Customer Reviews

On Moral Fiction (A Harper Torchbook- TB 5069)

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Gardner's work certainly won't appeal to postmodernists or other avant-garde scribblers who believe form takes precedence over content. His thesis is simple: all art purports to better the world, not hinder it; all art essentially believes in a form of goodness, truth, beauty, whatever you want to call it, in the sense that it affirms that there is an inherent value in life and no value in "valuelessness." He comes down strongly on writers who write like "writers," and where style becomes more important than the timeless art of storytelling. All this probably won't be very compelling to many of the readers who cling to the works of 60s writers like Pynchon, Gass, Coover, et al., who write thinly disguised treatises, not novels, and who people their books not with characters but mannequins. There is something old fashioned about Gardner's point of view, which won't win him many hipster fans, but his argument, this reader feels, stands up even stronger in today's climate where the main literary trends seem to consist of endless irony, facile references to pop culture and television. Furthermore, his book is lucid, trenchant, passionate, engaging, and of course, confrontational.

This book created some stir when originally published, perhaps due more to the naming of names (of peers Gardner judged arrogant/irresponsible/careless) than to the deeper ideas/passions which inform it. One star is subtracted for poor strategy, excessive willingness to engage on turf occupied/fortified by his not at all innocent victims. Gardner does get lost, from time to time, in one abstract philosophical swamp or another. The book may be needlessly long. But the writing rings true, finally. This is the most ambitious literary argument published during the past fifty years, certainly, and it is essentially on the mark. The academic canon was tilting dangerously in the direction of empty opaque diddling during the seventies, choked with very talented hip and superhip cynics, often on university payrolls, weary of the ancient plain work of shaping stories. The vogue was so universal that Gardner fails to find a single working American high lit contender (excluding himself, we trust) to like without heavy reservations. He does favor one Englishman, at least. This ground is tricky. Some of the writing disdained/derided seeks, in various ways, to imitate James Joyce, who is granted a semi-pass, and Ezra Pound is not properly whapped until near the end. Connecting the wave of mean arrogant cleverness to its obvious roots counts, has consequences. Gardner, who died by motorcycle accident in the early eighties, may have been just beginning to fight.

I first read this book in the 1970's when it was new. I've owned a copy ever since, and I've given so many away as gifts that I've lost count.

It is easily my favorite book. From the moment I first read it, until today; I open its pages and feel as if I'm having a literary conversation with an old friend.

The "moral" in the title puts off some folks, but don't be deterred. Gardner uses the term "moral" as you or I would use the word "truth." All Gardner is imploring is that authors seek the truth when writing fiction and avoid cheap tricks and cheap effects. That is all.

Yes, Gardner did feel that writing comes with a responsibility. He also felt it was nothing less than a privilege, and thus comes the responsibility that goes with privilege.

Buy it, enjoy it. If you share Gardner's view (as illustrated in the paragraph above, I promise you -- you will cherish this volume).

I enjoy Gardner's critical and educational writings even when I disagree, as with the idea of the indispensible "fictional dream." I'd like to point out, though, something other reviewers here seem to have either missed or mistaken for a contradiction. The avant garde and postmodernism seem to be placed, by these reviewers, at the opposite end of the scale from that which Gardner promotes. Meanwhile, Gardner clearly didn't believe that postmodernism and the avant garde were useless and irresponsible, as he himself wrote odd, postmodern novels while remaining within his own guidelines. He was also a vocal fan of much of Barthelme's work, as well as Beckett's. The avant garde is not the opposite pole from what Gardner intends, and he never suggested it was.

It is dangerous to write a book claiming (to oversimplify Gardner's argument considerably) that the arts must above all be "life-affirming." It opens one up to accusations of priggishness, of fuddy-duddyness.

Gardner can indeed be difficult to take, especially when he rambles on at length about the Good, the True, and the Beautiful. It is more difficult, though, not to agree with him when he insists that the vast majority of art produced today is essentially worthless. (The title is slightly misleading: his focus is on fiction, but he discusses contemporary theatre, poetry, and music as well.) Those of us who have trouble thinking of guys like John Updike, John Barth, and Thomas Pynchon as "major" authors will find a friend in Gardner, who is not one to mince words.

Fortunately, Gardner is aware that the world of art cannot be reduced to black-and-white contrasts; for all his self-righteous fire, it is obvious that he has considered his position well. Clearly, he knows a lot about the history of art.

His argument here is, I think, largely sound--but I am personally not certain whether we would be better off if we had an army of young writers eager to affirm all that is Good, True, and Beautiful. Bad art is nothing new--the late Roman Empire was rife with would-be Homers. The existence of bad art has less to do with our hopelessly decadent times than with the inherent difficulty involved in creating timeless masterpieces, as well as the perennial scarcity of real talent. And one really does not have to be a "moral" critic to find fault with authors like William Gass. Gardner certainly has some valid points here, and this book is definitely worth reading, but as a call to arms I wonder how much value it really has. But perhaps you should read this book and judge for yourself.

See, it's not just you. Others, too, have long believed much of the world's culture to be shoe-scrapingly disgusting, at best. In On Moral Fiction, Gardner explicates the rationale for your judgment. Gardner commands our respect for another reason: He openly heaped contempt upon the literary gods and other poseurs of his time. A man who truly lived. (Why couldn't I have had teachers like him while at university?)

Gardner defines the mission of the visionary novelist in a way that underlines the essential importance of storytellers to humanity's hopes and dreams--an approach as relevant in today's global village as it was when he first wrote it.

It's a sad thing that anyone who has read and treasured Gardner's "On Fiction" should be put off by "On Moral Fiction" thinking it could be a lectionary of sorts. The book deals with the responsibility a writer takes on in being both honest with facts, true to details, and clever with words. This does not diminish when the author's work is fictional - there must be a seasoning of verisimilitude in every scene for a novel to function at all. We might excuse some light reading if the grammar isn't appropo, but heaven help us if we come across a period piece where a knight approaches a damsel and croons, "whassssup?"
Anyone who's published a novel soon learns it's not about glamor and gold. This book is a keeper - to read again and again - it reminds me of the higher sense of purpose in writing, the reason behind the process. Highly recommended.

Serious musicians should listen to Beethoven. Serious thinkers should study Kant. Serious writers should read this book.

If creative writers read only this book and Aristotle's Poetics, the uneven morass that comprises most literature sections of even good bookstores would be cleared. If literary editors and agents read this book instead of trying to shallowly anticipate the market trends, the entire world would be better. Thank you, John Gardner, may you rest in peace, and please Random House, please do not stop publishing this book. And for everyone paying attention at home, buy it or order it from your local independent bookstore.

John Gardner was a good writer; but he could have been a better writer, if only his scale of values were that of an artist. The very fact that he thinks that art should work for its living and serve something more important, drags him into the sin of what Vladimir Nabokov called Poshlost-- Philistinism.
Philistinism is the very belief that art is worthwhile only when it serves something more important. Lowbrow philistinism measures art by the price it fetches. But highbrow philistinism, like that of Gardner, while feeling better, still measures art by the usefulness it has for something more exalted: An ideology, a worldview, a morality, whatever. Whether this higher something is of the left, of the right, of the religious, or the irreligious variety, is immaterial. The very fact that the artist deems something else more important than his art renders him a philistine. In my humble opinion, John Gardner, with all his talent and good heart, was one such. He believed that Art was supposed to be Moral, i.e.: to teach a certain behavior. But this is nonsense. Art is a living thing, and as all living things, it has to do one thing only: To survive. But since it can survive only inside a human brain (or heart), it must first get into it. And so, to do that, it has to do accomplish two tasks,and two only. First, that when you pick up the book you can't put it down; second, that when you finish reading it, you cannot forget it. That's it. All else is tactics for the book's survival. Yet Gardner wanted his book also to do something Useful. And in this he was little different from Soviet Commissars, who believed that Art should seat Natasha usefully on the tractor. Gardner wanted to seat Nathasha on a tractor also-- yes, his tractor was of a different color, but by wishing his art to do social work he was still a tractorist.
So yes, there's no doubt that he was a good writer, and produced good books, which I enjoy reading; but I only wish he had tried to write against his grain and prove himself wrong, so that his heart would bleed. Then he could have produced a great book, too, which would have loved to read.