Today, I found myself kicking the can around a bit at Harriet (bonus points if you’re of my generation or older and have any idea what the former metaphor means), and stopped by Don Share’s discussion of Robert Darnton's recent essay, Google & the Future of Books (and some other related discussion, and ancillary tech, both large and small):
In considering the democratization of literary matters, both Darnton and Share jump off at the idea of the Republic of Letters, the consensual hallucination that emanates from the correspondence of Voltaire, Rousseau, Franklin, and Jefferson:
"The eighteenth century imagined the Republic of Letters as a realm with no police, no boundaries, and no inequalities other than those determined by talent. Anyone could join it by exercising the two main attributes of citizenship, writing and reading. Writers formulated ideas, and readers judged them. Thanks to the power of the printed word, the judgments spread in widening circles, and the strongest arguments won."
Of course, theory and praxis diverge:
"Far from functioning like an egalitarian agora, the Republic of Letters suffered from the same disease that ate through all societies in the eighteenth century: privilege. Privileges were not limited to aristocrats. In France, they applied to everything in the world of letters, including printing and the book trade, which were dominated by exclusive guilds, and the books themselves, which could not appear legally without a royal privilege and a censor's approbation, printed in full in their text.... Despite its principles, the Republic of Letters, as it actually operates, is a closed world, inaccessible to the underprivileged."
Share goes on to question notions of ownership and access, but what kept me thinking was something, er, less lofty: performativity. Maybe this is only a function of how poetry is mirrored in popular culture, but it seems to me that some eddies of poetic presence in the blogosphere suffer from a kind of mnemonic hang-over, which is bound up in notions of class.
I think there’s often some kind of essential confusion when it comes to poetic identity (as it is commonly bandied about) between privilege and membership. Yes, the "membership" of publication and bookdom is somewhat exclusive, but the distinction between publication in the top tier magazines (however you want to define those) and the vast profusion of other magazines, both print and online, seems to be a distinction that only matters to the practitioners of the subculture. If I tell a non-poetry person that I got published in Grand Street (R.I.P.) as opposed to, I don’t know, McNaughton Mountain Review, they seem equally underwhelmed. Saying that the former can (sigh... could) be found in a Borders produces a slightly slower blink of indifference.
Members of a subculture have endless fine distinctions about the "true" members of a subculture, rather than the "fake" members of a subculture (or, in this case, the "important" as opposed to the "minor" ones), but these distinctions are finer than a gnat’s eyelash to the outsider, especially when poetry is often viewed as a hobby to the rest of the culture at large, and therefore possessing almost no barriers to membership.
Regardless, I am amused at the evocation of the Victorian literary sphere. Reading Montaigne or Barthes or even Michel Houellebecq (I’m thinking of his brilliant Lovecraft book here, not the tenor of his other products, which I remain ignorant of) is to enter psychically into the cognitive atmosphere of the den, the smoking jacket, the brandy snifter, the dark wood paneling and so forth. There’s a sort of inherent feeling of solitude and refinement, a sort of above-it-all-ness, and the faint aftertaste of literary activity being its own reward. Regardless of any actual product, one has these delightful trappings, whether they are tangible or intangible.
The reason for this feeling of enclave is of course because wealth was usually directly tied to the necessary literacy and leisure required to spend all this time, fronting, as the kids say (or used to say). Now, with the internet, the necessary leisure and space required to pontificate or noodle about in an ostensibly literary way is available. In fact, it’s sandwiched in between factoid ranches, stand-up routines and throw-away lines masquerading as ad-hoc journalism, and all manner of fortified compounds where goods and services may be purchased, or talked about in such as away as to resemble an actual lifestyle. That’s it: the internet makes talking into a lifestyle. It used to be that you had to go to some kind of retreat, consciously display some kind of apparel or equipment, or in fact have certain characteristics in order to belong to a lifestyle, as it were ("I am my lifestyle, and my lifestyle is mine!"), but now everything is communal. Your quip, your predilection for Orson Scott Card novels, the holographic detritus of your trip to Niagara Falls (does anyone ever go to Niagara Falls anymore?) is a small cataract of a vast extroversion that pours invisibly into the computer screen and splits prismatically and instantaneously into thousands of virtual spaces, mirrored and Xeroxed and refracted endlessly through search engines, aggregators, blogs, hyperlinks, etc.
And it doesn’t feel to me like poetry is very different in this respect, than, say, knitting. Partly because it is impossible to place a wall around it in the way one did in the old days, when you had Gentlemen’s Clubs, or country estates, or Masonic Lodges. Generally (although this is less and less the case), the only thing sequestered about poets is their words, which exist in a printed space that ranges from obscure to almost totally occluded and invisible to the naked American eye. Perversely, this seems to me to render literary performativity even more of a thing apart from the work itself, though it may be that this is no more true than it was 10 or 20 or 50 or 100 years ago. The only difference is now that we have the virtual equivalent of a shopping mall, instead of the frangible Rosetta Stone of a newspaper or lecture hall.
This is not to say that I think the profusion of data and made things on the internet is toxic for society or our own dear little subculture, nor that the staggering array of small and micro-presses that have multiplied are in any way diluting poetry. I think both aspects of how the literary world has enlarged in the past ten years offer powerful opportunities. But they do make some convenient distinctions decidedly past-tense, and make the borders of the subculture more permeable. And while giving rise to sometimes uncomfortable feelings, more consumers of the written word and more, well, written words is always a good thing.
January 28, 2009
Crank, not Snark
January 27, 2009
John Updike is dead
John Updike died today of lung cancer, at 76. This came as a (sad) surprise to me ... I wasn't aware he was seriously ill. It's sort of bitterly ironic since I've read suggestions lately that the only way for Updike to save his literary reputation was to die soon, given the degree to which it's been flagging over the past decade. During this period I have felt, and now feel, defensive of him (against critics such as James Wood). He may have dwindled from relevance in his late years, but I hope he'll be remembered for his impressive body of erudite yet accessible criticism and his best novels, including the fantastic Rabbit tetralogy.
John Updike lived in Massachusetts and I guess I hoped to meet him at some point; I once schemed with a then-date to drive to his house on a Sunday morning for spying and/or social ambush, but instead took an unexpected dive through a French door and ended up in the ER. Here's to blown chances.
January 25, 2009
Small Presses Love You But You Don't Love Them
Okay, maybe you love them, but you should love them more, because some of them are giving things away for free.
Here are five crazy small presses you can get/read stuff from. Go to their websites and later, spend actual real money.
Concord Free Press
This press is giving away every book they print, starting with this first one, or they were--now they are all out. I wish I'd heard of them earlier. This is the kind of thing I might not delete if I got spam mail about it. Other heartwarming things often suck.
Small Anchor Press
This press is also giving out books. They sent 500 copies of a novella to various places. See this link: Mike Heppner sent a novella, Man, to a bunch of places and told people to read it and send him comments. It's one novella in a series of four. I wish he'd sent one to Korea.
Featherproof Books
Beautiful designs. And chapbooks you can print and make using your printer, by people like Patrick Somerville and Nathaniel Rich. And this subscription thing (though not free).
Publishing Genius Press
Here's a little guide to everything they've published so far, written by the editor of another small press, for easy navigation.
Bear Parade
The last one is this e-book thing, because I remembered we are obsessed with Tao Lin here.
I know there are tons more. Maybe you can leave them in the comments.
January 23, 2009
A New Game in Town
The Rumpus, overseen by author Stephen Elliot, with Andrew Foster Altschul, author of Lady Lazarus and the subject of a recent New Voices interview here at the blog, serving as the books editor, has launched. A recent press release calls this online publication "a single source for books, music, movies, art, sex and politics...The site has already compiled a formidable selection of original content, including interviews with Malcolm Gladwell, James Frey, Steven Soderbergh and Mary Roach, and essays by Po Bronson, Dan Chaon and Robin Romm, just to name a few. Also unique to TheRumpus.net is its stable of exclusive blogs, with authors such as Rick Moody on independent music, Jerry Stahl on life after 50, Bitchy Jones on the intersection of dominance and domesticity, political humor by Will Durst, and tales of an 'anonymous Chicago cop.'"
As space for book reviews continues to dwindle in many print publications, it's always exciting to see other interesting, high-quality venues for reviews and conversation about arts and culture popping up.
January 20, 2009
Praise song for the day
I said I was done, but now that the inauguration has happened (and now that we’re comparing poetry readings to church sermons) I have to ask:
Elizabeth Alexander v. Rev. Joseph E. Lowery?
“…Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of…”
v.
“…when black will not be asked to get back, when brown can stick around, when yellow will be mellow, when the red man can get ahead man…”
Who won?
January 18, 2009
Poetry readings are like church: Discuss
We go at least partially out of a sense of obligation. A lot of the benefits are peripheral: the social aspect, meeting people with similar interests, the chatting before and after. Checking in, being seen as someone who attends poetry readings. But it's rare that the "sermon" itself is really all that bang-up. Every now and then if you're lucky you have a "spiritual" experience and that keeps you going back regularly or semi-regularly ... the rest of the time it's pretty boring, and it's socially inappropriate to walk out or read a magazine or put on headphones or do sudoku while you're there; you just gotta stick it out. On the plus this does make the brunch (bar) afterward especially rewarding and sweet.
Analogy courtesy of John Cotter. What do you think? Seems pretty apt to me.
Pastor Warren's going to pray/For everyone who isn't gay.
I know, I know: I’m obsessed with this. But so is NPR. True, there can be only one inaugural poet, but have you heard? They’ve been commissioning “some of the nation's most renowned poets to write their own inaugural poems,” and have found that “real inaugural poems have usually been serious and sweeping affairs. But not so for our exercise.” You can see/listen to what they’re talking about—with offerings from Suzan Lori-Parks, Nikki Giovanni, and Calvin Trillin—here.
Anybody wanna make this interesting? Put a little money on whether Obama will really deliver the Giovanni rap?
Anyway, this is the last time I’ll post about inaugural poetry, since Barack is getting sworn in Tuesday. Can’t wait until he’s officially the president—so he can officially begin disappointing my unrealistically high hopes and expectations!
January 14, 2009
Redacted
The New York Times has an excellent survey of profanities, expletives, vulgarisms, obscenities, execrations, epithets and imprecations. This taxonomy pleases me greatly. Practically anything that is incongruously formal pleases me. (Such as Neil Gaiman’s explication of the theory that musicals can be best understood in terms of hardcore pornography.)
Anyways, I’m a sucker for etymology of questionable taste:
An epithet is a derogation or slur not as “dirty” as a vulgarism or as explosive as an expletive, with which it is often confused. Tagging an intellectual as an “egghead” or labeling a passionate partisan as a “nut case” is using an epithet, or mildly disparaging word. In “show me a good loser and I’ll show you a loser,” sometimes used in the locker room, the last “loser” is an epithet.
Imprecation brings us full circle to religion. Based on the Latin precare, “to pray,” the noun imprecation — along with its synonym execration, which shares a root with “sacred” and has nothing to do with excrement — are curses, usually married to the verb “mutter,” calling down punishment from on high. These bookish terms of excessive condemnation are out of critical fashion, merely evoking the exclamation by Snoopy, the cartoon character from Peanuts, “Curse you, Red Baron!”
This got me thinking of other obscenities in popular culture. People admire Battlestar Galactica for making up their own “minced oath” (“frack”), but I’m afraid that Harry Harrison got there first (with “bowb”) in Bill, The Galactic Hero back in 1965.
[Side note: fräck is the Swedish word for audacious, shameless or bold]
Bill, The Galactic Hero, is a hilariously broad space opera satire (a little bit like Robert Heinlein, the way Patrick Swayze is a little bit like Patrick Stewart), and holds a special place in my heart for having a character named Deathwish Drang.
I also thought of Todd Solondz's Storytelling, where a strategically placed red box obscured an interracial sex scene. In the DVD commentary, Solondz somewhat proudly characterized the lurid oblong as a “Stalinist red box.” Maybe he was just proud of the riposte.
Though I myself do not think this justifies censorship in any way, it does sometimes provoke brilliant elliptical bits, such as the immortal exchange between Fred MacMurray and Barbara Stanwyck in Double Indemnity:
His eyes fall on the anklet again.
NEFF
I wish you'd tell me what's engraved
on that anklet.
PHYLLIS
Just my name.
NEFF
As for instance?
PHYLLIS
Phyllis.
NEFF
Phyllis. I think I like that.
PHYLLIS
But you're not sure?
NEFF
I'd have to drive it around the block
a couple of times.
PHYLLIS
(Standing up again)
Mr. Neff, why don't you drop by
tomorrow evening about eight-thirty.
He'll be in then.
NEFF
Who?
PHYLLIS
My husband. You were anxious to talk
to him weren't you?
NEFF
Sure, only I'm getting over it a
little. If you know what I mean.
PHYLLIS
There's a speed limit in this state,
Mr. Neff. Forty-five miles an hour.
NEFF
How fast was I going, officer?
PHYLLIS
I'd say about ninety.
NEFF
Suppose you get down off your
motorcycle and give me a ticket.
PHYLLIS
Suppose I let you off with a warning
this time.
NEFF
Suppose it doesn't take.
PHYLLIS
Suppose I have to whack you over the
knuckles.
NEFF
Suppose I bust out crying and put my
head on your shoulder.
PHYLLIS
Suppose you try putting it on my
husband's shoulder.
NEFF
That tears it.
Neff takes his hat and briefcase.
NEFF
Eight-thirty tomorrow evening then,
Mrs. Dietrichson.
PHYLLIS
That's what I suggested.
They both move toward the archway.
A-27 HALLWAY - PHYLLIS AND NEFF GOING TOWARDS THE ENTRANCE
DOOR
NEFF
Will you be here, too?
PHYLLIS
I guess so. I usually am.
NEFF
Same chair, same perfume, same anklet?
PHYLLIS
(Opening the door)
I wonder if I know what you mean.
NEFF
I wonder if you wonder.
Finally, I’d like to close with something I heard quoted recently that sounds obscene, but which isn’t. Ladies and Gentlemen, a line from the poetry of Leonard Nimoy:
“When you touch me, I am deeply touched.”
January 9, 2009
Novellas Love You But You Don't Love Novellas
After reading James A. McLaughlin's novella, "Bearskin," in the summer issue of the Missouri Review, and really liking it (still deciding whether to upgrade this to love), I have decided to try and list other lit mags that publish novellas.
I'm drawing blanks here. I know VQR publishes some longer stuff, and sometimes Glimmer Train, and, online, The King's English. A quick search on duotrope.com revealed a mag called, The Long Story (anyone read this?), and mentioned that A Public Space, among others, takes novellas as submissions. But honestly, I can't really remember reading another novella in a lit mag , other than "Bearskin," in a long long time, maybe ever. Maybe I just passed these stories over, not wanting to commit myself?
Yet novellas are usually my favorite stories in collections. I wonder what the difference is. From an editor's standpoint, I can see that it would be hard to give that many pages to one author when there is so much deserving work, but I wonder why my readerly attention span can't commit. Why do I have a hard time reading long stories in lit mags but not collections?
January 8, 2009
New Directions
Alice Sebold, author of The Lovely Bones, Lucky, and The Almost Moon, will be the guest editor of Best American Short Stories 2009.
Thoughts?
January 5, 2009
Blog-ojevich
One of the uses of literature (not that it has to always Have an Obvious Use) is to help people cultivate their stores of empathy and fellow feeling. It can remind us of the humanity and struggles of those who might not at first glimpse have much in common with ourselves. One of the individuals who most people, at least in Illinois, probably hope they do not have too much in common with is our amazingly sucky governor, Rod Blagojevich.
For years, he’s been little more than a cartoon of a man whose ridiculousness rivaled only his capacity to disappoint the people he was supposed to serve. But back in September 2002, Chicago Public Radio’s Steve Edwards spoke to the then-gubernatorial-hopeful in an interview where the idea was to have the candidate talk anything but politics. So they discussed his love of jogging and his prodigious skills of memorization, which he demonstrated both by listing various U S Presidents in order, and by reciting the poem “If” by Rudyard Kipling, which he cited as a kind of personal motto. Part of it goes:
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
Somehow, listening to this interview being rebroadcast on CPR’s Eight Forty-Eight program during a show called “Illinois Politics Is Bleepin’ Golden,” creepy, comic book villain G-Rod suddenly seemed sad, touching, human to me. Maybe this is just because I was surprised to see him publicly valuing something I also value? Or maybe it’s yet more evidence that art that is supposed to better us can be appropriated for insidious ends regardless of its uplifting content? Anyway, nice poem, Blago.
