Jonathan McAloon reviews Nietzsche and the Burbs for the Literary Review.
In Lars Iyer’s 2014 novel Wittgenstein Jr, undergraduates follow their philosophy tutor around Cambridge, wishing to become, ‘if not fellow thinkers, then at least … companions in thought’. The narrator of Iyer’s brilliant trilogy of novels, Spurious, Dogma and Exodus, meanwhile refers to himself as ‘a friend of a friend of thought’. You might call Iyer’s books novels of ideas, though it is perhaps more accurate to think of them as novels of an idea of ideas: his characters always believe they live at a remove from things of importance. In Nietzsche and the Burbs, a chorus of hyper-intelligent provincial teenagers yearn to be at the centre of things, and for spiritual intensity.
Chandra and his friends Paula, Merv and Art are about to sit their A levels at a comprehensive in Wokingham, Berkshire. While they feel stifled by their suburban existence, it also gives them something to rail against. They talk about films by Lars von Trier and Andrei Tarkovsky. They hold themselves above – or are merely shunned by – the school’s acknowledged ‘cool’ kids. They glory in despair, mistaking malaise for serious depression (which they glamorise and envy in others).
Into this world comes a surly, mentally unwell former private school student. Chandra and the rest hero-worship him, nickname him ‘Nietzsche’ and ask him to join their band, where he sings ‘snatches of sense’, or words that are only ‘like real lyrics’. But as Nietzsche’s nihilism deepens, he comes to believe that the suburbs can teach him something about unselfconscious, happy living.
The teenagers’ lives are constructed day by day almost entirely through dialogue. Because there isn’t much straightforward narrative movement, the conversations have to be very funny, and they usually are. Chandra and his friends are relentlessly cruel and puerile. Theologians, for instance, ‘talk about how generally fabbo God is … How big God’s cock is.’ But nothing is above or below being mocked, even Anne Frank. This, one guesses, is nihilism in action, and it’s done with a spring in the step. Iyer isn’t quite so hot, though, when evoking the rhythms and rituals of today’s youth. Self-knowing sixth-formers probably wouldn’t call their peers ‘trendies’. They also probably wouldn’t do PE, which in the sixth form is no longer a dreaded compulsory activity foisted on the uncoordinated. They probably wouldn’t take the synthetic stimulant mephedrone as ‘tablets’, then have a ‘baaaaad trip’.
Nietzsche and the Burbs is Iyer’s most novelistic novel so far. It has delineated characters and a slowly building plot. But this in some way runs contrary to Iyer’s natural gifts. His comic style, bristling with italics and based on mirrored phrases and repetition, can itself become repetitive in a way that isn’t rewarding: ‘How can this be? The best mind of our generation, scooping peanut satay and taramasalata into tubs? The great philosopher of our time, scooping peanut satay and taramasalata into tubs?’; ‘We scratched the words, WE’RE FUCKED, into the desk. We scratched the words, KILL US NOW, into the desk.’ More than three hundred pages of this is overwhelming. His other books have been much shorter, offering luminous slices of the void. If his artistic goal has been to structurally represent the monotony of the suburbs, this is perhaps an unideal one for a novelist. Still, it is in some way true to form that Iyer should be seeking to subvert or sabotage his own victories.
By casting Nietzsche as a post-Nietzsche teenage nihilist, Iyer captures something of the real Nietzsche’s showy lack of substance and of the essential futility of nihilism in any age. He also captures the basis of his ongoing appeal. Chandra and his friends think they are ‘the most useless generation that has ever lived’. Many may be quick to concur. And yet for decades before the real Nietzsche came along, a good number no doubt felt the same, seeking to emulate the suicide of Goethe’s hero Young Werther in Teutonic conifer forests, wearing blue coats. Teenage nihilism is universal. Maybe that’s a comfort.