Edmund Wilson probably preferred Sinclair Lewis because Lewis was more obviously didactic than Marquand. Wilson seems not to have noticed that Marquand was by far the better writer. Of course, I happen to think that Wilson himself is over-rated.
At the moment I am reading, for the third time, Marquand’s “B.F.’s Daughter.” It is by no means his best novel (that would be “Wickford Point”), but it was so very much better than much of what was published at the time and certainly than what is being published now. The latter occurs to me because I am reading it at the same time I am reading an advance edition of a novel that has not yet been published, which shall remain nameless. This new novel has a good story, but is so poorly written as to be embarrassing. It has no variety in its narrative and depends so much on dependent clauses or gerund clauses that it puts one nearly to sleep. Marquand could not only tell a good story in a dazzlingly satirical manner, but he had also been schooled in English grammar and just plain knew how to write, period.
Absolutement, Roger. And, Frank, I think I lost all respect for Edmund Wilson when I discovered he'd proposed to Edna St. Vincent Millay (and, she had the lousily lovely sense to exterminate the moodman's idea).
Of course, there was also Edmund Wilson's extremely snobby dismissal of mysteries in his essay "Why Do People Read Detective Stories?", in which Wilson was bored by The Thinking Machine. When greeted by understandable letters from readers, he wrote a followup essay, "Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?" -- in which he unintentionally revealed that he had misread Dorothy Sayers's THE NINE TAILORS.
Wilson certainly laid down some invaluable observations and criteria about literature. But his snobbery on these points and many others certainly made him appear a fool. For pointing this foolishness out to readers with supportive examples, I have been called a narcissist, a moron, and, most famously by Lee Siegel, "not a writer."
At the moment I am reading, for the third time, Marquand’s “B.F.’s Daughter.” It is by no means his best novel (that would be “Wickford Point”), but it was so very much better than much of what was published at the time and certainly than what is being published now. The latter occurs to me because I am reading it at the same time I am reading an advance edition of a novel that has not yet been published, which shall remain nameless. This new novel has a good story, but is so poorly written as to be embarrassing. It has no variety in its narrative and depends so much on dependent clauses or gerund clauses that it puts one nearly to sleep. Marquand could not only tell a good story in a dazzlingly satirical manner, but he had also been schooled in English grammar and just plain knew how to write, period.
ReplyDeleteAbsolutement, Roger. And, Frank, I think I lost all respect for Edmund Wilson when I discovered he'd proposed to Edna St. Vincent Millay (and, she had the lousily lovely sense to exterminate the moodman's idea).
ReplyDeleteThanks for the mention, Frank.
ReplyDeleteOf course, there was also Edmund Wilson's extremely snobby dismissal of mysteries in his essay "Why Do People Read Detective Stories?", in which Wilson was bored by The Thinking Machine. When greeted by understandable letters from readers, he wrote a followup essay, "Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd?" -- in which he unintentionally revealed that he had misread Dorothy Sayers's THE NINE TAILORS.
Wilson certainly laid down some invaluable observations and criteria about literature. But his snobbery on these points and many others certainly made him appear a fool. For pointing this foolishness out to readers with supportive examples, I have been called a narcissist, a moron, and, most famously by Lee Siegel, "not a writer."