Continuity and the Fractured Novel

Today's pages raised questions about the point of view of this novel and also broader questions about continuity in literature as a whole.

Point of View

The point of view question may be a premature one, as I have read only ten pages of the 150. But in two scenes today and in at least one from my last session, the main character (generally called X in literature about the work, and in Saporta's original introduction) is alluded to but his actions are never specifically explicated. Marianne (X's wife) "answers," "asks," and shuts doors, but no other character does anything. X's presence, language, and actions are only implied. After two days, I am left to wonder if this will be the way X is dealt with throughout the book, or if he will at some points, have a more explicit presence.

And if he doesn't, what does that mean for the point-of-view of the novel? It is third person, but on the pages where X is implied, the point-of-view seems so close to him that the narrative need not even mention him. Though the narrative is in third person, these pages are seen through the view of X himself. Of course, it is early to tell if this is indeed what is going on. Certainly, most of the pages so far have not involved (so far as the reader can tell) X, and thus are not seen through his point-of-view. Or are they? Are these pages his own imaginative constructions of events he knows about but must invent possibilities as to how these events unfolded? Whatever the case, figuring out the narrative perspective of the novel is adding a layer to interpretation that I had not anticipated.

Continuity and Narrative

The other issue coming out of today's reading is that of narrative continuity. The events of today's pages were rather disjointed. They include a gambler at a craps table, X and Marianne picking up a bloody hitch-hiker, Dagmar in the hospital with Helga looking on, Marianne making a mess of cooking, and Dagmar made up in candlelight, chewing on her lip.

I find that my mind, whether by habit of training or by natural tendency, is trying to connect these pieces somehow chronologically (though I feel comfortable with the idea that they are out of order). I find that I am waiting and searching for clues that will tell me how these events are to unfold in time. But I suspect that these events will remain disjointed and random.

It feels as if I am incredibly inclined to look for continuity to these events. I am now wondering whether this is a reaction to my having been habituated to the idea that continuity is an important part of narrative fiction or of this is a natural reaction. I am, as a post-modern, disinclined to believe that anything is natural, and in fact I do not seem to feel the same type of drive to connect the random events in my life to form some kind of real-world continuity. Or do I?

Is this what we are doing when we try to analyze how our upbringing, or the events in our past have led us to the point where we now find ourselves? While certainly, because of laws of cause and effect, some things from our past (especially the habits and attitudes were are taught, and perhaps large events) effect the outcome of our lives. Certainly, we are effected by our past. But do we also sometimes feel inclined to find continuity where there may be none, to force real life events to fit together somehow when they in fact do not? Do I expect my life to be like a novel, or am I asking novels to be like life? Can a novel like Composition No. 1 help me to become comfortable with the randomness of human existence? Probably not, unless other texts reinforce this new view.