Mixed bag
Sara Maitland
The Man Who Had No Idea Thomas Disch (Gollancz SF £7.95) For Richer for Poorer Edward Stewart (Goliana £7.95) The Rash Act Ford Madox Ford, with an
This is the sort of pile of books which drives normally balanced reviewers to desperate speculations about the decline and fall of English Fiction, the Death of the Novel and other wild generalisations because there is so little to say about the books themselves. Actually English Fiction is in better health now than one might sup- pose. There are just lots of not very good books being published as always. Specifically there are lots of books which all into little sub-genres with their own ex- pert readers. They may be good of their kind but they never manage to move into the big wide world of general literature. Science Fiction is a good example of this. There have been futuristic, speculative, im- aginative novels which have captured the serious attention of the general reader, but there is also the vast number of volumes Published with 'SF' all over the cover so that the buffs know to read them and the rest of us know not to bother. I'm one of the rest, so perhaps I'm not a fit person to pass judgment on The Man Who Had No flea by Thomas Disch; but I started this collection of his short stories with an open
mind: lots of people are fans of his and I was ready to be impressed. But 1 was not. Here are 17 very varied stories in which lots of weird and wonderful things happen: a world war is fought in the next door apartment, an unborn child cor- rupts the Earth, the Goddess Hera punishes marital infidelity, a couple fall in love across galaxies by means of a machine which converts one's own self image into visual form, and goodness knows what else, but I was left with a heavy feeling of 'why bother?' Disch is clever and inventive but he uses his imaginative dexterity to solve problems that there was no need to create in the first place. His speed is impressive, but rather in the same way that a child's vir- tuosity is impressive, and even his most delightful ideas — in the title story conver- sation is only permitted to those who are licensed following an examination in mean- ingful dialogue — are wasted. He writes rather plonkingly and often does not seem to bother too much. Too many of the stories in the collection feel insultingly like Disch finding a way to turn an honest pen- ny on half-developed ideas which could not be stretched into anything more substantial. Indeed in some of the rather annoying little explanatory notes which preface each story, he admits as much. Now I am not a reader of Science Fiction, and there may be any number of brilliant subtitles or internal references which have passed me by entire- ly, but his collection has done absolutely nothing to convert me.
Another little sub-genre that seems to be gaining popularity is the 'novel for older children.' As these are often sent out for review undifferentiated from adult novels one can't help but wonder who they are really meant for. There are writers — Alan Garner and Jane Gardam leap to mind who really make something very special by focussing on their subject from an angle that is presumed to be both simpler and less bound by conventions. Too often, however, these sorts of novels seem like an excuse to simplify, and create happy end- ings for genuine and knotty problems. Ganesh seems a case in point. Bosse starts with the real problems of conflicting cultures and the need to find where one's own roots are and the value of one's parents' choices. His adolescent hero hav- ing been brought up in Buddhist India is returned to his native mid-America where he has the greatest difficulty relating to peo- ple at any level — from the superficial social customs right down to the most fun- damental emotions. So far, so good;
cultural conflicts are very real in the lives of many children and are a serious question for us all. But Bosse solves the problem by making all his characters so nice that the happy solution is inevitable and soppy: I doubt that 'older children' will be so easily deceived.
For Richer for Poorer by Edward Stewart is at least an honest book: an enor- mous, energetic, simple blockbuster in search of its paperback covers. A family saga, set in the USA, the from-rags-to-
riches story of an Irish girl who marries for hate, not love, and lives to see her son become President, after a thousand heart- aches of the most dramatic sort. Not too much direct sex or violence but lots by im- plication. The most interesting thing about the book is actually the none too subtle similarities to the Kennedy family saga, in- cluding Chapaquiddick; one of the weak- nesses of the book is that the Kennedys re- main more fascinating, dramatic and unbelievable than the Stokes ever become.
But the book which really brings on an attack of the 'death of the English novel' syndrome is the one which is the pick of the bunch. The Rash Act by Ford Madox Ford, which Carcanet are reissuing, stands head and shoulders above the others. A minor book written 50 years ago, it has a ring of authority and authenticity that none of the contemporary books mentioned even ap- proach. For all his preciousness Ford has such a graceful mastery of his form that the book is a positive pleasure to read. The plot is trifling and sounds even more absurd than it is when described briefly: the leading character, because he is broke and direct- ionless, sets out to commit suicide; instead, almost accidentally, he ends up assuming the identity and lifestyle of someone else who succeeds where he has failed. It is, however, an adequate peg on which Ford hangs his rather sad vision of Europe in the Depression — life is sensually delightful and profoundly worthless; despite muddle and greed there is great beauty.
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