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Liesl Schillinger, in a review this weekend of Rivka Galchen’s first novel, Atmospheric Disturbances (FSG), mentioned a kindredness between Galchen’s narrator, a psychiatrist named Leo Liebenstein, and “the tormented narrator of Ford Madox Ford’s novel The Good Soldier.” I was glad to see the reference, as I am when anyone mentions Ford’s novel, one very well loved, but no longer widely read.
Of its gestation and execution, Ford said that although he had “written rather desultorily a number of books–a great number,” it was only “on the day I was forty I sat down to show what I could do–and the Good Soldier resulted.” Ford wrote some seventy books in all, and given that only a handful have remained in print, the self-conscious application of effort to which he admitted for The Good Soldier is a rare case of parity between artistic will and aesthetic quality.
Such self-consciousness is appropriate, too, in a novel that attempts a consciousness of the self. For although The Good Soldier is often and to my mind misleadingly classed as an example of the novel of unreliability–in which the story the narrator is telling is at odds with the story the reader is gathering–it is actually a novel whose narrator is highly reliable, and not in the “reliably unreliable” mode.
John Dowell, the book’s narrator, is telling the story of a period in his life when he and his wife were friends with another couple. If friendships, through time, are tested by the vagaries of life’s divergences and the consistent ways in which we tend to disappoint each other, friendships between couples are complicated further by a compounding of frames of reference and, at times, of conflicting desires.
Dowell, telling of the quartet’s tightly-knit time together, a period of many years, is telling two stories, but to my mind he is not deceiving himself. Rather, he is attempting to present the simultaneity of perspectives, false and true, that exist in any social interaction, to the end of showing that few of us can, in lived as opposed to remembered moments, see very far beyond ourselves.
As such, Dowell as narrator is not so much unreliable as he is, very typically, shortsighted. The Good Soldier is not a novel of unreliability but a pageant of shortsightedness, written down in all its little intricacies with unusual completeness and clarity. “Tormented,” in Schillinger’s adjective, is then a most appropriate description of Ford’s narrator, not to say Galchen’s, not to say our own narrations of our lived lives: the world as we believe it to have been is–typically–not quite what we were very sure it was.
More from Wyatt Mason:
For the past three years my dosimeter had sat silently on a narrow shelf just inside the door of a house in Tokyo, upticking its final digit every twenty-four hours by one or two, the increase never failing — for radiation is the ruthless companion of time. Wherever we are, radiation finds and damages us, at best imperceptibly. During those three years, my American neighbors had lost sight of the accident at Fukushima. In March 2011, a tsunami had killed hundreds, or thousands; yes, they remembered that. Several also recollected the earthquake that caused it, but as for the hydrogen explosion and containment breach at Nuclear Plant No. 1, that must have been fixed by now — for its effluents no longer shone forth from our national news. Meanwhile, my dosimeter increased its figure, one or two digits per day, more or less as it would have in San Francisco — well, a trifle more, actually. And in Tokyo, as in San Francisco, people went about their business, except on Friday nights, when the stretch between the Kasumigaseki and Kokkai-Gijido-mae subway stations — half a dozen blocks of sidewalk, which commenced at an antinuclear tent that had already been on this spot for more than 900 days and ended at the prime minister’s lair — became a dim and feeble carnival of pamphleteers and Fukushima refugees peddling handicrafts.
One Friday evening, the refugees’ half of the sidewalk was demarcated by police barriers, and a line of officers slouched at ease in the street, some with yellow bullhorns hanging from their necks. At the very end of the street, where the National Diet glowed white and strange behind other buildings, a policeman set up a microphone, then deployed a small video camera in the direction of the muscular young people in drums against fascists jackets who now, at six-thirty sharp, began chanting: “We don’t need nuclear energy! Stop nuclear power plants! Stop them, stop them, stop them! No restart! No restart!” The police assumed a stiffer stance; the drumming and chanting were almost uncomfortably loud. Commuters hurried past along the open space between the police and the protesters, staring straight ahead, covering their ears. Finally, a fellow in a shabby sweater appeared, and murmured along with the chants as he rounded the corner. He was the only one who seemed to sympathize; few others reacted at all.
Number of U.S. congressional districts in which trade with China has produced more jobs than it has cost:
Young bilingual children who learned one language first are likelier than monolingual children and bilingual children who learned languages simultaneously to say that a dog adopted by owls will hoot.
An Oklahoma legislative committee voted to defund Advanced Placement U.S. History courses, accusing the curriculum of portraying the United States as “a nation of oppressors and exploiters.”
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“He could be one of a million beach-bound, black-socked Florida retirees, not the man who, by some odd happenstance of life, possesses the brain of Albert Einstein — literally cut it out of the dead scientist's head.”