The Idea of Writing a Book With a "Black Hole" for a Central Character
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Rachel Cusk's Outline tends to be cited as the only example of a novel with a lacuna in place of a central character. Another, less well-behaved than hers, is T. Singer. This book presents itself as an experiment: the principal character, Singer, doesn't have much character. Several times in the book Solstad asks—in the authorial voice, as metafictional asides—why the book is centered on such a person; but those are rhetorical questions, because the novel is an experiment in an empty center.
This is an interesting writer’s probem, with some significant precedents, including Musil and Melville; Solstad’s book made me wonder how to go about writing the main character as a “black hole.”
There's a difference between an absent, unaccounted for, or unaccountable narrator, on the one hand, and an unreliable narrator, on the other. Singer is also an unreliable narrator, because there are people in his life who feel things strongly and have wider interests and concerns, and yet he doesn't quite register them. Yet we don't need to figure out the characters that Singer can't or won't understand, and for me that's a sign that this isn't primarily an example of a novel with an unreliable narrator, but rather a novel that is trying to hollow out its narrator. It's a matter of constructing a novel around an absence.
Problems with the depiction of Solstad's absent narrator
A fully redacted pincipal narrator would be a pure absence, perhaps even marked by blank spaces, ellipses, or open brackets. Cusk's narrator isn't absent in this sense, because her friends and social life are all around her. I imagine Outline as a silhouette portrait of Cusk, surrounded by her trips and social events all in perfect focus. Bartleby presents a nearly perfect absence, at least until Melville's comments at the end.
Solstad needs to tell us about Singer's "embarrassing mistakes," his worries, his faux pas. Singer worries, for example, that when he's invited to a dinner with people he only knows slightly, that he won't be able to find a chair that isn't hemmed in by people, which is important because he doesn't want to bother people when he has to excuse himself to go to the bathroom. His frequent mortifications and their outsize significance recall Kafka, but Solstad's principal influence was Gombrowicz. And Singer isn't just the sum of his neuroses. His numerable qualities turn out to be good ones: patience, flexibility, social aptitude, consistency, affability, and a limited introspection.
All that is disappointing. To the extent that T. Singer is about a person with weak, mixed, or indifferent qualities, Musil's The Man Without Qualities is much more reflective—Ulrich has many qualities, some strong enough to deflect the narrative for pages at a time, and others just ideals or passing notions. By comparison Singer is a cartoon of low-energy neuroses. I would rather he had been a pure enigma or the possessor of an indescribable mental state (for example a psychotic dissociation). His many ordinary worries make him into an invisible everyman, nearly turning the novel into a comment on the middle class and modern life.
Solstad doesn't consistently present or control his character's absence, making it seem that the character's failure to cohere has leaked into the author's failure to control. The last forty pages are full of pathos about Singer's relationship with his stepdaughter. At first, she has no friends, since her mother has died and they've moved to Oslo. He can't figure out how to fix that, and he's relieved when he comes home one day and hears his stepdaughter playing with another girl. These pages create strong sympathy for the character, but in the book's first half I think readers wouldn't feel anything stronger than affection or bemusement. This incontinence gives the book its affect. If Singer is "a big black hole," as the author proclaims at one point, then it leaks, like black holes supposedly do, and the spills express the author's own incontinence. Even so, I would have preferred an actual hole, deep and dark enough to hide the character, an absence with the force of a rule, creating a book built around a real void. Like Bartleby, without Melville's patch at the end. Is there such a book? If anyone knows one, please tell me.
A couple of questions
There's a crucial page at the end of the book that raises questions I can't answer. I set them out here in case someone who has read the original might help.
Singer is in his apartment with his daughter and her friends:
"Surrounded by spirited young ladies, with all their sweetness, we find ourselves together with Singer in a novel that is like a big black hole. Why is Singer the main character in this novel?" [p. 219]
This is well put, and like Solstad's other metanarrative moments, nicely judged in tone and rhetorical address. However I don't understand what comes just before it:
"By the way, in every novel there is a big black hole, which is universal in its blackness, and this novel has now reached that point."
Is this intended to mean that no character can be fully known, so every novel is built around a vacuum? That seems implausible in the novel's own logic, because we've been told and shown that Singer has a singular absence of motivation, self-knowledge, empathy, and so forth. Why write a novel about such a person if everyone is like that?
I also don't understand a line that comes later on the same page:
"I wish I could have said something that Singer wouldn't be able to ponder... my language ceases when Singer's pondering ceases."
These are two different things, logically speaking, and they contradict one another. In addition, the first clause is clearly wrong on its own terms, because the narrator has told us many things Singer doesn't ponder. I wonder if this is a problem in translation.
If anyone can elucidate these, please leave a comment.
2018, revised Thursday, March 27, 2025, the day of Solstad's obituary in The New York Times