The 20th-century novel, from its corset to bomber jacket phase

In his new book, Edwin Frank ’82 charts the history of the 20th-century novel through 32 key works, from Fyodor Dostoevsky’s “Notes from Underground” and H.G. Wells’ “The Island of Dr. Moreau” to Marcel Proust’s “In Search of Lost Time” and W.G. Sebald’s “Austerlitz.”

The Gazette interviewed Frank — founder and editorial director of the publishing house New York Review Books — about “Stranger Than Fiction: Lives of the Twentieth-Century Novel,” including why he selected certain titles, controversial omissions, and his hopes for the future of the art form. This interview was edited for clarity and length.

Your book traces the trajectory of the 20th-century novel through 32 titles. What made, in your view, those works and authors exemplary of that century?

The authors in the first and largely the second part of the book are authors who represent new beginnings and new ways of thinking about the novel. H.G. Wells invents a certain kind of popular fiction. André Gide invents a certain kind of art novel that stands apart from the popular 19th-century novels. Kipling and Colette are looking at what it is to be at the start of a new century and to be young people, and what it means to hope for a new world or to be impatient with the old world. I include Gertrude Stein and Machado de Assis because they represent new ways of writing that emerge in the New World, which of course, has a shorter history of producing novels. Most of those writers were at the beginning of the last century young people, and I wanted to map the new terrain, and these writers serve to do that.

In a way, the book has behind the scenes a single character: the 20th-century novel. You could say that at the beginning she dresses Edwardian style, not always happily, and by the end, she’s wearing a bomber jacket. I wanted to explore the changes that took place over the course of a lifetime of the novel as literary form.

In the second part of the book, the novelists are dealing with issues having to do with the conclusive destruction of the Victorian ways of life by World War I. They know they live in a new world altogether, one where all sorts of old codes have been destroyed, and the question is how to chronicle this new world.

Were you worried that many of the novels you chose are not well known and that those that are well known are not even read by many people?

I thought that the book should be introducing people to wonderful writers who are less well known to the Anglosphere and suggesting ways in which books that sometimes seem daunting to read — let’s say Robert Musil’s “The Man Without Qualities” — are entirely engageable books and still very much alive. I saw that as being, frankly, part of my own story of expanding publication and translation of books from different parts of the world so that readers learn to read across barriers that once seemed challenging.

You include American authors Ralph Ellison, Gertrude Stein, and Ernest Hemingway. Why not William Faulkner or others that some may see as glaring omissions?

The conception of the book was international, and the presence of American writers had to be circumscribed. And even so, certainly the largest contingent of writers in the book reflects my own linguistic competence. I speak briefly about Faulkner and state his importance. Several people said that the omission of Dos Passos is, just from the point of view of the international novel, perhaps the most glaring one because along with Faulkner and Hemingway, Dos Passos is undoubtedly the single most influential American writer on writers abroad in the last century. The panoramic novel he invents is a major genre, and I’m very fond of Dos Passos. It was with some regret.

With Stein, I wanted to suggest that she does pass on to, certainly Hemingway and Faulkner, a sense of American literature as posing a question of scale; what kind of sentence can be big or small enough for the almost unimaginable uncertainties that the new world opens up. We often forget how provisional a country America was, and perhaps still is. Stein realized how an open form could particularly address that situation. As she famously said, “There is no there there.” That is Stein’s sort of peculiar genius. Even if we don’t think of her as having written a book that is as beloved as any of those writers’ books, she made a remarkable contribution.

There are other novels I wrote about, but they ended up on the cutting-room floor. For example, Naguib Mahfouz’s “The Cairo Trilogy,” which looks back to 19th-century European novels, but also introduces a heady, lyrical, almost fantastical dream narrative that he takes from the ancient tradition of Arabic writing. And then there is also the surrealist Louis Aragon, who didn’t make the cut. I regret that because I wanted to bring out how surrealism, largely neglected or seen as a visual art in the Anglophone world, was a major contributor to the novel in the 20th century. Magical realism came out of surrealism.

What influence, if any, did the novels written in the 18th and 19th centuries have in this literary form in the 20th century?

The novel is a popular form starting really in the 18th century. But in the 19th century, it becomes truly popular, and the growth of literacy and industry allows novels to be produced on a larger scale for a larger audience. In a way, the 20th-century novel is impatient with the novel’s success. It’s impatient to prove that the novel is a fully serious form of art and not just a popular form of art. The novel is also skeptical of the political and social arrangements that have emerged in the 19th century; wanting more freedoms for individuals, sexual freedoms, artistic freedoms, and freedom to talk about the whole range of lived experience. If the 19th-century novels tend to balance the claims of self and society, saying that that balance is the precondition for a life of, as Freud would say, “ordinary unhappiness,” or even perhaps a happy life, in the 20th century, that balance becomes suspect, and the novel explores the ways in which things can be set out of balance.

What do Gabriel García Márquez’s “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” or Elsa Morante’s “History,” which are in the last part of the book, say about the end of the century?

The last part was the part where books surprised me most often. I didn’t quite know how I was going to end the book. I thought it should end the way a pop song ends, by fading out, but you have to fade out on a strong chorus. As it happened, the book was writing me as much as I was writing the book. Those post second World War books end up as a person does: entering middle age and looking back at a history that is in many ways already set. There are novels that stand as models of innovation, but they are now older novels. You get to a book like “One Hundred Years of Solitude,” whose very title announces itself as a book of a century, though it never mentions the 20th century, but it is a book, in some sense, about what is the meaning of these 100 years that we have lived through. And that struck me a good deal. Books like Georges Perec’s “Life: A User’s Manual” or Elsa Morante’s “History,” or García Márquez’s novel have a quality of trying to sum up, and I hadn’t really anticipated that. I was getting to the end of my book, and I suddenly realized that, in fact, a lot of books from the last part of the century were about summing up; they were about ending.

What are your hopes and concerns about the future of the novel and its place in the cultural conversation?

I would worry that the novel becomes a sort of a special property of the educated classes, that it becomes a little precious and loses its connection to the larger life of society and to a whole range of different kinds of people who have emerged in modern societies.

It strikes me that here in America we are living through changing times, and it’s remarkable to me how few novels there are that deal with — as Dickens, a brilliant stylist in his own right — financiers, scallywags and shameless politicians and what you will. I hope that those novelists do emerge. People always talk about how people no longer have the stamina to read long books, but then you have George Martin’s books, which are very long indeed, and people seem to gobble them up. Those books have a range of characters and events that shows an appetite to be comprehensive. And recently, Karl Ove Knausgård’s “My Struggle” too. I think, to some extent, that the literary novel is still a little overshadowed by the sheer range of accomplishment in the previous century and is struggling to find a new footing, a new sensibility and a new way of responding to the new world that we inhabit.