The Drift of Modern Fiction

THE DRIFT OF MODERN FICTION PELHAM EDGAR T WO tendencies are CODStarit Ill every form of literature, as indeed they are constant in every manifestation of human activity. We may regard them, therefore, as laws of life operating universally, it is true, but reflected most discernibly in the ·sensitive medium of the expressive arts. And it is by these tendencies of retrogression and progression that we must seek to measure the advance of fiction, which if not the greatest is incontestably the most flexible of literary forms.·In the typical commercial novel the retrogressive element prevails. Standardised and stereotyped it will repeat to-morrow what it has said to-day, and by virtue of its multitude will proclaim the triumphant incompetence of majority opinion. If, therefore, it were sufficient to indicate a prevailing tendency in fiction, we might rest our case here, and save our self-respect by the certain knowledge that every generation tolerates only its own mediocrity and has no relish for the insipidities of the past. We prefer, however, to deal with forward-painting books by which the future will estimate our insight and our art, and will appreciate the p~oblems that peculiarly beset us. In general the retrogressive and progressive forces are here more evenly poised. Tradition, but slightly modified, will often prevail in the form_, whereas the content w111 reveal a point of view that is characteristically of our age. These are the safe, wise books of our day_, but they fail to satisfy the riotously minded young who demand a more drastic severance from traditional · structure, and a more vehement assault upon inherited 123 THE UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO QUARTERLY opinion. Mr. Galsworthy adequately represents the former type and Mr. James Joyce the latter, and the effect upon :fiction of their contrasted efforts it will be the purpose of this paper to investigate. Having narrowed the issue down to books of acknowledged power we might seem to have simplified our task. Let us but establish the structural deviations of contemporary experiment, and we may point forward with some confidence to the evolution of :fiction on its formal side, ·and could we but take the measure of the modern consciousness we might with equal assurance predict the general direction of the drift of thought, and so come to terms with fiction upon its intellectuqJ side. But it is really very hard to take hold of this slippery thing, the novel, by the tail, and the more we ponder the question the less sanguine are we of a definite result. We may for example satisfy ourselves somewhat fatuously that we are aware of the contents of this moder~ consciousness, only to realize that many excellent noveis are .timeless in the sense that they do not date, and because they concern themselves with the pennanent characteristics of the human group set in motion by the story. But since our most i1nportant books are swayed by the thought currents of their period we. may with advantage seek to gauge the drift of the intellectual tides. The intensive specialization of many generations has in a sense widened the breach between the artist and the man of science; but it is peculiarly the mark of our age to have produced a race of articulate and artistic spe-· cialists who are able to convert the intricate Inaterial of the laboratory or the observatory into food for the imagination. Thanks to the efforts of Eddington, Jeans, and VVhitehead we are all now, or may be, an1ateur 1netaphysicians, physicists, and astronomers. Science· 124 MODERN FICTION may c;lespise our superficiality, but a significant movement of ideas has been generated, and a new racial consciousness is in process of development. The repercussions of this process must infallibly convey a shock to the more sensitive literary minds, though we must probably wait for a few generations before the full effect is evident. A period of absorption and assimilation is necessary. As yet we are too near the source to .adjust our minds to the new world outlook, and have to content ourselves for the present with the muddy vision of an H. G. Wells whose art has refused to keep pace with the perplexed energy...