Having just cracked Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom, I find myself enjoying it immensely. The characterizations are just so darn funny, the diagnostic thrust so piercing and the prose so delightful. Perhaps, then, I should have avoided David Brooks’ editorial from yesterday about the book. It’s admiring but also pretty qualified, some excerpts of which are worth reprinting:
Very few novels make clear and provocative arguments about American life anymore, but Jonathan Franzen’s important new book, “Freedom,” makes at least two. First, he argues that American culture is overobsessed with personal freedom. Second, he portrays an America where people are unhappy and spiritually stunted.
At a few major moments, he compares his characters to the ones in “War and Peace.” Franzen is obviously trying to make us see the tremendous difference in scope between the two sets of characters. Tolstoy’s characters are spiritually ambitious — ferociously seeking some universal truth that can withstand the tough scrutiny of their own intelligence. Franzen’s modern characters are distracted and semi-helpless. It’s easy to admire Pierre and Prince Andrei. It’s impossible to look upon Walter and Richard with admiration, though it is possible to feel empathy for them.
“Freedom” is not Great Souls Seeking Important Truth. It’s a portrait of an America where the important, honest, fundamental things are being destroyed or built over — and people are left to fumble about, not even aware of what they have lost.
Sometime long ago, a writer by the side of Walden Pond decided that middle-class Americans may seem happy and successful on the outside, but deep down they are leading lives of quiet desperation. This message caught on (it’s flattering to writers and other dissidents), and it became the basis of nearly every depiction of small-town and suburban America since. If you judged by American literature, there are no happy people in the suburbs, and certainly no fulfilled ones.
By now, writers have become trapped in the confines of this orthodoxy. So even a writer as talented as Franzen has apt descriptions of neighborhood cattiness and self-medicating housewives, but ignores anything that might complicate the Quiet Desperation dogma. There’s almost no religion. There’s very little about the world of work and enterprise. There’s an absence of ethnic heritage, military service, technical innovation, scientific research or anything else potentially lofty and ennobling.
“Freedom” is a brilliantly written book that is nonetheless trapped in an intellectual cul de sac — overly gimlet-eyed about American life and lacking an alternative vision of higher ground.
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21 responses to “Brooks on Franzen, Tolstoy, and Quiet Desperation”
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When I saw "American Beauty" I started to believe that this kind of depiction of suburbia was self-congratulatory and self-celebratory rhetoric on the part of writers/screenwriters who lived in the city (but probably originally came from the suburbs, as most Americans have for the last 40 years or so, I believe the facts say).
And the facts of the matter have actually changed, or are changing, anyway. It's too expensive to be "middle-class" in most cities now; as in cities like Paris (for one), the suburbs are where people without high-paying jobs must live. (In fact, many of the suburbs of Paris are, as I understand it, dirt-poor and segregated – something I think we may be on the way towards here, at least in parts of the East Coast.)
I agree with Brooks that this depiction of the suburbs is formulaic and tired by now. Cliches are always tiresome, in any case; it's just lazy, really, I think, and lacking any real insight.
(And if you're not careful, I'll tell you how I really feel!)
I actually agree with Brooks about a lot of things, I'm always kind of surprised to notice….
I think Brooks gets unfairly pigeonholed as overtly ideological. If anything, he seems less bound by partisan considerations than most of his colleagues. More willing to grasp at the bigger picture stuff.
While I agree with him about the Quiet Desperation orthodoxy with which many city-dweller intellectuals patronize the suburbs, I do wonder if it applies to Franzen's book as much as Brooks claims. That is, he seems to be ascribing a purpose to Franzen's book – "capturing America" or something like that – that may not be there. Or at least, that may not have anything to do with how it works as a piece of fiction. Lord knows Franzen is free to comment on one part of suburbia, i.e. the post-baby boomer white liberal guilt corner of things, without having it be some all-encompassing diorama.
Just thinking out loud… glad you resonated with Brooks' take.
I'm looking forward to reading this novel. I've heard such good things about it.
David Brooks claims that this novel is an "argument." If it is an argument, then it's a bad novel. People who want to make an argument should write an essay — whether short or in the form of a long extended book.
I'm hoping that this work of fiction is a chance to get lost in another world, to get involved in a story, and to care about characters. If it's an "argument" I'll be really disappointed.
My guess is that this is more Brooks' bias than anything else: this need to reduce every work of art to some set of propositions that can be defended or refuted.
I'm with bls…I realize more and more that I agree with a lot of David Brooks. That said, I'm familiar with the urge to talk about what you want to talk about at the slightest provocation. This wasn't a review…so I'll give Brooks the benefit of the doubt and think of the theme as his editorial and the Franzen book as this springboard. Maybe not totally fair to the book, but there you go. And Stamper, some of our greatest novels have been arguments. Some veiled thinly, some not. Orwell and Wells come to mind.
So Brooks' view of the novel is clouded by his ideological bias? First time that's ever happened, right?
Comparing Franzen to Tolstoy is like comparing Brooks to Tocqueville.
Bonjour Tristesse!
Nick, I think you're mistaken. I know of no good novel that is principally an argument.
What happens in reactions to "1984" is that the eerie dreamlike world that is created is too disturbing and mysterious for some readers — they (like Brooks) have a desperate need to reduce it to propositions they can MANAGE.
If a writer wants to make an argument, by all means he should make one: an essay is the perfect form for it. Novels, movies, and other works of fiction are terrible forms for it.
StampDawg – can't we make a difference between art with a message on the one hand, and agitprop on the other?
Stamp –
What do you make of the Chronic(what?)les of Narnia? For me, this series makes YOUR point, an argument best left for non-fiction. But for many, a compelling (and perhaps, more accessible) presentation?
I really want to believe that, as Auden once said, "poetry does nothing." My instinct is to want to view art as entirely non-instrumental, perhaps only the occasion and condition for a delight that is a sort of truancy from "everyday life."
I think there is a meaningful distinction, though, as Matt puts it, between art with a message and agitprop. The word "message" makes me nervous, but if read it charitably I think I understand. I believe it would be very peculiar for a novelist to put pen to paper without having something to say, something driving the work. And at any rate, "interpretation" is inevitable — any description of our situation follows judgments made by the novelist about what is important, what situations are revealing, and more. There are always "value" judgments smuggled in everywhere — a message inevitably is conveyed.
Maybe the really important point is whether the novelist's task is undertaken in good faith, seeking understanding, and adding complexity and nuance to how we see the world, instead of reductionistic and cheap point scoring.
A side note: I've met Brooks more than once, and once spent the better part of an afternoon talking with him, and he's one of the least ideological men I've met.
This is a distinction that many people like to make, Matt, and certainly you are in good company in making it.
My personal feeling though, is this: if the primary reason to go see a movie or read a novel, however great, is to be delivered a particular message, then I would vastly prefer the author to just inscribe the message on the flyleaf. Then I can "get" the message and skip reading the book. It'd save me a lot of time.
With almost every novel and movie (and painting, etc.) I love, the powerful thing about them for me is the way they defy my ability reduce them to slogans (even gospel slogans). I get choked up when I think about Magnolia, or King Lear, or 2001, or Watership Down: even as a critic words elude me, and it becomes impossible to recreate in propositions why or even how this work affects me as it does. Ultimately I can only say a certain amount and then — Go! Go see it.
This shouldn't be such a surprise in a way: if I can truly reduce a movie, for example, which is first and foremost a Story and is crafted with sound, image, music, the lift of a hand and the catch in an actor's voice, reduce it to an "argument" — which is a series of propositions — then the artist wasn't properly using his medium. In short, why make a movie in the first place?
Great question, Nick. I am not crazy about the Narnia books. What I love most in them are those moments when Lewis is feeling most free to follow his Muse — to create powerful and strange images without trying to press gang them to serving some apologetic mission.
It's interesting that he claims that he never thought originally about making Narnia serve some sort of "messagey" purpose. It started with with this strange mysterious image of a little girl stumbling through a snowy wood at night and coming across a lamppost in the middle of it. Of course, he later added lots of stuff that feels much more messagey: this plot element = the crucifixion, this plot element = the atonement, this element = the resurrection, etc.
(I'm sorry – I wasn't actually commenting on this book, which I haven't read. I was responding to only one of Brooks' points – about the shallowness of some recent portrayals of life in the suburbs.
The book itself does sound interesting, especially in the Tolstoy comparison….)
I have to agree with Stampy concerning the Narnia books and his comments on didactic literature in general. This is evangelical heresy, but I don't much like the Narnia books and I don't like allegory in general. I am not a big science fiction fan either, because it is another form of didactic literature in most cases. One doesn't have to look far for the "lesson" being taught. Of course there is fine science fiction out there, and there are degrees of didacticism and the skill with which it is rendered. And there are many brilliantly written allegorical works, Pilgrim's Progress being the supreme example, to me anyway. But the problem with them is that if one does not agree with the "message," they tend to be read only as action-adventure tales, or as cultural artifacts. In didactic literature, conclusions are drawn for the reader and things are, more of less, set to some form of moral order according to the lesson being taught, rather than giving the reader a concrete experience of the raw essence of life through the work itself. The experience will certainly have a moral dimension to it, but the point is not to convey a "moral lesson." For example, one is not going to find a commentary on race relations and a roadmap for social improvement in any Faulkner novel, but if one wants to understand the South and race relations, and experience the tragic pain of racism for the victim and the victimizer as a part of the larger problem of being human, read Faulkner. I know some try to teach Faulkner by pointing to various characters as representative of Southern "types" as if Light in August (probably the closest Faulkner ever came to allegory) were a sociology text book or lesson on the issue of race, but forgive them, Lord, for they know not what the hell they do.
And forgive me the rant. To each his own 😉
I've read FREEDOM and Stampdawg aptly diagnosed (at least here) Brooks's "need to reduce every work of art to a set of propositions that can be defended or retuted." Brooks understates the scope of the novel and assigns easy labels that do not fit. FREEDOM is not a commentary limited to suburbia, but instead portrays the human condition, full of Mockingbird themes of identity, free will (or lack thereof), defeat, and even love. There are suburbs, but there are also cities, small towns, and colleges, and FREEDOM speaks to all of them alike. For what it's worth, I can't recommend it highly enough.
First, Brooks says that the novel is an argument that Americans are over-obsessed with personal freedom. I did not see that at all. In FREEDOM, humans (not just Americans although that's the setting) often believe they are exercising freedom while actually bound. Galatians often came to mind – "neither circumcision or uncircumcision matters." While we often believe we act freely and set our own path, especially when making decisions opposed by those close to us, usually those actions are just as bound as the conforming ones. FREEDOM demonstrates that we are not as free as we think and those taking opposing positions or life courses are not as different as we may hope.
Second, Brooks criticizes FREEDOM as arguing that "Americans are unhappy and spiritually stunted". Franzen didn't need to spend the last decade on this exquisitely written novel to tell us that. Americans (and others) are frequently unhappy and spiritually stunted. Certainly in the novel there are times when the characters might be considered happy, but unresolved issues remain, and that does not strike me as an inaccurate depiction.
Brooks suggests that the characters lack ambition and noble cause. Some do at times (while others have periods of great ambition), but Franzen is more interested in depicting the sources of the ambition or lack thereof rather than the glorification of their pursuits. Perhaps, the characters' interests are not those Brooks would have chosen. FREEDOM does not argue for particular causes, but rather illustrates the subconscious forces which lurk behind many beliefs perceived to be freely adopted, the motivations (often conflicting, see Romans 7:18) which can lie behind the pursuit of a cause.
Brooks praised characters "ferociously seeking some universal truth that can withstand the tough scrutiny of their own intelligence." Franzen's characters undoubtedly seek universal truth but stumble along the way and do not realize universal truth through their own effort. Franzen references the similarities (not the differences) between his characters and those of WAR AND PEACE – the human condition has not changed. Both sets of characters continue doing the evil they do not want to do. FREEDOM's characters encounter many personal foibles (of thought and deed), as do all of us including our leaders, and characters who did not would be unconvincing.
Brooks is right that religion is largely absent from the novel, but it is not ignored. Some characters have established identities in opposition to their perception of religion. Religion, like politics, in the occasions when it appears, is treated as a reactionary identity. One can wish for a contemporary novel of this caliber to describe the religious as Franzen does the nonreligious. But FREEDOM precisely diagnoses our condition and need and that is to be celebrated.
Ron, what a wonderful critique. You have made me even more excited about reading "Freedom."
Guys, about the Narnia books… They're not the best of Lewis' work, by any means, but it's important to keep in mind that they're written for children. When I read these books at age 11 or so, I had no IDEA there was anything "Christian" about them or any particular "message" being preached. What may seem heavy-handed to us as adults isn't to children. My own daughter (age 9) is just starting to read the books, and she hasn't picked up on the "stealth Christianity," I can assure you! To her, it's just a great adventure story…
So many great comments everyone… wow.
Margaret makes an interesting point, and just so I don't come down as a Narnia basher, I'm not! I have mixed feelings about the books (i.e. although I have reservations there are happy memories I have about them as well), and certainly they may have all kinds of values outside art.
Interestingly, a recent and well regarded book ("Planet Narnia") claims that they have a deep inner meaning connected with the seven planets. I'm trying to get Margaret to review it…. 🙂
Criticism can be a sketchy business but I offer a bit here. I am reminded of Teddy Roosevelt's famous quote about "the critics". Anyway, for what its worth, the film version of "Prince Caspian" was not very good. However, I liked "The Lion, Witch and the Wardrobe" film and book. And, I look forward to "Voyage of the Dawn Treader", coming soon to a theatre near you. Narnia series is great for kids, and the childlike adults as well. Some gems in there for sure.
A favorite verse of mine is 1st Thessalonians, Chapter 5, verse 21–"Test all things: hold fast to that which is good". My modern translation is we are to sort through and "chunk the junk" in life. I thought "Reveloutionary Road" was horrible. Parts of "Magnolia" continue to resonate with me. Without recommendations via Mockingbird, I would not have watched either. Thanks for the referrals. I have Judge Priest on order and look forward to same.
I agree with everything StampDawg has written here. In addition, I'd like to say that if you quit viewing novels as mathematical proofs or as rigorous arguments, you may wind up enjoying all sorts of stories you didn't enjoy before.
I don't think Franzen was "making an argument," but let's say he was. Let's say his book "argues" that Americans are more concerned with the mundane than the spiritual, and that their lives suffer from the fact that they hold these backward values.
For the sake of argument, let's also say that Franzen is wrong about this if you take his novel as a statement of pure fact. Maybe the truth is much more nuanced that that. Maybe, in fact, most Americas are spiritually advanced creatures, at least part of the time.
Still, don't you ever FEEL like Franzen's argument is true? Whether it is actually true or false, don't you ever feel like our culture is shallow and worldly and petty and wrong-headed and wrong-hearted and filled with unhappy people?
If so, then this FEELING is true. It is an actual feeling that people really have. And a brilliant thing that novels can do is to take real feelings and explore them. It's possible (at least for me, and I hope for you) to enjoy such novels without thinking that the feelings map onto reality. I don't care about whether or not people are actually unhappy. I don't think that's the truth the novel is exploring. I think it's exploring the FEELING we sometimes have that the world is an unhappy place.
We've all enjoyed sad songs, songs that make it seem like the whole universe is sad, even though we know it isn't. We've also enjoyed happy songs, songs that make us feel as if the sun is always shining, even though we know it rains. We don't want our steaks doused in sugar. We like to taste the savory, even while we know that there's such a thing as dessert.
School and politics ruin so much fun. School teaches people to see works of fiction as argumentative essays. That's too bad, because we already have argumentative essays, and they are always going to be better at being argumentative essays than things that aren't argumentative essays.
Politics teaches us to join teams, to cheer for our teams and to hate opposing teams. So we wind up hating novels that "argue" some the opposition's point-of-view.
This is really sad, because when we pull politics out of the picture, opposing stances are FLAVORS, and life is so much richer if you taste every flavor out there.
I am mostly a Liberal, but I understand the Conservative urge to … to be conservative: to fear change. Even if my voting record and political stances don't revolve around fearing change, I HAVE feared change in my life. That's a real emotion I've felt, and so it's worth exploring in a work of fiction. Fiction is safe. It can't hurt me. I can safely use it to taste various feelings. So if a "conservative writer" writes a novel in which change is scary and leads to disaster, I can take it as a political tract, in which case I probably won't enjoy it, because it's the "other team's" tract. Or I can take it as a flavor I don't get to taste very often, but one that I AM familiar with. One that is based in truth — in the truth that I have that feeling.
Unlike many readers and contributors to Mockingbird, I am an atheist. And yet I've experienced the feeling that there's something out there, something bigger than me that's controlling my life. And so I LOVE novels that explore that feeling. I live with my atheism all the time. I don't need novels that explore that. Real, spiritual novels are fantastic for me to read. They allow me to get in touch with feelings I can't normally grapple with.
Meanwhile, surely the most pious amongst you has experienced moments of doubt. Doubt is a part of the human experience. And so it's a good and natural thing for fiction to explore. If you read a novel that seems to be set in a random or atheistic universe, I hope you don't take it as "the party line" or as "an argument for atheism." I hope you take it as an exploration of doubt. As the FLAVOR of doubt.
I am a theatre director, and a few years ago I was working on a production of "The Oresteia." I remember feeling exhilarated, because the play painted such a clear picture of a cosmology in which the gods are out to get you. You're damned if you do and damned if you don't. The gods are cats and you're the mouse. I was thrilled, because I realized that this view, apparently common to the ancient Greeks, is a missing flavor from fiction these days. It's not really the contemporary theist view or the contemporary atheist view.
And yet who hasn't felt it? Whether you believe in God (or gods) or not, who hasn't had a terrible day and thought, "Someone up there is out to get me!" I believe that all feelings are worthwhile and worth working through. Feelings do not map onto reality. They are their own reality. And fiction is the most economical and powerful human invention — except maybe music — for grappling with feelings.
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