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    Aspects of the Novel
    Aspects of the Novel
    Aspects of the Novel
    Ebook162 pages2 hours

    Aspects of the Novel

    By E. M. Forster

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    The renowned British novelist’s “casual and wittily acute guidance” on reading—and writing—great fiction (Harper’s Magazine).
     
    Renowned for such classics as A Room with a View, Howards End, and A Passage to India, E. M. Forster was one of Britain’s—and the world’s—most distinguished fiction writers, a frequent nominee for the Nobel Prize in Literature. In this collection of lectures delivered at Trinity College, Cambridge, in 1927, he takes a wide-ranging look at English-language novels—with specific examples from such masters as Dickens and Austen—discussing the elements they all have in common.
     
    Using a witty, informal tone and drawing on his extensive readings in French and Russian literature, Forster discusses his ideas in reference to such figures as Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, and Proust; explains the difference between “flat” and “round” characters and between plot and story; and ultimately provides an “admirable and delightful” education for anyone who appreciates the art of a good book (The New York Times).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateJul 1, 2010
    ISBN9780795311567
    Author

    E. M. Forster

    Edward Morgan Forster (1879-1970) was an English novelist, short story writer and essayist best known for his books A Room with a View (1908), Howards End (1910) and A Passage to India (1924). Born in London, young Edward lost his father to tuberculosis before he turned two years old. His mother Lily and Edward subsequently moved to a country house in Hertfordshire called Rooks Next, which served as a model for the eponymous house in the book Howards End. Edward inherited a considerable sum of money from his paternal great-aunt that allowed him to embark on a career as a writer. He attended Tonbridge School in Kent but did not enjoy his time there. He then went to King's College in Cambridge where he joined a secret society known as the Apostles, several members of which later helped form the Bloomsbury Group, a literary/philosophical society that boasted such early members as Virginia Woolf, John Maynard Keynes and Vanessa Bell. Upon graduation, Forster went abroad and wrote of his travels extensively. Upon his return, he set up residence in Weybridge, Surrey where he would write all six of his novels. All of his books were written between 1908 and 1924 and his last, A Passage to India, won the James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction. Forster was a homosexual and while he never married, he did have several affairs with male lovers during his lifetime, including a forty-year romance with married policeman Bob Buckingham, at whose home he collapsed and died at age 91 of a stroke. Forster explored his struggle with his own sexuality in his book Maurice. Forster was extremely critical of American foreign policy during his lifetime and rebuffed efforts to film adaptations of his novels due to the fact that the productions would likely use American financing. After his death, however, several of his books were made into films and three of them - A Room with a View, Howards End and A Passage to India are among the most highly regarded films of the late 20th century.

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    Reviews for Aspects of the Novel

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    • 4/5
      I remember seeing this one on the shelves when I was growing up. I loved flipping through it and reading what Forster had to say about developing a novel (what makes a good one). It contributed to all sorts of imaginations of eventually writing a book one day, and I imagined I would follow Forster's tips. I did write a novel but I didn't use this book. But it holds good memories, and it's E.M. Forster.
    • 4/5
      I hoped one of my favourite authors might have been more forthcoming on how to write quality, especially given the renown of this work. Exactly as the title promises, he shares a fairly straightforward categorization of the essential components/aspects of novel writing. He did put into words some things I only felt instinctively about those aspects, lending my instincts some credence, and labelled obscure others I hadn't identified. I felt the last chapter was strongest where he defines pattern and rhythm, but mostly for its good analysis of Henry James. I don't rate myself anywhere above the 'pseudo-scholar' these lectures were aimed at, but I'm sorry there wasn't more quantity of takeaway. Or maybe I'm just too dense to see it yet.
    • 3/5
      Must we murder to dissect? Must we explain why some books are better than others? I suppose. Some of his views I respect, but some of his views on Dickens I can barely tolerate. Valuable in highlighting books and authors I haven't read. The world of 'Classic Literature' really is limitless.
    • 3/5
      Feels quite old fashioned now. Two things struck me whilst reading it:1. This is the 'modernism' that all the post- lot were pushing against. When you hear the first half of the debate, the retort makes more sense. 2. At its worst, it reminds me of that excellent line from Michael Scott in the US Office: "There are four kinds of business: tourism, food service, railroads, and sales. ...And hospitals/manufacturing. And air travel."
    • 3/5
      A rather loose, treatise on the novel that explains the difference between a "flat" and a "round" character, for example. Interesting, but rather dry at times.
    • 5/5
      If you've been working your way through academic papers, college textbooks, etc, then you will truly love reading this clearly written book on how the inner technical aspects of how novels are created. For anyone curious as to how writers go about their work, or if you're just looking for inspiration from a seasoned author, I highly recommend reading Aspects of the Novel. You may not agree with all of the statements but I'm sure they will be illuminating and help you formulate your own opinion on how stories reach us.The first few pages are rather annoying and quite unlike the rest of the book which was created from a number of lectures by E.M. Forster. Usually people use the excuse that complicated things can't be made understood with simple language. Forster demonstrates this can in fact be done and does so gloriously. In this slim little book he gives us his perspective of why stories work and why they touch us. Forster discusses such logical constructs as plot and narrative shape, but he manages to interweave that with a wonderful explanation on how fictional characters live in these strict models. What you take away from reading this is not a deeper understanding of how narrative works or how to create a masterpiece of fiction. Neither will it help you to pick apart a book such as War and Peace but it will form an excellent foundation and guideline to find further readings and understanding.Most importantly Forster leaves every reader of his lectures the choice on what parts of his explanations to accept or reject and he does so himself of aspects of many famous novels. If anything this book provides clarity and a way to start thinking of why we like stories so much.
    • 4/5
      It is a great pity that youtube was not around in 1927, to capture Forster delivering these lectures. We have them now in the book form as a series of essays, but they still sparkle with wit, knowledge, common sense and some fine writing. There are some arresting images: the authors all sitting together in a circular room struggling with their compositions, and the gaping shock headed cavemen listening to the story teller, which Forster uses to have a swipe at the film industry "The movie public: modern day descendants of the gaping cavemen."For me it all really comes alive in essays/lectures six and seven, when Forster can let himself go and lecture with passion and imagination about the authors he loves. He says:"For the first five lectures of this course we have used more or less the same set of tools. This time and last we have had to lay them down. Next time we shall take them up again, but with no certainty that they are the best equipment for a critic or that there is such a thing as critical equipment".The lectures he is referring to are Fantasy and Prophecy. He has previously given us the critics tools to discuss aspects of the story, people, the plot and pattern and rhythm, but when he launches into his lecture on fantasy his own writing takes off. He starts with the wonderful image of the ascending bird and its shadow that resemble each other less and less as the bird flies higher, and goes on to say there is more in the novel than time or people and logic, but of course like the birds shadow it is not quite so distinct, not so easy to grasp. There is however a bar of light that can illuminate everything and Forster says "We shall give that bar of light two names fantasy and prophecy.At last Forster can talk about the books and those things that go beyond the tools of the trade to make them special. He presents us with some surprising selections in his lecture on fantasy: Tristram Shandy, Flecker's Magic and Zuleika Dobson by Max Beerbohm. He cheekily includes Ulysses, before ending with the Magic Flute. It is his lecture on prophecy where he gets to talk about those great authors who write on universal themes and who have the power to sing. Forster warns us that to appreciate these authors, we the readers must have humility and the suspension of the sense of humour. He names four authors that he believes can illustrate this aspect of the novel: Dostoyevsky, Melville, D H Lawrence and Emily Bronte with D H Lawrence being the only living author (1927) in whom the song predominates and who has the rapt bardic quality and who it is idle to criticise. Enthusiastically Forster gives us examples from The Brothers Karamazov and then turns his attention to Melville and a lively short critique on Moby Dick is followed by his thoughts on Billy Budd. Forster's prose is at its finest here but he saves his best for D H Lawrence:"Humility is not easy with this irritable and irritating author, for the humbler we get the crosser he gets. yet I do not see how else to read him. If we start resenting or mocking, his treasure disappears as surely if we started obeying him. What is valuable about him cannot be put into words; it is colour, gesture and outline in people and things, the usual stock in trade of the novelist, but evolved by such a different process that they belong to a new world." This series of lectures, that give us the warp and the weft of aspects of a novel and gently chide us as pseudo-intellectuals, come dramatically alive as Forster wrestles with the ineffable. Great stuff.
    • 5/5
      Love, love, love this book. There's a reason this man's work--the whole of it--is considered "classic." He's one of the rare writers who combines humor with deep tragedy--the yin and yang of human experience. If you want to be a writer, you need this book. If you think you understand good literature, you need this book.
    • 4/5
      There is something unerringly endearing about Forster's way of expressing himself that makes this series of lectures on the makeup of the novel so easy to read. His disarming admission of his own unscholarly nature ("True scholarship is incommunicable, true scholars rare. There are a few scholars, actual or potential, in the audience today, but only a few, and there is certainly none on the platform.") puts him firmly on a par with the reader, and his conversational, nay chatty style, opens this little book to anyone who appreciates a good read.

      These series of lectures were not an investigation into the history of the novel, nor a prescription of how to write good prose, but an attempt to describe the novel as an art form. Starting from the rather open definition of the novel as "a fiction in prose of a certain extent", Forster tackles a different component each lecture. The story, that satisfies our thirst to find out what happens next, is covered distinctly from the plot, which is the embodiment of our curiosity as to why things happen. He covers a novel's characters, explaining how they can be 'flat' or 'round', and how they differ from real human beings. The realm of 'fantasy', the author's rights in his own universe, are considered, as are matters of pattern, rhythm and viewpoint, with one particularly interesting heading of 'prophecy'.

      In terms of whether the book is still relevant, Forster ended his lecture series with some conjecture on what the future may hold for the novel form, whether television would eventually make it even disappear altogether (thank goodness for Riepl's Law). His conjecture that whilst history and society move on, art remains static, is extremely interesting in light of the fact that these lectures were being given at the height of the modernist period, and pertinent works are only lightly touched upon. Furthermore, whilst he provides plenty of written examples, there are of course many references to classic works, which it probably helps to have read, but also references to authors who have been buried by posterity or are no longer so accessible.

      On the whole, however, Aspects of the Novel remains fundamentally readable today. It is not a high-brow scholarly affair; rather a well-thought out observational piece, taking a broad look at that vast field of literature we call the 'novel'. Forster makes some extremely astute remarks, and his witty and conversational style bring these across in an easy and comfortable way, that makes you feel his observations are frankly obvious. He does not encompass the full gamut of literary inquiry, but instead picks and chooses to highlight his points and support his argument that there are no fast and steady rules for what defines 'the novel'. This is probably required reading for students of English literature, but it's easy accessibility and thought-provoking titbits should appeal to just about all keen readers with a fascination for the novel form.
    • 3/5
      A study of an art form which has remarkable fluidity, and thus, is hard to set rules for....good within its necessary limits. The book has been often reprinted, so it seems of value. The text was first printed in 1927.
    • 5/5
      This is great! Even without having read all the authors mentioned or even having heard of a couple whose reputations have faded out since 1927 when this series of talks were given, there is so much here! And it is so lightly delivered. Forester does underestimate Austen's capabilities, but then as a man perhaps what he didn't see displayed he assumed didn't exist.
    • 4/5
      For the first 30 pages, I was surprisingly annoyed with Forster. But for the rest of the book, I wished I were sitting in an Oxford pub with him, having a lively exchange of ideas. I certainly don’t agree with all of his opinions (such as when he completely disregards novelists’ sociocultural situations—though he describes his idea beautifully: “Empires fall, votes are accorded, but to those people writing in the circular room it is the feel of the pen between their fingers that matters most”), and some of his ideas I began by disparaging but came to understand only in light of later ideas (such as when he describes story as a “low, atavistic form”). But almost without exception, his ideas were fascinating and had merit. That plus his conversational tone (the book is actually a series of transcribed lectures) are what made me wish I were good-naturedly debating with him over drinks.One of his most interesting ideas was that the difference between real people and characters in fiction is that we can never fully understand the secret inner life of our fellow human beings but fictional characters can be fully known to us. He says that the characters we feel are most “real” are not those who most closely resemble real people but those whom the author most fully knows. Not that the author will always explain everything about the character in the novel, of course, but he/she will express enough that the character will give readers a convincing surprise. He wrote a brilliant few pages in which he praises Jane Austen for her characters’ convincing responses to every situation (which is exactly what I love about her).There are a great many more ideas in the book than that one I mentioned above. I definitely recommend this book to anyone who likes to philosophize about fiction, truth, humanity, art, etc. And, if you’re interested, meet me for a drink and we’ll have a good conversation about it.
    • 3/5
      Occasionally interesting.(25)
    • 5/5
      E.M. Forster's book, "Aspects of the Novel" is fascinating. The book has been compiled from a series of lectures he delivered on the topic. It harks back to a time when writing was lyrical, compared to the things we read today. You must create time to read books like this. I am going to repeat - you must create the time, and not merely have the time. He has covered various aspects of the novel - the characters, the plot, fantasy and more. While doing so, he has also compared how different writers have dealt with these aspects. It helps if you have some familiarity with Dostoevsky, Proust, Tolstoy, Bronte, Joyce, HG Well, Henry James etc. Read the book, because of way he has dealt with the subject, and also because of the sheer joy that you will get from the book.
    • 4/5
      I remember a time, roughly ten years ago, when I had heard of Forster but never read him. I have now read almost everything he published in book form - and I adore his writing and his sensibilities. This too I adore, and my only reservation about his study of the novel and what works - and doesn't - in literature is that it is too short. Originally a series of lectures, this fine volume scratches at the surface but would have been better at twice the length. Perhaps Forster felt that he had said enough of what he wanted to say, and that it fell to others to continue the work he had begun.

    Book preview

    Aspects of the Novel - E. M. Forster

    I

    INTRODUCTORY

    THIS lectureship is connected with the name of William George Clark, a fellow of Trinity. It is through him we meet today, and through him we shall approach our subject.

    Clark was, I believe, a Yorkshireman. He was born in 1821, was at school at Sedbergh and Shrewsbury, entered Trinity as an undergraduate in 1840, became fellow four years later, and made the college his home for nearly thirty years, only leaving it when his health broke, shortly before his death. He is best known as a Shakespearian scholar, but he published two books on other subjects to which we must here refer. He went as a young man to Spain and wrote a pleasant lively account of his holiday called Gazpacho: Gazpacho being the name of a certain cold soup which he ate and appears to have enjoyed among the peasants of Andalusia: indeed he appears to have enjoyed everything. Eight years later, as a result of a holiday in Greece, he published a second book, Peloponnesus. Peloponnesus is a graver work and a duller. Greece was a serious place in those days, more serious than Spain, besides, Clark had by now not only taken Orders but become Public Orator, and he was, above all, travelling with Dr. Thompson, the then Master of the college, who was not at all the sort of person to be involved in a cold soup. The jests about mules and fleas are consequently few, and we are increasingly confronted with the remains of Classical Antiquity and the sites of battles. What survives in the book—apart from its learning—is its feeling for Greek country-side. Clark also travelled in Italy and Poland.

    To turn to his academic career. He planned the great Cambridge Shakespeare, first with Glover, then with Aldis Wright (both librarians of Trinity), and, helped by Aldis Wright, he issued the Globe Shakespeare, a popular text. He collected much material for an edition of Aristophanes. He also published some Sermons, but in 1869 he gave up Holy Orders—which, by the way, will exempt us from excessive orthodoxy. Like his friend and biographer Leslie Stephen, like Henry Sidgwick and others of that generation, he did not find it possible to remain in the Church, and he has explained his reasons in a pamphlet entitled The Present Dangers of the Church of England. He resigned his post of Public Orator in consequence, while retaining his college tutorship. He died at the age of fifty-seven, esteemed by all who knew him as a lovable, scholarly and honest man. You will have realized that he is a Cambridge figure. Not a figure in the great world or even at Oxford, but a spirit peculiar to these courts, which perhaps only you who tread them after him can justly appreciate: the spirit of integrity. Out of a bequest in his will, his old college has provided for a series of lectures, to be delivered annually on some period or periods of English Literature not earlier than Chaucer, and that is why we meet here now.

    Invocations are out of fashion, yet I wanted to make this small one, for two reasons. Firstly, may a little of Clark’s integrity be with us through this course; and secondly, may he accord us a little inattention! For I am not keeping quite strictly to the terms laid down—Period or periods of English Literature. This condition, though it sounds liberal and is liberal enough in spirit, happens verbally not quite to suit our subject, and I shall occupy the introductory lecture in explaining why this is. The points raised may seem trivial. But they will lead us to a convenient vantage post from which we can begin our main attack next week.

    We need a vantage post, for the novel is a formidable mass, and it is so amorphous—no mountain in it to climb, no Parnassus or Helicon, not even a Pisgah. It is most distinctly one of the moister areas of literature—irrigated by a hundred rills and occasionally degenerating into a swamp. I do not wonder that the poets despise it, though they sometimes find themselves in it by accident. And I am not surprised at the annoyance of the historians when by accident it finds itself among them. Perhaps we ought to define what a novel is before starting. This will not take a second. M. Abel Chevalley has, in his brilliant little manual,* provided a definition, and if a French critic cannot define the English novel, who can? It is, he says, a fiction in prose of a certain extent (une fiction en prose d’une certaine étendue). That is quite good enough for us, and we may perhaps go so far as to add that the extent should not be less than 50,000 words. Any fictitious prose work over 50,000 words will be a novel for the purposes of these lectures, and if this seems to you unphilosophic will you think of an alternative definition, which will include The Pilgrim’s Progress, Marius the Epicurean, The Adventures of a Younger Son, The Magic Flute, The Journal of the Plague, Zuleika Dobson, Rasselas, Ulysses, and Green Mansions, or else will give reasons for their exclusion? Parts of our spongy tract seem more fictitious than other parts, it is true: near the middle, on a tump of grass, stand Miss Austen with the figure of Emma by her side, and Thackeray holding up Esmond. But no intelligent remark known to me will define the tract as a whole. All we can say of it is that it is bounded by two chains of mountains neither of which rises very abruptly—the opposing ranges of Poetry and of History—and bounded on the third side by a sea—a sea that we shall encounter when we come to Moby Dick.

    Let us begin by considering the proviso English Literature. English we shall of course interpret as written in English, not as published south of the Tweed or east of the Atlantic, or north of the Equator: we need not attend to geographical accidents, they can be left to the politicians. Yet, even with this interpretation, are we as free as we wish? Can we, while discussing English fiction, quite ignore fiction written in other languages, particularly French and Russian? As far as influence goes, we could ignore it, for our writers have never been much influenced by the continentals. But—for reasons soon to be explained—I want to talk as little as possible about influence during these lectures. My subject is a particular kind of book and the aspects that book has assumed in English. Can we ignore its collateral aspects on the continent? Not entirely. An unpleasant and unpatriotic truth has here to be faced. No English novelist is as great as Tolstoy—that is to say has given so complete a picture of man’s life, both on its domestic and heroic side. No English novelist has explored man’s soul as deeply as Dostoevsky. And no novelist anywhere has analysed the modern consciousness as successfully as Marcel Proust. Before these triumphs we must pause. English poetry fears no one—excels in quality as well as quantity. But English fiction is less triumphant: it does not contain the best stuff yet written, and if we deny this we become guilty of provincialism.

    Now, provincialism does not signify in a writer, and may indeed be the chief source of his strength: only a prig or a fool would complain that Defoe is cockneyfied or Thomas Hardy countrified. But provincialism in a critic is a serious fault. A critic has no right to the narrowness which is the frequent prerogative of the creative artist. He has to have a wide outlook or he has not anything at all. Although the novel exercises the rights of a created object, criticism has not those rights, and too many little mansions in English fiction have been acclaimed to their own detriment as important edifices. Take four at random: Cranford, The Heart of Midlothian, Jane Eyre, Richard Feverel. For various personal and local reasons we may be attached to these four books. Cranford radiates the humour of the urban midlands, Midlothian is a handful out of Edinburgh, Jane Eyre is the passionate dream of a fine but still undeveloped woman. Richard Feverel exudes farmhouse lyricism and flickers with modish wit, but all four are little mansions, not mighty edifices, and we shall see and respect them for what they are if we stand them for an instant in the colonnades of War and Peace, or the vaults of The Brothers Karamazov.

    I shall not often refer to foreign novels in these lectures, still less would I pose as an expert on them who is debarred from discussing them by his terms of reference. But I do want to emphasize their greatness before we start; to cast, so to speak, this preliminary shadow over our subject, so that when we look back on it at the end we may have the better chance of seeing it in its true lights.

    So much for the proviso English. Now for a more important proviso, that of period or periods. This idea of a period of a development in time, with its consequent emphasis on influences and schools, happens to be exactly what I am hoping to avoid during our brief survey, and I believe that the author of Gazpacho will be lenient. Time, all the way through, is to be our enemy. We are to visualize the English novelists not as floating down that stream which bears all its sons away unless they are careful, but as seated together in a room, a circular room, a sort of British Museum reading-room—all writing their novels simultaneously. They do not, as they sit there, think I live under Queen Victoria, I under Anne, I carry on the tradition of Trollope, I am reacting against Aldous Huxley. The fact that their pens are in their hands is far more vivid to them. They are half mesmerized, their sorrows and joys are pouring out through the ink, they are approximated by the act of creation, and when Professor Oliver Elton says, as he does, that after 1847 the novel of passion was never to be the same again, none of them understand what he means. That is to be our vision of them—an imperfect vision, but it is suited to our powers, it will preserve us from a serious danger, the danger of pseudo-scholarship.

    Genuine scholarship is one of the highest successes which our race can achieve. No one is more triumphant than the man who chooses a worthy subject and masters all its facts and the leading facts of the subjects neighbouring. He can then do what he likes. He can, if his subject is the novel, lecture on it chronologically if he wishes because he has read all the important novels of the past four centuries, many of the unimportant ones, and has adequate knowledge of any collateral facts that bear upon English fiction. The late Sir Walter Raleigh (who once held this lectureship) was such a scholar. Raleigh knew so many facts that he was able to proceed to influences, and his monograph on the English novel adopts the treatment by period which his unworthy successor must avoid. The scholar, like the philosopher, can contemplate the river of time. He contemplates it not as a whole, but he can see the facts, the personalities, floating past him, and estimate the relations between them, and if his conclusions could be as valuable to us as they are to himself he would long ago have civilized the human race. As you know, he has failed. True scholarship is incommunicable, true scholars rare. There are a few scholars, actual or potential, in the audience today, but only a few, and there is certainly none on the platform. Most of us are pseudo-scholars, and I want to consider our characteristics with sympathy and respect, for we are a very large and quite a powerful class, eminent in Church and State, we control the education of the Empire, we lend to the Press such distinction as it consents to receive, and we are a welcome asset at dinner-parties.

    Pseudo-scholarship is, on its good side, the homage paid by ignorance to learning. It also has an economic side, on which we need not be hard. Most of us must get a job before thirty, or sponge on our relatives, and many jobs can only be got by passing an exam. The pseudo-scholar often does well in examination (real scholars are not much good), and even when he fails he appreciates their innate majesty. They are gateways to employment, they have power to ban and bless. A paper on King Lear may lead somewhere, unlike the rather far-fetched play of the same name. It may be a stepping-stone to the Local Government Board. He does not often put it to himself openly and say That’s the use of knowing things, they help you to get on. The economic pressure he feels is more often subconscious, and he goes to his exam, merely feeling that a paper on King Lear is a very tempestuous and terrible experience but an intensely real one. And whether he be cynical or naïf, he is not to be blamed. As long as learning is connected with earning, as long as certain jobs can only be reached through exams, so long must we take the examination system seriously. If another ladder to employment was contrived, much so-called education would disappear,

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