One can over-sentimentalise the idea of the novelist as passionate adventurer, whose prose is inspired or sharpened by some dark experience (such as war.) It's mostly a foolish dream. But one can feel a lowering of the spirits when confronted by the spectacle of the descendants of Bellow and Roth, Updike and Mailer – the creative-department students whose impulse to write derives mostly from feeding off other books, who would rather fashion a short story, good though it may be, rather than attempt a balls-out epic novel. "The originators, the exuberant men, are gone," wrote Evelyn Waugh about the English novel in The Ordeal of Gilbert Pinfold, "and in their place subsists and modestly flourishes, a generation notable for elegance and variety of contrivance." The older generation of great American scribes, the exuberant men and women, are going at alarming speed; and with them goes the dream of the Great American Novel that focused and energised them all.
Saturday, November 17
It's a silly pursuit anyway
Prompted by the passing of Norman Mailer, The Independent offers "An elegy for the great American novel:"
Huxley and you in 2007
Margaret Atwood, author of a pretty great dystopian novel of her own, examines the significance of Brave New World 75 years after its publication:
How does it stand up, 75 years later? And how close have we come, in real life, to the society of vapid consumers, idle pleasure-seekers, inner-space trippers and programmed conformists that it presents?
The answer to the first question, for me, is that it stands up very well. It's still as vibrant, fresh, and somehow shocking as it was when I first read it.
The answer to the second question rests with you. Look in the mirror: do you see Lenina Crowne looking back at you, or do you see John the Savage? Chances are, you'll see something of both, because we've always wanted things both ways. We wish to be as the careless gods, lying around on Olympus, eternally beautiful, having sex and being entertained by the anguish of others. And at the same time we want to be those anguished others, because we believe, with John, that life has meaning beyond the play of the senses, and that immediate gratification will never be enough.
Thursday, November 15
Wednesday, November 14
On: Jews
They had it rough. And still have it rough in some locales, I am assuming - because everyone is persecuted somewhere, right? Even me, a white, middle class, tall male with a property-owning father (only average height for him) - even I would be harshly persecuted some place. But man, the Jews got it rough.
I read Everything is Illuminated, the acclaimed debut novel from Jonathon Safran Foer, a young buck at like 23 years old-ish when he wrote it. Wunderkind, they say. Foer relates his search in Ukraine for information about his familial ancestors in a piecemeal manner. Four stories interweave indirectly: the fictionalized tale of Foer's 18th century relatives in a zany small Jewish village, the fictionalized account of Foer's grandfather's life in the same village at the onset of WWII, the fictionalized present-day account of Foer's trip to Ukraine told from the perspective oh his under-qualified translator and guide, the teenage Alex, and finally in a series of fictionalized letters from Alex to Foer after Foer returns home.
At least I think it's all fictionalized. I'm putting stock in the statement in the leading pages of the book that all characters and accounts are fiction except for the author's own character. I just don't know how much of this is completely made up. Did Foer actually take this trip, or is it a total fabrication? I don't know which is more impressive. I think it may be more of an astounding work if indeed he just spun this whole serial mess from his mind.
But impressive it is, in any case. The hook at the beginning is the humor which takes the form of hilariously broken English written by Alex in his accounts of Foer's Ukrainian adventure. The humor persists throughout the book except for the sad parts and the really sad parts. But these parts are also funny. And the funny parts are pretty sad too. That's one of the charms of this novel - that there is very little middle ground between the sad/pitiable and the comic/comical. It's all mixed up into one mixture, but still separate and extremely defined, like a briefly shaken vinaigrette.
Speaking of the sad - the Jews got it bad. Of course, the whole premise for this novel has to do with the erasing and scattering of established Jewish communities by acts of colossal violence. When Foer and his entourage (wait - is there a word for an entourage that goes before you instead of behind? A "pre-tourage" of sorts? Let me check...googling...nope.) So, when Foer and his assembled escorts get to the location of the ancestral village, there is nothing. Not even ruins remain, the place was so ruined. I guess it got to me - the whole attempted erasing of a populace.
Then, a couple of days later, I watched Schindler's List. Yikes. I'm afraid that similar things are happening today, 13 November 2007, some place(s) on earth, and it makes me wonder: what kind of world do I really live in? Is non-technological progress in humanity expected to keep pace with the tech? How far are we, in human relations, from the 18th century? From Auschwitz? Is it ok if we aren't further along? To what quantity should our peaceableness scale? Wealth, literacy, communication bandwidth, or something else? Essentially, we know we are a better people, collectively, than we were in those times past. But, how do we know that we are better enough?
Maybe an interesting Book-Loop reading project would be to explore what actual philosophers have to say about the scaling, measurement, quantifying, or standardizing of "progress." Reading philosophy kind of scares me though.
I know for a fact that at least one member of the Loop has a Jewish heritage. I don't mean to get too personal, but I wonder if he would have anything illuminating to say about all of this?
I read Everything is Illuminated, the acclaimed debut novel from Jonathon Safran Foer, a young buck at like 23 years old-ish when he wrote it. Wunderkind, they say. Foer relates his search in Ukraine for information about his familial ancestors in a piecemeal manner. Four stories interweave indirectly: the fictionalized tale of Foer's 18th century relatives in a zany small Jewish village, the fictionalized account of Foer's grandfather's life in the same village at the onset of WWII, the fictionalized present-day account of Foer's trip to Ukraine told from the perspective oh his under-qualified translator and guide, the teenage Alex, and finally in a series of fictionalized letters from Alex to Foer after Foer returns home.
At least I think it's all fictionalized. I'm putting stock in the statement in the leading pages of the book that all characters and accounts are fiction except for the author's own character. I just don't know how much of this is completely made up. Did Foer actually take this trip, or is it a total fabrication? I don't know which is more impressive. I think it may be more of an astounding work if indeed he just spun this whole serial mess from his mind.
But impressive it is, in any case. The hook at the beginning is the humor which takes the form of hilariously broken English written by Alex in his accounts of Foer's Ukrainian adventure. The humor persists throughout the book except for the sad parts and the really sad parts. But these parts are also funny. And the funny parts are pretty sad too. That's one of the charms of this novel - that there is very little middle ground between the sad/pitiable and the comic/comical. It's all mixed up into one mixture, but still separate and extremely defined, like a briefly shaken vinaigrette.
Speaking of the sad - the Jews got it bad. Of course, the whole premise for this novel has to do with the erasing and scattering of established Jewish communities by acts of colossal violence. When Foer and his entourage (wait - is there a word for an entourage that goes before you instead of behind? A "pre-tourage" of sorts? Let me check...googling...nope.) So, when Foer and his assembled escorts get to the location of the ancestral village, there is nothing. Not even ruins remain, the place was so ruined. I guess it got to me - the whole attempted erasing of a populace.
Then, a couple of days later, I watched Schindler's List. Yikes. I'm afraid that similar things are happening today, 13 November 2007, some place(s) on earth, and it makes me wonder: what kind of world do I really live in? Is non-technological progress in humanity expected to keep pace with the tech? How far are we, in human relations, from the 18th century? From Auschwitz? Is it ok if we aren't further along? To what quantity should our peaceableness scale? Wealth, literacy, communication bandwidth, or something else? Essentially, we know we are a better people, collectively, than we were in those times past. But, how do we know that we are better enough?
Maybe an interesting Book-Loop reading project would be to explore what actual philosophers have to say about the scaling, measurement, quantifying, or standardizing of "progress." Reading philosophy kind of scares me though.
I know for a fact that at least one member of the Loop has a Jewish heritage. I don't mean to get too personal, but I wonder if he would have anything illuminating to say about all of this?
Cormac and I rode the bus today
Reading All the Pretty Horses. Loving it. Of McCarthy I have only read The Road. Enjoyed it. But am now beginning to see that those who found that it approximated a caricature of a McCarthy novel were perhaps onto something. And I'm not just talking about the gore, because I have yet to encounter any. More to come.
Dusting off Google Reader
- Those familiar with Kurt Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five know of the horrors of Dresden
- A Brit weighs in on The New Granta Book of the American Short Story
- Just imagine if they spent that $27 million to help those in need rather than to construct animatronic dinos!
- Reporting from the front lines of a librarian conference
- When Michael Lewis writes something it is generally worth reading it
- Bookforum offers an array of environmentally minded articles
- "Farewell to Norman Mailer, a sexist, homophobic reactionary"
- Jeff Chang, author of Can’t Stop Won’t Stop: A History of the Hip-Hop Generation, offers a playlist
- Only having watched through season two, I was disappointed to learn about the fate of Stringer Bell in this recent New Yorker profile of David Simon, creator of The Wire. Even so, twas a good read.
Borders at war
During the four years I lived in Ann Arbor, I spent a good many hours wandering aimlessly through Borders flagship store. Just as I do now, I found browsing at bookstores to be a terrific source of relaxation. I departed college with the erroneous impression that even if Borders was not an independent bookstore, at least it was one of the good guys. So wrong. But let's chalk it up to my fondness for the old college town and move on.
Once I stepped out in the real world my attachment to Borders quickly expired. McBookstores like Borders and Barnes & Noble, while pretty neat for an American suburbia once void of books (of course I exaggerate) are an endangering force on intimate bookshops personality, meticulously selected stock, and local roots. And not just in America, they're taking the scorched earth policy worldwide. Eff a Borders.
But you already know all that. So to the point already: How better to deliver the final nail in the coffin and bury forever my Borders allegiance than with the recent announcement that Borders "bookstores" are adding 37-inch flat-screen televisions that will barrage patrons with original programs and advertising. *Shudders* So much for that relaxation... to say nothing of the very real possibility that potential advertisers on these television sets could belong to the same parent company of certain publishers whose books Borders could, say, go out of their way to display prominently. I'm just sayin'.
Once I stepped out in the real world my attachment to Borders quickly expired. McBookstores like Borders and Barnes & Noble, while pretty neat for an American suburbia once void of books (of course I exaggerate) are an endangering force on intimate bookshops personality, meticulously selected stock, and local roots. And not just in America, they're taking the scorched earth policy worldwide. Eff a Borders.
But you already know all that. So to the point already: How better to deliver the final nail in the coffin and bury forever my Borders allegiance than with the recent announcement that Borders "bookstores" are adding 37-inch flat-screen televisions that will barrage patrons with original programs and advertising. *Shudders* So much for that relaxation... to say nothing of the very real possibility that potential advertisers on these television sets could belong to the same parent company of certain publishers whose books Borders could, say, go out of their way to display prominently. I'm just sayin'.
Sunday, November 11
Come on! Kneel Before the Power Broker!
One of the topics briefly discussed at the recent Book-Loop Summit 2007 in Los Angeles, California, was the question of which of the United States Sufjan Stevens was planning to explore on his next album. Aside from discovering that I have long been pronouncing his name incorrectly, I left the conference without a any new information regarding the work of Sufjan.
BUT, here's this from Wikipedia:
The next states to be taken on in the project have been reported as Oregon and Rhode Island. Minnesota may be another candidate; in late 2005 and early 2006 Stevens played a new instrumental track titled "The Maple River." The Maple River mentioned in the title of the song runs through several counties in southern Minnesota. There is also evidence to suggest the possibility of a New York album. Not only is Stevens' current residence in New York City, but at the footnote of his writing piece entitled "Friend Rock", Stevens stated that he was reading a biography on Robert Moses, who is a notable New Yorker. In late 2007, Stevens debuted several new songs about New York, including "BQE", a track about the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
Imagine the possibilities, Bryan!
"Sufjan Stevens invites you to: Kneel Before the Power Broker"
1. Concerning the UFO sighting on the Throgs Neck Bridge
2. Cross-Bronx Expressway, or, How to Gut an Entire Borough and Still Feel Good About Yourself in the Morning, or, We Apologize for the Inconvenience but You're Going to Have to Leave Now
3. Come on! Kneel Before the Power Broker!
4. Fiorello H. LaGuardia
5. A Short Reprise for the South Bronx, Which Went to Shit, but for Very Good Reasons
6. Urban Sprawl, or, Round of Applause for Master Builder
7. One last "Whoo-hoo!" for the automobile
8. To The Fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants, I Have an Idea Concerning Your Predicament
And more!
BUT, here's this from Wikipedia:
The next states to be taken on in the project have been reported as Oregon and Rhode Island. Minnesota may be another candidate; in late 2005 and early 2006 Stevens played a new instrumental track titled "The Maple River." The Maple River mentioned in the title of the song runs through several counties in southern Minnesota. There is also evidence to suggest the possibility of a New York album. Not only is Stevens' current residence in New York City, but at the footnote of his writing piece entitled "Friend Rock", Stevens stated that he was reading a biography on Robert Moses, who is a notable New Yorker. In late 2007, Stevens debuted several new songs about New York, including "BQE", a track about the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.
Imagine the possibilities, Bryan!
"Sufjan Stevens invites you to: Kneel Before the Power Broker"
1. Concerning the UFO sighting on the Throgs Neck Bridge
2. Cross-Bronx Expressway, or, How to Gut an Entire Borough and Still Feel Good About Yourself in the Morning, or, We Apologize for the Inconvenience but You're Going to Have to Leave Now
3. Come on! Kneel Before the Power Broker!
4. Fiorello H. LaGuardia
5. A Short Reprise for the South Bronx, Which Went to Shit, but for Very Good Reasons
6. Urban Sprawl, or, Round of Applause for Master Builder
7. One last "Whoo-hoo!" for the automobile
8. To The Fans of the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants, I Have an Idea Concerning Your Predicament
And more!
Philosophical Differences
My mother was clearing junk out of my childhood bedroom in order to make way for some furniture that needed to be temporarily relocated while construction proceeds in my parents' bedroom. Buried in my trash can she found a copy of The Fountainhead. My mother and my father went back and forth on whether I had intended for the book to be thrown away before finally consulting me on matter. I told them to give it to charity.
Saturday, November 10
Pieces and Pontifications
- Norman Mailer has died.
- Listen to a whole mess of Mailer interviews from KCRW's Bookworm
- Two of Book-Loop's favorite entities meet once again: An adaptation of George Saunders' "Ask the Optimist" presented by The Sound of Young America.
- Also, listen to the new Sound of Young America interview with George Saunders.
- Andrew Sullivan's Atlantic cover story on "Why Obama matters"
- Hip-hop mogul Sean Carter visits Charlie Rose
- Twenty years ago today: Music's place in The Closing Of The American Mind
- Writers' strike update: Return of the assistants
- The Future of TV Hits MySpace Sunday
- Special delivery for Michael: The unlikely prototype of the literary salon
- Chappelle in London
Wednesday, November 7
Reboot
Is this one of those deals that's been around the block a few times and even your step-uncle, who only accesses the Internet a couple of times a months via the dial-up at the local Y, has already forwarded your way? I don't know. I've been living under a rock for a minute. But I dig it.
Also, by decree of the Book-Loop Federal Assembly, these blogwaves are now open to all discussion of literature, science and the arts... and crafts and cooking and games and bird watching and Franco-Prussian War reenactment. I'll be honest, this is little more than a sly maneuver to house my falconry blog, my stamping blog and my Ermanno Olmi blog under one roof.
Book-Loop, come out to play-i-ay.
Also, by decree of the Book-Loop Federal Assembly, these blogwaves are now open to all discussion of literature, science and the arts... and crafts and cooking and games and bird watching and Franco-Prussian War reenactment. I'll be honest, this is little more than a sly maneuver to house my falconry blog, my stamping blog and my Ermanno Olmi blog under one roof.
Book-Loop, come out to play-i-ay.
Wednesday, September 19
An Article With a Pleasant Point
I'm influenced in other directions as well. This is a nice counterpoint to my previously dour and grumbly mindset:
Via Salon, "Don't Be a Morose Teenager," Garrison Keillor.
Via Salon, "Don't Be a Morose Teenager," Garrison Keillor.
A Country Without a Soul
Look, Mike, just because you're recuperating from jaw surgery does not mean I am going to take pity on you and sit idly while you muddy our waters with your loopy liberal idealism. No, sir! You can take your Vonnegut and shove it where the sun don't shine! In fact... What? What's that you say? You ask what I am reading? Oh, how cordial of you. Well, since you absolutely must know, I am reading A Power Governments Cannot Suppress, by the great Howard Zinn. Zinn and Vonnegut both served our country in World War II (The Good War) but believe you me, that's where the similarities end. For example, Vonnegut is dead and Zinn is alive. Also, Zinn is a historian while Vonnegut is a fabulist. Furthermore... oh fuck it, yeah Vonnegut is pretty sweet, eh? Surprised a man of your interests has not yet stumbled across any of his novels. Slaughterhouse Five and Cat's Cradle, you'll dig 'em. You say he "jokes gently and darkly." I like that. Sums up his style quite nicely. As someone familiar with his works of fiction but not his offerings as an essayist I agree with you that Vonnegut's style is simple. He's a quick read and a fun read but devastatingly spot-on with his satire of the depravity of humankind.
Tuesday, September 18
A Man Without a Face
I'm home in Rochester Hills, Michigan at the moment. I'm recovering from surgery on my upper jaw last week to correct growth deficiencies. All in all, the progress is good. The salient fact is that I am spending ample amounts of time on my ass.
Reading hasn't been occupying too much time, contrary to expectations. Mostly, I have had my switches set to "lay and watch" mode, which has delighted me with the intake of season one of The Wire (style note: Is it correct that a television program's title is italicized while individual episode titles are put in quotations?), lots of sports, and Giada De Laurentiis in HD. Yum.
But books are next on my list. I've been dipping into more short stories supplied to me by the anthological The Better of McSweeney's, Volume 1 and some nonfiction WWI short essays. And today I started reading - and nearly finished, it's short - Kurt Vonnegut's A Man Without a Country. Shamefully, this is the first Vonnegut that I have consumed. It won't be the last. I'm going to take a guess without knowing the truth that Vonnegut is known for simplicity. Straightforward representations of big ideas, maybe? Am I way off on this?
In any case, that's the mood of this memoir. He devotes scant pages to topics like the world's oil addiction, the nature of humorism/comedy, and plot construction. But he gets his point across poignantly more often than not. An efficiency in presentation of a wealth of ideas, this book.
Not having personal experience with his writing, Kurt Vonnegut was to me still an Icon. A force of literary expression that I was very aware of, but whose true power I hadn't witnessed. A hurricane on the news. It's odd to me to see him writing about current events, namely the political and societal, um, situation (meltdown [one-way handbasket trip]) of the United States in 2007. He even jokes gently and darkly about wishing to have died before the current lot took control and the current (not reasonably deniable) fascism (my word choice) gripped. Boots on the march and such imagery.
It makes me feel sadly. Those people in the world who get the Big Respect - figures like Vonnegut, Rosa Parks, Mother Theresa, etc. - had (or will have) their time on earth sullied and defiled by unluckily dying during these dark days. O, fretful youth, it's too bad. And it's too bad that millions won't read Mr. Vonnegut's words and finally GET IT.
A Man Without a Country is a book to be read by all.
Reading hasn't been occupying too much time, contrary to expectations. Mostly, I have had my switches set to "lay and watch" mode, which has delighted me with the intake of season one of The Wire (style note: Is it correct that a television program's title is italicized while individual episode titles are put in quotations?), lots of sports, and Giada De Laurentiis in HD. Yum.
But books are next on my list. I've been dipping into more short stories supplied to me by the anthological The Better of McSweeney's, Volume 1 and some nonfiction WWI short essays. And today I started reading - and nearly finished, it's short - Kurt Vonnegut's A Man Without a Country. Shamefully, this is the first Vonnegut that I have consumed. It won't be the last. I'm going to take a guess without knowing the truth that Vonnegut is known for simplicity. Straightforward representations of big ideas, maybe? Am I way off on this?
In any case, that's the mood of this memoir. He devotes scant pages to topics like the world's oil addiction, the nature of humorism/comedy, and plot construction. But he gets his point across poignantly more often than not. An efficiency in presentation of a wealth of ideas, this book.
Not having personal experience with his writing, Kurt Vonnegut was to me still an Icon. A force of literary expression that I was very aware of, but whose true power I hadn't witnessed. A hurricane on the news. It's odd to me to see him writing about current events, namely the political and societal, um, situation (meltdown [one-way handbasket trip]) of the United States in 2007. He even jokes gently and darkly about wishing to have died before the current lot took control and the current (not reasonably deniable) fascism (my word choice) gripped. Boots on the march and such imagery.
It makes me feel sadly. Those people in the world who get the Big Respect - figures like Vonnegut, Rosa Parks, Mother Theresa, etc. - had (or will have) their time on earth sullied and defiled by unluckily dying during these dark days. O, fretful youth, it's too bad. And it's too bad that millions won't read Mr. Vonnegut's words and finally GET IT.
A Man Without a Country is a book to be read by all.
Sunday, September 9
George Saunders on Letterman
A meeting of two great minds of the 21st Century.
I know, Bryan, I know. He said "Soldiers Field." It pained me too.
Here again is a link to The Sound of Young America interview. I think it's pretty fantastic. The Saunders segment begins at 22:05.
I know, Bryan, I know. He said "Soldiers Field." It pained me too.
Here again is a link to The Sound of Young America interview. I think it's pretty fantastic. The Saunders segment begins at 22:05.
Friday, September 7
100th Post!
Book-Loop turns 100. Happy Birthday! This is rarefied air in the literary community. Among the dead only Kathleen Hale, author of Orlando the Marmalade Cat and Stanley Kunitz, former Poet Laureate of the United States, have reached the century mark. Phyllis A. Whitney, whose works include Red Is for Murder and The Mystery of the Gulls, forges on at 104. Remarkably her birthday is today. Studs Terkel, a notable Chicagoan and oral historian, is 95. Herman Wouk, author of The Winds of War, is 92. Beverly Cleary, whose Ramona books my mother used to read aloud to me before I went to bed, is 91.
Monday, September 3
Free pie and chips
From Entertainment Weekly: Joe Lawson, one of the ad writers who devised Geico's caveman commercials and the new ABC sitcom Caveman, recently acknowledged that he'd been inspired by the Neanderthal-themed title story in [George] Saunders' 2000 collection, Pastoralia. Far from being upset, Saunders tells EW he's pleased to get Lawson's shout-out. "Actually, I'm gonna write a novel now about a green lizard with a British accent," he jokes, referring to Geico's spokes-gecko, "and it'll even out."
This is wild. It turns out George Saunders, a writer who has expended a significant amount of ink jousting with commercialism, commodification and pop culture in his absurdist satires, actually inspired one of the undeniable low-points in American Culture. Layer upon layer of, dare I say, irony. Quite a puzzle.
By the way, I stumbled upon that tidbit adjacent to a review of Saunders' new essay collection, The Braindead Microphone. For what it's worth EW compared Saunders' journalistic talents to those of fellow fiction writers Norman Mailer and David Foster Wallace.
This is wild. It turns out George Saunders, a writer who has expended a significant amount of ink jousting with commercialism, commodification and pop culture in his absurdist satires, actually inspired one of the undeniable low-points in American Culture. Layer upon layer of, dare I say, irony. Quite a puzzle.
By the way, I stumbled upon that tidbit adjacent to a review of Saunders' new essay collection, The Braindead Microphone. For what it's worth EW compared Saunders' journalistic talents to those of fellow fiction writers Norman Mailer and David Foster Wallace.
Sunday, September 2
Kafkaesque is the new irony
I see it everywhere. Attacked, gutted and left to rot as a cliché. Most recently here. It's funny, because going on a guided tour, no matter how labyrinthian a locale it happens to be, is by definition the opposite of kafkaesque. How ironic! Anyway, to me the underground always seemed more dostoevskyian (perhaps even ellisonian) than anything else.
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