The Book of Prefaces
Edited by Alasdair Gray
Bloomsbury
640 pages, $49.95
After Britain: New Labour
and the Return of Scotland
By Tom Nairn
Granta
324 pages, $24.95
Alasdair Gray's motto--"Work as if you are living in the early
days of a better nation"--is addressed to people of all nations,
but it may be the best expression of the current cultural and political
renaissance in Scotland. First taken from a Canadian poet for the
front-page of Gray's 1983 collection Unlikely
Stories, Mostly, and now appearing again on the cover of
his long-awaited literary anthology The
Book of Prefaces, this romantic call-to-arms epitomizes
Scotland's bittersweet hopes and self-deprecating promises for the
future.
While most of the news media covering Britain today have been busy
with the Royals and the Blairs in London and the troubles in Northern
Ireland, Scotland has been working to build a new, resolutely left-wing
parliament, a fresh and edgy art, music and literary culture, and
a more international country out of one that has always been far
warmer to Ireland, Wales and the Continent than its more powerful
southern neighbor. According to Tom Nairn's incisive and provocative
book After
Britain: New Labour and the Return of Scotland, this national
re-emergence is in fact helping to bring about the peaceful and
democratic "break-up of Britain," as he predicted in his 1972 book
of that name, and the end of the entire United Kingdom as we know
it.
For as devolution progresses, Nairn argues, it will eventually
pave the way to a post-
nationalist United Kingdom that will no longer be an imperial state
centered on London, but an outdated misnomer representing an "archipelago-system"
of interrelated yet distinct cultures within a greater European Union.
Scotland, in turn, will remain to the left of the increasingly conciliatory
and traditionalist third way, and, unfettered by Toryism and Royalism,
which are virtually nonexistent there, will ultimately rise above
it.
Turning Francis Fukuyama on his head, Nairn explains with cutting
irony that "the end of history lay for Scots in 1707," when the
country was joined with England through a shotgun wedding of the
latter's design. (In a review of Nairn's book, the End of History
theorist shot back in Prospect Magazine under the banner
"Don't Do It Britannia," arguing that devolution will spell trouble
for both British and American imperialism--as if that were a bad
thing.) Because Scotland was not powerful enough to refuse its longtime
oppressor's offers, and because both nations benefited from each
other as British industry, capitalism and colonialism exploded over
the next few centuries, the marriage managed to last throughout
the rise and fall of the British Empire, two world wars and the
triumph of America as the world's English-speaking superpower.
Although Scottish nationalism experienced a revival in the 20th
century--especially in the '60s with the collapse of local industries
and the rise of anti-colonial movements around the world--it was
only after Thatcher took over Britain in 1979 that the marriage
really began to fall apart. Under Tory rule from London for almost
two decades, the overwhelmingly Labour-supporting Scots grew ever
more disenfranchised from British life, becoming guinea pigs for
right-wing political and economic experiments that they never supported
in the first place. So when Tony Blair (who is of Scottish origin
himself) came to power supporting devolution--and when the referendum
for Scottish home rule was finally passed in 1998--the dark clouds
of conservatism appeared all but swept away.
Except the story does not end there. For Nairn, it continues with
Blairism turning out to be a weak, unsatisfactory solution to Thatcherism,
and the Scottish body politic rising up to supplant the very man
who helped create it in the first place--just like the uncanny heroine
of Alasdair Gray's 1992 novel Poor
Things, who escapes the paternalistic, Frankenstein-like
scientist who gave her life only to become his more enlightened,
socialist replacement in the end.
And so in stark contrast to the closed, conservative rhetoric of
the end of history, the re-emergence of Scotland is opening up a
new and progressive sense of beginning. For regardless of what changes
devolution will or could bring, a remarkable creativity has already
been flowering in Scottish culture for years, and in many ways,
writers have been at the center of it all.
Over the past 10 to 20 years, a number of Scottish writers have
emerged, often from working-class backgrounds, to international
acclaim: not just Trainspotting author Irvine Welsh, but
Booker-prize winner James Kelman, Iain Banks, William Boyd, A.L.
Kennedy, Andrew O'Hagan, Alan Warner, Janice Galloway, crime writers
Philip Kerr, Ian Rankin and Christopher Brookmyre, and even J.K.
Rowling, who finished her first Harry Potter book thanks to a grant
from the Scottish Arts Council.
But the writer who in many ways prefigured this literary renaissance
in the '70s and '80s--Alasdair Gray--is woefully under-recognized
here in the States and only somewhat more so in England. This is
a shame, not only because his imagination has been one of the driving
forces behind the growth of Scottish literature, but because he
is one of the more innovative and entertaining writers living anywhere
today.
Perhaps the best symbol of the renaissance that Gray helped engender
is the recent publication of his life's work, The Book of Prefaces,
an historical collection of beginnings assembled in poetic opposition
to the rise of Anglo-American conservatism. A bestseller in Scotland
when published last summer, The Book of Prefaces is literally
an anthology of prefaces, introductions, prologues and forwards
to famous works of "literate thought" in the English language, beginning
in the seventh century and ending, due to copyright costs, at the
beginning of the 20th.
Colorful in style, with witty asides and broad critiques, the
book is also colorful in production: While the prefaces themselves
are printed in black in the middle of each page, they are accompanied
by commentary, illustrations and titles in bright red along the
margins--a visual effect that only further highlights the strange
fact everything in the book is both introduction and body. "This
book is NOT a monster created by a literary Baron Frankenstein,"
Gray explains on the inside of his characteristically witty and
artful dust jacket, "but a unique history of how literature spread
and developed through three British nations and most North American
states."
In many ways, Gray is a curious novelty among writers today. For
one, he designs and illustrates his books himself, his visual style
like that of a modern-day William Blake under the influence of Glaswegian
art nouveau designer Charles Rennie Mackintosh. For another, his
leftist worldview is imbued with a uniquely Scottish double-
consciousness that comes through with charming irreverence (if not
arrogance) in most of what he writes. And with regard to form, Gray
has tried almost everything: At once a passionate experimentalist
and a genre-bending populist, his curiously childlike "anxiety of
influence" is so offset by passion and irony that he has managed
to sew satire and sentiment, fantasy and realism into miraculously
seamless and animated wholes.
Gray's most lauded work is his bestselling first novel, Lanark
(begun in 1969 but not published in full until 1981), a visionary,
nonlinear Bildungsroman that shifts between post-industrial
Glasgow and a fantastic version of it called "Unthank." It has been
considered a kind of Scottish Ulysses, but its influences
are so diverse that it is impossible to cite only one (Gray actually
lists many of them in the "Index of Plagiarisms" near the end of
the book). Some of his other novels include the aforementioned Poor
Things; The Fall of Kelvin Walker, a comic fable about a Nietzschean
young man from a small Scottish village who tries to climb to the
top of the power elite in '60s London; and the wicked, quasi-pornographic
novel 1982 Janine, which parodies both Anglo-American conservatism
and the masculine conventions of working-class Scottish fiction
by adopting the frustrated voice of a blue-collar, Tory alcoholic
who drifts between drunken memory and fantasy while "tippling" in
his hotel bedroom.
Of all Gray's works, however, it is The Book of Prefaces
that has been labored over the longest. After several setbacks,
it is the culmination of 16 years of work and significant editorial
input from some 30 other writers, including Kelman, Kennedy and
Galloway, poets Liz Lochhead and Tom Leonard, and scholars Angus
Calder, Susan Castillo and Duncan Wu. From a witty and opinionated
perspective--a welcome departure from the false objectivity of the
conventionally liberal Norton or Oxford anthologies--the book traces
the history of writing from "The First English," (such as the earliest
translation of Genesis, attributed to Caedmon of Northumbria circa
675, and Beowulf) and "English Remade" (e.g. Chaucer), up
through "The Great Flowering" of Marlowe, Spenser, Donne and Shakespeare
and the period "Between Two Revolutions," where we find the likes
of Hobbes, Milton, Bunyan, Behn and Dryden.
After that we have the rise of literary modernity in "The Establishment"--canonical
favorites like Defoe, Swift, Fielding, Richardson, Sterne and philosophers
Locke, Hume and Bentham, and "The Disturbed Established"--everyone
else's favorites, like Paine, Blake, Austen, Wordsworth, Coleridge,
Keats, Byron, Poe and the Shelleys (not to mention Edmund Burke).
The book comes to a close just before the rise of modernism with
"Liberal English," where we find a range of British, Irish and American
writers like Tennyson, Charlotte Bront, Harriet Beecher Stowe,
Hawthorne, Melville, Dickens, Eliot, Whitman, Darwin, Mill, Twain,
Stevenson, Wilde, Conrad and Shaw.
The commentary that runs in red throughout the book keeps all of
this firmly in place, mostly by explicating unjust social contexts,
cutting the grandiose down to size and giving the under-appreciated
their rightful due (exemplified by the opening line of the first
essay "On What Led to English Literature": "Babies embarrass masterful
men who find it queer that once they too could only wail, suck and
excrete"). Gray's wonderfully sharp tongue, made even more cutting
by the relative lack of space in the margins, renders even the simplest
critical points uproarious. For instance: "Defoe: London Bachelor's
son ... prints Robinson Crusoe as a true tale warning all youths
in the middle station of lifeā to do as dad orders & never go to
sea; quietly lets that moral disappear: Crusoe ends ruling a busy
island of faithful blacks."
Or, on Gerard Manley Hopkins' religiosity: "Certainly those of
us who think that Christ and the Church are very little of absolutely
everything are often left asking: What use to us is a fettered propagandist
of spectacular literary skill? However, at the very least, possibly
nowhere outside of Dante has an insistent and often aggressive credalism
been so voluptuously well expressed."
And finally, Gray argues that the violence of the French Revolution
was nothing compared to "those killed in the seven-year war between
Austria and Prussia thirty years before, a war that enlarged one
nation at the expense of the other, did no harm to the monarchs
who ordered it, gave hope of a better future to nobody."
Of course, any critic could find something to complain about in
a project so bold and ambitious, and by no means does this one purport
to be objective, exhaustive or fair. Some readers' favorite authors
may well be absent--"Where's Emerson? Where's Thoreau?" an American
might complain--and indeed, Gray himself admits in his postscript
that he regrets excluding Henry James and William Morris. But aside
from Arthur Conan Doyle, those who are certainly not overlooked
are the major Scottish writers of intellectual and literary history.
The book also betrays more serious problems, however. Although
there are a number of important women writers represented--there's
even extra effort to include Virginia Woolf, whose discussion in
A Room of One's Own of Aphra Behn is adapted for the book's
running commentary--most of the women who are included are casually
referred to only by their first names: "Mary" for Mary Wollstonecraft
or Mary Shelley, "Charlotte" for Charlotte Brontë, and so on.
Furthermore, if "the problem of the Twentieth Century is the problem
of the color line," as W.E.B. Du Bois wrote in his 1903 preface
to The Souls of Black Folk, it is one left starkly absent
in Gray's anthology, which does not include Du Bois or any other
writer of color. This is probably more a symptom of the book's Eurocentric
framework rather than any narrow kind of Scottish nationalism, which,
despite its politically shifty past, now rails against racism and
xenophobia in the name of democratic socialism. To be fair, Gray
does lament in his postscript that copyright costs made him abandon
his original plan to continue through the remainder of the 20th
century and include "those who now write Australian, Asian, African
and Caribbean kinds of English." But since the book managed to make
enough room for Wilfred Owen's last-breath response to World War
I, it remains at least questionable why African-American culture
was left to be represented only by Uncle Tom's Cabin and
Huckleberry Finn.
Despite these limitations, The Book of Prefaces is an indisputably
important work, a major addition to intellectual history and literary
criticism that should be both welcomed and well-thumbed. For ultimately,
Gray's eccentric anthology offers nothing less than a useful, ironically-distanced
approach to modern humanism. At the beginning of his postscript,
Gray admits he did have some shortcomings when he first embarked
on the book: "You may deduce, dear reader, that although I was then
over fifty I still believed in the progressive view of history--believed
that each generation had added good new social and scientific and
artistic works to those of the past, thus giving more people comfort,
security and freedom for the future."
But Gray has come to question this view. For given the "world-wide
triumph of international capitalism with United States and British
armed forces as its most militant powers," and, in Britain, "the
biggest sale of public property to private businesses since the
dissolution of the monasteries in 1540, the abolition of common
land in the 1820s," he recognizes that it may be a while before
the horrific injustices and inequalities of history can really be
undone. On a more sober note, he concludes that if nothing else,
a progressive public education remains the best way for everyone
to have an equal opportunity for advancement, just as it helped
him and other working-class kids gain knowledge when free access
to learning was still one of Britain's main priorities.
Since even this is up for grabs these days, Gray ends his book
by calling it a "memorial" to such an education--but all hope is
not lost. For future readers, his dust jacket provides a clear warning:
"Only the rich and illiterate can ignore our anthology."
Paul Haacke, a writer in New York, recently spent some
time in Glasgow.
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