We were born
Born to be wild
We can climb so high
I never wanna die
– Steppenwolf
The Great American Novel (GAN) is the Super Bowl of world literature. Every February, America showcases its most dazzling display of athleticism. But the rest of the world barely knows who’s playing. Of course, Americans are similarly underwhelmed every four years when foreign countries hold a tournament for a sport they also call “football.”
Solipsism has been a feature, not a bug, of both the NFL and the GAN. If Americans had to play with others, the Super Bowl would be less than half the spectacle – no forward pass, no bone-crushing tackles, no halftime show, no cheerleaders in skimpy outfits.
Yes, Russian, French and British writers churned out some pretty good novels, even great ones, but they are no longer reaching for the brass ring (which was always an American thing anyway).
People talk of great French novels or even the greatest French novel, but nobody talks of an abstract “Great French Novel” whose pursuit is not only still possible but necessary for the existence and renewal of the nation. Between Proust, Hugo and Flaubert, it’s just about all done and dusted.
New GANs, in contrast, must be canonized every decade or two with Schumpeterian ruthlessness. The American experiment is always in flux and its chroniclers are chosen as much by the times as for their talent.
Ralph Ellison’s novel of black alienation was as necessary for canonical relevance as are the two Roths’, Henry and Philip (unrelated), chronicles of the immigrant experience and Jewish American anxiety.
And now, here we are. For the next 10, 20… maybe 30 years, only Chinese Americans can write the GAN. This isn’t so much a commentary on the literary merits of Chinese Americans, of which we should seriously put in more effort, but on the march of history.
Nobody else knows. Other Americans are not standing on the requisite vantage point to see clearly….
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