When I was a child my dad [who I stayed with occasionally] had satellite TV installed. As a Brit I had been raised on four channels, and here was the promise of ten, twenty, thirty. I had never been a big watcher of television [I lived with my mother and the electricity was frequently being cut off, so I always preferred the constancy of books] but this new development in my life seemed exciting; it would be, I thought, a connection to the outer world, the other world, a world that was denied someone [me] who had never been abroad, who had only once or twice been outside his home city. It appeared to offer a kind of freedom, an ability to go anywhere, at any time. But it didn’t really work out like that. I didn’t watch stimulating documentaries and foreign movies; no, I spent my time mindlessly vegetating in front of the screen, flicking through shopping channels and keeping up to date with the scores of third division football matches.
These days I don’t own a TV. I gave it up years ago, when the absurdity of the relationship occurred to me. As a result, my connection with the modern world, or at least with current affairs, is almost non-existent. I always joke that we could be on the brink of a nuclear holocaust and I wouldn’t know; the end of civilisation would take me completely unawares. In fact, it wasn’t until two or three years after the event that I found out that Bin Laden had been found and killed. It seems as though I am only ever capable of swapping one obsession, one unhealthy stance, for another.
“Once again, it seemed, I was discovering the truth of the rule, a rule I’d never explicitly formulated to myself, but whose veracity I’d quite often sensed in a vague sort of way, which was that the chances of seeing an idea through to completion are inversely proportional to the time you’ve spent talking about it beforehand.”
Jean-Phillipe Toussaint’s novel begins with his forty-ish year old protagonist describing his own decision to quit TV ‘cold turkey.’ He was never, he claims, dependant upon it, estimating the average amount of time he spent watching television at around two hours per day. However, he then states that he had noticed at some point [I must confess I found the chronology of the novel’s episodes somewhat unclear and confusing] that there had been a striking increase, that he had been letting himself go and spending ‘long inactive afternoons’ in front of the set, tuning in, for example, for almost the entirety of the French Open tennis tournament.
That someone wants to stop watching TV obviously suggests that they think that it is in some way bad for them. Indeed, throughout, whenever the narrator tells anyone that he has quit they respond by claiming that they themselves hardly ever watch TV, rather like those people who insist that they never masturbate, as though they are somehow ashamed of their attachment to it, their own compulsion. When contemplating the negative effects, the narrator describes himself emerging from long sessions [of TV watching, not masturbating] feeling numbed and nauseous. TV, he asserts, artificially keeps you in in a state of continual alertness, yet the mind is, simultaneously, passive and indifferent.
However, for me Toussaint’s novel isn’t really an attack on television. It is, first of all, far too good-natured for the word ‘attack’ to be appropriate. Secondly, one gets the impression that the narrator essentially sets TV up as a patsy, which is to say that he allows it to take the blame for failings or flaws in his own character. For example, we are told that he is in Berlin [alone, for duration of the novel, as his wife and child have gone to Italy] in order to complete work on a long essay on Titian and Charles V; and so the implication is that television is distracting him from that, from something that is a far more worthwhile endeavour. Yet, anything can be a distraction if you let it. There isn’t something uniquely distracting about TV. The truth is that he does not want to work on his essay, and so he allows himself to be easily drawn away from it, by numerous things, including swimming, frollicking nude in the park, [not] watering the neighbours plants, cutting out articles, drinking, etc.
So, despite the title, I would argue that the book is about weakness of character, about the attractiveness of indolence, of loafing around doing next to nothing. It is interesting, in this regard, that there is a passage in Television in which the narrator describes working hard as being the most fulfilling kind of human experience, as life lived to the full, so to speak. One must ask, therefore, is he lying to himself or to us, his audience? Because there is no point in his narrative that he gives the impression of working hard. In fact, in terms of the essay on Titian and Charles V, he has, by the end, got little further than deciding on a title.
It is also worth considering just how aware the author is of the tensions and contradictions in his work. Is, for example, the title ironic? Television features in the book, of course, but I couldn’t help thinking that Toussaint periodically returned to the subject almost as an afterthought, as though he too had allowed himself to be distracted by more easy-going pleasures, such as writing about the arse of a naked ping-pong player. We often talk about how a protagonist and author share certain qualities, or appear to, and certainly there is a similarity in the way that the narrator meanders around, avoiding his work, and the way that the author allows his story to amiably meander away from the themes it initially appeared to want to engage with. In any case, Television is an entertaining read; it is well-written, warm and funny.