I
recently completed César Aira's 3 Novels
and thoroughly enjoyed it, particularly the first two books ("Ghosts"
and "An Episode in the Life of a Landscape Painter"). The
way he maintains genuine page-turning momentum via digression,
unpredictability and linearity (the narrative always chasing ahead,
never chasing its tail) has analogues with other things I have read
(Bolaño
of course, but even – in "An Episode" – Sebald) but
isn't quite like anything else. It's exhilarating, and, over the
course of the three books, leaves one with the unmistakable
impression of having encountered a proper writer.
I'm
not so sure, though, what to think of an article entitled "The
New Writing" and available online at The White Review.
Aira outlines a narrative in which the professionalisation of writing
has left the form of the novel "congealed", has "shattered the
form-content dialectic which makes art 'artistic'." Hence the
novelist is left with "two equally melancholy alternatives:
to keep writing the 'old' novels in updated settings; or to
heroically attempt to take one or two more steps forward",
which is an exhaustingly heroic undertaking producing diminishing
returns. The third option is to use the strategy of the avant-garde,
which for Aira means to highlight procedure over product. He uses
Cage, and specifically the Music of Changes,
as his exemplum.
I
have sympathy with some of the feelings expressed here – "Who
needs another novel, another painting, another symphony? As if there
weren't enough already!" – but much of the argument treads
ground all-too-familiar from long-exhausted debates in literature and
visual art going back, as Aira acknowledges, at least as far as
Duchamp. Of course, Aira is too sly to be easily
trapped. He is really talking about the context in which one makes
work and the means one uses, and so admits at the outset of the essay
that the idea of the avant-garde is a myth. What is important, for
him, is that the "myth of the avant-garde came about to restore
the possibility of making the journey from the origin again". I
agree with him when he says that "the
healthiest aspect of the avant-garde, of which Cage is the epitome,
is its placing action back on centre stage, regardless of whether it
appears frenetic, ludic, directionless or indifferent to the
results", but not with his following comment that "in order
to keep on being action it has to be indifferent to results".
Cage was certainly not indifferent to the results of his procedures, his pronouncements to the contrary notwithstanding.
The
fact that Music of Changes
"sounds intensely like 1951, like the work of a North American
disciple of Schoenberg" does, it is true, tell us something about the
relationship of psychological processes during composition to our
impression of its outcome – but it also tells us that
how you set up the roulette wheel is crucial. The piece sounds that way not
because Cage removed his personality and tastes but because his
personality and tastes are very much involved in the way the
procedural machine is set up in the first place, in the types of
possibilities it is constructed to allow. It also sounds this way
because of the way hierarchy and syntax work in Schoenberg's music
and that of those influenced by him: Music of Changes
is an analysis, and perhaps even a parody, of integral serialism. It
is really not true that Chopin's Nocturnes
could have been written using the same method, even with the
preparation of tables ad hoc
"in order to maintain tonality, or metre". Tonal
composition is not merely the creation of a succession of syntactic
units, the selection of each of which adjusts the range of possible
options for the next unit. Any computer model for tonal composition that did not build in an architecture of structural hierarchies far more complex than Cage's procedure for Music of Changes would be an abject failure.
The
elephant in this particular article's room is Aira's own
compositional methodology, which I have read described elsewhere as
follows: he writes a page each day, improvising
his way out of the narrative corners he deliberately paints himself
into. We may be sceptical as to whether there is really quite so little forward planning, but the flavour such a strategy feels authentically represented in the novels I have read. For me the freshness and contemporaneity of this method comes
about precisely because it does not reduce the work to "a
kind of documentary appendix which serves only as a means of deducing
the process from which it arose". Knowing something about the
process heightens our curiosity as we read, allowing us, if we wish, to
project ourselves into an imagined version of the author and
to wonder what choices we would have made in his situation. But this
is only one way to read and Aira's novels are just as rich if
read for their characterisation, their narrative, their imagery,
their philosophical ideas – all those old bourgeois notions of
reading for the content. In short, I don't think that the old
form-content dialectic is shattered quite so easily, and Aira's works
– despite his comments in this essay – are powerful arguments that we
should be glad that this is the case.
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