Charles Ives: "Awards are merely the badges of mediocrity."

The Telegraph has published an interesting article about Nobel Prize winners. You may read the entire article here, but I've included some more interesting bits below.

But there is something perverse about a literature prize that bestowed the laurel crown on the brows of John Galsworthy and Pearl Buck, leaving many more illustrious writers unacknowledged.

In our own day, no doubt Toni Morrison and Seamus Heaney have their fans, but I would be extremely surprised if, in 100 years' time, anyone rated their work.

Then there are the figures such as Churchill and Bertrand Russell who, however worthy of commemoration for excellence of one kind or another, would not, from an all-English panel of judges, have been given a prize for literature.

And how do you account for Elias Canetti getting the prize? A fascinating writer by any standards, but his one novel, The Blinding (or Auto da Fe) is a failure; his reputation stands on three or four volumes of memoirs which, though completely brilliant, hardly place him in the league of Rousseau or St Augustine.

What puts us off the Nobel laureates, perhaps, is the sense that the panel, at any one juncture, has been swayed by non-literary criteria.

I do agree with the author (A. N. Wilson), to a certain extent. Obviously singling out one person a year for excellence in literature leaves a lot of talent ignored. But, like many awards (the Oscar for Best Actor comes to mind), a recipient is recognized for a myriad of factors, not solely for one specific work. In the case of the Nobel Prize, an entire career is honored. A quick check on Wikipedia informs us that Arthur Nobel stated the literature prize should be awarded to one who demonstrates "most outstanding work of an idealistic tendency" although more recently the award is given to one who demonstrates lasting literary merit.

Literary merit, then, is quite subjective and says nothing about nixing a writer (like Churchill, say) whose laurels rest on nonfiction. At any rate, Wiki reports that Churchill won due to "his mastery of historical and biographical description as well as for brilliant oratory in defending exalted human values." Perhaps the latter part of that statement is not so literary-based, but the former is.

I'll leave it up to you; I'd love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Here is a list of Nobel Laureates, and while I agree with the author on a few of them, the majority seem to deserve the prize. Who could argue with (in addition to the author's choice of Yeats and Eliot) Hesse, Faulkner, Hemingway, Camus, Steinbeck, Beckett, Bellow, Marquez, and Szymborska? Surely they do have lasting literary merit beyond whatever social concerns were pressing at the time of their win.

But maybe you disagree. Which authors have been basely ignored (I'd say Nabokov right off the bat) and which have been undeservedly praised? What do you think about the merits of the Nobel Prize for Literature? Is it a grand institution, or is any award, as Charles Ives suggests, a "badge of mediocrity"? (For the record, I disagree with Ives, but I sure do love making him the title of this post.)

Reality’s always better when it’s made up

Northanger Abbey
Jane Austen

Catherine Morland is a girl after my own heart. She loves a good novel, especially a good Gothic romance. Unfortunately, her propensity for such literature colors her perception of reality, adding an overactive imagination to an existing naiveté. Because she so wishes to see herself the heroine of a great Gothic romance, she often finds conspiracies where there are none and frequently misreads people’s motivations.

But we can’t really blame her. How many times do people view life through the lens of their favorite songs, television shows, and movies? Hopefully readers of Bibliolatry are more influenced by their favorite books, but as Jane Austen proves, doing so is hardly preferable.

It all begins when Catherine Morland is invited to vacation with family friends. An innocent seventeen-year-old girl, Catherine is often at a loss in Bath and frequently misreads the social situations in which she finds herself. She immediately falls in love with Henry Tilney but remains unsure as to his feelings for her. Soon, however, she befriends his sister as well – their happy friendship culminates in her visit to the family estate, Northanger Abbey.

A real abbey! To say Catherine is excited at such a prospect would be an understatement. She views such an excursion as an opportunity to experience a real Gothic setting. Catherine wants nothing more than to explore the old abbey and discover its secrets. But what secrets does it hide, if any? Is there a great mystery lurking at the heart of Northanger Abbey, or is Catherine simply confusing fiction with reality? What about Mr. Henry Tilney – does he truly love her, or is she simply romanticizing a rather mundane friendship? And what will become of the silly girl who sees secrets, plots, and omens everywhere she turns?

Of course, an Austen novel would not be an Austen novel if it lacked her famous social commentary, which is thankfully not lost here. But while Austen criticizes the social hypocrisy and false flattery that ran so rampant back then (as it still often does today), one might say the social commentary takes a backseat to Austen’s critique of the Gothic genre.

To put it simply, Northanger Abbey is a novel for those who love novels, especially Gothic ones, and even though I’ve already set two summer challenges for myself one involving poetry and one involving my bought-but-ignored books, reading Northanger Abbey has inspired me to add yet one more challenge.

I hereby declare that the summer of 2007 will also be known as The Gothic Summer. Even though I’ve labeled several modern works as Gothic (check out the Gothic Lit label to the right if you’re interested), I’ve only reviewed three truly classic Gothic Lit novels: The Monk, The Woman in White, and The Castle of Otranto. Before the end of the summer I also plan to add The Italian and The Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe as well as The Necromancer by Peter Teuthold.

If I’m missing a great read which you feel should be added to my Gothic Lit Challenge, please leave a comment and let me know. Hopefully I haven’t bitten off more than I can chew with all these challenges I’m setting for myself. Oh well. Thankfully failure is always an option.

Don't ask me; Rummy appeared when I did a GIS on "failure is an option."
There's a joke here, but you go ahead instead.

In a nutshell: Fast, fun, and funny, with a few spooks thrown in along the way. A must for Austen fans, Gothic lit fans, and just plain "good-book" fans.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

The first-ever psychic interview?

Eeeee Eee Eeee
Tao Lin

So late last night, I’m dead asleep when I feel a tapping on my forehead. Did the roof spring a leak? I wonder groggily. Nope, it’s clear as soon as I open my eyes that nothing near me has caused the rapping on my head. Musta been a dream. I shut my eyes again.

Seconds later: tap, tap, tap.

“What the hell?” I ask no one. My sleeping puppy looks at me sadly, awakened for no reason.

Ssh, a voice in my head whispers. Stop talking. I’m in your head.

“Who the hell are you?”

Ssh, I said. I can hear you think. You don’t have to talk. I’m Tao Lin. You read my book a few weeks ago. I can’t help but wonder: what’s up with the review? It’s been awhile.

Oh shit. Um...no it hasn’t...I’m backlogged. Good lord, who let this guy in? Methinks Club Bib needs a new bouncer.

Yeah, sure. If saying so’ll help you feel better, then go for it. Tao Lin sounds angry.

I decide honesty is the best policy. Fine, look. I just didn’t know what to say about it. Quite frankly, it confused me. And I’m not really sure I liked it. There, I’ve said it.

That’s what I thought. Shall we discuss it? Why don’t you interview me? I’m a very interesting person.

Um, okay, although I have to say this is quite unconventional. Do you enter every reader’s brain in this way?

No, just yours. Now I think you should switch to the more traditional interview format so you can dispense with those annoying html tags.

BIBLIO: Thanks. All those tags were highly annoying.

TL: I’m sure. Now let’s talk about me and my Eeeee Eee Eeee, shall we?

BIBLIO: If we have to. To be quite honest, I found it really disturbing. It just didn’t sit right with me.

TL: Good. That’s what I wanted. I think, since I’m really an extension of your psyche and not the actual Tao Lin. Anyway, what about my book made you feel this way?

BIBLIO: Well, it just seemed so aimless, so pointless. I guess you were illustrating the character’s own sense of isolation and depression, but when I read it I just felt...vacant.

TL: Vacant?

BIBLIO: Empty.

TL: Huh.

BIBLIO: Yeah. Nothing happened. Andrew just drives around and feels depressed. And thinks about going on killing rampages. And what’s up with the animals?

TL: The animals?

BIBLIO: Yeah, the talking dolphin, hamster, etc. And why do you hate Elijah Wood so much?

TL: Who said I hate Elijah Wood?

BIBLIO: Well in your book you kill him. More than once. And Salman Rushdie. Speaking of which, would you like to bet on who the next ex-Mrs. Rushdie will be?

TL: Don’t you think that’s kinda juvenile?

BIBLIO: This from the man who added talking dolphins to his book.

TL: Touche. Fine, I’m gonna go with Ann Coulter.

BIBLIO: I knew it! Why do you bash Wood and Rushdie and leave psychos like Ann Coulter unscathed? Ann Coulter lover!

TL: I think you’re taking this all a bit too literally.

BIBLIO: You make me want to go on a killing rampage.

TL: Now you’re getting it! Aren’t you feeling the boredom, the angst, the rage of your generation?

BIBLIO: Yeah, thanks for pointing that out.

TL: I’m getting bored with you. Entertain me.

BIBLIO: Eeeee Eee Eeee.

TL: Now you’re being lazy.

BIBLIO: What’s the point?

TL: Exactly.

In a nutshell: Not an uplifting read, Eeeee Eee Eeee will give you much to think about. Tao Lin is definitely someone to watch.

TL: Wait, before you go you really should mention my blog.

BIBLIO: Yeah, yeah.

TL: Don’t act like you don’t visit. I’ve seen your ISP on sitemeter.

BIBLIO: Go ef yourself.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

Breaking News

Salman Rushdie is a pimp.

Reuters is reporting that Rushdie and his wife (Padma Lakshmi, pictured with the author below) are getting divorced. Lakshmi is his soon-to-be fourth ex wife, and while Reuters says they are divorcing "because of her desire to end their marriage," I think it's because she's hitting the wall. A true playa knows when to move on.

With that in mind, I present to you the following poll adventure:

more at twiigs.com...

Summer Poetry Quest, Part II: Here, Bullet

Here, Bullet
Brian Turner

For the record, I don’t like the preachy. Are you a preacher? No? Then hush, child. I realize that many people either too dumb or too lazy to form their own opinions may benefit from those screaming masses who proudly wear their beliefs like a badge of honor, but I am not one of those. I can form my own opinions, thank you.

My biggest beef? The bumper sticker. There should be a law which limits their application to one FUNNY sticker only. People who use their cars as their own personal billboards to advertise their myriad beliefs on everything from religion and politics to food and music should be forced to clean every car in a 10-mile radius, just like the gum-chewing child who has to scrape all the desks in his class as punishment. Really: has anyone EVER said, Gee, if it weren’t for that bumper sticker I’d never have changed my ways. Thank goodness for that well placed PETA sticker -- it surely opened my eyes! Consider my conversion complete! I don’t think so. At least I hope not. Dear lord.

ok well this one made me giggle

Of course, it is a bit more forgivable for a book to be preachy. When you buy an author’s work, you buy all that he has to give, opinions and all. Still, it’s always best for an author to present the facts, to show the nature of reality objectively and allow the reader to form his own opinion. Thankfully, Brian Turner’s poetry (the second stop on this runaway train that is the Summer Poetry Quest) does just that.

Turner’s Here, Bullet is a collection I’ve been meaning to read since its publication in 2005, when it made a splash due to its subject matter and, if I may be so bold, beauty. Here, Bullet has won several awards since it debuted, beginning with the Beatrice Hawley Award. This collection, however, doesn’t need awards to heighten its visibility; despite the fact that a poetry collection rarely garners major discussion outside of literary circles, the subject matter is important since it describes one soldier’s experiences in Iraq. As a team leader in the US Army, Turner spent a year there and he describes the people, situations, and images on both sides of the cultural and military divide. He avoids taking a clear stand on the war but instead lets his poems speak for themselves, allowing one to form his own conclusions.

I thoroughly enjoyed every poem in the collection – a rarity. I cannot understand why Publishers Weekly panned Turner's poetry when they wrote, “The verse in this book is not good, but it is, in a cultural moment that includes Cindy Sheehan, timely.” Wait, do they mean the poetry is not good? As in bad? Did they read the same Here, Bullet? Although this is no indication of his talent, Turner is educated in his field, having earned an M.F.A. from the University of Oregon, but I maintain, however, that not only is Turner talented, he is able to bring beauty to such a sad and grim topic. Consider this segment from “6 Iraqi Policeman,” which describes the aftermath of a bombing (it is never made clear on which side the bombers belong).

The shocking blood of the men
forms an obscene art: a moustache, alone
on a sidewalk, a blistered hand’s gold ring
still shining, while a medic, Doc Lopez,
pauses to catch his breath, to blow it out
hard, so he might cup the left side of a girl’s face
in one hand, gently, before bandaging
the half gone missing.

While reading Here, Bullet, I diligently underlined selections I wanted to share in my review. Unfortunately, by the time I had finished, I had so many that I'd have nearly no review were I to include them all. There were simply too many lines, too many images, too many entire poems I'd like to quote. Instead, I'll finish with an example of Turner's ability to imbue a scene -- even one involving senseless death, as in so many of his poems -- with a certain ethereal beauty. This selection is taken from “Hwy 1” in which he describes the shooting of a crane:

Cranes roost atop power lines in enormous
bowl-shaped nests of sticks and twigs,
and when a sergeant shoots one from the highway
it pauses, as if amazed that death has found it
here, at 7 a.m. on such a beautiful morning,
before pitching over the side and falling
in a slow unraveling of feathers and wings.

In a nutshell: Excellent poetry that is both relevant and first-rate; poetry fans must not let Here, Bullet pass them by. I feel as though I'm doing him a disservice by not including more snippets of his work, but it really is best to read the poems in their entirety.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

This is why you don't help people

The Collector
John Fowles

Once upon a time, I was not the glitzy blogger you all know and love today. No, I was instead a lowly assistant editor for an archaeological company. Ooh, archeology, you might be thinking. Like Jurassic Park and stuff. Yeah, not so much.

Instead of dinosaurs we found a lot of soil. Loam and stuff. Sometimes they found an arrowhead. Snore. Except that once we (and by we I mean they; I for one was never sullied by the field) once found a piece of a kneecap. True story.

For days the office was all aflutter. Whose knee was it? Some thought it heralded the discovery of a full skeleton. Could it belong to a murder victim, long undiscovered? What about some grandiose historical figure whose body was lost to time?

The secrets of the universe you contain, o ponderous orb

Turns out it belonged to a rabbit. And that chronicles the most interesting find I can remember.

Anyway, I bring up this most tedious of jobs because through it I came to meet ... Paul, I’ll call him, although such is obviously not his real name. Paul was, to put it gently, an utter freak of nature. Lacking any social skills whatsoever (and that says a lot coming from me), Paul rarely made eye contact and often stomped around for no reason. His desk was near mine, so I had a perfect view of his odd behavior; for example, I once stared in fascination as he snickered with the wall. Being the office grunt, I had reason to speak with him more than most others and soon he began to think of us as friends. He emailed me constantly: his weekend accounts, pop-quiz logic puzzles, and creepy dirty jokes about Helen Keller. Soon he began hounding me to have lunch and attend Friday-night art shows with him. Once he stood at my desk for five minutes without saying a word and I swear the man never blinked once.

Anyway, had I not left that job, I may have very well become a character in John Fowles' Collector. As Miranda to Paul’s Clegg, I’d be trapped in some dingy basement while Paul makes tea and brings me books, all the while imagining us the perfect couple. I’d have to make do with once-a-week baths and the subsequent walk back to the basement. Lacking any sharp object, I could not end my misery by repeatedly stabbing myself in the head but would instead be forced to endure the insipidness of a dull sociopath.

This dull sociopath is Ferdinand Clegg; his obsession is Miranda, a student to whom he has no real connection. This randomness is, of course, what makes the story even more frightening. Ferdinand (the astute reader has probably already caught the allusions to The Tempest, but if not, there you go) is, among other things, a butterfly collector. When he wins a large sum of money he is able to quit his job and pursue collecting full time. Of course, with such funds at his disposal, why stop at butterflies? With enough to fund his wildest desires, he decides to “collect” Miranda.

And what is the moral of this story? The Collector (like Silence of the Lambs after it) reinforces unforgiving creatures like myself. Allow me to explain. Why does Catherine Martin get captured by Buffalo Bill? Because she feels bad for the guy with the cast and tries to help him lift a sofa. Why does Miranda fall into the clutches of her madman? Don’t worry; it’s hardly a spoiler. She feels bad for the guy who hit a dog with his car and goes to help him. Dummies. I say help no one. At least not in person. Via email? Count on it!* A check in the mail? Help's on the way!** Otherwise ladies, keep walking. Hold your keys in your hand and prepare to gouge some eyes.

you don't know what pain is

In a nutshell: A quite intelligent novel; I could have done with less discussion on class (after awhile it detracted a bit from the story), but The Collector is overall an excellent psychological study.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars




*I may not respond
**no it's definitely not

MY WORST FEARS HAVE BEEN REALIZED

So, here I am, sipping a nice cuppa tea and reading some blogs. I head over to Imani's blog, where I see she's taken a quiz to determine her blog's rating.

(In case you were wondering -- and I know you were -- Bibliolatry is also rated "R" for words like "shit," "ass," and "suck." What happened to the f-bomb I dropped a few days ago? That's not worth a mention?)

Anyway, after I took that quiz, I noticed I could take another to determine my likelihood of surviving a zombie apocalypse. My overwhelming fear of zombies is something I've discussed before, so you know I was all over this shit as soon as I saw it.

TO MY UTTER SADNESS AND CHAGRIN, HOWEVER:

51%

So training begins tomorrow. I think I'll start with nunchucks. It just seems like a good idea.

hardy har har

However, in an effort to end on a postive note, if I make it past the zombies,

$4625.00The Cadaver Calculator - Find out how much your body is worth

Great.

Reviewing in Real Time: Not as interesting as you'd think

The Fortress of Solitude
Jonathan Lethem

7:00 AM

My review for The Fortress of Solitude is long overdue. I must find a way in.

[Bibliolatrist stares at a blank Word document before checking MySpace AGAIN.]

7:20 AM

[Bibliolatrist realizes something must be done but isn’t happy about it. Where is her in???

Usually after reading a book, I never begin a review until I find a way “in,” a focal point around which I can write. After reading Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude, however, I’m entirely at a loss. The book wasn’t BAD (and at the risk of stating the obvious I have to say it’s definitely easy to find an “in” for a bad book) but it wasn’t the best I’ve ever read, either. Still, I’ve finished it over a week ago and read at least two full books in the meantime, and yet, for the life of me, I just don’t know what to say about this thing.]

I guess I can summarize, although that seems a pretty boring way to start a review. I don’t even have anything even remotely humorous to say. Ugh.

7:35 AM

[Bibliolatrist decides to go work out. Note that it is a sad day indeed when Bibliolatrist chooses EXERCISE over writing. Sigh.]

9:09 AM

Ok I’m back, having enjoyed a good workout, a refreshing shower, and a nutritious egg-white omelet, in that order. I can do this.

The temptation to play Mystery Case Files overwhelms me.

Nevertheless, I must soldier on.

[Bibliolatrist dicks around on the computer before giving herself a good, firm talking to.]

9:15 AM

Ok, FINE. I suppose a quick summary have to will do: Dylan Ebdus: young, white, Brooklynite. Frequently yoked by neighborhood kids as he makes an easy target. Abandoned by his mother and ignored by his father, who spends his days painting. Dylan soon befriends Mingus Rude: young, black, son of a washed-up R&B singer, who spends his time doing drugs and ignoring his son. Both are motherless. Both fight to survive. It’s a coming-of-age tale.

The book is divided into three parts: the first (and best) section highlights the boys’ childhoods in Brooklyn; the second is quite short, and consists of some liner notes Dylan has written about Mingus’ father; the third chronicles the boys’ adulthood and the divergence of their paths.

So that’s the novel at a glance. And while I must admit The Fortress of Solitude is extremely well-written, it just didn’t have much of an emotional impact on me. Besides leaving me ultimately cold (I didn’t like the adult Dylan; I found him annoying and toolish), it also seemed a little stereotypical: all the black characters end up crack-addicted losers who may or may not be behind bars while the white characters (who, for the most part, all engage in similar drug activity) escape relatively unscathed. Dylan, it’s true, is a bit emotionally stunted, but so are most men after being abandoned by their mothers.

For another thing, FOS is LONG. Lethem spends a lot of time discussing the music of the 70s and comic book superheroes, two motifs that add to the context of the novel. I don’t mind these diversions...for the most part, although not all of it was necessary. In fact, I’d say FOS could be shortened about 150 pages and not suffer any great loss.

Another element that didn’t resonate well with me was the matter of THE RING. Oy vey, the ring, where do I even begin?

[In an effort to avoid discussing the ring, Bibliolatrist briefly considers cleaning.]

Nah, fuck it. I’d rather discuss the ring. But first, I have to check up on the latest news.

9:45 AM

Ok I’m back with the ring. So basically...basically, if you don’t mind my saying so, the ring motif is just a bit silly to me. The whole novel’s tone is serious, matter-of-fact. The novel doesn’t diverge into fantasy but instead represents Brooklyn in the 1970s in all its dirt and glory. Until, of course, you read those 5 or so sections which contain THE RING.

Long story short: Dylan comes across a homeless man who believes he has super powers. This man wears a cape and tries to fly, but it seems as though his only true power lies in pissing himself and being ignored by the community at large. Nevertheless, Dylan receives his ring and believes it gives him the power to fly. This would be great, if this were all, BUT: at certain points in the novel, we are led to believe that this ring does in fact confer super powers upon both Dylan and Mingus. So they are really flying? With this ring? For real? Aw, c'mon.

These sections simply do not blend well with the gritty backdrop of city life. Perhaps that is Lethem’s point, to juxtapose these superhero fantasies -- except that the flying sequences are not fantasies at all -- against the grim reality of race relations in Brooklyn, but these sections of “magical realism” weaken an already over-inflated story.

9:55 AM

In a nutshell: Shit. Blind Date’s on. Gotta go.

Bibliolatry Scale: 3 out of 6 stars

This goth chick is a pretty good time

The Ghost Writer
John Harwood

John Harwood has achieved something I’ve long been waiting for: a story that chills for being spooky at the same time it pleases for being well written. What a novel idea! The Ghost Writer is an engaging tale told in the tradition of Henry James, and sure enough, allusions to The Turn of the Screw and Dickens enhance the novel. To be sure, The Ghost Writer contains far more than meets the eye.

Speaking of which, there lies my only complaint: not with the book, but rather with its packaging. Was this the best they could do? Where did this goth chick come from? The cover does a poor job of illustrating the novel’s essence by failing to portray the depth of the tale contained therein. Should one judge by appearances alone, a great novel would be missed.

(Not to beat a dead horse, but here and here are two others and I don’t see why a change for the worse was necessary when these two speak perfectly to the novel without being hokey. Okay I'm done.)

The Ghost Writer explores the coming-of-age of one Gerard Freeman as he seeks to understand his mother’s history, a history that has been kept from him his entire life. Gerard’s first memory is of sneaking around in his mother’s room and finding some hidden papers in the bottom of a drawer. He had just begun to read when his mother descends, delivering a rapacious beating for snooping. Gerard wants to know more about his mother’s life in England and her reasons for moving to Australia, but she steadfastly refuses to answer his questions beyond what little she has allowed him to know.

What Gerard does know is precious little: that his mother, Phyllis, was an orphan, her parents killed in an accident when she was a little girl. That Phyllis was raised by her grandmother, Viola. That Viola had been a writer of ghost stories. The novel's action artfully weaves these truly creepy supernatural tales with letters from Alice, a childhood penpal who was paralyzed and orphaned in a horrible accident in England. With his only friend half a world away, Gerard lives a lonely life, consumed by his desire to know his past.

The novel suspensefully chronicles Gerard's search for the truth and provides plenty of spooks along the way; I stayed awake long into the night just to finish it, vowing not to go to bed until I had learned all its secrets. And while I anticipated a couple of plot points, there was enough I hadn’t seen coming to leave me feeling satisfied. In fact, it's really a work that bears a second reading after all the facts are known.

In a nutshell: Smart and spooky. It's a go here.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

Hunting ghosts, words, and the perfect place to write

And now for a few things I've been finding quite interesting as of late:

I'm excited: it's a Wednesday in June, so that means a new episode of Ghosthunters airs tonight! If you have the Sci-Fi channel and haven't yet checked out the show, you're missing out. Pictured here are Jay and Grant, the founders of TAPS (The Atlantic Paranormal Society).

As regular readers of Bibliolatry know, I love all things spooky. TAPS seeks to document evidence of the paranormal, but what's best about the show is that they actually try to disprove any and all evidence which might support their position. Doing so ensures that when true evidence is found, it cannot be contradicted. Regardless of whether any evidence is found (and quite often they find some pretty freaky shit), the show is always fun, especially when a doofus or two -- coughBriancough -- is around.


Now let's move from hunting ghosts to hunting words. Author Chris Baker (pictured here in his writing space -- see below for more about that) is undertaking quite an interesting project in which he is writing a single book using random words contributed by 10,000 strangers.

I first became aware of his project through his mySpace page, that magical medium through which perfect strangers can be friends without ever needing to meet in person. To find out more the project (and maybe even contribute to it yourself), visit his site here.


And finally, we move from hunting words to hunting for the perfect place in which to write them. Kimbofo over at Reading Matters linked to this great article from The Guardian, which features the writing rooms of several authors.

Apparently, a writer's room is not complete unless it contains the color red, as many of the rooms can attest. In that case, I'm in baby! I don't mean to be a conformist but in this case it appears great minds think alike. It's safe to say I envy them all for one reason or another, but Geoff Dyer's (pictured here) is one of the more unique ones.

Feel free to post your own writing spaces; pictured below is mine. Red walls? Check. Smart-looking post-its on nearby surfaces? Check...sorta. Books? Check in spades. (My full collection resists being captured by one measly photo, mwah ha ha.) So far, so good. Oh, wait: Distracting television to prevent me from productivity? Check. Disgusting tangle of wires to catch all the cat hair my pesky feline leaves in her wake? Check. Large, looming clock that emphasizes every second misspent playing Mystery Case Files? Check, dammit.

Ok, so it has its flaws.

Who knows what monsters lurk in the hearts of men?

Grendel
John Gardner

Grendel knows! Of course, that's because he's peeking through your windows. Poor Grendel, always an outsider. Oh well.

For anyone not familiar with the original source, Grendel was inspired by the epic poem Beowulf, sung by scops and transcribed by monks between the 8th and 10th centuries. Beowulf describes the feats of the Geat warrior of the same name, and only one such example is his killing of the monster Grendel. Grendel, however, focuses solely on the monster, humanizing him and presenting a complex being not found in the original. While Grendel meets the same end in each, the focus here is entirely shifted to the “enemy” of the original.

As one might expect, Gardner turns labels like “hero” and “enemy” on their heads. The novel documents the origins of Grendel’s hatred of humans, including the time he is stuck in a tree and found by a band of humans. When he tries to speak to them, they cannot understand him and, hearing only vicious howls, attack him. This band of humans, led by Hrothgar (who becomes their king), colonize the area and lose their nomadic ways. Such an event allows Grendel to observe these strange creatures further and he soon learns he is similar to – yet fatally different from – them in several key ways.

Why is he carrying a purse?

For one, Grendel remains tragically misunderstood by the humans with whom he wants to connect. In fact, one could say that Grendel examines the effects of miscommunication, as Grendel is unable to truly communicate with anyone, except perhaps the Dragon, a fatalistic character who transcends time. The dragon informs Grendel that existence is meaningless, an idea Grendel finds confusing; nevertheless, coupled with the Dragon's spell which renders him invulnerable to human attack, Grendel begins his 12-year attack on the meadhall of the Danes, an attack which eventually leads to the arrival of Beowulf and consequently Grendel's demise.

Another way in which Grendel differs from humans involves the philosophical elements of perception and meaning. The novel proposes that we create the universe by observing it: Grendel comes to see this as a reason to destroy; humans, however, use this idea positively, creating for themselves meaning where before there was none.

Ultimately, as Beowulf explains, "whether you make it a grave or a garden of roses is not the point." Of course, whether one makes her life a personal grave or rose garden is meaningless to the world at large; it is everything, however, to the individual doing the perceiving. We could all do with the reminder that life is what we make of it; even the best of lives can be a grave for those too foolish to see it otherwise.

In a nutshell: An excellent read, regardless of one's familiarity with the original source. Grendel has much to say about humanity, meaning, and perception.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

Summer Poetry Quest, part I

New British Poetry
Don Paterson and Charles Simic, editors

The Book of Nightmares
Galway Kinnell

I’m picky with my poetry. Just because a poet is critically acclaimed does not mean that his work will speak to me; likewise, poets like Wislawa Szymborska and Ted Kooser (who have been criticized due to their “accessibility,” as though that’s a bad thing) are among my favorite poets.

This summer, already Summer of the Unread Book (Part II), will also be Summer of the Poetry Quest. I plan to feature poetry from both established and up-and-coming poets in an effort to add some great poetry to my collection. Should you happen to know of a good poet or poetry collection, please comment with your recommendations.

As a general rule, I have no rules about poetry. I’m not a “it has to rhyme or it’s not poetry” snob. I don’t prefer older poetry to contemporary poetry. I just like good poetry, poetry that strikes a chord in me, and since I am quite an odd sort of person it is not always easy to find poetry that agrees with me. With this in mind, I cannot help but wonder if I will succeed in my Summer Poetry Quest. I guess we’ll have to see.

My first stop on the quest led me to New British Poetry, a collection of – you guessed it – new British poetry by thirty-six poets born after 1945. As one might expect, not every poem contained in the collection spoke to me, but I was able to flag quite a number of poems to return to at a later time.

In a nutshell: A must for any fan of contemporary poetry; you probably won’t like every poet but you’d be hard pressed to find fault with them all.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars


My second stop was Galway Kinnell’s Book of Nightmares, hailed as “a long visionary poem in ten parts.” Kinnell is an award-winning poet whose efforts have won him the Pultizer Prize and National Book Award.

Having read The Book of Nightmares only once, I must first say that I do not feel qualified to fully discuss the scope of the work. It is all-encompassing, and several reads are necessary before one can fully understand it. Kinnell comments mainly on mortality but also on love, politics, and the general pain of the twentieth century, prompting both laughter and tears. When he writes, "the wages of dying is love," he does so with a beauty that transforms even the most painful scene into poetic beauty.

In a nutshell: Kinnell’s work is immense in scope and at times difficult to comprehend; nevertheless reading it is enormously satisfying.

Bibliolatry Scale: 5.5 out of 6 stars

In defense of blogs

We interrupt our regular, spunky programming for some serious debate. Comments and counterarguments are quite welcome.

Recently it seems everywhere I turn, bookblogs are discussing some rather mean-spirited articles from literary critics. There are several such articles out there, but I’ve chosen to focus on only two, those of The Sun’s Adam Kirsch and The Guardian's Rachel Cooke, both of whom downplay the importance of bookblogs, arguing that they are untrustworthy, poorly written, and entirely too personal. Both seem to agree that while bloggers have a right to write about books, they should not be taken seriously but instead ignored on the whole. Just for fun, and because I do feel as though I’m doing meaningful work here, I’ll try to argue in my defense and in the defense of all bookblogs.

Let me be clear that it is not my intention to besmirch the importance of serious book reviews or literary criticism in general; rather my aim is to prove that both are absolutely necessary to foster a love of reading in a society that desperately needs its attention redirected to more important, more intellectual pursuits. However, I cannot help but notice that denunciations of the bookblog come after many newspapers have decided to cut their book coverage; can it be possible that such condemnation is more akin to a literary death howl, the last bitter stand of a dying and wounded animal? One has to admit the possibility.

Do I believe literary criticism should die? Again, absolutely not, but I do believe that it is too stuffy and impersonal for the everyday reader and generates no enthusiasm for reading outside the small sphere of professionals who make literature the focus of their lives. While that in my opinion is certainly a glorious way to live, such is not the way for the everyday citizen -- the exact person who needs to feel more passionate about reading. Because the bookblog is exactly the vehicle by which to inspire this enthusiasm, I believe that it is just as important to the literary world as is serious literary criticism.

Why? Well let’s see. My main priority in writing my blog is to get people excited about reading. No matter what the book, I want to be moved by it — for better or for worse. My reviews are never objective, never “serious,” because rarely does such discussion provoke passionate debate, and such passion is absolutely necessary in a society in which books are rarely the focus of mainstream attention (unless, of course, you happen to be a certain boy wizard). My aim is to get people talking about books, about reading – to remove one's attention from the vapidities that often fritter away our time and attention. It is a sad world indeed when we are more concerned with scrutinizing rehabbing celebrities than with following political leaders. If people talked about books like they talked about television and movies, the world would be a different place. The bookblog allows for this form of discussion among (if you will) the proles in a way that more serious criticism does not. In other words, the blog is the best place for enthusiastic, democratic dialogue about books.

The first general argument against bookblogs is that they are badly written and therefore lack any merit whatsoever. Style is, of course, a matter of taste. Admittedly, some are badly written; however, to say that all are badly written is an assertion only too easy to knock down, even though what constitutes good style varies from reader to reader. It may be possible that Ms. Cooke didn’t find any blogs to her liking, but even she can’t deny her bias against the bookblog to begin with. At any rate, just because bookblogs might be badly written does not bring shame on the entire bookblogging world. There are many badly written books, songs, movies, you name it; of course, it then stands to reason that badly written blogs exist as well. We do not have to pay attention to them, but they do no harm in existing. Hell, there are many ugly children out there in the world, but they have a right to life just as their prettier counterparts do. I mean, really, must we start picking on ugly babies now? Let’s leave the little beasts alone.

The second general argument against bookblogs is that they are untrustworthy, which is interesting coming from critics clearly biased in their own right. That’s not a bad thing, though: literature is intensely subjective, intensely personal – can a truly trustworthy review be written? I submit that no review is entirely trustworthy: “real” critics can have as much of an agenda as a blogger. I’ve read many an awful book praised, and I’ve read many excellent books panned in the press as well. That's okay, though: reading is an intensely personal act, and reviews will vary to fit the tastes and perceptions of the reader. To say that bookblogs are untrustworthy because bloggers feel disenfranchised and resentful is such a glaring generality, however, that it cannot possibly be true. Certainly some are, but an always/never argument is simply too easy to disprove.

I don’t mind if Mr. Kirsch prefers to believe that bloggers feel disenfranchised and resentful (I certainly don’t but I can admit that others might) or that “those who can, do, while those who can't, blog” (although that’s kind of a low blow), but it does seem downright silly to claim that “the blog form, that miscellany of observations, opinions, and links, is not well-suited to writing about literature.” Why not? Because “it doesn't offer multiple events every day for the blogger to comment on”? Sure it does – if you’re constantly reading. The experience of reading is multi-faceted and affects all areas of one’s life; if one is immersed in books on a daily basis, there is always something to talk about. Only one who does not live a daily life of reading would have trouble writing daily about books. Interestingly enough, I believe newspapers include only a weekly literature supplement; does that mean they too lack material to fill a daily column about literature? Apparently. But saying the newspaper is therefore “not well-suited to writing about literature” sounds as silly as saying that the blog is ill-suited for the same reasons.

The final gripe against book blogs involves their highly personal nature. I cannot agree that personal reflection is a negative when it comes to reviewing books. As I’ve already noted, the great thing about literature is that it is personal; it allows an individual to reflect on her life and the world around her – she internalizes it, using it as a mirror by which to reflect her own experiences. If one’s experience of literature is deeply personal, why shouldn’t reviews be? Why is it wrong to say that you’ve been meaning to read a given book for some time or that you bought it discounted? Do not all of these experiences factor into one’s subconscious experience of the work? Should we not appreciate and even celebrate all aspects of reading? The bookblog is just the thing to allow for the every day reflection of literature and not the newspaper or magazine, both of which cannot maintain daily (with exceptions like The New York Times, of course) lit discussion.

To reiterate: literary criticism is all well and good; I read it often and find it necessary to the discussion of serious literature. It is not, however, something the everyday reader wants to read and it is exactly that sort of person who needs to get excited about literature and who will benefit from bookblogs. It is inconceivable that the validity of one is antithetical to the validity of the other. Generating literary conversation and writing about literature is what is ultimately important.

As I’ve said many times before – in fact, my whole blog is centered around this idea – I believe that reading enables one to live better. Reading enriches our experiences and opens minds. If we propagate the idea that a valid discussion of literature comes only from the elite, we are alienating the large part of society who wants no part of literary criticism. A passionate discussion of books must be praised wherever it is found; doing so will hopefully generate more readers, more people living better because of being richly-read.

Perhaps then I have argued that I am not writing so much about books as I am about the experiences my reading occasions. So be it. But such passionate discussion (whether prompted by books or the life that is affected by them) is something I see daily on this and several other bookblogs, and it has got to be better than remaining silent, analyzing instead the latest celebrity baby bump.

FUGGIT

On the Road
Jack Kerouac

You know what? It’s summer. Summer for me means complete freedom, and I’ll be damned if I’ll spend it reading shitty books, even if they are classics. I gave Kerouac TWO, count ‘em, TWO mothereffing chances with On the Road, and even if it is a classic, I’m not torturing myself any more.

I first tried this book a few years ago: no dice. I read no more than maybe 20 pages before the god of sleep whispered in my ear a tale far greater than Kerouac’s. This year, however, On the Road was everywhere I turned. Random people were planning to read it; Jack Kerouac’s name was being dropped into conversations that had nothing to do with books. Was the spirit world telling me to return to this classic and give it another try? Apparently so, and pick it up again I did, this time banging down one-third of the book before hanging my head in defeat.

I try to live every day like it’s my last, and if today really is my last day, I’ll be damned if I’m giving it to On the Road. I know it’s a classic, but maybe it just hasn’t aged well.

I’m sure you all know about On the Road; it’s “beat,” it’s “hip,” it’s about finding yourself while traveling around America. It’s also pretty friggin boring. Kerouac spent years bumming around the country and only three weeks writing the book, and maybe he should have spent some time editing or at least some time jazzing shit up. You know, it’s okay to embellish to make a story better and it’s not necessary to include every little insignificant event that occurred between New York and San Francisco. Look, there’s a hobo! He’s free! Look, there’s a mountain! Nature! In between looking at stuff, Jack – oh, my bad, Sal – bums around the country screwing girls, getting wasted, and scrambling for some dough.

Screwing girls and getting wasted, you ask? I bet you’re thinking: sounds like a party to me! Well this is the boringest party I’ve ever attended, and I’ve been to some real winners in my time.

Looks like they were reading Kerouac too.

In a nutshell: If you like boring books, this one’s for you!

Bibliolatry Scale: abandoned

Love, loss, and aging heartthrobs

Cosmicomics
Italo Calvino

Oh, astronomy, my first love.

Actually astronomy was my second love; Davy Jones won my heart with his dreamy eyes long before I ever got cable. Unfortunately Davy Jones broke my heart in 1987 with an ill-advised concert reunion tour, a tour which culminated by ripping apart my mind with the knowledge that Davy Jones had, seemingly overnight, morphed from this to this. Thankfully my bewilderment and rage were assuaged when my family finally joined the legions of Americans with more than 7 channels. Victory was mine, and I spent many fond years watching hour upon hour of Cosmos, mesmerized by theories regarding worm holes, supernovae, and extrasolar planets.

Apparently, I was alone in my obsession as no one could believe I was actually into this stuff. That’s fine, I suppose; for my part, I just can’t understand those who aren’t utterly fascinated by the infinite expanse above our heads. Don’t you people know what’s up there? Don’t you know that we are on a collision course with Andromeda? That a black hole lies at the center of our galaxy? AM I THE ONLY ONE WHO CARES ABOUT THIS??

delivering a beatdown in just 3 billion years

Apparently so, based on my “friends.” Such programs, however alone I was in enjoying them, only fueled my desire to become one of these brilliant madmen and women who spent their time with their heads in the clouds, and I long held lofty dreams of becoming an astronomer who, I imagined, would spend her days looking at cool pictures and reading cool facts. Little did I know, there was math to be done. Say what?

So I stuck with books which, I must say, never did me no harm. Besides, reading cool space facts is way better than doing tons of calculus or whatever it is you need to do to determine the mass of a supermassive black hole. Since then, I’ve read the accessible Hawking to the more difficult Kaku to the much confusing Deutsch, but I’ve yet to read a work of fiction that features outer space as a main character.

Thankfully, the late Italo Calvino has done just that, writing a series of stores that weaves together the evolutions of its two protagonists: the universe and a being named Qfwfq. Each story begins with a scientific fact which then becomes the basis for the story; for example, “All at One Point” begins by explaining that all matter and creation used to exist in a single point. Pressed into this single space were several beings, not quite human but with human desires and personalities. Among them is the nurturing Mrs. Ph(i)Nk₀, whose love is so expansive that she bursts the single point, "making possible billions and billions of suns..."

As "All at One Point" indicates, at the core of these stories lies the necessity of change, that to remain the same means to invite stagnation and decay. As John Gery notes, "Qfwfq…has only survived by adapting to change, an ability which requires of him the desire always to become what he is not, rather than to protect or preserve what he is." It's difficult to embrace change, especially when it so alters one's universe. Be that as it may, I suppose attending the Monkees reunion tour was a blessing in disguise, because I really couldn't carry such an obsession into my teenage years, now could I? I was a city kid, and obsessing over an aging 60s heartthrob is just asking for trouble and bookworms have enough trouble as it is.

In a nutshell: Beautiful in places, but others get a little bogged down in abstract philosophizing. Cosmicomics is, however, ultimately enjoyable.

Bibliolatry Scale: 4 out of 6 stars