How Properties of Literature are Eclipsed by Representations of National Identity
This is a story of a group of “mediocre writers” who are on a sponsored rail tour of Europe. Even in translation it’s often funny, and there are entertaining characterizations of Georgians (they aren’t comfortable in Europe, they blush easily) and people from other nations (especially Russians, but also Chechens, Azeris, Armenians, Belarusians, Bulgarians, and Romanians). The many portraits of nations and temperaments are excellent: as soon as the narrator breathes “the aroma of Europe” (p.23) and realizes Portugal isn’t as impoverished as Georgia, he is a mass of insecurities and projections. Bugadze is candid about how people encounter and invent national temperaments, and the book is an interesting snapshot of some ideas of Europe as seen by a Georgian born in 1977.
All that is a matter of entertainment. More engaging themes emerge when the book turns to literature. One of the writers, a Bulgarian, has had a story published in The New Yorker, and he has distributed copies so everyone can see what he’s done. The story is about a couple in Sofia at the time of the Second World War, and the narrator concludes that The New Yorker took the story because Bulgaria seemed fashionable at the moment, and because of the perennially fashionable theme of the Second World War.
“Of course, if a woman sits at the window in your story and the year is 1939, it’s even awkward [I like that translation, “even awkward”] if she’s not planning on hiding a Jewish friend and, on the other hand, she’s not in love with a Nazi officer. But we face a dilemma here: your local readers are fed up with what foreigners find interesting in your Bulgarian stories.” (p. 143)
For that matter, the narrator thinks, Georgia has had some very recent wars, and maybe that’ll help Georgia to be the flavor of the month for The New Yorker. But he’d rather write about real human stories, like the love story that propels The Literature Express. Even local politics is boring. Bugadze’s narrator imagines a reader who would say, “Give me a pure woman… and give me some romance. Give me some sex and the probing hands of a man, some rain, bullets, and blood, but keep the frigging referendum out of it!”
So in The Literature Express, Bugadze has produced the book his narrator wants: it’s really about love and more or less harmless clichés of nationalities, and not about politics. For me this raises two questions, either one of which could have deepened the book:
1. It seems very right to say The New Yorker publishes based largely on what are considered new or unfamiliar combinations of nations and ethnicities. But that begs the question of style. Clearly all stories that include “a pure woman,” “rain, bullets, and blood” aren’t equal, but what distinguishes them? The answer isn’t clear in The Literature Express—it would be something like passion or honesty—but from a New Yorker perspective what distinguishes a good story from one less good would be something to do with writing. To some degree that’s about the history of fiction in the last hundred years, and what counts as challenging or contemporary; and to some degree it’s the infamous house style of The New Yorker, The Paris Review, McSweeney’s, and other North American venues: but however it’s judged, style is also always what’s at stake, and that is never mentioned in The Literature Express. It’s as if writing is somehow a record of passions and temperaments, sensitivities and sensibilities. That’s ironic because this book is well written, even in translation, so Bugadze must think about these things. But his characters are oblivious of them, and that’s hard to understand given that they’re all writers. Where is discussion of style, manner, voice, skill, narrative, and the entire history of fiction?
2. At the end, Bugadze makes it clear that the writers are all “mediocre.” They didn’t have any interesting or original ideas, and they were driven by the usual ambitions. The narrator is expressly included; when he emails the trip’s organizer saying he’s writing a novel about the experience, the organizer says everyone is. He also admits he missed the central love story, because he didn’t realize the woman he was pursuing was in love with someone else—so he isn’t especially skilled in narration or insight. In a crucial sentence the narrator says:
“I didn’t now have anything more important to describe.” (p. 220)
That’s verbatim. Is the Georgian original something like “I didn’t now have anything…” or is there another thought in the sentence, left untranslated, something like “I now knew I didn’t have anything…” It makes a difference, but either way the narrator includes himself in the general mediocrity. And that, to me, is a puzzle. Does Bugadze mean he embraces his average thoughts? The book seems indecisive, even coy, as a satire: we're to take it as the work of a man of average ideas and ambition: but then why suddenly make a point of that at the end? The turn in the last few pages to these thoughts of inevitable mediocrity makes the book hard to understand as a literary document. What, exactly, is literature here? And why is it worth pursuing? It seems national stereotypes and hapless love affairs are so distracting that they insulate the writer and his readers from other kinds of questions.