A book like Jacques the Fatalist, by Denis Diderot, should endear to me. That's what I thought going into it. The same thought always arises whenever I read a book that examines the artifice of storytelling, the kind typically promoted as wild or zany or madcap or something. A ludic sort of book should speak, above all, to a ludic sort of person. After years, I've slowly come to realize that my relationship to them may be more complicated than that. Haruki Murakami, when asked if he'd read much Thomas Pynchon, suggested the opposite, that writers with similar impulses tend to stay away from each other. It's proved true of me, anyway.
Diderot has an excellent sense of humor. His timing, individual lines, slapstick, and throwaway gags merit intense study. So it is with some difficulty that I say it's not enough to sustain his wild and zany (and bawdy) - well, it's an extended fiction, let's say, not a novel. The narrator mentions somewhere that, with few exceptions, he doesn't really like novels at all. In case the point isn't clear, he stresses more than once: This is not a novel. More of an antinovel than the picaresque novel it seems to be at first. His characters, Jacques and his master, traveling to nowhere in particular, traveling and waiting for things to happen and telling stories about what has happened in the meantime, are fun but all surface, philosophical moments notwithstanding. In terms of plotting, it occurs on the fly and, no surprise, Diderot drifts, coming off as if he's killing time. The narrator frequently and rather ostentatiously interrupts to inform the reader that he's quite capable of doing this or that with his story. "How easy it is to tell stories!" Maybe not. After the initial shock wears off, the bit gets old real quick. All of it combined distracts me from his primary theme in the end. If pressed, I couldn't say what he clarifies about fate that truly cuts deep. I'm drawn in only to be repelled.
The back cover credits Diderot with pioneering techniques of experimental fiction still considered so today. And it is true that it's another work that illustrates the problem with the term "post-modern," coined long after Jacques was written. But while Diderot's approach to fiction is useful for highlighting and perhaps justifiably poking fun at conventions, and anticipates such works as The Trial and Waiting for Godot, it doesn't satisfy as a replacement for the basic pleasures of storytelling.
Part of my reluctance to read such books is that I've never felt the urgency to be alerted to the idea of the artifice of fiction. I certainly understand why writers chafe within the bounds of established rules or seek a drastic shift from whatever comes to define the real. But I prefer the method of Cervantes, Borges, Murakami and others, writers who are as loose and playful as advertised without being in such a rage about pulling back the curtain. Borges finally pays tribute to Herbert Quain for inspiring his story "The Circular Ruins." Toru sits on the couch, feeling as though he's in a novel.... They acknowledge the game without losing their taste for playing it. This is My Style. Diderot, on the other hand, for all his experiments and criticisms and cleverness, seems exasperated to be telling a story in the first place, exasperating me once or twice in the process. Not My Style. (It might be worth noting that somewhere Diderot preempts criticism of Jacques by saying: "Good." Less people to read it. Inspiring exasperation would seem to be his intention, in which case I have no choice but to admit he succeeds.)
My curiosity about the man and his work, which covered several intellectual fields, remains. As for Jacques, for now I'll keep it around when I want to enjoy certain exchanges, certain laughs.
