![]() But is this a sufficient accounting for, say, Middlemarch-which Virginia Woolf described as one of the very few novels written for grown-ups-or The Golden Bowl, or Samuel Beckett’s Molloy? In his essay collection The Broken Estate, James Wood observes that “fiction moves in the shadow of doubt, knows itself to be a true lie, knows that at any moment it might fail to makes its case. At the simplest, we may observe that inside every adult there lives on a child who must have stories that thrill or soothe, and that even novels of the grandest seriousness are no more than elaborated fairy tales. ![]() ![]() What is fiction for? This is one of those questions-How does a compassionate God permit cruelty? What do women want? Why is there dandruff?-which are probably not susceptible of an answer but which yet continue to niggle. ![]()
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