The Corrections Agenda
Jonathan Franzen’s new romance, Freedom like his previous one, “The Corrections” is a masterwork of American fiction. These novels are very similar. Once again Franzen has fashioned a capacious but intricately ordered narration that in its majestic sweep seems to gather up every fresh datum of our shared millennial life. Franzen knows that college freshmen are today called “first years,” like tender shoots in an overplanted garden, Here you can get for free PDF ebooks; that a high-minded mom, however ruthless in her judgments of her neighbors’ ethical lapses, will condemn them with no epithet harsher than “weird”; that reckless drivers who barrel across lanes are almost always youngish men for whom the use of blinkers was apparently an affront to their masculinity.
These are not free of charge observations. They grow organically from the themes that animate “Freedom” beginning with the title, a phrase that has been elevated throughout United States history to near-theological status, and has been twinned, for most of that same history, with the secularizing impulses of “power”.
That parallel is where the trouble starts. As each of us seeks to assert his personal liberties — a phrase
J. Franzen uses with full command of its ideological implications — we helplessly face with others in equal pursuit of their own freedoms, which, more often than not, seem to threaten our own. It is no surprise, then, that the personality susceptible to the imagine of limitless freedom is a personality also prone, should the imagine ever sour, to misanthropy and heat as Franzen writes. And the dream will always sour; for it is seldom enough complex to follow one’s creed; others must squeeze it too. They alone can validate it.
The imagine-power ratio is lived out most acutely — most depressingly, but also most variously and dynamically — within the family, since its members orbit one another at the closest possible rate. The family novel is as old as the English romance itself — indeed is ontologically inseparable from it. But the family as microcosm or micro-history has become Franzen’s particular theme, as it is no one else’s now.
The Corrections impregnated in the atmosphere of the 90s, showed the promising corrections improvised by the three lost Lambert family members, adults manques lured to the voluptuary capitals of the Western Seaboard, escaping the Depression ethic of their Eastern parents, who continue to loom over their lives, disapproving idols, though themselves weakened by senescence and its attendant troubles. Locked together in businesses, assailed by guilt and love, the Lamberts thrash against the cycle of wants — to forget, to explain, to solve the riddle of unacknowledged hurts buried under thick layers of half-repressed mind.
In lesser hands, this might have devolved into cliche. Also the timing looked ominous. Created a week before 9/11, Franzen’s novel, set against a panorama of 1990s excesses (promiscuous sex and rampant drug use, trendy East Coast restaurants, high-tech gadgetry), all outgrowths of the rambunctious Europe economy might have seemed fatally out of step with the somber new mood.
Instead, “The Freedom” towered out of the rubble, at once a monument to a world destroyed and a beacon lighting the way for a new kind of novel that might break the suffocating grip of postmodernism, whose most adept practitioners were busily creating, as James Wood objected at the moment, curiously arrested ebooks that know a thousand different things — the recipe for the best Indonesian fish curry! the sonics of the trombone! the fish market in London! the history of strip cartoons! — but do not know a single human being.
“The Corrections” did not so much repudiate all this as surgically change it. Franzen cracked open the opaque shell of postmodernism, tweezed out its tangled circuitry and inserted in its place the warm, beating heart of an authentic humanism. His fabricated canvas teemed with information — about equity finance, car engineering, currency manipulation in United States, the neurochemistry of clinical depression. But the data flowed through the arteries of narrative, just as it had done in the novels of Jackie Collins and Stephen King, Bellow and Mann. Like those giants, Franzen attended to the quiet drama of the interior life and also recorded its fraught transactions with the public world. Even as his contemporaries had diminished the place of the single woman being Franzen, miraculously, had enlarged it.