“Sometimes, immersed in his books, there would come to him the awareness of all that he did not know, of all that he had not read; and the serenity for which he labored was shattered as he realized the little time he had in life to read so much, to learn what he had to know.”
*
I read John Williams' Stoner last summer.
Revived in 2012, plucked from obscurity, it was hailed as 'the greatest novel you've never read' (Sunday Times) and 'the must-read novel of 2013' (The Guardian). It had been on my to-do list for a little while. After all, the excitement surrounding this enigmatic book resurfacing from almost half a century ago (1965, to be precise) was impossible to ignore.
During June 1963, after reading the manuscript, Williams' agent complimented the author on his novel. She informed him that it would not be a best-seller, however. It was published, it was admired, and it went out of print.
In this sense the novel's sombre life reflects that of its protagonist, William Stoner. It is no secret that he is born, he lives and he dies. In fact, the first paragraph covers his life in the manner of a work of fiction being summarised:
"William Stoner entered the University of Missouri as a freshman in the year 1910, at the age of nineteen. Eight years later...he received his Doctor of Philosophy degree and accepted an instructorship at the same University, where he taught until his death in 1956."
However, as passive as this opening seems, Williams then begins to explore his construct's life with so much engaging, depressing intensity that I found it almost impossible to stop reading. It was one of those books that I could not leave at home: I took it with me to places in case I could grab a quiet five minutes alone with William Stoner.
Yet the novel has had a divisive, almost sombre life since publication after being shrugged off the bookshelf by its contemporary generation. For me, this gave the beautiful prose an extra spark, especially considering that Williams himself died decades ago, never to know how the world of literature would eventually appreciate his powerful work of art.
Such a clash in opinion between one generation and another speaks deeply about literature itself: perhaps some works of fiction just do not connect to the time period they are in. If you read a modern novel soon, and dislike it, then perhaps it simply isn't for you. Perhaps, in fifty years, or even a hundred, people will begin talking about it, reading it, and admiring it. Sometimes there is just no way of knowing.
To conclude, I would like to draw your attention back to the quote from Stoner with which I opened this post. I find the protagonist's thoughts incredibly suitable to describe the conception of the novel itself back in the sixties; so much blossoming hope crushed by reality. Maybe Stoner's new lease of life, and now being firmly viewed as a modern classic by many, is justified and fitting for a novel that stands as a dual symbol for both success and failure within the world of literature.
Alex.
