flict in her fiction, but, according to AIdridge,nthere are insufl&cient moral prohibitionsnin the society she describes;nconsequently, her treatment of adulterynis trivialized and suffers from “arbitrarinessnand inconsequence.”nThe preoccupation with the processnof narration can be similarly counterproductive.nHe remarks that John Barth,ninLost in theFunhouse, “emerges as then”a surfeit of negation and an apparentnfailure of understanding of just what valuesnhave been negated, what were the illusionsnwe once mistook for truth, andnwhat, if any, remain to be exposed.”nOfficial conventions of negative discourse,nsuch as black humor, have becomeninstitutionalized. They are available,nlike processed foods in a supermarket,nto any artist or social commentator “inn”Mr. Aklridge’s judgments arc iincommonl> h:ir.sh.”‘n—iNtii’ York Times lUtok Nefieivnauthor so obsessively conscious of thenpossible ways of presenting his narrativenthat finally all possibilities are sabotagednand the very idea of narrative becomesnunthinkable.” Aldridge notes the samenunintended consequences in the mandatorynegalitarianism now prevailingnamong us, which he says has “shortcircuited”nwhole areas of the nationalnpsyche, depleted its vital force and resultednin “rampant mediocrity.” Likewise,npsychiatry, while intended as a healingnforce, has actually reduced our sense ofn”the concrete dramatic relation existingnbetween the self and the environment”nand inhibited our ability to deal with experiencensimply by confronting andncoping with it. In one area of Americannsociety and fiction after another, Aldridgenprobes beneath the surface, sees connectionsnand recognizes implicationsnand contradictions. His critiques of televisionnand youth culture are particularlyntelling.nOne of his major arguments is that thenclassic modernist view (“the dislocatednself no longer sustained by the socialnstructure and idealistic assumptions ofnthe past, trapped in a demythologizednand therefore demoralized present,ndying a litde more each day as the forcesnof entropy deepen and accelerate througjioutnthe world”) has become a cliche andnconsequently lost much of its meaning.nIt no longer serves an adversary function.nMany contemporary writers havenadopted this vision a priori, uncritically,nvwthout measuring it against life as actuallynlived. As a result, we now suffer fromnneed of a jar of pickled Angst or instantnDoom, and these ingredients had betternbe abundantly present in any work withnpretensions to being taken seriously asnan honest statement about the larger unrealitiesnof our time.” As these conventionsnhave established themselves, “thenconventions of verisimilitude and sanitynhave been nullified.”nAldridge concludes by asserting thatnthe prevailing orthodoxy of unexaminednnegativism leaves much of the propernwork of the imagination yet to be done,nand he encourages novelists “to becomengenuinely and radically subversive oncenagain, to resume the traditional functionnof examining with the clear eye of sanitynwhatever are the shams and delusions ofnthe prevailing culture, and, by so doing,nto restore some measure of wisdom,nwonder, and even delight to the sombernpassage of our history through time.”nJ ohn Gardner completed On Becomingna Novelist just a few weeks beforenhis death in September 1982, at age 49,nin a motorcycle accident. He had publishedn10 volumes of criticism, five booksnfor children, two works of poetry, twoncollections of short stories, and eightnnovels. On Becoming a Novelist is thenproduct both of this publishing experiencenand of his years as a teacher of creativenwriting. It is dfrected to the seriousnbegiiming novelist who wants not justnto be published but to produce fine writingnand be read. Gardner’s objective isn”to deal with, and if possible get rid of,nthe beginning novelist’s worries.”nnnThe first chapter, comprising half thenbook, treats the question: Do 1 have whatnit takes? What it takes, according tonGardner, is verbal sensitivity, an accuratenand nonderivative eye, a storyteller’snintelligence, and an almost demonic compulsiveness.nThe following chapters treatnthe questions: How should I educatenmyself? and Can I make a living fromnwriting novels? The advice, often expressednin personal experience, is generallynwise, practical, and encouraging,ntreating everything from overcomingnwriter’s block to dealing with agents.nGardner is not one of the novelistsntreated in Aldridge’s book. He doesn’t fitnthe categories examined there. In manynways he and Aldridge are on the samenwavelength. Like Aldridge, he believed,nas he told an audience at the Bread LoafnConference, that the postmodernists arenwrong “because they examine the microscopenthat looks at life, not life itself”nlike Aldridge, he warns the writer againstnexpressing a despafr or nihilism that hendoes not genuinely feel. Both men displayna marked preference for mimeticnfiction and a suspicion of experimentalnfiction or what Robert Scholes has calledn”febulation,” an antirealism that attemptsnto be self-contained. Both are preoccupiednwith the expression of values innfiction. Descriptively speaking, saysnGardner in On Becoming a Novelist,n”the fiction that lasts tends to be ‘moral,’nthat is, it works with a minimum of cynicalnmanipulation and it tends to reach affirmationsnfavorable rather than opposednto life.” One of his students at last year’snBread Loaf Conference reported his sayingnthat “affirmative fiction will heal us,nwill save us from ourselves, from despair.nIf fiction is immoral, then it is insignificant,nwhatever the dazzle of its expression ornthe appeal of its theory. Literature as ‘play,’nregardless of the level of the skill of play,nis unworthy of serious interest and attentionnof serious readers.”nBut peculiarly enough, at about thensame time he was saying such things, anWashington Po5? feature quoted him asnsaying he was ashamed to have publishednOn Moral Fiction (1978), that it wasnJanuary 1984n