On Kerry winning the Iowa Caucus, I have only this to say.
1992 RESULTS:
Harkin 76.4%
Tsongas 4.1%
Clinton 2.8%
Kerrey 2.4%
Brown 1.6%
1988 RESULTS:
Gephardt 31.3%
Simon 26.7%
Dukakis 22.2%
Jackson 8.8%
Babbitt 6.1%
Hart 0.3%
Gore 0.1%
Iowa means nothing. The eventual Democratic front-runners placed third in both caucuses. And so did Dean this year. Really, this could go anywhere.
There are numerous spelling mistakes on these pages — all of them inexcusable, all of them correctable. Just not now. Because time to care for an outside project does not exist in a workplace environment. For those who have been sullied, and the frequency is apparently substantial, not quite as bad as that Knowles guy, but still enough for some of you to plot my demise, the management apologizes. Just be grateful this wasn’t put into print, the way McSweeney’s books are with slipshod proofing. This is what happens when you type at a rapid rate, generally trying to get something off before being disrupted by something else, and all this without a single revision. Several small children will die because of these mistakes. I am prepared to stand trial in a bulletproof chamber for my sins against humanity.
Stephen Hawking is under round-the-clock suveillance. Apparently, his family fears that someone is planning to sabotage the stuff that keeps Hawking alive.
John Barth writes about university readings. (via Maud)
Just after Fahrenheit 451 was selected for an “Everyone Reads” library program, Ray Bradbury says that “the people have lost control” and that “bigger and stupider” entertainment has deadened intellectual curiosity.
The National Book Critics Circle Awards have been announced. The big surprises: Richard Powers’ The Time of Our Singing and William T. Vollman’s Rising Up and Rising Down. Both are very long books (and in Vollman’s case, we’re talking seven volumes). How many critics honestly read all of the nominees?
And Jack Kerouac’s On the Road manuscript, composed on an endless sheet of paper, is touring the States for the next three years. (via Moorish Girl)
Book news is going to be slight the next week. Or not. Or somewhere in between. I mention this for people who come to this site for this reason.
For all those stomping their boots on the shag, you can thank Eddie Mueller for this. Mueller’s the man behind Noir City, a local film festival dedicated to the greatest cinematic genre that humanity may have produced: film noir.
A few words on noir, and why I love it, and why I am devoting a sizable chunk of my spare time covering it: noir takes no prisoners. It profiles people who are down on their luck, people who I’ve always been able to relate to better than those flawless paragons of virtue we’ve become so accustomed to in film. You won’t find Tom Cruise or Jennifer Lopez here, no sir. We’re talking gravel-voiced thugs like Lawrence Tierney or endearing sycophants like Elisha Cook, Jr. or ladies who have what it takes like Barbara Stanwyck. These people are ugly and they will screw you over in a New York minute. Some of them are overweight, or ugly, or downright frightening like Richard Widmark in Kiss of Death or Ann Savage in Detour. Noir has guts, whatever its trappings (and they can get quite melodramatic indeed). Only in noir will you have Widmark push a handicapped person ruthlessly down the stairs and think nothing of it. Only in noir will people make significant life choices based off of lust, or the big score, or some problematic decision that sensible people avoid, or not. Only in noir will you have ordinary people fuck up and face the consequences of their actions in a timely way. People with more problems than you could ever hope to accumulate in a single day.
And this is why it is all compelling. Film noir has more twists and turns than your typical Hollywood movie. It relies upon action, yes, but also character. It profiles working people or characters trying to operate under desperate conditions, or people hoping to escape something they can’t avoid. Often, the photography and the acting is fantastic. Since the budgets for many of these films were so miniscule, the filmmakers behind these magnificent films were forced to find creative solutions. And so we get Joseph Losey’s remarkable Gun Crazy, in which a man is trumped by a woman who can shoot better than he can, and the competitive battle between the sexes is waived by ability. The common misconception about noir is that women are either scheming femme fatales or plain Janes who go along for the ride. As if to combat this, Mueller has programmed a festival in which women are more prominent — specifically, dwelling upon female characters who are extraordinary in their own right.
Because of other commitments, I missed out on the first three days of the festival. And, besides, Mueller was showing films I had seen dozens of times. But, today, I got around to seeing two. As the festival continues, I hope to chronicle the little-seen gems that have been laid down and offer my thoughts as time carries on.
Tomorrow is Another Day (1951): The arc of this film is Steve Cochran. Film snobs might know Cochran as the man who wandered around Italy in Il Grido, who holed up at a gas station for a while, but who ultimately succombed to the standard Antonioni malaise. Here, Cochran plays a guy right out of prison. The reasons behind his imprisonment are abstract, but the gist is that he ended up in the joint at thirteen. Eighteen years later, he’s out. And the warden is lecturing him about the hopeless life he’s doomed to live. But Cochran will have none of this. As he says to the warden, “You’re on my time now.”
Since Cochran has spent most of his formative years in prison, he’s playing catchup. And this is where the film (and Cochran’s performance) succeeds. Cochran conveys this with incredible desperation. You can see it in his eyes. Cochran’s so good that we see the remnants of 13-year-old Cochran at every turn. And Felix E. Feist is a skillful enough director to permit Cochran to act solely with his back during one later scene in the film. But early on, Cochran’s hoping he can get laid, or at least adapt to this newfound life. He’s lonely. He’s perplexed by the features of the convertible. And he’s so relieved to be out of the tombs that he orders three different slices of pie, befudding the denizens of a local diner.
He gets into a scuffle with a journalist, who capitalizes upon Cochran’s recent release, and, to avoid the effects of subsequent opportunism, he ends up in New York, where he meets Ruth Roman at a dime-dancing hall. Basically, the way a dime-dancing hall works is this: you buy a series of tickets and each ticket gets you a minute dancing with a lady. After a minute, a loud buzzing sound emanates. And the lonely male is then forced to either tear off another ticket to dance for another minute, or buy another one. This is, to say the least, a disturbing concept, but apparently a legitimate one in the fifties. Anyway, Cochran is so fixated upon Roman that he follows her home and somehow convinces her to show him New York. But the two of them end up getting involved in a manslaughter self-defense deal, in which Cochran doesn’t really know the facts because he’s so disturbed by holding a gun in his hand again after so long. There’s a spectacular scene involving the unlikely duo sneaking into one of those trucks that carries multiple cars.
The two escape this predicament. And the film deals with the blossoming relationship between Cochran and Roman, which is carried out within a Grapes of Wrath aesthetic. But Cochran is a bit paranoid, given the earlier rumble. And Roman is doing her best to convince Cochran that all is okay. But she’s not your standard nuturer stereotype. Because she’s willing to tell Cochran that his paranoia is getting in the way of his rehabilitation. Indeed, we eventually learn that she’s willing to do anything necessary to keep Cochran in check. The two of them work well with each other.
But I’ll say no more, except that this film really had me floored. I was fascinated with the photography, with its low angles and daring panoramas through windows in the migrant trailer park. I was completely entranced by the characters. While the film felt the need to compensate with some over-the-top narrative components towards the end, Tomorrow‘s success was steeped in its ambitious explorations into rehabilitation, and how humanity at large takes for granted the efforts of recently released prisoners to commingle the real world with the imprisoned one.
The Postman Always Rings Twice (1946): I’ll confess right now that, dated notions of gender roles or no, James M. Cain’s novel is one of the finest examples of to-the-point prose I know. I’ve read the novel four times. I’ll also admit that, despite having seen nearly every other Cain film adaptation (including Mildred Pierce, Double Indemnity, Wife, Husband and Friend and the disappointing Serenade), the 1946 Tay Garnett version eluded me. I had seen the Mamet-Rafelson version of 1981 and was, quite frankly, disappointed. Mamet had taken great care to captue the spirit of the novel. But I’d like to think that what worked in the novel was meant to be confined to the novel. For whatever reason, Cain’s prose couldn’t quite make the cut. And certainly, in 1946, the subject matter was verboten, given the cinematic limitations involving primal lust.
Needless to say, aside from Hume Cronyn’s amusing portrayal of attorney Arthur Keats (“I can handle it”), I was disappointed. John Garfield, for one, was too clean-cut and all-American to be that scuzzy guy from the streets so glorified in Cain’s novel. It was as if Tom Hanks was called upon to be the guy who had hopped around on trains. You couldn’t believe him. Instinctively, I could not trust him. It didn’t help that Garfield’s facial expressions were limited to a slight facial tic on his right side and an otherwise blank expression (with endless cutaways during a courtroom scene). Of Lana Turner, little can be said, except that drag queens have plenty of deliberate artifices to pilfer from. Turner was so unconvincing as Cora (not Greek at all here; Papadakis has been diluted to Smith), that I couldn’t imagine any heterosexual male finding anything worthwhile to be attracted to. Her Cora has been dumbed down from the Cora we know in the book. It doesn’t help that anytime Turner and Garfield kiss, the orchestra rises. And we’re left an auditory clue signaling indecent couplings.
The highway dive looks and feels like a soundstage. There wasn’t a whit of dirt or grime, and you couldn’t see dirty dishes. I have to say that, for all of its flaws, I prefer the 1981 version. But even that is not enough. Cain, it would seem, works best on the page. Garnett would go on to direct episodes of Wagon Train and Rawhide. Screenwriter Niven Busch would write the silly Jennifer Jones vehicle Duel in the Sun. Really, you’re better off with Double Indemnity. But then Wilder and Chandler were smart enough to understand what made Cain stick on the screen.
BALTIMORE (AP) — Blogger Elizabeth Skurnick, better known to the world as the Old Hag, shocked the blogosphere on Monday when she revealed herself to be much smarter, cuter, and wittier than her readers expected. Since her surprise announcement, she has received three dozen marriage proposals and several emails from men begging her to kiss their hands, annoint them with holy water, and send them underwear. In one notable case, a mariachi band was sent out to belt out continuous praise on Ms. Skurnick’s doorstep. Ms. Skurnick was forced to reluctantly call the police. In yet another extraordinary incident, one man asked to be whipped continuously over a 24 hour period.
Ms. Skurnick, who had previously kept up a quasi-anonymous profile on the Net, claims to be as perplexed as anyone by the sudden attention. “Just a bunch of crazy motherfuckers, really,” she said. “I mean, all I did was write a review for The New York Times, and suddenly everybody wants to be my love slave.”
A few bloggers who had previously corresponded with Ms. Skurnick have suddenly stopped sending her emails. Learning of her Yale and John Hopkins background, one blogger, who preferred to remain anonymous when speaking to this reporter, deleted all his posts. “I can’t compete with the Hag’s fine words. I mean, the lady uses ‘fuck’ in ways I’ve never considered.”
Ms. Skurnick’s decision has not been without controversy. “It’s tacky and in bad taste,” said Jessa Crispin, who maintains the Bookslut blog. “I mean, I’ve been blogging about books a lot longer than she has. And I’ve had Austin Chronicle writers stalking me. Kenan has had to kick a few asses, but we’ve kept this on the q.t. You’d think Lizzie would have the decency to do the same.”
Sarah Weinman, who maintains a blog called Confessions of an Idiosynchratic Mind, had planned to reveal more about herself later this year, but feared that she didn’t have the same credentials that Ms. Skurnick did. “Let’s face it. Lizzie’s brighter than the rest of us. But I’m not bothered by it,” said Ms. Weinman. “I still trump her in the mystery department.”
“A little revealing does everyone some good,” said Terry Teachout. Teachout, author of The Skeptic and compulsive blogger of About Last Night, isn’t concerned with the attention. He reports that he’s pretty busy with a girl from Chicago.
“What the hell do I know?” said Cup of Chica. “I just got back home!”
“She should just get married,” said Maud Newton. “I did, and I’ve never had to worry about groupies.”
Even so, this hasn’t stopped Choire Sicha, editor of Gawker, from sending Ms. Skurnick a dozen roses every hour, on the hour, since the announcement.
“I sympathize,” says Elegant Variation‘s Mark Sarvas. “If I wasn’t a married man, I’d be drooling over Lizzie like the rest of them.”
Unfortunately, Ms. Skurnick is already smitten with a man whom she refers to only as “BOOG” (an acronym for “Boyfriend of Old Hag”). Attempts to uncover the BOOG’s real identiy have not yielded any fruit. However, a source has informed this reporter that Ms. Skurnick has hired several security guards to deflect potential stalkers. Along with the marriage proposals have come very specific death threats against the BOOG. The language and the specific nature of the intentions have alarmed Ms. Skurnick. “If you thought the Margaret Cho hate mail was bad,” said Skurnick, “try being queen for a day.”
“I don’t understand why she doesn’t just remain anonymous,” said TMFTML, an anonymous blogger who was recently nominated for Best New York Blog by New York Magazine. “Keep the lid on and you can blog in relative peace.”
A Muslim cleric in India has offered a sizable reward to anyone who blackens the face of the exiled author Taslima Nasreen. The cleric reportedly has “seen The Jazz Singer too many times.”
Walter Mosley is interviewed about film adaptations.
Kenneth Pollack cannot deal with being wrong. So opines The Arizona Republic, of all outlets. I’d just like to say that I’m wrong on a regular basis, and that you might be too. But then you and I aren’t war hawks whose books and essays read like Rod Steiger on crystal meth.
Virgil Cross has published his first book. He’s also 97, making him the oldest literary debut in U.S. history.
The British government has abandoned its “dumbed down” Shakespeare test. The examination was criticized for being too easy. One sample question: “Who wrote Twelth Night? A. William Shakespeare. B. Zoe Trope. C. 50 Cent. D. Billy Barty.”
Bill Clinton on self-deprecating humor.
This is perhaps the best review I’ve ever read in the New York Times. So What Do You Do, Laura Miller? That I’d like to see.
Nearing thirty, the body has incurred a modest gorbelly. This hasn’t gone unnoticed by the mind. Under current federal health standards, the body is teetering on the edge of “overweight.” Such was the case several months ago, and such is the case now.
The mind has reacted to this development with predictable results: utter panic. While the waistline has remained stable over the past two years, a strange form of guilt occupies the mind, a tough-talking drill instructor (generally applied to writing on a daily basis) often vetoed by fuck-it sentiments and other well-intentioned impulses of acceptance. But the conundrum remains. The mind, in some small way, has been seduced by the Western image models: the svelte, good-looking types capable of contorting their abdominal muscles much like a belly dancer. Or so the mind opines. The mind notes that Edward Norton looks damn silly with the developed chest. There’s also the receding hairline, but that’s another can of worms.
Clearly, much of the mind’s concerns involve a magical realism that the mind finds detestable at large. At the same time, if the abdominal muscles were tightened, then perhaps there wouldn’t be so much of a problem.
The potential, seen in John Stone’s fascinating and frightening animated documentations, has caused the mind to ponder a daily workout. The mind would like the body to lose weight, but does not want the body to resemble California’s current governor. The body, it should be noted, tries to walk to destinations whenever possible. It goes out of its way to avoid saturated fat, but a Brutus complex exists when the body’s visual unit spots bread and cheese. Both are foods to which the body is addicted. Both are bad for it, natch. Catch-22.
There are several possibilities: (1) The body can forego the cheese and the bread (and as a corollary, beer), though this would make for a life that reflects the Puritanical nature of the current political clime, and that seems counter to the mind’s contrarian instincts. (2) The body can exercise more, which would involve a lot of pain that the body would have to become accustomed to and would have the mind transmuting into an austere, nagging natterer to the body. (3) The mind can try out one of the many kooky exercise alternatives propounded by other unique minds. (4) Some combination of these points.
Regardless of these items, there remains the larger concern of where the body is heading. The mind is quite lovely, thank you very much. It is happy. It develops at an acceptable pace, commendable given the day job and the increased reading and writing and socializing. But the body has an altogether different concern. If weight has been gained, does it stand to reason that more weight will be gained? If so, then the question of how the body fights the onset of fat is one of great importance. When the mind considers the body’s receding hairline, there are two projected body types that the mind sees at the age of 40 or so. The mind, well aware of the sex appeal of Sean Connery and Patrick Stewart, recalling the sparks that attracted Billy Bob Thornton and Angelina Jolie, has no problem with the body’s head going bald and will not wear a toupee or toy with hair extensions. But should the body allow itself to go, the body runs the risk of transforming into a Jon Polito or Allen Garfield type. This may work wonders at an Elks Lodge meeting, where such body types run rampant, but then the mind does not anticipate the body wandering into congregations of this nature.
It should also be noted that a fellow mind and body unit (hereinafter referred to as “M&B(Friend)”) suggested to the mind and body (hereinafter referred to as “M&B(Prime)”) in his early twenties that there would come a time where desirable mind and body units (hereinafter referred to as “M&B(Potential S.O.)”) would start noticing M&B(Prime)’s redeeming qualities. M&B(Friend) indicated that this would happen unexpectedly. And he was right. After what seemed an existential tundra of false alarms and failures and misunderstandings, M&B(Prime) has charmed a few M&B(Potential S.O.)s of late, flirting, engaging them in dialogues in which M&B(Prime) is able to bluff his way through thoughtful conversations with greater success than before, and is having a good time. Other M&B(Friend)s have suggested that M&B(Prime) is developing concerns that are unwarranted and unnecessary, and that the body is not nearly the portly carapace that the mind has framed it as. The gist is that the body is, while not the hottest stuff, pretty darn nifty when considered with the mind.
Nevertheless, there is the larger issue of the body’s potential corpulence, which can be expressed as follows:
Body(Corpulence)(Current) + Corpulence(Additional) = Body(Coruplence)(Redoubled)
Body(Corpulence)(Redoubled) = Mind(Panicked)
Mind(Panicked) = B&M(Prime)(Stressed Over Silly Reasons)
The mind, as has been suggested above, has wondered why this should matter so much. But then the mind sometimes jumps to conclusions.
At this point, B&M(Prime) likes who he is. But it is with these projected concerns that B&M(Prime) plans on joining a gym next month, possibly to run on a regular basis, if only to negate silly stress levels(potential).
Even so, the mind wonders if these things are overkill. An Abs of Steel DVD would look silly next to his Criterion Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie. Nevertheless, knowledge is always welcome.
[EDITOR’S NOTE: Miguel Cohen has returned. He confesses that he was mistaken about the mad cow disease. All he was suffering from was a bad hangover.]
So let me get this straight, David. You have no problem when an investment firm loses property, but when it comes to images of the Robinsons sobbing under the shadow of a white picket fence, your heart bleeds? Who do you think you are? Some sort of hippie?
It’s not really about people at all, is it, David? It’s about your own personal prioritizing. Family over the individual, people over the investment firm. The individual who dares to live alone doesn’t gnaw at your conscience. Through lack of success (though not without effort) or out of choice, the individual who can’t get laid or find a soulmate and dares to own a home gets your goat. But the family — oh, I can see that tugs at your heartstrings. The greater the numbers (i.e., family unit of three or more over one individual), the more likely you will respond to entities getting screwed over in a deal.
What I don’t think you realize that we have afforded so many rights to partnerships and corporations that they have practically the same unalienable rights as the individual. They become families in their own way. Hypothetically, an “individual” entity can hook up with another entity at a bar and form a partnership. The paperwork and process is just that simple.
While an investment firm’s goal is to buy residential property and rent it out to people — sometimes roasting the renter alive, sometimes not — the overall purpose is to make money. Likewise, any “individual” or “family” is pining for the same. Buy low, sell high. Let the property value accumulate over the years. And then let out a husky laugh in your autumn years when you’re fat, bloated, wrinkled, and rolling naked in a bed of bills. The American Dream in a nutshell.
But what is the family but a closet corporation? A family may not get the same tax breaks as the richest 1%. Nonetheless, a case could be made that the current tax system is prejudicial against single people (and in fact many libertarians living in gated communities have made these arguments). If you look at the family as a business partnership, if you modify the language in a wedding announcement from “Mary Jane Wilson and Henry Stillman were married” to “Mary Jane Wilson and Henry Stillman announced their creative partnership,” does this help your conscience?
I worked my way through a prestigious university but, because of economic circumstances, never graduated, something that still leaves me ashamed. When colleagues ask, ”When did you graduate?” I often answer, ”I finished in 19xx,” creating the impression that I graduated. I don’t have to disclose my every failure, but I regret being deceptive. Should I make it clear that I did not graduate from Prestigious U.? D.A., REDWOOD CITY, CALIF.
First off, D.A., why even answer the question at all? If your colleagues truly respect you, and you’re sleeping with them, then they’ll respect you for who you are in the morning. If you’re not sleeping with them, then they’ll sniff your identity out, which is basically a needlessly diffident dude who can’t offer precise answers to the simplest questions. Your colleagues are hearing this “I finished” racket and, if they are smart, they are probably seeing a not so skillful toe-tapper.
If it means so much to you, then why not go back and get the degree? Better yet, if you feel it’s too late in life for you to do this, then join the ranks of great humans who never set foot in a college: George Bernard Shaw, William Shakespeare, G.K. Chesterton, too many to list.
audio post powered by audblog
Taking a cue from Hilary Clinton, Cherie Blair is set to write a memoir. In an effort to upstage Hilary’s infamous response-to-Monica in Living History and spawn sales, Blair will depict husband Tony as “a wild stallion who isn’t bad in bed, I’ll have you know. You should see the way he undulates.” Unfortunately, the memoir won’t attempt to explain why Tony Blair transforms into a lapdog whenever he visits Kennebunkport.
Something to ponder over on Monday, unless you’re an Evan Machem fan: A new study reports that schools are almost as segregated today as they were back in 1969. A new study by the Harvard Civil Rights Project reports that the percentage of blacks attending predominantly white schools has fallen to 30%.
An article from Gould’s Book of Fish author Richard Flanagan has helped to spawn a letter writing campaign to save the Tasmanian forests.
Sad news for anyone who’s ever collected twelve inches. The CD single’s to be phased out in three years. The hunt for quirky tracks and strange mixes will go the way of the dodo. Or possibly Dido.
“Security. Does wonders for the mind.”
He set down his bottle, which he paid with a twenty.
“Really?” I asked. “How so?”
“Well, for starters, there’s the discipline.”
“Discipline?”
“Yeah. Ain’t no job try your patience. I be doing this seven years.”
“What do you do on the job?”
“Stand round, lookin’ wise. Not much trouble. See, they hires us ’cause they thinks they got something. But they don’t. Nothing important. Nothing I see. Nothing no one, no man steal. Know what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah.”
“Just ’bout any one get this kinda work. Show up. Stick around, few weeks they make you supervisor. All in the attitude.”
He collected his change.
“And this is good for the mind?”
“Oh yeah. Real good. Keepin’ it real. Keeps you tight.”
“Doesn’t it get boring?”
“Sometimes. Yeah. But it’s good for the mind, wonders, see. I see most folks cut out quick. Real quick. They the ones got small minds. The real ones hang in. Damn easy. If the mind keeps going, shit, you get supervisor pay. Twelve dollars an hour.”
“So your mind’s in this for the money.”
“Hell yeah. Who ain’t? Gets me cab fare sometimes. Some folks don’t know pay when they hang in there.”
TV Shows on DVD reports that The New Twilight Zone (the edgy 1985 version, not its recent incarnation) may be hitting DVD in July 2004. I’ve contacted Image Entertainment. Nick, in the Public Relations department, says that he’s “heard about this.” But it remains unconfirmed. I’ve left a voicemail with Cindy Barrow, the attorney who handles the legal contracts, to see if I can get confirmation on this. If I hear anything back from her, I will report it here.
Clive Cussler has sued a production company over an unauthorized script. My hope is that he wins. Not because of the suit’s merits (or lack thereof), mind you, but a quiet $10 million payoff may stop Cussler from writing novels. That would be a truly philanthropic act.
More on Rushdie. He’s got a movie deal lined up. The Firebird’s Nest is a romance between an older man and a younger gal (even starring Rushdie’s girlfriend, a younger gal), but this is not — repeat, not — based on Rushdie’s life. (via Bookslut)
Ken Kesey’s 1967 jail journal will be published. It includes “two dozen color plates of collages Kesey made from ink drawings entwined with his handwritten reflections laid down in notebooks smuggled out by a buddy who got busted with him.”
The Elegant Variation demolishes the 2 Blowhards’ movie/book people argument (in fine satirical form, natch): “By the way, do you notice that (at least based on the movie people we know), he hasn?t really described your average movie person, but rather your average video store geek? And I?m willing to bet that if he?d been seated beside Tarantino at a dinner party before he?d made it big, he?d have found him an annoying little pest.”
Nell Freudenberger has compelling words of wisdom: “But then, ignorance is no excuse. It?s obvious to me now that you can do a terrible thing by accident.” Yes indeed. There are lots of things you can do by accident. Such as turning in a silly Yank-centric piece to Granta without so much as a major observation on Laotian culture, history or behavior. The essay, ironically enough, is part of Granta‘s “Over There: How Americans See the World” theme. But I’ll take J. Robert Lennon’s goofy piece over Freudenberger’s any day. Paula Fox has a essay up too, but you’ll have to pony up the clamshells for the hard copy.
And Rachel Greenwald believes that you can snag a husband with a push-up bra. But she fails to account for the fact that some men (myself included) assess the goods (if they can be called that or given a pronoun) naked and in private, conditions when said boobies are unhindered by faux, painful support, and that boobies, while spiffy, are a fringe benefit, rather than the chief draw. (via Sarah)
Olivia Goldsmith has passed away. And I’m angry. This did not have to happen. Goldsmith was only 54. Fifty-four. One of the first female partners at Booz Allen Hamilton. And then a not-too-shabby fiction career. But the circumstances of her death were this: she was about to undergo plastic surgery. But she felt (or was it her editors or her agent?) that she had to live up to some pinnacle of perfection. She needed a flawless face, a mug devoid of wrinkles for the photographers, an image devoid of any signs that, hey, she was 54. The great irony was that she had skewered this kind of thinking in her novel, The First Wives Club. But to hell with the merits of her writing, to hell with the fact that she had no problem savaging mid-lifers in her books. No, the important thing was the plastic surgery. There was the real world and the world within her fiction. And for Goldsmith, the real world was far crueler.
Just as she was about to go under, she had a violent reaction to the anesthesia, which incapacitated her. And now she’s dead.
All because of an image, all because of a stinkin’ author photo, all because we still judge books by their back covers rather than their innards, and all because civilization cannot stop pestering, whether deliberately or subconsiously, the older, the fatter, the more wrinkled, the more infirm, the non-Caucasian, and anybody else who doesn’t fall into the harsh physical virtues dictated by Vanity Fair and People. Olivia Goldsmith’s death isn’t just a terribly premature end for a writer who was fun. It also shows that ideals have spiraled completely out of control. Or perhaps it just confirms them.
Goldsmith’s death did not have to happen. And yet it did. And the publishing industry, with concerns of gloss and glamour, won’t stop perpetuating these shameful conditions. It will continue defaulting to the purty lil gals (Nell Freudenberger) or the hot young things (Zoe Trope), rather than the magic of the offerings. This is nothing less than a goddam tragedy. Because we lose authors like Goldsmith in the process.
[UPDATE: There’s been some speculation on this entry. And I feel it’s important to clarify the following: (1) Lest the reader waltz into grassy knoll territory, I didn’t intend to suggest that the publishing industry was the smoking gun, but that there may be extant environmental factors within that contributed to Goldsmith’s decision — a decision, it should be noted, that she alone made. Goldsmith was an author who sold well. And, as such, she had a profile to maintain. Said factors can be seen on book covers that dwell upon anatomical merits over ability, responded to in high kitsch by Susan Orlean on the cover of The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup. These elements, which pressure women to look and remain young and beautiful, can be observed during a casual stroll in the Western world. (2) No one knows enough about Goldsmith’s motivations to make a final judgment call as to cause. This was idle speculation, but I’ll let it stand unmodified for the record.]
I’ve been very annoyed by the rise of first person plural. The use of “we” is an unfortunate component of McSweeney’s house style that shows no signs of waning. Several sharp, witty people use it — indeed, cannot refrain from stopping — and I shake my head in sorrow. Unless you’re a schizophrenic or you’re writing on behalf of a group of people (academics, a committee, or some giddy ensemble of lunatics), or you’re relaying an anecdote with another person in the room, there just isn’t a damn compelling reason to use “we” in place of “I.” “We” implies one of two possibilities: either that the reader and the writer are one (a legitimate use in small doses), or the writer is duking it out with several voices inside her head. But what sane mind can relate to the latter in a tete-a-tete?
“We” implies familiarity, but then it’s a bit like some server killing a good restaurant conversation by announcing, “So how we doing?” The server is likely hustling for tips, but in the worst possible way. The “we” label, accentuated by a perky smile that only digs the blade in deeper, is enough to transform highly rational people into near-barbarians. No one appreciates this stroke of familiarity before even so much as a “Hello,” but this doesn’t stop marketing zealots from communicating this way at conferences and seminars.
And yet the same concerns don’t apply on page.
Here’s the opening pargraph to James M. Cain’s The Postman Always Ring Twice — in my view, one of the finest examples of first-person clarity:
They threw me off the hay truck about noon. I had swung on the night before, down at the border, and as soon as I got up there under the canvas, I went to sleep. I needed plenty of that, after three weeks in Tia Juana, and I was still getting it when they pulled off to one side to let the engine cool. Then they saw a foot sticking out and threw me off. I tried some comical stuff, but all I got was a dead pan, so that gag was out. They gave me a cigarette, though, and I hiked down the road to find something to eat.
Great clean stuff, ain’t it? You’re immediately hooked into Frank’s world. You know that he’s a drifter, that he has some experience on the road, and that he’s rumbled a bit.
Now let’s see how the same passage plays out in first person plural:
They threw us off the hay truck about noon. We had swung on the night before, down at the border, and as soon as we got up there under the canvas, we went to sleep. We needed plenty of that, after three weeks in Tia Juana, and we were still getting it when they pulled off to one side to let the engine cool. Then they saw our feet sticking out and threw us off. We tried some comical stuff, but all we got was a dead pan, so that gag was out. They gave us a cigarette, though, and we hiked down the road to find something to eat.
Infuriating from the first sentence, no? It comes across as consummate bullshit, rather than the authenticity we saw in first person singular. From the get-go, the reader has nothing to relate to. Because the narrator feels the need to be a pushy wiseacre. The passage fails because the reader isn’t invited to become part of an adventure. He’s forced.
So I implore all people who use first person plural: Since when the hell are you Queen Fucking Victoria? I double-dare all columnists, writers, storytellers, hack journalists, essayists, bloggers and related parties to make the hard choice of sticking with first person singular. Resist the temptation the same way that you avoid telling a story in second person. The output will be clearer and more interesting. And readers will learn to love you more.
Move over, Madonna. James Carville’s entered the kid lit business. The tough-as-nails politico is co-authoring a picture book inspired by his mother Lucille. Early reports indicate that several children have fainted while reading the book. Editors are quietly encouraging Mr. Carville to tone down his prose.
Ursula K. Le Guin’s just nabbed a lifetime achievement award from the ALA. This is actually her fourth lifetime achievement award in the past three years, suggesting that either Le Guin has achieved enough for four lifetimes, or that there are four Ursula K. Le Guins running about.
Randy VanWarmer, singer of the Bread-like ballad “Just When I Needed You Most,” has passed away at 48.
Matthew Pearl lists ten books that have kept the spirit of Dante alive. Notably absent is the 1970s New Age bestseller, Getting in Touch with Your Inner Dante: Avoiding Infernos with Smiles and Sideburns.
Salon has an excerpt from Chalmers Johnson’s The Sorrows of Empire.
The Christian Science Monitor interviews Edith Grossman on the new Quixote translation: “The differences: modern technology, especially in communications, has changed the world drastically; in the industrialized world at least, the majority of people are literate. As a consequence, the oral tradition at Sancho’s disposal is becoming — or already may be — extinct.”
Elmore Leonard’s Rules of Writing (via Good Reports) And, in fact, here’s the complete “Writers on Writing” series (now compiled in a book), which includes Donald E. Westlake on psuedonyms, E.L. Doctorow on the effects of film upon lit, Louise Erdrich on language, Richard Ford on not writing, Ed McBain on mystery archetypes, and Kurt Vonnegut on writing classes (among many more).
Helen Oyeyemi signed a two-book deal for ?400,000 and didn’t tell her parents. She also forgot to take out the garbage. (via Maud)
The Handmaid’s Tale is being turned into an opera! (via Elegant Variation)
To Check Out Later: The Orange Word has an impressive of writer and screenwriter interviews archive up. (via Crooked Timber)
Pop Matters asks: Does South Africa have it in for Coetzee?
Sean Penn writes about his Iraq trip.
And Braun’s out.
Bad reviews? Shoddy placement? Nope. Bruce Stockler says the biggest obstacle to publicizing a book is obituaries
The University of Michigan has launched a 20,000 volume digital collection. It uses a system similar to Amazon’s Search Inside the Book feature (minus the page limitation) and you can search through the entire collection for a specific word or phrase. But, unfortunately, there isn’t an author search. Some of the gems I’ve found include Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s Rienzi, The Last of the Roman Tribunes (with such sterling prose as “Rienzi made no reply; he did not heed or hear him — dark and stern thoughts, thoughts in which were the germ of a mighty revolution, were at his heart.”), Seward Hilter’s Sex Ethics and the Kinsey Reports (“The females of the lower educational levels, Kinsey notes, had more often been afraid that masturbation would mean physical harm and also that it was abnormal and unnatural. We should note, however, that the women of the lower educational levels tend to marry at earlier ages, and that more of them might masturbate eventually if they postponed marriage to later ages.” Oh really?), the complete works of Coleridge, Guizot’s The History of Civilization, and some Thackeray.
De Niro and Scorsese are set to write a joint memoir. The director and star report that they have a unique writing approach. Before they begin each chapter, the two of them duke it out over who gets to sit in front of the computer. So far, Scorsese reports that he’s only lost one ear and three fingers.
Slightly old news, but the FBI reports to be on the lookout for almanac carriers. Anyone carrying an Information Please may very well be plotting terrorist activities, especially if the books are “annotated in suspicious ways.”
Concerning these little AudBlogs you may or may not be listening to — I want to assure the small audience here that I am not a drone, that I stutter on a regular basis, that just this week I forgot in conversation the first name of a good friend’s great love from 1997, that I was flogged by said friend over the strains of some Yardbirds track, and that I often do not know where in hell these anti-lucidities are going. Spalding Gray remains missing and these audio things, uttered on a cell phone near odd palazzos, adjacent to coiffed, besuitted, beautiful and not so beautiful people who remain hopeless perplexed by any talk outside brokering a deal, only serves as cheap surrogate and handy experiment until Mr. Gray’s hopeful return to crazed modern life. This has been a disclaimer.
audio post powered by audblog
Close to the centenary, all is not well in Dali world. Robert Deschames, author of a Dali biography, has been fighting the Gala-Salvador Dali Foundation for some time. He claims that Dali gave him the commercial rights to his work during their friendship. The Foundation says no. The battle has waged in court for some time. Attorneys have profited. Deschames’ attorney claims that his client is ruined. This wouldn’t be the first time that money got in the way of one of Dali’s friendships, but it does mark the first time that it’s happened beyond the pale.
Putin is pissed. A history book suggested that he was a dictator running a police state. The great irony is that he’s now ordered a review of all history books.
Proving once again that Viagra conquers all, Julio Iglesias (that would be Dr. Julio, father of the Julio we know) has fathered a child at 87. This beats out Saul Bellow, who became a dad again at 84, and whose illegitimate grandson has recently taken over Playboy. Bellow responded, “That bastard! Does he know how much work it took?”
Here are several reasons why I will probably never read David Denby’s American Sucker:
1. He finds spiritual redemption in 8 Mile.
2. The Washington Post: “This warmed-over Horatio Alger rhetoric is very hard to stomach coming from a man cushioned in a handsomely paid magazine job, trying to stake himself to a stock market windfall in order to keep control of a $1.4 million apartment financed largely by his own family inheritance — someone who spent not one but two tours of duty at an Ivy League university, subsidized the second time via the good graces of a book contract. Bleary-eyed community college night classes, indeed.”
3. The Boston Globe channels John Kenneth Galbraith’s The Great Crash, noting, “When those same [economic] leaders are led off in handcuffs, it is a pretty good sign the boom has turned into a bust.” Denby, of course, stayed in after the NASDAQ dropped in March 2000.
4. The Milwaukee Journal-Sentinel: “At times, Denby’s obsessions become tiring – if he had a deeper navel, he would have written a longer book.”
For all of The Atlantic‘s candor, it still doesn’t explain why the current double issue would include not one, but two takes on high-profile translations (the former a swell introspective look on Don Quixote, the latter another smug collection of Christopher Hitchens intonations), while saving the remaining lengthy slot for Dr. Laura’s new book. While influential polemicists certainly do warrant a serious look, we can’t help but wonder if The Atlantic is preaching to the converted or contemplate why The Atlantic would dwell upon a polemicist that has, it would seem to us, had her day. Despite the long, long, long (did we mention long?), blustery essays on Iraq, one involving hawkish apologia, both of which hurt our heads to varying degrees, we believe The Atlantic‘s readers are not likely to find solace in a hateful crank. Nor do we believe that hi/lo dichotomies are necessarily the order of the day. The current object, it would seem to us, is guided more by mitosis. To the point where it has us now using that dreaded first person plural, which use we reserve only when drunk, half-awake, or otherwise devoid of our ten senses.
There are hard sacrifices to becoming a novelist. For Elizabeth Robinson, they were even harder. “She was down to cutting out the luxury of household mineral water,” reports the Chicago Tribune. (via Moorish Girl)
I’m a little late to the party, but I’ll concur that The Crimson Petal and the White is a darn good read. If, like me, you were jaded by Quicksilver or underwhelmed by The Wolves of the Calla, and if, like me, you’re obsessed with reading longass novels, then you may want to give it a shot. A sizable chunk was serialized in The Guardian, so beta testers are advised to bolt there. Hostlers are waiting.
Dong Resin’s Letter to the Middle Class: “Did I ever mention that the foundation of a society is it’s lowliest workers? Probably not such a great idea to let that crumble like you have, but then there’s lots of cool cheap shit at Wal Mart, so it balances out. You’ll see! It’s not so bad. Did you know you can get a DVD player for $40?! You can’t get medicine for $40, but you can damn sure get motherfucking DVD players, which are almost as good.”
I was going to pull some second-person take on Jay McInerney as New York Times restaurant critic. But, dammit, Liz Spiers beat me to it.
Kate DiCamillo has won the Newberry this year for The Tale of Despereaux. The book concerns a mouse who falls in love with a princess, which is a story that (in all seriousness) I’m likely to get behind. In her early days, DiCamillo collected more than 470 rejection letters, which shows not only that persistence pays off, but that it probably kills a lot of trees in the process.
Monotori Kishi’s Misshitsu, a comic book depicting gonads and, well, a lot of sex, has been ruled obscene in Japan. The obscenity precedent was laid down in 1957 with a Japanese translation of Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
Meanwhile, here at home, the Supreme Court has said no to an appeal in the Tony Twist/McFarlane battle.
Marginalia and Other Crimes shows library book damages in all their sad glory. (via Maud, who’s now back from her trip in Florida).
And, damn, Spalding Gray is missing. (via Bookslut)