This book is made up of a series of essays of varying quality. Those that I found most difficult—and that’s on a content level; the prose is uniformly breezy—tend to feel dashed-off and imprecise. These parts of the book reminded me more than a little bit of Thomas Friedman: the seminars in Italy (and New Haven, and New York), the other people who provide so many of the ideas, the flat world, the persistent triumphalism. I realize that pointing this out might seem like a low blow; but these markers are all over the book, and I’m curious what else we’re supposed to do with them. In any event, what results from all of this vertiginousness is a discussion of books that rarely descends from the most frustrating levels of abstraction.
And this abstraction presents a sort of literary ethical problem: “town loves a winner” seems, through Darwinism, the book’s unacknowledged motto. Its analysis of detective fiction, for example, seeks to figure out what Conan Doyle got right, and other authors got wrong, to make a sellable fiction; the text is rather brutally uninterested in texts that did not “survive” to another generation. But books, it seems to me, are interesting for reasons that make them unlike biological organisms: the fact that they can sit unacknowledged for hundreds of years, unread, and then return to readerly consciousness. Of course, most books won’t; but many things that we regard as canonical spend hundreds (in some cases thousands) of years outside of wide consideration, or any consideration at all. There’s a sort of tautology of the present (probably a better term for that) at work: what survived is what we’re reading now, as evinced by us reading it now. But if this book were written in the twenties, for example, we would have seen Henry James at a low ebb; one must assume that other things not now canonical will float back up to wide attention, eventually, one way or another.
The survive/fail model has analogues in what I see as another persistent flaw: the book’s strident phrase-making, which often bulldozes over historical specificity. The statement “Apart from Dickens, English narrative draws its rhythms and its problems from the countryside” is, in a sense, true. The opposite is also true: that the industrialized cities, where these novels tended increasingly to be read and written, drove these novels’ development. This points I think to a basic problem: how are interested are we in a degree of abstraction that creates these nearly half-true examples?
Making the possibility of saying anything final about the book is its twists and turns in acknowledging disagreements without really responding to any of them. No objection I raise isn’t at least considered by the book; many of these objections are even apologized for. I have to work with the assumption that the modes of analysis that take up, oh, 75% of the book are the book’s actual subject.
The “Planet Hollywood” essay is interesting, if (again) a bit simplifying. The “Style, Inc.” essay on data from 7,000 titles is fascinating. But the whole thing is so breezy and under-argued that I found myself more annoyed than stimulated by anything written in it, with a few exceptions.
It’s fortuitous that one of the books I finished most recently was July Stone Peters’ “Theatre of the Book,” which (I think successfully) completes many of the things that this book calls for, particularly its framing of a genre across multiple national traditions. I can’t imagine how much time that book took to write; this one, as a collection of hurried essays, feels like it was itself compiled in a hurry. Peters’ book is happy to luxuriate time on obscure and “lost” texts, making many of these feel in urgent need of rediscovery in one sense or another. “Distant Reading” seemed instead to be bringing data analysis to the less-than-urgent problem of telling us why our canonical texts won their status as canonical; only at its most careful moments does it, always intriguingly, really begin to grapple with the unfamiliar.
The book itself acknowledges that these essays are stand-ins for longer pieces that could, and should, be written using these topics and methodologies. But this is literary criticism as wild west territory grab: getting there first, staking a wobbly claim to territory, then pointing out that others might do the (harder, less glamorous) work. We have here the Zissou, but not the team; in their absence, what we have is unproven indeed.