Michael Stanley have created a good main character in A Carrion Death. Detective Kubu is funny, engaging, and feels rounded. Unfortunately, I didn't like anything else about the novel. The other characters are flat, the thriller plot isn't interesting, and the Botswana setting didn't do anything for me. The best thing I got from the book was that it triggered me to check if James McClure's books are on the kindle, and they are.
Finally finished The Faerie Queene! Yay! That was quite a project... No more long books like that for a little while...
Couple more thoughts on Savages... Don Winslow is a bit of a chameleon; in three different books, he's had three pretty different narrative styles. Savages was the flashiest; wonder where he'll go from there?
The more I think about Wood's How Fiction Works, the more I feel like it's a great book and a terrible one, with very little in-between. Dismissing it because Wood has no understanding of the importance of plot misses his insight into narrative styles.
Showing posts with label James Wood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label James Wood. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
How Fiction Works
It's hard to believe that a critic can be so perceptive and yet have as many blind spots as James Wood does in How Fiction Works. When he's doing a close reading of a passage from Austen, his insights into her uses of different registers of English usage for humorous effect is eye-opening. He shows how she slips into a slightly more pompous mode for a few words, just to give a fillip of humor to a minor character, how she slips into a more colloquial English (again, just for a few words) for someone else, and so on.
On the other hand, he has no use for plot. (It's a relic that literature outgrew in the 19th century, Wood declares in one of his most bizarre dicta). He fails to see how plot can drive thematic concerns, for example. As a high art example, the plot is essential even to as character-driven a novel as The God of Small Things; the whole novel rotates around the crime at its center. On the whole, the lack of attention to large-scale structure very much mars How Fiction Works; it's hard to imagine a book on the craft of fiction that doesn't talk about climax, denouement, etc.
In the end, I think, Wood is a reliable guide on fiction he likes (Flaubert, Austen, Bellow), but doesn't even understand writers outside of a fairly narrow modernist tradition. (Yes, he like Austen, who of course in not Modernist, but, even here, she receives criticism for not describing people and places sufficiently, in a more Modernist sort of way.)
On the other hand, he has no use for plot. (It's a relic that literature outgrew in the 19th century, Wood declares in one of his most bizarre dicta). He fails to see how plot can drive thematic concerns, for example. As a high art example, the plot is essential even to as character-driven a novel as The God of Small Things; the whole novel rotates around the crime at its center. On the whole, the lack of attention to large-scale structure very much mars How Fiction Works; it's hard to imagine a book on the craft of fiction that doesn't talk about climax, denouement, etc.
In the end, I think, Wood is a reliable guide on fiction he likes (Flaubert, Austen, Bellow), but doesn't even understand writers outside of a fairly narrow modernist tradition. (Yes, he like Austen, who of course in not Modernist, but, even here, she receives criticism for not describing people and places sufficiently, in a more Modernist sort of way.)
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