These are strange times. Capitalism, crippled by its own contradictions—there are thirty million people out of work in the oecd countries alone—is nonetheless triumphant. From New York to Beijing, via Moscow and Vladivostok, you can eat the same junk food, watch the same junk on television and, increasingly, read the same junk novels. In the newly marketized counties of Eastern and Central Europe, a book can be consumed just like a McDonald’s hamburger. Indigestion and an excess of wind are no longer a preserve of the stomach. Just as the rival hamburger concerns advertise their respective wares, so the giant publishing concerns of North America and Britain buy authors and exhibit them like cattle. Potential bestsellers are auctioned by a new breed of literary agent. Such books need to be sold and it is at this stage that the hype-merchants enter the fray and the promotion begins.
Many self-proclaimed postmodern writers have entered the spirit of the new times. Without any sense of shame or modesty they tout their own work and pander to a literary culture of consumerism. Why shouldn’t they? Hasn’t Lyotard, one of the high-priests of postmodernism, declared that capitalism is an orgasm? Can’t you see them quivering with pleasure, those citizens of Mogadishu or La Paz, as they deconstruct this offering from Paris?
Is it particularly surprising, then, that in the face of today’s prevailing winds many a European or North American novelist has consciously or subconsciously begun to write in the language of advertising? Mass-market fiction, like the indigestible filler in junk food, is meant to be consumed quickly and then excreted. Don’t misunderstand me. Good books, even great books, are still being written and some, believe it or not, are even being read, but in most cases these are the products of writers who either live in marginalized countries or have themselves been marginalized by the dominant culture of a triumphalist West.
More and more one finds oneself re-reading old books, if one wishes to
Historical echoes are very pronounced in literature. Juan Goytisolo has written of how it is difficult to read Cervantes in isolation from the real Spain of that time. The great novel is full of allusions to what had happened and what was happening even as the author was composing his text. Take for example the episode of the Morisco Ricote, the shopkeeper from Sancho’s village, expelled from Spain by royal edict because he is a Muslim. The homesick Ricote returns to his country in disguise and Cervantes gives him the following lines: