The Story of a novelStory of a novel
A novel by Thomas Wolfe
omas Clayton Wolfe (October 3, 1900 - September 15, 1938) was an early 20th cent. author. omas Clayton Wolfe (October 3, 1900 - September 15, 1938) was an early 20th cent. author. He has written four long books, many brief histories, drama and novelism.
Britten and edited between the 1920s and 40s, his works livelyly reflected US civilization and the customs of the time, albeit filtering through Wolfe's delicate, demanding and hyper-analytical view. Wolf drew inspiration from many other writers, such as Betty Smith with A Tree Grow in Brooklyn, Robert Morgan, writer of Gap Creek, and Prince of Tide writer Pat Conroy, who said: "My typing started the moment I ended Look Homeward, Angel.
It was Jack Kerouac who adored Wolfe. Wolfe had an influence on Ray Bradbury and incorporated him into his textbooks as a personality.
Retrospect: Henry James' year: History of a novel | Literature
The year 2004 was the year when it was difficult to cast a rock without writing a novel about Henry James. Writer David Lodge was imprisoned in fierce battles with Colm Tóibín's The Master, while the master also appeared in Alan Hollinghurst's Booker's award-winning The Line of Beauty. Another story about the great American, Emma Tennant's crime, was re-published in pocketbook form this year, and a novel about him was published in Southern Africa.
In The Year of Henry James, his note of the scandal, Lodge argued that James was always both a novelist and a reviewer. As Lodge itself is both together, the charm in his case turned out to be twice as powerful. But, as he points out, James has also made some of the most notable female figures of that time, making him ready for the feminist world; and also gets a look inside squeeze because gays criticize exactly how suppressed his (probable) homogeneity was.
Anyway, as Lodge recalls, fiction about historic personalities has become popular over the last one or two decades, and many of them were authors about them. Literatarians have never been remarkable for their absence of narcissism, and this work is no anomaly. But there is another excuse for this henriad swash that you wouldn't really want from Lodge.
During a postpolitical era, authors are more enthusiastic about excessive states of awareness or the subtleties of individual relations than about more everyday things; and the distanced, demanding James, a man who, as we know, chews more than he could chew off, seems to be doing just that.
James' unfathomable subtile intellect is materialistic to its origins. He is admired by Lodge because he is concerned with "consciousness", but even more with possessions and exploitations. It is this interplay between art (or moral) splendour and the violent work of the Force that makes James so great. Lodge, Tóibín and Hollinghurst, one assumes, want to be beautiful without the cruelty.
Henry James' year is full of intriguing things about how Lodge wrote his novel. But, just like the writer, the writer is laden with extraneous facts that don't deserve their fictitious storage (as Lodge's woman cautioned him when she first reads the manuscript), so this novel comment gives us a little more information than we need.
Lodge has a strangely peculiar vein in his head for such an imagination. There is a similar shortage of prospects for his handling of the tournament with Tóibín. Although he is remarkably open about his bitter emotions towards the Master, a work he still can't get himself to study, the whole chance, which is small enough in itself, begins to ring as significant as Joyce and Lenin, who land in Zurich at the same moment.
If Tóibín had stolen his tickets or impersonated him every single evening at the Groucho Club, he could not have been more excited. Acknowledging that the whole issue is a question of survival that imitates the arts, the writer is James' own rival George Du Maurier, whose novel Trilby was the best-selling novel of the nineteenth century.
It' about irony, but it'?s not ironic. Of course, the writer keeps a rigid work-sharing between his hilariously funny stories and his non-inspired, discerning, critical work. To see a stranded freighter at the seaside near James's Rye Hancing, Lodge's only thought is about a literary date it could make him later.
It never goes beyond an inconsistent realm of launch and review, agent and publisher, novelist and art festival. The lodge is sincere enough to acknowledge that he "lost" the fight with Tóibín, whatever that means, and that the writer, the writer, did not sell as well as he anticipated. Before reading Tóibin's novel, I was reading his novel and found out that the great play by the writer, the writer, showed the master to be a bit too reluctant and high-minded - not exactly valuable, but a hint of incorporeal.
Yet, as we have heard from the author's "substantial" progress for his work, from enthusiastic critics and exuberantly praising writers, this volume has an undercurrent of silent self-congratulation. As with all this author's critique, these are pensive, clear investigations, and Lodge on The Name of the Rose is particularly fascinating.
It has the delicacy of the judgement that James himself considered essential for such work.