V a l u e1 9 1an affair than tragedy. There are some searching comedies and
some trite tragedies. Joyce’s Ulysses is a profound piece of comedy,
which is not the same as saying that it is profoundly funny, even
though it is.) Surfaces are not always superficial. There are literary
forms in which complexity would be out of place. Paradise Lost
reveals little psychological depth or intricacy, and neither do
Robert Burns’s lyrics. Blake’s ‘Tyger’ poem is deep and complex,
but not psychologically so.
Plenty of critics, as we have seen, insist that good art is coherent
art. The most accomplished works of literature are the most
harmoniously unified. In an impressive economy of technique,
every detail pulls its weight in the overall design. One problem
with this claim is that ‘Little Bo Peep’ is coherent but banal.
Besides, many an effective postmodern or avant- garde work is
centreless and eclectic, made up of parts that do not slot neatly
together. They are not necessarily any the worse for that. There is
no virtue in harmony or cohesion as such, as I have suggested
already. Some of the great artworks of the Futurists, Dadaists and
Surrealists are deliberately dissonant. Fragmentation can be more
fascinating than unity.
Perhaps what makes a work of literature exceptional is its action
and narrative. Certainly Aristotle thought that a solid, well- wrought
action was central to at least one species of literary writing (tragedy).
Yet nothing much happens in one of the greatest plays of the twen-
tieth century (Waiting for Godot), one of the finest novels (Ulysses)
and one of the most masterly poems (The Waste Land). If a sturdy
plot and a strong narrative are vital to literary status, Virginia Woolf
sinks to a dismally low place in the league tables. We no longer rate
a substantial plot as highly as Aristotle did. In fact, we no longer
insist on a plot or narrative at all. Unless we are small children, we