“Time: this is what the novel asks of the writer and
the reader. And time is just what our contemporary existence is determined to
shorten. So much of our homely, domestic technology is meant to make things go
faster, the human effort shorter. And it is curious that saving time at one
point does not make one ready to give it at another. Quite the contrary. If the
laundry washes and dries quickly, the grateful housewife does not then think
that she will give to the dishes the time left over from the quickened wash:
no, she demands instantly that the dishes keep pace with the laundry. But it is
really a more subtle time the novel depends on. A spiritual and intellectual
lengthening, extending like a dream in which much is surrendered and slowly
transformed. Perhaps it is the fear that something has happened to time, some
change has taken place, which makes us wonder if a new generation will always
be there to read the novels, particularly the novels of the past. The terms of
the contract between the author and the reader are severe, the demands are
serious. Frequently we hear the doleful warning of a retreat on the part of the
reader, a withdrawal of attention, an indifference to the august tradition that
stands there like so many stone and marble college buildings, ready for parody
or destruction.”—American essayist-novelist Elizabeth Hardwick (1916-2007), “Reflections on Fiction,” The New York Review of Books, Feb. 13,
1969
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