168
PARTISAN REVIEW
On what, then, does the success of a novel's language depend? On
two qualities: its internal coherence and its essentiality. The story a
novel tells can be incoherent, but the language that shapes it must be
coherent if the incoherence is to be genuinely and convincingly simu–
lated. An example of this is Molly Bloom's monologue at the end of
Joyce's
Ulysses,
a chaotic torrent of memories, feelings, thoughts, and
emotions. Its power to bewitch derives from a prose that is seemingly
ragged and fragmented, but beneath its unruly and anarchic surface
retains a rigorous coherence, a structural consistency that follows a
model or original system of rules and principles from which it never
deviates. Is the monologue an exact
description
of consciousness in
motion? No. It is a literary creation so powerfully convincing that it
seems to us to mimic the meandering of Molly's consciousness when
really it is inventing it.
Julio Cowlzar boasted in his later years that he was writing "worse
all the time." He meant that in order to express what he longed to
express in his stories and novels, he was increasingly obliged to search
out forms of expression beyond classic forms, to defy the flow of lan–
guage and try to impose upon it rhythms, patterns, vocabularies, dis–
tortions, in such a way that his prose might more convincingly represent
the characters or occurrences he invented. In truth, Cortazar's bad writ–
ing was very good writing. His prose was clear and fluid, beautifully
imitating speech, incorporating and assimilating with perfect assurance
the flourishes, quirks, and phrasings of the spoken word. He made use
of Argentine colloquialisms, of course, but also French turns of phrase,
and invented words and expressions with such ingenuity and such a
good ear that they didn't stand out in his sentences, but rather enriched
them with the " leavening" that Azorfn believed was required of a good
novelist.
The credibility of a story (its power to persuade) doesn't depend
solely on the coherence of its sty le-no less important is the role played
by narrative technique-but without coherence, credibi lity is reduced
almost to nil.
A writer's sty le may be unpleasant, and yet, thanks to its coherence,
effective. Such is the case of Louis-Ferdinand Celine. 1 don't know what
you think of hi s writing, but his short, stuttering little sentences,
plagued with ellipses and packed with exclamations and slang, irritate
me. And yet, I have no doubt that
Voyage to the End of the Night
and
also, though not so unequivoca ll y,
Death on the Installment Plan,
are
novels of overwhelming persuasion. Their sordid outpourings and
