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Archive for April 2009

vertov in the cheesestate

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How strange is it to see that again. Watched the show when I was a kid, hohum, but now decades later and well entangled in left modernist ostalgic aesthetics, it looks like the lead-in to a very sexy bit of Fordist Realism or something even better than that.

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April 30, 2009 at 9:38 pm

Posted in teevee

catastrophe, in syndication

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Funny thing. Not so long ago, it looked like the future when this sort of stuff was shown on TV. Now, just a few years later, it has the look of a made-for-tv period movie, set circa 2003.

The age of media-anticipated catastophe, of the mass-marketed dystopia, seems to have come and gone. Would be interesting to think ever so carefully about it, it’s relationship to where we are now. “Carefully” meaning without the backpocket mysticism of Jameson’s lesser advisees, mining the cover of Underworld for far more than it was worth.

Unfortunately, can’t do that tonight as I’ve gotta read a book for an overdue review, and it’ll really piss someone off if this looks like it took more than five or six minutes.

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April 26, 2009 at 9:05 pm

owen! video!

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I showed up too late to see this, for reasons mentioned two posts above….  Wish the person who posted this would put the rest online for us all to see!

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April 24, 2009 at 11:57 pm

Posted in modernism

nostalgie de la boue

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Notes for a future post or more:

From an article by Iain Sinclair on films set in the East End in today’s Guardian:

But these films are not just memory devices to fix a period, or an excuse for nostalgic revivals. They are an important element in forging a mythology of place. One of the significant local traditions is of the established outsider travelling east with missionary zeal, like a pioneer into the wilderness. Robert Hamer, most celebrated for Kind Hearts and Coronets, was certainly a film industry toff. (Less so than Anthony Asquith, son of a Liberal prime minister. More so than David Lean, who rose from the non-commissioned status of the cutting-room.) Hamer’s East End invasion of a place that was never quite there, for It Always Rains on Sunday, was a marker for much that followed.

Hamer garnished social realist material from a novel by Arthur La Bern (whose later work, Goodbye Piccadilly, Farewell Leicester Square, became the vehicle for Hitchcock’s London return, Frenzy). The tone is relentlessly downbeat, morbid: without the incessant rain, necks would remain unwashed. Mean English streets are photographed by Douglas Slocombe with the melancholy lyricism of Marcel Carné or Renoir’s La Bête Humaine. Backlit smoke. A poetry you can smell: hot tar, bacon, cabbage, tobacco, wet dogs, armpits. Real places glorying in defiant entropy: rail yards, markets, mortuary pubs, tight backyards with Anderson shelters and rabbit hutches. Slocombe goes on, in terms of this London project, to work with Joseph Losey on The Servant: and thereby to connect with Dirk Bogarde (former bit-part delinquent) and Harold Pinter. Pinter attended the same school as Alexander Baron and Roland Camberton, those forgotten realists. Although his play The Caretaker was based on a glimpse into a Chiswick room, he returned, with director Clive Donner, to shoot the film version on his old turf: a house alongside the snow-covered Hackney Downs.

I’ve bolded the bit that I’m most interested in, and even more specifically, I’m really interested in the phrase defiant entropy.

It seems to me that there are a few options for how we play this defiant entropy, and not to give the game away (these are only notes), I’m not sure that any of them are truly convincing when thought into for more than a few minutes.

  1. The entropy is defiant because it marks a sort of decerteauvian resistance to municipal order, to instrumental rationalization, to gentrification. Street life vs. the redevelopment plan, the lived tactical vs. the cost-tested strategic. (But how do rail yards fit into this picture? And how do we know, for sure, the difference between defiance and abjection?)
  2. The entropy is defiant because it is ugly in a world that is supposed to be pretty. The world wants Costa Coffee and All Bar One, not mortuary pubs and markets. (But we certainly don’t think it’s really ugly, do we? Thus the article, thus our fascination and Sinclair’s… and the developers’…)
  3. The entropy is defiant because it is more real than other things. Blueglass flats being craned to life back behind Kings Cross are not real; urban squalor is real. (What slippery ground we are on when we play this game out, the game of the really real…)

There are other options, of course, and perhaps the three above are all one reason spread out and rephrased a bit, but let’s just leave it there for a second. In short, I worry a bit about the aesthetic fetishization of squalor. It has all the marks of a well-fed decadence, the likes of which we’ve seen before, we’ve seen recur at certain moments for a hundred years or more. I am wondering, in the end, whether we’re right about the defiance that we’ve attributed to urban entropy, squalor, and the like. Wouldn’t Sinclair’s sentence make as much sense if it read, say, Real places notable for their abject squalor. How, exactly, are they “glorying” – other than in Sinclair’s appropriative retransmission?

It’s a real question – and, of course, an old question – and I’d like to hear what you think. I love these things and places too, perhaps more than I should, and I just worry a bit about my love for them. Maybe, I think, everything should be bright glass boxes and intermodal transport links, maybe everyone should drink in a nice place and not a mortuary pub, if they want to anyway.

Sorry. Tired. Notes for Future Post, as I said….

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April 24, 2009 at 10:59 pm

Posted in aesthetics, london

number two

with 5 comments

Ah, well she’s here and everyone’s healthy. Some things went smoothly and others distinctly didn’t, which amounted to a stressful series of days (when did all this start? Monday…. And now it’s Friday night, and only now we’re all home…), the sort of days that take months off the end of your life, but now it’s done.

My now-less-limited experience of the NHS suggests that it kicks the living shit out of what you’re provisioned, even with good insurance, back home. Efficiency, rationing, and triage are one thing, but profit has no place in the realm of healing and birthing. (It’s not really me, and it might sound a bit dunno, but I’m actually thinking about launching a wee malpractice suit against a certain hospital in Brooklyn. Pretty angry, I am. It’s not nice to hear about the clear evidence of past medical miscues – miscues that are retrospectively obvious now –  from an NHS surgeon as your wife’s dripping pints of blood off of an operating table, a few hours after delivery… But the truth of the matter is, and all of you Americans have seen this, that there are so many disincentives for medical practitioners in the US to go looking for possible problems – paperwork, won’t get to go on the next Blue Cross sponsored golf weekend in Hilton Head, better money in one thing rather than another – that it’s a wonder anything is ever caught and fixed at all…)

Anyway, today, back from home with a car seat (which we didn’t end up using, the taxi driver was non-plussed by the idea of installing it) and riding the elevator up to the room, someone who was a grandmother saw what I was carrying and said, Ah, lucky. You’re taking yours home today. I’m not. Mine’s in the ICU. Mine’s three months early. But mine’s a fighter.

That’s the thing about cliched speech, speech that traffics in what they’d say if they were saying this not in real life but on television, bad television. But mine’s a fighter. I won’t say what the thing is, but I’m guessing you know. I had nothing to say back so I said, Good luck, good luck, I’m sure it’ll all be fine. And then she left the lift, a floor before mine. It was straight out of a handbook for writing the scene, she was straight out of central casting, and so was I. Wonder how it’ll end for her and hers.

I’ll be getting to the accrued comments over the next few days. Jinxing myself a bit, but Christ is it easier the second time around. Keep your fingers crossed for me. Sorry for a rough, self-centered post – had to do this one, on to other things soon, perhaps in minutes.

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April 24, 2009 at 10:21 pm

Posted in me

the slowness of birth

with 11 comments

Like every other “life event,” giving birth has an odder temporality than one is led to expect by ambient cultural models, fiction and movies, and the like. Some of my favorite moments in fiction take up this issue – Emma Bovary’s death, which seems to go on for ever and ever, the slow starvation of Michael K. in Coetzee’s novel.

We’re used to laughing at Emma’s question: Et Emma cherchait à savoir ce que l’on entendait au juste dans la vie par les mots de félicité, de passion, et d’ivresse, qui lui avaient paru si beaux dans les livres. But then again, what words and abstract concepts mean in life is exactly what good novels, like the novel in which she lives, show. And what they show, again and again, is that above all else these things mean a particular way that time passes, generally more slowly than one would expect.

I spend my working life thinking ever more deeply into the following passage from Lukács Theory of the Novel:

The greatest discrepancy between idea and reality [in the novel of romantic disillusionment] is time: the process of time as duration. The most profound and most humiliating impotence of subjectivity consists not so much in its hopeless struggle against the lack of idea in social forms and their human representatives, as in the fact that it cannot resist the sluggish, yet constant process of time; that it must slip down, slowly yet inexorably, from the peaks it has laboriously scaled; that time – that ungraspable, invisibly moving substance – gradually robs subjectivity of all its possessions and imperceptibly forces alien contents into it. That is why only the novel, the literary form of the transcendent homelessness of the idea, includes real time – Bergson’s durée – among its constitutive principles.

I suppose what I should start saying when I say that I don’t believe in the event is that I do in fact believe in events, I just think that those events take time, sometimes astoundingly long periods of time. When I resist the im selben Augenblick temporality of certain strands of the analysis of the modern, this, at base, is what I’m talking about. I am not sure whether I learned to be this way from reading novels, or if I found in the novel a materialization of what I had always been thinking about, looking to think about.

And so here we are. The water (or as they say here, waters) broke last night, and we drove through the deserted streets of North London down to the hospital – a hospital that happens to be located exactly across the street from my place of work. The midwife checked – yes, the waters have broken. Everyone is healthy but no real contractions have started, and so we are sent home. We will return today if they start. Or, if not, we will return tomorrow morning to “be induced.” There was a little bed in the room, pictured above, waiting to catch what came.

This sort of thing happened the last time around too – “giving birth” spread into a two day process. But it still takes one by surprise, when it happens this way. I guess I’ll read the book that I am supposed to review today. If we’re not moving forward tonight, perhaps we’ll check into a hotel downtown, a hotel I pass every day on the way to the Underground, and wait through another night of slowly giving birth.

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April 20, 2009 at 10:45 am

Posted in novel, temporality

dysekphrasis, heavenly art of the bubble, i’d like your help

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There’s an audience participation opportunity to come at the end of this post, so don’t skip the end if you want to play along at home and win great prizes! But to start, here’s a fantastic moment from Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, not long after Marlow has reached the Outer Station:

“I had no idea why he wanted to be sociable, but as we chatted in there it suddenly occurred to me the fellow was trying to get at something — in fact, pumping me. He alluded constantly to Europe, to the people I was supposed to know there — putting leading questions as to my acquaintances in the sepulchral city, and so on. His little eyes glittered like mica discs — with curiosity — though he tried to keep up a bit of superciliousness. At first I was astonished, but very soon I became awfully curious to see what he would find out from me. I couldn’t possibly imagine what I had in me to make it worth his while. It was very pretty to see how he baffled himself, for in truth my body was full only of chills, and my head had nothing in it but that wretched steamboat business. It was evident he took me for a perfectly shameless prevaricator. At last he got angry, and, to conceal a movement of furious annoyance, he yawned. I rose. Then I noticed a small sketch in oils, on a panel, representing a woman, draped and blindfolded, carrying a lighted torch. The background was sombre — almost black. The movement of the woman was stately, and the effect of the torchlight on the face was sinister.

“It arrested me, and he stood by civilly, holding an empty half-pint champagne bottle (medical comforts) with the candle stuck in it. To my question he said Mr. Kurtz had painted this — in this very station more than a year ago — while waiting for means to go to his trading post. ‘Tell me, pray,’ said I, ‘who is this Mr. Kurtz?’

That painting! It’s the very definition of the grotesque, and mirror of the grotesqueness of the world of the novella, to condense two incompatable (but why should they be incompatable, justice and enlightenment, fairness and truth?) allegorical females into a single weird image. It’s moments like these where

When I teach, I explain to my students that best I can guess what we mean when we say the “Kafkaeseque” or “the uncanny in Kafka”  (after of course going through “heimlich” and “unheimlich” and the rest of the Freud stuff) is that is not just the weird thing, the thing out of place, but the weird thing inserted into a context that takes it as normal, everyday, that ignores it. It becomes compulsory, in a deep and strange sense: something’s out of place, everyone acts as if it isn’t, and then, as in a nightmare, you feel yourself pulled along by both by not wanting to make a scene and the fact that there’s time to stop and really think about all of this. Conrad’s Heart of Darkness works in much the same way. The compulsion of the unremarked grotesque is all over the place in the Outer Station section – you see things that are illogical, absurd, stupid, or that make you sick… But still: “I went to work the next day, turning, so to speak, my back on that station. In that way only it seemed to me I could keep my hold on the redeeming facts of life.” Or with this picture, this painting that doesn’t make any fucking sense, but which is left hanging there, a year after Kurtz painted it, a year after Kurtz, whom everyone in the station absolutely hates, left, never to return.

So, as far as ekphrastic moments go in modernist novels, I rate this one quite highly, as you can see. And I’d like to have something similar in something that I’m working on at the moment. Here’s what I’m looking for: I’d like to describe not one but two paintings (or photographs – or images that you can’t tell whether they are photographs or paintings) hanging on the wall of let’s say for simplicity’s sake a hotel room or nicely furnished apartment from the era of the bubble – the era in which we’re still lingering, at least in terms of hotel design. (Thinks can’t turn 1983 Bucharest fast enough for me, in terms of hotel aesthetics… But that’s another story…) I’d like them to be something like the one that Marlow sees at the Outer Station, though not nearly so obviously fucked up. I.e. if they are emblems of some sort of socio-individual brain damage, I’d like it to be the ambient brain-damage of the world in which we’ve lived or live. And their subject matter should be relatively upbeat, as the world in which they hang doesn’t have lots of time or really need for social critique, bad-conscience-bourgie-art, and the like.

I don’t care whether they form a clear diptych, an subtle diptych, or bear no clear relationship the one to the other. I’d love to hear a lot of them – first thought tries, or considered responses – as I might actually feature quite a few of these things in the thing that I’m doing.

If I’m not being clear, ask me questions. This is a little hard to describe. Not sure whether I should do this, as it primes the pump, but I’ll paste some notes that I’ve written and that I’m not at all satisfied with, so feel free to ignore the models.

On the left side is a photograph (it looks like a photograph, though it may well be a painting, there’s a certain subtle smudge and line to it that hints that it was made by human hands rather than a lens) that features four naked adolescents, late adolescents perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old hugging each other in a circle. Two males and two females, two whites and two blacks, and all four are fit and beautiful. Additionally, the genital area of each one is clearly visible. The models had to turn in a slightly awkward way in order for this to be so, which renders this image, which otherwise would seem to be more fine art than pornography, more erotically provocative than it might have been.

Its counterpart on the right side takes up an entirely different subject matter, yet somehow subtly seems to correspond with its partner across the wall. It is an aerial view of a section of some city – perhaps this one, you’re not familiar with it enough to say yet. Within the boundaries of the picture are perhaps thirty houses, of modern design and painted in bright colors, each one exactly identical to the next. Uncannily identical, same lift of the eaves, same blue shutters, same windowboxes planted with the same flowers. There are approximately ten or twelve human beings visible in the picture, and they are the only mark of distinction in what is otherwise a grid pattern of sameness. A man toward the bottom waters the flowers in his front garden, several are walking up or down the streets, and barely visible, half-cut off by the limits of the image, two naked people, a male and a female, lie on top of each other, naked, on the grass in the backyard of the house that fills the bottom left corner. The crop of the thing renders it unclear what they are doing – no faces are visible, all you see are two torsos, with the breasts and hair to indicate that they are the genders that they are.

Please, please, do me one – or twenty – better. IT always says she’ll send you something for your trouble at this point. If you provide something really helpful I’ll send you hmm, how about an autographed picture of a smiling American narcissist abroad? (You should see the ebay resale market for that shit!) What could be better than that? Or I’ll name a happy person after you in this thing that I’m doing. Or I’ll say the rosary for you, backward, and in esperanto or any other artificial language.

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April 18, 2009 at 8:57 pm

Posted in conrad, kafka, uncanny

part 2

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I just signed up to be notified for the opportunity to buy.

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April 18, 2009 at 12:36 am

Posted in Uncategorized

rss

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Someone wrote me recently asking me to change my feed setting so that you can read the full posts in a reader. They’re right – it’s bad for me to care about my numbers so much as to inconvenience you. And I don’t really care about them all that much. So I changed the setting. Yay!

But then, writing and rewriting the last post, I just remembered one other reason to make you come to the site to read the posts. I am a post-now, edit-a-few-minute-later sort of blogger. I do it all the time, and perhaps I could change and perfect the things before hitting the button, but I sort of doubt it. (I also have a nasty but healthy habit of posting then deleting, especially on weekends, which you can’t do if 3/4s of your readership has the full post, permanently in their google reader). So…. rather than have all of you read mangled, incomplete, incoherent versions of the posts, I’ve restored the rss settings. I really do apologize for the inconvenience….

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April 17, 2009 at 10:49 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

alors l’angleterre, part 1.1

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One of the strangest things about England is that, despite the fact that its the birthplace and ancestral home of the political form that we identify with the interests of the middle class, it has lacked, for a good long while, a proper bourgeoisie. I mean to say, specifically in this case, that it lacks a class that thinks properly bourgeois thoughts, the thoughts of a class torn between accumulation and consumption.

It’s topcoats and overalls, socio-psychologically speaking, all the way down.

Of course as there’s a deep and complex relationship between bourgeois subjectivity and the novel form (no surprise, really, there – this is not new, neither in its historicity nor its formal immanence), so it really is no wonder that, well, the English have under-performed on this front over the past hundred years or so, with few exceptions.

Bourgeois subjectivity. That sounds awful doesn’t it? I think what I mean, to be a little more serious than I have been is, yes, bourgeois subjectivity but more specifically a sense of the personal contingency of class, that class-position can change – and, in particular, can change for reasons that are both your doing and definitely not your doing. I want to eat this or fuck this or write this but if  I do I might fall… or maybe rise. Rigidity of social forms (and I’m not so much making an argument about reliative social mobility so much as relative perceived social mobility) is incompatible with the type of subjectivity I am trying to describe. The sense that things can change breeds hope and fear, mystification and ambition, false consciousness, interiority, “narcissism,” and an ambiguously-important sense that all of this is just a show, unreal.

I am amazed at how deeply the English believe in the reality of class. Trust me, this is both a bad and good thing. Americans tend to live in a fantasy of mobility and egalitarian meritocracy, yes, but the English seem to believe, down deep, that they are actually better or worse than other people, like for real, down deep, because of the conditions of their birth.

So, here begins a list of reasons why, for the last 100 years, the wholly-formed denizens of this nation*, with the sole exception of Virginia Woolf, and despite market-dominance for the two centuries before 1900, haven’t been able to write truly persuasive prose fiction, that is to say novels persuasive enough to stay on the world’s shelf and reread, well, willingly. I’ll have more reasons for you very soon.

Obviously, of course all this presumes (and perhaps indicts, though obviously I have mixed feelings about this) the fact that the novel is a bourgeois form. I think it’s also fairly obvious that it is, even though the wonderful thing about genres and forms are that they are reappropriable, redeployable, can be detourned and all the rest. But there are different ways of failing to make the cut. And it’s also interesting to think that the English once possessed a bourgeois sensibility (one is almost tempted to say a modern sensibility, in a longview sort of way), and then somehow lost it.

But let’s not, for now, have an argument about the politics of the form. Let’s just figure out why the English can’t write them and go from there. Americans can, South Africans can, Australians and Canadians can, the Irish can, but Brits – keep calm and carry on, I guess.

* Obviously it’s a bit weird to exclude non-ethnically English writers. In this case, since they have access to a different set of ideological matrices though, I think it’s fair. Go look at the Booker List. Colonials, colonials, recent arrivals, and Iris Murdoch? Ian McEwan? We all might have a novel or two that we’ve liked from this place, sure, but really, I think you know what I mean. Someone will say Ballard, inevitably, but seriously, something’s gone wrong in the land of Defoe and Fielding, Austen and Eliot, Dickens and Woolf.

(There, less narcissistic… You all were right… This feels much better…. But as you might imagine, this is going to end-around toward “narcissism,” eventually… And fuck, I screwed up the elision in the title first time around. The English can’t write novels, but sons of Anglo-Canada can’t write in French, it’s still true…)

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April 17, 2009 at 10:18 pm

Posted in england, novel

“I don’t want to be a professor”

with 26 comments

I’ve been telling anyone who will listen (after I was myself alerted to it by IT) that Coetzee’s review of the new edition of Beckett’s letters in the NYRB is not to be missed. Here’s the start of it:

In 1923 Samuel Barclay Beckett, aged seventeen, was admitted to Trinity College, Dublin, to study Romance languages. He proved an exceptional student, and was taken under the wing of Thomas Rudmose-Brown, professor of French, who did all he could to advance the young man’s career, securing for him on graduation first a visiting lectureship at the prestigious École Normale Supérieure in Paris, then a position back at Trinity College.

After a year and a half at Trinity, performing what he called the “grotesque comedy of lecturing,” Beckett resigned and fled back to Paris. Yet even after this letdown, Rudmose-Brown did not give up on his protégé. As late as 1937 he was still trying to nudge Beckett back into the academy, persuading him to apply for a lectureship in Italian at the University of Cape Town. “I may say without exaggeration,” he wrote in a supporting letter, “that as well as possessing a sound academic knowledge of the Italian, French and German languages, [Mr Beckett] has remarkable creative faculty.” In a postscript he added: “Mr Beckett has an adequate knowledge of Provençal, ancient and modern.”

Beckett felt genuine fondness and respect for Rudmose-Brown, a Racine specialist with an interest in the contemporary French literary scene. Beckett’s first book, a monograph on Proust (1931), though commissioned as a general introduction to this challenging new writer, reads more like an essay by a superior graduate student intent on impressing his professor. Beckett himself had severe doubts about the book. Rereading it, he “wondered what [he] was talking about,” as he confided to his friend Thomas McGreevy. It seemed to be “a distorted steam-rolled equivalent of some aspect or confusion of aspects of myself…tied somehow on to Proust…. Not that I care. I don’t want to be a professor.”

Ugh. Yep, another one of those stories about a brave and successful escape from academia. Coetzee slyly mentions later on in the review that “through contacts at the then University of Buffalo [Beckett] also drops hints that he might look kindly on an offer from that quarter (it did not come).” You might know or not know that Coetzee held a teaching position at Buffalo for a bit. You might know or not know something else that I can’t to get into, but let’s just say I’ve heard and reheard the story about the end of his time as an assistant professor, specializing in I suppose British modernism, over and over and over again and from those who would know. But let’s just say I really appreciated Coetzee’s little in-joke.

Really good reason why this blog can’t have my name on it: I’d like to get out, and I really can’t talk about that publically, under my own name. I have a vague plan to get out – something we refer to in my household as the “five-year plan.” I won’t go into the hows of this, but it’s something I’d very much like to do. Unlike Beckett, I actually enjoy teaching, the classroom time, and the reports back from my students would be very different from those that he received. But the damned business shreds time, absolutely shreds it. It’s not the time in the classroom that’s the problem. But lately, since I’m on Easter break, I’ve been indulging myself and working on whatever I like for afternoons at a time, and the work is better and far more pleasing than anything else that I do at any other point in the year.

Anyway, I also appreciated the following:

Though Beckett’s literary output during the twelve years covered by these letters is fairly thin—the Proust monograph; an apprentice novel, A Dream of Fair to Middling Women, disowned and not published during his lifetime; the stories More Pricks Than Kicks ; Murphy ; a volume of poems; some book reviews—he is far from inactive. He reads extensively in philosophy from the pre-Socratics to Schopenhauer. On Schopenhauer he reports: “A pleasure…to find a philosopher that can be read like a poet, with an entire indifference to the apriori forms of verification.” He works intensively on Geulincx, reading his Ethics in the original Latin: his study notes have recently been unearthed and published as a companion to a new English translation.

Twelve years of relatively thin publication, from age 23 to 34. (It’s not really that thin, is it?) Twelve years of reading and periodic publishing and abortive teaching and bouts of psychoanalysis. Coetzee brought out his first novel, Dusklands, in 1974, when he was 34, three years after he stopped teaching at Buffalo.

There’s something deformative, something that you parry with for a long time, about having spent your twenties in the stupid hothouse of New York, or more specifically Brooklyn, during the bubble, again more specifically the period literarily speaking between the founding of Tina Brown’s Talk (remember?) and the founding of n+1. What would Beckett have made of it? What would Coetzee? My wife and I are still reeling from it a bit, I think it’s safe to say. We are 31 and 32 respectively. Anyway, Coetzee writes a lot of stuff about old men lately – he makes his alter-egos even older than he is himself – but this is a valuable review focused on what it means to be a different sort of old man, a young old man, in transit between the business of teaching and the business of writing.

Written by adswithoutproducts

April 17, 2009 at 12:21 am

Posted in beckett, coetzee

no venue

with 6 comments

When I am working at work, I wish I could leave the office and go to the coffeehouse, where there are other human beings around but those other humans won’t generally bother me. When I am at the coffeehouse, I wish that I was home where I the coffee is nearly free and I don’t have to wrap the strap of my bag around my leg. When I am at home, I think to myself that I can’t really work anywhere but the office. Like the Bermuda triangle of inauthenticity that Heidegger sketches out in Being and Time, where ambiguity gives way to idle talk with gives way to curiosity and back to the ambiguity again, traps in triplicate, trialectic, are the worst sort of traps to fall into, as the illusion of choice, of possibility, is renewed just that more freshly.

Perhaps it’s not about where I work. Perhaps the fact of the matter is that this sort of work is so incredibly and so inevitably lonely. When I move around the city looking for a place where this isn’t so, I am looking in the wrong places for something that’s simply not going to be found.

Even working with someone, while it solves out some of the wider and deeper pangs, doesn’t really change the fundamental situation. There is chitchat and cross-banter, question asking and answering, distraction and aid. But those things aren’t the work itself. When the eyes are on the page or the screen, and you have reached a level of concentration sufficient to understand or make yourself understood, you are inevitably, unavoidable by yourself. Working with someone – someone at the same table or the next desk or in the bedroom upstairs while you sit in the garden – only changes the rhythm of the pressure and relief from pressure (which is also, of course, the cessation of work) but does not change the underlying equation.

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April 13, 2009 at 4:11 pm

Posted in me

jmc, summertime

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Coming later this summer…. Apparently, though reports aren’t entirely clear, it falls under the memoir rather than fiction rubric, if thinking about rubrics still makes any sense at all when talking about his recent works.

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April 11, 2009 at 8:17 am

Posted in coetzee

if you’d like to contract me to write this up in book form, contact me with advance numbers ready

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Sorta cute.

The NYT publishes a weekly book review on Sunday. I receive an email version Friday night. I look at it, then grumble about things. Week in week out. When I do, my wife tells me to calm down and concentrate on doing good work. Finally I agree and read something else as BBC News scrolls through world-wide disorder and narratives of piracy – ransom or escape, failied escape and suitcases of unmarked hundred dollar bills. I immerse myself in something – say, James Wood’s piece on Orwell in the current New Yorker. Time passes. Then my wife says, “Yeah, it says here that she got a $300,000 advance for that thing.”

“What are, what? What are you looking at?,” I respond. She has my laptop on her lap. I hadn’t noticed.

She doesn’t answer, but a few minutes later she says, “She’s reading tonight on Court Street.”

“Where does it, what, where does it say that?”

“On her personal website.”

“What are you reading? What?”

“She’s probably four years, five years older than we are. And it’s her first.”

“Um, we’re OK then. We’re right on schedule, right?”

“I bet she doesn’t have two kids.”

We will have a second child, likely, within a week’s time. I’m guessing before the weekend is up, but who knows. She has a manscript (my wife, not the second child – but the child is apparently going to be middle-named in part after one of the two founders of the Redstockings – and no, the name in question is not going to be Shulamith. Life is so fucking strange at times, you have no idea, Jesus….) and I plan to have two of those, an academic one and a not-academic one, by the end of the summer. Manuscripts, I mean, not kids. I have no idea what the kids will do for a living though I have a sense that the first will end up an academic, and thus enter into frames of trouble with her dad that will cost her shrink bills, if I’m not very, very careful. But it’ll be OK, trust me.

Written by adswithoutproducts

April 10, 2009 at 10:49 pm

Posted in me, meta

i left just at the wrong time

with 8 comments

Normally wouldn’t import a whole post (from Lenin’s Tomb), but this is astounding:

Only 53% of American adults believe capitalism is better than socialism.

The latest Rasmussen Reports national telephone survey found that 20% disagree and say socialism is better. Twenty-seven percent (27%) are not sure which is better.

Adults under 30 are essentially evenly divided: 37% prefer capitalism, 33% socialism, and 30% are undecided. Thirty-somethings are a bit more supportive of the free-enterprise approach with 49% for capitalism and 26% for socialism. Adults over 40 strongly favor capitalism, and just 13% of those older Americans believe socialism is better.

Investors by a 5-to-1 margin choose capitalism. As for those who do not invest, 40% say capitalism is better while 25% prefer socialism.

There is a partisan gap as well. Republicans – by an 11-to-1 margin – favor capitalism. Democrats are much more closely divided: Just 39% say capitalism is better while 30% prefer socialism. As for those not affiliated with either major political party, 48% say capitalism is best, and 21% opt for socialism.

(link)

Written by adswithoutproducts

April 9, 2009 at 9:32 pm

Posted in america, socialism