CALEDONIAN ROAD
Andrew O’Hagan
ISBN 978-0-571-38135-7
If this is a “state of the nation” novel maybe it’s also a “state of the
novel” novel, in which case, do not resuscitate is appropriate.
O’Hagan’s characters aren’t people but embodiments of ideas. There are
fifty-nine, which is supposed to be astonishing. There are five hundred and
eighty in War and Peace. The first we meet is the protagonist,
Campbell Flynn. Even his characters’ names are caricatures. Flynn is a
successful art critic. Therefore, part of the “liberal elite”. In the first
paragraph, O’Hagan includes a sneering aside at this alleged group: “Oh, the
progress of guilt and vanity in the average white liberal of today.” This is
a narratorial intervention, intrusive and defeating. The sentence is
peculiar. How are guilt and vanity hooked up? Why does the narrator evoke
guilt? Why not anger or outrage? What’s wrong with outrage at injustice?
What exactly is the “average white liberal”? How incompetent to have the
narrator grab the reader by the throat in this way at the very start of the
book. The same novelistic incompetence is evident throughout: O’Hagan can’t
permit his readers to discover, he has to rub their noses in what they are
supposed to discover, as if they have no senses. This absence of confidence
is evident in the style. Good prose is always reaching for what it can’t
quite attain. In this, it brings awareness of how we are our own problem. At
the heart of all good prose is doubt. O’Hagan will have none of that. He’s
too intent on vulgar success.
The “liberal elite” is, of course,
an invention of the right. It doesn’t exist. The elite in the UK is not made
up of vegetarians from Islington or transgender folk from Hebden Bridge.
It is supposed to be the betrayer of
the common folk who have no truck with agony about our colonial past;
understand there are two genders and everyone is firmly embedded in one or
the other (hermaphroditism being, apparently, unknown); dismiss the notion
of being “woke” ie having at least a minimal awareness of what’s going on in
the world; jump on aeroplanes to be transported like suitcases to their
pre-determined destinations where they pay no attention to the language,
culture or even their geographical location in bland disregard of climate
change; know that education means authoritarianism and collecting
certificates; love the royals and celebs and understand Muslims are the
greatest threat to world peace. The term is related to others, Hampstead
Socialist, for example, frequently used by Nick Griffin, or “north
London metropolitan liberal-elite” which slithered often from the mouth of
Priti Patel. North London has a high Jewish population, which has led some
to claim a hidden antisemitism is at work. It’s fairly uncontroversial that
the more educated tend to liberal or leftist ideas. The stereotype sneers at
the literate and informed. It isn’t any kind of considered descriptor,
merely a propagandist weapon, intended to undermine opposition to the ruling
market and authoritarian dogmas. Like all such terms of abuse, it subsumes
people to a category and its on this false view O’Hagan bases his novel.
There is a real phenomenon which needs criticising. Since 1979 there has ben
a huge shift of wealth upwards. The richest one thousand in the UK now
command something like seven hundred billion.
The trend is global. Bernie Sanders
points out that the richest handful in the US are wealthier than the bottom
fifty per cent. Their wealth gives them power. This is the real elite, but
it’s peripheral in this book. William Byre makes a fortune from sweatshop
fashion but O’Hagan doesn’t explore the vital question of how enormous
wealth scuppers democracy. Flynn isn’t super-rich. He’s done well out of
conformism (like O’Hagan), lives in Thornhill Square cut off from those
below him in the social scale by the road of the title, but is not one of
the masters of the universe who rule the global economy. O’Hagan doesn’t
want to take on the obscenely wealthy because his book appeals to
narcissism: he indulges his readers identification with the evil he claims
to be spiking. Some reviewers have commented on the Dickensian scope of the
book, missing the obvious fact of the Victorian’s remarkable narrowness.
Kafka is an expansive writer. The Castle embraces humanity. Dickens,
because his characters are caricatures and his apparent outrage sentimental,
can never escape the parochial. He is truly a parish writer. His moral reach
is tiny. The famous murder of Nancy followed by the pursuit of Sykes is
typical of his moral compromise: indulge the blood-lust of the reader only
to let her off the hook by having the police arrive sounding their whistles
and waving their truncheons. O’Hagan works like this too: “Here is a cast of
horrible, evil people. Don’t you just love ‘em !” In essence this book works
at the level of true crime. Its readers are supposed to be open-mouthed at
the disgusting behaviour, and then go to be with a nice cup of cocoa.
Suppose we replace the first example with: “Jake Hart-Davies’s interest
Campbell found masterfully shallow.” Half the number of words, but any loss
of meaning? And the second: “She sold the house in four days”. Any loss ?
That’s leaving aside the simple ugliness of O’Hagan’s sentences. In
journalism, it doesn’t matter much. People are reading through the words and
the newspaper or journal will be in the recycling in no time. Literature is
built to last. That wasn’t on O’Hagan’s mind. He was looking for quick
rewards, praise and prizes, just like the characters he pretends to satirize
but secretly identifies with.
“He was early for his meeting in Notting Hill, so after parking up he went
into the Churchill Arms in Kensington Church St.” (p200) Redundant drivel.
If the detail is necessary this will do: “He was early so went into the
Churchill Arms.” But the book is full of quite unnecessary sentences: “He
sat up and put away his phone.” (p 580) “It was around eleven when they
left.” (p635) For comparison, here’s a sentence from Madame Bovary: “Mais
elle, sa vie était froide comme un grenier dont la lucarne est au nord, et
l’ennui, araignée silencieuse, filait sa toile dans l’ombre à tous les coins
de son coeur.” What you take in with this is its rhythm, its parallelisms,
its metaphorical intent and its denotative meaning. It’s hard to forget such
a sentence and it asks to be returned to. There is not a single sentence of
this calibre in O’Hagan’s inflated novel. Nothing worked over. No “affres du
style” because there is no style.
The irony of this book is not within it but about it: it embraces the very
dismal attitudes it purports to take down. O’Hagan is like his worst
characters, a cheap chancer on the literary make, but what the publication
of and fuss about this novel tell us is that our literary culture is on its
knees. The tv rights were, apparently sold, before publication. Faber will
make a mint. So will O’Hagan. Maybe he’ll spend some of it on fancy
champagne in The Ivy having lunch with a sweatshop millionaire or the
son of a nasty Russian oligarch. Think of some great examples: Tom Jones,
Pride and Prejudice ,Anna Karenina, Middlemarch, Nostromo, Ulysees, The
Rainbow, The Great Gatsby, The Tin Drum, Independent People, The Conformist,
The Trial, The Joke. Does this novel come anywhere near their
seriousness? No one dares. Our literary culture has collapsed. No UK
publisher or agent would give Ulysees house-room today. Commercialism
prevails. A novel is no good if it can’t be turned into a box-set and
millions. O’Hagan knows this. It’s in his book; in its vulgar conception,
its ludicrous bombast and lack of style.
No one can mention this book without saying “state of the nation”, but
ninety-nine percent of the nation’s people are excluded from it. This would
be fine if the book was an excoriating assault on the corruption of the
elite of wealth and power, but the moral centre of this book is soggy
because O’Hagan isn’t at odds with those he has in his sights: he’s one of
them. Flynn shares his modest Glaswegian roots (though O’Hagan grew up in
Kilwinning as did James McMillan). The moral tenor here is not one of
disgust but of excitement, the kind of perverse admiration shown by some
towards the Krays. The rich have power and power is seductive even in the
hands of psychopathic gangsters. Flynn
gets his comeuppance (O’Hagan is true to Dickens) but only after the
reader’s lust for power and wealth have been exploited. On page 387, O’Hagan
has a reference to Kafka, a nod in the direction of real literature, but
Josef K is alienated by power, which recedes from him every time he takes a
step towards it; power is impenetrable, self-enclosed, beyond negotiation or
reason. No reader is going to identify with K or Gregor Samsa. O’Hagan is
not prepared to venture there. For good reason: Kafka’s first book sold
eleven copies in Prague. “I bought ten,” said Kafka, “I wonder who bought
the other one.” That’s not for an ambitious man like O’Hagan. He wants to be
where there is money, fame and power.
There is no point wasting twenty quid, several hours and your eyes. If you
want to know what’s in this book, watch the box-set. There’s nothing in the
writing the filming won’t tell you. In fact, a thousand-word summary will do
just as well. This is transparent writing: you can see the thought behind
every paragraph, every sentence. The exact opposite of what you find in a
good novelist like Kafka or Tolstoy. The significance of this depressing
mess is it tells us the power of literature to contest, to be awkward, to
resist corruption has been almost totally lost, but not quite. It’s in the
underground some true work is still found. Where the commercial drive is
absent, people can still write honestly, which means paying attention to
form, recognising that style is not adornment. Almost all poetry in the UK
is published by the underground. Some novels too. Away from the noisy,
self-congratulatory world in which O’Hagan has made his conformist way,
there is still a chance for literature. A small one. Which shouldn’t
surprise us: we are close to making the planet uninhabitable or blowing
ourselves to smithereens. Why should we care about novels being well
written?