Pursued by Furies by Gordon Bowker: portrait of the artist as a drunk

Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm LowryPursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry by Gordon Bowker
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This biography contains a wealth of detail—but is it worth it?

I first heard the name “Malcolm Lowry” in about 1968, when I was 9 years old. Our family friend, Harvey Burt, had taken my little sister Mara and me for an outing to Cates Park here in North Vancouver. We were at the eastern part of the park, called “little Cates,” walking down the long slope of grass toward the beach. Harvey must have been telling us about the squatters’ shacks that used to stand on pilings on that beach, for that is the only way that Lowry’s name could have come up. Lowry, for about 13 years, had been one of those squatters, and Harvey himself had rented a shack near his. I remember trying to repeat the name, which was so unfamiliar to me: I’d heard Harvey’s careful pronunciation of it as “Malcom Munlowry,” and repeated that to myself a couple of times. Since there were no shacks on the beach anymore, I must have asked, “Where is he now?”

“He’s dead,” said Harvey.

“How did he die?”

Harvey paused for a moment, then said, as though unwillingly but forced by the demand for truth, “He choked to death on his own vomit.”

I cringed inwardly. What a way to die!

Thus did Malcolm Lowry make a powerful impression on a 9-year-old (and probably also his little sister), even after his death. As I was to learn by reading Pursued by Furies, this was entirely in character for the writer, who had made strong impressions on people throughout his life, which ended in 1957 when he was 47. Although at times almost pathologically shy, when fortified by drink he projected a quality of engaging charm and verbal brilliance, even as he also affected the rolling gait of the longtime seaman and presented a scruffy persona, with quirks such as using neckties as belts to hold up his pants. Time and again people who knew him recall the vivid impression he first made on them, with his vivid blue eyes looking at them from a ruddy face.

Gordon Bowker has written what is no doubt intended to be the definitive biography of this man. It’s a massive book, and it narrates Lowry’s life in great detail. And while Bowker does not make as much of an effort to understand Lowry’s psychology as does Douglas Day in his earlier biography, he doesn’t shy away from trying to understand the man, and he does present some intriguing and suggestive facts that may illuminate the mystery that finally shrouds Lowry’s life.

Lowry is best known for his novel Under the Volcano, published in 1947 and still widely regarded as one of the most important works of the 20th century. If it had not been for this book, Lowry would be long forgotten, for he published nothing else of note in his life, and the works published posthumously, due to the persistence of his widow Margerie, do not approach it in quality or significance. So if you’re considering reading this biography, it’s probably because you’re a fan, as I am, of Under the Volcano.

The biography describes in detail the genesis and development of Under the Volcano (as indeed it describes all Lowry’s other works as well), which I found fascinating. I was intrigued to learn how much Lowry sought out and used the input of other people. His friend Gerald Noxon spent a whole night working with him to craft the novel’s opening paragraph. His wife Margerie was so deeply involved that she was in many ways the coauthor of the book. Indeed, Lowry was so enchanted and enthralled by others’ work that he would lift it, holus bolus, and drop it into his own. Accusations of plagiarism haunted him continually through his life and tortured his own soul from within. Lowry tried to get people to forget about his first published novel, Ultramarine, because it contained so much material borrowed from his early idols, Conrad Aiken and Nordahl Grieg. Bowker observes that many of these fears of his were exaggerated, but they form a striking and strange theme for an author whose magnum opus is admired for its originality.

But by far the dominant fact of Lowry’s life was that he was an alcoholic. Many novelists are alcoholics, but I’m sure that few of them could stand comparison with Lowry for the prodigiousness of their drinking. He turned to alcohol in his teens in England, and, while he did manage to dry out from time to time, and lead a productive and healthy life while he did so, he never escaped it for very long. By the end of his short life he was also mixing barbiturates with his booze; indeed it was a combination of these that finished him off one June night. His life reads mostly as a series of drunken episodes and mishaps.

This fact creates a certain wearying quality in his biography, for drunken behavior is random and senseless, and much of Lowry’s life was spent in this condition. And similarly, the strange, symbiotic relationship he had with his second wife Margerie (his first wife, Jan Gabrial, got fed up with him before long) was really a study in the psychopathology of codependence. All the various episodes, the rages, the assaults, the scheming, are not meaningful in themselves, but only as so many symptoms of an underlying illness that was never addressed.

That is not to say that Lowry was never “treated” for his problems—he was, more than once. His brief stay at the Bellevue mental hospital in New York provided the basis for his novel Lunar Caustic. But in those days they had no real idea of how to treat alcoholism apart from getting the patient to promise not to drink. True, by the end Lowry underwent both electroconvulsive therapy and aversion therapy for his condition, but these things were apparently agreed to only because other people, especially Margerie, wanted them, and not because Lowry himself did. While he fully realized that he engaged in humiliating and self-destructive behavior while drunk, he always believed that drinking was somehow necessary to both his writing and his life. Like all alcoholics, he lived with the fundamental error, pointed out by Vernon E. Johnson, the creator of intervention therapy, of believing that drinking was the result of his problems, and not their cause. So long as an addict believes this, he cannot break his addiction. Certainly Lowry never came to this realization, and so he choked to death on his own vomit at age 47.

While reading this biography I got the feeling that the author himself didn’t realize this, and spent much time dutifully recording many drunken episodes and mishaps, in which the prime agent was not really Lowry himself, but rather the molecule ethanol. One shocking event after another is narrated baldly; there are too many of them for any one of them to matter much. Many times the author suggests, “perhaps he thought this” or “perhaps she was trying to do that,” when all these thoughts could simply be wrapped up with “he was an alcoholic; she was codependent.”

But this is the definitive biography of Malcolm Lowry. If you want to know about his life, you will if you read this book. It is meticulously researched and documented, and the author has achieved a broad and even-handed perspective. I’m just concerned that the sound and fury of Lowry’s life might, well, not signify that much.

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meddling—but in a good way

Do you like book reviews? As a reader, I’m sometimes ambivalent about them, especially for fiction. I don’t want my impression of a work to be polluted by the thoughts of someone else who has already read it. Reading is an act of intimate engagement between the mind of an author and the mind of a reader; no matter how many readers there are of a given work, that engagement is one on one between the writer and each of those readers. To try to influence the quality of that engagement, as a review could be said to do, is like trying to tell someone what impression to have of a person he is about to meet for the first time. It seems, I don’t know, meddlesome.

But of course that’s not the whole story. Reading a book takes a long time. If you read 50 of them a year, I’d say you’re reading a lot. If you could keep that up for 70 years, then you’d go through 3,500 of them. Not bad, but there are millions of books out there—how do you choose among them?

In these days of online shopping, there are keyword searches and bestseller lists and book rankings. There’s the cover art of a book and the flap blurb—the copy the publisher puts on the cover of the book to entice you to buy it. There are also the recommendations of friends, so-called word-of-mouth promotion, said to be the most powerful stimulant for a book’s sales. But a book might come to your attention that no friend has read. Now what?

Ideally a book reviewer, whether professional or amateur, is your peer: a fellow reader who has had the experience of reading this book, and who now stands in the place of a friend who either gushes that it’s fantastic or says with a shrug, “I couldn’t finish it.” By sharing their reading experience with you, they’re trying to help you make the best use of your own reading time. And that is a valuable service.

But, like books themselves, not all reviews are created equal. At the bottom of the scale, a truly bad review is one that is biased, is poorly written, contains spoilers, and spends too much time talking about things other than the book. It follows that a truly good review is one that is objective, well written, spoiler free, and focused mostly on the book itself. A good book review is one that sets out to genuinely help a fellow reader make an informed decision about whether to buy or read the book in question.

I really try to write good book reviews. I start out by putting myself in the prospective reader’s place, and asking, “What do I wish someone had told me before I read this book?” I don’t always succeed at achieving this level of objectivity and altruism—but I always wish that I had. And, accordingly, my reviews tend to be fairly highly rated. Amazon no longer shows the reviewer his “helpful” percentage, but up until they took that feature away, mine was always about 90%. I know that I myself appreciate a thorough, objective review, especially when I’m looking at a book that is expensive. Then I really do want to know what other readers think, and not just what the publisher wants me to think.

The aspect of reviews is to look at them from the point of view not of readers, but of authors. Positive reviews have always helped to sell books, but reviews of any kind help to raise awareness of them, which is beneficial for an author. I remember reading an article by a self-published author who described how a terrible review of one of his books send him into a depression for day—but then he discovered that people were buying his book anyway, sometimes because of the bad review! The stinging review is a provocation, and makes the would-be buyer wonder, “Could it really be so bad?” Ka-ching! a purchase—or anyway a sample download.

In general, getting reviews of any kind is difficult for an author, at least if he is not yet famous. They take time and effort to write—I myself have cut down on the number of reviews that I write because I just have too many projects on the go. If I think it’s important to review a book, I’ll type a short review on Goodreads. (My most recent was a review of Malcolm Lowry, a biography by Douglas Day.) And I’m an author, a publisher, and a keen advocate of book reviewing—how much more difficult must it be for others to get to it?

Happily, nonetheless, many do, and for that we writers and publishers (and fellow readers) are grateful. One interesting approach is being taken by Reading Deals with their Review Club. Authors making use of this service provide an e-book edition of their work, and the Review Club offers this to the club members, who get a free copy in exchange for committing to provide a review of it on Amazon. You only read and review things that you want to (which might be nothing), and you place a disclaimer in the review to the effect that you have received a free copy of the book in exchange for writing an honest review.

Personally, I think this is a great idea, and so I am trying it with my own newly published story, A Tourist Visa. If you think you might like to read and review this, then go to this signup page to join the club and get your free copy. Go ahead—you even have my permission to hate the story! I only ask that you put it in writing.

Enjoy.

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the writer-publisher on the flying trapeze

I’m reading a biography right now: Pursued by Furies: A Life of Malcolm Lowry by Gordon Bowker. I’m learning a lot about this troubled, alcoholic genius, who spent the best years of his life, by his own reckoning, living in one or another squatter’s shack on a beach 10 kilometers from here. And I’m learning that the path to publication and recognition for a writer has seldom been an easy one. Lowry’s masterwork, Under the Volcano, is regarded as one of the greatest novels of the 20th century, but its genesis and its path to publication were both arduous. The book that finally appeared in 1947, and which seemed so assured in its presentation, was scarcely recognizable as the same project that the author originally drafted as a short story in 1936. The project expanded as Lowry worked and reworked the material again and again and again.

The writer in me takes heart from this fact. For it suggests that great work is not arrived at in a straight-line process, but only as as result of toil, suffering, and perhaps repeated course-changes. All the dodges, revisions, new ideas, and deletions have the effect of creating a richer work, perhaps like a house that is remodeled over the years or centuries, picking up all kinds of architectural quirks and curiosities along the way. No matter how brilliant the author, that richness could never have been arrived at in a single pass.

The publisher in me also takes heart. For now, in the universe of e-books, I am a publisher as well as a writer. Writing the book is only part of the problem; the task of getting published can often be a via crucis of its own. Earlier versions of Under the Volcano were repeatedly rejected. The version that was finally published was accepted in the form submitted only because of Lowry’s famous sales pitch to the publisher Jonathan Cape: a massive letter in which he justified the form and content of the book, chapter by chapter. Cape accepted the argument, and published the book. But the event is famous because it is so exceptional. As a rule, publishers, as the gatekeepers to the universe of readers, have lorded it over writers. And probably this has been a benefit to readers, who have received more polished, coherent works as a result. But at the top end of the literary spectrum, the end occupied by works such as Under the Volcano, rules and norms start breaking down, and publishers’ knee-jerk efforts to make books conform to them start to become counterproductive.

So this is a potentially good thing about the world of e-books and self-publishing: the author can get his work published in the form in which he intended it. But now other problems intrude. There are the technical obstacles to getting a manuscript into professional-quality e-book form; there are the administrative details of getting the thing actually published and presented on retailers’ pages; there is the time-consuming task of marketing the published work, which means writing promotional copy and finding venues in which to make readers aware of it. All these things take time and skills other than those which are associated with the creative writer, which means that they will usually be achieved at a lower level of quality than what could be done by professionals in those fields. Automation helps, but there still remains a lot of skilled effort to do. All of these things make publishing challenging, but in a new kind of way: it’s less like buying a lottery ticket and more like running an obstacle course.

But, speaking for myself, no serious regrets. Yes, my dream, like that of other writers, was always to see my work in print, to say that work we being published by Penguin Books (or whomever). But my writing career has been too willful, intermittent, and chaotic for that dream to be practicable. Whether due to character defects, personality disorder, or—who knows—the waywardness of genius, my education and output as a writer have not conduced to a normal publishing career (if there be such a thing). I have been driven, willy-nilly, into the arms of self-publishing. And, like a trapeze artist at the crucial moment in his act, I was glad to find that those arms were there when I needed them.

So I am a writer-publisher. I will be working down my publishing list, bringing out works as fast as I can, things that I have been working on over the years. This is my “backlist,” and it will be appearing in e-book form, I am happy to say. This list currently has 12 items on it. Item 1, A Tourist Visa, is already out. Indeed it is still emerging from its chrysalis, for it has yet to percolate out to all the retailers who will be carrying it. Within days, though, it will be fully out. I invite you to give it a look, and judge for yourself the merits of both the publisher and the writer as reflected in this short work.

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Smashwords SSR?

I’m in the process of publishing my short story A Tourist Visa as an e-book. It has been successfully published to Amazon, and can be seen and bought in any Amazon store. Yippee! That was easy.

For publishing to non-Amazon outlets, I’m making use of Smashwords, who offer the book through their own store, and also distribute it to a number of other retailers, including Apple’s iBook Store. A Tourist Visa is up in Smashwords’ own store, but they have rejected the book for distribution to their retail partners—a status they call “entry in the Smashwords Premium Catalog.” Rejected? I thought. Why? Here is the relevant instruction in their Style Guide:

Please do not link or refer to any online retailer other than Smashwords or the author’s personal blog or website. Our retail partners don’t want to see links to Amazon, Barnes & Noble, etc., or mention of the Kindle or Nook.

In the back matter of my book, where I ask the reader to leave a review of the book at on online store, I provide links to several online stores. If I am to be distributed to Smashwords’ retail partners, I will have to remove the references and links to Amazon and Barnes & Noble, and any mention of the Kindle or Nook e-readers.

What do you think of that? I’ll tell you what I thought: I found it irritating and troubling. I felt, well, censored.

Is that word too strong? Let’s look at the definition of censor in my new Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary, eleventh edition:

to examine in order to suppress or delete anything considered objectionable; also: to suppress or delete as objectionable

My book has been found to contain material that is objectionable, and will not be distributed unless it is deleted. I think Webster’s backs up my impression: I’m being censored. My content is being objected to not on moral or political or religious grounds, but on commercial ones; nonetheless, censorship is what it is.

I am a believer in free speech. My belief in it arises from three separate causes:

  • I was born with an eccentric and irreverent nature, which predisposes me to thinking and saying things that do not conform with convention or orthodoxy
  • I am a creative artist, whose vocation requires me to express the urgings of my imagination, whatever they are and wherever they lead
  • I have come to hold a liberal political philosophy, which is based on the principle of individual freedom, and is devoted to protecting people from infringements to their freedom

When you mix those three ingredients together, you have someone with a positive passion for free speech. My passion for it puts me in a position which is quite politically incorrect. For example, I don’t support the placing of any limits at all on the expression of people’s personal opinions. I would not try to obstruct anyone from uttering or writing things that express hatred or contempt for anything or anyone; nor would I obstruct anyone from praising what most people regard as wrong or evil. In particular, I don’t think that anyone should face legal sanctions for sounds that he makes with his mouth or marks that he makes on paper or computer screens. Does that mean I would suffer the prating of racist, flat-Earth, Holocaust deniers? Yes I would. (Suffer in the sense of allowing them to prate; not in the sense of sticking around to listen to it myself.) Freedom means freedom.

I do recognize that there must be limits to free speech. Speech that causes immediate and obvious harm (such as by shouting “Fire!‘ in a crowded theater), and speech that causes less immediate but nonetheless definite harm (such as by knowingly publishing falsehoods about someone), do need to be controlled by law. But my notion of what constitutes harmful speech is a very restricted one. I want my neighbors to enjoy virtually unrestricted ability to express what’s on their minds, no matter how unpopular or how upsetting those things might be.

The reason I feel this way is because I want that freedom for myself. And I recognize that I have no right to such a freedom unless I am prepared to extend to everyone else.

I am so prepared. In order to enjoy freedom of speech, I am prepared to listen to other people’s crap. Well, maybe not listen to; how about hear? For my own freedom means that I am free to leave or to tune out material I find objectionable. No one’s forcing me to watch Fox News, so I don’t. But I would not censor them, either.

I have another reason for championing free speech: it’s better than the alternative. In a free-speech world, everyone can say openly what’s on his mind. At least in theory, we can say what we really think. But in a world where more and more speech is regarded as objectionable for one reason or another, we increasingly censor ourselves, and hide our true thoughts while, to get along and avoid censure, we express feelings we don’t have and profess beliefs we don’t hold. Such a society might appear to be homogeneous and harmonious; but that appearance is superficial and false.

Such a society might look a lot like the one I visited in 1982 when I traveled to Latvian SSR to meet my long-lost grandfather Alexander—the society I portray a small slice of in A Tourist Visa. In that world, my granddad told me, people did not speak openly on the streets or even look in each other’s eyes. Only in the walls of your home could you relax and let your hair down, could you be yourself.

So Smashwords is censoring me. It might seem a trivial instance of censorship, but it’s a real one. So, to be true to myself, I must protest.

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the thrice-born story

When my father arrived, at age 14, with his mother in Halifax in 1948 as a refugee from Germany, it had been 4 years since he had last seen his father, Alexander. Alexander had waved goodbye to them from the dock in Riga, Latvia, as they fled by ship from the advancing Soviet army, which was threatening to recapture the city from the Germans. The expectation was that the Germans would soon push the Red Army back again, but it was not to be: my father and grandmother spent the rest of the war in refugee camps in Nazi Germany, and stayed on as displaced persons in Red Cross camps after the war. As for Alexander, he was later captured by the Soviets when trying to make his own escape by ship to Sweden, and spent the rest of the war at a work camp in Siberia, shoveling snow from railroads. When the Iron Curtain fell across Eastern Europe, he was marooned behind it, and was not heard of again—until about 1975, when my father was astonished to receive a letter from him in Canada.

They began a correspondence, but there was no practical way for them to meet, since it was not feasible for Alexander to leave Latvia (where he had resettled after the war), and my father ran the risk of being detained permanently in Soviet Latvia if he returned there. In 1981, at age 22, I set off on a journey of self-discovery and literary research to Europe, Israel, and northeast Africa. By February 1982 I was in Kenya, and, looking to return to Europe, I discovered that the cheapest way, by far, was to fly Aeroflot from Nairobi to Rome. But all Aeroflot flights shared a quirk: they were routed through Moscow. That’s right: the cheapest way for me to get from Nairobi to Rome was via Moscow, which is farther from Nairobi than Rome. And the idea came to me: if I have to go to Moscow anyway, why not take a side trip to Riga and visit my granddad?

So I booked the flights and went. In the cold and gray of Riga in March, I arrived by taxi at the drab concrete apartment block where he was supposed to be. I had taught myself the Cyrillic alphabet in order to recognize his—our—name in the phone book and other places, and in the lobby of the building the directory was indeed all in Cyrillic—except for the name of my grandfather. For whatever reason, possibly because he was the only ethnic Latvian in the building, it was the lone name in Roman letters: VITOLS, A. It jumped out at me and I felt a spark of excitement.

Nervously I headed up the stairs. There, at the end of the corridor, was the door. I took a breath and knocked. It was opened by a pleasant-looking woman of retirement age. I knew this to be Vallije, my grandfather’s second wife.

Not knowing either Latvian or Russian, I said, “Hello—is Alexander here?”

The woman, puzzled, nodded uncertainly and retreated back into the apartment. Soon she returned, following a tall, well-built man with thick white hair. He was frowning and looked rather suspicious.

“Hello—Alexander?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, doubtfully.

“I’m Paul. I’m your grandson.”

“Oh!” he said. Then, with a deeper level of shock: “Oh!” He reached to take my hand. “Come in! Come in!”

“I just have to tell the taxi driver to go,” I said.

A Tourist Visa - a short story by Paul VitolsSoon I had to leave Riga and make my way back home to Vancouver, and my proto-story was left unfinished. Three years later, CBC Radio held one of its occasional short-story contests, so I decided to dust off A Tourist Visa, as my story was now called, finish it, and submit it.

I dashed downstairs, then dashed back up, and was ushered into my grandfather’s cozy apartment, where they immediately started plying me with food and drink. Granddad insisted that I move from the hotel where I was registered to stay with them, and so began a visit of 10 days or so with the grandfather I had never met. To my great good fortune, Alexander had taken up the study of English as a retirement hobby, and spoke it well. During my stay he talked with me, took me on outings, and overfed me. He must have been well connected, for he had a stock of scotch whisky, which he poured unstintingly for me at lunch and dinner, and perhaps also for breakfast. I loved it!

I was nearing the end of a long, strange trip, and my impressions were stimulating my creativity. I had been writing letters and taking notes, but I wanted to write fiction again. Unable to wait, I dropped my pen and started to write about my experiences there in Riga. I didn’t really have a story idea, just a few vivid experiences, so I started writing about those. At some point I realized that I could build a story around my encounter with the local office of the Soviet Intourist Bureau, and a girl I met there.

I didn’t win the contest. There being few markets for short stories, and I having other writing projects on the go, I chalked it up to experience and filed away my carbon copy of the story. But now, with the advent of e-books and e-publishing, I realized that there is a market for short stories again. So I have again drawn A Tourist Visa from the darkness of a filing box back into the light of day—its second rebirth—and have published it for all the world to see.

The opening sentence? Here it is:

I returned to the mezzanine of the Latvia Hotel, carrying in my windbreaker pocket a little dagger to thrust in the malignant lard of the tourist officer.

How does that hit you? If you’d like to read more, visit Amazon or Smashwords—or the online retailer of your choice, and dig in. See what stirred the imagination of a young writer visiting his ancestral homeland behind the Iron Curtain.

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“I Have No Mouth . . .”

I was a breech birth. Since then, I’ve done everything in life bass ackwards.

A recent and relevant example of this is my education as a writer. Instead of first learning the craft of writing, and then studying up on the subjects I wanted to write about, I have spent most of my life studying the things I thought I might want to write about, and only recently have devoted serious attention to learning my craft. In my own opinion, this is not the best approach.

In my previous post (yes, from long ago), I suggested that the reason for this late arrival at the education of the writer was pride. I still think that has a lot to do with it, but another thought has since occurred to me: this detailed knowledge about the craft of writing, of storytelling, is quite a recent—and still ongoing—phenomenon. Many of these high-quality craft books have appeared only since the turn of the 21st century. And when they appear, it takes time for them to become known and appreciated. When I was a young writer, there were not the resources that there are now to strengthen one’s storytelling prowess.

As recently as the 17th century, the French dramatist Corneille could say

It is certain that there are laws of the drama, since it is an art; but it is not certain what those laws are.

Well, as far as I’m concerned, those laws are becoming known, and there is a growing library of works explaining them, with the aim of helping storytellers improve at their art. Looking at things from that point of view, I feel fortunate to be alive right now, and to have the benefit of this education at any age.

And another thought has occurred to me. The lives of writers are often notoriously tortured. I’ve been reading about the life of Malcolm Lowry, author of Under the Volcano, one of the greatest novels of the 20th century. He was an alcoholic and an “incompetent”—someone who, as an adult, was more than once put under the supervision of lawyers and other guardians—who killed himself with a mixture of gin and barbiturates at the age of 47. Many other writers have lived lives almost as tragic. What I’ve been wondering is, how much of that suffering has been due to lack of craft? For Lowry, Under the Volcano was far and away his best and most important work. He struggled for years to produce other things, but never came up with anything as good. Would this have happened to him if he had known more of the craft of storytelling—a craft that he himself said was important to him? Did he suffer and finally kill himself because, at some level, he didn’t know what he was doing?

I recognize that writers have had plenty of other reasons to self-medicate and kill themselves: poverty, failed relationships, social ostracism. But the basic writerly problem has lurked undiagnosed, hidden behind other names: writer’s block, abandonment by the Muse, angst. They—we—have lain awake at night, wondering, “Why am I no damn good?” The answer was and is: we don’t have the craft.

I think of the title of a short story by Harlan Ellison: “I Have No Mouth, and I Must Scream.” This is the condition of the writer without craft. So those teachers who are now providing that precious knowledge, people like Michael Hauge, Christopher Vogler, Amy Deardon, K. M. Weiland, Angela Ackerman, and Becca Puglisi, are not only making life easier and better for storytellers; they may in some cases be providing a life-saving service. And for that I thank them.

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slow learners

I’m back.

Why the long absence since my last post? It’s not easy to explain. I suppose I could say that I’ve been going through a period of slow-burning crisis.

What sort of crisis, you ask? It’s a crisis with respect to my vocation as a writer. The word crisis comes from the Greek word for “decision,” so my crisis, I suppose, is over what kind of a writer I am to be. But no, that’s not exactly it, for I know what kind of a writer I want to be. I want to be a literary writer in the sense that I understand the term, which is not the way in which the term is commonly understood. I believe that the common understanding is that “literary” writing is intended primarily for an academic audience. Now my writing might indeed appeal primarily to that audience—I don’t know—but that is not my aim as a writer. My aim is to make my writing the best it can be, in my own estimation. Whom it might appeal to, if anyone, I will leave to fate, chance, the gods, or whoever else might be responsible. I think it was Thomas Mann, I forget in which work, who said that all true artists have one desire: to be allowed to do their very best. And that is my desire.

But that doesn’t sound controversial, not to me, anyway. Of course artists want to do their best—don’t they?

I’m sure that’s what we would all say. But what is one’s best? And how does one know when one is doing it?

Orson Scott Card, in his instructional book for fiction writers, Characters & Viewpoint, makes the point that

if your purpose in writing is to be admired, to impress people with your cleverness or skill, then the story itself is only a secondary concern to you, and your writing will be designed to dazzle your readers more than to enlighten them.

These words struck me, and then haunted me. I agreed with Card, and had put a lot of work into my story; but it was dawning on me that it may not have been work of the right sort.

I thought about another book, Slow Learner, Thomas Pynchon’s collection of short stories, published in 1984. In his rueful introduction, Pynchon discusses the various mistaken ideas and defective methods that he used as a young man in writing the 5 stories in the book. He regrets that he had not made use of more material from his own life, which might have made his stories more “luminous” and “authentic.” He says

I hate to think that I didn’t, however defectively, understand this. Maybe the rent was just too high. In any case, stupid kid, I preferred fancy footwork instead.

Fancy footwork. To be admired, to impress people with your cleverness or skill. These are motives that I understand well. And over the past year I have been reflecting on how much my efforts at writing continue to be affected—or shall I say infected—by these motives.

It all started last year, 2015, when I started to acquire some books on the art of writing—on storytelling. It might have started when I read The Seven Basic Plots by Christopher Booker (and which I reviewed in this blog), as part of my ongoing research into the question of story genres. Later I picked up a book on character creation, The Complete Writer’s Guide to Heroes & Heroines: Sixteen Master Archetypes by Tami D. Cowden, Caro LaFever, and Sue Viders (also reviewed in this blog), which was offered to me on Goodreads as an automated recommendation based on my other reading. For me this was an exciting eye-opener, for I had long wanted to find a way to use archetypes as a tool for character creation, and these authors had provided an excellent handbook for doing just that. Cool! How come I hadn’t heard about it before?

Perhaps inspired by the quality of this guide, I started to look for other guidebooks, and soon came across (probably again via the Goodreads recommendation engine) two volumes by Angela Ackerman and Becca Puglisi: The Negative Trait Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Flaws and The Positive Trait Thesaurus: A Writer’s Guide to Character Attributes. I dove into these, and was impressed with the authors’ presentation of how to express character psychology in terms of traits, as well as their authoritative treatment of how emotional wounds drive character motivation and behavior. One of my dominant thoughts was, “Wow, this is great! How come I don’t know this stuff already?”

Thirsty for more such knowledge, I hunted down more books, starting with some from these authors’ bibliography. I wound up buying about 9 more books, plus a set of CDs, and I got reading. Again, it was all as though I had never been a writer before: how to structure a story, how to develop characters, how to incorporate settings and symbols. How was it that I was encountering all this knowledge at such a relatively late date in my life and career? Why had I labored so long in the dark?

At some point an answer to these questions obtruded uncomfortably into my mind. That answer was “pride.” I hadn’t sought out the knowledge because I thought I already knew it. I was complacent and arrogant. Those character flaws (to use Ackerman and Puglisi’s term) had cost me big.

Pride—thinking of oneself as better than others—is the first deadly sin. I recall seeing in a text on Buddhist psychology that pride is a component of every moment of consciousness for everyone until we attain final enlightenment. I take this to mean that pride underlies our self-cherishing behavior; it is the reason that we regard ourselves as more important than others, in the sense that we always try to take care of our own interests first, if necessary at others’ expense, and sometimes even if not necessary. It underlies the “me first!” behavior that we engage in, perhaps most nakedly while driving, and more subtly at other times. But, pervasive though it may be as a character flaw, pride is undeniably more pronounced in some of us than in others.

People who are talented are probably at special risk of falling victim to this flaw. For to be talented means exactly to be, in some sense, impressive, does it not? And if you can impress people, you can gain their esteem and other advantages. It can become a coping mechanism to help you get through life. And if you’re better than other people at certain things, you may lull yourself into thinking that you have nothing to learn from them. In the words of chess champion Bobby Fischer, you need to be reminded that “your opponents can make good moves too.”

Among writers, probably few indeed have anything like the native talent of Thomas Pynchon, and this will be why he was able to surge ahead early in his career on the basis of that talent. It’s evident in his writing from the get-go. But that talent was also the very thing that made him, in his own eyes, a slow learner—one whose eyes were opened only belatedly to aspects of the craft that other, lesser talents were introduced to sooner, simply because they knew that they needed training. Those people knew they needed help at a time when Pynchon’s problem was more about how to deal with his crazed, obsessed fans.

I don’t claim to have the talent of a Thomas Pynchon, but I was born with conspicuous writing talent, and, from the time I learned my letters, have always found it easy to write well. And this talent, I now believe, has also made me a slow learner.

Well, this slow learner has finally, at age 57, taken delivery of his textbooks, and, now that the classroom is emptied of other students, all long since graduated and living productive lives, has started, highlighter in hand, to read them.

Maybe I’ll let you know how he gets on.

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Justine by the Marquis de Sade: birth of the philosopher-pornographer

JustineJustine by Marquis de Sade
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

The struggle between virtue and vice is portrayed in the starkest possible way.

I was reminded of this book when I read The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories by Christopher Booker. In his account of what he regards as the decline of storytelling since the time of the Romantics, he mentions Justine as a case in point. From ancient times, the character of the innocent young woman has symbolized the highest goal for which a story’s hero strives, which, deep down, means his own maturation and wholeness. In this form she embodied the archetype that Carl Jung called the anima, and since all storytelling was finally about communicating the wisdom of how to live life fully and well, the task of the hero was always to rescue and protect this precious person. In the course of a story the anima-figure might suffer at the hands of villains, who in their turn represented the archetype of the shadow, or those aspects of ourselves that are negative and that we need to master, but she would always be rescued, and those villains would face defeat, punishment, and often death. Harming or violating a virtuous young woman was always the worst kind of injustice, and must be punished, if justice were to be seen as active in the world.

According to Booker, Justine, published in 1791 when its author was 51, turns all these values on their head. The heroine, young, beautiful, virtuous, and defenseless, is repeatedly abducted, violated, and abused in the most atrocious ways, while the rapists who slake their perverted lust on her body not only escape detection and punishment, they also enjoy great prestige and wealth in society. While Justine is convicted of crimes she hasn’t committed, the actual perpetrators garner awards and promotions and acclaim. Justine’s is a world in which no good deed goes unpunished, and that punishment is always both savage and sexual. In Booker’s view, this is, in psychological terms, the triumph of ego—the purely selfish part of ourselves that needs to be tamed and matured—over the Self, which was the name that Jung gave to the greatest and deepest archetype of them all, the ultimate goal to which we are all trying to move, whether we know it or not, and which he termed “the God-image in man.” Booker’s thesis is that true, proper, traditional storytelling has always been about helping us in our journey to realization of the Self, and that the subversion of that aim in the storytelling of the last 300 years has been a sign that writers have rebelled against this ancient program, preferring instead to depict stories of the desecration of the Self and its values and show the ego triumphant. In the world of literature and drama, the inmates have taken over the asylum.

In my opinion, Booker’s argument has a lot going for it, and the Marquis de Sade would seem to make a good example of that last point (which is mine, not Booker’s), for, according to Wikipedia, he spent 32 years of his life incarcerated, many of those in mental asylums. Most of his works, including Justine, were written there. Reading that book, one finds it easy to believe that its author was a madman, specifically what we today would call a psychopath. For it seems clear, upon reading his bio on Wikipedia, that de Sade had much firsthand experience with the cruelties he describes—as their perpetrator. Prostitutes and servants alike charged him with sexual cruelty, and much of the time when he was not incarcerated he was on the run or in hiding. He liked to bind, beat, cut, choke, and sodomize his victims, among many other kinds of violence, which, if his life really did reflect his fiction, may well not have stopped short of murdering them. He was a real piece of work.

But all of this I pretty much expected on my way in to Justine. I knew that the book and its author were infamous, and why. What I didn’t expect was to find a debate on moral philosophy distributed through the story. For many of Justine’s abusers, when she challenges them about the cruelty and impiety of their actions, take the trouble to explain themselves to her. Their brutality and lust is supported, in most cases, by a worked-out philosophy for why what they’re doing is perfectly right and natural; and they are at pains to convince Justine that it is she, and not they, who is mistaken in her view of life.

Their arguments, while worked out at some length, are centered on a few key points. When challenged that what they are doing is against God’s laws, they respond that there is no God. If Justine expects God’s help then she should call on him and see how much help she gets. Religion is a superstition for credulous children, nothing more.

When challenged that what they are engaged in are criminal acts that they themselves take great care to conceal, they respond that the laws and proprieties of society are a veneer over what is actually corrupt from top to bottom. Vice, not virtue, is the rulebook that everyone actually plays by. The hallmark of so-called civilized society is hypocrisy, and only a fool respects the blandishments of hypocrites, which includes the legal code. This argument appears all the stronger since many of Justine’s abusers are themselves people of position and influence, and know whereof they speak.

But what of simple justice, of refraining from doing to others what one would hate to have done to oneself? Justice too is the watchword of the weak and credulous. The lamb cries out for justice when the wolf falls on it, but in nature there is no such thing as justice, and we are all fundamentally natural beings. Just as Nature placed these passions and desires in Justine’s abusers, Nature also gave them the power to act on them, just like the wolf. How can there be any such thing as a crime against Nature, who fashions all just as she pleases, and creates the wolf, as he is, just as surely as she creates the lamb that is his food? Does Nature shed tears over the lamb’s death-agonies?

Justine, who narrates most of her own story, consistently dismisses the arguments of her attackers as “sophistries”—what we would today call rationalizations. And, just as consistently, she refers to her tormenters not as men (or, in some cases, women), but as monsters, criminals, barbarians, and ogres. Occasionally she complies with the perverted wishes of her captors, but only to shorten a session of torture or to mitigate the suffering of one of her fellow victims. But throughout she remains resolute in her belief in the preciousness of virtue, and that God will ultimately reward it. She holds fast to this belief when put under the greatest possible duress to give it up, and always gives it a spirited defence when it is attacked. In Justine de Sade has created a thoroughly virtuous character, and it is thus painful indeed to witness the endless brutalities and injustices she is subjected to.

“The good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. That is what Fiction means.” Thus Oscar Wilde in The Importance of Being Earnest. A hundred years earlier, the Marquis de Sade created a work of fiction that reversed the polarity of that proposition. In the opening chapter of his book, which is a dedication to a woman named Constance, he argues, with seeming passion, that to reward virtue is to degrade it. He appears to be agreeing with a position taken by Marcus Aurelius in his Meditations:

Art thou not content that thou hast done something conformable to thy nature, and dost thou seek to be paid for it? Just as if the eye demanded recompense for seeing, or the feet for walking. For as these members are formed for a particular purpose, so also is man formed by nature to acts of benevolence.

Or, in the pithy words of the ancient proverb: Virtue is its own reward.

In his dedication, de Sade says that his story sets out

to employ the boldest scenes, the most extraordinary situations, the most dreadful maxims, the most energetic brush strokes, with the sole object of obtaining from all this one of the sublimest parables ever penned for human edification.

I think we can say that Justine is not the sublimest parable ever penned. The author takes far too strong an interest in the minutiae of how exquisite sexual suffering can be inflicted on a captive victim, an interest that can only be called macabre. This reader is inclined to think that de Sade was good, as all psychopaths are good, at telling people what they want to hear. That if his story depicts a naked woman being set on by dogs or having boiling water injected in her vagina, it’s all in a good cause.

But while I don’t exactly accept de Sade’s fervent encomium of virtue, I did feel that Justine’s defence and practice of virtue was much more than perfunctory. My sense is that Justine is the document of a man at war with himself. I believe that his head and maybe even his heart affirm that virtue is the highest and best way to behave, but some other, darker part of him craves pleasures—sexual pleasures—that can be experienced only by harming others. As far as he knows, those desires are part of his nature—and if they’re not, then what are they and whence do they come? And if they are part of his nature, then they are part of Nature in general, the same Nature that gives the wolf its appetite for the flesh of the lamb.

It is this confrontation between virtue and vice, between desire and duty, that gives Justine whatever interest it has a work of literature. If you are aroused by scenes of violent nonconsensual sex, then the “sex” scenes may be titillating, but otherwise we have a simple, implausible, and episodic story of a young woman falling from the clutches of one monster into the clutches of another monster, again and again. It’s a work of pornography. Its only saving grace is that it is also a work of philosophy.

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Watership Down by Richard Adams: the rabbit Aeneid

Watership DownWatership Down by Richard Adams
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Two square miles of English countryside become a zone of adventure, combat, and statecraft for a band of refugee rabbits.

My path to this book was via The Seven Basic Plots by Christopher Booker, where the author points to it as an example of the basic plot he calls The Quest (and Richard Adams is one of the people quoted in praise of Booker’s work on the back of his book). I was aware of Watership Down in the 1970s, when I enjoyed keeping tabs on the New York Times bestseller list, but since it was a story about rabbits I figured it must be a kids’ book, and I never became interested in reading it. Now, with Adams’s book mentioned not only as an example of The Quest plot, but as an especially good example, I happily borrowed a copy from the library and got reading.

I was immediately drawn in. My concerns about Beatrix Potter-style kiddie prose were dispelled right away, first of all by the author’s selection of four lines of Agamemnon by Aeschylus as his epigraph for chapter 1 (Cassandra’s warning that the house reeks of death), and then by the author’s unhurried and mature setting of the scene in the country. He sees it through appreciative and aesthetic adult eyes, and if he is narrating to children (Adams says that the story began as an oral tale for his young daughters on a long car trip), he is not talking down to them. The first sentence contained a term I was not familiar with: dog’s mercury, a kind of spurge (I read in Wikipedia) that is common in Europe. I would read the names of many other woodland herbs before I was done—not least because the rabbits of the story are mostly named after them—among other signs of the author’s knowledge and love of the natural world.

The epigraph from Aeschylus was well chosen, for not only does it emerge that the rabbit-warren whose setting is so lovingly described has a Cassandra of its own—a runty little fellow named Fiver—but also that the warren itself, despite that same remote and idyllic setting, is, like Troy, on the brink of destruction. In this case there will be no siege, for the destroyers are not of the same species as the rabbits; rather, they belong to the fearsome and destructive race known as men, who do not behave as other animals do, but instead put burning sticks in their mouths and operate great rumbling machines. Fiver has a premonition of terrible destruction, and tries to persuade his fellow rabbits that they must abandon their warren immediately and move away.

He is mostly unsuccessful. But a few rabbits do believe him, and decide that the risk of staying is greater than the risk of leaving. So a few bucks, under the tentative leadership of Hazel, a friend of Fiver, set out. The adventure begins. The rabbits need to find a new warren, a new home, but before they can get there, they must cross much unfamiliar country, with all its dangers.

According to Christopher Booker’s scheme, Watership Down is a Quest because it depicts a character—in this case, Hazel—seeking a prize of great value to him. And, as in the typical Quest plot, Hazel is joined by a team of supporting characters who exemplify different traits, thus making the group a symbol of potential psychic wholeness: Fiver is an intuitive visionary, Bigwig is a strongman, Blackberry is smarter than the average rabbit, Dandelion is a storyteller, and Bluebell is the poet-court jester. Hazel, for his part, as a leader, is humble, sensible, considerate, and inclusive. Indeed, it is only by a kind of default that he comes to realize that he is the leader. In the course of the adventure his mettle will be tested in many ways.

And it occurs to me that Watership Down is not only a Quest plot; it is an epic. For what is an epic? According to that excellent book, The Epic Cosmos, edited by Larry Allums, an epic is a story about the birth or transformation of a society. And that is what we have here. For a rabbit-warren is not simply a household of rabbits; it is a kind of state, at least as it is portrayed in this book. Their quest will take them into military-style campaigns and will raise keen political questions. From becoming the almost accidental leader of a ragtag bunch of lapine refugees, Hazel is forced to take on the qualities of a wily tactician like Odysseus and a wise statesman like Nestor. And yet he always stays true to himself: practical, considerate, and unassuming.

The author strikes a masterly balance in portraying his rabbits: for while they conduct their exchanges in a human-style language (Lapine), and seem to think and plan much like humans, they also remain true to their rabbitness in their sensitivity to the smells, sounds, and sights around them, and in their emotional responses and intellectual limitations. They have no idea what a paved road is or what it’s for; they just have to take it as it comes and cautiously make the best of it. Some of them cope with it better than others.

This is no Beatrix Potter outing. There is hunting, there is fighting, there is killing. This is nature. It’s beautiful and it’s pitiless. Indeed, this is what makes the stakes so high.

Altogether this book is exciting, imaginative, poetic, and significant. It is a wonderful and original work of art, one that I look forward to reading again, and spending some time and effort studying. That’s about as high praise as I can give.

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The Seven Basic Plots by Christopher Booker: the templates for personal growth

The Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell StoriesThe Seven Basic Plots: Why We Tell Stories by Christopher Booker
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This massive, in-depth work presents a unified theory of the art of storytelling based on Jungian psychology.

As I recall, this was another work that came to my attention via the Goodreads recommendation engine. When I checked out its contents on Amazon, I knew I had to get it. Here was a large, serious work on the basic plots of storytelling—a subject that I have been trying to come to grips with myself over the years. When the book arrived, I plunged in with great interest.

And in the main, the book, all 700-odd dense pages of it, sustained that interest, even as it became apparent that its scope ranged far beyond the 7 basic plots identified by the author. He mostly finishes discussing those by page 214; from then on he looks in more depth at what role storytelling plays in the human psychic economy, and finishes with a detailed look at how storytelling has, in the West anyway, undergone a convulsive change in the last 200 years, and speculates as to the causes of this convulsion. I loved the aim of this book, its seriousness, its ambition, and its depth. I loved too that the author thinks outside the box and doesn’t pull his punches in taking a dissident stand with respect to many classic and popular works of storytelling. In some of his assessments I found myself agreeing with him (Gone with the Wind); in other cases not (The Wizard of Oz, Ulysses). But throughout he is principled and consistent in his judgments, and backs them up with his comprehensive theory.

Other things I was less pleased with. For one thing, the book is chock full of spoilers. The author, in the course of his exposition, outlines many plots, old and new, in full, and if you were hoping to read or view the stories in question, they will be spoiled. Maybe that’s inevitable in a book of this type, but I think that the author could and should have made some gesture toward preventing the worst of it, perhaps by discussing a reading strategy in his introduction, or providing simple spoiler alerts in the text. For my part, when I saw that the author was about to discuss a work that I had not yet read but knew I wanted to, I would do my best to skip that summary and move on to the next. The author, Christopher Booker, has read a heckuva lot of books (in his “personal note” at the end of the book he expresses special gratitude to the Penguin Classics for providing such a large, accessible library of the world’s stories). Like many readers, I have read only a subset of that number, and I would have appreciated a sympathetic effort on the author’s part to get me through his text with minimal spoilage of the world’s literature.

Another issue for me was the author’s prose style, which, although it was competent and got the job done, I thought had some defects and lacked discipline. In a book of this great length, a serious effort should be made to tighten the text by every means possible. This wasn’t done here, and the text remains larded with adjectives, adverbs, and whole sentences that aren’t pulling their weight. A further issue was the author’s reliance on figurative language, specifically the many references to “dark” and “light” characters, using these words in just this way, in quotation marks. Aristotle warns against using metaphors in an argument, for there is the danger that the underlying literal sense will not be communicated or understood. Ordinarily, I would take dark to mean either “evil” or “vicious”, or perhaps both (if they are not the same thing), and that is in effect what the author means here, but a major part of his argument is that evil or vicious behavior arises specifically from egocentrism or selfishness, in contrast to good or virtuous behavior, which is selfless. The connection between evil, vice, and selfishness on the one hand, and between good, virtue, and selflessness on the other, is interesting and important, but it’s also controversial, and I think it was the author’s duty to sort this out for the purpose of his argument and to define his terms, that is, to say plainly and literally what he meant, and not leave it to me, the reader, to grapple with the question. Throughout the book the words “dark,” “light,” “heart,” “soul,” and “seeing whole” are used thus, in quotation marks, and are never formally defined, and this reader regarded that fact as a weakness.

But the theory that the author expounds, the actual argument of his book, is exciting and thought-provoking. In a project that began in 1969, he examined stories of the Western world to discover what their basic plots are. This project, interestingly, has seldom been undertaken seriously before. In the author’s survey of the existing literature, the earliest reference to the notion that “similar stories and situations may be found throughout literature appears in the late eighteenth-century, in James Boswell’s biography of Dr Samuel Johnson.” But Johnson left no list or even hint of what these might be. A writer named Gozzi found that there were 36 “dramatic situations,” but as the 19th century arrived, the interest in storytelling shifted to the realm of folk tales. But the finding and cataloguing of these, while it exercised scholarly minds, never amounted to a classification system into distinct story types. As far as Christopher Booker was concerned, a serious scholarly effort in this direction still needed to be done.

So he watched plays, movies, and operas, and read books—lots of them. And eventually he discerned seven basic plots or story types. And it’s no spoiler to say what they are, since they’re listed right on the cover of the book:

Overcoming the Monster
Rags to Riches
The Quest
Voyage and Return
Comedy
Tragedy
Rebirth

In the first 228 pages the author sketches the outlines of these plots, giving examples from vastly different times and literary genres. Along the way there are a number of striking revelations. I was astonished when the author described a list of typical events in an Overcoming the Monster plot, and showed how the list applied equally well to the ancient Sumerian story of Gilgamesh’s journey to combat the monster Humbaba and to Ian Fleming’s 1958 James Bond novel, Dr. No. This by itself was a convincer for me that he was on to something.

Giving many and diverse examples, the author shows how almost every story can be reduced to one or more of these 7 plots—for many stories combine them. The author asserts, for example, that The Lord of the Rings combines all 7 of them. Some of the identifications are surprising and thought provoking. For example, he finds that War and Peace, in terms of the 7 plots, is essentially a Comedy! That is, its main plot conforms with the characteristics of Comedy as he defines it: a story about young couples overcoming the obstacles to realizing that they are meant to be together.

Why 7 basic plots? Where did they come from? Here we come to the heart of the author’s theory about storytelling. Stories exist in order to help us all mature and live fulfilling lives. They do this by giving symbolic representation to factors at work in our unconscious minds and showing how they must be worked with if we are to become complete, adult human beings. In particular, the author avails himself of the concepts of Jungian psychology to say that storytelling provides us all with a kind of map for how to grow from a condition of narrow egocentrism to one of wise, balanced wholeness. The hero or heroine of any story represents the ego, the archetype of our conscious self, as it confronts the difficult challenges to becoming more adequate to life. The villain of a story represents the ego’s shadow, the archetype of the wicked personality that carries the negative traits of egohood, which boil down to selfishness. Often a story will have a love interest for the hero; this character represents what Jung called the anima (or animus in the case of a heroine), the personification of his own unconscious, who fascinates and excites him, and whom he must win if he is to achieve fulfillment and wholeness.

The deepest and most powerful archetype of them all is called the Self, which is identical with the total person and not to be confused with the ego, which stands only for the center of conscious experience. Jung referred to the Self as the “god-image in man”; in its most positive aspect it represents the end of all aspiration and all striving, the complete actualization of a human being, beyond the petty and selfish aims of the ego. Like all the archetypes, though, the Self is unconscious and cannot be made conscious; its existence can only be inferred from the images and symbols that arise and point to it as their source. In storytelling, the Self manifests as the state of the hero when he has overcome all opposition and won through to a happy ending. The true and complete happy ending, according to this author, is one in which the hero has vanquished the villain, married the “princess”—the woman he loves—and has succeeded, with her, to a “kingdom” of some kind, which they will rule together. This fairy-tale ending remains the most emotionally satisfying for an audience, because it most accurately represents, in symbolic form, the psychological aims of human life. The fairy-tale ending shows the ego fully realized, in harmonious, complete relationship with the Self. That is exactly what makes the ending a happy one, giving a sense of fulfillment with nothing further to be done.

The great task of human life is to realize this relationship with the Self. It is primarily an inner work, which requires courage and determination—the qualities of a hero. The great danger is that we will be seduced by false gods along the way, that we will not be able to look past our ego and will consume our lives in inflating it and gratifying it. When we do this we become vicious—we become villains. And if we take villainy to its furthest extreme, we become monsters. And Overcoming the Monster, the first of the 7 basic plots, is exactly, according to the author, about the challenge of overcoming an ego that has metastasized to its ugliest state. For the monsters of stories are not the same as the “monsters” of nature—the crocodiles and sharks. The monsters of stories add the qualities of malice and cunning: human qualities, which show them to be not natural creatures, but hideously deformed humans. That is what makes them so frightening.

And it turns out that the order of plots in the list is not random, but rather presents a rough progression of story types, each showing the educational journey of the ego-hero in a different light. Along the way are many fascinating insights. I found especially interesting the discussion of the evolution of Comedy, the only one of the plot types that has actually changed over time. The author shows how Comedy began as the Old Comedy of ancient Athens, most famously exemplified in the plays of Aristophanes. These were social comedies that pitted the individual against society or group against group. Old Comedy gave way to the New Comedy of Menander and the Roman comedians, which was now romantic comedy, in which a young pair of lovers are blocked from fulfilling their desire for marriage by the powers that be—usually their parents. Later, Comedy morphed again, so that by the time of Shakespeare it is no longer external authorities who are keeping the lovers apart, but now, sometimes, qualities within the characters themselves, such as in All’s Well That Ends Well or The Taming of the Shrew. The author thinks that Comedy is continuing to evolve, so that in some contemporary comedies the obstacle to the union of the lovers is no longer any particular vice in them, but simply in the whirl of circumstance in which they find themselves, as in Four Weddings and a Funeral.

The author goes on to discuss the causes and symptoms of what he regards as the degeneration of storytelling in the last 250 years. According to him, writers moved away from stories that celebrated the virtues representing the Self (strength, intelligence, compassion, wisdom), and wrote stories instead that glorified the ego, stories in which vice triumphs over virtue. A work such as Justine by the Marquis de Sade, in which a virtuous young woman is tortured by a cruel sexual deviant, a monster, who goes unpunished, would have been unthinkable to ancient writers. The trend continued on into the 20th century, with the appearance of stories that merely presented enigmatic, unresolved situations, such as Waiting for Godot. All this represents the triumph of ego regarding itself as the supreme principle in the world. The author believes that such stories are based on fantasy, as opposed to imagination. And while he discusses this distinction a little, I would have liked him to go into much more detail, for it is a fascinating idea.

There are many fascinating ideas in this book, and many striking and original insights. I loved his discussions of Hamlet and of the Oedipus plays by Sophocles. I found his analyses of the psychologies of individual authors absorbing, even as I have hesitations about interpreting writers’ works based on facts of their biographies, never mind their presumed character flaws. I loved his ability to draw parallels, surprisingly close ones, between such disparate works as the Book of Job and Nineteen Eighty-Four. All this was great.

I suppose I would sum up by saying that The Seven Basic Plots is a great idea for a book, and well and thoroughly thought out. The author presents his ideas, many of which dissent from scholarly and critical consensus, confidently, which I like. The actual prose I found to be a bit flabby and uninspired, and the material could well have been put into three separate books. The problem of spoilers is a serious practical issue for the reader who is still looking forward to enjoying many of the works he discusses.

But if you’re interested in stories and their structure, I think you’ve got to read this.

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