OPINIONS & Viiw^T^nTrivialities & FlabbinessnAnn Beattie: The Burning House;nRandom House; New York.nJoyce Carol Oates: A BloodsmoornRomance; E. P. Dutton; New York.nby Stephen L. TannernAnn Beattie succeeds brilliantly innwhat she sets out to do. But what shensets out to do is trivial. And this trivialitynis symptomatic of what is wrong withnmuch contemporary fiction: style andntechnique outstrip theme and vision;nmeans become ends in themselves. Sincenher stories began to appear in The NewnYorker nearly 10 years ^o, she has publishednthree collections of short storiesnand two novels and has become a sort ofnminor cultural phenomenon. The storiesnusually appear in m^azines before beingnpublished between hard covers; 10 ofnthe 16 stories in The Burning Housendebuted first in The New Yorker. Her fictionnstrikes a peculiarly responsive chordnand sense of identification among certainnyoung people who graduated fromncollege during the cultural upheavals ofnthe 60’s.nThe response seems peculiar becausenher fiction contains none of the usualncharacteristics that generate a devotednfollowing. It is not witty, dramatic,nexplicitly sexual, political, or animatednby ideas or philosophy. Instead, it coollynbut vividly describes young people—neducated, upper-middle class, from thenAtlantic states and oriented toward NewnYork City—^leading vacuous lives characterizednby low-grade depression: livesnof quiet desperation if there ever werensuch. The stories are fiill of disloyalty,nirresponsibility, divorce, abortion, lovers,nchildren shutded between parents,ndrinking, being stoned, psychoanalysis,nhomosexuality, Valium, Librium, Dalmane,nand Donnatal.nDr. Tanner is a frequent contributor tonChronicles.n() mmm^K^m^^^nChronicles of CulturenWhat is the source of her appeal? Partnof it is the narcissistic pleasure thatncomes flrom seeing the patterns and valuesnof one’s own life captured on thenprinted page, regardless of how emptynthat life might be. Being the subject ofnfiction bestows significance upon a mannernof living that otherwise lacks it. Beattienhas a remarkable ability to observenand record detail and capture the idiomsnand interests of the people whose livesnshe describes. I suspect that much of hernappeal derives from conspicuous namedropping.nThe Burning House is like anNew Former-approved guide for beingnchic. We can learn what is “in”: the voguenbooks, authors, foods, cookbooks, restaurants,nclothing fashions, cartoonists,nartists, popular music and performers,nboutique knickknacks and gadgets, leisurenactivities, and studied eccentricity.nBeattie likes to read: “mostly modern fiction,nnothing before I960 if 1 can helpnit,” and “a lot of magazines.” Her husbandnforced her to give up People magazinenfor her 30th birthday; given her obsessionnwith fads and fashions, it must havenbeen a painfiil sacrifice.nAs one probes deeper in order to understandnthe character of Beattie’s fictionnand its appeal to certain Uberal-culturenappetites, a centrifiagal impulse in modernnculture is exposed. Richard Weavernnn(Ideas Have Consequences) identified itnas a “flight toward the periphery.” Henenvisioned a center of cultural unity, anrealm of time-tested values, a spherenencompassing the fundamental humannquestions, the timeless truths. He describednmodern disintegration as a movementnaway from this center toward individualismnand specialization: “In proportionnas man approaches the outer rim,nhe becomes lost in details, and the morenhe is preoccupied with details, the lessnhe can understand them.” As the possibifitynfor certainty about large humannissues diminishes, the modern egotistngrasps at the particulars. In Weaver’snwords, “They seem uinocuous. Any extensionnbeyond, toward center, mayninvolve grave duties.” The very possibilitynthat timeless truths exist is a reproachnto the life of laxness and indifferencenthat modern egotism encourages. Accordingnto Weaver, liberalism mandatesnthat we refrain from defining, subsuming,nor judging; we must rest on the peripherynand be tolerant of every manifestation ofnbehavior. And the public is systematicallyntaught to confuse factual particularsnwith wisdom.nThe implications for fiction are obviousnin Beattie’s stories. The responsibilitiesnof the writer are restrictively narrowed.nA storyteller is expected only to describenparticulars and feels not the slightest obligationnto interpret, evaluate, shape, ornperform other acts that would lead towardnassertion, however tentative ornsubtle. No attempt is made to use fictionnas a means of examining, testing, or actualizingnany ideal radiating from thencenter. Beattie has said, “I’ve never writtennanything that I knew the ending of”nShe loves the notion of “found art”:n”Warhol soupcans—that kind of stuff.”nShe begins writing and puts in what happensnto register upon her consciousness.nWhen asked ff she is interested in largernthemes, she replied, “No, I don’t thinknI’ve ever written anything about a largerntheme.” Hers is writing on the periphery.n