The Age of Suspicion by Nathalie Sarraute

delightful impression of recognising what he may or could have observed himself. We might even say that the great good fortune of these novelists, the secret of their felicity and of that of their readers, resides in the fact that they set up their observation posts quite naturally at the exact spot on which the reader too is located. Neither on this side, where the authors and readers of cheap serials are to be found, nor on the far side, in that secret twilight zone, that confused seething, in which our actions and our words are forming. No, at the very place where we ourselves are accustomed to be, when we want to give a rather clear account, to ourselves or to others, of our feelings or our impressions. And indeed, if we are to judge by the conversations of persons having wide experience of psychological matters, as soon as these novelists begin to be confidential or catty, to describe themselves or their neighbours, they are more apt to be on the far side, only a little more in depth.
    Thanks to this favourable position, they inspire confidence in their readers, who have the impression of being quite at home, among objects that are quite familiar. A feeling of friendliness, solidarity and also of gratitude unites them with this novelist who is so like them, who understands so well what they themselves feel, but who, at the same time, being a little more discerning than they are, more attentive, more experienced, shows them a little more about themselves and about others than they believe they know, and leads them, just excited enough by a very slight effort, but never tired or discouraged by too great an effort, never slowed down or impeded in their pace, towards what they hope to obtain when they start to read a novel: help in their loneliness, a description of their own situation, disclosures about the secret sides of other people's lives, advice filled with wisdom, correct solutions to the conflicts from which they are suffering, broadening of their experience, an impression of living other lives.
    These needs seem so natural, and the contentment derived from satisfying them is so great, that we can understand the impatience provoked in these readers by the spoil-sports who, just when they are feeling most gratified, come and talk to them about 'art' or 'style'. What difference does it make to them if these works are not destined to last? And if, one day when, with the help of these books, their difficulties will have been overcome, their situations altered, their sentiments changed and their curiosity aroused by other ways of living, interest in these books should wane and the excitement they stirred up die down, there is nothing to be said against this, and to regret it would be a mistake. Why stock works with an eye to an unknown future, however imperishable they may appear to be, when what is most urgent is to give immediate, effective aid to the humanity of one's time. For a book to wear out when it has served its purpose, is only natural and sound. We throw it away and replace it by another.
    And this opinion would be so obviously the part of wisdom that no one would dream of disputing it, if it were not for one very disquieting point, which is, the painful impression, as soon as the excitement these works have stirred up dies down, that what they described was not reality. Or rather, that it was only a surface reality, nothing but the flattest, most commonplace sort of semblance. More commonplace even, and more cursory, contrary to what it had seemed at first, than what we ourselves perceive, however rushed and absent-minded we may be.
    Everyone knows to what extent, in our haste, we can be ignorant and credulous, obliged as we are to continually do what presses most, to be guided by the grossest of appearances. It suffices to recall what a revelation the interior monologue was for us; the wariness with which we regarded and at times still regard the efforts of Henry James or Proust to take apart the delicate