The Modern Library (8 page)

The publication of
Underworld
confirms Don DeLillo, if we needed confirmation, as the most exciting, original and innovative
American
novelist now working. He has been fascinated by what happens to language, truth and logic during a late phase of capitalism; how a society which grew around dreams of hope, of infinite optimism, deludes itself and is deluded by ritual and images and words. He loves technology, its mystery and glow, its hum and buzz; he is interested in hidden systems and codes, by the poetics of late twentieth-century paranoia.

Underworld
, all eight hundred and twenty-seven pages of it, is his epic, his panoramic vision of the United States in his time. It is obsessed with waste and garbage, including the concern of J. Edgar Hoover (who has various walk-on parts in the novel) that protest groups will go through his garbage and put it on public display. The novel is also obsessed with the bomb and the Cold War, and the vast areas of the American imagination which have been filled with images of fear and destruction. In
Underworld
DeLillo also presents a relaxed version of ordinary life, intimate family relations, memories of childhood, tender love and sexual desire. He places these beside magnificent set scenes about public life and history, and the result is a great monument to the enduring power of the novel.

In India, where so many have so little, what is the use, what is the glory of poetry? Anita Desai’s answer takes shape in the person of Deven, a teacher of Hindi in a college in Mirepore, a dustbowl town near Delhi. Married to Sarla, a living pillar of pessimism, his real love is poetry, in the old language, Urdu.

Deven is a timid, put-upon soul, bullied by his friend Murad into interviewing the great but reclusive poet Nur. Deven’s visits to Delhi to see him turn into a nightmare of farcical episodes in which drink, layabouts, frenzied birds and even more frenzied wives manipulate Deven, forcing him into debt and dishonour. Nur is a splendid creation, lizard-like, rapacious; yet of the two it is Deven who, in his acceptance of the price he has to pay in the service of art, triumphs over the multitudes of self-destructions on offer.

This is a novel with many meanings, many faces. One of the most resonant is that of India itself, with its blazing heat, its preference for individualistic chaos: this is India in the early 1980s on the point of change, during that recent past when the wonders of its history were abandoned and crumbling. Placing this magnificent
inheritance
in safe custody, Desai exposes the dilemmas of modern India in cool and lyrical prose.

This is a clearly written, tightly paced novel about the Deep South in the time between the Korean and the Vietnam Wars when racial segregation was absolute, but certain actions against black people – cold-blooded murder of teenagers, for example – would not be condoned by a white jury.

Paris Trout is a moneylender, a small-time banker and a storekeeper. He is tight-lipped and ruthless. He has never paid taxes and he obeys no laws. He has recently married Hanna, an intelligent, sensitive and attractive schoolteacher, and he has made her life a misery. He has also lent money to a black man to buy a car. When the payments are not made he visits the man with a local thug and manages to shoot a young black girl, killing her, and injuring an older woman.

He is brought to trial; Harry Seagraves is his lawyer. Seagraves is a good man, but he is not a hero. He grows to loathe Trout, but he still defends him. He is sure that he can use his clout in the locality to have him released. The novel makes clear that in a society like this no one can afford to behave heroically; most people are prepared to play with the system or be bought. Trout understands this like nobody else. No one’s motives are pure except perhaps Hanna Trout’s; she remains eloquent and long-suffering and determined to survive. The last hundred pages of the novel are full of unexpected twists and turns; a wonderful addition to the contemporary literature of the South.

A Book of Common Prayer
and
Democracy
(1984) are Joan Didion’s most powerful works. The style is that of her best journalism: taut, nervous, brilliantly observant and cutting, using constant repetition, searching always for the moment which sums everything up.

A Book of Common Prayer
is set in the fictional Central American country of Boca Grande, of which the narrator, Grace
Strasser-Mendana
, after her husband’s death, controls ‘fifty-nine point eight per cent of the arable land and about the same percentage of the decision-making process’. She is an anthropologist and scientist, and uses these skills to analyse and describe the story of Charlotte Douglas, who comes to Boca Grande from North America and misunderstands almost everything. The narrator will die, ‘very soon (from pancreatic cancer)’, she tells us early in the book, and the tone of the narrative has a hardness, an impatience and an urgency, and the sense of someone pushed into making short, sharp observations about people and things. The narrator is at her sharpest when she describes her husband’s venal, stupid family, her own wayward son, and of course the musings and antics of Charlotte Douglas. (‘Charlotte would call her own story one of passion. I believe I would call it one of delusion.’) This is a book which lends itself to constant re-reading – watch how Didion uses single-sentence paragraphs, openings and endings; there is not a word out of place.

‘I first began to tell tales to delight the world and make it wiser,’ says Isak Dinesen, speaking through Mira Jama, who tells the first of the five tales in this collection.

Isak Dinesen is most famous for her autobiographical account of her life in Kenya,
Out of Africa
(1937), but her fictional work is equally exceptional, and unlike the fiction of anyone else. Though Danish, she generally wrote in English and then translated her work into her native tongue, but this cannot account for the particular quality of her work. Patrician, fantastic, Dinesen’s English has unusual beauty and great technical skill. She uses it to explore themes of desire, freedom, artistic endeavour, destiny and the aspirations and inspirations of the human spirit.

In this way the five tales in
Anecdotes of Destiny
are closely connected, and in the writing itself images of angels, birds and, always, the sea, enclose each story. Most famous is ‘Babette’s Feast’, in which Babette, a famous French chef, changes the lives of the members of an obscure and puritanical religious sect living on a Norwegian fjord. In other long stories, ‘The Diver’, ‘Tempests’ and ‘The Immortal Story’, all the influences of the great sources – the
Arabian Nights,
Shakespeare, the Bible – are put to her
sophisticated
use, creating a fairy-tale world all her own, full of crystal visions and sibylline marvels.

Ragtime
, using stylish sentences and light cadences, tells the secret and unsecret history of the United States at the turn of the century. It is a novel of public drama, murder trials, teeming immigrants, political upheaval, vast wealth, Victorian values and secret
longings
. It is peopled by Freud and Jung, Houdini and the Archduke Franz Ferdinand, Emma Goldman, Henry Ford (‘Henry Ford had once been an ordinary automobile manufacturer. Now he
experienced
an ecstasy greater and more intense than that vouchsafed to any American before him, not excepting Thomas Jefferson’) and J. P. Morgan (‘He was a monarch of the invisible, transnational kingdom of capital whose sovereignty was everywhere granted’), but its main protagonists are heroic figures in search of justice in this swiftly changing society.

Doctorow tells these stories with great verve and passion, as though he is inventing a myth of origin for the United States. The story of Coalhouse Walker, the black man whose car is vandalized, is the most powerful and dramatic in the book. (It occurred to Father one day that Coalhouse Walker Jr. didn’t know he was a Negro.’) The novel’s other protagonist, of course, is the privileged narrator himself, whose father has gone on an Arctic expedition, whose uncle’s – Mother’s Younger Brother –
obsessions
move right through the novel, whose tone, in its easygoing neutrality and awestruck curiosity, is close to that of the narrator of
The Great Gatsby.

The Rabbittes, who appear in
The Commitments
(1987),
The Snapper
and
The Van
(1991), are the first happy family to appear in Irish writing since
The Vicar of Wakefield
(1766). Of these three novels
The Snapper
is probably the most accomplished.
The
Snapper
tells the story of Sharon Rabbitte, twenty-year-old
daughter
of Jimmy and Veronica, who gets pregnant. The father is an unlikely suspect, and Sharon doesn’t want anyone to know who it is; the novel follows the course of her pregnancy and the antics of her family and friends.

Doyle captures brilliantly the atmosphere of a working-class Dublin family and community; there is a superb account in the novel of a large family in a small space, all of them shouting different things at the same time on the same page. There is something almost miraculous in this book about the way in which dialogue is manipulated and controlled. The laughter and
wisecracks
, the drama between individuals and the group, the skilful pacing, make the book incredibly readable. It is also politically sharp in its depiction of an Ireland in which religion and nationalism have lost their power.

‘A huge icy fist, with large cold fingers, was squeezing and chilling the people of Britain.’ This is the 1970s, the decade which followed the flourish of the Swinging Sixties and the Beatles, in which boom and bust and national depression and greed set the scene for the arrival of Thatcher, a punishment for all the sins so splendidly chronicled here.