Unrepenting exhibits of a bygone era

Thinking over the weekend about matters to write about I realized that in my post on Friday I ended up not mentioning at all the issue that had originally inspired me. It is not all that rare, since I keep adding examples, discussions and new viewpoints and in the end the rant seems to be done before all the intended content has made it into the text. In some case, I just proceed to rework the text to include the omitted comments, but considering that the post was already a bit long, I have decided not to extend it any further and simply complete the discussion in a second post.

The idea came from reading a book by a certain renowned writer, which I will not mention, because my opinions are somewhat harsh and I had rather not had them attached to him, lest I get sued for defamation. The book was proposed to Karen's book club by one of the other members on occasion of the recent passing of the writer and I, having heard a lot about him but lacking any first hand experience of his writing, decided to read along.

Photo: E. C.

The book in question, which was not his debut novel but had the unmistakable taste of an early opus, was first published in 1966, when the author counted 33 years of age, and mixes generous portions of early 20th century misogyny with the feverishly erotic imagination of a somewhat elderly bachelor. The contempt he shows for every female character through the words and the thoughts of the male ones is the sad reflection of a time were women were considered either dumb or libertine (sometimes both things at the same time), but not really worth of feelings, opinions or any desire beyond getting married and building a family.

Besides, the novel does not have a coherent style, with some portions with are dynamic and brilliant from the narrative point of view, while others seem to be little more than a pitiful high-school exercise on the use of classical literary figures and tropes. There are even some pages where I could imagine molasses seeping out among the lines, because the description of the feelings of the working-class (anti-)hero for his bourgeois love interest was utterly cloying.

If that had been all, I would have simply labeled the book as a forgettable collection of chauvinistic postcards and puny archetypes, but the version I read, dated in 1996 was "adorned" with two notes from the author. The first one pointed out that the 1996 version was to be considered the final one with only minor editorial corrections. The second note, originally added to the seventh edition released in 1975, elaborated in a baroque discourse about how all the mawkish themes (he names them "archetypes") are still vivid and present ten years after the original writing. But there is absolutely no mention of an apology for the aggressive sexism of the text, no contextualization about how the ways were different thirty years ago. The author stands fully by a novel which speaks of women in paternalistic and derogatory terms.

The surprising fact is that he had no problem renouncing an earlier book (his real debut novel) as unworthy, but this one in particular had received a very good critical acclaim and even an important prize, so I guess that making any substantial annotation or amendment would not only mean correcting himself but also hanging a negative note on all those who praised the work at the time.

Now the book is 55 years old and, although it succeeded in portraying the social reality of the time, it is desperate need of a contextualization that helps us understand the social changes in the intervening years. The author failed to provide an apostille in his lifetime, so now the task will fall to his heirs, if ever they consider to take up such an enterprise. For now, both the book and the author are just unrepenting exhibits of a mostly bygone era. Have a nice week.