The subject of “the great American novel” came up in a recent Facebook discussion group and I had some thoughts on the subject. Perhaps the pursuit of “the great American novel” has been tarnished over the years. Perhaps the goal is heard less because time has become too fluid, changing too rapidly for fans of story to fall in love with an idea.
To me, perhaps sadly, the last great American novel was either “Bright Lights, Big City” or possibly “Prozac Nation” – both reveled in the great American past-time, Escape, from a caught-on-an-elevator-down perspective. In many ways those novels lead to the last twenty years of urban vampire escapism.
I’m not condemning the trend, I’m just suggesting that the “great American novel” has always been about pretend (i.e., Huck Finn, J. Gatsby, On The Road, and for the last great while, semi-immortal beings trapped in a mortal world).
The concept of Immortality seems mesmerizing to those bent towards religion while at the same time it is both dismissed and cherished by the unaffiliated masses.
Perhaps that is the new legacy of “the great American novel” until the next new frontier is discovered – escapism until the next BIG reveal.