Post by Michael Nath

As the first fogs of autumn rolled down Regent St, I saw a figure take shape, and it was an agélaste.  Agélaste is a word invented by a great and very funny writer called François Rabelais (pictured); it means a person who does not laugh, and affects gravity. You probably know a few.

Consider what we want as writers …

‘Would like’, you mean – want is bad manners.

Very well. We ‘would like’ to make our readers feel, think, worry, fear, hope, fall in love, know themselves better. And see truth. Not much to ask, what? … Well laughter’s the wind that freshens thought, and feeling; and it may be a way to the truth. But for a long time, our culture’s been down on laughter. Look what happened to Parson Yorick, in the novel some of you are enjoying this autumn.[1]

Yesterday, or thereabout, the winner of the Man Booker Prize was announced, and it’s caused a stir. For why? Because the winner (The Sellout by Paul Beatty) is funny. Must be some mistake! The judges of the Booker, and other of our splendid literary prizes, never pick a funny book. The truth’s grim, right? History’s a nightmare. This is the worst year ever. So your judges have been afraid of seeming frivolous. Then they read The Sellout.

Now, you can be funny and win the prize! Maybe it’s the grim books that were frivolous, or hypocritico-sanctimonious. And for why? Because they were taking advantage of pain; because there’s more to being serious than wearing a long face … Meanwhile, the laughing books are doing what they’ve always done: making us think, training us for truth. At long last, the judges have understood the most famous sentence in philosophy …

‘Truth is a trouser word.’

What the hell’s that supposed to mean?

Seven times seven are the meanings of the sentence, friend Agélaste. But today’s is as follows: as the leg to the trouser, so truth to hilarity … you can’t keep them apart. Especially in novels.

Think of Dickens, laughing so loud he kept the family awake, in those late-night sessions at his desk: he’d just invented Jaggers or the Golden Dustman. So what if your people move to another town because they’re sick of the sound of you hooting and slapping your thigh? You’ve been writing the truth! Take Franz Kafka. We think of Kafka as a fearful prophet, and he was too. But when his friends came round to listen to his drafts and Gregor woke as a beetle, or Josef K was arrested in his bed, they laughed till their moustaches burned off in the backdraft (which is why Kafka, Max and Felice, have smooth faces in photos).

Back soon with more nonsense, amigos …

But for the moment,

Beware of the agélastes!

[1] Laurence Sterne, The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy (1759-67)

Michael Nath, 1 December 2016