Historical

For the hack novelist, to whom speedy output is more important than art, thought, and originality, history provides ready-made plots and characters. A novel on Alexander the Great or Joan of Arc can be as flimsy and superficial as any potboiler. But historical themes, to which may be added prehistoric or mythical ones, have inspired the greatest novelists, as Leo Tolstoy’s War and Peace and Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma reveal. Distinguished 20th-century historical novels, such as Arthur Koestler’s The Gladiators (1939), Robert Graves’s I, Claudius (1934), Zoé Oldenbourg’s Destiny of Fire (1960), Mary Renault’s The King Must Die (1958), and Toni Morrison’s Beloved (1987), exemplify an important function of the fictional imagination—to interpret remote or past events in human and particular terms and to transform documentary fact, with the assistance of imaginative conjecture, into immediate sensuous and emotional experience. Indeed, in Morrison’s novel the past literally haunts her characters, conveying to readers the trauma of slavery using visceral imagery and a fragmentary, multivoiced narrative.

There is a kind of historical novel, little more than a charade, which frequently has a popular appeal because of a common belief that the past is richer, bloodier, and more erotic than the present. Such novels, which include such immensely popular works as those of Georgette Heyer, or Baroness Emmuska Orczy’s Scarlet Pimpernel stories in England in the early 20th century, and Forever Amber (1944) by Kathleen Winsor in the United States, may use the trappings of history but, because there is no real assimilation of the past into the imagination, the result is considered to be a mere costume ball. On the other hand, the American novelist John Barth showed in The Sot-Weed Factor (1960) that mock historical scholarship—preposterous events served up with parodic pomposity—could constitute a viable, and not necessarily farcical, approach to the past. Barth’s history is cheerfully suspect, but his sense of historical perspective is genuine.

Virginia Woolf—in Orlando (1928) and Between the Acts (1941)—made bold attempts to squeeze vast tracts of historical time into a small space and thus make them as fictionally manageable as the events of a single day. And John Dos Passos’s U.S.A., which can be taken as a historical study of a phase in America’s development, is a reminder that experiment is not incompatible with the sweep and amplitude that great historical themes can bring to the novel.

Picaresque

In Spain, the novel about the rogue or pícaro was a recognized form, and such English novels as Daniel Defoe’s The Fortunate Mistress (1724) can be regarded as picaresque in the etymological sense. But the term has come to connote as much the episodic nature of the original species as the dynamic of roguery. Henry Fielding’s Tom Jones, whose hero is amoral and very nearly gallows-meat, has been called picaresque, and Charles Dickens’s The Pickwick Papers (1837)—whose eponym is a respectable and even childishly ingenuous scholar—can be accommodated in the category.

The requirements for a classic picaresque novel are apparently length, loosely linked episodes almost complete in themselves, intrigue, fights, amorous adventure, and such optional items as stories within the main narrative, songs, poems, or moral homilies. Perhaps inevitably, with such a structure or lack of it, the driving force must come from a wild or roguish rejection of the settled bourgeois life, a desire for the open road, with adventures in inn bedrooms and meetings with questionable wanderers. In the modern period, Saul Bellow’s The Adventures of Augie March (1953) and Jack Kerouac’s The Dharma Bums (1958) have something of the right episodic, wandering, free, questing character. But in an age that lacks the unquestioning acceptance of traditional morality against which the old picaresque heroes played out their villainous lives, it is not easy to revive the novela picaresca as the anonymous author of Lazarillo de Tormes (1554)—which is considered the first picaresque novel—conceived it, or as Spanish writers of the beginning of the 17th century such as Mateo Alemán, Vicente Espinel, and Luis Vélez de Guevara developed it. The modern criminal or rogue wars with the police rather than with society, and his career is one of closed and narrow techniques, not compatible with the gay abandon of the true pícaro.

Sentimental

The term sentimental, in its mid-18th-century usage, signified refined or elevated feeling, and it is in this sense that it must be understood in Laurence Sterne’s A Sentimental Journey (1768). Samuel Richardson’s Pamela (1740) and Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s Julie; or, The New Eloise (1761) are sentimental in that they exhibit a passionate attachment between the sexes that rises above the merely physical. The vogue of the sentimental love novel was one of the features of the Romantic movement, and the form maintained a certain moving dignity despite a tendency to excessive emotional posturing. The germs of mawkishness are clearly present in Sterne’s Tristram Shandy (1760–67), though offset by a diluted Rabelaisianism and a certain cerebral quality. The debasement by which the term sentimental came to denote a self-indulgence in superficial emotions occurred in the Victorian era, under the influence of sanctimony, religiosity, and a large commercial demand for bourgeois fiction.

Sentimental novels of the 19th and 20th centuries are characterized by an invertebrate emotionalism and a deliberately lachrymal appeal. Stock emotions are always easily aroused through stock devices, but both the aim and the technique are generally eschewed by serious writers. Yet neither Dickens nor William Makepeace Thackeray was immune to the temptations of sentimentality—as is instanced by their treatment of deathbed scenes. The reported death of Tiny Tim in A Christmas Carol (1843) is an example of Dickens’s ability to provoke two tearful responses from the one situation—one of sorrow at a young death, the other of relief at the discovery that the death never occurred. Despite such patches of emotional excess, Dickens cannot really be termed a sentimental novelist. Such a designation must be reserved for such writers as Mrs. Henry Wood, the author of East Lynne (1861), a melodramatic and moralizing tale of the fall of virtue. That the sentimental novel was capable of appeal even in the mid-20th-century Atomic Age was shown by the success of Love Story (1970) by Erich Segal, a Yale professor of classics. Its popularity, and that of later works such as Robert James Waller’s contemporary romance The Bridges of Madison County (1991), seems to indicate that not even hardened cynics or readers with strictly intellectual tastes can fully disdain the sentimental appeal of an effective tearjerker.

Gothic

The first Gothic fiction appeared with such works as Horace Walpole’s The Castle of Otranto (1764) and Matthew Gregory Lewis’s The Monk (1796), which countered 18th-century “rationalism” with scenes of mystery, horror, and wonder. Gothic (the spelling “Gothick” better conveys the contemporary flavor) was a designation derived from architecture, and it carried—in opposition to the Italianate style of Neoclassical building more appropriate to the Augustan Age—connotations of rough and primitive grandeur. The atmosphere of a Gothic novel was expected to be dark, tempestuous, ghostly, full of madness, outrage, superstition, and the spirit of revenge. Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, which maintains its original popularity and even notoriety centuries after its 1818 debut, has in overplus the traditional Gothic ingredients, with its weird God-defying experiments, its eldritch shrieks, and, above all, its monster. Edgar Allan Poe developed the Gothic style brilliantly in the United States, and he has been a considerable influence. A good deal of early science fiction, such as H.G. Wells’s The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), seems to spring out of the Gothic movement, and the Gothic atmosphere was seriously cultivated in England in the later novels of Iris Murdoch and in the Gormenghast sequence (1946–59) of Mervyn Peake.

Many writers of the American South—notably Flannery O’Connor, Carson McCullers, and Truman Capote—excelled in a regional macabre style that was dubbed “Southern gothic.” Later American practitioners of the style include Toni Morrison, Pat Conroy, Colson Whitehead, Cormac McCarthy, and Donna Tartt, though not all of them set their novels in Southern states. Tartt, for example, used an East Coast university campus to explore the grotesque in her debut, The Secret History (1992); its continuing popularity in the 21st century spawned the Gothic-flavored online subculture of “dark academia.”

It is noteworthy that Gothic fiction has always been approached in a spirit of deliberate suspension of the normal canons of taste. Like a circus trick, a piece of Gothic fiction asks to be considered as ingenious entertainment; the pity and terror are not aspects of a cathartic process but transient emotions to be, somewhat perversely, enjoyed for their own sake.

Psychological

The psychological novel first appeared in 17th-century France, with Madame de La Fayette’s La Princesse de Clèves (1678), and the category was consolidated in the following century by such works as the Abbé Prévost’s Manon Lescaut (1731). Earlier fiction had been characterized by a proliferation of action and incidental characters; the psychological novel limited itself to a few characters whose motives for action could be examined and analyzed. In England, the psychological novel did not appear until the Victorian era, when George Eliot became its first great exponent. It has been assumed since then that the serious novelist’s prime concern is the workings of the human mind, and hence much of the greatest fiction must be termed psychological. Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment deals less with the ethical significance of a murder than with the soul of the murderer. Gustave Flaubert’s interest in Emma Bovary in his 1857 realist masterpiece has less to do with the consequences of her mode of life in terms of nemesic logic (i.e., poetic justice) than with the patterns of her mind. In Anna Karenina, Leo Tolstoy presents a large-scale obsessive study of feminine psychology that is almost excruciating in its relentless probing. The novels of Henry James are psychological in that the crucial events occur in the souls of the protagonists, and it was perhaps James more than any serious novelist before or since who convinced readers of more frivolous novels that the “psychological approach” guarantees a lack of action and excitement.

The theories of Sigmund Freud are often credited as the source of the psychoanalytical novel. Freud was anticipated, however, by Shakespeare (in, for example, his treatment of Lady Macbeth’s somnambulistic guilt). Two 20th-century novelists of great psychological insight—Joyce and Nabokov—professed a disdain for Freud. To write a novel with close attention to the Freudian or Jungian techniques of analysis does not necessarily produce new prodigies of psychological revelation; Oedipus and Electra complexes have become commonplace tropes of superficial novels and films. The great disclosures about human motivation have been achieved more by the intuition and introspection of novelists and dramatists than by the more systematic work of clinicians.