Demos Got Backbone?

Well, this is entirely unexpected. Perhaps there’s more to Fitzmas than meets the eye.

[UPDATE: I didn’t realize this, but Harry Reid (who invoked Rule 21) also has a blog — appropriately named “Give ‘Em Hell Harry.”]

[UPDATE 2: Well, looks like the show’s over. A bipartisan committee has been appointed to put the Senate Intelligence Committee to task reviewing prewar intelligence. It remains dubious whether this “phase two” inquiry will have any effect on business as usual. But at least the Democrats have demonstrated that they are capable of coordinating action when they want to. Let us hope that this is just the beginning.]

Chick Lit, Feminism and the Double Standard, Part II

Maud Newton attacks today’s Rebecca Traister article. And I think that in this case, Maud, who is normally a very thoughtful lady, has made a colossal misstep.

Again, I fail to understand the knee-jerk reactions here. The fashionable thing to do these days is to attack chick lit without actually reading the books and without citing multiple examples as to how chick lit utterly fails to represent women. Further, there is the troubling implications behind the claim that chick lit “treats women like they’re stupid” (as yet unanswered by Jessa Crispin or Emma Garman in yesterday’s thread). And I’m sorry, but snarky generalizations about plotting, which hinge entirely on “significant prototypes” instead of considering, as I suggested yesterday, a book that offers a type of realistic sex scene, an issue that is practically invisible in current literature, do not count. Nor do statements (i.e., Comment No. 7 in yesterday’s thread cited as defense) that suggest that books with happy endings or formulaic plots are somehow damaging or regressive to women. First off, unless I am severely mistaken, there is no demonstratable evidence which suggests that women who take their husbands’ surnames are in any way less empowered than those who don’t. (Even Manifesta author Amy Richards, while expressing dismay about the possessive nature of “Mrs.,” confessed in a column that the option of taking a husband’s name is entirely up to the individual.) Second off, even if we dismiss chick lit as fantasy-based, how is a fantasy of a woman snagging a man in any way harmful to women? It seems to me that the fury directed towards Weiner and other chick lit authors should be directed instead to the advertisers who perpetuate images of emaciated women that are far more false than the novels in question. If the message of a Weiner novel is that a zaftig lady can snag a man or maintain a professional career or be a mother (just as entitled as the skinny waif archetype egregiously held up as our feminine paragon), then how is this in any way regressive?

First off, let’s dispense with all of the inferences that have been drawn from Weiner’s initial quote:

I don’t particularly like being angry about stuff. I’d rather hang out with my daughter and write my little books. But I could not stay silent. It bothers me as a feminist that these are other women throwing stones; we’re all women and we’re all writers. And there is a literary divide that bodes poorly for you if you have the misfortune to be popular.

Nowhere in this statement does Weiner imply that anyone is a “bad feminist” (as both Jessa and Maud suggest). She is clearly suggesting that women might want to be more supportive of literature, whether popular or literary, that convey positive portrayals of women of all types. (In fact, interestingly enough, the divisiveness here is not unlike the fractiousness of the Left.) In other words, this is not a case of “good vs. bad feminist,” but “popular vs. literary.” If Weiner’s critics don’t care for her as a popular writer, then that’s fine. I myself don’t care for a lot of so-called chick lit that I have read, but I do enjoy Weiner’s novels, in spite of their predictable plots, because of their observations, which are topics I quite frankly don’t find within the realm of litearture. It’s the 21st century. Really, we should be a lot further along.

Granted, I will acknowledge that there’s some self-interest involved in Weiner’s statement. But given all the threads that have erupted over this issue, I think her concerns have been proven correct.

To cavalierly dismiss chick lit without reading it or analyzing the issue in depth (as, interestingly enough, Maud, Jessa and Emma have all failed to do here), to evade the issue so thoroughly without quoting a specific passage or citing several examples to prove a point, is to offer a defective argument.

Agree or disagree with the Traister article (or, as Maud has done, evade the issue altogether by dwelling not on the argument presented in Traister’s article but on Traister’s past fallacies as a thinker), but Traister has, at least, presented some solid examples here. Nor did Traister, as Maud has suggested, put Jennifer Weiner on the same level as Edith Wharton. She merely suggested that the attacks on chick lit were similar in temperament to those which affected Wharton. It strikes me as infinitely regressive to ignore such similarities, much less to participate in the kind of dismissive banter that seems to pass these days for serious thought.

[UPDATE: Book of the Day weighs in and suggests that “the impulse to criticize ‘women’s fiction’ is at its heart a criticism of women.”]

Roundup

Why Fear Michiko?

Hot on the heels of Michiko slamming Banville into the ground (with an unusual silence from certain quarters), Notes on Non-Camp points to this profile, which claims Michiko to be “the most feared book critic in the world.” More feared than Dale Peck? Or James Wood covering a “hysterical realism” novel? I think the real question here is whether Michiko Kaukutani, who has veered too frequently into distressing fictional affectations of late (is Michiko’s fury the mark of an aspiring novelist?), is a critic worth her salt anymore. Is it really valid criticism for a writer to cling to safe dichotomies (“style over story,” “linguistic pyrotechnics over felt emotion”) while spending most of a review summarizing a book rather than discussing its literary worth? If Michiko found Banville irritating, that’s fine. If she feels that she was alienated from Banville’s story, that’s fine. But it’s simply not enough to offer these sentiments without supportive examples, much less refusing to make an effort to discern the meaning within the text. That’s the least any reviewer can do when approaching a work of art. And given that the New York Times offers a book reviewing clime in which fiction has devolved from an enduring presence to some charming summer-stock production that you attend simply because a relative is in the show, it seems extremely strange to me that Michiko’s generalizations are continually accepted and indeed “feared” by authors and the publishing industry alike.