The novel that, like Dickens’ Hard Times" class="md-crosslink">Hard Times (1854), presents the lives of workingmen or other members of the lower orders is not necessarily an example of proletarian fiction. The category properly springs out of direct experience of proletarian life and is not available to writers whose background is bourgeois or aristocratic. Consequently, William Godwin’s Caleb Williams (1794) and Robert Bage’s Hermsprong (1796), although, like Hard Times, sympathetic to the lot of the oppressed worker, are more concerned with the imposition of reform from above than with revolution from within, and the proletarian novel is essentially an intended device of revolution. The Russian Maxim Gorky, with works such as Foma Gordeyev (1900) and Mother (1907), as well as numerous short stories portraying the bitterness of poverty and unemployment (in fact, the pseudonym Gorky means “Bitter”), may be taken as an exemplary proletarian writer. The United States has produced a rich crop of working-class fiction. Such socialist writers as Jack London, Upton Sinclair, John Dos Passos, and Edward Dahlberg, however, did not witness the triumph of the workers’ revolution in their own country, as Gorky did in his, and it is the fate of the American proletarian novelist, through literary success, either to join the class he once dreamed of overthrowing or to become anarchic and frustrated. In the Soviet Union the proletarian novel was doomed to disappear in the form that Gorky knew, for it is the essence of the revolutionary novel to possess vitality and validity only when written under capitalist “tyranny.”
England has produced its share of working-class novelists exuding bitterness, such as Alan Sillitoe, with his Saturday Night and Sunday Morning (1958), but conditions apt for revolution have not existed in Britain for more than a century. British novelists who emerged after World War II, such as John Braine (Room at the Top), Keith Waterhouse (There Is a Happy Land), Kingsley Amis (Lucky Jim), and Stan Barstow (A Kind of Loving), provided a solution to working-class frustration in a fluid system of class promotion: revolution is an inadmissible dream. Generally speaking, in the novel, which is preoccupied with individuals rather than with groups, it is difficult to make the generalized political statements that are meat and drink to the revolutionary propagandist. Other types
The categories briefly discussed above are among the most common fictional forms. Theoretically there is no limit to the number available, since changing social patterns provide fresh subjects and fresh taxonomies, and new metaphysical and psychological doctrines may beget new fictional approaches to both content and technique.
Other categories of fictional art include the erotic novel (which may or may not be pornographic), the satirical novel, the farcical novel, the novel for or about children, the theological novel, the allegorical novel, and so on. Types of fiction no longer practiced, since their real-life referents no longer exist, include the colonial novel—such as E.M. Forster’s Passage to India (1924), Henri Fauconnier’s Malaisie (1930), and the African sequence of Joyce Cary—and space fantasy like H.G. Wells’s First Men in the Moon (1901). One may read examples of a departed category with pleasure and profit, but the category can no longer yield more than parody or pastiche.
New kinds of fiction fill in the gaps, like the novel of negritude, the structuralist novel (following the linguistic sociologists and anthropologists), the homosexual novel, the novel of drug hallucination, and so on. So long as human society continues to exist, the novel will exist as its mirror, an infinitude of artistic images reflecting an infinitude of life patterns. Social and economic aspects
Though publishers of fiction recognize certain obligations to art, even when these are unprofitable (as they usually are), they are impelled for the most part to regard the novel as a commercial property and to be better pleased with large sales of indifferent work than with the mere unremunerative acclaim of the intelligentsia for books of rare merit. For this reason, any novelist who seeks to practice his craft professionally must consult the claims of the market and effect a compromise between what he wishes to write and what the public will buy. Many worthy experimental novels, or novels more earnest than entertaining, gather dust in manuscript or are circulated privately in photocopies. Indeed, the difficulty that some unestablished novelists find in gaining a readership (which means the attention of a commercial publisher) has led them to take the copying machine as seriously as the printing press and to make the composition, mimeographing, binding, and distribution of a novel into a single cottage industry. For the majority of novelists the financial rewards of their art are nugatory, and only a strong devotion to the form for its own sake can drive them to the building of an oeuvre. The subsidies provided by university sinecures sustain a fair number of major American novelists; others, in most countries, support their art by practicing various kinds of subliterature—journalism, film scripts, textbooks, even pseudonymous pornography. Few novelists write novels and novels only.
There are certain marginal windfalls, and the hope of gaining one of these tempers the average novelist’s chronic desperation. America has its National Book Award as well as its book club choices; France has a great variety of prizes; there are also international bestowals; above all there glows the rarest and richest of all accolades—the Nobel Prize for Literature. Quite often the Nobel Prize winner needs the money as much as the fame, and his election to the honour is not necessarily a reflection of a universal esteem which, even for geniuses like Samuel Beckett, means large sales and rich royalties. When Sinclair Lewis received the award in 1930, wealth and fame were added to wealth and fame already sufficiently large; when William Faulkner was chosen in 1949, most of his novels had been long out of print in America.
Prizes come so rarely, and often seem to be bestowed so capriciously, that few novelists build major hopes on them. They build even fewer hopes on patronage: Harriet Shaw Weaver, James Joyce’s patroness, was probably the last of a breed that, from Maecenas on, once intermittently flourished; state patronage—as represented, for instance, by the annual awards of the Arts Council of Great Britain—can provide little more than a temporary palliative for the novelist’s indigence. Novelists have more reasonable hopes from the world of the film or the stage, where adaptations can be profitable and even salvatory. The long struggles of the British novelist T.H. White came to an end when his Arthurian sequence The Once and Future King (1958) was translated into a stage musical called Camelot, though, by treating the lump sum paid to him as a single year’s income instead of a reward for decades of struggle, nearly all the windfall would have gone for taxes if White had not taken his money into low-tax exile. Such writers as Graham Greene, nearly all of whose novels have been filmed, must be tempted to regard mere book sales as an inconsiderable aspect of the rewards of creative writing. There are few novelists who have not received welcome and unexpected advances on film options, and sometimes the hope of film adaptation has influenced the novelist’s style. In certain countries, such as Great Britain but not the United States, television adaptation of published fiction is common, though it pays the author less well than commercial cinema.