Booker’s astonishingly ambitious work promises a ‘scientific’ account of the true basis and purpose of literature, narrative, and mythology. He claims to identify the single, central purpose of all storytelling, and indeed to show that all stories can be categorized into seven basic plots, of which each story is merely a variation. Booker’s theory directly draws on Jung’s psychological account of the collective unconscious and of the human need to transcend the individual ego and identify with the deeper ‘Self.’ For Booker, Jung is one of the greatest geniuses of history, a scientist comparable to Einstein (!). You may be wondering at this point: is this book a genuine contribution to literary theory, or mere Jungian fanaticism? The answer, I think, is a little of both.
First we must dismiss the complaints of numerous reviewers that the book is excessively lengthy. It does weigh in at over 700 pages. Yet what is the basis for complaint? Anyone who purchases it knows in advance how long it is. And there is no reasonable basis for saying the book is bloated, repetitive, or in need of editing. If you are going to make an argument as ambitious as Booker does, giving a general theory of all literature, you need ample room in which to defend such a claim. Thus most of the book is a matter of providing empirical evidence for his theory in the form of numerous plot summaries of many works of literature. This also makes the book a relatively quick read, since plot summaries are easy reading. But there is no way this book could be any shorter without compromising its goal of demonstrating the basic patterns of all literature. If you’re not up for reading a long book, then do not buy it.
There are two distinct theses in this book, and they can be taken separately. One is whether Booker is right to hold that there is a single, distinct purpose of all stories: that they help us achieve ‘wholeness’ and identify with the Self. The other is whether there are just seven basic plots to which all literature can be categorized (obviously, there is some connection between the two theses: are there just 7 different ways in which stories can depict the achievement of Selfhood?).
Let us first consider the question of whether all literature can be reduced to 7 basic plots: overcoming the monster, rags to riches, the quest, voyage and return, comedy, tragedy, and rebirth. The first thing to note is that this is a rather motley collection of mixed categories, many of which will inevitably overlap. Overcoming the monster for example can involve rags to riches (Frodo defeats the dragon and wins the wealth); it can also involve rebirth and a quest and a voyage and return. Moreover, comedy and tragedy don’t seem like types of plots at all, but rather something like literary forms. There can be a comic version of rags to riches (Chaplin’s Gold Rush) or a tragic version (Oedipus achieves the kingship, then it all falls apart). Further, the seven plot types are so vague as to be able to cover almost anything; rebirth for example could cover an enormous variety of plots, as could the quest. So it is unclear whether this categorization is all that helpful.
Even odder is the fact that there turn out to be more than 7 basic plots. In Chap. 28, Booker admits that there are at least 2 further types of plots, though he insists they are not ‘basic’ but ‘rare.’ In Chap. 29, he tells us that the detective story creates a new kind of plot for the modern world, and one that is very popular (hence not ‘rare’). He does not however explain why this should not count among the basic plots (is it a form of Quest? Overcoming the Monster (murderer)? Voyage and Return?). In Chap. 31, he discusses creation stories, but it is hard to see why this isn’t a distinct type of plot. One is led to suspect that the insistence on there being only 7 basic plots is a product of Jungian number mysticism; 7 is a number of ‘wholeness’ in Jungian thought (as is 4, and to some extent, 3). So the very insistence on the 7 basic plots may just be a product of Jungian dogma, and not in the end very convincing.
What about the more important question: is the single fundamental purpose of all stories to express the achievement of Wholeness in human life? To evaluate this point is to take a position on Jungian psychology in general. Jung is a very controversial and ambiguous figure; it is never quite clear whether his theory is meant as scientific psychology or as a kind of religion in which the idea of Self is a substitute for the traditional notion of God (for myself, I tend to see it as more a religion than a science). Booker too is ambiguous, sometimes declaring his theory is an ‘evolutionary’ one (in the biological sense), yet at other times suggesting something more like religion (as where he says that the goal of life is to transcend the ego and achieve unity with a ‘dimension beyond time and existence altogether’ (501)).
The notion of getting beyond egocentricity and achieving wholeness is, to be sure, in some sense quite attractive and uncontroversial. Surely it is reasonable to aim at a higher goal than merely pursuing the ego. But a lot depends on what one means by ‘wholeness.’ Here unfortunately Booker is distressingly vague. It is variously described as becoming fully oneself, being able to see the world objectively, achieving inner peace, becoming one with the universe, or achieving a kind of ‘holy awe’ at the universe. So what is this wholeness: personal happiness? Altruism? Union with the ground of being?
Moreover, just how do stories help us achieve this? Odysseus makes it home to his wife and defeats the evil suitors, killing them all. But in what sense is this a model for achieving wholeness? To be sure, Odysseus shows an admirable determination and faithfulness in trying to get home for 20 years. But is there really a message of finding the Self underlying this story? Or take Middlemarch: a central plot element is Dorothea finally uniting with her true soul mate, Ladislaw. Booker calls this ‘recognition,’ but it is unclear just in what sense this is the true meaning of the book; has she found the Self, or merely her lover? One might say the same thing about thousands of romance novels: they are about finding one’s true love – but is a Jungian explanation really helpful here? And for that matter, what makes Middlemarch a classic work of literature while Harlequin romances are not? (It is no small irony that a central theme in Middlemarch is the arid scholar Casaubon’s failed and futile quest for a ‘key to all mythologies’!).
Booker takes the Jungian theme even further, arguing that the true measure of wholeness in the self is the union of the masculine and feminine elements. It follows for him that a genuine work of literature must end in marriage of man and woman. Booker is a traditionalist and a gender essentialist; he pines for the old days when men were free to be truly masculine while women were allowed to be feminine. He does not like feminism and the ‘new assertiveness’ of women, which for him amounts to women trying to be masculine. Further, for the same Jungian reasons he does not approve of homosexuality, and even seems to suggest we should bring back the old laws prohibiting homosexuality (680). Further, ‘wholeness’ for him seems to require that one not only be married but be a parent as well. There is no room for him for the solitary path, or those who pursue art or science or philosophy without getting married or having children.
The rigidity of his limited formulas for a story lead him into unfortunate misjudgments. He struggles for example to make sense of the masterpiece of the Book of Job, since it has no monster or female heroine. He has a total blind spot for tragedy, since tragedy typically does not involve a happy ending. Booker implausibly insists on a moralistic reading of tragedy: since the hero dies at the end, he must be a sinner. But he fails to see the profundity of tragedy, and indeed how it can support his view that stories are about achieving wholeness; it is just that tragedy is arguably more profound than stories with happy endings. In tragedy, the hero (who is not a sinner) recognizes that true Wholeness cannot be fully achieved in this life (not even with a happy marriage and children), and so the hero is willing to sacrifice his life in the name of a higher value. If Rags to Riches can be a story, why not Riches to Rags (as in Oedipus)? Why must there be a happy ending? Similarly, Booker rejects entire genres (detective, horror) simply because they don’t fit his paradigm. The problem of course is the desire to reduce literature (and the meaning of life) to a simple formula.
Booker also shows poor judgment when it comes to great creative masterpieces, especially when they don’t fit his neat categories. He hates Joyce’s Ulysses (surely one of the great works of the 20th century, if not all time) because he sees the hero as emotionally inadequate. It is not clear exactly why, since the book suggests that Bloom ends up reconciled (more or less) with his wife Molly; and moreover it is a good example of a Voyage and Return story. Booker also despises Proust’s masterpiece In Search of Lost Time, apparently because the hero is solitary (and does not end up married). In fact, Proust’s work could also be said to fit the paradigm of wholeness; in the last volume, the hero Marcel achieves a transcendence of ego and of time. Just because there is no monster to be destroyed or no marriage at the end does not make it a failed work of literature.
In the end, we must say that Booker’s work is an instructive failure, though a very illuminating one. Jung’s idea of the search for wholeness is by no means implausible; the human life can be described as a quest for meaning and purpose, for something larger than ourselves. It is equally plausible that myths and literature are centrally concerned for this higher purpose. It is just that this sort of wholeness cannot be reduced to a simple formula, and literature itself cannot be bound into rigid categories. This is to be sure a very long book, so it is not for everyone. But if you have the time, it is a worthwhile read, as long as you take it with a large grain of salt.
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A transcendent novel of love, loss, and self-discovery by the Wall Street Journal bestselling author of Where the Forest Meets the Stars. | Learn more
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Stories are lodged deep in our DNA and stitched together to form our social genome.I've posted a photo with this review. On the right is the most read book in the world. The Bible is a collection of stories—with complicated stories embedded—barely known or understood.With one exception, I concur with the quote on the other tome—it is "the most extraordinary, exhilarating book."It took Christopher Booker 34 years to complete The Seven Basic Plots. It's over 700 pages.I can't read it fast enough. I'm devouring the audiobook and paperback at the same. It will become dog-eared.Booker dissects the plots that persist across human history and cultures. Our stories are a collective dialogue that seeks to answer:Who am I? Who are you? Who are we together?Booker describes the Rule of Three reflected across great stories. The third part of a story becomes "the final trigger for something important to happen."Three is a magic number. 💖🎭 Let Act III, Scene I begin. 🌈
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