Staying informed about atrocities occurring in other parts of the world inevitably challenges an individual to weigh up their own sense of moral responsibility. What action should be taken when you're conscious there's injustice elsewhere in the world? Voting for a party with the correct policies? Protest? Charitable fundraising? Volunteering? Or is keeping up to date on the news enough? This is a perennial issue and it's something Isherwood was clearly considering when he published this slim novel in the same year WWII ended. The story is set in the mid-1930s at a time when Nazis began attacking Austria. It's not directly political, but instead approaches a larger question about what degree of autonomy is involved when an individual isn't immediately involved in a conflict.
The protagonist is Christopher Isherwood himself, but this is a fictional account of a writer who becomes involved in the film industry when he's hired (amidst much faux-protestation) to write the script for a sentimental musical named Prater Violet set in Vienna. While on this job he develops a strong working relationship with Friedrich Bergmann, an accomplished Austrian director. Both have high artistic ideals and see this film as beneath them, but they agree to work for a studio because it pays well and there's an allure to Hollywood glamour. The story begins with a lot of humorous repartee as this egotistical pair lower themselves to the daily grind and complicated mechanics of the film world. Long days are spent on a project which feels increasingly frivolous given what's occurring in Bergmann's native country.
When political events reach a crisis point so does the director's involvement in the film and Isherwood questions his own sense of responsibility. There's an especially striking passage in which he considers: “Perhaps I had travelled too much, left my heart in too many places. I knew what I was supposed to feel, what it was fashionable for my generation to feel. We cared about everything: fascism in Germany and Italy, the seizure of Manchuria, Indian nationalism, the Irish question, the workers, the Negroes, the Jews. We had spread our feelings over the whole world; and I knew that mine were spread very thin. I cared – oh, yes, I certainly cared – about the Austrian socialists. But did I care as much as I said I did, tried to imagine I did? No, not nearly as much... What is the use of caring at all, if you aren't prepared to dedicate your life, to die? Well, perhaps it was some use. Very, very little.” Surely everyone feels this sense of inner strife at some point. I've certainly experienced it in recent months reading the news about atrocities occurring amidst the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
There are no easy answers and even admitting to such hand wringing feels uncomfortable as if the question of personal responsibility were larger than the very real horrors people elsewhere are experiencing. In a way I admire Isherwood for representing this subjective perspective so faithfully because if he attempted to directly portray the conflict it might have felt gratuitous or like virtual signalling. The mission of this novel is very different from a contemporary book like “Bolla” even if the subject matter overlaps. Isherwood's point of view is not from the inside; it's on the periphery but this doesn't make it less valid. Nor does admitting to feelings of helplessness or even indifference when faced with the solemn truth about wars which an individual isn't directly involved in. In “On Photography”, Susan Sontag wrote “For boredom is just the reverse side of fascination: both depend on being outside rather than inside a situation, and one leads to the other.” Isherwood is fascinated by what's occurring in the world and he cares about it, but his anxiety and awareness does nothing to alleviate the suffering of others.
I certainly found this novel engaging and I appreciated its point of view, but the story also feels too slight. The effort involved in completing the film is handled very swiftly. Also, Isherwood is very evasive about his personal relationships. During work on the film he's reunited with an old schoolmate named Sandy Ashmeade who is working as a story editor. It's insinuated their relationship has an interesting history but this is never explored. Nor are the string of romantic relationships Isherwood lists at the end of the novel except how he concealed them from Bergmann. The reader is also left in the dark about these and Isherwood's future. It's interesting that this book marked Isherwood's return to writing fiction after not publishing anything for several years during which he collaborated on a translation of the Bhagavad Gita. Perhaps his involvement in religion and his identity as a homosexual were subjects more complicated than his intended parameters for the novel “Prater Violet” but it leaves the story feeling oddly truncated. Nevertheless, the central point of the book is vividly conveyed and it's worthwhile reading this curious slice of fiction.
