Introduction
IN a memorable and ringing affirmation, D. H. Lawrence called the novel 'the one bright book of life.' For Lawrence the novel was much more than a literary genre; it was a means to intensely vital knowledge, far superior to science or philosophy or religion. In place of their abstract and partial views of life, the novel offered the 'changing rainbow of our living relationships.' But at about the same time that Lawrence was celebrating the power of the novel to give its readers the full and authentic feel of human experience, the Hungarian literary critic Georg Lukács more somberly traced its degenerative descent from classical epic. Describing the novel in gloomy and decidedly melodramatic terms as the epic of a world 'abandoned by God' and as a record of modern humanity's homelessness in
Whether taken as a rapturous affirmation of the possibility of individual fulfillment or as a depressing rendition of modern emptiness and alienation, the novel has invariably been understood by critics and novelists alike as the distinctively modern literary form, a response to uniquely modern conditions. Lawrence and Lukács agreed that modern life was deeply unsatisfactory, but they had opposite notions of what the novel could do to ameliorate it. For Lawrence the novel could transfigure and vivify life; for Lukács the novel eloquently but helplessly recorded its despair and emptiness. A third and to my mind more relevant attitude regarding the purpose of the novel, and one that takes a broader historical and literary perspective, has since emerged for modern criticism. For M. M. Bakhtin, a Russian critic whose neglected writings from the Stalinist period were rediscovered by Western readers in the 1970s, the novel was not only the unique marker of European modernity but a literary mode that expressed, in its essential and defining formal qualities, revolutionary and, potentially, utterly liberating linguistic energies.
According to Bakhtin, the novel represented an absolute and thus exhilarating breakthrough from older literary forms and from the hierarchical and repressive view of life he felt they embodied. In one of his essays Bakhtin distinguished the novel as being radically distinct from other literary genres in its rendering of a new 'multi- languaged consciousness,' which made contact as literature never had before with 'the present (with contemporary reality) in all its openendedness.' The epic offers the world as a finished and frozen entity, an event from the distant past evoked in a special, specifically literary language appropriate to its inspiring grandeur and remoteness. But the novel, in Bakhtin's most influential formulation of his thesis, is defined by its rendering of the dynamic present, not in a separate and unitary literary language, but in the competing and often comic discord of actual and multiple voices-what he termed polyglossia or heteroglossia-whereby language is used in ways that communicate a 'relativizing of linguistic consciousness.' Speech in the novel, whether that of characters or narrators or authors, is thus always for Bakhtin 'dialogical,' representing the process of shifting and contested signification peculiar to language itself, or at least to modern notions of the way language works. The novel is dialogical in Bakhtin's special sense because it renders the incessant shap- x- ing of reality as perceived by human beings through rival forms of language, which itself is not a static or ahistorical entity but rather finds dynamic and diverse embodiment in the competing dialects of particular social groups that struggle for dominance. In its evocation of the novel's subversion of static and hierarchical notions of language and reality, Bakhtin's version of the novel's positive and liberating function in the modern world seems to me more convincing, or at least more useful, than Lawrence's utopian intensity or Lukács's post-Great War gloom. Bakhtin's theory shifts the critical emphasis from the novel's subject matter, the nature of modern life and consciousness, to its form, the expressive relativizing of language. For readers of The Columbia History of the British Novel, it is interesting that Bakhtin singles out the British comic novelists, notably Fielding, Smollett, Sterne, and Dickens, for their instinctive grasp of the dialogical principle. When they described the purpose of the novel, Lukács and Lawrence were thinking primarily of the late nineteenth- and early twentieth-century novel of personal development, the bildungsroman, but Bakhtin took an inclusive historical view that looked back as far as François Rabelais's
Nonetheless, the issue of the value and meaning of the novel from our present situation remains unresolved for many readers and critics. Clearly, the novel has become in the last three hundred years many different things for many readers as well as for novelists themselves. But for all that, the term itself remains both simple and elusive. So various and so multiple, the novel can be described but never, it seems, adequately defined. A minimalist description of the novel might say that it is an extended (too long to read at one sitting) narrative in prose about imaginary but vividly particularized or historically specific individuals. But however one describes it, the novel has been from its beginnings (themselves a subject of much dispute) for its writers and readers an aggressively and self-consciously new literary category. For many twentieth-century critics and historians of the novel, it is the narrative form that uniquely expresses the condition of Western culture and consciousness since the emergence of what everyone recognizes as the — xi- modern age-an age in which we still live and that lacks clear definition or any sense of single or simple self-consciousness but that nonetheless situates itself, like the novel, as somehow separate and distinct from all that has preceded it.
Crucial to the culture of the modern age is individualism, an understanding of the world that the Western European tradition takes for granted as part of the natural order of things but that in fact represents the fairly recent historical development of a consciousness or sense of self that remains strange and even incomprehensible to people outside that tradition. Novels both promote and mimic the values intrinsic to this individualism. In most novels that come to mind, particular persons in their individualized immediacy are presented as being more important or more immediate than communities or cultures with their long traditions and accumulated ways, and the novel is most often about the clash between such individuals and the larger social units that necessarily produce them. The novel presupposes that clash, even if it often records an eventual reconciliation or reintegration of the individual with the surrounding society. The novel thus implies, as the literary and cultural critic Edward Said has remarked, a universe that is necessarily unresolved or incomplete, a universe in a process of development, evolving or progressing toward a more nearly complete or more complex form of consciousness as it records the multiplicity and infinite diversity of individuals. Such a view is distinctively Western or JudeoChristian, since, as Said points out, there are no novels in Islamic culture until it comes into contact with the literary culture of the modern West. For Islam, the world is complete, created by God as a plenum, full of every conceivable entity such a world could have. But for the Judeo-Christian tradition, the fallen and sinful world (along with the individuals who compose it) is radically incomplete and yearning, in a religious sense, for individual salvation and for the transfiguring judgment day when human history shall end. In the thoroughly secular and psychologized context of the novel, this world is viewed rather more optimistically and is conceived as a process of progressive human development, reaching for higher or more complex forms of development for individuals and for their communities, for personal fulfillment and social utopia. In other words, the novel articulates the central, selfdefining characteristics of Western religious and secular culture. If approached analytically and critically, say its defenders, it provides an unparalleled opportunity for self-knowledge for those within that tra — xii- dition. For those outside that tradition or on the margins of Western culture and its privileged classes, members of colonized non-Western societies or members of minority groups or culturally deprived social classes within them, the novel in its three-hundred-year sweep just might provide access to a liberating understanding of the cultural forms that oppress them. Whatever else it may be, the novel is a vividly informative record of Western consciousness during the last three hundred years.
That Western individualism is the recurring subject matter of the novel is not in dispute, but just about
