Customer Reviews

This Is Not a Novel

5 star:		(6)
4 star:		(4)
3 star:		(2)
2 star:		(2)
1 star:		(1)

 

 

How do you review something when you're not quite sure what it is to begin with?

This Is Not A Novel is, in fact, not a novel but what it is is not entirely clear. Throughout his work, Markson runs through details about how famous literary figures have died, what philosophers believed and what artists said. There are no characters except, perhaps, for the elusive "Writer". There is no plot. Nothing thrilling happens. And yet its amazing to me how drawn in to the book I was.

Bottom line: I don't know what it was but I'm glad I read it. Experimental fiction can either be disastrous (see The Castle of Crossed Destinies by Italo Calvino) or monumentally successful (see 253: The Print Remix by Geoff Ryman) - there's usually no middle ground. This Is Not A Novel definitely fits into the latter category.

This reads like a companion volume to "Reader's Block." Like the former book, this is a compilation of often fascinating, curious and humanizing facts and quotations of great artists, writers, philosophers, indirectly limning the "author's" concerns with morality, health, and fame. Irrelevant to its enjoyment are considerations of (a)the amount of work entailed in creating it; (b)its nature as novel or anti-novel; (c)the degree to which all its entries are news ("Wagner was an anti-Semite" was not intended to enlighten the reader, but in that case to reflect the "author's" consciousness); (d) the degree to which the form of the book is ground-breaking. Perhaps because I am in a similar situation to the author's in my own career, I identified and found a wry humor in the proceedings, and a genuine modesty in the economy of its style. (Note: There is a bit of "dumbing down" here compared to "Reader's Block", as if Markson [at the bidding of his editor?] didn't quite trust his audience to figure out what he was about and had to spell it out in a few passages, but that can be easily enough overlooked.) For what it is--which is no less than what it attempts to be--it's a very interesting, instructive read, and well-nigh perfect: hence 5 stars.

One assumes that fans of David Markson's work will not be too disappointed by this latest book. I was not, though I admit I prefer his other writings to this. The book is structured as a sequence of sentences, often anecdotes describing the creative habits and deaths of an artistic pantheon. Sure, some will consider the book pretentious, but part of its glory is the effort of the writer, the central character, if any, who seems to be more of a reader, Markson, perhaps, and who puzzles and tries to be reconciled with his own impending mortality. Aside from the bounty of names, here and there an uncommon star appears, this book takes less cleverness to resolve into a thoughtful experience than other Markson books. Most dazzling, to be sure, is the variant structure of declarative sentences, often taken for granted. Some structures are continued repetitively, others, strikingly, challenge the rhythm the reader establishes. The sequences have the potential to mesmerize the patient and weary the rushed.

Out of all of the books, anecdotes, and sentences a character of sorts appears, who is not terribly interesting, nor completely capable of engaging the world without thinking through reading. The book is filled with curiosities that will jog to recollection details from a life spent reading. For some it is important to criticize what this book is not. Certainly, the style and approach to the writing of this book does not differ radically from the author's others. Perhaps this one is more refined. Perhaps it is repetitive and parodic. I prefer to recommend its observant and playful stories and structures that emerge from the sentences.

Markson quotes a conversation between an unnamed critic and Picasso. Critic: You can actually draw so beautifully. Why do you spend all your time making these queer things? Picasso: That's why.

Some artists are driven to find a different way. The older I get and the more conventional stories I have under my belt, the more I crave the work of these artists, for whom the pursuit of strangeness is a powerful mandate. I don't mean the merely weird or ugly--I'm talking about doing something new, or else finding a way to uncover the oddness in ordinary life. Overfamiliarity with the world is suffocating.

THIS IS NOT A NOVEL is a sly book. It appears to be little more than a miscellany of notes from Markson's reading, mixed with a few stray thoughts on the nature of this book he's writing. By the third page we know that he wants it to be characterless and plotless, "yet seducing the reader into turning pages nonetheless." I, for one, turned the pages happily, borne along by the flow of anecdote. But gradually in became apparent that what I was reading, finally, was an odd meditation on the phrase "timor mortis conturbat me"--refrain line from a poem by William Dunbar, "Lament for the Makers" [15th C.] The fear of death disturbs me. This is a novel about a writer trying to shake of the chill of approaching death. A strangely moving work.

As the narrator of Markson's "This is Not a Novel" says, he is writing a book without plot or character. Similar to his two most recent novels ("Wittgenstein's Mistress" and "Reader's Block") we are left with a plethora of references to the lives of writers, artist, composers, and other figures, the main focus being the death of the body and the immortality of the work that is left behind. Between these lines are the few words of the narrator, 'Writer', struggling with his own mortality. A silently sad work of one of the best contemporary writers.

Works of experimental fiction, which play with form and keep drawing attention to their artificiality, too often fail to move; they appeal only to the intellect. David Markson is a striking exception to this rule. On one level, his new book is a string of fascinating factoids about the tribulations of creative folk. At the same time, it is a hilarious, heart-breaking autobiography, or rather, a premature self-eulogy, for "Writer," the author of this work, presumably Markson himself. I still don't know how Markson pulls it off. This is fiction at its most daring and gripping. Read it yourself and see.

As a fan of the experimental novel, I began reading this because it seemed interesting. "Writer is pretty much tempted to give up writing. ..." is a terrific opening sentence.

I do value what David Markson has done here: questioning what in fact a novel is and isn't, forcing the reader to question why novels must follow certain conventions. ...Can they include poetry? Of course. Can they be devoid of plot, characters (not the writer, admittedly!), descriptions? Is _This Is Not a Novel_ a long poem in free verse? If not a novel, what has Markson created, exactly? The narrator seemingly doesn't care about writing a novel in the least, but why is he interested in relating anecdotes? Is he, like one of Beckett's old men narrators, compelled to go on? The voice that does not cease until death?

I find this thought provoking, and many of the anecdotes really are fascinating, as is Markson's word choice. He has a wonderful ear for the sound of words--a poet's ear, truly. All of this makes me want to turn the pages.

The problem for me arises when many of the references to place names and authors: they're too obscure. I consider myself fairly well read, but I'm stumped by at least one obscure reference on at least every other page. Foreign language expressions are scattered profusely throughout.

Here's an example (though this is not from the book it is fairly typical):

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Neil Armstrong did not say "That's one small step for man" upon setting foot on the moon. He said, "a man", but a faulty transmission muted the article.

Charles Baudelarie.

The French Resistance.

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After maybe ten pages into the book I decided to jot down items I'd look up later, but I realized I'd be putting the book down to jot down notes every minute.

So, I'd like to know if other readers had the same issue. I'm a bit disappointed that Markson used so many oblique references in an otherwise remarkable work.

Reading David Markson gives me the blessed illusion, for a few hours, that I possess a mind capable of thinking only interesting thoughts. Suffering and mortality abound -- the average must be about five deaths a page -- but it is imbued with coolness and space, like wandering through a marvelous but unpopular museum on a rainy Tuesday morning.

Markson creates a mosaic of tragic facts. Anecdotes, almost, except that most are only a sentence long. (Looking at a page will be more useful to the prospective reader than any review.)

A friend said, "Looks like a book I'd keep beside the toilet." Well. Certainly you could, and Mr. Markson would be well-pleased I imagine -- but you might find yourself spending all day in the john. The facts, and the way they are all woven together, is entirely transfixing.

Now that David Markson is dead, it is impossible not to think of his death, in a list with all the other deaths he mentions: David Markson was found dead in his Greenwich Village apartment. Like most of the artists and writers he mentions, he deserved vastly more honor and notice than the world ever provided.

Markson wrote several books in this format and he tried not to repeat event or quote. One place he tripped up was a quote of Emerson's, which he gives in both Reader's Block and This Is Not A Novel. It's worth repeating though, and it's an excellent reason to read Markson: "Life consists in what a man is thinking of all day."

This is the first book that I have read by David Markson, and had picked this up based on a glowing review. I read it with no real idea what to expect except the general literary brand value Markson has: underappreciated and postmodern.

When I realized what I was reading, I smiled, but I expected to hate it by the end. I don't really like overly referential works and I also do not think that poets should only talk to poets. This Is Not A Novel is a series of unconnected sentences that mix quotations, snippets of biography, literary gossip and fleeting thoughts of Writer in a way that creates a flow rather than a narrative. The allusions connect to each other, creating a variety of themes. The more that you know about the works and the artists that Markson selects, the more that you are going to get the cross-references. There is literary snobbery built right in at the core and I actually have no idea what it would be like to read this if you did not get at least (say) 25% of the joke.

I am not actually sure how much I really got about the book. But I am almost embarrassed to say that despite the elitism, I found it absolutely delightful to read.

I spent a fair amount of time scrambling for a reference. Several times I stopped to try and remember where a particularly haunting line of poetry had come from. I reminded myself of several of my favorite poets and poems. I actually laughed out loud several times. There was something overarching about the fear of death. There is something about the relationship between critic and writer. Something about translation. Perhaps even something slightly unreliable in the narration? It was great fun to connect the dots, and I really admired the spirit in which the book was written.

Like I said, this is probably a wonderful book for compulsive readers. Less wonderful if you are just starting your journey in the world of books. It is probably not wonderful at all if you are looking for... well, looking for a novel. Markson does warn you from the start. I am going to file it under literature instead of essays, myself, but nobody will ever accuse it of having a plot.

Markson has moved up my priority list as a writer to explore. I would be curious to read something more substantial by him-- something not quite such an elegant (albeit delightful) conceit.

Maybe it appeals to my vanity. This is Not a Novel reads like a list of famous people and how they died. Mainly composers, artists, writers, and baseball players. Many I knew and "got" the jokes, many I didn't know, but it didn't matter. Each page is a list of strange little facts plus the occasional snide/poignant comment from "Writer," the compiler of these facts. Also, through these facts, the reader slowly comes to realize that Writer is seriously ill.

Metafictive in nature, This is Not a Novel almost seems to be a response to Barthes' Death of the Author. It is especially touching to read it now after the death of David Markson.