Category: literature

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This week in Unrequired Reading

Stories that have been sitting in my RSS feed this week:

Tim Cavanaugh of Reason magazine muses on the 40th anniversary of Star Trek:

And finally, [Star Trek is] a story of a powerful belief in what the franchise represents: the right of individuals, through machinery, weaponry, or barehanded intelligence, to live, be free, and pursue happiness, no matter how horrific the results (and we can all agree that Robert Wise’s Star Trek: The Motion Picture was as slow and agonizing as any torture devised on that evil Enterprise from the “Mirror, Mirror” episode in which Spock has a beard). Put all these ingredients together and it’s clear: Star Trek is the story of America.

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Mary Worth and Nothingness

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Tom Spurgeon interviews Sammy Harkham, the only “young” cartoonist whose work I’ve started to follow. I have an unfinished post from earlier this summer, about the MoCCA comics festival in NYC. The post was all about my realization that I’ve become a boring old fart, because I couldn’t think of any cartoonists whose work I discovered in the last five to eight years. Fortunately, I picked up one of Sammy’s comics then, and found a small book of his a few weeks later that impressed me.

Sammy edits an anthology called Kramer’s Ergot, and the interview discusses the process of putting the most recent edition together. As ever, I find this stuff fascinating, but you may not.

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George Will reviews a 9/11 novel that doesn’t sound very interesting to me, but that’s because the 9/11 novel I published tanked:

Messud’s Manhattan story revolves around two women and a gay man who met as classmates at Brown University and who, as they turn 30 in 2001, vaguely yearn to do something “important” and “serious.” Vagueness — lack of definition — is their defining characteristic. Which may be because — or perhaps why — all three are in the media. All are earnest auditors and aspiring improvers of the nation’s sensibility.

Uh, yeah.

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BLDGBLOG interviews author Jeff VanderMeer about the intersection of architecture and the novel.

As a novelist who is uninterested in replicating “reality” but who is interested in plausibility and verisimilitude, I look for the organizing principles of real cities and for the kinds of bizarre juxtapositions that occur within them. Then I take what I need to be consistent with whatever fantastical city I’m creating. For example, there is a layering effect in many great cities. You don’t just see one style or period of architecture. You might also see planning in one section of a city and utter chaos in another. The lesson behind seeing a modern skyscraper next to a 17th-century cathedral is one that many fabulists do not internalize and, as a result, their settings are too homogenous.

Of course, that kind of layering will work for some readers — and other readers will want continuity. Even if they live in a place like that — a baroque, layered, very busy, confused place — even if, say, they’re holding the novel as they walk down the street in London [laughter] — they just don’t get it.

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Times UK restaurant reviewer Giles Coren visited Croatia for a column:

The language is called Croatian these days, except in Serbia, where it is called Serbian, and it hasn’t got any easier. Chapter two of my Teach Yourself Croatian book was about counting to ten, and gently explained as follows: “The number one behaves like an adjective and its ending changes according to the word which follows. The number two has different forms when it refers to masculine and neuter nouns than when it refers to feminine nouns, and is followed always by words in the genitive singular, as are the words for ‘three’ and ‘four’. The numbers 5-20, however, are followed by words in the genitive plural. . .”

This is why you never see Croatians in groups of more than one or less than five in a bar. Because it isn’t actually possible to order the right number of beers.

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Official VM buddy Jecca reviews the second issue of Martha Stewart’s Blueprint (which, as I type it, sounds like something she came up with while she was in the joint, a la that Prison Break show).

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Gorgeous pictures of the world’s greatest libraries. There’s a book about it.

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Choose Life

We watched a little of the Emmy Awards last night, before the finale of Deadwood started. Unfortunately, there was a typhoon going on, so we lost the picture for a while. Amy gave up on trying to catch that episode, and we TiVo’d a later showing for her viewing this evening.

So, while she finds out how things shake out with Swearengen, Hearst, et al., I’ll share the following Emmy-moment with you.

(I should note that we were watching largely out of malaise. It had been a pretty dreary weekend, and Sunday was one of those days in which I engaged in so little activity I never really got hungry. Awards shows aren’t really my thang, except for goofing on how wackily everyone dresses.

(It was pretty funny that Conan O’Brien spent the opening number of the show performing a song and dance about how his network is doomed. And that irony thing might just catch on. Anyway:)

We were watching the “Outstanding Supporting Actress in a Miniseries or Movie” category, and marveling how the first four nominees — Ellen Burstyn, Shirley Jones, Cloris Leachman (always a hoot), and Alfre Woodard — were all on the senior circuit.

“Is this the lifetime achievement award?” Amy asked.

“Can’t be, unless they all have breast cancer or abusive spou — oh, wrong Lifetime.”

Naturally, the award went to the fifth nominee, 30-year-old Kelly Macdonald, who was in a TV movie about the G8 or something. It starred Bill Nighy, who is pretty entertaining but has chosen to wear some terrible eyeglasses in his promotional pics.

“Have we seen her in anything?” Amy asked.

I thought she looked familiar. “She’s Scottish, so maybe she’s been in a Danny Boyle film,” I said.

Amy reached for the laptop to find out and, as her bio came onscreen, I announced, “Oh, I remember: she was the underaged girl who got naked on top of Ewan Macgregor in Trainspotting!”

“And that’s why I love you,” Amy said.

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WWII Flashback Day!

At the Washington Post, Jim Hoagland has a column on Gunter Grass, while George Will writes about the Japanese shrine to war-dead, which drives China into a tizzy.

It’s interesting, how we can’t bear to forget and we can’t bear to remember.

Here’s Hitchens reviewing a book about the moral issues of firebombing Hamburg, Dresden, Wurzbeg and other German cities during the war.

Meanwhile, I just finished re-reading Gravity’s Rainbow, which is (in part) about the German rocket bombardments of England. And behavioral science, organic chemistry, kaballah, Argentine politics, the afterlife, zoot suits, pinball, cinema, the tarot, Nixon, and the respective extinctions of the dodos and the Hereros. I’m still juggling and re-parsing What Went On.

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Smoking Grass

I wanted to write a long piece exploring the tension of Gunter Grass’ novels with his recent admission that he served in the Waffen SS during World War II, but I was stymied by the fact that I’ve never read a word he wrote, probably due to my irrational bias that all Germans from that era were Nazis.

Anyway, Grass’ “frolicsome black fables portray the forgotten face of history,” sez the website for the Nobel Prize, which Grass won in 1999. The site also tells us, “after military service and captivity by American forces 1944-46, he worked as a farm laborer and miner and studied art in Düsseldorf and Berlin.” Which is true-ish. As is Grass’ own comment in his Nobel lecture, “Humans have much of the rat in them and vice versa.” I probably oughtta read that whole lecture sometime.

Now, I’m actually going to cut some slack for the 17-year-old Grass. Given that my dad lied about his age to join the military when he was a 16-year-old in Israel, I can pretty easily imagine a young Grass who wanted to join up, get away from his family and “help the war effort” or something.

I can even imagine a situation where he didn’t really understand that this could lead him into the SS. I don’t know the facts of military allocation during the war, so I can’t say that he’s lying about how he was assigned to the Waffen SS. And it certainly sounds like that unit was more devoted to combat operations than to the running of concentration camps and mass executions that other parts of the SS were engaged in.

War sweeps a lot of people up into decisions that they couldn’t imagine making in other circumstances. For a 17-year-old in a duty-bound society like that . . . well, I’m just saying that I don’t hold that piece of his history against him.

However, I am stuck trying to figure out what’s more unconscionable: not revealing till he was 78 the fact that he was in the Waffen SS, or only revealing it so he could have a sales peg for his new book.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve tried marketing literary books before and “I served in the SS” isn’t much worse than some of the angles I’ve seen.

(Oh, and to that writer at Time who argues that Grass wouldn’t have been such a good/important writer had he not kept this deep, dark secret all along: you’re a moral imbecile.)

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Good and Bad

The good news: Official VM just-about-closest-friend-in-the-world Ian just got promoted to Chief Petty Officer. At first, I thought this meant he was quitting the Navy to become a roadie for Tom Petty, but then I realized that it’s actually “the most significant promotion within the enlisted Navy ranks,” according to Wikipedia. I’m hoping it’s accurate, as opposed to this hilarious story from The Onion. So, congrats!

The bad news: One of my uncles in Israel had to flee for the shelters last night. He writes,

The nightmare becomes reality. At about 2100 this evening (Erev Shabbat) the sirens began to wail. Only my daughter and myself were about and we both made straight for the shelter. The siren seemed to go on for ever. After about a minute silence. A few seconds later we heard a distant boom. More like a thud. We waited a few minutes more and emerged unscathed from the shelter.

It seems that three rockets fell in the vicinity of Hadera. No casualties reported so far. Spent the rest of the evening watching Clint Eastwood’s recent masterpiece: “Million Dollar Baby.” It was difficult getting the siren out of my mind. Latest news is that the IAF has taken the launchers out but I assume that they still have more launchers. Ah well, tomorrow’s another day. It always is!

I just finished re-reading the first segment of Gravity’s Rainbow, “inspired” by the rocket attacks. It’s “about” the German rocket attacks on England during WWII, focusing on the V-2 rocket. Since that one flew supersonically, the impact would occur before the sound of its approach. Pynchon’s characters (including several behavioral scientists) are fascinated by this concept, with the way our perception of cause and effect gets reversed.

Of course, in the Middle East, we all have our own problems with sorting out cause and effect.

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Between the lines

In case you’re sitting around bored this weekend, here’s an interview with a book designer who isn’t Chip Kidd.

Here’s a blog post by Dylan Horrocks (a.k.a. one of the finest cartoonists alive and an all-around swell guy who let me crash at his home in New Zealand a few years ago) on science and art.

And here’s the introduction to a new book on Leo Strauss. I found it pretty interesting, especially when it went into the east coast vs. west coast Straussians’ rivalry. It really heated up when they popped Biggie, that’s for sure.

I hope your weekend is exciting enough that you don’t read all this stuff.

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noToryous?

My buddy Mitch once praised the Grateful Dead, not for their music–which he detested–but for their ability to get money out of hippies. He considered that one of the strongest legacies of the 60’s.

Conversely, this writer at the Herald (UK) contends that Trainspotting author Irvine Welsh, who recently “came out” as a Tory, is a traitor to the cause.

Of course, people’s views change over time, and there’s no shame in that. There’s nothing more common than for a youthful socialist to evolve into a middle-aged Tory. What is distasteful about Welsh’s apparent volte-face, however, is that he has made his fortune from exploiting a grotesquely picaresque community whose brutal existence has provided the most colourful, horrifying, virulently anti-establishment material for fiction since Balzac’s backstreet Paris.
While with one hand Welsh was guddling a hungry readership, many of whom had scarcely seen a book since school, with the other he was holding a champagne flute at Edinburgh’s New Town soirees.

Moreover, despite the “guddling,” she (sorta) knew it all along:

From the start of Welsh’s career doubts have been raised about just how closely his widely reported wild behaviour matched reality. Former colleagues at Edinburgh City Council remember a dapper, punctual employee who, they said admiringly, “could have gone right to the top of local government”. Even as his novels were being devoured by the poverty-stricken, the addicted and the terminally unemployed, he is believed to have been dabbling in the property market, and we’re not talking council houses.

Needless to say, I think she’s an idiot, even when she concludes that drug dealers are the “most successful capitalists of our time.” After all, Renton doesn’t really want to deal; he just wants to get away to Amsterdam, be a DJ, and live with a model. Is that so wrong?

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Pynched

When I was a wee paranoiac, I heard that Vineland was soon to be released. At that point, I’d only read V., and Lot 49, but I’d made a stab at The Big One (it took 4 attempts before I finally made it through).

I read the notice in Pynchon Notes that the long-awaited new book from was soon to be released. As it turns out, the book wasn’t very good, and I’m convinced he put it out to keep his publisher off his back while he completed Mason & Dixon. But at the time, it felt like a bit of literary history was going to occur.

In fact, I actually had a dream about Vineland before it came out. I was in a bookstore, and there was a large “dump” of the new hardcover, several months early! I picked up a copy and thumbed through it. When I woke, all I could remember of that dream-book was the back cover flap. It had an author bio that read, “Thomas Pynchon is the author of V., The Crying of Lot 49, and Gravity’s Rainbow. He lives in New York City.”

Below the text was a beautiful black-and-white photograph of an empty loft. Even as a teenager, my subconscious liked to mess with me.

All of which gets me to the following question: Wouldn’t it be great if the book actually kept this title?

(Update: Slate contends that Pynchon may have spammed his own book’s Amazon page)