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“Athletes and people who take an interest in the care of the body do not confine their attentions to physical exercise and attaining a good condition,” begins a novel that recently arrived on my desk:
They take thought also for relaxation at appropriate intervals; indeed, they consider it the most important element in training. Similarly, in my opinion, literary people should after extended reading of serious authors relax mentally, to refresh themselves against subsequent exertions. They will find this interlude agreeable if they choose as company such works as not only afford wit, charm, and distraction pure and simple, but also provoke some degree of cultured reflection.
The writing seems, at times, idiomatically odd (“They take thought also for relaxation”), if not outright clunky (“as company such works as not only”). And yet, in my reading at least, sense trumps style and my interest is held as A True Story, unfolds. “I trust,” its writer continues:
the present work will be found to inspire such reflection. My readers will be attracted not merely by the novelty of the subject, the appeal of the general design, and the conviction of verisimilitude with which I compound elaborate prevarications, but also by the humorous allusions in every part of my story to various poets, historians and philosophers of former times who have concocted long, fantastic yarns—writers I should mention by name did I not think their identities would be obvious to you as you read.”
Matters of curious diction aside (“I compound elaborate prevarications”), the writer is beginning his story not with that most famous species of beginning—the invocation of a muse—but that other, equally old incipit: the boast, in this case that a muse need not apply, our author having it very well under control, or so he claims.
My best sense is that our author is right, not that he would care, very dead as he is, along with his language, not to say his civilization. The author is Lucian (120-180), a Syrian from Samosata, a city on the Euphrates. We know little about Lucian, but are sure he was not a native Greek speaker, however well-versed he was in Greek literature. Thus he was able to produce, among other charming works, this novella-length piece of prose that plays, entertainingly, with storytelling form.
As its translator, the late B.P. Reardon, a noted scholar of the Greek novel, explains in his foreword to A True Story in his necessary omnibus, Collected Ancient Greek Novels (University of California Press), “The claim of this piece to inclusion in the present volume may be thought tenuous, but the novel, or romance—prose fiction—cannot be confined too fine, in antiquity or any other age.”
I must confess to loving that line, “cannot be confined too fine,” when we talk about the novel. We readers forget, sometimes, that Cervantes and Defoe and Flaubert were notable not for being pioneers of the novel but in it. Each narrowed, profitably, richly and, ultimately, briefly, our idea of what a novel could be. The novel cannot be confined too fine, save by novelists themselves, whose job it is to confine themselves to one idea of the novel—or, in the case of the most adventuresome practitioners, one idea of the novel at a time—in careers that try many species of confinement.
Though they share a single author, and may be accused of having indifferentiable styles, the narrowings we call Pnin, Pale Fire, Lolita, Ada, and Transparent Things are as different as novels can be. The novel is, after all, nothing if not a history of its incompatibilities, and it began, as with most of our rest, in Greek.
More from Wyatt Mason:
Many comedians consider stand-up the purest form of comedy; Doug Stanhope considers it the freest. “Once you do stand-up, it spoils you for everything else,” he says. “You’re the director, performer, and producer.” Unlike most of his peers, however, Stanhope has designed his career around exploring that freedom, which means choosing a life on the road. Perhaps this is why, although he is extremely ambitious, prolific, and one of the best stand-ups performing, so many Americans haven’t heard of him. Many comedians approach the road as a means to an end: a way to develop their skills, start booking bigger venues, and, if they’re lucky, get themselves airlifted to Hollywood. But life isn’t happening on a sit-com set or a sketch show — at least not the life that has interested Stanhope. He isn’t waiting to be invited to the party; indeed, he’s been hosting his own party for years.
Because of the present comedy boom, civilians are starting to hear about Doug Stanhope from other comedians like Ricky Gervais, Sarah Silverman, and Louis CK. But Stanhope has been building a devoted fan base for the past two decades, largely by word of mouth. On tour, he prefers the unencumbered arrival and the quick exit: cheap motels where you can pull the van up to the door of the room and park. He’s especially pleased if there’s an on-site bar, which increases the odds of hearing a good story from the sort of person who tends to drink away the afternoon in the depressed cities where he performs. Stanhope’s America isn’t the one still yammering on about its potential or struggling with losing hope. For the most part, hope is gone. On Word of Mouth, his 2002 album, he says, “America may be the best country, but that’s like being the prettiest Denny’s waitress. Just because you’re the best doesn’t make you good.”
Ratio of husbands who say they fell in love with their spouse at first sight to wives who say this:
Mathematicians announced the discovery of the perfect method of cutting a cake.
Indian prime-ministerial contender Narendra Modi, who advertises his bachelorhood as a mark of his incorruptibility, confessed to having a wife.
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Science’s crisis of faith