A is for Authentic
In a recent opinion piece in the New York Review of Books, Zadie Smith comments on contemporary fiction, and in doing so takes a sledgehammer to many of the arguments made about appropriation. Her perspective is clear: she is rejecting the idea “that we can and should write only about people who are fundamentally “like” us: racially, sexually, genetically, nationally, politically, personally. That only an intimate authorial autobiographical connection with a character can be the rightful basis of a fiction. I do not believe that. I could not have written a single one of my books if I did.” She goes on to observe that writing fiction is, by definition, writing things that are not true. Motivated by what she calls the ‘fascination to presume’, she adds, “We also forget what writers are: people with voices in our heads and a great deal of inappropriate curiosity about the lives of others.”
It’s a wonderful, bracing piece about imagination and the role of fiction, the exploration of possible people in possible worlds that are no more, and no less, than conjured constructions:
“We can suspect that some people will tell our story better than others. But we can never be entirely certain. Despite the confidence of the data harvesters, [a reference to Shoshana Zuboff’s book on surveillance capitalism] a self can never be known perfectly or in its entirety. The intimate meeting between a book and its reader can’t be predetermined. To put it another way, a book can try to modify your behavior, but it has no way of knowing for sure that it has. In front of a book you are still free. Between reader and book, there is only the continual risk of wrongness, word by word, sentence by sentence. The Internet does not get to decide. Nor does the writer. Only the reader decides. So decide.” [i]
Swept along, as I often am, it was only a day later that I asked myself ‘where does authenticity fit into this?’ Obviously, I didn’t mean authentic in the sense of being objectively true or accurate: that would be a nonsense in relation to fiction. Nor, clearly, was I thinking about distinguishing an authentic work of fiction from something that is derivative or has been plagiarised, the work of another person. In the sense I was using the word it referred to being true to the individual, to the writer in this case, but not true to the writer as an exemplar of criteria like gender, class or ethnicity. When I read a novel like White Teeth or NW, I know it is Zadie Smith who constructed those characters, it’s her voice, conveyed through the people and events each novel depicts; her authentic voice, but how do I know that?
I first tussled with the word ‘authentic’ when I was teaching in a business school, and came across Robert Terry’s book Authentic Leadership. [ii] It claimed to offer “a fresh perspective on bringing people together in organisations to make something different happen”. It took 106 pages to get there, but chapter six was the one I sought, on ‘authenticity in leadership’. In a discursive and at times confusing exploration of ideas, Terry eventually plumps for “genuineness and a refusal to engage in self-deception.” [iii] Tantalising, but he went on to suggest authentic leadership has to be examined in relation to ethics, vision and power, and somehow the whole enterprise slid back to looking at mission, values and different forms of power relationships.
Authentic Leadership sits on a bookshelf close to my desk. Over the years I have pulled it out and reread some sections. I found it elusive, feeling there was more there than I could grasp, that the core of Terry’s authenticity has missed me, as each time I was drawn back to grappling with the familiar nonsense in business books on good and bad leaders and their skills, most of which have done little to advance the analysis offered by Machiavelli in The Prince 500 years ago.
It was frustrating, too, because there is a part of me that says, ‘I just know when something is authentic’, as if I have a built-in authenticity detector (the obverse of the well-known Australian bullshit detector, perhaps?). Not just frustrated, but uncomfortable. I remember years ago, when taking over running a business that included a restaurant, my predecessor wanted to impart some valuable lessons he had learnt. Down in the restaurant, he decided to explain his wisdom on wine. “You don’t need to read any books, listen to experts, or go to wine tastings. Just drink it. You’ll just know what’s good.’ After this homily, he ordered a bottle of wine: Ben Ean Moselle! (For those of you unfamiliar with this very popular wine of 40 years ago, it was the local equivalent of Mateus Rosé, best described as pale green sugared water!).
How do I “just know” what is authentic. By relying on my untutored senses? If you have a sweet-tooth, as I do, does that mean everything sweet is good? When I arrived in Australia, people were still drinking Barossa Pearl, a sweet, semi-sparkling white wine, much loved by teenagers, and it was awful, rot-gut stuff, essentially grape water and sugar, possibly analogous to the first version of Cold Duck in the US. Easy to drink and, as a result, easily consumed to excess at parties, leading to foolish behaviour and mornings combining regrets and headaches.
Confused, I turned to The Oxford Companion to Philosophy, and read the entry on authenticity. [iv] In it, I discovered that authenticity is, according to Heidegger, understanding the existential structure of one’s life. An authentic individual “has been aroused from everyday concerns by Angst, takes responsibility for their [sic] own life, and thereby ‘chooses’ their identity.” [v] I know the beginning of a slippery slope when I see it, as I was being drawn towards existentialism, phenomenology, and Hussel’s epochē, suspending judgement to see things as they really are. This is turgid territory. I’ve read many texts on phenomenology, and once found the approach fascinating, but I am not convinced I want to go down that rabbit hole again. Then I lacked the philosophical skills to make sense of much of what was there; today, I lack the persistence, too. A narrow reading of this approach might seem to suggest that a writer is being authentic when they are true to who they are in terms of gender, ethnicity, class, and so on. Exactly what Zadie Smith was arguing against. However, narrow readings are often misleading, and I don’t think authenticity is so superficial. I see it as being true to the whole person, not some limited set of overt characteristics. It is much deeper than that. Part of Zadie Smith is her fascination to presume: as she so eloquently explains, this is one key to what animates her novels.
Depth. That was what I admired about Robert Terry. It was true his book often fell back on the familiar management speak of mission statement and commitment. However, he was trying to explain how authenticity was the underpinning, the basis, of more than that. I decided to read it again, and as I did so, it revealed a different perspective. He was suggesting that authentic leadership arises from the combination of seven factors, and that all have to be understood. They included: existence, the history of an event where action was sought; two more prosaic issues about resources available and systems and structure; power, which he saw as being about the commitment of all the stakeholders in an issue; mission, what outcome is being sought; meaning, which he defined as ‘what is at stake’; and what will be the outcome, or fulfillment.
Two of those items had a particular significance. First, Terry defined existence as the setting from which action occurs, to include the “historical and ecological legacy that defines, limits and cradles possibilities … inherited artifacts, rituals and routines that may or may not be consciously valued. It is also language, that part of existence that offers the resource with which we interpret experience and imbue events with value and significance”. He saw existence as the foundation of becoming. The other was meaning, which was about values: “Existence triggers questions of meaning; meaning surrounds existence”. Terry suggested spirituality “transcends both meaning and existence, inspiring fulfillment” and is integral to the search for “life that is sustainable, significant, and worthy of living”. [vi] While it wasn’t his intention to include novelists, it is easy to see that ‘authentic’ novels address existence and meaning just as he defined them.
When I reached the end, I remembered why I had abandoned Authentic Leadership. Terry concludes by anchoring spirituality in religion, and in a belief in an omnipotent god. A little older and wiser now, I can see his arguments do make sense to me if I replace god by humanity, and religion by humanism, the ethical approach that emphasises reason, rational or scientific inquiry, and human fulfillment. Even better, I would also want to draw on Havel’s suggestion of the importance of the Gaia hypothesis, a view which claims “the dense network of mutual interactions between the organic and inorganic portions of the Earth’s surface form a single system, a kind of mega-organism, a living planet, Gaia, named after an ancient goddess which we might recognise as an archetype of the Earth Mother, something found in most religions.” [vii]
Thinking about this, and as I was working on this blog, I had two substantial novels as my evening reading: Ta Nehisi Coates’ The Water Dancer, and Philip Pullman’s The Secret Commonwealth (the second volume in his Book of Dust). Both involved fantasy, in a small way in The Water Dancer, and totally in The Secret Commonwealth. The Water Dancer was clearly authentic in the other meaning of the term: it rang as ‘true’, based on fact laden descriptions of the South, of slavery, and of the ‘underground railroad’, the network of people, escape routes and safe houses which enabled slaves to get to the north of the US, and even to Canada. It was accurate, as far as I could tell, authoritative even, and the fantasy element, the water dancer of the title, was a nice device to give the fiction a clever twist. It was a great read, but I couldn’t help feeling the characters were close to falling into stereotypes, the story more like a history than anything else. I would recommend it to anyone, but I think my reasons would be more to do with them gaining insight to the world of the South back then, rather than it resonating at another level. For me, it read as non-fiction. If a writer’s fascination to presume creates a book which goes beyond being a good story, beyond being ‘true’, it is because the reader experiences a further authentic level of connection, although I realise what makes it so for one reader may not be the case for another.
The Secret Commonwealth was very different. There I was with Lyra once more, and, early on, I realised she had not recovered from the two traumatic events of her earlier life (events depicted in the ‘His Dark Materials’ trilogy). To discover that was painful, (“heartbreaking”, as my neighbour said), only for things to get worse. There were plenty of dramatic events and a compelling story, but they serve almost as a backdrop to an exploration of the intellectual and emotional traumas of a twenty-year-old young woman. I found it emotionally draining, totally compelling, a guaranteed source of sleep disturbed nights and weird dreams. As I was reading, every so often I nearly shouted out loud, “for God’s sake, listen to him!” For those who have just read this second volume in the Book of Dust, you will also understand why I groaned at the end: he’s left things there, and I’ll have to wait another two years to read the final volume!
Authentic writing doesn’t have to be restricted to major literary novels. I could have referred to one of my favourite detective series, with Commander Dalgleish in a P D James novel, or Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James in the ongoing series by Deborah Crombie. I live in them, too: there are moments when I catch myself running my fingers through my hair, wanting to butt in: “listen, you fool, to what she’s saying”, and, in the case of Dalgleish, “talk to her, please, and do it now.” [viii] Those people are so real they are almost in the room. No, that’s not right, I am in their rooms, in their lives, in their heads. Fiction, yes. Authentic, absolutely!
Not only books; for me, there’s also music. For the past three weeks, I have listened to Beethoven’s 14th String Quartet for my afternoon recuperation (after working on a blog!). Twenty times? I think I could listen to it 100 times, and still be totally absorbed. When I was younger, it was the driving grandeur of his third symphony, the Eroica, and his violin concerto that held me transfixed in some kind out out-of-body space. Now I am drawn into a musical conversation between four instruments, complex, in some ways seemingly unpredictable (for a non-musician at least), and yet creating a whole which is deeply entrancing and absorbing.
Deeply. There it is again. Authenticity is about speaking to us at a deep, almost subconscious, level, addressing issues concerning meaning and existence, offering spiritual insights that transcend everyday concerns, and allowing us to inhabit another, special place where, in the case of novels, we become involved in the author’s curiosity. There is a magic here, too. Authenticity is about possibility, and each one of us, in the face of the authentic, responds according to ourselves, our history, our values and experiences. If, when I am held in Lyra’s world, I want her to listen to someone, part of my reaction may be because I am a facilitator at heart. Another reader might respond differently. Authentic writing, like authentic music, doesn’t tell us what to do: it offers the opportunity to engage, each one of us in our own way.
I have battled with the notion of authenticity for many years. I suspect I am as confused and uncertain now as I was when I read about phenomenology and authentic leadership. All I really know is when I confront authenticity in the pages of a book, in the music in the room, I am exposed to something that touches my heart, speaks to what it means to be human. It is a union between minds. [ix] In a world full of charlatans and insincerity, it is a gift beyond measure to be offered authentic insights, meaningful experiences and emotions that reverberate deep in a reader’s soul. A is for Authentic? I’d give it an A+ at the very least.
[i] Zadie Smith, Fascinated to Presume, NY Review of Books, 24 October 2019
[ii] Published by Jossey Bass, 1993
[iii] Ibid, page 128.
[iv] OUP, 1995. Those who know me well will realise part of the confusion is that this comes from an Oxford source!
[v] Ibid, page 68. ‘Their’ for an individual? Years ago, that would never have appeared in a Cambridge publication!
[vi] Ibid, page 63
[vii] Havel, July 1994, acceptance for the Philadelphia Independence Medal: ‘The Need for Transcendence in the Postmodern World’
[viii] Despite these examples, not all my reactions are about people failing to speak or understand one another!
[ix] Ronald W Dworkin, Artificial Intelligence, The American Interest, 8 October 2019, on what AI is not!
