Idiopathy by Sam Byers
August 14, 2013 § Leave a comment
Go on, call me shallow–or elitist, if you prefer: the most important thing for me in a novel is a beautiful sentence. Preferably a book’s worth of them. Last month I read an interview in Harper’s with Alexander Maksik in which he outlined his distaste for beauty for the sake of beauty—something I don’t think is actually possible. I haven’t read Maksik’s work, but I suspect it would contradict his argument. How could it not? Here’s the whole paragraph:
I’m not interested in lyricism for the sake of lyricism, beauty for the sake of beauty. I certainly love language and I pay close attention to the rhythms of sentences. I think prose should always be musical, but that doesn’t mean that it should necessarily be lyrical. I try to remember that language is a tool for telling stories, that it should reflect, and work in service of, narrative. I am always wary of the elegant variation. It’s a way of calling attention to myself, but I am not writing for myself. I am writing to be read. My responsibility is to tell a story and when story and character become secondary to language, I have failed. It is much easier to write beautiful sentences than it is to write beautiful stories. I want readers to be entirely unaware of me.
I have quite a few problems with this, but I’ll just focus on one. Maksik says it is much easier to write beautiful sentences than it is to write beautiful stories. Of course it is, if you know how to write beautiful sentences. Not many writers do. It’s easier to write adequate or poor sentences than it is to write a whole story composed of them too. It’s not actually easy to write beautiful sentences; if that were true, there would be a surfeit of books written exclusively in beautiful sentences, when the opposite is true: a surfeit of plot-driven books written in bad sentences, a surfeit of literary-ish books with a light dusting of beautiful sentences, a few plot-driven books written in good sentences, a tiny number of books composed entirely of beautiful sentences. Moreover, if a book doesn’t have beautiful sentences, why would I want to read it? I can’t care about a book of adequate sentences, however sparkling the plot and characters.
All this is by way of an introduction to talking about Sam Byers’ debut novel, Idiopathy. If, like me, you’re a lover of beautiful sentences, the first chapter will let you know you’ve picked up the right book. The story is about three friends, Katherine, Daniel and Nathan. Katherine and Daniel used to be a couple; now they are not. Two of the three have moderate to serious mental-health issues, and the third merely has a good dose of twenty-first century anguish. Not a lot actually happens: the three characters go about their daily lives, making and avoiding major and minor decisions. There are some crises, some turning points; things happen to people and the people think about them.
That’s about all I’m prepared to say on the subject of the plot since demanding a plot of this book would be like saying that the purpose of an hour-long hot bath with champagne is to get clean. Byers is excruciatingly good at that thing Alan Bennett describes: “The best moments in reading are when you come across something – a thought, a feeling, a way of looking at things – which you had thought special and particular to you. And now, here it is, set down by someone else, a person you have never met, someone even who is long dead. And it is as if a hand has come out, and taken yours.” In Byers, what reaches out is nothing so sappy as a hand to hold yours. Strangle you, perhaps, or steal your wallet, but you recognise it nonetheless. Here’s Katherine trying to improve her social situation: “She pined for [a sense of connection with others]; drew it towards her, felt herself open ever so slightly outwards, and then recoiled, convinced that the happiness she’d sought was now a responsibility to be managed in much the same way as she managed the height of chairs and the temperature of the air-con: a series of small adjustments which would result, as she made them, in the gradual erosion of her core.”
I’m a little on the fence about the ending, a semi-climactic scene with all three characters, plus Daniel’s new girlfriend Angelica, in the same room. On the one hand it’s well done, and Byers has resisted the presumably strong temptation to fall into farce. On the other, is a novel like this that takes place so much inside the characters’ heads, really served by the characters actually meeting up and attempting, in their twisted ways, to hash things out (or screw them up entirely, as the case may be)? Ah, plot, the bugbear of the literary writer; its absence the cause for shrill complaint from so many readers. Why do I read? Not for something as easily obtainable as story, not often. Story is everywhere: the Daily Mail, Jerry Springer, those magazines by the supermarket checkout promising the details of how Brangelina have adopted three Martian babies while getting divorced on a recent intergalactic Buddhist retreat. Just to be clear, Idiopathy does have a plot and a story, it’s simply that they are incidental to the sheer pleasure of the writing.
Idiopathy is a book that is always on the delicious verge of undermining itself with a kind of faux-earnest archness but somehow always stays true to its characters: they might not be entirely impressed with Byers’ portrayal of them, but they can’t accuse him of mocking. This is good, because mocking, however clever, is too easy and has ruined many an otherwise very intelligent and astute state-of-the-middle-classes novel. Read this book. There’ll be more from Sam Byers.