The Review of Contemporary Fiction

Who Paid for Modernism? Art, Money, and the Fiction of Conrad , Joyce , and Lawrence by Joyce Piell Wexler
John O'Brien

Joyce Piell Wexler. Who Paid for Modernism? Art, Money, and the Fiction of Conrad, Joyce, and Lawrence. Univ. of Arkansas Press, 1997. 157 pp. $24.00.

This is one of the zaniest books I have ever read and yet also disturbing in terms of its implications. Stated simply, Wexler’s theory is that modernist writers (among whom she includes and highlights Conrad, Lawrence, and Joyce) faced the dilemma of not wanting to be “popular” because popularity, in their view, “would have undermined their status as serious artists,” but at the same time wanting money. They ingeniously figured out, so the argument goes, that they would write terribly difficult books that would attract the wealthy elite and allow them to scorn the masses. Flaubert had provided the theory for all of this, and these young’ns followed suit in their hypocritical pursuit of both money and purity. This brilliant marketing method continues today, reflected, for instance, in the popularity of a Herman Wouk and the critical success but unpopularity of a Robert Coover; the serious writer of today (following in the modernist tradition) aspires to occupy the position of a Pynchon (the aloof, uncompromising artist who has also been financially successful). Strangely, if one knows next to nothing about authors and the book business, Wexler’s argument seems plausible—a “serious” writer wants to write to satisfy himself but would also like to live comfortably. They make their work even more obscure than what it might otherwise be, sweat to make sure it communicates as little as possible, bask in their tortured romantic pose of the rejected artist, but then win the prizes and get well paid. Brilliant! This explanation could be applied to marketing strategies of Mercedes Benz—how to appeal to the elite, how to be highbrow, how to make people feel superior because they associate with you rather than the dirty masses. It all sounds somewhat plausible, except that this is not how writers think, nor does it have much to do with what makes books sell well or not sell well. Completely leaving aside the psychological motives and abilities of writers (which is one hell of a lot to leave aside), most would like a financially comfortable life, would like a wide reading audience, and would like to be taken seriously by critics. Contrary to Wexler’s thinking, every editor and publisher in existence knows writers who, regardless of financial or critical success, still feel rejected, misunderstood, and undercompensated; at the same time, almost no writer feels that he or she is writing junk, regardless of what he or she writes. And almost every editor and publisher also knows writers who, at one time or another, tried writing a “popular” book, whatever the motive might have been, and most of these writers cannot do it, they do not know how to do it, and finally do not have that “talent.” Wexler seems to believe that Joyce or Conrad could have, if they so chose, written a best-seller that appealed to the masses, but instead they went this other route.

It seems to me, however, that there is another motive, an insidious and unstated one, at work in this book that has rather far-reaching implications. At the heart of Wexler’s theory is that, beginning with modernist writers (though she omits Fitzgerald and Hemingway in her analysis), writers were determined for rather crass motives to alienate themselves from readers and spanned a conflict that is still with us between good writing vs. general readership. If read in the context of other such views being expressed of late, there appears to be an underlying political cause at work here, namely, populism, democracy, and the Flag. What comes next? That modernism was an antidemocratic attempt to make us feel stupid? That modernism is undermining the Republic? That if morons have a hard time with Faulkner, we ought to ban him for the sake of the general public? If Joyce and Proust are trying to be difficult and highbrow, then we’ll show them and stop teaching their works in the classroom in preference to writers everyone can understand and who also serve a politically correct agenda? Do we really need book-books when we have the Internet? Dumbbells of the world unite?

Something is afoot when books like this appear. And when such things are afoot, there are usually several feet at work. A basis for the justifying of the dumbing-down in the review media? A dumbing-down in academia? Why should there be public support for the arts when these damn artists aren’t interested in communicating with the guy on the street who is paying the bills? All that I am suggesting is that when a book like this appears that singularly distinguishes itself for its ahistorical background, its ill-supported evidence for grand generalities, and its claim that these people don’t want to be read or understood, then be aware that someone’s agenda is being served and (since this is America) someone will be benefitting economically. [John O’Brien]


Interview with Founder Board of Directors Funders Submission Guidelines Dalkey Archive Full Catalog Current and Forthcoming Titles Recent Titles Review of Contemporary Fiction Special Library Offer Special Backlist Sale Stores & Wholesalers Academics Libraries Reviewers Context Casebooks Author Interviews Links Dalkey Archive News Events Newsletter

The Review of Contemporary Fiction Who Paid for Modernism? Art, Money, and the Fiction of Conrad , Joyce , and Lawrence by Joyce Piell Wexler John O'Brien Joyce Piell Wexler. Who Paid for Modernism? Art, Money, and the Fiction of Conrad, Joyce, and Lawrence. Univ. of Arkansas Press, 1997. 157 pp. $24.00. This is one of the zaniest books I have ever read and yet also disturbing in terms of its implications. Stated simply, Wexler’s theory is that modernist writers (among whom she includes and highlights Conrad, Lawrence, and Joyce) faced the dilemma of not wanting to be “popular” because popularity, in their view, “would have undermined their status as serious artists,” but at the same time wanting money. They ingeniously figured out, so the argument goes, that they would write terribly difficult books that would attract the wealthy elite and allow them to scorn the masses. Flaubert had provided the theory for all of this, and these young’ns followed suit in their hypocritical pursuit of both money and purity. This brilliant marketing method continues today, reflected, for instance, in the popularity of a Herman Wouk and the critical success but unpopularity of a Robert Coover; the serious writer of today (following in the modernist tradition) aspires to occupy the position of a Pynchon (the aloof, uncompromising artist who has also been financially successful). Strangely, if one knows next to nothing about authors and the book business, Wexler’s argument seems plausible—a “serious” writer wants to write to satisfy himself but would also like to live comfortably. They make their work even more obscure than what it might otherwise be, sweat to make sure it communicates as little as possible, bask in their tortured romantic pose of the rejected artist, but then win the prizes and get well paid. Brilliant! This explanation could be applied to marketing strategies of Mercedes Benz—how to appeal to the elite, how to be highbrow, how to make people feel superior because they associate with you rather than the dirty masses. It all sounds somewhat plausible, except that this is not how writers think, nor does it have much to do with what makes books sell well or not sell well. Completely leaving aside the psychological motives and abilities of writers (which is one hell of a lot to leave aside), most would like a financially comfortable life, would like a wide reading audience, and would like to be taken seriously by critics. Contrary to Wexler’s thinking, every editor and publisher in existence knows writers who, regardless of financial or critical success, still feel rejected, misunderstood, and undercompensated; at the same time, almost no writer feels that he or she is writing junk, regardless of what he or she writes. And almost every editor and publisher also knows writers who, at one time or another, tried writing a “popular” book, whatever the motive might have been, and most of these writers cannot do it, they do not know how to do it, and finally do not have that “talent.” Wexler seems to believe that Joyce or Conrad could have, if they so chose, written a best-seller that appealed to the masses, but instead they went this other route. It seems to me, however, that there is another motive, an insidious and unstated one, at work in this book that has rather far-reaching implications. At the heart of Wexler’s theory is that, beginning with modernist writers (though she omits Fitzgerald and Hemingway in her analysis), writers were determined for rather crass motives to alienate themselves from readers and spanned a conflict that is still with us between good writing vs. general readership. If read in the context of other such views being expressed of late, there appears to be an underlying political cause at work here, namely, populism, democracy, and the Flag. What comes next? That modernism was an antidemocratic attempt to make us feel stupid? That modernism is undermining the Republic? That if morons have a hard time with Faulkner, we ought to ban him for the sake of the general public? If Joyce and Proust are trying to be difficult and highbrow, then we’ll show them and stop teaching their works in the classroom in preference to writers everyone can understand and who also serve a politically correct agenda? Do we really need book-books when we have the Internet? Dumbbells of the world unite? Something is afoot when books like this appear. And when such things are afoot, there are usually several feet at work. A basis for the justifying of the dumbing-down in the review media? A dumbing-down in academia? Why should there be public support for the arts when these damn artists aren’t interested in communicating with the guy on the street who is paying the bills? All that I am suggesting is that when a book like this appears that singularly distinguishes itself for its ahistorical background, its ill-supported evidence for grand generalities, and its claim that these people don’t want to be read or understood, then be aware that someone’s agenda is being served and (since this is America) someone will be benefitting economically. [John O’Brien]

Search the full text of our books: