In a generally thin time for fiction one of the most refreshing recent developments has been a vigorous new growth of satiric talent. It comes from a promising, if often provoking new group of U.S. novelists who were unpublished or all but unnoticed a few years ago These writers demand attention with a maverick, inventive, acidulously adult outlook that delights in salting the sores and needling the niceties of the megaton-megalopolis age. They deserve notice because their brand of comedy is so clearly not the saccharine hilarity packaged by commercial laff merchants not the bad-boy snigger of contemporary bedroom farce. Nor does it necessarily appeal even to sophisticated tastes; it is for those who prefer mountain brooks to mainstreams. But it is strong, dark laughter, echoing—if not equaling—the bitter merriment to which other ages moved Juvenal, Rabelais and Swift.
Black Is the Color. None of these new writers has yet stamped a unique signature on the times. They are rogue talents, unpredictable, disturbing and powerfully individual. Thus they form no cohesive school or even a wave. Nonetheless, critics of late have taken to calling them “black humorists,” which is probably as good a tag as any. Among them are such comic writers as Bruce Jay Friedman and Joseph Heller, both of whose first novels were bestsellers. They also include such gifted but less widely read novelists as John Barth and James Purdy; they are perhaps best known for names like Terry Southern, Warren Miller and J. P. Donleavy.
In large measure, they share the same targets. Only bad writers literally hold nothing sacred; the best of the black humorists hold some things too sacred to be bleared with hypocrisy or smeared with prurience. So they mock with a cleansing mirth every emotionally supersudsed subject from sex and death to religion, patriotism, family pieties money, mom, war and the Bomb. They are as well aware as any conventional morahzer that the times are out of joint, but they choose to greet the dislocation with a jeer rather than a jeremiad.
Walk Out in Anger. Their novels reflect an outlook and a mood that today pervade many other areas besides fiction. Dr. Strangelove, treating the hydrogen bomb as a colossal banana peel on which the world slips to annihilation, is a black-humor movie, even though it becomes so incredible that it kills its own joke. Satirical cabaret groups, such as Chicago’s Second City or Britain’s The Establishment, have offered some of the liveliest black humor, though they can hardly meet Drama Critic Kenneth Tynan’s criterion that such satire is successful only if at least a third of the audience stalks out in anger. Dick Gregory of course is the black black humorist. Lenny Bruce, the sick, beat comic who is currently appealing his conviction in New York City for obscene monologues, is still admired by some black humorists as a symbol of “total commitment,” though in recent years his commitment to satire has seemed to degenerate into a monotonous self-destructive scatology.
It is the novelists who have proved to be the really fecund and effective black humorists. They are pursuing aims that are very different from the painful psychological insights of John Updike or the detached precision of John O’Hara. But they are not avant-garde experimentalists: however startling their viewpoint, they move their subjects along in supple, readable style. Critic Leslie Fiedler proclaims flatly: ” ‘Black humorist’ fits anyone worth reading today. It’s the only valid contemporary work. You can’t fight or cry or shout or pound the table. The only response to the world that’s left is laughter.”
Though racial prejudice is not one of the easiest table-pounding topics to laugh at, Bruce Jay Friedman made it appallingly funny two years ago in his memorable first novel, Stern. The book’s pathetic hero is a middle-class urban Jew with round shoulders and “pale spreading hips,” who moves his sexy wife and lonely child out to the suburbs.
There Stern finds himself pitted against just about everything, from his do-it-yourself bumbling to the anti-Semite neighbor who knocks down his wife and calls his son a “kike”. Author Friedman lets fact blend with fantasy to make Stern at once laughable and very sad both real and wry. Friedman, 34, has a promising talent if it doesn’t get trapped by too much sameness of subject. His recent second novel, A Mother’s Kisses (TIME, Sept. 4), a caricature of the child-devouring Yiddisher Mama, was funnier than Stern, but a good bit safer and narrower.
Military Jujitsu. Professional patriots have always been fair game for satire but few books have ever given them a lustier Bronx cheer than Joseph Heller’s sprawling, farcical Catch-22. Yossarian, the Air Corps bombardier who doesn’t want to fly any more missions for the mordantly sane reason that he might get killed, is a comic creation that has already become something of a classic. In typical black-humor fashion, Yossarinan’s real adversary is nothing less than the whole mad, mucked-up system, the jujitsu with which the bombardier repeatedly sets the system on its duff is achingly familiar to any veteran. Everybody is out of step but Yossarian—and Heller has the power to make that all too believable, despite the book’s unbuttoned artlessness. The danger is that Heller could be a one-book writer who hit it funny and lucky. If his next novel (still two years off) holds the wild power of Catch-22, he may well emerge as the most effective and popularly successful of all the black humorists.
Anesthetized Society. Sex, of course, is one target black humorists never lose sight of, even wben their main concerns are elsewhere. Sex is the comic solvent that can melt racial barriers, snarl any institution, reduce the most brassbound boss to the ranks of men. Among the black humorists, the most trenchantly individual commentator on American sexual values and relations is James Purdy, 41. In Purdy’s work, the black humorists’ teeth-clenched grin of rage is muted to a kind of strangled giggle. Purdy is a subtle, idiosyncratic ex-teacher whose vision is apolitical, bizarre, and extremely private; the recurrent themes of his complex fiction are the destruction of innocence, the difficulty of genuine feeling, and above all, the individual’s inability to respond to all the demands that society lays on him.
Purdy’s Cabot Wright Begins, published last fall, is a weird, funny novel about a Wall Street rape artist who bags 366 women before he is caught. The book takes deadly deadpan aim at everything from Wall Street and the medical profession to the vulnerable industry of book publishing and reviewing. But finally, it is an exploration of psychological anesthesia, the inability to feel anything—sexually, sensually, emotionally, artistically or morally. Purdy believes such anesthesia grips the U.S. as it grips Rapist Wright, until at the book’s end he is freed by learning, for the first time in his life, to laugh unrestrainedly.
Purdy has an uncanny ear for the American cliche, both the cliches of speech with which people eliminate the need for thinking and feeling and the equally standardized cliche roles in which people take refuge from their motives. He gets his effects by subtle dislocations and dizzying juxtapositions of these cliches, so that his characters talk past each other, and soon every human act seems equally aimless and unlikely. On the surface, Purdy’s books seem simple, easy to read. In fact, they are only easy to misread, and when approached carefully they turn out to be the blackest of all.
Alternative World. A totally different kind of novelist is John Barth, 34, associate professor of English at Penn State. Uninterested in social satire, Barth is the most unrepentantly Rabelaisian of the new humorists, irrepressibly bawdy and elaborately inventive. “The trouble with God as the Great Novelist,” Barth says, “is that he is such a realist.” Not Barth. “There are other ways to do it,” he says, and shows how in his handsomely written, widely praised but not widely read third novel, The Sot-weed Factor, which tells the remarkably complicated adventures in New World and Old of a young man in the 17th century who wants to be a poet and can’t get rid of his sexual innocence.
The Sot-weed Factor is in no real sense a historical novel; instead it creates a ribald, fully elaborated alternative world. Barth experiments exuberantly with fanciful plots, high-flown coincidences, two-page set speeches, stories within stories, improbable journeys, and a full-blown, freewheeling rhetoric. The book is intellectual and ironic to the core, and immensely funny—if a joke can last for 806 densely set pages.
Singular Ginger. The novelist who is most truly black and funny about sex and death is James Patrick (“Mike”) Donleavy, 42, who was born in Brooklyn, educated at Trinity College, Dublin, and now divides his time between London and the Isle of Man. Donleavy succeeds better than any of the others in combining the age-old immediacy of priapic comedy with an excruciatingly contemporary sense of human absurdity. He might best be described as a uniquely modern Aristophanist with an existential horror of death.
In the person of The Ginger Man, Sebastian Dangerfield, Donleavy in 1958 created one of the most outrageous scoundrels in contemporary fiction, a whoring, boozing young wastrel who sponges off his friends and beats his wife and girl friends. Author Donleavy then turns the moral universe on its head by making the reader love Dangerfield for his killer instinct, flamboyant charm, wit, flashing generosity—and above all for his wild, fierce, two-handed grab for every precious second of life. “More,” “Now” and “Eeeeee!” are Dangerfield’s key words.
Donleavy’s second novel, A Singular Man, is more ambitious and less successful. Ostensibly the story of George Smith, a beleaguered self-made millionaire, the book is really an almost plotless fantasy set in a New York City that is ruled by death and death’s symbols. In it, the author’s comic mask slips to reveal the skull that grins beneath.
A Step Beyond. Just behind these movers and shakers are other black humorists, many with similar targets. The life-denying mindlessness often evident in modern psychiatric care got savagely raked in Ken Kesey’s brilliant, creepy first novel, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Television got its lumps in Golk, Richard G. Stern’s novel about a TV show that puts unsuspecting people on camera. The Negro problem was the subject of Warren Miller’s recent The Siege of Harlem, a sly, timely pseudo history of how Harlem became a separate nation. Some writers, of course, take up black humor for just one novel, like Kesey or Stern, and then go on to other things. But other novelists who are not themselves black humorists have also felt the liberating influence of the wild ones.
Satire has always been an aggressively complex response to the world. As employed by the black humorists, it is a response to a world grown mechanized and impersonal, where even stupidity, viciousness and anxiety can seem institutionalized. At its most proficient, their writing takes the step beyond complaint to scorn; beyond alienation to the assertion of the individual; beyond the” absurd to laughter at absurdity. At its worst, their laughter can be shrill, silly, or self-indulgent. It has yet to blow down Jericho, let alone the Book-of-the-Month Club. For the best of the new breed, writers like Barth and Donleavy, it is the work still in their typewriters that will determine their ultimate standing. Meanwhile they are delighting many a reader who can unsettle down with a good book.
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