尔兹伯里的约翰(John of Salisbury)[7]、让·德·默恩(Jean de Meun)[8]以及许多其他作者那里都可以读到。圣维克托的雨果(Hugo of St. Victor)[9]曾经写道(Didascalicon III, 20),

 

     Magnum virtutis principium est…ut discat paulatim exercitatus animus visibilia haec et transitoria primum commutare, ut postmodum possit etiam derelinquere. Delicatus ille est adhuc cui patria dulcis est, fortis autem cui omne solum patria est, perfectus vero cui mundus totus exilium est.

   (德行的伟大基础……是为了让经过训练的头脑能够渐进地学习,开始是学习转化那些可见的、转瞬即逝的事物,以便之后能够把它们留在身后。觉得自己的故乡很迷人的人依然是软弱的,觉得各处都是乡土的人是强大的,但是只有觉得整个宇宙都是异乡的人才真正达到了化境。)

 

雨果写这些话是为了那些志在将自己从对世界的迷恋中解脱出来的人。但是对于那些希望找到对这个世界恰当的爱的人来说,这也不失为一种解决之道。











注释:

[1] 英译者注:摘自《百周年评论》,1969年第十三卷,第1-17页。译者注:本文原题为“Philologie der Weltliteratur”,收录在瓦尔特·穆施克与埃米尔·施泰格主编的《世界文学:弗里茨·斯特里希教授70华诞祝寿文集》(伯尔尼:佛郎克出版社,1952年,第39-50页)中,此书为纪念弗里茨·斯特里希的论文集。斯特里希教授是《歌德与世界文学》(1946)一书的作者,这部著作与《摹仿论》一样都是在战争期间写成的。梅尔·赛义德与爱德华·萨义德将原文翻译成英文,标题为“Philologie der Weltliteratur”。本文由英译本转译而来,同时参考德文原文。

[2] 译者注:摘自[古罗马]奥古斯丁,《首七卷问答录》导言(Quaestiones in Heptateuchum, Prooemium)。意为“对于求索者来说,事先知道自己要追寻的是什么可不是一件小事”。

[3] 英译者注:关于赫尔德,请参看本卷中所选的文章。启蒙时代的哲学家詹巴蒂斯塔·维柯在他的《新科学》(1725)一书中主张人类的历史与制度必须用世俗的而非神学的术语来理解。维柯的计划,以及他对法律和文学语言的密切关注,深深地启发了奥尔巴赫;参看他的论文《维柯与审美历史主义》,《美学与艺术批评》,1950年第8期,第110-118页。

[4] 英译者注:Kairos这个希腊词指的是一个有利的时段或者机会,与单纯的年代相对;在基督教神学中,这个词逐渐被用来特指危机重重的时代以及事物新秩序的降临。

[5] 译者注:即《欧洲文学与拉丁中世纪》(Europäische Literatur und lateinisches Mittelalter),初版于1948年。

[6] 译者注:十二世纪法国新柏拉图主义哲学家。

[7] 译者注:十二世纪英国教士,沙特尔主教。

[8] 译者注:十四世纪法国文人,曾续写《玫瑰传奇》。

[9] 译者注:十二世纪法国神学家。

Monday, December 23, 2024

The One Hundred Pages Strategy

 

The One Hundred Pages Strategy

On how to read one hundred pages every day.

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Almost nothing I have written in the last few years has given rise to more correspondence than a throwaway column about reading, in which I alluded to what I call the “hundred pages strategy.” This is exactly what it sounds like: every day, come rain or shine, on religious and secular holidays, when I travel and when I am exceptionally busy, I read at least one hundred printed pages.

The most common question I have received regarding the hundred pages strategy is, of course, How do you do it? This has proven more difficult to answer than I thought it would. While I have chosen to refer to it as a “strategy,” the truth is that most of it, including the page target itself, is really something more like a post-hoc attempt at systematizing my own habits; I did not wake up one day as an infrequent reader and work slowly towards one hundred pages a day out of some inchoate desire for self-improvement. Rather, like many of us, I decided some years ago that if I did not take it upon myself to spend less time scrolling through Wikipedia or the AllMusic Guide or returning to my Twitter “feed”—the implicit image of a trough is appropriate—I would find myself losing one of my greatest pleasures to sheer indolence.

Statistics suggest that the “average” American reads something like twelve books a year. Upon a moment’s reflection it should be obvious that this statistic is useless. Millions of people finish school and never read another book in their lives: not long ago I spoke to a recent high school graduate (his grade point average was just below perfect) who had not read a book since elementary school. Twelve books a year is, I suspect, the kind of figure we arrive at because some people read nothing and others read several books a week. As it stands, enormous numbers of Americans say they wish they read more than they do, if only they could figure out how. It is to such persons that the following is addressed.

Before I continue I should say that this is not the place to attempt a defense of reading as such. (Those who find other ways to spend their leisure time are free to do so, though I have a hard time taking seriously the idea of people who write or edit for a living but do not consider daily reading of books within the sphere of their chosen profession.) Nor is it the right venue for a discussion of my own taste in books. While incidental references to things I have read will be unavoidable, everything I say here might apply to the reading of almost anything; even my distinction between “heavy” and non-heavy books will apply to almost anyone’s reading.

To start, then, I should say a few words about the rules, such as they are. The hundred pages strategy is not a scheme for working through reading lists. A book counts whether one is reading it for the first time or the fiftieth. Reference books such as printed dictionaries do not count unless they are being deliberately read “through” rather than consulted; the same is true of books that lend themselves to indiscriminate browsing, such as collections of essays. I also do not count books, even comparatively serious ones, read aloud to children, though I would not think it strictly contrary to the spirit of the exercise if someone else did. Otherwise there is no cheating; I do not, for example, try to guess how many pages half a dozen news stories or bits of online sports gossip would translate into. I do not count the reading of periodicals, even in print. Nor is much attention given to the size of the type. My experience suggests that this sort of thing tends to average out across authors, publishers, and editions; only poetry (which I will say more about below) will consistently throw it off. Otherwise the only outlier I can think of is the exceedingly small type of the old J. M. Dent Everymans; these pocket-sized volumes are ideal for traveling and the best way to work through very long books, such as Macaulay. In any case, one hundred pages is not meant to be a precise scientific metric; it is simply a goal, and, I think, a manageably sized one.

Like many people, I generally read more than one book at a time, but—this is crucial—never more than one book of the same kind. By this I mean that if I have one fairly heavy book going—say Heidegger on Anaximander and Parmenides—I try to ensure that the others are all at least comparatively lighter (the second volume of Ronald Hutton’s life of Cromwell, for example). This is not, of course, always possible; while researching my biography of Newman, I have often found myself working through one or more dry-as-dust biographies of mid-Victorian clergymen. When this happens, I try to balance it out by reading something very light—e.g., Wodehouse, or a crime novel.

My experience suggests that the best way to deal with the problem of “heavy” versus non-heavy books is to think in terms of rough time slots, which is also important for its own sake. If you seriously intend to read one hundred pages each day—not occasionally when there is nothing to watch or when you find yourself racing to discover whether the lay cook or the sinister young monk is the killer—you will probably find that you open a book within an hour of waking up in the morning. I start my own reading after I finish looking at the headlines and answering (or more realistically neglecting) correspondence. This is sometimes but not always when I read my heavy book, following my first cup of coffee and my first cigarette of the day. This slot is open until 9:00 A.M. or so, depending upon what time I have risen and what other tasks present themselves. It involves no more than twenty or twenty-five pages, usually with some note-taking.

For some readers, the morning slot will be the hardest to fill; our commutes will interfere, or before we are able to sit down we will find our attention diverted by something else. While acknowledging these and other unavoidable exigencies, I humbly suggest that before saying that it is impossible to read in the morning, one should consider how one’s time is currently being used. Most of us are probably awake for no more than a few minutes before we look at our computers or mobile phones. A casual glance at the home page of the New York Times or last night’s text messages imperceptibly becomes fifteen wasted minutes. The newspaper over breakfast gives way to the social media algorithm or to podcasts, which I have become convinced are the single most pervasive obstacles to adult reading.

One of the most common misconceptions—I almost said “excuses”—that one hears from people who say they wish they read more is that reading must be done for an hour or more without interruption. When I talk about time slots, I am not saying that one should count on being able to read for long stretches during the requisite period; I am simply suggesting that it is one of the possible times at which, upon examination, one span of time previously given over to other things is likely to be available.

Back to the timeline. My second large-ish chunk of reading usually comes around lunchtime. Even a quick lunch—standing in line to grab a sandwich, microwaving leftovers in a break room—usually affords an opportunity for reading ten or fifteen pages. In my own case, I like to take a walk in the middle of the day; reading while walking or sitting outside is itself an important part of the hundred pages strategy. It could even be argued that certain books demand to be read outdoors: there is a park in Marquette, Michigan, that I am half-convinced was designed for the explicit purpose of facilitating the reading of Aurélia and Stephen MacKenna’s Plotinus. But even less romantic readers will find that parks, backyards, and coffee shops are conducive to reading precisely because we do not associate them with work, or at least not with wage labor. Which brings me to the third slot, in late afternoon, when I tend to find myself waiting for emails or phone calls, a time which can easily lend itself to bored, impatient scrolling. For those of us who belong to the so-called “laptop class,” vast swathes of our lives are spent like this: tethered to a computer or phone in a state of low-level anxiety, unable to accomplish anything. It is almost always possible to read a few pages instead.

The rest of my reading takes place at night. After my wife and children go to bed, my time is generally my own. I usually read for an hour in my office and another half hour in bed, unless it is football season, in which case I read during the commercial breaks of primetime games. (So much of the tedium of pointlessly long N.F.L. broadcasts can be avoided after discovering that advertisements can be ignored safely without missing any of the game itself; even with the sound muted your peripheral vision will let you know when the action has resumed.) The final slot is almost always reserved for light reading—novels, undemanding history or biography or belles-lettres, collections of letters or published diaries, or Arthur Waley’s Genji, which I like to re-read over and over again slowly, five or so pages at a time, over the course of a year.

So much for what a hundred pages a day looks like, or might look like, chronologically speaking. For those like my wife who tend to go to bed much earlier than the average American and to rise correspondingly earlier, other slots will suggest themselves. But the same rough amount of time will likely be available. If you routinely wake up at 4:30 A.M. in a house full of people who will not be awake for another two or three hours, you are in more or less the same position reading-wise as someone who burns the midnight oil.

What follows is a series of miscellaneous observations:

1. Nearly four years ago I put my iPhone in a drawer. It never leaves unless I am traveling, when, as a small concession to the tedium of modern life, I use it to board planes, order a cab when I cannot find one (a situation that has become depressingly common in Washington), and so on. While I would never suggest that reading one hundred pages a day is impossible for regular smartphone users, I do think that eliminating the temptation to waste time—a heading under which I would include responding instantaneously to a non-urgent email that could be answered in a few hours or even the next day—makes it far less difficult. Many readers will reply that for both professional and social reasons they are unable to get on without a smartphone: their colleagues do not usually take phone calls (even though nine times out of ten what ends up being a protracted series of emails or text messages spread out over the course of several hours could be addressed in five minutes on the phone), their children’s sports league requires the use of a scheduling app, and so on. All of this is real and vexing. I suspect that until more members of the professional classes agree to the digital equivalent of a S.T.A.R.T. treaty for their attention spans, we will not see anything like a large-scale revival of reading in this country.

2. It should go without saying that one must never go anywhere without bringing a book. Almost no one thinks twice about the purported wisdom of never leaving the house without a mobile phone—what if there were an emergency?—even though the actual odds of absolutely needing to make a call or send a text message during an unremarkable two-hour span on a Sunday afternoon are vanishingly small. The best way of making it at least somewhat likelier that we read a few pages when we are out and about is to have a book already at hand, especially one we have already started and are getting on with. I cannot count the number of cumulative hours I have spent reading while watching my children play at parks.

3. The almost total disappearance of airplane reading is a national tragedy, as is the appearance of free in-flight Wi-Fi. If you fly regularly, leave your phone or laptop in your bag and your headphones at home; do not activate the screen in front of your seat. You will not regret your missed opportunity to catch an hour and a half of some action movie sequel.

4. I almost never read without a pencil or a pen. Sometimes these are only underlinings: a straight line for something I find striking or amusing, a long squiggle for something I find absurd or infelicitous. I tend also to note typographical errors, which for some reason I am far more likely to spot in printed books than I am in my own writing. (This is something I began doing as a teenager, when I found myself wondering how generations of editors had missed that in the Penguin Classics edition of Kerouac’s Dharma Bums the Gary Snyder stand-in called “Japhy Ryder” is referred to by his real first name on page 161.) The books that I would never write in—expensive or rare editions—tend to be those I would never read, shelf copies meant purely for display or idle perusal, e.g., my first editions of Anthony Powell. Otherwise I have no qualms about defacing volumes I own for the very simple reason that I believe that books are meant to be read and written about. Like charity, literary criticism begins at home.

5. Some people ask me whether I ever use a Kindle or similar devices and whether such reading would be compatible with the hundred pages strategy. The answers are, respectively, no and maybe. When I was a teenager, I read hundreds of thousands, possibly millions, of words on Project Gutenberg, in the glow of an old Hewlett-Packard C.R.T. monitor. I do not like to think about what this has done to my vision, and I have resolved whenever possible to read anything longer than a short article on paper, including things I am editing. That said, if your device gives you actual page numbers that correspond to the ones in a physical version of the book in question, I see no reason why you could not use an e-reader in pursuit of the hundred pages strategy.

6. There is really no satisfactory answer to the question of how reading poetry fits into the hundred pages strategy. If one is reading a Shakespeare play or a long narrative poem, it seems to me reasonable to count pages in the ordinary way—there are fewer words, but each one is more significant. In the case of a volume of lyric poems opened at random, this seems more dubious.

7. I keep a notebook in which I jot down the title and author of every book I read. This is true whether I am reading it for the first time or the fifteenth. Keeping a notebook serves a number of valuable purposes. The first is that it will motivate you; it gives you a sense of what you have accomplished, and at the end of the year it will be satisfying to see the long roll of titles in their glorious order and array. I have also found that for some reason I am far more likely to remember what I have read if it has been added to my annual register, especially when I have made notes in the book itself. The notebook is essential to the hundred pages strategy. I suspect that it works for the same reason that pedometers help people to walk more or that certain online banking platforms make it easier for others to save money. It is a primitive example of what sociologists and pedagogues call “gamification”; by gratifying our desire to see numbers go up on the page, we turn the cultural technology of modernity against itself.

8. I have found that for some reason I tend to read in phases. This year, for example, I have read half a dozen books about Cromwell and the English interregnum; two years ago I had a modern German history phase, and about ten years ago I found myself reading the biographies of twentieth-century British prime ministers. I am inclined to think that this kind of bunched reading is a sort of catalyst: when you’ve read all the novels of Evelyn Waugh and the lives of Knox and Campion and A Little Learning and Selina Hastings’s biography, you will want to read Martin Stannard’s life and Mark Amory’s edition of the letters almost by definition.

9. Returning to one’s favorite books is an important part of anyone’s reading—perhaps the most important. This includes favorite books from childhood. The reasons why we prefer Treasure Island or The Wind in the Willows to the latest airport nonfiction are so obvious as not to require explanation.

I could say much more in this vein, but it occurs to me that in anticipation of possible objections, I should address a few words to my readers who are parents, especially of small children, as I am. Assuming that you wake up before your children do (which is not always the case, e.g., with newborns) you are probably in more or less the same situation as the childless or empty-nesters in the early morning. While kids are very good at monopolizing our time, they very rarely leave us in a situation in which we haven’t got even ten or so minutes to ourselves at a stretch, especially early in the morning. Which is to say, enough time to read about five pages—five percent of the way there! (The best thing about the hundred pages strategy is that the math associated with it is necessarily simple.)

Apart from the question of children, I can imagine someone asking me whether any of what I have said applies to people who work long hours, or have physically demanding jobs, or suffer from physical or other disabilities which make it difficult for them to take twenty-minute walks. Here I can only plead truthfully that most of the people from whom I have received inquiries about the hundred pages strategy tend not to fall into these categories—or, if they do, they are themselves still under the impression that they possess sufficient leisure time to read more than they currently do. Like most plans of self-improvement, this is a voluntary one.

In any case, the resolution is more important than the result. If one hundred pages sounds like or proves to be too many, aim smaller. Fifty pages a day allows you to get through something like fifty books a year, which is more than four times the ostensible average in this country. Even a goal of twenty pages—a page and a half per hour, assuming average sleeping habits—would allow you to read David Copperfield in little more than a month; it is also humble enough that if kept too long enough to become an actual habit it will almost certainly be exceeded at least half of the time.

I realize that I have written some three thousand words without addressing an obvious question: “Do you know what you sound like when you tell people how much you read?” Of course I do. In our bookless culture the only thing more shameful than openly confessing that you do not read at all is admitting that you read what other people consider a great deal. The subject lends itself effortlessly to self-aggrandizement and accusations of dishonesty. I have mixed feelings about the moral approbation which we attach to the act of reading. For this reason I have attempted to discuss the subject in value-neutral terms, for the benefit of an implicitly interested audience, the way a weight lifter might talk to someone who says he wants to gain muscle mass. Despite my best efforts, it is possible that my tone has betrayed a certain degree of evangelical zeal.

Not long ago I spoke to an old friend who confessed to being an aspirational one-hundred-pager. He says that he had been skeptical after hearing my testimony secondhand. He converted some time later after a night when (in his telling—I cannot swear to any of what follows) he and I had enjoyed what the English press used to refer to as a “good dinner,” which, knowing us, almost certainly meant a marathon pub session followed by a midnight visit to McDonald’s. We had been walking for several minutes, he says, before he realized that he was talking to himself; looking over, he saw me soldiering along beside him, apparently none the worse for a dozen-ish beers, holding a volume of the old Everyman’s edition of Johnson’s Lives of the Poets. For the rest of our walk, he says, I continued silently reading. Like Saint Thomas, he believed only after seeing.

Thursday, December 12, 2024

Why the novel matters

 

Why the novel matters

We read and write fiction because it asks impossible questions, and leads us boldly into the unknown.

By Deborah Levy

“Let yourself go. Pull out from the depths those thoughts that you do not understand, and spread them out in the sunlight and know the meaning of them.”

                                  A Room with a View by EM Forster

If the novel is the literary form that offers freedom to speak our mind, I’m not sure it can be written with a closed mind. Clearly, there is something at stake when we ask why the novels matters.

But is it so clear? I’m guessing that sometimes, in our own lives, we prefer obscurity because it is less painful than clarity. The novel matters because it does not have to be clear or obscure. Yet, in the voyage out between these binaries – between the oil spills, thistles and phantoms a novel might pass on the way, between desire, disappointment and the people who clean offices at dawn on page 33 – a novel can reach for understanding and re-examine meaning.

It is not necessarily comforting to understand something, but I believe it is powerful to struggle into knowledge. We feel the release, relief and elation of a new understanding. This is different from scrolling, skimming and consuming information. For this reason, the endlessly declared death of the novel, like the death of God, is unlikely to happen.

To speak in the language of AI, the novel has supreme coding capabilities. When I start writing a novel, I discover there is no such thing as freedom and it does have rules, even if the writer is making them up.

An example of making up the rules is the attitude to grammar that a writer such as Gertrude Stein developed. She believed that everyone knows when something is a question, so she erased question marks from her baffling and beguiling writing. Stein also thought commas were “servile”, and that readers should be free to take a breath any time they liked. These were her rules and with them she asked pertinent questions:

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“What does literature do and how does it do it. And what does English literature do and how does it do it. If it describes what it sees how does it do it. If it describes what it knows how does it do it and what is the difference between what it sees and what it knows. And then too there is what it feels and then also there is what it hopes and wishes.”

Obviously, all question marks had left the building and were smoking outside.

A novel matters when I am seduced by its language. If its language is dull and dulling, it’s hard to become interested in what is at stake for its protagonists, its experiments with form or care about its political opinions, even if I might agree with them. The novel matters to me because language gives me pleasure and purpose. I like working with it, listening to it. Language is so powerful it can sometimes frighten me. In her novel Glory, NoViolet Bulawayo writes:

“Words not only mattered but they were power. Words were muti. Words were weapons. Words were magic. Words were church. Words were wealth. Words were life.”

The proverb that children of my generation learned off by heart to see off bullies, “Sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me”, was so obviously not true. I remember thinking about this age seven, and feeling the lie.

A novel matters when in the words of Baudelaire, the writer has gone everywhere in the quest for “the fleeting forms of beauty in the life of our day.” A fleeting form of beauty can be the kindness in someone’s hands, a swan flipping upside down to search for fish in a canal full of rusting shopping trolleys, or when a person who appears to be very demure and very mindful, suddenly reveals a great talent for taking down the idea that human desire only means male desire.

We become more interesting to ourselves when we are attentive to writing that matters to us. We have seen things through the eyes of others and this changes the expression in our own eyes. As George Orwell discovered when he was required to step into the persona of a colonial policeman in Burma, “The imperialist wears a mask and his face grows to fit it.” It is a significant moment in life, and in the novel, when the mask slips.

Writing and reading, like all relationships, require solitude, attention and time, but more provocatively, as Italo Calvino suggests, when we begin to read a novel for the first time, it involves “confronting something and not quite knowing yet what it is”. I believe this kind of confrontation is worth defending.

It is sometimes hard to nail why a novel connects with us. After all, if we could entirely explain this away it probably would not still be so lively within us. As Iris Murdoch suggested in her essay collection Existentialists and Mystics: “To be a human being is to know more than one can prove, to conceive of a reality which goes ‘beyond the facts’.”

If I write to find out something I don’t know, I have come to believe that the unconscious of the novel does know. It has gone beyond the facts and is adjusting the headlights for the long drive ahead.

A novel can drill into the facts of lived experience and come out the other side to somewhere the author never expected to land. If it works out, and sometimes it doesn’t, readers will stand alongside her to gaze at the view. Perhaps this is the only mystery about writing novels, which mostly requires stamina.

Photo by Kate Peters / Guardian / eyevine

No, there are other mysteries. Why not? Are we obliged to wear sensible shoes and eat all our vegetables when we consider why the novel matters? Just as an object might hold some kind of emotional charge for us, the novels that excite me possess that same charge. My own objects include two horses that dance when I pull the tails up and a paper weight with a jellyfish blown from glass floating inside it. They have turned up in my novels in one way or another. That the jellyfish floated into my book Hot Milk and metamorphosed into the Medusa, and that her sting and venom were reconfigured as empowering rather than destructive, is somewhat mysterious. Yet it’s not as foolish as war or demolishing a water well.

I believe the novel relies on the imaginative participation of its readers, in much the same way Marcel Duchamp believed the spectator completes a work of art. This synergy is also worth defending. Even a novel that deconstructs the novel requires its readers to step into a voice, ideas, desires or fury that might be nothing like our own.

I believe that we create Anna Karenina and Jane Eyre in parallel with Tolstoy and Brontë, just as we do with the protagonists in novels as aesthetically different as James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room and Alain Robbe-Grillet’s Jealousy. Robbe-Grillet might not have named the voyeuristic male narrator who obsessively observes his wife and neighbours on the banana plantation in which the novel is set, but I have definitely dressed him in a sweat-soaked white shirt that has a slightly grubby collar. As for Mrs Dalloway, I see her alone in her party dress, smoking a cigarette, trying to un-hear the dread in her own mind for years after the novel has ended.

The novels that travel with us for a lifetime endure because they have imagined something that is truthful and real. I was always encouraged that a cerebral novelist such as J G Ballard called himself an imaginative writer, but it is Ursula K Le Guin who put it most usefully: “My imagination makes me human and makes me a fool; it gives me all the world and exiles me from it.”

And what about pleasure? It is indeed a pleasure to sit upstairs on a bus in London while December rain falls gently on Tesco Express by the roundabout, open the book that rests on my lap and find myself in the company of Two Serious Ladies by Jane Bowles:

“‘True enough,’ said Mrs Copperfield, bringing her fist down on the table and looking very mean. ‘I have gone to pieces, which is a thing I’ve wanted to do for years. I know I am as guilty as I can be, but I have my happiness, which I guard like a wolf, and I have authority now anda certain amount of daring, which, if you remember correctly, I never had before.’”

Yes, it is wise to guard one’s happiness like a wolf when reading a novel on a bus that stops for 20 minutes to “even out the service”.

I have come to believe that I want contradictory things from a novel: to recognise some of my own preoccupations, yet also to escape from them; to be intellectually engaged, yet emotionally devastated; to be comforted by its continuity, yet invigorated when it is interrupted – such as in Virginia Woolf’s To the Lighthouse, in which a decade is compressed into a few breathtaking pages. I want to be immersed in its story, yet not to be relentlessly told that I’m being told a story. I want intimacy, distance, enigma, coherence. I long to read novels that I can’t put down and I’m receptive to being dragged into despair. The novel matters because what it is required to deliver is probably impossible.

The books I read at 14 were mostly borrowed from the library: Colette, Tolstoy, Zora Neale Hurston, Jane Austen, F Scott Fitzgerald, DH Lawrence, James Joyce, Charlotte and Emily Brontë, Gabriel García Márquez . The delight of reading was enhanced by the two pink sugar foam shrimps I purchased on Fridays from the pick ’n’ mix at the local newsagent. Sometimes I swapped the shrimps for three sherbet flying saucers. The big bang of that teenage reading stays with me, particularly Camus’s 1942 novel The Stranger: “It was as if that great rush of anger had washed me clean, emptied me of hope, and gazing up at the dark sky spangled with its signs and stars, for the first time, the first, I laid my heart open to the benign indifference of the universe.” As a Bowie fan, I also hoped that Ziggy Stardust would fall from the dark spangled sky to lift me away from the indifferent London suburbs to a more glamorous life.

Some of the straight white boys at school were reading Jack Kerouac and lent me On the Road and Lonesome Traveller. The nearest I got to being on the road was the route to school down the Finchley Road, so it was quite exciting to travel with Kerouac. While I read my mother’s copy of Edna O’Brien’s The Country Girls, I was also keeping an ear out for the landline in the hallway. It had a long curly cord, a circular dial and a heavy receiver. I made sure I got to it first so that my best friend did not have to get past my family to get to me. We were all the gatekeepers of each other’s calls.

Sometimes, when a new, bold novel, full of innovation, lands in the hands of a gatekeeper who declines to publish it, I believe this person hears the call through the receiver of a telephone from another age. Where’s the plot, the story, the narrative arc? Why hasn’t a formidable housekeeper with a dodgy eye entered the novel carrying a tureen of hearty soup and a crusty loaf? Yet, what is coming through the vintage receiver are the beautiful languages and forms of our own century. I’m thinking of the new cadence and startling points of view in Pond by Claire-Louise Bennett, A Girl Is a Half-Formed Thing by Eimear McBride, Assembly by Natasha Brown.

It is the historic fate of this kind of gatekeeper to retire to the English countryside. On Mondays he will warm up a sausage roll in the microwave. On Thursdays he will deliver a lecture to the delicate, crazy wild-flowers in his garden. His subject will be something to do with how modernism is a silly continental experiment that refuses to go away. His audience of wild-flowers will listen for a while and then talk amongst themselves about their lecherous desire for more sunlight. If they have the energy, they will discuss a line from Lisa Robertson’s incredible novel The Baudelaire Fractal: “I’m 57 years old, I’m thinking about the immense, silent legend of any girl’s life.”

The gatekeeper has never thought about any girl’s life as a life.

“In the novel, the characters can do nothing but live.” So wrote DH Lawrence in his 1925 essay “Why the Novel Matters”. I agree with Lawrence, which makes a change. If characters are dying they are still living and if they feel dead inside they are still living, and if they are literally dead they tend to haunt the mind of the living. Furthermore, a character has a body, with all its turbulence. When James Baldwin walks the bodies of his African-American protagonists into his novels, they walk into violence and are wounded. The violence is racism and homophobia. The novel matters because from this collective wound, Baldwin made a scalding critique of immense complexity and coherence. Never mind what it means to be a character, what does it mean to be a subject?

The British psychoanalyst and paediatrician Donald Winnicott asked himself what made life worth living for the children he worked with so patiently and skilfully. What is there to live for? There is not one answer to this question and a novel has many ways of asking it, yet I appreciate the straight talking in A Man Asleep by Georges Perec: “It is on a day like this one, a little later, a little earlier, that you discover, without surprise, that something is wrong, that, without mincing words, you don’t know how to live, that you will never know.”

It is likely that if we have reason to be invested in this most impossible enquiry, what is there to live for, we will not regard humour or human warmth in the novel as unserious. For a start it is free. And freeing.

There are some novels that are dead even if the characters are relentlessly cheerful, unbearably chatty and apparently alive. If none of it lives it’s usually because its imitation of life has flattened life, the literary equivalent of canned laughter in old-fashioned radio shows – as if there is a cultural consensus about why we laugh and at whom we are laughing. The novel matters because it can disrupt this consensus.

I was born in Africa, grew up in England, and through literature met the writers whose novels gave me many homes. This is not sentimental. Literature is much more capacious than my physical home. It was the French author Marguerite Duras who taught me the stranger dimensions of thought can be fully lived in literature.

“The story of my life doesn’t exist. Does not exist. There’s never any centre to it. No path, no line,” writes Duras in her 1984 novel The Lover, translated by the magnificent Barbara Bray. It takes hard living to realise the truth of letting go of the path. I am attached to the story of the path that runs through my life. Even Hansel and Gretel made a trail of breadcrumbs through the dark forest so they could find their way home. All the same, literature that matters to me is hospitable to the idea that sometimes we must lose a story. This can be harder than creating one. Losing the story we have clung on to for decades, is a good subject for the novel. How are we going to put ourselves together without it?

When a novel is interested in the coexistence of immense power and vulnerability in its protagonists, it begins to speak in a voice or voices that I believe to be subversive in every way. It is so flattening to only be spoken to in the registers of strength and certainty.

During my father’s dying days he summoned me to his sick bed and requested I find a pen and paper. I believed that, at last, he was going to express his wishes for his funeral and its various rituals. In fact, he wanted to dictate a menu for the week. It turned out that he was not satisfied with his meals. For Tuesday he suggested fish curry, Thursday lamb chops, Friday roast chicken. My father was 91, fatally ill and could only swallow liquids. By the time he reached Saturday, I began to admire his bid to be alive for a whole week (unlikely) and to live imaginatively to the very end.

I understood that he was struggling with too much reality (imminent death) and needed a break. I accepted his language, and did not pierce it with a literal reply such as: “But you can only swallow thin soup.” We both knew this anyway. The various ways we negotiate with reality are at the core of all writing and living.

A longer version of this essay was delivered as the New Statesman Goldsmiths Prize Lecture at London’s Southbank Centre in October. Deborah Levy’s most recent book is “The Postion of Spoons” (Hamish Hamilton)


奥尔巴赫:语文学与世界文学

  语文学与世界文学[1] 作者 | 埃里希·奥尔巴赫(Erich Auerbach) 译者 | 靳成诚(比较所博士生) Nonnulla pars inventionis est nosse quid quaeras.[2] 一 如果我们依然像歌德所做的那样,将“世界文学”...