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V.S. Naipaul: the writer as “last free man”
By Nicholas Laughlin
First published in The
Routledge Companion to Anglophone Caribbean Literature, edited by Michael A. Bucknor and Alison
Donnell (2011)
The act of writing, the nature of
literature itself, and the role of the writer are consistent and major
themes in the works of V.S. Naipaul. His earliest writing to have
appeared in print, the family correspondence collected in Letters Between a Father and Son,
is obsessively concerned with Naipaul’s ambition to become a writer.
His recent book A Writer’s People
is a series of critical essays ranging over topics from West Indian
authors of the 1940s and 1950s to the autobiographical books of Gandhi
and Nirad Chaudhuri. The critic Bruce King has noted that Naipaul’s
books are “filled with characters who write, want to write or pretend
to write”. And in the latter half of his career — beginning with the
long essay “Prologue to an Autobiography” — Naipaul has repeatedly
revisited his earlier writing, taking his own vocation and the
development of his literary skill for his subject. The result is a
subtle and complicated analysis of what he calls his “way of seeing”,
of his own literary ethics and aesthetics.
“Prologue to an Autobiography” opens with a memoir of the composition
of Naipaul’s first “publishable” book, Miguel Street, which he wrote in
1955 while working as a BBC freelancer in London, not long after
leaving Oxford. He describes typing the first sentence of the first
chapter, “without having any idea where I was going, and not perhaps
intending to type to the end of the page”. That first sentence, he
says, was the simple description of a childhood memory. “The second was
invention. . . . And together, as sentences, words, they had set up a
rhythm, a speed, which dictated all that was to follow”. As Naipaul
explains it, with Miguel Street
— written in just five or six weeks, after several painful abortive
attempts to complete a novel — he discovered how to turn his confused
and incompletely understood recollections of his childhood in Trinidad
into a literary narrative, and thereby “give value to an experience
which might otherwise evaporate away”. “Half a writer’s work . . . is
the discovery of his subject. . . . Trying to make a beginning as a
writer, I didn’t know where to focus”. But the sense of discovery, of
breakthrough, was temporary: “to have written a book was not to be a
writer. Looking for a new book, a new narrative, episodes, I found
myself as uncertain, and as pretending to be a writer, as I had been
before. . . . To be a writer . . . was to have the conviction that one
could go on. I didn’t have that conviction”.
To explore that lack of conviction, and what Naipaul calls his original
“blindness” to his subject, is the chief purpose of “Prologue to an
Autobiography”, and in the decades since then he has returned to these
matters in a number of short and long narratives, notably The Enigma of Arrival, the essays
in Reading & Writing, and
his Nobel lecture “Two Worlds”. In these texts, in subtly different
ways and with subtly different emphases, he describes his childhood and
the life of his immediate and extended family: a background “at once
exceedingly simple and exceedingly confused”. This was a self-contained
world of Hindu descendents of indentured Indian immigrants, anxious
about cultural contamination from other elements of Trinidad’s
multi-ethnic colonial society, surrounded by what Naipaul calls “areas
of darkness”, or gaps in meaningful knowledge of the wider world.
Naipaul portrays his literary career as a quest for self-understanding:
“I had to do the books I did because there were no books about those
subjects to give me what I wanted. I had to clear up my world,
elucidate it, for myself”. And “those subjects”, the ones that were so
difficult to discern and comprehend, are the social and historical
circumstances he was born into, in Trinidad in 1932. In “Prologue to an
Autobiography”, he offers a concise summary:
. . . there was a
migration from India to be considered, a migration within the British
empire. There was my Hindu family, with its fading memories of India;
there was India itself. And there was Trinidad, with its past of
slavery, its mixed population, its racial antagonisms and its changing
political life; once part of Venezuela and the Spanish empire, now
English-speaking, with the American base and an open-air cinema. . . .
And there was my own presence in England, writing. . . .
So step by step, book by book, though seeking each
time only to write another book, I eased myself into knowledge. To
write them was to learn. Beginning a book, I always felt I was in
possession of all the facts about myself; at the end I was always
surprised. The book before always turned out to have been written by a
man with incomplete knowledge.
“To write . . . was to learn,” but it also seems that, for Naipaul, to
write is, in a sense, to be: “everything of value about me is in my
books,” he says. “I am the sum of my books”. His literary vocation is
existential, a powerful response to what he once called “the old fear
of extinction . . . of being reduced to nothing”, and elsewhere “the
fear of destitution in all its forms, the vision of the abyss”. The
self he has created through and in his books is deliberately free of
loyalties to anything but the act of writing itself. He has striven to
achieve “a freedom from people, from entanglements, from rivalries,
from competition. I have no enemies, no rivals, no masters; I fear no
one,” he says; further, “one doesn’t have a side, doesn’t have a
country, doesn’t have a community; one is entirely an individual”. This
stance has put Naipaul in conflict with many other Caribbean writers,
and indeed with many Caribbean readers.
The investigation and definition of cultural and national identity is a
prevailing theme in Caribbean literature, but Naipaul has consistently
rejected being categorised as West Indian or Caribbean. “‘West Indian’
is a political word,” he said in 1981. “It’s all the things I reject”.
He has even gone so far as to leave a publisher after being described
in a catalogue as Caribbean. Other Caribbean writers have argued about
questions of responsibility, language, authenticity — about how to be a
Caribbean writer. Naipaul has remained aloof from these debates. He has
mocked “the West Indian with his search for identity,” suggesting that
“what might have been a genuine stumbling in the early stages is now
regarded as a necessary posture”. And after the announcement of his
Nobel Prize for Literature in October 2001, Naipaul infamously issued a
press statement declaring: “It is a great tribute to both England, my
home, and to India, the home of my ancestors, and to the dedication and
support of my agent”. The omission of Trinidad, the country of his
birth, seemed pointed.
This refusal of a Caribbean identity, of Caribbean loyalties, may have
begun early in Naipaul’s career as an attempt to evade what seemed a
restrictive label. “It isn’t easy for the exotic writer to get his work
accepted as being more than something exotic, something to be judged on
its merits,” he wrote in 1958. But if it was once a gesture of
self-defense, it has evolved over his career into a philosophical
stance. It may be that, as the critic Helen Hayward puts it, “his
tendency to dwell on an absence of affiliations may better be
understood in relation to the circumstances of his development and
education”. Naipaul himself has often written that, as a young aspiring
writer, he felt there was no scope for his ambition in Trinidad, no
intellectual tradition, no “organised or solid literary or cultural
life”. He has said: “I didn’t even really belong in the exotic world I
was born into and felt I had to write about”.
Michael Gorra insightfully proposes that Naipaul’s disdain for the
notion of a Caribbean identity, and for many aspects of Caribbean
culture, may be an oblique response to the celebration of creole
hybridity that has dominated Caribbean cultural discourse in the
Independence and post-Independence era. Derek Walcott openly celebrates
his mixed heritage — the “gathering of broken pieces”, as he puts it in
The Antilles: Fragments of Epic Memory.
Kamau Brathwaite outlines a poetics of creolisation aimed at achieving
a Caribbean cultural unity (for example, in Contradictory Omens). But Naipaul,
born into an ethnic minority anxious about cultural violation, is
suspicious of the notion and the rhetoric of hybridity, even as he
recognises the mixing of cultures as a key characteristic of his age.
His assertions have not often sat well with other Caribbean writers.
George Lamming famously suggested that Naipaul’s earlier books “can’t
move beyond a castrated satire”, that he is “striving like mad to prove
himself through promotion to the peaks of a ‘superior’ culture”. Caryl
Phillips has criticised what he calls Naipaul’s “undisguised contempt
for the people of the Third World”, and his “whining” about the
difficulties of his voyage to literary maturity: “we are . . . to
understand that he was miserably burdened by the unfortunate accident
of the place and the date of his birth”. Walcott’s antagonistic
relationship with “V.S. Nightfall” goes back to their first meeting in
the 1960s. Reviewing The Enigma of
Arrival in 1987, Walcott decried Naipaul’s “virulent contempt
towards the island of his origin”, but concluded:
Despite his horror
of being claimed, we West Indians are proud of Naipaul, and that is his
enigmatic fate as well, that he should be so cherished by those he
despises.
It is fair to say that most Caribbean critics who have written about
Naipaul have expressed discomfort at best, repugnance at worst. As long
ago as 1970, a guide to the regional literature suggested that
Naipaul’s books “have been a battleground for West Indian literary and
social criticism”. Over the decades, the battle has only grown hotter.
In one extreme and absurd incident, a member of the audience at an
academic conference in Jamaica interrupted Naipaul and suggested he
should be shot. It is difficult to think of another literary tradition
so utterly at odds with its major prose writer as is Anglophone
Caribbean literature with Naipaul.
On the face of it, there is good reason. The relatively good-humoured
satire of his early fiction, set in Trinidad, matured in the 1960s into
a sharper, more pessimistic, and sometimes mocking criticism of what
Naipaul sees as the flaws and pretensions of post-Independence
Caribbean societies — “half-made”, cynical, inhabited by “mimic men”.
In the middle phase of his career, as he began travelling more widely,
he extended his scrutiny to other post-colonial nations and peoples in
Asia, Africa, and South America. Nowhere has he pulled his punches. He
has been accused of exaggerating the squalor of India, of hostility to
Islam, of racism. Indeed, his descriptions of black Caribbean people
and black Africans seem to betray racial anxiety if not outright
prejudice. When Walcott writes of “Naipaul’s repulsion towards
Negroes”, images such as the “little turbulences of stink” created by
the African waiter in In a Free State
come to mind. In the 1970 essay “Power?”, bluntly issuing a challenge
to the political and historical force of black liberation movements, he
wrote: “black identity is a sentimental trap”.
Unsurprisingly, many left-leaning academics disapprove of these
positions. “There is a long line of critics citing each other as proof
that Naipaul is an offensive reactionary,” writes Bruce King. Edward
Said called Naipaul “a witness for the Western prosecution”. With less
nuance, the Trinidadian academic Selwyn Cudjoe ascribes to him a
“solidarity with imperialism”, an “acceptance of the ideology and
culture of the former colonizers”, an “assumption of their method of
analysis and perceptions”. In a spirit of mischievous seriousness — or
serious mischief — Naipaul has baited such critics with outrageous and
supposedly off-the-cuff remarks (“Africa has no future”, etc.)
delivered to journalists and interviewers.
Trinidadians might recognise such provocative assertions as a version
of picong, which one dictionary defines as “teasing, ridicule, or
insult, esp. in semi-formal or ritualized exchanges, e.g. between
calypsonians”. His impish public conduct might be understood as Naipaul
playing himself, a Trinidadian term for the projection of a carefully
crafted public persona that at once masks and reveals (the Dictionary of the English/Creole of
Trinidad and Tobago lists at least five other distinct
expressions for this kind of behaviour). His biographer Patrick French
quotes Lamming’s suggestion that Naipaul is “playing ole mas” —
“masquerading or making trouble for his own entertainment, a
Trinidadian trait.” French adds: “I noticed that when he was being rude
or provocative in this way, Naipaul was full of glee”. In a revealing
irony, Naipaul’s anti-Caribbean posturing can be read as a
manifestation of a very Caribbean behaviour, a role-playing mode that
is distinctly if not uniquely Trinidadian. But this apparent
contradiction is entirely consonant with Naipaul’s own suggestion, in
his books, that his literary stance is rooted in his Trinidadian
background.
“Every kind of writing is the product of a specific historical and
cultural vision,” Naipaul says. “The point is uncontentious”.
Repeatedly, insistently, he has described the origins of his own vision
in the “exceedingly simple and exceedingly confused” circumstances of
his youth in Trinidad. The instability of his large extended family is
fictionalised in A House for Mr.
Biswas. Their cultural isolation, as Hindus, from the wider
colonial society, but also their increasing distance from the social
coherence of India itself, is explored in An Area of Darkness. Recognising
his lack of meaningful knowledge about the history of Trinidad, Naipaul
set himself to research and write The
Loss of El Dorado. To explain his wide-ranging travels in search
of firsthand knowledge, he refers to the “abstract, arbitrary”
education of his youth, intensely focused on examinations and
scholarships: a cramming of names and facts from Western literature and
history divorced from their cultural context, so that Naipaul was “like
a man trying to get to know a city from its street map alone”.
In “Prologue to an Autobiography” he portrays the writing of Miguel Street as his first step
towards understanding these perplexities. In The Enigma of Arrival, he recounts
his literary development over a longer arc, beginning at the moment of
his departure from Trinidad in 1949 and ending, more than thirty-five
years later, with the writing of the present book. It is a narrative of
broadening knowledge and deepening awareness, with each book presented
as a struggle and a breakthrough, and an advance in Naipaul’s
comprehension of the self created by his confusing background. “The
island had given me the world as a writer,” he acknowledges, “had given
me the themes that in the second half of the twentieth century had
become important”. Those themes include migration, dislocation,
cultural miscegenation, and the re-making of the self that is demanded
by these phenomena. “My subject was . . . the worlds I contained within
myself”, he writes. And he names Trinidad as “the starting-point, the
centre” — even if he immediately adds: “it could no longer hold me.”
So while Naipaul declines to claim Trinidadian-ness — or West
Indian-ness, or Caribbean-ness — as an identifying label, he certainly
acknowledges that his Trinidadian background gave him a distinct point
of view, a “way of seeing” which he has sought to define and
understand. And the idea of seeing, of perception, as the writer’s
chief responsibility runs through his whole body of work. The phrases
“way of seeing” and “way of looking” regularly recur (and the latter
forms part of the subtitle of his recent book, A Writer’s People). This idea of
vision incorporates both acute observation — recall Martin Amis’s
memorable and painful description of Naipaul as “a peeled sensorium” —
and hard-won comprehension. Naipaul has an eye for telling details that
suggest the limits of someone’s perception, but he is also percipient
of his own limits. Despite his reputation for arrogance, Naipaul’s
travel narratives contain frequent descriptions of misconception or contretemps caused by his
incomplete knowledge. The narrative thrust of The Enigma of Arrival is the
gradual understanding by its narrator — Naipaul in all but name — that
preconceptions and false expectations have clouded his vision of the
world. Learning to see clearly is a gradual process, never complete,
but also, for the writer, a moral imperative. Few writers subject
themselves to similarly acute scrutiny.
What was the basis
of the writer’s attitude? What other world did he know, what other
experience did he bring to his way of looking? How could a writer write
about this world, if it was the only world he knew?
Finally, if Naipaul’s subjects and themes require new ways of seeing,
so do they require new literary forms suitable to their complexities.
Naipaul’s prose style is admired for its rigour, its balance, its
clarity. Walcott called him “our finest writer of the English
sentence”, a compliment pregnant with ambiguities and possible ironies
(who does the pronoun encompass, and does “English” refer to a
language, a culture, or a literary tradition?). The edge and snap of
Naipaul’s early prose flatten in the later books, in which he
cultivates a deliberate plainness. (He even drew up a list of seven
“Rules for Beginners” for the editorial staff of the Indian magazine Tehelka: “Do not write long
sentences”, “Do not use big words”, “Avoid the abstract”, etc.). Often,
his writing seems clearest and simplest when he tackles the most
complexly nuanced subjects. “A prose so beautifully modulated carries
something of the status of fact,” the critic Michael Gorra incisively
remarks.
Well beyond his prose technique, Naipaul’s formal innovation has
extended to a rethinking of genre that recalls Walter Benjamin’s
aphorism: “all great works of literature establish a genre or dissolve
one”. Naipaul argues that new subjects and new ways of seeing may
demand new forms; specifically, that the novel, rooted in the social
circumstances of nineteenth-century Europe, may be obsolete in the face
of “the unaccommodating new reality” of the present. His argument has
sometimes been distorted by journalists into a pronouncement of “the
death of the novel”, but in his essay “The Writer and India” he makes
his case with shrewd reference to the history of the form:
The metropolitan
novel, so attractive, so apparently easy to imitate, comes with
metropolitan assumptions about society: the availability of a wider
learning, an idea of history, a concern with self-knowledge. Where
those assumptions are wrong . . . I am not sure the novel can offer
more than the externals of things.
Using the example of his first visit to India in 1962, he suggests that
to write a novel based on his travels there, mounting “all that
apparatus of invention”, “would have been falsifying precious
experience. The value of the experience lay in its particularity”. So
that parallel to his fiction, Naipaul has written a series of
non-fiction books difficult to place in straightforward categories:
juxtaposing history and reportage, social commentary and memoir, in
what J.M. Coetzee once called an “expansion of the genres”. Despite the
“vanity of the age (and of commercial promotion) that the novel
continues to be literature’s final and highest expression”, Naipaul
declines to rank his fiction and his non-fiction narratives in separate
hierarchies of literary value:
As my world
widened, beyond the immediate personal circumstances that bred fiction,
and as my comprehension widened, the literary forms I practised flowed
together and supported one another; and I couldn’t say that one form
was higher than another.
Among his strangest and most original books are two that meticulously
obscure the line dividing fiction from fact: The Enigma of Arrival and A Way in the World. The former was
published as a “novel”, the latter as a “sequence”. Both include
undisguised autobiographical material combined with events and
characters either modified by imagination or entirely invented, all
rendered in deceptively placid prose. They pose the reader an
epistemological challenge, and have — as Bharati Mukherjee once noted
of Naipaul’s earlier works — “a certain instability about them”.
The critic Robert Hamner has written: “in its dealing with Naipaul,
criticism itself is also undergoing a kind of trial”. His books — and
the facts of his biography — raise ultimately unanswerable questions
about the relationship between man and writer, about the writer’s
responsibility to his vocation and his society, and about what freedom
means for a writer. Early in his career, in a semi-sarcastic book
review, Naipaul suggested that “the writer . . . is the last free man”.
With a moral and creative seriousness that some take for hauteur, he
has devoted his life and his art to proving this so, even when
“freedom” has meant alienation from the Caribbean literary tradition
that still claims him. In a television interview, Naipaul once called In a Free State a book about “loss,
fear, and independence”. As a summary of the trajectory of his career —
from the anxiety of the beginning writer to the confidence of the
master — the three adjectives are equally apt. +
See the print version of this
essay for full references.