The attraction of plotlessness in fiction is less easy to account for than that of plotlessness in life. There is an awful lot to be said for a propulsive narrative—it is, after all, usually what keeps us turning the pages, what keeps us coming back to find out what happens next, how the characters develop, how it will all end. But when a writer manages to cut away all this artifice, leaving us with just the raw pulp of personhood, while still compelling us to read on, it is a fascinating trick to pull off. I don’t have much interest in the pronouncements of dinner party eschatologists like David Shields (the only appropriate reaction to someone announcing the death of the novel is to surreptitiously check your watch and mutter something about having an early start in the morning), but there is something undeniably compelling about a book that can do away with a thing as seemingly crucial as stuff happening.

What came to mind when I read this is 19th century Russian literature. Authors like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, to an extent, were very good at writing long dinner scenes and passages about peoples personal lives and how they acted without furthering the plot. I really enjoy those authors and their writing style, its interesting to have a glimpse on a different era.

posted 3454 days ago