It must have been at thirteen, fourteen at most that I found a piece of fiction both repugnant and riveting in equal measure. I remember the fiction. It was Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. Perhaps I was too young to read Kafka, or maybe already too old. The word repugnance is fitting with its late Middle English sense of offering resistance, from the Latin repugnant – opposing.
After the horror of Gregor Samsa’s transformation and death in The Metamorphosis comes the chillingly cold final pages when the mood lightens and the family head out for a stroll, equally transformed and full of joy. I still recall the terrible loneliness and vague anxiety that came over me as I read those pages and threw the book aside, resisting to the end its abominable conclusion. Then, the same day I picked it up and read from the beginning again. And again; each time the same feeling of terrible anxiousness.
It fascinates me, how these twenty-six squiggles on a page can induce such sensation. Thomas Bernhard’s fiction does the same thing, and, more recently Jens Bjørneboe’s Moment of Freedom, which I set aside six days ago, more repelled than compelled. But it has been on my mind all week, and last night I submitted, allowing its moments of acute brilliance to overcome my opposition.
In Rita Felski’s Uses of Literature, she writes of being transfixed by Sartre’s Nausea, a text I read annually for its intellectual and visceral force, like an assault. Felski writes, “Here, indisputably, was the literature of extremity, of what Foucault and others call “the limit experience,” a bracing blend of solipsism, paranoia, brutality, and despair, where the standard supports and consolation of everyday life are ruthlessly ripped away.”
One of the problems I encounter with so much contemporary Canadian “literature” is an unwillingness to unsettle the reader (I call it the “paddling off into the sunset” tendency). I guess we really are too nice here. I tend to be drawn to work from areas that have known upheaval and tension – Europe, South Africa in my case – and my favourites are writers who are not afraid to leave the reader on the edge, facing the intensity of human emotion without the comfort of being fed a redemptive moral message. Damn the comfortable moment of denouement I say! A powerful piece of literature should sit in your gut for a while.
I agree, hence my preference for fiction that sits within a modernist tradition; not that discomfort and shock are exclusive to literature of this sort, just, I find, more prevalent.