Civility in Dublin

When asked to address a convention of scholars gathered to reflect on the question of late-century civility in the United States, I laughingly agreed, thinking that, as a fiction writer, I might have something to say on this subject. I say “laughingly” now, because then I thought that fiction represented, at the very least, civilization’s last bastion, and that what I’d have to say would be comfort indeed.

The convention was the festive conclusion of a year’s hard work by two Johns Hopkins’ scholars, Pier Massimo Forni (Italian Studies) and Guilia Sissa (Classics). Italians, they very courteously (and shrewdly) sought out ways in which Americans were not less civil than ever before, but more. In a devilishly clever way, they went not to dancing schools, church suppers or wine tastings, but to tough high schools and high-security prisons and found therein carefulness, mindfulness, and yes, courtesy, all of which was testimony to the survival of manners under the harshest conditions, and even to their grim necessity.

I was amused and touched by their jaunts into ever more discouraging terrain, where they would inevitably turn up behavior which—looked at in a certain light—was truly considerate, rational and humane. More than ever, I wanted to be part of this wonderful experiment, turning dross into gold, upending a beloved hobby horse: that present conditions in the states were hellish, barbaric, and that people were selfish, rude and unspeakably ill-natured.

Thus I began my work—in earnest—choosing as my subject novelists’ treatment of their characters, hopeful that I, too, would turn up subtle acts of thoughtfulness and courtesy, even empathy.

I did not proceed unarmed. Practicing fiction for thirty years, I knew my own terrain, but I had created characters with hardly a thought of their manners toward each other, much less of mine toward them. So I felt I needed a guidepost, and chose, as a reference, both to what manners actually were and what purpose they served, that late-century Castiglione, Judith Martin, and consulted her volume, “Miss Manners Guide to Excruciatingly Correct Behavior.” I liked Martin’s brisk, witty style and her air of authority. Her overall approach, the case-history method, resembled mine. She liked a story: setting a scene, putting her subjects in awkward—even desperate—situations, and watching them struggle. She was an ace at depicting verbal and physical clumsiness in action: her negative exempla ran the gamut of boors, braggarts, slobs, louts, Nosy Parkers and the like. This interest in social blights and edgy situations we clearly had in common. But what we did with this “material” was very different. Where Miss Martin’s stated task was to use these bad examples to instruct her readers in manners so perfect, so flexible, so alert, that no situation would ever be beyond them; manners sufficient to help people do things right the first time, and ever after; and more manners to prepare them for people who always do things wrong, so as to rescue the oafs (or remove them permanently from the guest list), thus making life altogether less unpleasant.

Fiction-writers are likewise drawn to scenes of conflict, but almost never with so straight and simple a purpose. We seem to have no interest in resolving difficulties, much less saving our characters from shame. Creating a set of hopeless blunderers, and then lining up excruciating situations where they can do their worst—this seemed to me, after reading Martin’s guide, to be the uncivil code of the fiction writer.

This realization, not altogether fresh, brought to mind certain scenes with my students, reading and writing serious fiction for the first time. They, too, had their doubts about the harmlessness, let alone the benefits, of the art. Year after year, I heard the same kind of question. Why do stories end so badly? Why is everyone in them unhappy? And does it have to be that way?

As a new teacher, I was defensive about any challenges to the hallowed ground of literature. Read your Aristotle, I’d tell them. The pleasure of fiction is in the vicarious thrill of...