When a novelist becomes involved in film-script writing—either in the adaptation of his own work or that of others—the tendency is for him to become subtly corrupted by what seems to him an easier as well as more lucrative technique than that of the novel. Most novelists write dialogue with ease, and their contribution to a film is mostly dialogue: the real problem in novel writing lies in the management of the récit. A number of potentially fine novelists, like Terry Southern and Frederic Raphael, have virtually abandoned the literary craft because of their continued success with script writing. In 70-odd years the British novelist Richard Hughes produced only three novels, the excellence of which has been universally recognized; fiction lovers have been deprived of more because of the claims of the film world on Hughes’s talent. This kind of situation finds no counterpart in any other period of literary history, except perhaps in the Elizabethan, when the commercial lure of the drama made some good poets write poor plays.
The majority of professional novelists must look primarily to book sales for their income, and they must look decreasingly to hardcover sales. The novel in its traditional format, firmly stitched and sturdily clothbound, is bought either by libraries or by readers who take fiction seriously enough to wish to acquire a novel as soon as it appears: if they wait 12 months or so, they can buy the novel in paper covers for less than its original price. This edition of a novel has become, for the vast majority of fiction readers, the form in which they first meet it, and the novelist who does not achieve paperback publication is missing a vast potential audience. He may not repine at this, since the quantitative approach to literary communication may safely be disregarded: the legend on a paperback cover—FIVE MILLION COPIES SOLD—says nothing about the worth of the book within. Nevertheless, the advance he will receive from his hardcover publisher is geared to eventual paperback expectations, and the “package deal” has become the rule in negotiations between publisher and author’s agent. The agent, incidentally, has become important to both publisher and author to an extent that writers like Daniel Defoe and Samuel Richardson would, if resurrected, find hard to understand.
The novelist may reasonably expect to augment his income through the sale of foreign rights in his work, though the rewards accruing from translation are always uncertain. The translator himself is usually a professional and demands a reasonable reward for his labours, more indeed than the original author may expect: the reputations of some translators are higher than those of some authors, and even the translators’ names may be better known. Moreover, the author who earns most from publication in his own language will usually earn most in translation, since it is the high initial home sales that attract foreign publishers to a book. The more “literary” a novel is, the more it exploits the resources of the author’s own language, the less likely is it to achieve either popularity at home or publication abroad. Best-selling novels like Mario Puzo’s Godfather (1969) or Arthur Hailey’s Airport (1968) are easy to read and easy to translate, so they win all around. It occasionally happens that an author is more popular abroad than he is at home: the best-selling novels of the Scottish physician-novelist A.J. Cronin are no longer highly regarded in England and America, as they were in the 1930s and ’40s, but they continued to sell by the million in the U.S.S.R. several decades later. However, a novelist is wisest to expect most from his own country and to regard foreign popularity as an inexplicable bonus.
As though his financial problems were not enough, the novelist frequently has to encounter those dragons unleashed by public morality or by the law. The struggles of Flaubert, Zola, and Joyce, denounced for attempting to advance the frontiers of literary candour, are well known and still vicariously painful, but lesser novelists, working in a more permissive age, can record cognate agonies. Generally speaking, any novelist writing after the publication in the 1960s of Hubert Selby’s Last Exit to Brooklyn or Gore Vidal’s Myra Breckinridge can expect little objection, on the part of either publisher or police, to language or subject matter totally unacceptable, under the obscenity laws then operating, in 1922, when Ulysses was first published. This is certainly true of America, if not of Ireland or Malta. But many serious novelists fear an eventual reaction against literary permissiveness as a result of the exploitation by cynical obscenity mongers or hard-core pornographers of the existing liberal situation.
In some countries, particularly Great Britain, the law of libel presents insuperable problems to novelists who, innocent of libellous intent, are nevertheless sometimes charged with defamation by persons who claim to be the models for characters in works of fiction. Disclaimers to the effect that “resemblances to real-life people are wholly coincidental” have no validity in law, which upholds the right of a plaintiff to base his charge on the corroboration of “reasonable people.” Many such libel cases are settled before they come to trial, and publishers will, for the sake of peace and in the interests of economy, make a cash payment to the plaintiff without considering the author’s side. They will also, and herein lies the serious blow to the author, withdraw copies of the allegedly offensive book and pulp the balance of a whole edition. Novelists are seriously hampered in their endeavours to show, in a traditional spirit of artistic honesty, corruption in public life; they have to tread carefully even in depicting purely imaginary characters and situations, since the chance collocation of a name, a profession, and a locality may produce a libellous situation. Evaluation and study
It has been only in comparatively recent times that the novel has been taken sufficiently seriously by critics for the generation of aesthetic appraisal and the formulation of fictional theories. The first critics of the novel developed their craft not in full-length books but in reviews published in periodicals: much of this writing—in the late 18th and early 19th centuries—was of an occasional nature, and not a little of it casual and desultory; nor, at first, did critics of fiction find it easy to separate a kind of moral judgment of the subject matter from an aesthetic judgment of the style. Such fragmentary observations on the novel as those made by Dr. Johnson in conversation or by Jane Austen in her letters, or, in France, by Gustave Flaubert during the actual process of artistic gestation, have the charm and freshness of insight rather than the weight of true aesthetic judgment. It is perhaps not until the beginning of the 20th century, when Henry James wrote his authoritative prefaces to his own collected novels, that a true criteriology of fiction can be said to have come into existence. The academic study of the novel presupposes some general body of theory, like that provided by Percy Lubbock’s Craft of Fiction (1921) or E.M. Forster’s Aspects of the Novel (1927) or the subsequent writings of the critics Edmund Wilson and F.R. Leavis. Since World War II it may be said that university courses in the evaluation of fiction have attained the dignity traditionally monopolized by poetry and the drama.
A clear line should be drawn between the craft of fiction criticism and the journeyman work of fiction reviewing. Reviews are mainly intended to provide immediate information about new novels: they are done quickly and are subject to the limitations of space; they not infrequently make hasty judgments that are later regretted. The qualifications sought in a reviewer are not formidable: smartness, panache, waspishness—qualities that often draw the attention of the reader to the personality of the reviewer rather than the work under review—will always be more attractive to circulation-hunting editors than a less spectacular concern with balanced judgment. A thoughtful editor will sometimes put the reviewing of novels into the hands of a practicing novelist, who—knowing the labour that goes into even the meanest book—will be inclined to sympathy more than to flamboyant condemnation. The best critics of fiction are probably novelists manqués, men who have attempted the art and, if not exactly failed, not succeeded as well as they could have wished. Novelists who achieve very large success are possibly not to be trusted as critics: obsessed by their own individual aims and attainments, shorn of self-doubt by the literary world’s acclaim or their royalty statements, they bring to other men’s novels a kind of magisterial blindness.