267- ] English Literature
Julian Barnes
British author and critic
Julian
Barnes lives with his wife Pat Kavanagh, a literary agent, in an elegant house
with a beautiful garden in north London. The long library where the interview
was conducted is spacious and quiet. Overlooking the garden, it has
floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a comfortable sofa and chairs, an exercise bike
in a corner (“for the winter”), and a huge billiard table. On the walls are a
series of cartoon portraits of writers by Mark Boxer—Philip Larkin, Graham
Greene, Philip Roth, V. S. Pritchett, among others— “some because they are very
good cartoons, others because I admire the writers.” There is a superb
photograph of George Sand in middle age, taken by Nadar in 1862, and a short
original letter by Flaubert, a present from Barnes’s publishers when they had
sold one million copies of his books in paperback. Barnes works down the
corridor in a yellow-painted study with an enormous three-sided desk, which
holds his typewriter, word processor, books, files, and other necessities, all
of which he can reach with a swivel of his chair.
Barnes
was born in Leicester in 1946 and soon after the family moved to London, where
he has lived ever since. He was educated at the City of London School and
Magdalen College, Oxford. After university he worked as a lexicographer for the
Oxford English Dictionary and then read for the bar, while writing and
reviewing for various publications. His first novel, Metroland, was well
received when it was published in 1980, but it was his third book, Flaubert’s
Parrot (1984), that established his reputation as an original and powerful
novelist. Since then he has produced six novels, including A History of the
World in 10 1/2 Chapters(1989) and The Porcupine (1992); a collection of short
stories, Cross Channel (1996); and Letters from London (written when he was The
New Yorker’s London correspondent). At the time of the interview his latest
novel, Love, etc. had just been published in England to good reviews; it will
be published in the States in February of 2001.
Tall
and handsome and very fit, Barnes looks ten years younger than his fifty-four
years. His well-known courtesy and charm are enhanced by acute intelligence and
mordant wit. From the beginning, a passionate love of France and French
literature, specifically Flaubert, has informed his work. Reciprocally, he is
one of the best-loved English writers in France, where he has won several
literary prizes, including the Prix Médicis for Flaubert’s Parrot, and the Prix
Femina for Talking It Over. He is an officer of L’Ordre des Arts et des
Lettres.
INTERVIEWER
You
are very European, which is unusual for an English writer, but also very
English, especially to a foreigner. In France, for example, they think of you
as quintessentially English. Where do you place yourself?
JULIAN
BARNES
I
think you are right. In Britain I’m sometimes regarded as a suspiciously
Europeanized writer, who has this rather dubious French influence. But if you
try that line in Europe, especially in France, they say, Oh, no! You’re so
English! I think I’m probably anchored somewhere in the Channel.
INTERVIEWER
Sartre
wrote an essay called “Qu’est-ce que la littérature?” What is literature for
you?
BARNES
There
are many answers to that question. The shortest is that it’s the best way of
telling the truth; it’s a process of producing grand, beautiful, well-ordered
lies that tell more truth than any assemblage of facts. Beyond that, literature
is many things, such as delight in, and play with, language; also, a curiously
intimate way of communicating with people whom you will never meet. And being a
writer gives you a sense of historical community, which I feel rather weakly as
a normal social being living in early twenty-first-century Britain. For
example, I don’t feel any particular ties with the world of Queen Victoria, or
the participants of the Civil War or the Wars of the Roses, but I do feel a
very particular tie to various writers and artists who are contemporaneous with
those periods and events.
INTERVIEWER
What
do you mean by “telling the truth”?
BARNES
I
think a great book—leaving aside other qualities such as narrative power,
characterization, style, and so on—is a book that describes the world in a way
that has not been done before; and that is recognized by those who read it as
telling new truths—about society or the way in which emotional lives are led,
or both—such truths having not been previously available, certainly not from
official records or government documents, or from journalism or television. For
example, even people who condemned Madame Bovary, who thought that it ought to
be banned, recognized the truth of the portrait of that sort of woman, in that
sort of society, which they had never encountered before in literature. That is
why the novel was so dangerous. I do think that there is this central,
groundbreaking veracity in literature, which is part of its grandeur. Obviously
it varies according to the society. In an oppressive society the truth-telling
nature of literature is of a different order, and sometimes valued more highly
than other elements in a work of art.
INTERVIEWER
Literature,
then, can take a lot of forms—essays, poetry, fiction, journalism, all of which
endeavor to tell the truth. You already were a very good essayist and
journalist before you started to write fiction. Why did you choose fiction?
BARNES
Well,
to be honest I think I tell less truth when I write journalism than when I
write fiction. I practice both those media, and I enjoy both, but to put it
crudely, when you are writing journalism your task is to simplify the world and
render it comprehensible in one reading; whereas when you are writing fiction
your task is to reflect the fullest complications of the world, to say things
that are not as straightforward as might be understood from reading my
journalism and to produce something that you hope will reveal further layers of
truth on a second reading.
INTERVIEWER
Did
you want to be a writer at an early age?
BARNES
Not
at all. It is an abnormal thing to want to be an artist, to practice an art. It
is comparatively normal to practice an interpretative art. But to actually make
things up is not something that, well, usually runs in families or is the
recommendation of a career master.
INTERVIEWER
Yet
England has produced some of the greatest writers, and perhaps the greatest
literature, of the world.
BARNES
That
is a separate truth. But there is nothing when you are growing up, even as a
reasonably well-educated person, to suggest that you have an authority to be
more than, say, a reader, an interpreter, a consumer of art—not a producer of
it. When I became a passionate reader in my teens I thought writing was
something that other people did. In the same way, when I was four or five I
wanted to be an engine driver, but I knew that this was something other people
did. I come from a family of schoolteachers—both my parents were teachers—so
there were books in our house, the word was respected, but there was no notion
that one should ever aspire to write, not even a textbook. My mother once had a
letter published in the London Evening Standard and that was the maximum
literary output in our family.
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