Archive for February 2009
For all their quarreling, madness and self-destruction, the Wittgensteins were at least spared one sort of dysfunction: there is no trace of incestuous impulses among them. The same, alas, cannot be said of the author’s own family. Evelyn Waugh freely avowed feelings of more than paternal tenderness for his daughter Meg. When she announced her intention to wed a young man, her father sadly wrote to a friend, “She wants children, and that is a thing I can’t decently provide for her.” Even Oedipus would blush.
Dropping UK money, pounds and pence, on a bar or handing it nicely to a newsagent, it’s like a roll of a dice, a flip of a coin, what it looks like to me in the act of doing so.
Half the time, but decreasingly, I am spending one of the great currencies of the world – one which if it is not the universal common denominator, the imperial stuff of drug deals and duty free, that my native currency is, still possesses pride of place and history, one of the four brands accepted everywhere and without question and the oldest of the bunch. It is Amex to the dollar’s Visa and the euro’s Mastercard.
The other half of the time, but increasingly, I am spending something somewhat comical, one of those oddly named monies in a place you pass through on the way to somewhere else, Malmö on the way to Copenhagen before the bridge. Trumped up Scandanavian stuff, I forgot they have a queen, no they do she’s on the money see, we should check if they have tours of the palace! Do you think they print their own stamps?
They never should have decimalized. LSD – librae, solidi, denarii. It’s a finger counting, divide by three or four sort of place. At least when you’re dealing with publicans and newsagents. Life would seem so much more lightrail and vittel if I could spend Euros. I’d behave better if I lived in real Europe.
Oh dear… (From the NYT)
Mr. Freeland is part of what he calls a revolutionary movement to close the “chasm in higher education between the liberal arts and sciences and professional programs.” The Association of American Colleges and Universities recently issued a report arguing the humanities should abandon the “old Ivory Tower view of liberal education” and instead emphasize its practical and economic value.
As money tightens, the humanities may increasingly return to being what they were at the beginning of the last century, when only a minuscule portion of the population attended college: namely, the province of the wealthy.
That may be unfortunate but inevitable, Mr. Kronman said. The essence of a humanities education — reading the great literary and philosophical works and coming “to grips with the question of what living is for” — may become “a great luxury that many cannot afford.”
All of this puts one in a tough spot, no? The humanities are good career preparation, but this is mostly or especially true for careers that kids who go to elite schools get: academia, the arts, marketing, law, consulting, etc. But on the other hand – well, fuck career preparation, there are other things in life. On the, um, third hand: that’s easy enough for me to say, way easy for me to say.
What do you think? What do you think we should do?
At 32, my life is now split evenly between the period of baseball lineup generation and literature. Thus the following (clipped from Charles Bernstein’s blog) has an automatic appeal. And I have to say, this looks not random and silly. This looks about right:
Complete Lineups; art by Paula North
(Brooklyn: Hanging Loose Press, 2009).
as in baseball lineups, eg ….
Heidegger is a #2 hitter, and he would be a secondbaseman, wouldn’t he? And Hegel in the five slot is perfect, just perfect. And Sartre would play thirdbase. Wittgenstein is everywhere that he should be. Weird, uncanny, perfectly right this thing!
I haven’t got it in me to make my own tonight (I tag Kaufman to do a full one), but for now. When it comes to modernist fiction writers in English, Conrad bats second and plays SS, has to – he is the Derek Jeter of the team, and Jeter is a natural #2. Fitzgerald fits into #6 or #7, definitely at second base. It’s a tough call but I guess Woolf #3 (and in centerfield) while Joyce bats cleanup and plays right, or maybe first.
But who leads off?
Your turn Scott, seriously, Mr. All Glove No Hit…..
(UPDATE: SEK nails it….)
Ms. Cothias’s callers on a recent morning were mainly trying to make sure they would be getting their benefits. All 15 callers were women, and all agreed to let a reporter listen in as long as their names were not used. At least nine were young mothers. Three were 50 or older, and several were dealing with public assistance for the first time.
Their tones varied greatly.
Caller 13, who was in her 20s and from Stuart, sounded relieved when Ms. Cothias told her that there were no restrictions on what kind of food she could buy with her newly issued food stamps.
Caller 4, from St. Petersburg, sounded more frantic. With a raspy voice echoing through what sounded like an empty house, she said she had lost her job in the service industry and needed her food stamp application approved quickly.
“I’m freaking out,” she said. “I have no income, and I’m starving.”
Even after being assured by Ms. Cothias that her food stamp account should be open within days, the woman could not be calmed. “Is there any other help you can offer for someone who’s been looking really, really, really hard for a job?” she said. “I’m 50 years old, and all they want are young girls. Do I drop off the face of the earth? Do I die? What do I do?”
The idea perhaps would be to run the logic of Henry James’s In the Cage in reverse, slipping from over-intimacy to the aggregate and impersonal instead of the reverse.
It had occurred to her early that in her position—that of a young person spending, in framed and wired confinement, the life of a guinea-pig or a magpie—she should know a great many persons without their recognising the acquaintance. That made it an emotion the more lively—though singularly rare and always, even then, with opportunity still very much smothered—to see any one come in whom she knew outside, as she called it, any one who could add anything to the meanness of her function. Her function was to sit there with two young men—the other telegraphist and the counter-clerk; to mind the “sounder,” which was always going, to dole out stamps and postal-orders, weigh letters, answer stupid questions, give difficult change and, more than anything else, count words as numberless as the sands of the sea, the words of the telegrams thrust, from morning to night, through the gap left in the high lattice, across the encumbered shelf that her forearm ached with rubbing. This transparent screen fenced out or fenced in, according to the side of the narrow counter on which the human lot was cast….
Once again, but in another register: the trick would be, I think, not simply to paint the call center, to allow the distinctly generic into the text that way, but to make the text itself into a sort of call center, in which the vividly individual crops up in such a way that, despite the all given names and idiosyncratic situations, they become both more and less than their given names.
The difference I’m trying to articulate is the difference between the New York Times running a story about a Florida call center and the New York Times itself becoming a national call center. When you hold that comparison in mind, perhaps you can start to see more clearly the difference between the thematic adaptation of content and the performative adaptation of form – helps me to anyway.
Why I’m so reflexively wedded to form as the answer to unasked questions is a complicated and truly overdetermined story. It’s a complicated story, though some of the component answers are very simple indeed. I will say more, clearly…. I will definitely being saying something soon about Ilya Ehrenburg’s The Life of the Automobile, which is very very close to what I’m talking about I think, once I’m finished with it.
(Oh, and one broader point. Is funny. They have this poetics thing, the subgroup, right, where the academic study of a form merges into the polemical or philosophical engagement with the form at present day. Instead of just analysing how it was done, the ultimate point is to reconsider how it might and should be done now. But there’s no prose equivalent of this sometimes even institutionally sanctified approach. Can you imagine writing a piece on how the novel should or might be written? Only Milan Kundera gets to do things like that!)
Anyway, perhaps start to consider me on the path to doing something else with my school work. I am starting to think a little bit differently about my school work.
Fuck – back to paper marking!
Man alive! The manicness! There are good, good reasons. Time’s a-getting short. But still. Let’s check the stats:
- Drinking: Way way down
- Smoking: Way way up
- Writing: Up, especially today – 1200 words of boring review at Southbank Centre on eee, another 600 tonight.
- Reading: Same, nil, except for LRB (see below)
- Paper Marking: lots, but still not done
- Abortive Blog Posts: Up, up. Two huge ones perking in the pot. And you’ve seen how many actually made it on to the site lately, so… But these are legitimate, old school AWP posts. So, you know, likely they’ll not be posted.
- Anxiety: moderate, moderate to low, spiking at times
- Loneliness: high – things get bungled and there’s no one to hang out with. I could see a movie or something I guess with my night out. London!
- Crosswords: Frumpy non-participation, nil
- Bothering people with dark depressive angst, kitchen table conversations of a certain sort and the like: still low, gott sei danke, though I’ve been a bit grumpy with all the grading to do.
- Moments spent regarding the London Eye under the the heavy lightness of England and with the soft shuffle of freepaper rustling through my ear canals? Some, grindlingly happy ones at that, makes life worth living, never enough per the malign logic of such things, see the PoS etc.
- Bolãno envy: slightly higher today after reading Michael Wood’s review in the LRB
I figure putting this stuff on display might somehow be instructive or edifying or at least comforting (by christ at least I am not like him) for someone…. And it’s a smidgen, just a smidgen therapeutic for me, or so I tell myself. But I guess I’ve blown the whole “under my own name” practice run.
I was going to make a resolution, but it seems rather absurd at this point. (There, I made it quietly… You can guess if you like…) If I go to bed now, I can get up and work some before the start of the day.