http://www.3ammagazine.com/3am/minimalist-detail/
This is my first published piece since college. Aren't you proud of me?
Here is the uncensored version. A note about the list of authors: I do not think Tao Lin is as good as most of these authors, but he is certainly as good as some of them. It is merely an illustration of the place that he has carved out for himself amongst the biggest names of today. If anybody is missing, please feel free to comment.
Around 5:15 PM today I looked at the mail and saw that my advanced reader’s copy of Tao Lin’s new novella Shoplifting from American Apparel had arrived. I was dismayed to see it read “DO NOT QUOTE.” One of the staples of my blog is quoting large portions of text from the work being reviewed. If I was allowed to quote from this book, I would choose something that the drunk guy in the jail cell says. That was the funniest part of the book for me. Anyways it is 8:56 PM and I am finished reading the book and in that time I also watched the Cubs play the Florida Marlins in Florida and the Cubs lost.
Tao Lin’s fifth book, and first novella, Shoplifting from American Apparel, will probably not register on your pop culture radar. But if you are at all interested in the future of literature, take notice. It is not going to win any awards, but it is a stop-gap between Lin’s first novel Eeeee Eee Eeee and his forthcoming second novel Richard Yates, a work that hints at Lin moving in a more mainstream direction, with greater exposure, and an increasing legion of fans. This book is about a main character named Sam (who seems almost entirely autobiographical), and various friends Luis, Sheila, Kaitlyn, Paula, Hester, Joseph, Chris, Jeffrey, and Audrey. Sam does shoplift from American Apparel and then later he shoplifts from the NYU Computer Store, a pair of $40 Sony In-Ear headphones, which particularly affected me as my Sony headphones have recently gone mute on the left side and I would replace them but I don’t want to spend $40. But headphones cost $4.99, says a teenage girl in a jail cell that has been caught shoplifting from Urban Outfitters. Sam works at an organic vegan restaurant in the East Village, I think, and he has to do two days of community service in order for the shoplifting arrest to be expunged from his record.
I have only previously read Eeeee Eee Eeee by Tao Lin and I would have to say that there are generally less plot holes in this book than in that one, though “plot holes” is an inaccurate term—“minimalist detail” might be closer to the truth. More to the point, Eeeee Eee Eeee features a number of absurdist elements like talking bears and dolphins and celebrity slaughterhouse imagery, whereas Shoplifting is content to stay firmly planted in the real world, even if it is a narrowly defined one. This is my biggest complaint about Lin’s work as a whole, and I’d imagine a potentially serious issue for his critics. Detail is eschewed in the name of wit, or poignancy. Minimalism is evoked and any hope that a comprehensive exploration of any particular subject is going to happen is squelched. If there is anything this book does explore comprehensively, it is the phenomenon of GChat, along with other internet staples of today, like YouTube, Wikipedia, and Photobucket.
Which brings me to my next point. For the sake of neat classification and perspective, let’s look at, who, in my mind, are some of the most prominent (or similarly directed) living authors of today, based on their age-decade:
90’s: J.D. Salinger.
80’s: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Ray Bradbury, Gore Vidal, Milan Kundera.
70’s: Philip Roth, Thomas Pynchon, Don DeLillo, Joyce Carol Oates, Cormac McCarthy.
60’s: Paul Auster, Salman Rushdie, Haruki Murakami, Stephen King, Richard Ford, John Irving, Joy Williams, Ann Beattie (the latter two influences on Lin).
50’s: Lorrie Moore (ditto), Dennis Cooper, David Sedaris.
40’s: Bret Easton Ellis, Rick Moody, J.K. Rowling, Jhumpa Lahiri, Richard Lange, Chuck Palahniuk.
30’s: Stephanie Meyer, Wells Tower.
20’s: Tao Lin, (Probably his MuuMuu House posse, too)
He is on the wrong side of 25 though.
If it is not already clear at this point, Tao Lin may not be for you. It is easy to see why his work as a whole has been extremely divisive. On the one hand, there are struggling writers who work in a much more traditional style who feel their work may be “about something”—whether it be vampires, struggling with mental illness or a traumatic experience, serial dating in an urban environment, the world of fashion, or the experience of being a soldier fighting in a war—and are constantly met with rejection. These comprise half of Lin’s critics—and the other half are the part of the literary establishment that seek to promulgate their MFA credentials by supplementing their income with teaching, who mistake minimalism in their student’s work for laziness.
But then there are those who understand where Lin is coming from, to a certain extent. He has amassed a rather impressive contingent of fans and in his work they see themselves—that is, lonely, depressed, and probably spending too much time on the internet. Any visit to his blog (formerly entitled “Reader of Depressing Books,” now listed as the difficult-just-for-the-sake-of-it http://heheheheheheheeheheheehehe.com/), and the many comments on any of his posts, will show that now, approximately 50% of his followers have adopted his voice and pose.
But it would not be fair to call Lin’s aesthetic a “pose”—because it is authentic, if anything. Of course it is sarcastic, and while it may come off as flippant at first blush, upon further review the tone is refreshingly honest, and free of pretense.
And it is also not fair to say that Shoplifting is meaningless. True, it does seem that Lin simply doesn’t care about satisfying a reader’s expectations, but there is a story here: Sam’s relationship with Sheila, which is almost immediately over in a very short number of pages with eight months elapsing almost instantaneously; the psychiatric effects of GChats with Luis in the wake of this heartbreak and larger issues of emotional well-being; the shoplifting crimes themselves, which act as fulcrums to the story at the ¼ and ¾ points, respectively; the Scrabble-induced hook-up with Paula and the ambiguous sleepover with Kaitlyn; the pining for Sheila during the course of a later relationship with Hester, who seems to not let Sam be himself; the long denouement, somewhat reminiscent of the ending of Eeeee…,that details the course of a weekend spent in Gainesville, FL to perform a reading (which describes the actual beginning of the Shoplifting…) at a free vegan buffet at a record store; and finally, the revelation of Sheila’s current state. There is one celebrity appearance, by the musician Moby, but it should not offend any fans of his (as certain depictions of Sean Penn did for me in Eeeee…).
Today, there is no other literary figure of his age that has caused so much controversy and received so much criticism, praise, and gossip. Most of that is his own doing. In now “famous” PR moves, he has sold royalty shares from his novel to be published in 2010, Richard Yates, for $2000 a piece, he has sold his profile on MySpace, and he has started his own literary imprint which features similarly-minded writing from authors in the same approximate age group. This leads me to the analogy that, what Calvin Johnson is to music, Tao Lin is to literature. While the underground music scene in the 1980s spread their message through zine culture, the underground literary scene twenty-five years later is conducted through the blogosphere. And like Johnson, Lin espouses some of the same virtues: veganism, a “twee” sensibility, and the support of other artists with a similar aesthetic. If this comparison holds up, Lin can expect as long and fruitful a career as Johnson’s, so long as he remains true to his original ideals.
I asked Tao a few questions about Shoplifting from American Apparel and his career in general. Here are the questions I asked him and the answers he gave:
JK: Why did you want to write Shoplifting….? Was this based on a real experience? I think I remember reading somewhere that you really did get caught shoplifting once.
TL: Shoplifting from American Apparel is based on real experiences. Some events and dialogue are not entirely accurate or in the same order as it happened in reality. But it was 100% based on the concrete reality of my life.
JK: How much of Shoplifting would you say is autobiographical, percentage-wise? Some of the GChats in the book seem almost to be lifted from real life—are they made up?
TL: I would say 100% of Shoplifting from American Apparel is autobiographical. I think nothing is “made up.” There are maybe 2-10 lines that while typing it onto the computer screen, or editing it into what is in the final book, I felt some kind of awareness that the line did not occur exactly "like that" in the memory of my life. If forced to say what percent of the book is "true" I would say 97%.
JK: Do you think you will ever stop writing? Under what circumstances would you be compelled to spend the majority of your time focusing on a different profession?
TL: I don’t feel I will ever stop writing. If I don't write for, say, five years or something I feel I still would not say I have stopped writing, in that it seems like I'll never consciously stop writing. At this point in my life I think I view writing as I do talking or walking or eating healthy food, to some degree, in that it can be a means in itself, but is more often a means to other things, such as friendship, "feeling connected" with someone, money, or to feel less bad physically or emotionally.
In addition I feel "vague" re "what is 'writing' to me." When I am thinking things, in my head, I sort of view that as “writing,” in that most of the time I think in language, in sentences or sentence fragments with words in them.
Maybe I would spend the majority of my time focused on something else if I lived in an environment without computers or pens or humans, like if I lived on an island, alone, and had dogs for companionship and was satisfied. Maybe that would be a situation where I would think less in language and more in "sounds," or something, and "stop writing."
JK: I am just curious—when did you actually complete the final edits on Shoplifting and submit it for printing? I think “Obama” comprises 2 out of the 30,000 words of the manuscript or so—was this after the election?
TL I finished a “final draft” maybe three or four months after the election. I think the novella ends a few days before the election.
JK: Richard Yates will be released next year and I think a lot of people are looking forward to it. Are you working on something new, or still in the revision process? Can you tell us anything about your new projects?
TL: I think a “final draft” of Richard Yates was finished around October or November of 2008. I foresee working on Richard Yates for probably 100-200 more hours, in a period of maybe 1-2 months, maybe this December or January.
Currently I view myself as being focused on promoting Shoplifting from American Apparel. I feel I will continue this focus until November or December, when I will then edit Richard Yates until February or March. After that I will probably begin to view myself as being focused on a new project.
JK: Your work seems to espouse the “minimalist” style. What kind of effect do you like about not providing lots of detail, for example? Is it important enough to you even if it prevents you from reaching a larger audience? It seems like most readers want something more “all-encompassing,” or something.
TL: I view my writing, up to Richard Yates, as having two different styles, in terms of prose (poetry, too, maybe, but will focus on prose in this answer). I view these two styles as distinct relative to each other.
My first story-collection, Bed, was one prose style. Bed had many long sentences, adverbs, adjectives, words I normally don't say "in real life," semi-colons, and em-dashes. The rhetorical parts of my first novel, Eeeee Eee Eeee, also employ this style that was first seen in my oeuvre in Bed.
The other prose style I have worked in, I feel, is that of Shoplifting from American Apparel and Richard Yates. These two books have almost no concrete details and very little adjectives, adverbs, semi-colons, or em-dashes. The sentences are short and I use only words I would also feel "normal" saying "in real life."
I feel that both styles can reach a large audience. Ernest Hemingway and Chuck Palahniuk and Kurt Vonnegut do not provide much detail and seem to have a large audience. William Faulkner and Thomas Pynchon seem to have very long sentences that probably provide many details and they also seem to have a large audience.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
One Hundred Years of Solitude - Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Another anecdote: flashback to 2004, a session of the creative writing class already referenced in an earlier blog post, officiated by a talented, vaguely depressive, former hotshot with latin roots. I invited a friend of mine to class with me, since he was visiting that week for his spring break. We exchanged a couple notes and a couple conversational asides during the process of a critique of my story. Our activity does not go unnoticed. A week later we receive our "notes" for the class--a rambling "free write" about the creative writing process that our instructor hands out each week and which more often than not, is quite compelling. This time it is extra special for me because I am singled out as an asshole. The instructor tells me that there is nothing more rude than talking to someone else while you are receiving feedback on a story. He takes a few more potshots at my character that I can't recall, though those notes are saved somewhere in my forgotten academic archives. He then goes on to discuss the writing potential of most of the other students in the class, calling some "baby writers," and talking about my ego being huge, and who knows, maybe I might make it one day, but I wouldn't bank on it. He then talked about his own experience. These details I remember. Having a book of short stories published early in his career, becoming a critical darling, making a good deal of money, moving to Manhattan Beach and playing volleyball everyday. Then soon after, realizing that he would need a real job, and working on the runway directing airplanes at LAX. (In retrospect I have to say, not so bad a job--at least the commute was easy). A year and a half later, I wouldn't be friends with that companion that caused me to get in trouble anymore, and two years later I would ask that same instructor for a letter of recommendation for my MFA applications and never receive a reply. None of this has anything to do with One Hundred Years of Solitude except the aforementioned "latin roots." Once in his notes he had written about running through Central Park to pick up Octavio Paz for an honorary ceremony at Columbia University. He also wrote stories for the class for us to critique, which I found extremely endearing, acting as if he were one of us. For one of the stories he said he had written it in my style and another student's style whose name rhymed with mine. That was a great compliment. The second great compliment was the only real piece of advice that did not seem tinged with malice of any kind. He said, "Before you ever try to write anything serious, you have to read One Hundred Years of Solitude. I can't recommend it enough."
The summer of 2004, I went to South Carolina and tried to read it. I made it through about a hundred pages and then had to return it to the library, I think. Now, five years later, it has finally been completed. It took me about two months, minus the time to read One L, which was about a week, making it the longest period I have ever spent reading a single book since the inception of this blog--a troubling development. This includes behemoths like Underworld and The Magic Mountain. I will say first of all that the long time it took me to read this has been dictated by difficult outside circumstances (LSAT 1 test results, job search, LSAT 2 prep, job found, applications imminent, "nerves") and second of all that while I did not find this book to be the revelation that so many before me have called it, I do believe that anyone who cares about improving their literary knowledge should seek it out at some point in their lives and experience it.
Here is my main problem with the book: it is a family saga, and it is a very confusing one. I find it hard to believe that a reader will be able to get through the first two hundred pages without skimming across a few for boredom or tedium or pure confusion. That is why there is a family tree on the first page, for your reference. And while studying this single page may help understanding, it could also give away a few secrets and spoil some parts of the book, but it usually doesn't. My main problem with One Hundred Years of Solitude is that I have read Buddenbrooks, and I would still recommend that family saga over this family saga anyday. However, both are responsible for earning their authors the Nobel Prize. And they are separated by some 67 years, which would make one believe that this one is more modern, but, and this is almost laughable, even Buddenbrooks is more modern.
I felt like quitting for the first 250 pages of the roughly 450 pages this version contains. Most tedious of all was the discussion of the civil war in Macondo, and the differences between liberals and conservatives that made almost no sense to me at all. Also frustrating were the repetitions of the male characters' names Jose, Arcadio, and Aureliano (the latter in particular has 5 characters named that, plus 17 other minor characters) which made me feel like character development was sorely lacking. But there were great parts in the opening 250 pages--for example, the character of Melquiades--who remains present for practically the entire novel and is the true masterstroke of the work. This book introduced the literary term "magical realism," and true, I have not read anything else that approximates this blend of the fantastic and mundane, but then again, I have not read Cervantes, nor any other latin writers--embarrassing, but something I hope to remedy over the years. One exception--I have read some Borges--but Borges still strikes me as more trustworthy than Marquez.
And in two separate afterwords to my edition, it is mentioned in both that this book had its origins in Marquez's childhood, a large part of which he spent living with his grandparents. His grandmother's habit of telling true stories with the same facial expression as when telling completely made-up stories is the device he sought to mimic in the tone of this book--and after reading that, it's clear to me that he has achieved his goal perfectly. Still, it is difficult for me to select any passages for quotation in this post because I did not find any description, exchange, or explanation particularly beautiful. I do believe the last page or two merits quotation, but it would not be right to do that--the ending is the single best part of the book, in my opinion, and well worth the journey to get there.
So I will recommend One Hundred Years of Solitude with reservations. You will have to know that you are getting into a novel that appears to play by no rules, only to find that around page 300, there has always been a relatively clear and focused modus operandi, though one that eschews traditional narrative detail. Marquez does not get sentimental about his characters. They are exposed to myriad punishments and suffering. Many of them do embrace solitude, but none are totally divorced from the outside world.
The reservations that I have about recommending this novel are primarily cultural. This book will not meet the same expectations as a book like say, American Pastoral will. It may be a Nobel Prize winning work of literature, but it does not fall in line with the concept of a "great American novel." It may be a great "South American novel," but for a person such as myself, it is difficult to feel very close to the characters, or to be deeply moved by their story. So for me at least, the greatest value of this work is its imaginative quality. It is almost like Marquez is a crazy grandfather that tells fantastic bedtime stories. And indeed an enterprising parent might read a chapter to their children before bed, in spite of the racier segments, and achieve a connection to an earlier part of society that is increasingly disappearing--oral culture. Whatever mechanism is used for the enjoyment of this text, it will ultimately impress by virtue of its scope. But I do find it hard to believe that every single word could be treasured, and that a reader would not find a single part slow going.
The summer of 2004, I went to South Carolina and tried to read it. I made it through about a hundred pages and then had to return it to the library, I think. Now, five years later, it has finally been completed. It took me about two months, minus the time to read One L, which was about a week, making it the longest period I have ever spent reading a single book since the inception of this blog--a troubling development. This includes behemoths like Underworld and The Magic Mountain. I will say first of all that the long time it took me to read this has been dictated by difficult outside circumstances (LSAT 1 test results, job search, LSAT 2 prep, job found, applications imminent, "nerves") and second of all that while I did not find this book to be the revelation that so many before me have called it, I do believe that anyone who cares about improving their literary knowledge should seek it out at some point in their lives and experience it.
Here is my main problem with the book: it is a family saga, and it is a very confusing one. I find it hard to believe that a reader will be able to get through the first two hundred pages without skimming across a few for boredom or tedium or pure confusion. That is why there is a family tree on the first page, for your reference. And while studying this single page may help understanding, it could also give away a few secrets and spoil some parts of the book, but it usually doesn't. My main problem with One Hundred Years of Solitude is that I have read Buddenbrooks, and I would still recommend that family saga over this family saga anyday. However, both are responsible for earning their authors the Nobel Prize. And they are separated by some 67 years, which would make one believe that this one is more modern, but, and this is almost laughable, even Buddenbrooks is more modern.
I felt like quitting for the first 250 pages of the roughly 450 pages this version contains. Most tedious of all was the discussion of the civil war in Macondo, and the differences between liberals and conservatives that made almost no sense to me at all. Also frustrating were the repetitions of the male characters' names Jose, Arcadio, and Aureliano (the latter in particular has 5 characters named that, plus 17 other minor characters) which made me feel like character development was sorely lacking. But there were great parts in the opening 250 pages--for example, the character of Melquiades--who remains present for practically the entire novel and is the true masterstroke of the work. This book introduced the literary term "magical realism," and true, I have not read anything else that approximates this blend of the fantastic and mundane, but then again, I have not read Cervantes, nor any other latin writers--embarrassing, but something I hope to remedy over the years. One exception--I have read some Borges--but Borges still strikes me as more trustworthy than Marquez.
And in two separate afterwords to my edition, it is mentioned in both that this book had its origins in Marquez's childhood, a large part of which he spent living with his grandparents. His grandmother's habit of telling true stories with the same facial expression as when telling completely made-up stories is the device he sought to mimic in the tone of this book--and after reading that, it's clear to me that he has achieved his goal perfectly. Still, it is difficult for me to select any passages for quotation in this post because I did not find any description, exchange, or explanation particularly beautiful. I do believe the last page or two merits quotation, but it would not be right to do that--the ending is the single best part of the book, in my opinion, and well worth the journey to get there.
So I will recommend One Hundred Years of Solitude with reservations. You will have to know that you are getting into a novel that appears to play by no rules, only to find that around page 300, there has always been a relatively clear and focused modus operandi, though one that eschews traditional narrative detail. Marquez does not get sentimental about his characters. They are exposed to myriad punishments and suffering. Many of them do embrace solitude, but none are totally divorced from the outside world.
The reservations that I have about recommending this novel are primarily cultural. This book will not meet the same expectations as a book like say, American Pastoral will. It may be a Nobel Prize winning work of literature, but it does not fall in line with the concept of a "great American novel." It may be a great "South American novel," but for a person such as myself, it is difficult to feel very close to the characters, or to be deeply moved by their story. So for me at least, the greatest value of this work is its imaginative quality. It is almost like Marquez is a crazy grandfather that tells fantastic bedtime stories. And indeed an enterprising parent might read a chapter to their children before bed, in spite of the racier segments, and achieve a connection to an earlier part of society that is increasingly disappearing--oral culture. Whatever mechanism is used for the enjoyment of this text, it will ultimately impress by virtue of its scope. But I do find it hard to believe that every single word could be treasured, and that a reader would not find a single part slow going.
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
One L - Scott Turow
I've been thinking about law school for about three years now. This is finally the time that I'll apply to it. Each year has brought increasing seriousness to the pursuit. It hit its full realization when I applied for a $7.75/hour job at Barnes & Noble and saw an interesting book in the legal section called Lawyer Boy. I read some of that on Google Books and it is about going to DePaul in the early to mid 2000's. I would say it is pretty up-to-date and accurate, and probably a lot more applicable to the majority of applicants than One L. That said, anyone who is considering law school should read One L because apparently all of the pain the book describes is going to happen no matter where you end up.
One L takes place at Harvard Law School (HLS) in 1975 and 1976. It is a memoir by Scott Turow, who now lives in Wilmette, I believe, and works for a loop law firm. He is just about the greatest role model someone from the North Shore who wanted to be a writer and decided that it was too hard without a good back-up option so he decided to be a lawyer instead could have. He writes novels and he practices law, and he seems pretty successful at what he does. If I end up like him in thirty five years, I won't be upset with my accomplishments. However, he is not the greatest role model for two reasons:
1) He was teaching Creative Writing at Stanford before he started law school. If I were doing this, despite its undoubtedly lower pay, I would have stuck with it. Plus I'm assuming he got his MFA from Stanford. Something I tried to do but yeah I wouldn't even have bothered with Stanford and it didn't work out anyways.
2) He went to fucking Harvard.
So, one opens up One L and automatically takes a negative attitude towards its author. He is obviously one of the smartest people in the world, or at least one of the luckiest, but one could hardly claim that he didn't put in hard work to get there. Still, he does well on the LSAT (then scored on a scale of 800) and figures he could go to Harvard, so why not? (For someone that didn't score, oh, 175, it's automatically frustrating too).
Once he is into law school and done with all of the magnanimous introductions, however, the story becomes much more human and relatable. Oh wait, he is also already married and "old" at 26 (if I go, I will be starting at 27, and relentlessly single). He begins by describing his courses, professors, and classmates, and this is the majority of the "action" of the book. This is not a novel--this is a memoir--but the names have been changed. He kept what I have to say is a very detailed and impressive journal during the first year that is the basis of the book. His first classes are in Contracts (a year-long course), Civil Procedure (also year-long), Criminal Law (one term) and Torts (one term). Each of the professors--Perini, Morris, Mann (!), and Zechman--become major characters. So do his wife, Annette, his friends Stephen, Terry, and Aubrey, and Karen Sondergard who is always mentioned in conjunction with crying.
There is a fair amount of suicidal depression that occurs in the context of stress associated with first term exams and judging from what I have heard about present-day practices, it hasn't changed. It makes law school seem downright masochistic. And it may in fact be masochistic. But that doesn't change the fact that Turow is excited by the law and enamored with it. So basically, what this book accomplishes is a fair warning to anyone thinking about the major commitment that is three years of intense scrutiny, endless studying, and what basically amounts to public humiliation. If you still think you want to go after reading it, you have been warned. I personally still want to go. I'm not afraid of it. Especially since certain things seem to have changed in the last 33 years, and certain things would be unique to HLS and not other law schools.
I know that the admission process is insane enough as it is, and the first year is the most "intellectually traumatizing" experience one can have (as one friend described it to me). But One L does take a bit of the mystery out of the law school experience and gives one a better idea of what to expect. However, it is dated. Harvard costs $3,000 a year in 1975. Who knows what that equates to, inflation-wise, but still, thirteen times the price? Law school is one of the most ridiculously expensive things there is in this world (perhaps it is not as bad as a $10,000 bottle of wine). But salaries are also higher, thankfully:
"I was accustomed to teachers' salaries. At Stanford, in the English department, a full professor, well respected, after a lifetime of successful teaching and scholarship might have been earning $22,000. That is the starting salary for Harvard graduates at many firms in New York. (101)
"A poll taken during interview season and published in the law school newspaper showed that the 1Ls responding hoped for an average income of $28,000 in their twentieth year out of law school and a starting salary of $13,000." (102)
Turow does have some intriguing suggestions for law school reform, and the book mainly serves as a soapbox for exploring those incidents that merit consideration in changing certain policies or traditions. One of them that I found intriguing was the practice of grading exams blindly--that is, the student's name is replaced by an ID number while the professor grades them. First of all, I would say that basing a student's entire grade for a year-long course on a single exam is messed up as it is, but that is something that seems fairly established no matter where you look. But doing it blindly, without any consideration to a student's in-class accomplishments seems even more unfair:
"And there were also a number of people who'd demonstrated real insight into legal problems in class but who somehow had not done well on the exams. Ned Cauley was one. In a case like his, I was left wondering if the law school's system of blind grading--with a student's entire mark based on a test identified by a number and not by name--was worth it, or if it forced professors to ignore knowledge obviously relevant to their evaluations." (239)
Turow's most compelling single statement, however, concerns the practice of number-crunching law school applicants and law school students to the degree that the cycle becomes truly vicious, and one might say, unjust:
"But one thing nags which does not bear directly on me anymore, but is worth mention. Right now admissions at most American law schools are based on predictions of how well applicants will do in school, which is to say how high they will rank on exams. Those forecasts, based on statistical formulae that combine LSAT scores and college grades, are often quite accurate. But that amounts only to saying that American law schools admit people who will be good test-takers rather than good attorneys. Correlations between exam success and worthwhile achievements in the practice of law are speculative at best. Until that connection is better established, the narrow and arbitrary nature of exams will continue to dictate a narrow and arbitrary means of selection for training for the bar. And that is a peculiar state of affairs for a profession and an education which claim to concern themselves with rationality, with fairness." (199)
For moments like these, where Turow's rhetoric rises above to the level of a nearly profound articulateness, those in the field of legal education will benefit from a perusal of this text. But this post is probably an unnecessary prescription--it seems as if One L has attained pre-eminent status amongst law school hopefuls and pre-1Lers. But the depictions of classroom conduct by professors, as well as the competitive nature of the classmates (a necessary evil of the system, it seems) will remind the reader what it means to be a decent person in a sea of indecency. Even when Turow himself cracks and claims he doesn't give a damn about anybody else, he wants the advantage on the last exam, the reader may be inclined to agree with him. But not before he comes to his senses and realizes that he may be taking everything just a little too seriously (emphasis on little).
Maybe there are attendant memoirs about going to med school and going to business school and going to a PHD program and an MFA program, but if they are lacking, Turow's accomplishment can point the way for others. This book is occasionally dry, but so is the law, and anyone interested in reading it should be expecting that and so it is obviously forgivable. It's not the greatest book I've ever read, but I haven't read many suspense stories about going to school, and it is probably the best in that genre that I have noticed. But maybe I am just biased and self-serving.
One L takes place at Harvard Law School (HLS) in 1975 and 1976. It is a memoir by Scott Turow, who now lives in Wilmette, I believe, and works for a loop law firm. He is just about the greatest role model someone from the North Shore who wanted to be a writer and decided that it was too hard without a good back-up option so he decided to be a lawyer instead could have. He writes novels and he practices law, and he seems pretty successful at what he does. If I end up like him in thirty five years, I won't be upset with my accomplishments. However, he is not the greatest role model for two reasons:
1) He was teaching Creative Writing at Stanford before he started law school. If I were doing this, despite its undoubtedly lower pay, I would have stuck with it. Plus I'm assuming he got his MFA from Stanford. Something I tried to do but yeah I wouldn't even have bothered with Stanford and it didn't work out anyways.
2) He went to fucking Harvard.
So, one opens up One L and automatically takes a negative attitude towards its author. He is obviously one of the smartest people in the world, or at least one of the luckiest, but one could hardly claim that he didn't put in hard work to get there. Still, he does well on the LSAT (then scored on a scale of 800) and figures he could go to Harvard, so why not? (For someone that didn't score, oh, 175, it's automatically frustrating too).
Once he is into law school and done with all of the magnanimous introductions, however, the story becomes much more human and relatable. Oh wait, he is also already married and "old" at 26 (if I go, I will be starting at 27, and relentlessly single). He begins by describing his courses, professors, and classmates, and this is the majority of the "action" of the book. This is not a novel--this is a memoir--but the names have been changed. He kept what I have to say is a very detailed and impressive journal during the first year that is the basis of the book. His first classes are in Contracts (a year-long course), Civil Procedure (also year-long), Criminal Law (one term) and Torts (one term). Each of the professors--Perini, Morris, Mann (!), and Zechman--become major characters. So do his wife, Annette, his friends Stephen, Terry, and Aubrey, and Karen Sondergard who is always mentioned in conjunction with crying.
There is a fair amount of suicidal depression that occurs in the context of stress associated with first term exams and judging from what I have heard about present-day practices, it hasn't changed. It makes law school seem downright masochistic. And it may in fact be masochistic. But that doesn't change the fact that Turow is excited by the law and enamored with it. So basically, what this book accomplishes is a fair warning to anyone thinking about the major commitment that is three years of intense scrutiny, endless studying, and what basically amounts to public humiliation. If you still think you want to go after reading it, you have been warned. I personally still want to go. I'm not afraid of it. Especially since certain things seem to have changed in the last 33 years, and certain things would be unique to HLS and not other law schools.
I know that the admission process is insane enough as it is, and the first year is the most "intellectually traumatizing" experience one can have (as one friend described it to me). But One L does take a bit of the mystery out of the law school experience and gives one a better idea of what to expect. However, it is dated. Harvard costs $3,000 a year in 1975. Who knows what that equates to, inflation-wise, but still, thirteen times the price? Law school is one of the most ridiculously expensive things there is in this world (perhaps it is not as bad as a $10,000 bottle of wine). But salaries are also higher, thankfully:
"I was accustomed to teachers' salaries. At Stanford, in the English department, a full professor, well respected, after a lifetime of successful teaching and scholarship might have been earning $22,000. That is the starting salary for Harvard graduates at many firms in New York. (101)
"A poll taken during interview season and published in the law school newspaper showed that the 1Ls responding hoped for an average income of $28,000 in their twentieth year out of law school and a starting salary of $13,000." (102)
Turow does have some intriguing suggestions for law school reform, and the book mainly serves as a soapbox for exploring those incidents that merit consideration in changing certain policies or traditions. One of them that I found intriguing was the practice of grading exams blindly--that is, the student's name is replaced by an ID number while the professor grades them. First of all, I would say that basing a student's entire grade for a year-long course on a single exam is messed up as it is, but that is something that seems fairly established no matter where you look. But doing it blindly, without any consideration to a student's in-class accomplishments seems even more unfair:
"And there were also a number of people who'd demonstrated real insight into legal problems in class but who somehow had not done well on the exams. Ned Cauley was one. In a case like his, I was left wondering if the law school's system of blind grading--with a student's entire mark based on a test identified by a number and not by name--was worth it, or if it forced professors to ignore knowledge obviously relevant to their evaluations." (239)
Turow's most compelling single statement, however, concerns the practice of number-crunching law school applicants and law school students to the degree that the cycle becomes truly vicious, and one might say, unjust:
"But one thing nags which does not bear directly on me anymore, but is worth mention. Right now admissions at most American law schools are based on predictions of how well applicants will do in school, which is to say how high they will rank on exams. Those forecasts, based on statistical formulae that combine LSAT scores and college grades, are often quite accurate. But that amounts only to saying that American law schools admit people who will be good test-takers rather than good attorneys. Correlations between exam success and worthwhile achievements in the practice of law are speculative at best. Until that connection is better established, the narrow and arbitrary nature of exams will continue to dictate a narrow and arbitrary means of selection for training for the bar. And that is a peculiar state of affairs for a profession and an education which claim to concern themselves with rationality, with fairness." (199)
For moments like these, where Turow's rhetoric rises above to the level of a nearly profound articulateness, those in the field of legal education will benefit from a perusal of this text. But this post is probably an unnecessary prescription--it seems as if One L has attained pre-eminent status amongst law school hopefuls and pre-1Lers. But the depictions of classroom conduct by professors, as well as the competitive nature of the classmates (a necessary evil of the system, it seems) will remind the reader what it means to be a decent person in a sea of indecency. Even when Turow himself cracks and claims he doesn't give a damn about anybody else, he wants the advantage on the last exam, the reader may be inclined to agree with him. But not before he comes to his senses and realizes that he may be taking everything just a little too seriously (emphasis on little).
Maybe there are attendant memoirs about going to med school and going to business school and going to a PHD program and an MFA program, but if they are lacking, Turow's accomplishment can point the way for others. This book is occasionally dry, but so is the law, and anyone interested in reading it should be expecting that and so it is obviously forgivable. It's not the greatest book I've ever read, but I haven't read many suspense stories about going to school, and it is probably the best in that genre that I have noticed. But maybe I am just biased and self-serving.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Pitchfork Music Festival - 7/17/09, 7/18/09
I forgot to bring my camera with me this year, so I won't be able to include any pictures. This is the 4th Pitchfork Music Festival that I have attended ('05, '06, '07, and now '09)--I would have gone last year, which I think had the best line-up yet, but I was in L.A. I read in the Chicago Tribune this year that they had to scale back their ambitions for big name performers and go for more up-and-coming talent. But that has always been the case with this event. Lollapalooza has been occurring two weeks afterwards for the same period of the last 5 summers and while sometimes great bands play that other festival (last year had a similarly great best line-up ever) it is SO not worth it.
While Grant Park is THE outdoor space of Chicago and a badass place for a music festival, it is ultimately TOO BIG and so Union Park, where Pitchfork occurs, is a much more welcome respite. You do not have the whole of the skyline as your backdrop, but you do have the Willis Tower (!) in close view. Beer is cheaper by a dollar or two, I think. The food options are similar, but I still think Lolla is more expensive on that front too. The ticket price difference is frankly absurd. And the line-up this year is way lame. The only bands I would see would be Lou Reed and Deerhunter--and they play at the exact same time, so sorry, but I would see Lou Reed, but I feel like I would be crestfallen at the end of the set for missing that other band in their prime.
I didn't go last night to see Flaming Lips, and Sunday probably had the best line-up of any single day. And I don't have pictures but I will relay a short narrative to deliver my central thesis: the best moment of the summer has passed, unfortunately! (at least in this city).
Friday night I went in hoping to see Yo La Tengo, Jesus Lizard, and Built to Spill. I arrived, having purchased my tickets through will-call, and proceeded to wait for ONE HOUR outside the gates while Tortoise finished up and Yo La Tengo started. Their organization at the will call window was a total disaster and made me feel that I was in for a horrible weekend and that all the money I blew was going to be a total waste. Well, I got in, and was very grateful that it worked out, and I stood pretty close to the stage waiting for Jesus Lizard for about 45-50 minutes. I saw Yo La Tengo playing in the distance and they looked like they were tearing it up (though they didn't play "Too Late" which would have been on my request list).
One difference from this year was that there were no announcers or Thax Douglas reading poems before the sets would start, which I have to say was sort of fun in a way. But Jesus Lizard started, and they played "Puss" as their opening song, and David Yow immediately jumped into the crowd and sang the first words of the song while being held aloft, and I was in serious pain. I almost lost my glasses. It was without question the most violent show I have ever experienced. Their sound was excellent and David Yow proved that he is one of the best frontmen in all of rock, even during a reunion tour. Some of the other highlights were "Then Comes Dudley," "Boilermaker," "Gladiator," "Blue Shot," "Monkey Trick," and "Bloody Mary." I was surprised that there were about three or four songs I didn't recognize. I had to leave during their last song because I was so beaten up. Then they played a two-song encore, which I missed too. I needed to get a water, I was dehydrated. (Jesus Lizard will play the Metro around Thanksgiving and I hope to be there. I also hope not to die there, but something tells me the crowd-surfing will be more contained at the Metro.) It was a cool weekend (probably the coldest in the history of the event) but there was plenty of sweating anyways. Built to Spill played, and I watched them play "Liar" and "Stab" and decided that the place was way too crowded and it wasn't worth it for me to stay. Don't get me wrong--I love BtS but I have to admit that they can be a boring live band.
The next day was much more fun for me because I decided to drink. The first set I saw was Fucked Up, and this was almost as violent as the Jesus Lizard, but the crowd was not quite as crazy, probably because Fucked Up are a regular working band, though I am sure many would argue that each set was just as wild. This was the second best set of the weekend for me. They played about half songs from The Chemistry of Common Life and the other half from Hidden World, at least as it seemed to me. Pink Eyes was the Tim Harrington of this year. Ideally both of them could play back-to-back next year.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart were next, and I have not heard their record, and I only saw them from a distance, but I have to say, they were pretty cool! However, they sound EXACTLY like My Bloody Valentine. This is not a bad thing. However, it led me to theorize that, okay, they like MBV, I like MBV, we all love MBV--why not start a band that sounds just like MBV and then everyone will love us, and we can be the new MBV? That was what I feel went on in those band members' heads two years ago or whatever. Their male singer sounds just like Kevin Shields and their female singer sounds just like Blinda Butcher and their guitar sound recalls the Isn't Anything-era. Maybe Loveless is next? Regardless, I liked them. I'd get their album on the basis of the live show.
Ponytail were next, and I liked them alright, but not as much as Pains of Being Pure at Heart (as these were the only two I had never previously heard). They were like a combination of Yoko Ono, The Go! Team, and Deerhoof. They were interesting. I don't know if I'd go out and get their record. I think I would have liked them more if I was closer to the stage.
I waited around for Wavves next, and they were about twenty minutes late starting their set, which started to draw ire from the crowd, thinking that another meltdown might be in store for us. Half the people wanted there to be a meltdown actually. When he finally started, he played "Nervous Breakdown," which was wonderfully unexpected and awesome. Then he turned in what I have to say was a very solid performance. I really enjoyed their set. It wasn't a disappointment and hopefully he has redeemed himself and will prove the haters wrong.
I saw parts of MF Doom, but I had gotten more beer and a snack before. I saw about three songs by them. It was okay I guess. I just feel like hip-hop is a lot more predictable when it comes to the actual performance aspect than rock because you are not worrying about the band playing. You just have to remember your lyrics. Regardless, the Tribune said Doom had lip-synched his lines, and I couldn't tell if that was true, or if that was just hyperbole (one of the vocab words he tossed off near the end).
I saw part of Matt & Kim, by this point really drunk and getting free beer because a friend knew someone at one of the tents. (Another girl at the tent played drums for TV on the Radio and Spoon during live shows and I was like, oh my God that's the coolest thing in the world!) I compared them to Fiery Furnaces but they are nothing like them. My friend told me he threw "Widow City" out of his car window during his recent road trip and I was shocked and offended. Fiery Furnaces should play Pitchfork festival because a) they never played before, b) they are from Chicago, c) they rule. Matt & Kim have nothing on them, but they are interesting for being super happy people--I wish I could be like them!
Black Lips closed out what I saw (I missed the National, sorry)--and while I haven't heard their recent record, their last record, I just couldn't get into, sorry. "Cold Hands" and "O Katrina!" are O.K. as far as the best songs on the album, but happily, Black Lips are a good live band. I kept saying I didn't like them and they would only be redeemed if Bradford Cox came up as a special guest which I said had a 1% chance of happening--but overall, they sounded pretty good live. If I were closer, I'm sure I would have gotten really into it. But by that point the alcohol had turned me into a disinterested half-zombie, spewing bile about whatever crazed topic entered my mind.
Yo La Tengo: 8/10
Jesus Lizard : 9/10
Built to Spill: 6/10
Fucked Up: 9/10
Pains of Being Pure at Heart: 7/10
Ponytail: 6.5/10
Wavves: 8/10
MF Doom: 5/10
Matt & Kim: 5/10
Black Lips: 7/10
Regardless of my personal situation, which has deteriorated greatly from the excellent times of 2005 and 2007, this is still the best event in the city of Chicago. Period. Let the summer wind down, bring on the pain of winter, and start counting the days until they announce next year's line-up. Boycott Lollapalooza until they bring ticket prices down to, oh, $50 a day ($60 with service fees...).
While Grant Park is THE outdoor space of Chicago and a badass place for a music festival, it is ultimately TOO BIG and so Union Park, where Pitchfork occurs, is a much more welcome respite. You do not have the whole of the skyline as your backdrop, but you do have the Willis Tower (!) in close view. Beer is cheaper by a dollar or two, I think. The food options are similar, but I still think Lolla is more expensive on that front too. The ticket price difference is frankly absurd. And the line-up this year is way lame. The only bands I would see would be Lou Reed and Deerhunter--and they play at the exact same time, so sorry, but I would see Lou Reed, but I feel like I would be crestfallen at the end of the set for missing that other band in their prime.
I didn't go last night to see Flaming Lips, and Sunday probably had the best line-up of any single day. And I don't have pictures but I will relay a short narrative to deliver my central thesis: the best moment of the summer has passed, unfortunately! (at least in this city).
Friday night I went in hoping to see Yo La Tengo, Jesus Lizard, and Built to Spill. I arrived, having purchased my tickets through will-call, and proceeded to wait for ONE HOUR outside the gates while Tortoise finished up and Yo La Tengo started. Their organization at the will call window was a total disaster and made me feel that I was in for a horrible weekend and that all the money I blew was going to be a total waste. Well, I got in, and was very grateful that it worked out, and I stood pretty close to the stage waiting for Jesus Lizard for about 45-50 minutes. I saw Yo La Tengo playing in the distance and they looked like they were tearing it up (though they didn't play "Too Late" which would have been on my request list).
One difference from this year was that there were no announcers or Thax Douglas reading poems before the sets would start, which I have to say was sort of fun in a way. But Jesus Lizard started, and they played "Puss" as their opening song, and David Yow immediately jumped into the crowd and sang the first words of the song while being held aloft, and I was in serious pain. I almost lost my glasses. It was without question the most violent show I have ever experienced. Their sound was excellent and David Yow proved that he is one of the best frontmen in all of rock, even during a reunion tour. Some of the other highlights were "Then Comes Dudley," "Boilermaker," "Gladiator," "Blue Shot," "Monkey Trick," and "Bloody Mary." I was surprised that there were about three or four songs I didn't recognize. I had to leave during their last song because I was so beaten up. Then they played a two-song encore, which I missed too. I needed to get a water, I was dehydrated. (Jesus Lizard will play the Metro around Thanksgiving and I hope to be there. I also hope not to die there, but something tells me the crowd-surfing will be more contained at the Metro.) It was a cool weekend (probably the coldest in the history of the event) but there was plenty of sweating anyways. Built to Spill played, and I watched them play "Liar" and "Stab" and decided that the place was way too crowded and it wasn't worth it for me to stay. Don't get me wrong--I love BtS but I have to admit that they can be a boring live band.
The next day was much more fun for me because I decided to drink. The first set I saw was Fucked Up, and this was almost as violent as the Jesus Lizard, but the crowd was not quite as crazy, probably because Fucked Up are a regular working band, though I am sure many would argue that each set was just as wild. This was the second best set of the weekend for me. They played about half songs from The Chemistry of Common Life and the other half from Hidden World, at least as it seemed to me. Pink Eyes was the Tim Harrington of this year. Ideally both of them could play back-to-back next year.
The Pains of Being Pure at Heart were next, and I have not heard their record, and I only saw them from a distance, but I have to say, they were pretty cool! However, they sound EXACTLY like My Bloody Valentine. This is not a bad thing. However, it led me to theorize that, okay, they like MBV, I like MBV, we all love MBV--why not start a band that sounds just like MBV and then everyone will love us, and we can be the new MBV? That was what I feel went on in those band members' heads two years ago or whatever. Their male singer sounds just like Kevin Shields and their female singer sounds just like Blinda Butcher and their guitar sound recalls the Isn't Anything-era. Maybe Loveless is next? Regardless, I liked them. I'd get their album on the basis of the live show.
Ponytail were next, and I liked them alright, but not as much as Pains of Being Pure at Heart (as these were the only two I had never previously heard). They were like a combination of Yoko Ono, The Go! Team, and Deerhoof. They were interesting. I don't know if I'd go out and get their record. I think I would have liked them more if I was closer to the stage.
I waited around for Wavves next, and they were about twenty minutes late starting their set, which started to draw ire from the crowd, thinking that another meltdown might be in store for us. Half the people wanted there to be a meltdown actually. When he finally started, he played "Nervous Breakdown," which was wonderfully unexpected and awesome. Then he turned in what I have to say was a very solid performance. I really enjoyed their set. It wasn't a disappointment and hopefully he has redeemed himself and will prove the haters wrong.
I saw parts of MF Doom, but I had gotten more beer and a snack before. I saw about three songs by them. It was okay I guess. I just feel like hip-hop is a lot more predictable when it comes to the actual performance aspect than rock because you are not worrying about the band playing. You just have to remember your lyrics. Regardless, the Tribune said Doom had lip-synched his lines, and I couldn't tell if that was true, or if that was just hyperbole (one of the vocab words he tossed off near the end).
I saw part of Matt & Kim, by this point really drunk and getting free beer because a friend knew someone at one of the tents. (Another girl at the tent played drums for TV on the Radio and Spoon during live shows and I was like, oh my God that's the coolest thing in the world!) I compared them to Fiery Furnaces but they are nothing like them. My friend told me he threw "Widow City" out of his car window during his recent road trip and I was shocked and offended. Fiery Furnaces should play Pitchfork festival because a) they never played before, b) they are from Chicago, c) they rule. Matt & Kim have nothing on them, but they are interesting for being super happy people--I wish I could be like them!
Black Lips closed out what I saw (I missed the National, sorry)--and while I haven't heard their recent record, their last record, I just couldn't get into, sorry. "Cold Hands" and "O Katrina!" are O.K. as far as the best songs on the album, but happily, Black Lips are a good live band. I kept saying I didn't like them and they would only be redeemed if Bradford Cox came up as a special guest which I said had a 1% chance of happening--but overall, they sounded pretty good live. If I were closer, I'm sure I would have gotten really into it. But by that point the alcohol had turned me into a disinterested half-zombie, spewing bile about whatever crazed topic entered my mind.
Yo La Tengo: 8/10
Jesus Lizard : 9/10
Built to Spill: 6/10
Fucked Up: 9/10
Pains of Being Pure at Heart: 7/10
Ponytail: 6.5/10
Wavves: 8/10
MF Doom: 5/10
Matt & Kim: 5/10
Black Lips: 7/10
Regardless of my personal situation, which has deteriorated greatly from the excellent times of 2005 and 2007, this is still the best event in the city of Chicago. Period. Let the summer wind down, bring on the pain of winter, and start counting the days until they announce next year's line-up. Boycott Lollapalooza until they bring ticket prices down to, oh, $50 a day ($60 with service fees...).
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Swann's Way - Marcel Proust (incomplete)
About a year ago, while reviewing Desolation Angels, I mentioned that I wanted to read Proust. Like Kerouac, Proust is one of the few major literary figures who made a career off of writing thinly-veiled autobiography and describing the experiences of his real life, rather than searching for the fantastic fictional scenario to elucidate and transmit an idea of complexity. Proust is also one of the most eccentric figures in modern literature--being pretty much a bonafide hermit who never really had a job and lived off his parents fortunes until he took his famous "cork-lined" room after the devastating death of his mother. In this room, he wrote all seven volumes of the almost 3,000 page "longest book of all time"--of which Swann's Way is volume 1. Proust is a major intellectual giant--it is clear--but his eccentricity also clearly shines through in his work, and that can make it a bit inaccessible for readers, which is the only explanation I have for the now-third (incomplete) in the title of this post.
Part of the reason I picked up this book was the new Yo La Tengo song where Ira Kaplan says he never read Proust because it seemed too long. Yeah, I pretty much felt it was time to give it a shot, and I tried, and I got through about sixty pages, and I want to move onto something by Garcia Marquez, a novel I tried to read about five years ago and stopped for reasons I can't recall. So there's a little sneak preview for you. But this next book is long too and will probably take me a couple weeks.
Here is my feeling on Swann's Way: in the introduction to my volume, Lydia Davis says something about why the text is difficult. Not only are there the famously long sentences, but there is also the indescribable detail inherent in them. At a lot of these details, the reader may be moved to say, "Who cares--get on with the story you colossal bore!" Davis points out that the reader must adjust to Proust's speed--slow down, as it were, be content to savor the static. And yes, I greatly admire Proust's ideology and concept behind his work. When I first heard about him, I thought it lied very close to the same aims I hoped to produce in my own work--the inexplicable singularity of a life, with all of its attendant idiosyncrasies, which thereby educates an audience more as to the total "meaning of existence." Lofty ambitions indeed, and I will say, after 60 pages, that I am sure Proust succeeds on his own philosophical level, but that 21st century American readers will find it extremely difficult to "dig."
That said, whenever my life becomes "more intellectual" and I'm "less stressed out"--I will return to Proust--and it won't take someone else convincing me that it's worthwhile like that previous (incomplete) post. Despite the long stretches of boredom, there appear sentences of unusual beauty, and these random moments, for me, make all of the tedium worthwhile:
"My great-aunt was so used to seeing Swann always as the same adolescent that she was surprised to find him suddenly not as young as the age she continued to attribute to him. And my family was also beginning to feel that in him this aging was abnormal, excessive, shameful, and more deserved by the unmarried, by all those for whom it seems that the great day that has no tomorrow is longer than for others, because for them it is empty and the moments in it add up from morning on without then being divided among children." (34)
And of course there is the famous petites madeleines passage that occurs at the end of the first section of this volume. It is highly quotable and spells out the raison d'etre of the work as a whole:
"....But at the very instant when the mouthful of tea mixed with cake crumbs touched my palate, I quivered, attentive to the extraordinary thing that was happening inside me. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated me, without my having any notion as to its cause. It had immediately rendered the vicissitudes of life unimportant to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory, acting in the same way that love acts, by filling me with a precious essence: or rather this essence was not merely inside me, it was me. I had ceased to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Where could it have come to me from--this powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected to the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it went infinitely far beyond it, could not be of the same nature. Where did it come from? What did it mean? How could I grasp it? I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third that gives me a little less than the second. It is time for me to stop, the virtue of the drink seems to be diminishing. Clearly, the truth I am seeking is not in the drink, but in me. The drink has awoken it in me, but does not know this truth, and can do more than repeat indefinitely, with less and less force, this same testimony which I do not know how to interpret and which I want at least to be able to ask of it again and find again, intact, available to me, soon, for a decisive clarification...." (45)
Part of the reason I picked up this book was the new Yo La Tengo song where Ira Kaplan says he never read Proust because it seemed too long. Yeah, I pretty much felt it was time to give it a shot, and I tried, and I got through about sixty pages, and I want to move onto something by Garcia Marquez, a novel I tried to read about five years ago and stopped for reasons I can't recall. So there's a little sneak preview for you. But this next book is long too and will probably take me a couple weeks.
Here is my feeling on Swann's Way: in the introduction to my volume, Lydia Davis says something about why the text is difficult. Not only are there the famously long sentences, but there is also the indescribable detail inherent in them. At a lot of these details, the reader may be moved to say, "Who cares--get on with the story you colossal bore!" Davis points out that the reader must adjust to Proust's speed--slow down, as it were, be content to savor the static. And yes, I greatly admire Proust's ideology and concept behind his work. When I first heard about him, I thought it lied very close to the same aims I hoped to produce in my own work--the inexplicable singularity of a life, with all of its attendant idiosyncrasies, which thereby educates an audience more as to the total "meaning of existence." Lofty ambitions indeed, and I will say, after 60 pages, that I am sure Proust succeeds on his own philosophical level, but that 21st century American readers will find it extremely difficult to "dig."
That said, whenever my life becomes "more intellectual" and I'm "less stressed out"--I will return to Proust--and it won't take someone else convincing me that it's worthwhile like that previous (incomplete) post. Despite the long stretches of boredom, there appear sentences of unusual beauty, and these random moments, for me, make all of the tedium worthwhile:
"My great-aunt was so used to seeing Swann always as the same adolescent that she was surprised to find him suddenly not as young as the age she continued to attribute to him. And my family was also beginning to feel that in him this aging was abnormal, excessive, shameful, and more deserved by the unmarried, by all those for whom it seems that the great day that has no tomorrow is longer than for others, because for them it is empty and the moments in it add up from morning on without then being divided among children." (34)
And of course there is the famous petites madeleines passage that occurs at the end of the first section of this volume. It is highly quotable and spells out the raison d'etre of the work as a whole:
"....But at the very instant when the mouthful of tea mixed with cake crumbs touched my palate, I quivered, attentive to the extraordinary thing that was happening inside me. A delicious pleasure had invaded me, isolated me, without my having any notion as to its cause. It had immediately rendered the vicissitudes of life unimportant to me, its disasters innocuous, its brevity illusory, acting in the same way that love acts, by filling me with a precious essence: or rather this essence was not merely inside me, it was me. I had ceased to feel mediocre, contingent, mortal. Where could it have come to me from--this powerful joy? I sensed that it was connected to the taste of the tea and the cake, but that it went infinitely far beyond it, could not be of the same nature. Where did it come from? What did it mean? How could I grasp it? I drink a second mouthful, in which I find nothing more than in the first, a third that gives me a little less than the second. It is time for me to stop, the virtue of the drink seems to be diminishing. Clearly, the truth I am seeking is not in the drink, but in me. The drink has awoken it in me, but does not know this truth, and can do more than repeat indefinitely, with less and less force, this same testimony which I do not know how to interpret and which I want at least to be able to ask of it again and find again, intact, available to me, soon, for a decisive clarification...." (45)
Friday, June 26, 2009
The Hurt Locker - Dir. Katheryn Bigelow
It's been more than six years since I've been invited to experience any part of a film festival, but a week ago I had the pleasure of attending a few events in Nantucket as part of their 8th annual bash. I was not extremely active--I saw one film, and went to two events which included lots of free booze and hors d'oeuvres. I saw several celebrities and famous personalities act contrary to my prior conceptions. But it would be tedious to get into that discussion--I will only note that Brian Williams should quit his news anchor gig and become a stand-up comedian and a more than part-time indie rock blogger.
I do want to mention The Hurt Locker, the only movie I saw, almost exactly one week ago today from this post. It is directed by Katheryn Bigelow. I have never seen a movie by her before, though a few are mildly famous (Point Break, K-19: The Widowmaker), and now I will finally get around to seeing Strange Days. I did have the opportunity to tell her and I regret not doing so, but if I could go back a week in time, I would say to her: Strange Days had the coolest trailer I have ever seen in my life--the teaser trailer, that is, the one I saw in 1995. I haven't forgotten it, and I've watched it now, and I will post my first ever link to youtube on this blog in case you are interested, but I will just say, it made me want to be the person who edits trailers:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0zaqWQiXG8
Too bad I'm not so cool that I can post the actual picture of that video in the text.
Anyways, The Hurt Locker is more of an indie film than some of Bigelow's previous ventures, and I would give it three, or three and a half stars (three and a quarter) if I had to rate it. It's very long, and I fell asleep during it for about three or four minutes, but that's no reflection upon its overall quality.
I'll be honest--I haven't seen every movie about the current (over yet?) stint in Iraq--in fact, I haven't seen more than a couple of them--no Redacted, no Stop-Loss, no The Kingdom, no In the Valley of Elah (which was co-written by the screenwriter of this film), no The Lucky Ones--but I have seen Three Kings and I would say that this film does not quite measure up to that one--but that's a different war--bad joke, but I am trying to give a sense of relative greatness.
I would still venture the guess that The Hurt Locker trades less in overtly leftist prosyletization than its predecessors and is probably the best film about the nouveau war in Iraq. It is about the people that defuse bombs. And that is pretty much all it is about. When I read that description, I wasn't all that excited about it--I was more interested in seeing Cold Souls, or Serious Moonlight, or even Beeswax--but I am glad I saw this instead. The scenes of "bomb-teching," or whatever, are expertly directed, chilling in their realism, and are definitely one of the more original approaches to the "action sequence" that I have ever seen (in a way that Speed or Die Hard with a Vengeance turn these moments into blockbuster popcorn fare, The Hurt Locker is content to stay totally ordinary and mundane--the less stuff that blows up, the better--and the audience becomes more involved as a result).
The Transformers sequel just opened and is making more money than practically everything before it, but it has gotten some brutal reviews. The Hurt Locker is opening today and will probably be forgotten, languishing on DVD or random cable stations. Whatever the medium, I recommend you find a couple extra hours and experience this film. I don't think you will regret it. At the very least, this film should be Jeremy Renner's breakout performance. At best, you will leave shaken and with a new-found respect for those that give their lives for this country. It might even work well as a military recruitment video. If you are young and thinking about going out for service, this would be a good film to see, which is more than I could say for the others.
I do want to mention The Hurt Locker, the only movie I saw, almost exactly one week ago today from this post. It is directed by Katheryn Bigelow. I have never seen a movie by her before, though a few are mildly famous (Point Break, K-19: The Widowmaker), and now I will finally get around to seeing Strange Days. I did have the opportunity to tell her and I regret not doing so, but if I could go back a week in time, I would say to her: Strange Days had the coolest trailer I have ever seen in my life--the teaser trailer, that is, the one I saw in 1995. I haven't forgotten it, and I've watched it now, and I will post my first ever link to youtube on this blog in case you are interested, but I will just say, it made me want to be the person who edits trailers:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0zaqWQiXG8
Too bad I'm not so cool that I can post the actual picture of that video in the text.
Anyways, The Hurt Locker is more of an indie film than some of Bigelow's previous ventures, and I would give it three, or three and a half stars (three and a quarter) if I had to rate it. It's very long, and I fell asleep during it for about three or four minutes, but that's no reflection upon its overall quality.
I'll be honest--I haven't seen every movie about the current (over yet?) stint in Iraq--in fact, I haven't seen more than a couple of them--no Redacted, no Stop-Loss, no The Kingdom, no In the Valley of Elah (which was co-written by the screenwriter of this film), no The Lucky Ones--but I have seen Three Kings and I would say that this film does not quite measure up to that one--but that's a different war--bad joke, but I am trying to give a sense of relative greatness.
I would still venture the guess that The Hurt Locker trades less in overtly leftist prosyletization than its predecessors and is probably the best film about the nouveau war in Iraq. It is about the people that defuse bombs. And that is pretty much all it is about. When I read that description, I wasn't all that excited about it--I was more interested in seeing Cold Souls, or Serious Moonlight, or even Beeswax--but I am glad I saw this instead. The scenes of "bomb-teching," or whatever, are expertly directed, chilling in their realism, and are definitely one of the more original approaches to the "action sequence" that I have ever seen (in a way that Speed or Die Hard with a Vengeance turn these moments into blockbuster popcorn fare, The Hurt Locker is content to stay totally ordinary and mundane--the less stuff that blows up, the better--and the audience becomes more involved as a result).
The Transformers sequel just opened and is making more money than practically everything before it, but it has gotten some brutal reviews. The Hurt Locker is opening today and will probably be forgotten, languishing on DVD or random cable stations. Whatever the medium, I recommend you find a couple extra hours and experience this film. I don't think you will regret it. At the very least, this film should be Jeremy Renner's breakout performance. At best, you will leave shaken and with a new-found respect for those that give their lives for this country. It might even work well as a military recruitment video. If you are young and thinking about going out for service, this would be a good film to see, which is more than I could say for the others.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Pygmy- Chuck Palahniuk (incomplete)
Happy 100 posts day! It's unfortunate that it must be so slight a review this time, but I could not fail to report about what happened with Pygmy, Chuck Palahniuk's most recent novel.
As some of you may be aware I have reviewed all of this author's books on this blog, owing the obsession to a bit of film rights success envy. Along with Bret Easton Ellis (and perhaps Cormac McCarthy, we might say) Palahniuk seems to attract filmmakers with his work at an above-average rate. I've liked a lot of Palahniuk's books (Choke is a much better book than film, and Rant is very original and may be made into a movie soon), but I could not get past the second chapter of Pygmy. Faced with carrying it around with me for two weeks and seeing what happened, or trying to take on Proust instead, this book went back into the return bin.
What's the problem with it? It's quite simple really. I feel like this is the true literary equivalent to Eli Cash's novel Wildcat, to those that have seen The Royal Tenenbaums. In the scene in that movie, the Charlie Rose-type journalist asks the author, "Wildcat. Not a success. Can you explain why?" And Owen Wilson replies, "Wildcat. It was written in an obscure vernacular. Wow, Wildcat. Pttcchhoowww. I gotta go." Now, in interviews, Palahniuk has been enthusiastic about the dialect that this novel is written in, and has said that it was kind of like writing poetry. And once one does read it for a while (I read it for about 30 pages), it is possible to get into a rhythm where it is more understandable.
While the 2nd chapter may be "hardcore," or whatever, it's hardly believable, and the satire is so extreme that it becomes almost total nonsense, and while I am sure there is a serious moral debate taking place under metaphorical auspices, it wasn't worth the effort for me. It's almost just like somebody was on a ton of drugs and decided to write the most fucked up thing they could think of and coat it in this dense verbiage of broken English -- that's what the first 3 chapters read like to me. There apparently is a fully realized story here--some young kid from the Middle East is passing himself off as an exchange student but is really part of a network of terrorists, and apparently he protects the boy in the family he is staying with in unlikely ways (say, by raping the bully that picks on him in the ass) and it seems predictable that he is falling in love with the girl in the family.
Sadly, the vernacular got to me, and the story struck me as being far too over the top for me to feel like I would get something out of this book. Perhaps this is a long overdue reaction about anti-American sentiment post 9/11, and while maybe later Palahniuk does some amazing things, the text just simply did not engage me. It challenged me, and frustrated me, and I do not feel it rewarded me for understanding what was happening, because it seemed like what was happening was just, I don't know, over my head. When somebody comes up to me and tells me that Pygmy is worth the effort, maybe I'll return to it. But until then, I will just say, better luck next time to Chuck. And I apologize for offering an incomplete review. If someone paid me to do this, I would have read the next two hundred pages.
As some of you may be aware I have reviewed all of this author's books on this blog, owing the obsession to a bit of film rights success envy. Along with Bret Easton Ellis (and perhaps Cormac McCarthy, we might say) Palahniuk seems to attract filmmakers with his work at an above-average rate. I've liked a lot of Palahniuk's books (Choke is a much better book than film, and Rant is very original and may be made into a movie soon), but I could not get past the second chapter of Pygmy. Faced with carrying it around with me for two weeks and seeing what happened, or trying to take on Proust instead, this book went back into the return bin.
What's the problem with it? It's quite simple really. I feel like this is the true literary equivalent to Eli Cash's novel Wildcat, to those that have seen The Royal Tenenbaums. In the scene in that movie, the Charlie Rose-type journalist asks the author, "Wildcat. Not a success. Can you explain why?" And Owen Wilson replies, "Wildcat. It was written in an obscure vernacular. Wow, Wildcat. Pttcchhoowww. I gotta go." Now, in interviews, Palahniuk has been enthusiastic about the dialect that this novel is written in, and has said that it was kind of like writing poetry. And once one does read it for a while (I read it for about 30 pages), it is possible to get into a rhythm where it is more understandable.
While the 2nd chapter may be "hardcore," or whatever, it's hardly believable, and the satire is so extreme that it becomes almost total nonsense, and while I am sure there is a serious moral debate taking place under metaphorical auspices, it wasn't worth the effort for me. It's almost just like somebody was on a ton of drugs and decided to write the most fucked up thing they could think of and coat it in this dense verbiage of broken English -- that's what the first 3 chapters read like to me. There apparently is a fully realized story here--some young kid from the Middle East is passing himself off as an exchange student but is really part of a network of terrorists, and apparently he protects the boy in the family he is staying with in unlikely ways (say, by raping the bully that picks on him in the ass) and it seems predictable that he is falling in love with the girl in the family.
Sadly, the vernacular got to me, and the story struck me as being far too over the top for me to feel like I would get something out of this book. Perhaps this is a long overdue reaction about anti-American sentiment post 9/11, and while maybe later Palahniuk does some amazing things, the text just simply did not engage me. It challenged me, and frustrated me, and I do not feel it rewarded me for understanding what was happening, because it seemed like what was happening was just, I don't know, over my head. When somebody comes up to me and tells me that Pygmy is worth the effort, maybe I'll return to it. But until then, I will just say, better luck next time to Chuck. And I apologize for offering an incomplete review. If someone paid me to do this, I would have read the next two hundred pages.
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