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!
Sunday, November 11
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.
Friday, August 10
Potter Schmotter
Just kidding! I like Harry as much as the next 24-year-old American man. Which is to say, a lot I guess. Kind of strange, no? That the reach of these tales encompasses those, like me, who should be beyond the grip of such irony-deficient fads. But, no.
For real though: I have been a bit busy lately, what with a series of exciting visits to my humble jumble of an apartment. My mom, my cousin Joe, my girlfriend (fellow Looper Cat), and next week, my brother! There has been little time to read, and the only reading I have done is to plough through Harry Potter VI and VII. Well, I'm only halfway finished with VII, so shhhh!!
Now, I don't find much to say of merit about these Potter stories. I like them, sure, but I think the actual significance of the works in our culture is probably due to the fevered reaction to their existence. Change the names of the characters and feed it to the same readers unawares, and are the stories really that fantastic? Does it matter?
The interesting phenomenon, I suppose, is the meta-attention, of which I am currently participating. The fussy hubbub is the story here. Mob mentality, and all that. The meta goes many layers deep on this one. The media is the snake eating its own tail, no?
But there are genuine feelings of longing to get back to that story. I can see it sitting beside my bed, calling to me like Voldemort calls to the young hero wizard. Stupid Voldemort.
One great aspect of the Harry Potter books is the feeling I get before I sit down with the book. Looking forward to getting comfortable in my favorite chair and immersing myself in the - admittedly engrossing - adventures is almost as enjoyable as the adventures themselves! There is a genuine power to these books, on some level. And I have genuine regard for the experience. Jk, J.K.: Potter is the man.
For real though: I have been a bit busy lately, what with a series of exciting visits to my humble jumble of an apartment. My mom, my cousin Joe, my girlfriend (fellow Looper Cat), and next week, my brother! There has been little time to read, and the only reading I have done is to plough through Harry Potter VI and VII. Well, I'm only halfway finished with VII, so shhhh!!
Now, I don't find much to say of merit about these Potter stories. I like them, sure, but I think the actual significance of the works in our culture is probably due to the fevered reaction to their existence. Change the names of the characters and feed it to the same readers unawares, and are the stories really that fantastic? Does it matter?
The interesting phenomenon, I suppose, is the meta-attention, of which I am currently participating. The fussy hubbub is the story here. Mob mentality, and all that. The meta goes many layers deep on this one. The media is the snake eating its own tail, no?
But there are genuine feelings of longing to get back to that story. I can see it sitting beside my bed, calling to me like Voldemort calls to the young hero wizard. Stupid Voldemort.
One great aspect of the Harry Potter books is the feeling I get before I sit down with the book. Looking forward to getting comfortable in my favorite chair and immersing myself in the - admittedly engrossing - adventures is almost as enjoyable as the adventures themselves! There is a genuine power to these books, on some level. And I have genuine regard for the experience. Jk, J.K.: Potter is the man.
Saturday, July 28
Radio & Writers
- Michael Yates discusses Cheap Motels and a Hot Plate on Against the Grain
- Jim Crace discusses The Pesthouse on Bookworm
- Stephen Carter discusses New England White on On Point
- Miranda July discusses Miranda July on The Sound of Young America
- Actor Bruce Dern discusses his memoir on The Business
- Fresh Air remembers poet Sekou Sundiata
- Eugene Drucker discusses The Savior with Diane Rehm
Friday, July 27
The Plot Thickens
I still have no idea what a Beowulf really is, but at least some clues are on the way. The latest piece of the puzzle:
BEOWULF THE VIDEOGAME!!
Kicking ass literature-style.
BEOWULF THE VIDEOGAME!!
Kicking ass literature-style.
Sunday, July 22
Blogging and language and books
- Books we have never read
- 'I don't think bloggers read'
- Blogging adds to the language? Don't talk shit
- Blogging: a crash course on introspection
- Goodbye to Newspapers?
- The economic consequences of the rise of English
- Children of empire
- Wendy Cooling: I want to get every child in the country reading for pleasure
- Why we turn writers' houses into holy shrines
- The Apprentice: The making of a sportswriter
- An Interview with Arnold Rampersad
Saturday, July 21
High School Selection
Ben, what a topic. And it's quite fitting, as I've also been giving some thought to what I read and learned as a little lady.
A quick side-note that Mike and I met in Judy McWhirter's English class. I hated him so much, because he would tease me mercilessly and tell me not to, "get my dander up." Just ridiculous.
Although my memory has been rendered practically null by a friend named pot, I can still catch the little brain glimmer when recalling my favorites. They include:
-As I Lay Dying
-Crime and Punishment
-Siddhartha
-Cat and Mouse
-A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
-Cat's Cradle
-Atlas Shrugged
-Lolita
-Giants in the Earth
-Norwegian Wood
All lovely. The pick of the litter for me was Joyce. It simply seemed like he could take the happy feelings of being a youngster and say them properly.
Not to be a grouch, but I also find it interesting to note those books that I thoroughly detested. Most came from 9th grade Advanced English with Mrs. Grace, who left in the middle of the year after a 'death threat.' She was almost 80 years old and I was left to deal with the infamous Boo Yeah all alone.
-Ender's Game
-David Copperfield
-The Chosen
-The Bean Trees
-The House of Mirth
-The Heart of the Matter
Graham Greene as a raving God-fearer broke my heart. Dickens and I will never get along, either.
So how about books that high schoolers should read?
A quick side-note that Mike and I met in Judy McWhirter's English class. I hated him so much, because he would tease me mercilessly and tell me not to, "get my dander up." Just ridiculous.
Although my memory has been rendered practically null by a friend named pot, I can still catch the little brain glimmer when recalling my favorites. They include:
-As I Lay Dying
-Crime and Punishment
-Siddhartha
-Cat and Mouse
-A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
-Cat's Cradle
-Atlas Shrugged
-Lolita
-Giants in the Earth
-Norwegian Wood
All lovely. The pick of the litter for me was Joyce. It simply seemed like he could take the happy feelings of being a youngster and say them properly.
Not to be a grouch, but I also find it interesting to note those books that I thoroughly detested. Most came from 9th grade Advanced English with Mrs. Grace, who left in the middle of the year after a 'death threat.' She was almost 80 years old and I was left to deal with the infamous Boo Yeah all alone.
-Ender's Game
-David Copperfield
-The Chosen
-The Bean Trees
-The House of Mirth
-The Heart of the Matter
Graham Greene as a raving God-fearer broke my heart. Dickens and I will never get along, either.
So how about books that high schoolers should read?
Tuesday, July 17
What did you read in high school?
So it's been just over eight years since I got out of high school. Funny, it actually seems a lot longer. For some reason today I got to thinking about what books I was assigned in high school. Perhaps it was an offshoot of the "good books" idea that has been floating around in my head. Anyway, here is everything that I remember reading for school:
Grade 9
Animal Farm
Fahrenheit 451
Of Mice and Men
Lord of the Flies
Black Like Me
A Raisin in the Sun
Grade 10
Seize the Day
Catcher in the Rye
A Separate Peace
Our Town
A Streetcar Named Desire
Night
Siddhartha*
Grade 11
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Their Eyes Were Watching God
The Great Gatsby
Slaughterhouse Five
On the Road
Big scary textbook with stuff like Self-Reliance, Hawthorne short stories and orations from early America
Grade 12
Beowulf
Canterbury Tales
Hamlet
The Handmaid’s Tale
The House of the Spirits
Grendel
Franny and Zooey*
How did I graduate high school having been assigned just two novels (Night and The House of the Spirits) written by authors born outside of North America or the United Kingdom? Is that normal? I know in the honors track the students read Flaubert and Tolstoy over the summer before their sophomore year but we intensive students seem to have been cheated. Hell, we were all cheated without at least a little Far East and a little Africa being introduced to our impressionable young minds.
The grade 9 reading list resembles a syllabus you would likely see again and again if you were to Google “high school freshman English,” but I remember those books all being pretty rewarding, so no complaints on the vanilla course design. I was not a good student my freshman year. I remember being worried about whether I would have strong enough grades to be able to play basketball. A low point came when I failed a quiz on basic plot details of Fahrenheit 451. I had read the chapters the quiz covered and yet I was unable to answer the questions correctly.
Grade 10 is noteworthy only because it introduced me to Bellow and Hesse. Well, I suppose it is also noteworthy for Brando's stellar performance in Streetcar, which we watched upon completing our reading of the play.
In Grade 11, I read what was probably my favorite novel to date, Their Eyes Were Watching God. On the Road was an interesting experience but meh overall, and after having it assigned to me twice more in college it remains meh. (Now Dharma Bums, that's a different story entirely.) I remember being transfixed by the characters in The Great Gatsby but not connecting with the novel as a whole so much. I really need to read that one again. Slaughterhouse Five was magical. I really enjoyed my time in that class, got a A+ for my efforts too. Before that year I was an average student who wasn't even giving a great deal of thought to the idea of college, but over the course of that year something happened and I really got rolling academically. Some of those books you see are largely responsible.
Grade 12 was a good time. The Handmaid's Tale blew my mind and I recall loathing The Canterbury Tales a great deal less than most of my classmates. I remember my nightly one page essays that I had to write on Hamlet being the most fun I'd ever had on homework assignments. I was really into that shit.
So what did you read? What did you love? What did you hate? What do you wish you read? What are some books you read later in life that you think more high school kids should be reading? Why? Do you approve of the new template?
*Selected myself for book review assignments.
Grade 9
Animal Farm
Fahrenheit 451
Of Mice and Men
Lord of the Flies
Black Like Me
A Raisin in the Sun
Grade 10
Seize the Day
Catcher in the Rye
A Separate Peace
Our Town
A Streetcar Named Desire
Night
Siddhartha*
Grade 11
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
Their Eyes Were Watching God
The Great Gatsby
Slaughterhouse Five
On the Road
Big scary textbook with stuff like Self-Reliance, Hawthorne short stories and orations from early America
Grade 12
Beowulf
Canterbury Tales
Hamlet
The Handmaid’s Tale
The House of the Spirits
Grendel
Franny and Zooey*
How did I graduate high school having been assigned just two novels (Night and The House of the Spirits) written by authors born outside of North America or the United Kingdom? Is that normal? I know in the honors track the students read Flaubert and Tolstoy over the summer before their sophomore year but we intensive students seem to have been cheated. Hell, we were all cheated without at least a little Far East and a little Africa being introduced to our impressionable young minds.
The grade 9 reading list resembles a syllabus you would likely see again and again if you were to Google “high school freshman English,” but I remember those books all being pretty rewarding, so no complaints on the vanilla course design. I was not a good student my freshman year. I remember being worried about whether I would have strong enough grades to be able to play basketball. A low point came when I failed a quiz on basic plot details of Fahrenheit 451. I had read the chapters the quiz covered and yet I was unable to answer the questions correctly.
Grade 10 is noteworthy only because it introduced me to Bellow and Hesse. Well, I suppose it is also noteworthy for Brando's stellar performance in Streetcar, which we watched upon completing our reading of the play.
In Grade 11, I read what was probably my favorite novel to date, Their Eyes Were Watching God. On the Road was an interesting experience but meh overall, and after having it assigned to me twice more in college it remains meh. (Now Dharma Bums, that's a different story entirely.) I remember being transfixed by the characters in The Great Gatsby but not connecting with the novel as a whole so much. I really need to read that one again. Slaughterhouse Five was magical. I really enjoyed my time in that class, got a A+ for my efforts too. Before that year I was an average student who wasn't even giving a great deal of thought to the idea of college, but over the course of that year something happened and I really got rolling academically. Some of those books you see are largely responsible.
Grade 12 was a good time. The Handmaid's Tale blew my mind and I recall loathing The Canterbury Tales a great deal less than most of my classmates. I remember my nightly one page essays that I had to write on Hamlet being the most fun I'd ever had on homework assignments. I was really into that shit.
So what did you read? What did you love? What did you hate? What do you wish you read? What are some books you read later in life that you think more high school kids should be reading? Why? Do you approve of the new template?
*Selected myself for book review assignments.
Treasure Trove
- When 'On the Road' Was 'On the Subway'
- Kings of the Road
- Covering Cormac
- Harry Potter and the Death of Reading
- The Bible Delusion
- The Greatness and Decline of American Oratory
- The 2006 Believe Book Awards
- 'J'accuse George W Bush'
- The Independent's Summer reading special
- Winston Churchill, philo-Semite
- 'Inner Workings: Literary Essays 2000-2005' by J.M. Coetzee
- Xinran: I want to tell the world about the lives of ordinary Chinese women
Monday, July 16
Saturday, July 14
Bloom, King, Hornby
I have some strands in my head that have the makings of an interesting post. I'm not going to make a a real go of it though. It's Saturday morning, the sun is shining, and I have a hankering for a bagel. I'm going for a walk. What I'll do for now is plop down the strands here for now and perhaps I shall return later in the day to assemble them into something resembling a thoughtful post. EDIT - No such luck.
From Dumbing down American readers, by Harold Bloom
"The Decision to give the National Book Foundation's annual award for "distinguished contribution" to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life. I've described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind . . . The publishing industry has stooped terribly low to bestow on King a lifetime award that has previously gone to the novelists Saul Bellow and Philip Roth and to playwright Arthur Miller. By awarding it to King they recognize nothing but the commercial value of his books, which sell in the millions but do little more for humanity than keep the publishing world afloat.
. . .
Our society and our literature and our culture are being dumbed down, and the causes are very complex. I'm 73 years old. In a lifetime of teaching English, I've seen the study of literature debased. There's very little authentic study of the humanities remaining.
. . .
Today there are four living American novelists I know of who are still at work and who deserve our praise. Thomas Pynchon is still writing. My friend Philip Roth, who will now share this "distinguished contribution" award with Stephen King, is a great comedian and would no doubt find something funny to say about it. There's Cormac McCarthy, whose novel "Blood Meridian" is worthy of Herman Melville's "Moby-Dick," and Don DeLillo, whose "Underworld" is a great book."
From Stephen King has a shining talent, by Sam Jordison
"It may be a testimony to my own idiocy, but I like plenty of penny dreadfuls and I also like Stephen King. As something of a snob myself, I too spent many years assuming that he was crap (even though I hadn't actually read any of his books). But I was eventually persuaded that the brain behind films as good and as varied as Misery, The Shawshank Redemption and (of course) The Shining had to have something going for it. Even if his prose was turgid. And when I got stuck into a copy of the The Shining, I was pleasantly surprised.
. . .
More important than such personal enjoyment of King's craftsmanship, is the fact that he's the bestselling adult novelist in the world. Please don't misinterpret me as saying that more is better. I simply mean that to dismiss Stephen King out of hand is to dismiss millions of readers and, crucially, millions of readers in the world's most powerful country, the US. It is to these fans that King speaks most intimately and about whom he therefore has the most to tell us.
. . .
In short, King's ability to reflect contemporary US society - and (thanks to his huge fan base) to affect it - is as powerful as any other writer around today. And if that isn't impressive literature... Well, you tell me."
From Housekeeping vs. The Dirt, by Nick Hornby
“...boredom, let’s face it, is a problem that many of us have come to associate with books. It’s one of the reasons why we choose to do almost anything else rather than read; very few of us pick up a book after the children are in bed and the dinner has been made and the dirty dishes cleared away. We’d rather turn on the television. Some evenings we’d rather go to all the trouble of getting into a car and driving to a cinema, or waiting for a bus that might take us somewhere near one. This is partly because reading appears to be more effortful than watching TV, and usually it is, although if you choose to watch HBO series, such as The Sopranos or The Wire, then it’s a close-run thing, because the plotting in these programs, the speed and the complexity of the dialogue, are as demanding as a lot of the very best fiction.
One of the problems, it seems to me, is that we have gotten it into our heads that books should be hard work, and that unless they’re hard work, they’re not doing us any good.
. . .
If reading books is to survive as a leisure activity——and there are statistics which show that this is by no means assured——then we have to promote the joys of reading rather than the (dubious) benefits. I would never attempt to dissuade anyone from reading a book. But please, if you’re reading a book that’s killing you, put it down and read something else, just as you would reach for the remote if you weren’t enjoying a TV program. You failure to enjoy a highly rated novel doesn’t mean you’re dim——you may find that Graham Greene is more your taste, or Stephen Hawking, or Iris Murdoch, or Ian Rankin. Dickens, Stephen King, whoever. It doesn’t matter.
. . .
In Britain, more than twelve million adults have a reading age of thirteen or under, and yet some clever-dick journalist still insists on telling us that unless we’re reading something proper, then we might as well not bother at all.
. . .
And please, please, please stop patronizing those who are reading books——The Da Vinci Code, maybe——because they are enjoying it. For a start, none of us knows what kind of an effort this represents for the individual reader. It could be his or her first full-length adult novel; it might be the book that finally reveals the purpose and joy of reading to someone who has hitherto been mystified by the attraction books exert on others. And anyway, reading for enjoyment is what we should all be doing."
From What makes a book good? comment thread, by Ben
"When we ask, 'good for what,' why can't we simply answer, 'good for the enjoyment of the reader?' Would that defeat the entire purpose of this discussion? Perhaps, but that's what I believe it boils down to. What is any hobby good for? Escapism or edification, whatever the goal, reading is not unlike other hobbies, and just as with other hobbies the payoff for each individual is unique."
From Dumbing down American readers, by Harold Bloom
"The Decision to give the National Book Foundation's annual award for "distinguished contribution" to Stephen King is extraordinary, another low in the shocking process of dumbing down our cultural life. I've described King in the past as a writer of penny dreadfuls, but perhaps even that is too kind . . . The publishing industry has stooped terribly low to bestow on King a lifetime award that has previously gone to the novelists Saul Bellow and Philip Roth and to playwright Arthur Miller. By awarding it to King they recognize nothing but the commercial value of his books, which sell in the millions but do little more for humanity than keep the publishing world afloat.
. . .
Our society and our literature and our culture are being dumbed down, and the causes are very complex. I'm 73 years old. In a lifetime of teaching English, I've seen the study of literature debased. There's very little authentic study of the humanities remaining.
. . .
Today there are four living American novelists I know of who are still at work and who deserve our praise. Thomas Pynchon is still writing. My friend Philip Roth, who will now share this "distinguished contribution" award with Stephen King, is a great comedian and would no doubt find something funny to say about it. There's Cormac McCarthy, whose novel "Blood Meridian" is worthy of Herman Melville's "Moby-Dick," and Don DeLillo, whose "Underworld" is a great book."
From Stephen King has a shining talent, by Sam Jordison
"It may be a testimony to my own idiocy, but I like plenty of penny dreadfuls and I also like Stephen King. As something of a snob myself, I too spent many years assuming that he was crap (even though I hadn't actually read any of his books). But I was eventually persuaded that the brain behind films as good and as varied as Misery, The Shawshank Redemption and (of course) The Shining had to have something going for it. Even if his prose was turgid. And when I got stuck into a copy of the The Shining, I was pleasantly surprised.
. . .
More important than such personal enjoyment of King's craftsmanship, is the fact that he's the bestselling adult novelist in the world. Please don't misinterpret me as saying that more is better. I simply mean that to dismiss Stephen King out of hand is to dismiss millions of readers and, crucially, millions of readers in the world's most powerful country, the US. It is to these fans that King speaks most intimately and about whom he therefore has the most to tell us.
. . .
In short, King's ability to reflect contemporary US society - and (thanks to his huge fan base) to affect it - is as powerful as any other writer around today. And if that isn't impressive literature... Well, you tell me."
From Housekeeping vs. The Dirt, by Nick Hornby
“...boredom, let’s face it, is a problem that many of us have come to associate with books. It’s one of the reasons why we choose to do almost anything else rather than read; very few of us pick up a book after the children are in bed and the dinner has been made and the dirty dishes cleared away. We’d rather turn on the television. Some evenings we’d rather go to all the trouble of getting into a car and driving to a cinema, or waiting for a bus that might take us somewhere near one. This is partly because reading appears to be more effortful than watching TV, and usually it is, although if you choose to watch HBO series, such as The Sopranos or The Wire, then it’s a close-run thing, because the plotting in these programs, the speed and the complexity of the dialogue, are as demanding as a lot of the very best fiction.
One of the problems, it seems to me, is that we have gotten it into our heads that books should be hard work, and that unless they’re hard work, they’re not doing us any good.
. . .
If reading books is to survive as a leisure activity——and there are statistics which show that this is by no means assured——then we have to promote the joys of reading rather than the (dubious) benefits. I would never attempt to dissuade anyone from reading a book. But please, if you’re reading a book that’s killing you, put it down and read something else, just as you would reach for the remote if you weren’t enjoying a TV program. You failure to enjoy a highly rated novel doesn’t mean you’re dim——you may find that Graham Greene is more your taste, or Stephen Hawking, or Iris Murdoch, or Ian Rankin. Dickens, Stephen King, whoever. It doesn’t matter.
. . .
In Britain, more than twelve million adults have a reading age of thirteen or under, and yet some clever-dick journalist still insists on telling us that unless we’re reading something proper, then we might as well not bother at all.
. . .
And please, please, please stop patronizing those who are reading books——The Da Vinci Code, maybe——because they are enjoying it. For a start, none of us knows what kind of an effort this represents for the individual reader. It could be his or her first full-length adult novel; it might be the book that finally reveals the purpose and joy of reading to someone who has hitherto been mystified by the attraction books exert on others. And anyway, reading for enjoyment is what we should all be doing."
From What makes a book good? comment thread, by Ben
"When we ask, 'good for what,' why can't we simply answer, 'good for the enjoyment of the reader?' Would that defeat the entire purpose of this discussion? Perhaps, but that's what I believe it boils down to. What is any hobby good for? Escapism or edification, whatever the goal, reading is not unlike other hobbies, and just as with other hobbies the payoff for each individual is unique."
Friday, July 13
Supplementary Reading
- David Halberstam's posthumous thoughts on Iraq
- Review of Primo Levi's A Tranquil Star
- Francisco Goldman on Roberto Bolaño
- Haruki Murakami: Jazz Messenger
- Rowling learning to live with fame, fortune, life without Harry
- Tintin's Congo book moved out of children's section
- Stephen King has a shining talent
- Sebastian Beaumont's top 10 books about psychological journeys
- The C.I.A.’s Missteps, From Past to Present
- Discussion of hip-hop culture forgets its spirit, and music
- The beloved 'eccentric' of Other Times Books
Thursday, July 12
The Library of Babel
I read my absolutely favoritest short story again last night, Borges' "The Library of Babel," from Ficciones, the themes of which are never far from my mind. Ben, Mike, others — I found the entire text online here, and if you have some time to read it, I'm sure you'd enjoy it.
It's been a long time
It cuts me up inside knowing that LTS didn't live to see the day he could share these pages with two illustrious women.
We miss him desperately.
We miss him desperately.
Cat's Cradle
Fantastic!I have but one question, Book-Loopers: Are we a granfalloon or are we a karass? I fear it is terribly obvious that we are the former. No matter. Down with Proust, up with Vonnegut, get your Beowfulf opening night tickets, WHAT!?!!? Busy, busy, busy.
"What do you think of it?" I asked him.
"It's black. What is it——hell?"
"It means whatever it means," said Newt.
"Then it's hell," snarled Castle.
"I was told a moment ago that it was a cat's cradle," I said.
"Inside information always helps," said Castle.
"I don't think it's very nice," Angela complained. "I think it's ugly, but I don't know anything about modern art. Sometimes I wish Newt would take some lessons, so he could know for sure if he was doing something or not."
"Self taught, are you?" Julian Castle asked Newt.
"Isn't everybody?" Newt answered.
"Very good answer." Castle was respectful.
I undertook to explain the deeper significance of the cat's cradle, since Newt seemed disinclined to go through that song and dance again.
And Castle nodded sagely. "So this is a picture of the meaninglessness of it all! I couldn't agree more."
Wednesday, July 11
An Open Letter To Marcel Proust
I must apologize. First, I’m sorry that you are dead — you would have loved the Internet.
Second, I’m sorry I couldn’t finish volume one (Swann’s Way) of your masterwork, In Search of Lost Time. I got 300 pages into the book, which is part one of what is considered possibly the greatest novel ever written. That’s two-thirds of the way through. But I just cannot finish it. It is probably my own loss, but I can accept that. I have moved on to Don DeLillo’s White Noise, something more contemporary and originally written in English. That will probably help. I just know that I had about 40 hours of flights/travel time and only mustered 100 pages of reading. There are many things that are hard that are worth doing, and reading your works is probably one of them for someone. For me, right now, it’s not. Though I did copy down some good quotes.
Third, I’m sorry about all that “Freedom Fries” bullshit from a few years back. Turns out you guys were right the whole time.
Your pal,
B
Saturday, July 7
Some Links
- The quixotic don
- Has The Sopranos whacked the Great American novel?
- Putin kills the press
- Gunter Grass Peels the Onion
- A Talk With Cullen Murphy, Author of Are We Rome?
- Cape Wind: An entertaining look at power and hypocrisy
- Revisiting The Autobiography of Malcolm X
- Boyd Tonkin celebrates Woody Allen's fiction
- Mark Slouka visits Bookworm
- Elmore Leonard says hello to Young America
Wednesday, July 4
Falling Man
My mother gave me Don DeLillo’s Falling Man for my birthday, saying, “I know how much you like him so when I saw he had a new book out I was excited to get it for you.” A curious statement, seeing as I had not read a single DeLillo novel. Her confusion no doubt stemmed from a recent conversation the two of us shared in which we discussed a now forgotten title (perhaps her beloved Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy) and she said, “It’s a contemporary classic like…. like…” “Like White Noise,” I said. Never read it, but it’s got that reputation. And so she came to think I was a big fan.Falling Man is yet another entry into the ever-growing sub-genre of 9/11 fiction. Because it is written by a man who is widely considered one of the top four or five active American writers its release was something of a literary event. As I had no intention of reading Falling Man I have yet to look at a single review of the novel. I do not know whether the critical response has generally positive, but I do know that I did not particularly care for the book.
For a crisp plot summary we turn to Wikipedia (forgive me, I’m lazy): “Falling Man concerns a survivor of the 9/11 attacks and the effect his experiences on that day have on his life thereafter. As the novel opens, Keith Neudecker, a 39 year-old lawyer who works in the World Trade Center, escapes from the building injured slightly and walks to the apartment he previously shared with his son Justin and estranged wife Lianne. After a period of convalescence recuperating from the physical and mental trauma experienced in the attack, Keith resumes his domestic routine with Lianne while at the same time broaching a romantic relationship with a woman named Florence, another survivor, whose briefcase Keith absently took with him from a stairwell upon exiting the tower.”
Falling Man wants very much to be a small, personal story about a epic, international event, but for the most part I found it rather cold. I believe it would have made a excellent novella (I recall enjoying the excerpt from the novel that appeared in The New Yorker) but at 246 pages it carries a significant amount of excess baggage. Most unfortunate, I think, are the three small sections that jump outside of the lives of the central characters to follow a 9/11 hijacker from Afghanistan, to Florida, to the moment his plane strikes Keith’s building. These sections seemed sloppy and incomplete, an afterthought.
Falling Man does contain a few moments that took my breath away, such as when we discover that three children’s vexing new hobby of staring outside an apartment window with binoculars began so that they could monitor the skies for rogue airplanes. Also, the two descriptions of exiting the crumbling tower, one of Florence’s experience and one of Keith’s of the escape, are pretty stunning. But, yeah, until further I'm not a big fan.
Tuesday, June 26
McSweeney's 18; Haiku Review
I'm continuing to make my way through the 18th issue of McSweeney's. Two good stories have so far followed "The Stepfather," but I do not wish to write full reactions to them. I wish to write haiku reviews. Though not innovated in the pages of Book-Loop, haiku reviews shall certainly here be utilized and enjoyed.
"Somoza's Dream," Daniel Orozco
Sunned intrigue down South;
Exploded bastards betrayed
Deservingly so
"New Boy," Roddy Doyle
Kid's got spunk for sure,
'Cause it's not a simple act
To show big jerks up.
Sunned intrigue down South;
Exploded bastards betrayed
Deservingly so
"New Boy," Roddy Doyle
Kid's got spunk for sure,
'Cause it's not a simple act
To show big jerks up.
Monday, June 25
Book-Loop Pop Quiz
Guess what book Bryan is currently reading!
1) Underworld, by Don DeLillo
2) Salt, by Mark Kurlansky
3) Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust
4) Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir, by Doris Kearns Goodwin
5) White Noise, by Don DeLillo
This is mostly a quiz for Ben, but I invite all to guess, well, just for fun. I have read none of these books until now, but I plan on reading most or all of them.
1) Underworld, by Don DeLillo
2) Salt, by Mark Kurlansky
3) Swann's Way, by Marcel Proust
4) Wait Till Next Year: A Memoir, by Doris Kearns Goodwin
5) White Noise, by Don DeLillo
This is mostly a quiz for Ben, but I invite all to guess, well, just for fun. I have read none of these books until now, but I plan on reading most or all of them.
Tuesday, June 19
McSweeney's 18; "The Stepfather"
The wonderful publishing house McSweeney’s, which is linked to on Book-Loop’s sidebar, distributes quarterly a subscription-based product titled simply with the issue number. Each issue is quite different, and there don’t seem to be too many rules governing the production of the material, but all are also similar in that each is primarily a collection of short fiction pieces. Number 18 is a conservative entry – a smallish paper-bound book of short stories.
I’ve read one so far. “The Stepfather,” by Chris Adrian, is a hazy little story about a quirky family. The location of the setting in both time and space is ambiguous, but the text suggests the family lives a wealthy rural lifestyle in the second half of last century. The matriarch of this family has a habit of marrying and divorcing frequently, almost seasonally. The various stepfathers drift into and out of the family’s life. And while the mother finds her comfort in these multiple males, the children have been alienated from fatherly attachment and are welded to one another very thoroughly.
Also ambiguous, in an almost comical, but somewhat sinister, fashion, is the exact number of children in the story. Sinister, I say, because a new name will pop up on almost every page with no real introduction. The author seems to enjoy springing the characters on the reader. “Yes, there’s another one, haha.” All in all, there are about a dozen children in the tale, pairs and triples of whom are the offspring of the different rotating stepfathers. Curiously, each stepfather is referred to as “stepfather” in relation to all of the kids, as if their mother was the only parent involved in their making.
What is not unclear to me is the violence marbled through the story. Only one physically violent act is described in the text, though others unfulfilled are contemplated. A word about that violent act: I am always fascinated by the ways in which authors describe terrible acts, especially those involving inhuman savagery. Do they choose to sensationalize? Is the prose viscerally present at the scene, or is it detached? Adrian chooses detachment, detailing a crime committed against one of the siblings through declaratives spoken by one of the brothers. The crime is this: Calvin, a closeted brother, goes to have a rendezvous with a sailor in a dark park. His body is found with hundreds of stab wounds and fingers bitten off. Semen from multiple assailants is found inside of wounds in his abdomen. Ok, yuck. It makes me wonder how an author decides to convey such a plot point in his story. I read that description multiple times, as it came somewhat out of nowhere.
As I mentioned, that is the only physically violent event in “The Stepfather,” but I have another definition of violence that I once wrote as a thesis in a Women’s Studies paper at university. My basic idea was that violence can be usefully defined as victim creation, and the presence of physical aggression is a secondary consideration. For example, a boxing match may be awfully damaging and brutal, but because of the agreed-upon circumstances, it is not so much a violent thing. There is no victim created. I feel that violence is essentially action which causes abuse that converts a person into a victim who before was not: victim creation.
Under this rubric, “The Stepfather” is speckled significantly with violence. The violence of alienation of children by absent parenting, the primary and secondary victim creation from Calvin’s horrific murder; these events lead to the last part of the story in which the cabal of slighted sisters and brothers plot to kill the latest stepfather, so unhappy are they with his performance. However, each in turn fails to accomplish the deed. He remains in their lives, and they remain victims, as they see it, of his lamentable presence. The last act of violence in the story remains an imagined one, their potential victim remaining a culprit instead. And Calvin’s unknown murderer remains as well.
I’ve read one so far. “The Stepfather,” by Chris Adrian, is a hazy little story about a quirky family. The location of the setting in both time and space is ambiguous, but the text suggests the family lives a wealthy rural lifestyle in the second half of last century. The matriarch of this family has a habit of marrying and divorcing frequently, almost seasonally. The various stepfathers drift into and out of the family’s life. And while the mother finds her comfort in these multiple males, the children have been alienated from fatherly attachment and are welded to one another very thoroughly.
Also ambiguous, in an almost comical, but somewhat sinister, fashion, is the exact number of children in the story. Sinister, I say, because a new name will pop up on almost every page with no real introduction. The author seems to enjoy springing the characters on the reader. “Yes, there’s another one, haha.” All in all, there are about a dozen children in the tale, pairs and triples of whom are the offspring of the different rotating stepfathers. Curiously, each stepfather is referred to as “stepfather” in relation to all of the kids, as if their mother was the only parent involved in their making.
What is not unclear to me is the violence marbled through the story. Only one physically violent act is described in the text, though others unfulfilled are contemplated. A word about that violent act: I am always fascinated by the ways in which authors describe terrible acts, especially those involving inhuman savagery. Do they choose to sensationalize? Is the prose viscerally present at the scene, or is it detached? Adrian chooses detachment, detailing a crime committed against one of the siblings through declaratives spoken by one of the brothers. The crime is this: Calvin, a closeted brother, goes to have a rendezvous with a sailor in a dark park. His body is found with hundreds of stab wounds and fingers bitten off. Semen from multiple assailants is found inside of wounds in his abdomen. Ok, yuck. It makes me wonder how an author decides to convey such a plot point in his story. I read that description multiple times, as it came somewhat out of nowhere.
As I mentioned, that is the only physically violent event in “The Stepfather,” but I have another definition of violence that I once wrote as a thesis in a Women’s Studies paper at university. My basic idea was that violence can be usefully defined as victim creation, and the presence of physical aggression is a secondary consideration. For example, a boxing match may be awfully damaging and brutal, but because of the agreed-upon circumstances, it is not so much a violent thing. There is no victim created. I feel that violence is essentially action which causes abuse that converts a person into a victim who before was not: victim creation.
Under this rubric, “The Stepfather” is speckled significantly with violence. The violence of alienation of children by absent parenting, the primary and secondary victim creation from Calvin’s horrific murder; these events lead to the last part of the story in which the cabal of slighted sisters and brothers plot to kill the latest stepfather, so unhappy are they with his performance. However, each in turn fails to accomplish the deed. He remains in their lives, and they remain victims, as they see it, of his lamentable presence. The last act of violence in the story remains an imagined one, their potential victim remaining a culprit instead. And Calvin’s unknown murderer remains as well.
Monday, June 18
Summer Solstice
- Easy, readers: Summer reads from the Boston Globe
- "Hot Summer Reads" from On Point with Tom Ashbrook
- NPR's Summer Books 2007
- The third of a four-part series of summer reading recommendations from Salon.
- The Scorn of the Literary Blog
- Racing Against Reality: A review of Don DeLillo's Falling Man
- Biggest literary prize goes to little-known Norwegian
- James Baldwin's letters to Istanbul
- David Halberstam Remembered as Writer Dedicated to Conveying Truth
- García Márquez's 'Total' Novel: One Hundred Years turns 40
- An old Salon interview with Haruki Murakami
Sunday, June 17
Fellini: His Life and Work
I finally completed Tullio Kezich's Federico Fellini: His Life and Work. I'm not big into biographies. I believe the only ones I have read as an adult are David Maraniss's Clemente (the definitive work on the great Pittsburgh Pirates right fielder) and Terry Teachout's The Skeptic: A Life of H.L. Mencken (as I think I have said before on this blog, I find it more interesting to read about Mencken than to read Mencken). Even though I inched through this book at a snails pace I really did enjoy it.The book is written in a casual style and it is obvious from the start that Kezich, an Italian film critic and close friend of Fellini's, adored his subject. While such adoration can be problematic from a credibility standpoint, I found the loving tribute appropriate given Fellini's standing in Italy, his ebullient personality and the fact that he was a cartoonist and filmmaker, not a head of state or labor organizer or guerrilla rebel, or some other position in the world where sympathy regarding private dealings could actually have important ramifications. Here the biggest show of sympathy for the subject comes in the form of Kezich's disinterest in ever exploring the many, many, many affairs of Federico Fellini. Really, too many to count. We gracefully dance around his extramaritals and I, for one, was thankful for that. Which is not to say that I wish to remain entirely ignorant about his infidelities, but rather that an extended examination of those antics would not be germane to discussion of Fellini's movies, which, as it is penned by a film critic, is the book's raison d'être
In discussing Fellini's professional life, which is the real meat of the book, Kezich is less cautious. One comes away with the impression that Fellini was a pain in the ass for his producers and no less tiresome for his cast members. We see a Fellini who is constantly behind schedule, constantly over budget and constantly altering the shape and scope of his films.
But the real joy for me were the anecdotes that only a close friend of Fellini's could provide. I encountered in-depth discussion of Fellini's Jungian analysis, authoritative talk regarding who some his characters were based on, and confirmation that, yes, in fact much of Fellini's work was far more autobiographical than he was ever willing to admit. Much of the book is spent on the pre-production and production of Fellini's films, far less (but still enough to satisfy) on the content and artistic merits of the finished products (a move I appreciated as there is an abundance of scholarly work and criticism that covers Fellini's entire filmography). After all, Fellini's work is available for all to see but the anecdotes regarding the constant delays and derailments with the production of his films are more elusive and that is an area where Kezich's friendship with the director allows us unique insight.
Gore Vidal in Fellini's Roma
Thursday, June 14
Marfa
Hmm. Well, really I was only trying to get my name under the pervasive headline of "In the Loop," but I'm not so hot with the blogger. For many reasons.
But I can talk about a book because I DO know how to read. I'm unsure as to how appealing this particular review may be for the male readers, as it has to do with kitchens. Yet since returning from Japan, I've been cooking incessantly for my family, reaping the benefits of things like an oven after two years with only a sad little dorm fridge and two-burner stove. Granted I had access to many culinary delights unknown to this land (mirin, ponzu, iro iro na kinoko), cooking for one is just no fun so lately it's been a festival of many tasty treats and some flops retired soon after their debut.
The other day, I was feeding my very bored and confused brain some ideas for dinner by skimming through the various cookbooks and food publications that clutter up our house. Gourmet, with its haughtiness and horrific advertisement spread wasn't cutting it and Cook's Illustrated seemed to have developed a meaty love affair for the grilling months. In all honesty, my search was not desirous of a step-by-step recipe as much as only some ideas with which I could create a meal of my own workings.
My eye then fatefully fell upon a clean white binding with simple print professing the knowledge of "How to Eat," written by Vogue food editor Nigella Lawson. It seemed a little naive, just to delve into such literature after 10 odd years of feeding myself, but the lady on the back cover was very pretty and alluring. I trusted her with my food and some of my time.
At first, I admit it was a bit rough to understand the layout of the book. With eight sections spanning everything from cooking in advance to weekend lunch to feeding babies, this wasn't necessarily a quick, catch-all kind of reference. Instead, it seemed as though Ms. Lawson had sat down and written an entire philosophy on food and then, given common themes, did her best to guide the reader as best she could. Nevertheless, this is not a fault, and with an altered approach to reading the pages, one can gather a wealth of knowledge on creating a practical and delicious kitchen.
With no pot on the burner, I sat down and read through the first section, entitled "Basics, etc." My eyebrows sat up at the idea of making my own salad dressings and everyday sauces, such as mayonaise. Some exotic fruits, like quinces, rhubarb, damsons and seville oranges sounded lovely, and easy recipes followed thereafter. In fact, throughout the book you will find a dusting of delicious how-tos for every palate.
I, however, was especially enraptured by the eight pages dedicated to helping one organize a refrigerator, freezer and 'larder' (she is British). Her suggestions prompted me to jump out of my chair and clean out the entire fridge before my mother could come in and start to fret about the 3 month-old, molding red pepper being 'wasted.'
Yes, Ms. Lawson has written a fantastic book for those who perhaps need a little inspiration in the kitchen. By spelling out the basics, even the hairiest brute could fix up a choucroute garnie or passion fruit fool. Her language is enlighting, as well, warmly written with wonderful thoughts not only on how to cook, but how we should think about food in our everyday lives. A read so good, I decided to reproduce my favorite recipe here:
Pea, Mint and Avocado Salad
9 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 1/2 tablespoon good white wine vinegar
fat pinch caster sugar
bunch of mint
1 1/2 kilogram peas in pod (approx. 500g. podded weight)
assorted salad leaves
2 chicory heads
3 ripe avocados
First make the dressing: put the oil and vinegar and a pinch of sugar into a large bowl and then put a decent handful of chopped mint. Stir well so all is amalgamated. Cook the podded peas for a short amount of time in salted boiling water, just so that they're ready, but not soft. Taste after 2 minutes and the keep tasting. Pour peas in colander and then straight away into the bowl of dressing and let steep for an hour or up to a day.
Just before serving, stir in about a packetful of mixed salad, the chicory, which has been separated into its leaves, and the avocado, which should be cut into bite-sized chunky slices. You may need to drizzle a bit more oil in after the tasting. Serve this on a big plate. Sprinkle with more chopped mint.
But I can talk about a book because I DO know how to read. I'm unsure as to how appealing this particular review may be for the male readers, as it has to do with kitchens. Yet since returning from Japan, I've been cooking incessantly for my family, reaping the benefits of things like an oven after two years with only a sad little dorm fridge and two-burner stove. Granted I had access to many culinary delights unknown to this land (mirin, ponzu, iro iro na kinoko), cooking for one is just no fun so lately it's been a festival of many tasty treats and some flops retired soon after their debut.
The other day, I was feeding my very bored and confused brain some ideas for dinner by skimming through the various cookbooks and food publications that clutter up our house. Gourmet, with its haughtiness and horrific advertisement spread wasn't cutting it and Cook's Illustrated seemed to have developed a meaty love affair for the grilling months. In all honesty, my search was not desirous of a step-by-step recipe as much as only some ideas with which I could create a meal of my own workings.
My eye then fatefully fell upon a clean white binding with simple print professing the knowledge of "How to Eat," written by Vogue food editor Nigella Lawson. It seemed a little naive, just to delve into such literature after 10 odd years of feeding myself, but the lady on the back cover was very pretty and alluring. I trusted her with my food and some of my time.
At first, I admit it was a bit rough to understand the layout of the book. With eight sections spanning everything from cooking in advance to weekend lunch to feeding babies, this wasn't necessarily a quick, catch-all kind of reference. Instead, it seemed as though Ms. Lawson had sat down and written an entire philosophy on food and then, given common themes, did her best to guide the reader as best she could. Nevertheless, this is not a fault, and with an altered approach to reading the pages, one can gather a wealth of knowledge on creating a practical and delicious kitchen.
With no pot on the burner, I sat down and read through the first section, entitled "Basics, etc." My eyebrows sat up at the idea of making my own salad dressings and everyday sauces, such as mayonaise. Some exotic fruits, like quinces, rhubarb, damsons and seville oranges sounded lovely, and easy recipes followed thereafter. In fact, throughout the book you will find a dusting of delicious how-tos for every palate.
I, however, was especially enraptured by the eight pages dedicated to helping one organize a refrigerator, freezer and 'larder' (she is British). Her suggestions prompted me to jump out of my chair and clean out the entire fridge before my mother could come in and start to fret about the 3 month-old, molding red pepper being 'wasted.'
Yes, Ms. Lawson has written a fantastic book for those who perhaps need a little inspiration in the kitchen. By spelling out the basics, even the hairiest brute could fix up a choucroute garnie or passion fruit fool. Her language is enlighting, as well, warmly written with wonderful thoughts not only on how to cook, but how we should think about food in our everyday lives. A read so good, I decided to reproduce my favorite recipe here:
Pea, Mint and Avocado Salad
9 tablespoons extra virgin olive oil
1 1/2 tablespoon good white wine vinegar
fat pinch caster sugar
bunch of mint
1 1/2 kilogram peas in pod (approx. 500g. podded weight)
assorted salad leaves
2 chicory heads
3 ripe avocados
First make the dressing: put the oil and vinegar and a pinch of sugar into a large bowl and then put a decent handful of chopped mint. Stir well so all is amalgamated. Cook the podded peas for a short amount of time in salted boiling water, just so that they're ready, but not soft. Taste after 2 minutes and the keep tasting. Pour peas in colander and then straight away into the bowl of dressing and let steep for an hour or up to a day.
Just before serving, stir in about a packetful of mixed salad, the chicory, which has been separated into its leaves, and the avocado, which should be cut into bite-sized chunky slices. You may need to drizzle a bit more oil in after the tasting. Serve this on a big plate. Sprinkle with more chopped mint.
Saturday, June 9
I love getting letters from pals!
From the Desk of Hugh Hefner
Dear Subscriber:
It's not everyday I write a letter like this. However, I found it important. Recently, I learned that you are no longer receiving issues of PLAYBOY at home. If you don't mind me saying, I'm a bit surprised.
I created PLAYBOY for people like yourself who want to get the most out of life - that's why I'm sorry to hear that your subscription has run out. As a busy person myself, I understand how it could have been a simple oversight.
No, Hef, I'm the one who's sorry. The Atlantic recently displaced your fine periodical in my household. It was a simple numbers game, and while boobies are nice, I've recently found myself disinterested in most of the words contained outside of the Forum section in your magazine. It was a rapid falling out of favor you and I had, and I'm not entirely sure what accounts for it. Not so long ago on this very blog I believe I said I would happily receive Playboy and SI for the remainder of my life, and now, oops, both subscriptions have lapsed. Perhaps we shall meet again some years down the line when images of naked women under the age of thirty have an entirely foreign and abstract quality.
For Your Ears
- Sherman Alexie talks about his new novel Flight with Tom Ashbrook.
- On Bookworm Joyce Carol Oates discusses her new novel The Gravedigger’s Daughter
- An English professor, a novelist, and an NPR science correspondent banter about Kurt Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle on The Diane Rehm Show.
- Rebecca Solnit vists Against the Grain to discuss her new collection of essays, Storming the Gates of Paradise.
- Fresh Air re-aired this interview with Philip Roth concerning his most recent novel, Everyman.
Friday, June 8
Thursday, June 7
I AM still here!
I just finished a fantasy baseball book - the details of which I won't waste your time with here - and read Team of Rivals, by Doris Kearns Goodwin, about Abraham Lincoln, which was Good.
Ben, Tom Wolfe = not dead.
Ben, Tom Wolfe = not dead.
Et tu? Et US?
Salon.com has an article today by Gary Kamiya. I'm getting a bit meta here with commentary on a book review, but this is the point, yes? The book in question is Are We Rome?, by Cullen Murphy. The title is pretty self-explanatory, and Kamiya says that Murphy takes a fair look at the situation, pointing out similiarities as well as differences.
Among an over-extended military, ignorance of other world cultures, and a full-steam-ahead privitization fetish, Murphy mentions the parallel of individualization. A hyper-individualized society boils down life event importance to newly miniscule scales. Insert cliche about YouTube here. Just the simple reality of permanent records of comments on things like blog posts lends a hysterical delusional importance to things that may be simply not. Such weight and faux-meaning can now be attached to more and shorter moments because the world is so big, small, and fast. According to a lay understanding of Einstein's Theory of Relativity, one result of traveling near the speed of light is that time slows down. The faster one can experience something, the more one can fit in. Similarly, living our lives in super-rich micro-moments can have the effect of making our lives fuller and richer and bigger. Or...bloated. And this raises the societal question: If we citizens at large are so micro-focused, who do we put in charge of the longview? Is government (specifically its very long-term planning) less or (counter-intuitively) more important in a privatized, individualized society?
The Flaming Lips said that "all we have is now," and our "now" is puckeringly rich; we have less need for deep consideration of the past and future when our moment-to-moment existence bubble is so full. And ironically, we of course have more need than ever for such consideration for precisely the same reasons. I wonder if this book approaches the question of Romans' awareness of their society's trip down from zenith. Was there a fringe element with the vision to see the bigger picture?
Such a fringe most definitely exists in America today. I have recently read a book by Michael C. Ruppert, Crossing the Rubicon, which takes a big picture view of the state of our state. He believes very much in consipracy theories, especially regarding 9/11, which may be off-putting for some. But his frank discussion of the evident decline of our empire is compelling. I hope that these ideas become widely and seriously considered with fairness, not derision, from our instant-communication, instant-commentary culture.
This revolutionary communication ability and fast-paced me-lifestyle that is, as I mentioned earlier, shortening our daily moments and inflating our individualism may also be our saving grace if it facilitates communication of the fringe's ideas on a large-scale - and then only if the message is heeded. But, as Murphy says at one point, of the many adjectives generally applied to Americans, "heedless" is near the top of the list. Keep trying, please, sirs.
Among an over-extended military, ignorance of other world cultures, and a full-steam-ahead privitization fetish, Murphy mentions the parallel of individualization. A hyper-individualized society boils down life event importance to newly miniscule scales. Insert cliche about YouTube here. Just the simple reality of permanent records of comments on things like blog posts lends a hysterical delusional importance to things that may be simply not. Such weight and faux-meaning can now be attached to more and shorter moments because the world is so big, small, and fast. According to a lay understanding of Einstein's Theory of Relativity, one result of traveling near the speed of light is that time slows down. The faster one can experience something, the more one can fit in. Similarly, living our lives in super-rich micro-moments can have the effect of making our lives fuller and richer and bigger. Or...bloated. And this raises the societal question: If we citizens at large are so micro-focused, who do we put in charge of the longview? Is government (specifically its very long-term planning) less or (counter-intuitively) more important in a privatized, individualized society?
The Flaming Lips said that "all we have is now," and our "now" is puckeringly rich; we have less need for deep consideration of the past and future when our moment-to-moment existence bubble is so full. And ironically, we of course have more need than ever for such consideration for precisely the same reasons. I wonder if this book approaches the question of Romans' awareness of their society's trip down from zenith. Was there a fringe element with the vision to see the bigger picture?
Such a fringe most definitely exists in America today. I have recently read a book by Michael C. Ruppert, Crossing the Rubicon, which takes a big picture view of the state of our state. He believes very much in consipracy theories, especially regarding 9/11, which may be off-putting for some. But his frank discussion of the evident decline of our empire is compelling. I hope that these ideas become widely and seriously considered with fairness, not derision, from our instant-communication, instant-commentary culture.
This revolutionary communication ability and fast-paced me-lifestyle that is, as I mentioned earlier, shortening our daily moments and inflating our individualism may also be our saving grace if it facilitates communication of the fringe's ideas on a large-scale - and then only if the message is heeded. But, as Murphy says at one point, of the many adjectives generally applied to Americans, "heedless" is near the top of the list. Keep trying, please, sirs.
Tuesday, June 5
Beaten back against the waves...or something.
Hello.
I want to come back. I want to read more. Don't get me wrong, Pokemon is still high on my list of media consumption. I'm getting more records in the mail as we speak. And I still have my Netflix subscription and a big TV. And the Wii, of course. My point is that I have a lot on my plate to watch, listen to, and read.
But I need to re-balance my diet, and it needs to happen now. Books are going to move up that list, and magazines of high quality will tag along for the ride. Part of my inspiration is that a very literary friend of mine is now encouraging me to read a particular book, and I am obliging. This work is a sequel of sorts to one of the best things I've ever read, The Power of One, by Bryce Courtenay. Tandia is apparently his thick follow-up to that wonderful novel, and I can't wait to dig in. And this time I will share.
I am on a bit of a spending spree, and I am wrapping it up with a splurge on Believer and McSweeney's subscriptions. Huzzah! So I look forward to those in the mailbox.
I'm curious about something. Well, first let me thank Ben, one of my dearest friends for soldiering on in my absence. Can we get a roll call of Book-Loop readers? Bryan, you're still here, right? Ben, how do you feel about a renewed effort to recruit?
Crazily, we are approaching the one year anniversary of Book-Loop. How shall we celebrate, friends?
I want to come back. I want to read more. Don't get me wrong, Pokemon is still high on my list of media consumption. I'm getting more records in the mail as we speak. And I still have my Netflix subscription and a big TV. And the Wii, of course. My point is that I have a lot on my plate to watch, listen to, and read.
But I need to re-balance my diet, and it needs to happen now. Books are going to move up that list, and magazines of high quality will tag along for the ride. Part of my inspiration is that a very literary friend of mine is now encouraging me to read a particular book, and I am obliging. This work is a sequel of sorts to one of the best things I've ever read, The Power of One, by Bryce Courtenay. Tandia is apparently his thick follow-up to that wonderful novel, and I can't wait to dig in. And this time I will share.
I am on a bit of a spending spree, and I am wrapping it up with a splurge on Believer and McSweeney's subscriptions. Huzzah! So I look forward to those in the mailbox.
I'm curious about something. Well, first let me thank Ben, one of my dearest friends for soldiering on in my absence. Can we get a roll call of Book-Loop readers? Bryan, you're still here, right? Ben, how do you feel about a renewed effort to recruit?
Crazily, we are approaching the one year anniversary of Book-Loop. How shall we celebrate, friends?
Friday, June 1
You Can't Go Home Again
In my mind Thomas Wolfe is running laps around every author I have read in, oh, say, the last year. Hemingway has passed out on his belly, Philip Roth has slowed to a walk and seems to be fighting a stomach cramp, why, even Camus has taken a knee and requested a glass of water. Meanwhile, Wolfe appears unwinded and dashes forth with an easy gate. Unfortunately he is also quite dead. I should note that I do not view the art of writing in these terms, a foot race. It is, however, the apparent effortlessness of Wolfe's writing that I admire in these early pages of his final novel. Of course, to call it effortless is in itself problematic, but you get the point.
Sunday, May 13
Dusty Twain, Dusty Durrell
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn! Bought a 1964 pocket paperback complete with illustrations and some really swell marginalia, including, “Huck thinks Tom’s great” and “Huck shows diplomacy” and “Huck rationalizes his mental conflict” and “Huck apologizes, very out of order because a white person never lowers himself to a negroe [sic]” and on.
Also procured a 1969 paperback edition of Lawrence Durrell’s Justine, the first book in The Alexandria Quartet. I’ve been meaning to pick this up for some time. Of the books I have read that are near and dear to my father’s heart (The Magic Mountain, The Magus, The Deptford Trilogy, Le Grand Meaulnes, among others) I have nothing but love. He highly recommended the Alexandria Quartet about 18 months ago and I have been slow to comply. The first page, woo-ha:
Also procured a 1969 paperback edition of Lawrence Durrell’s Justine, the first book in The Alexandria Quartet. I’ve been meaning to pick this up for some time. Of the books I have read that are near and dear to my father’s heart (The Magic Mountain, The Magus, The Deptford Trilogy, Le Grand Meaulnes, among others) I have nothing but love. He highly recommended the Alexandria Quartet about 18 months ago and I have been slow to comply. The first page, woo-ha:
The sea is high again today, with a thrilling flush of the wind. In the midst of winter you can feel the inventions of Spring. A sky of hot nude pearl until midday, crickets in sheltered places, and now the wind unpacking the great planes, ransacking the greats planes. . . .
I have escaped to this island with a few books and the child—Melissa’s child. I do not know why I used the word “escape." The villagers say jokingly that only a sick man would choose such a remote place to rebuild. Well, then, I have come here to heal myself, if you like to put it that way. . . .
At night when the wind roars and the child sleeps quietly in its wooden cot by the echoing chimney-piece I light a lamp and walk about, thinking of my friend—of Justine and Nessim, of Melissa and Balthazar. I return link by link along the iron chains of memory to the city which we inhabitated so briefly together: the city which used us as its flora—precipitated in us conflicts which were hers and which we mistook for our own: beloved Alexandria!
I have had to come so far away from it in order to understand it all! Living on this bare promontory, snatched every night from darkness by Arcturus, far from the lime-laden dust of those summer afternoons, I see at last that none of us is properly to be judged for what happened in the past. It is the city which should be judged though we, its children, must pay the price.
Saturday, May 12
Some Links
- Goethe's Bright Circle
- Tintin's new adventures
- Curling up with a good ebook
- Book Reviewers — Who Needs ’Em?
- Karl Marx library fights Communist 'take-over' bid
- Philip K. Dick: A pulp sci-fi writer finally wins respect
- Cops and Rabbis: A review of Michael Chabon's latest novel
- Wretched of the Earth: A look at two new books on poverty
- Makers of Dylan Thomas biopic focus on poet's tangled love life
- The readiness to deconstruct is all: A look at two new books on Shakespeare
- A Man, a Woman and a Day of Terror: A review of Don DeLillo's latest novel
- The ultimate literary pilgrimage – to walk from Oscar Wilde's London home to James Joyce's Zurich retreat.
Finn
Tom Ashbrook recently sat down with Jon Clinch, author of the new novel Finn. The novel covers in great detail an aspect of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn that Mark Twain focused on only glancingly, the story of Pap, Huck's father. In Clinch's telling Pap comes from fairly noble beginnings and though he is a virulent racist he has a child with (and perhaps even loves) a stolen slave. As you might have guessed this slave, Mary, is Huck Finn's mother, which adds an interesting dynamic to his relationship with Jim. Now, regardless of Twain's own designs of Pap's backstory, what we have in the original text is a fairly broad outline of a drunk, racist, evil father and so Clinch had quite a bit of room to work with. I applaud him for attempting to flesh out one of the great villains of American literature, and for doing it in the form of a dark, by some accounts disturbed, novel. I am fascinated by this book. I want to read this book. But first, I must re-vist the original text. Should be fun.
Los Angeles Times Finn review
Washington Post Finn review
Also stopping by On Point with Tom Ashbrook this week, Clive James.
Los Angeles Times Finn review
Washington Post Finn review
Also stopping by On Point with Tom Ashbrook this week, Clive James.
Sunday, April 22
Flotsam and Jetsam
- The Art of Vengeance: Roald Dahl's Collected Stories
- The Unclosed Circle: Joan Didion's Collcted Nonfiction
- Why so many novels never make it to the big screen
- Kurt Vonnegut: Me myself and I
- Vonnegut's rules for short stories
- Jonathan Bate on Shakespeare's popularity
- Where Raymond Carver Is Now Calling From
- The Death of the Book, Again
- Great forebodings about Dickens World
- Lost: Catch-22
- Flaubert & Writing Oneself
- The Curtain by Milan Kundera
- The mystery of The Da Vinci Code's success
- The Holocaust's indelible witness
- Dissecting the Body: Colm Tóibín on Ian McEwan
- Storms Over the Novel
Thursday, April 12
Tuesday, March 20
Lazy
One of these days I might get back to blogging semi-regularly about what I am reading. But as I am squeamish about turning this into my personal reading journal, rather short on time and not entirely sure a soul on earth even visits this blog, I don't believe it's in the cards. I am now reading Nick Hornby's Housekeeping vs. The Dirt, a fine example of the type of casual, personal accounts of a reader's life that might just thrive on this page. I recently discovered Salon's Literary Guide to the World. I am fairly certain this is not a new creation but it's new to me, and it's quite exciting. But that's about all I got right now. Here are some interesting articles:
- Jane Addiction
- The Last Antiwar Poem
- The Worst Pulp Novelist Ever: Remembering Leo Guild
- Words and music: The literary afterlife of the Fall
- Susan Sontag: Pay attention to the world
- Joyceans bent on resolving playful 'Wake'
- Is Joan of Arc the prototype for modern celebrity?
- In pursuit of Anthony Burgess: Bell bottoms in the rainforest
- Mishima's Sword: Travels in Search of a Samurai Legend
- Souls of the new machine: How our reliance on the online universe can endanger the vital tool of narrative
Friday, March 16
A baker's dozen to chew on
- Come for the Xbox, stay for the books
- Kundera's musings on the novel
- You’ve Read the Novels (Now Read the Footnotes)
- Roots of the modern novel: 18th century London streets
- Rare finds make stacks of cash for book scouts
- Best of enemies: The truth behind a 30-year literary fued
- Interview with Richard Powers
- If you're cleaning up kids' books, look to fairytales first
- Márquez avoids 80th birthday celebration to walk with Castro
- Think you know how to read, do you?
- The long way round: VS Naipaul
- Review: Through the Children's Gate: A Home in New York
- TS Eliot's greatness as a poet is established beyond all doubt. So why do critics feel the need to defend him against all charges of misogyny and antisemitism?
Sunday, March 11
The Portrait Game
On a recent Saturday afternoon at the Seattle Public Library I discovered an exceptionally swell book by the name of The Portrait Game. In autumn of 1856 Ivan Turgenev was visiting Château de Courtavenel, the French country home of singer-actress Madame Pauline Viardot--the very same location where Turgenev spent a lonesome winter working on A Sportsman's Sketches. One evening, while he and the other guests were socializing in the drawing room, Turgenev invented a simple game in which he sketched a profile at the top of a long sheet of paper. Turgenev then wrote a brief description of the freshly invented character, folded the paper over to conceal his writing and passed the paper around the room, with each participant writing their own description (some as short as one sentence, others much longer). The sheet of paper would eventually find its way back to Turgenev and he would read aloud each of the descriptions. Remarkably Turgenev saved these pages with his drafts and they were published in a slight, and apparently long out-of-print collection titledThe Portrait Game. The book was a fun and unexpected diverengence from my somewhat scholarly pursuits in the Russian literary criticism section. Turgenev’s drawings are greatly detailed and varied given the apparent brisk pace of the game. It was interesting to read how each player responded to Turgenev's drawings (often quite similarly) and even though, as the writer of the bunch, Turgenev's descriptions are generally the more artistic, I found just about all of the responses to be worthwhile. Here are a few of my favorites from Tugenev’s pen:
Wanton, under a cool chaste look; good-natured but insignificant, without a truly interesting quality; she will only be liked by insignificant people.
By nature a horse-traded; repulsive creature. He's an American or Englishman —— very raw. An ignoble buck —— I spit on his goatee, soaked with vile swindler's sweat.
Big English farmer——a brute bull, and nearly wild——eats eight pounds of bloody meat per day and drinks eight bottles of porter——imperious, despotic, and violent——not without a kind of wiliness. A voice hoarsened by fat——has a lot of money——if he hadn’t, he would be capable of killing for it.
Just as an aside, it was interesting to learn that Turgenev was hopelessly in love with the married Viardot, and indeed it seems he rather sadly followed the couple around Europe—the group played portrait game eight years later in Bade-Baden. Also, it was inspiring to discover that the drawing room at Château de Courtavenel was, in fact, actually used for drawing!
Ahem...
From the pages of Playboy:
Peerflix (peerflix.com) is a smart new alternative to DVD rent-by-mail services. You list the DVDs you want, along with ones you own but don't want anymore. When someone requests one of yours, print a postage-paid mailer on regular paper, tape it and send it. That earns you credits you can use to order DVDs on your want list. Discs you get are yours to keep, and you can cash out at any time. Very clever.
Hmmmm, there may yet be hope...
Peerflix (peerflix.com) is a smart new alternative to DVD rent-by-mail services. You list the DVDs you want, along with ones you own but don't want anymore. When someone requests one of yours, print a postage-paid mailer on regular paper, tape it and send it. That earns you credits you can use to order DVDs on your want list. Discs you get are yours to keep, and you can cash out at any time. Very clever.
Hmmmm, there may yet be hope...
Saturday, February 3
Letters Lost
I read a review of the recently released Letters of E. B. White, Revised Edition in The Times a fortnight ago and it got me thinking.....
Gmail Chats of Prometheus Diaphanous
Prometheus: Clancy!
Tom Clancy: hey
Prometheus: You read the The Bourne Trajectory yet?
Tom Clancy: nope
Prometheus: That Ludlum, he keeps spittin em out from the grave!
Tom Clancy: ghostwriter
Prometheus: Good one, Clancy!
Tom Clancy: no I'm serious, Ludlum and I share ghostwriters, been doing it for years
Prometheus: When was the last time you wrote a book, Clancy?
Tom Clancy: early 90s
Prometheus: wow
Tom Clancy: yup
Prometheus: I mean, damn!
Tom Clancy: yeah
Prometheus: so it's all about the video games these days, eh, Clancy?
Tom Clancy: gotta go, Splinter Cell beckons
Voice Messages of Prometheus Diaphanous
Hello, Ovid, it's Prometheus. Sorry it's been so long. I was walking by that donut shop on Wilshire and I thought of the time you bet Horace you could eat twelve elephant ears in two minutes. Remember? You got that last one chewed up and ready to swallow when Pliny the Elder came out of nowhere and knocked you on your backside. Regurgitated elephant ears everywhere! Horace and I argued for hours about whether you had fullfilled your part of the wager. Finally I texted Virgil for an official ruling. You remember what he asked? He says, "Did they have any toppings?" Toppings! Oh that was just like Virgil. I miss that fucker. Anyway, walkin on Wilshire, thinking of you, bud. Peace.
Text Messages of Prometheus Diaphanous
Rd ur stry gtfoohwtbs! u thnk ur hmngwy? bck to bscs JD. wrt wht u no!
Bloggings of Prometheus Diaphanous
Dear moldy loaf of pumpernickle bread,
I bought you just three days ago, how the FUCK are you so moldy? You nearly ruined my peanut butter and jelly sandwich supper because I did not detect your mold until the first coating of jelly had already been laid. Could you tell your fellow loaves to at least grow their mold in a more distinct fashion in the future? Because I was so hungry I ate your slices anyway, picking off the little cluster of mold by your bottom crust. But before completing my sandwich I observed that your entire slice had a rather grayish hew to it. By the time you read this letter you will have already been eaten by my garbage disposal. I hope it was a slow and painful journey into the world of waste (it was probably not much different than what would have been your fate had you ventured into my digestive system, now that I think about it). I'm sorry it had to end this way, but you know the rules. No mold and you can stay and chill for a while and we can have a nice little symbiotic relationship. But the second you bring that mold into my domicile you're dead.
I (h)ate you,
Prometheus
Gmail Chats of Prometheus Diaphanous
Prometheus: Clancy!
Tom Clancy: hey
Prometheus: You read the The Bourne Trajectory yet?
Tom Clancy: nope
Prometheus: That Ludlum, he keeps spittin em out from the grave!
Tom Clancy: ghostwriter
Prometheus: Good one, Clancy!
Tom Clancy: no I'm serious, Ludlum and I share ghostwriters, been doing it for years
Prometheus: When was the last time you wrote a book, Clancy?
Tom Clancy: early 90s
Prometheus: wow
Tom Clancy: yup
Prometheus: I mean, damn!
Tom Clancy: yeah
Prometheus: so it's all about the video games these days, eh, Clancy?
Tom Clancy: gotta go, Splinter Cell beckons
Voice Messages of Prometheus Diaphanous
Hello, Ovid, it's Prometheus. Sorry it's been so long. I was walking by that donut shop on Wilshire and I thought of the time you bet Horace you could eat twelve elephant ears in two minutes. Remember? You got that last one chewed up and ready to swallow when Pliny the Elder came out of nowhere and knocked you on your backside. Regurgitated elephant ears everywhere! Horace and I argued for hours about whether you had fullfilled your part of the wager. Finally I texted Virgil for an official ruling. You remember what he asked? He says, "Did they have any toppings?" Toppings! Oh that was just like Virgil. I miss that fucker. Anyway, walkin on Wilshire, thinking of you, bud. Peace.
Text Messages of Prometheus Diaphanous
Rd ur stry gtfoohwtbs! u thnk ur hmngwy? bck to bscs JD. wrt wht u no!
Bloggings of Prometheus Diaphanous
Dear moldy loaf of pumpernickle bread,
I bought you just three days ago, how the FUCK are you so moldy? You nearly ruined my peanut butter and jelly sandwich supper because I did not detect your mold until the first coating of jelly had already been laid. Could you tell your fellow loaves to at least grow their mold in a more distinct fashion in the future? Because I was so hungry I ate your slices anyway, picking off the little cluster of mold by your bottom crust. But before completing my sandwich I observed that your entire slice had a rather grayish hew to it. By the time you read this letter you will have already been eaten by my garbage disposal. I hope it was a slow and painful journey into the world of waste (it was probably not much different than what would have been your fate had you ventured into my digestive system, now that I think about it). I'm sorry it had to end this way, but you know the rules. No mold and you can stay and chill for a while and we can have a nice little symbiotic relationship. But the second you bring that mold into my domicile you're dead.
I (h)ate you,
Prometheus
Saturday, January 13
The Fall
Before there were the existential musings of Walker Percy, there was Albert Camus. And, before I read The Moviegoer, I read the The Fall. I can't say for sure what it was that made me pick this one out of my pile of new books and read it on New Year's Day, but The Fall broke in 2007 with equal parts uncomfortable chortling and introspective repulsion. In more ways than one, perhaps it was an oddly appropriate book to kick off my new year.I don't know, friends, if any of you have read this I would be curious to hear whether you found it as humorous as I. The Fall is a slim novel, the Vintage International edition I hold in my hand comes in at a scant 147 pages. The entire book is comprised of a series of monologues by Jean-Baptiste Clamence, a former Parisian who now resides in Amsterdam. Clamence delivers his orations--essentially his life story--to an unnamed fellow Frenchman who he befriends in an Amsterdam dive bar.
Clamence's story, in short, is about the downfall of a once proud and respected lawyer. The story amounts to something of a confession and by extension, some have suggested, an indictment of 20th century man. For example, when Clamence informs the stranger of how he failed to make any effort to save a woman who had lept from a Parisian bridge in a suicide attempt (to even so much as turn around when he hears her body hit the water), it undermines his contention that he is a steadfast protector of the weak. Through this tale and others, Clamence's virtue slowly unravels until we are left listening to a selfish, fairly detestible chatter box. Amusing, in light of the particulars of The Fall, to come across these words from Camus: "A guilty conscience needs to confess. A work of art is a confession."
Now, I mentioned I found the book humorous, but what I have described above surely doesn't sound the least bit comical. Well, it's not so much Clamence's story as it is the way he tells it that had me grinning with uneasy complicity. Camus presents a character whose flaws are our own, and though his relatively innocuous misdeeds may differ from the havoc we cause around us, I do not think it takes a great deal of effort to find a lot Clamence within ourselves. I could cite a plethora of examples where I felt as though the Frenchman were in my head, but I would rather not expose those portions of my brain that I keep private with lock and key in this most public of locales.
A curious question that returned to me throughout the book was whether the listener was really all that interested in Clamence's yammering. I suppose it is fair to deduce that he was, based on the fact that he met up with Clamence on several occasions over the course of a few days. More interesting perhaps is the idea that the listener is in fact the reader. The listener has no real personality of his own and so he naturally takes on the qualities of the reader, absorbing Clamence's words just as we do. What we find funny he finds funny, and where we are troubled by Clamence's tale he is troubled just the same. And, well, if I have said in one paragraph that we are Clamence and in the very next that we are the listener, maybe Camus had that type of reaction in mind.
Sunday, January 7
The Moviegoer
The Moviegoer, by Walker Percy, is as understated a philosophical novel as I have read. This 1962 National Book Award winner is set in New Orleans during the days leading up to Carnival. The characters we come across are largely high-society types who have been educated at elite northeast institutes of higher learning and now seem to be overly interested in what krewe they belong to. But the protagonist, Binx Bolling, who himself belongs to a well-to-do Louisiana family, seems out of place in this world. In fact, he seems to have one foot outside of whatever circle he is in.Wounded in the Korean War, Bolling has returned to his native south and begun a rather uninspired, yet successful, career as a stockbroker. He is pestered by the notion that his family is disappointed he has not become a doctor and he is preoccupied by his endless “search.” Just what it is he is searching for, I suppose, is the driving force of the novel. Bolling is on this undefined “search,” afraid of malaise wherever it may exist and intrigued by the concept of repetition:
A successful repetition. What is a repetition? A repetition is the re-enactment of past experience toward the end of isolating the time segment which has lapsed in order that it, the lapsed time, can be savored of itself and without the usual adulteration of events that clog tim like peanuts in brittle. . . . How, then, tasted my own fourteen years since The Oxbow Incident? As usual it eluded me. There was this: a mockery about the old seats, their plywood split, their bottoms slashed, but enduring nevertheless as if they had waited to see what I had done with my fourteen years. There was this also: a secret sense of wonder about the enduring, about all the nights, the rainy summer nights at twelve and one and two o’clock when the seats endured alone in the empty theater. The enduring is something which must be accounted for. One cannot simply shrug it off.Walker Percy, I have since learned, shared his interest in repetition with Danish philosopher Kierkegaard. Though Kierkegaard is never mentioned by name, in the novel’s epilogue Bolling informs us, “As for my search, I have not the inclination to say much on the subject. For one thing, I have not the authority, as the great Danish philosopher declared, to speak of such matters in any way other than the edifying.”
The writing is crisp and the abundant descriptive passages are elegant without being unnecessarily decorative. No wasted words. Not one. Throughout the book my mouth was quite literally agape at the ease with which Percy was able to relate even the most minute details so precisely. In fact, the description of Bolling's family members was one of the most enjoyable aspects of the book. I had a fun time with this one. There is much humor to be found in these pages even though the protagonist meanders through a listless existence and the central female character, Bolling's cousin-by-marriage with whom he is in love, is riddled by mental illness.
The title of this book is a meaty topic that one could invest a lot of time in analyzing. On the surface we see, yes, Bolling frequents picture shows, he has a propensity to describe others in terms of their resemblance to film stars and on occasion he even relates events in his life to those in movies. But far more subtly, and likely of more significance to the author, is that he is divorced from life almost as though he were watching it on the big screen. Bolling is an adept voyeur and Percy supplies his protagonist was ample opportunity to show off his keen eye for the peculiarities of people and places with the generous descriptive passages I mentioned above. If only he had the ability to self-critique half as well, a sentiment his aunt echoes when she lays into with the following assessment:
First, is it not true that in all of past history people who found themselves in difficult situations behaved in certain familiar ways, well or badly, courageously or cowardly, with distinction or mediocrity, with honor or dishonor. They are recognizable. They display courage, pity, fear, embarrassment, joy, sorrow, and so on. Such anyhow has been the funded experience of the race for two or three thousand years, has it not? Your discovery, as best I can determine, is that there is an alternative which no one has hit upon. It is that one finding oneself in one of life’s critical situations need not after all respond in one of the traditional ways. No. One may simply default. Pass. Do as one pleases, shrug, turn on one’s heel and leave. Exit. Why after all need one act humanly? Like all great discoveries, it is breathtakingly simple.I'll stop now. In case the length of my entry does not make it clear, this is as fine a novel as I have read in quite a while. Strong recommendation.
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