Miss Lonelyhearts and The Day of the Locust

Two novels by Nathanael West.


"Men have always fought their misery with dreams. Although dreams were once powerful, they have been made puerile by the movies, radio and newspapers. Among many betrayals, this one is the worst." So muses Miss Lonelyhearts, and the sentiment could stand as the motto for both of these exquisite short novels.

More powerfully perhaps than any other artist, Nathanael West argued through his fiction that imagination and fantasy had been commoditized and debased by the mass media (what Theodor Adorno and Max Horkheimer would later call the "culture industry") and that people have consequently been stripped of their sympathies for one another. And just think: West never even saw television. Imagine how he would have felt about that.

Two Novels, One Ironic Worldview

West’s novels manage to be hilariously funny while remaining resolutely grim, in part due to his genius for stark and shocking violence and uncompromising exaggerations. The setup for Miss Lonelyhearts sounds like a hoot, but it turns into a nightmare: a young intellectual man takes a job, as a joke, as a newspaper’s advice columnist. Soon, though, "the joke begins to escape him"; the letters he receives "are profoundly humble pleas for moral and spiritual advice … inarticulate expressions of genuine suffering." He hears from the ill and the abused, and he has no idea what advice to offer. The one answer that works reliably–Jesus–he’s not thrilled with, being a nonbeliever himself.

The Day of the Locust, meanwhile, takes on the mother of all dream-devouring industries: Hollywood. Tod Hackett, an artist wasting his talents as a scene painter, is the focal consciousness through which the excesses and revulsions of La-La Land are observed.

That prostitutes figure into this critique shouldn’t surprise anyone, but the raw violence against animals-quails getting their heads snapped off, a cockfight in which two birds tear each other to bloody pieces-ups the ante in terms of disaffection. The disorienting scene in which Tod strolls through a studio lot, passing in a few minutes lifelike sets of deserts and Paris and Greek temples and Napoleon’s Waterloo, the trappings of which will end up sooner or later on a garbage heap, is postmodernism avant la letter and a gorgeously self-contained exposition of how 20th-century culture grinds up all that is fine and grand from the past in its inexorable and insatiable jaws.

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