A Frolic of His Own by William Gaddis

Justice? —You get justice in the next world, in this world you have the law.
—Well of course Oscar wants both. I mean the way he talks about order? She drew back her foot from the threat of an old man paddling by in a wheelchair, —that all he’s looking for is some kind of order?
—Make the trains run on time, that was the . . .
—I’m not talking about trains, Harry.
—I’m talking about fascism, that’s where this compulsion for order ends up. The rest of it’s opera.
—No but do you know what he really wants?

The opening lines of A Frolic of His Own by William Gaddis.

The opening mirrors that of Gaddis’ wonderful novel JR, which begins:

—Money . . . ? In a voice that rustled.

In each case, the first word announces the primary preoccupation of the book, not the concepts named so much as the behaviors and institutions—financial in the one case, legal in the other—that surround them. It took me a long time to notice that the word “justice” was not a word of dialogue (the way that “money” is), since it precedes the dash that signals dialogue in Gaddis. Presumably it is the questioning thought resonating in Harry’s head, to which he responds with the line of dialogue that follows.

Both novels are written almost entirely in dialogue, with minimal punctuation or attribution. They demand the reader’s full attention, which is the reading experience I think of when a book is described as “absorbing.” (JR remains the only book ever to make me miss my subway stop.) Nevertheless, his command of the patterns and cadences of speech is mesmerizing, and after a couple of pages, one falls into the rhythm of the work so that it is transporting while still requiring close attention.

And both books are extremely funny, satirizing their respective subjects, but also with a degree of respect.

And what is it that Oscar, and other litigants, really want? It goes on:

—The ones showing up in court demanding justice, all they’ve got their eye on’s that million dollar price tag.
—It’s not simply the money, no, what they really want . . .
—It’s the money, Christina, it’s always the money. The rest of it’s nothing but opera, now look.
—What they really want, your fascists, Oscar, everybody I mean what it’s really all about? She tapped a defiant foot against the tinkling marimba rhythms seeping into the waiting room somewhere over near the curtains, where the wheelchair had collided with a radiator and come to rest. Trains? fascism? Because this isn’t about any of that, or even ‘the opulence of plush velvet seats, brilliant spectacle and glorious singing’ unless that’s just their way of trying to be taken seriously too —because the money’s just a yardstick isn’t it. It’s the only common reference people have for making other people take them as seriously as they take themselves. I mean that’s all they’re really asking for isn’t it? Think about it, Harry.

The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman

“Lyra and her dæmon moved through the darkening hall, taking care to keep to one side, out of sight of the kitchen. The three great tables that ran the length of the hall were laid already, the silver and the glass catching what little light there was, and the long benches were pulled out ready for the guests. Portraits of former Masters hung high up in the gloom along the walls. Lyra reached the dais and looked back at the open kitchen door, and, seeing no one, stepped up beside the high table. The places here were laid with gold, not silver, and the fourteen seats were not oak benches but mahogany chairs with velvet cushions.

“Lyra stopped beside the Master’s chair and flicked the biggest glass gently with a fingernail. The sound rang clearly through the hall.

“‘You’re not taking this seriously,’ whispered her dæmon. ‘Behave yourself.’”

The opening lines of The Golden Compass by Philip Pullman, the first volume of the His Dark Materials trilogy.

The first four words of the story introduce one of the most important aspects of the novel, the existence of “daemons.” It will be many pages before we fully understand what a daemon is, but the odd word immediately sparks the reader’s curiosity and also signals that the world of this story will be something different from our own. A few lines down, we get our second important piece of information about them: whatever they are, daemons are conscious and capable of speech.

In retrospect, it will become clear that the construction “Lyra and her daemon” is almost as important, since the relationship of people to their daemons is the key to their nature and their significance in the story.

It also seems to me that the use of the first name with no last name suggests that Lyra is a child or adolescent (though maybe the real signal is the fact that the book is marketed as a Young Adult novel). And the references to a hall, the large tables, the portraits of the Masters, etc. all establish the institutional/educational setting while suggesting the possibility of a different time period from our own.

The story opens in mid-action, with Lyra sneaking along through the dining hall, and this narrative strategy is both engaging and characteristic, since this book’s story is relentless and enthralling. Within a page or so, Lyra will become privy to restricted knowledge, witness an attempted murder, and become swiftly caught up in the events that will drive this novel and the two that follow.

And yet, even still, there is the slightest touch of levity as well, as Lyra stops in her sneaking progress to ring the crystal goblet and her daemon (whatever it may be) fussily upbraids her. She is an outstanding example of that long line of curious, snooping children in literature.

Theft by Peter Carey

“I don’t know if my story is grand enough to be a tragedy, although a lot of shitty stuff did happen. It is certainly a love story but that did not begin until midway through the shitty stuff, by which time I had not only lost my eight-year-old son, but also my house and studio in Sydney where I had once been about as famous as a painter could expect in his own backyard. It was the year I should have got the Order of Australia—why not!—look at who they give them to. Instead my child was stolen from me and I was eviscerated by divorce lawyers and gaoled for attempting to retrieve my own best work which had been declared Marital Assets.”

The opening lines of Theft by Peter Carey.

The contrast inherent in the first sentence is characteristic of Michael “Butcher” Boone, one of the two narrators of the novel. On the one hand, he aspires to—or at least thinks in terms of—the scope and sweep, the grandeur, of tragedy. On the other hand, he undermines his aspiration with course language and the lack of control its use suggests; he even undermines the stature of the very condition he aspires to by implying that tragedy may be no more than “a lot of shitty stuff.” He exhibits enough self-awareness to express doubt that his story rises to the level of tragedy, but in doing so, he signals his hope that it does; one even suspects that his expression of doubt may be no more than a gesture, a socially acceptable fig-leaf for his inner conviction that it does.

As the title suggests, Theft is interested in questions of value: the very notion of theft implies value, generally commercial value; who would go to the trouble of stealing something if it was valueless?

It’s particularly concerned with the process by which commercial value becomes attached to art, and with the tension between commercial and aesthetic value. Butcher speaks about the latter in terms of people who do or do not have “the eye,” though for me that just raises the question of whether aesthetic value is inherent in the work—there for the eye that can to see—or whether it is something that exists, like beauty, only in the eye of the beholder. Butcher himself embraces the former view.

Aesthetic and commercial value do not necessarily correlate, it seems to me, though people tend to behave as if they do, or at least ought to. This even in spite of evidence to the contrary, such as when Butcher feels his own work to be undervalued by the marketplace; he’s convinced this results not from a flawed theory of correlation, but rather from a failure of the market to appreciate the work’s “true” worth. (That his work possesses aesthetic value he takes for granted.) He resists the notion that commercial value is exactly what the market will bear and nothing else.

The book is also concerned with the ways in which other factors, beyond the aesthetic element, contribute to the commercial value of a painting: authenticity, scarcity, fashion. Michael himself, now that he is out of jail, is repeatedly said to be “out of fashion,” and the prices his work might attract suffer accordingly. The notion of authenticity, meanwhile, raises an issue of authority: who gets to decide what’s authentic? Much of the story revolves around questions of authenticity as they apply to the work of a painter named Leibovitz.

It’s interesting that most of the scams perpetrated in the book do not involve outright fakes, but rather unfinished or abandoned originals that have been manipulated to varying degrees and/or assigned false dates. The very same work may have different commercial values depending on when it was painted; a painting from 1913 is a great Leibovitz, we are told, one from 1920, not so much. This rather undermines any correlation between commercial and inherent aesthetic value; if the value of the work were completely intrinsic, then the timing of its creation should be irrelevant.

This interest in the commercialization of art is likewise signaled in those opening lines above by the reference to Marital Assets. Talk about a term that strips away the aesthetic element altogether!