Archives : February 2011
- “Love Sentence,” a new short story by Lynn Tillman.
- Joy Williams on “Why I Write.”
- The Great Gatsby Nintendo game.
- Lisa Simpson has her own book club.
- The guest editors for the Best American series have been announced: Gwendolyn Brooks (short stories), Edwidge Danticat (essays), Sloane Crosley (travel), Dave Eggers (non-required reading), Mary Roach (science and nature writing), Alison Bechdel (comics), and Jane Leavy (sports).
- In response to Jonathan Lethem’s comment that Brooklyn is “repulsive with novelists,” The Guardian tests your Brooklyn literary knowledge.
- Ficciones, my reading challenge devoted to Argentinian literature started this week. It’s not too late to join!
- In honor of Valentine’s Day, some sex-related literary goodies: what makes a good literary sex scene?; the best sex scenes about the worst sex; the best sex scenes not by a “Great Male Novelist” (e.g., Mailer, Roth or Updike); what would it be like to bang your favorite book?
I’m leaving Buenos Aires in less than two weeks, headed back to the snowy Northeast, and I’m trying to savor the warm weather while I can. So I’ve been spending a lot of time out on my balcony in the evenings with a glass of wine listening to literary podcasts.
Here are a few of my favorites:
KCRW’s Bookworm: Cheesy opening theme aside, host Michael Silverblatt has got to be the most enthusiastic and engaged reader/interviewer ever. His intense interest in the work is contagious; his subjects respond with equal enthusiasm and their conversations are usually fascinating and revealing. Recent interviews include: Tatjana Soli (The Lotus Eaters), Jaimy Gordon (Lord of Misrule), and Nicole Krauss (Great House).
The Bat Segundo Show: Bat Segundo (aka journalist/blogger Edward Champion) conducts in-depth interviews with an eclectic mix of writers. Recent shows include Karen Russell (author of the newly released and uniformly acclaimed Swamplandia), Jessie Scholl (author of a memoir about her mother’s compulsive hoarding) and Paolo Bacigalupi (science fiction writer and recent winner of the Printz Award for YA literature).
The Granta Podcast: These podcasts follow up on issues and writers in Granta’s print magazine. In a recent podcast, Best Young Spanish Novelists Andrés Neuman, Andrés Felipe Solano and Santiago Roncagliolo discuss writing and national identity.
New Yorker Fiction: Writers published in the New Yorker read their favorite stories published by other writers in the New Yorker and talk about them with fiction editor Deborah Treisman. Confining the stories to those published in the New Yorker may be a bit limiting, but still, this is like story time for adults! A great option for long drives/subway rides, or when your eyes are just too tired to read. The Guardian just started a similar series — if you prefer your stories with an accent, try listening to Irish writer Anne Enright read a Raymond Carver story.
Finally, I just discovered that BBC Radio broadcasts a series called Books at Bedtime in which they read 15 minutes of a book every night. Right now they are reading Caribou Island, the debut novel by David Vann that has been getting a lot of buzz. Broadcasts only stay up on their website for a week, so if you want to listen to a book, you need to do it right away.
- The latest on the gender disparity in publishing comes from Vida, who has released a damning breakdown of the numbers of women being published and reviewed in some of the most prominent literary publications including the New Yorker, the Atlantic, Granta, Harper’s, Tin House and the Paris Review. Vida’s post has provoked a lot of response: Ruth Franklin confronts the existence of a literary glass ceiling, Alizah Salario shares some thoughts about women and criticism, and Stephen Elliott says we need more information before coming to any conclusions.
- Bitch Media compiled a list of 100 Feminist YA books, then caused a big controversy by removing 3 of them, and is now starting a book club which includes the 3 removed titles.
- I’ve started a reading challenge devoted to Argentinian literature. You only need to read one book to join!
- The New Yorker has published a new story by Mary Gaitskill. The perspective is terrifying, but interesting and well worth the read.
- Idle doodles by Sylvia Plath, David Foster Wallace, Vladimir Nabokov and others.
- Peeing on Borges’ grave is an artistic act (at least according to one writer).
- U.S. and U.K. book covers compared.
David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas was published during my first year of practice as a lawyer. Buried in legal documents but not yet aware of the quick demise of my habit for pleasure reading, I did not notice all the buzz about the book. Nor I had ever heard of its author until last year when, after leaving my law firm, I dedicated myself single-mindedly to the business of reclaiming my reading life.
Discovering the world of online literary magazines and book bloggers, I soon learned that a British author named David Mitchell had published a new book called The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. I read the book and enjoyed it very much. It had a sense of humor that one does not often see in historical fiction. This led me to Cloud Atlas, shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize and #3 on the literary website, The Millions, “Best Fiction of the Millennium (So Far)” (although by reading the comments, it seems as though the choice is not without its detractors).
I might not have read Cloud Atlas if I had not already liked The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet. The back cover describes the novel as “series of nested dolls or Chinese boxes, a puzzle book.” I am not one for puzzles; I like my novels to focus on story, not clever ploys. And I have always been suspicious of books that play with structure; it seems they often do so at the expense of fully realized characters or an interesting plot.
To be sure, the structure of the novel is clever—six narratives, occurring at disparate parts of the globe and of human history, all but one of which is interrupted in mid-plot and becomes a centerpiece in the subsequent narrative. Thus, (1) the nineteenth century journal of an American lawyer crossing the Pacific is (2) stolen and sold by a British composer hiding out from his debts in Belgium between the two world wars, whose lover (3) is a nuclear scientist who turns up murdered as the result of corporate intrigue in 1970s California, (4) the story of which is a manuscript submitted to a 1980s British vanity publisher imprisoned in an overzealous home for the elderly, (5) whose unlucky tale is the favorite movie of a genetically engineered slave awaiting execution in a near-future where corpocracy is the new religion, and (6) who herself becomes a deity of sorts to a young boy and his tribe struggling to survive in a lawless and violent world after the fall of civilization.
The novel itself posits several visions of its structure. In one, from which the book takes its title, the caddish British composer in the second tale composes a sextet of overlapping soloists: “In the first set, each solo is interrupted by its successor: in the second, each interruption is re-continued, in order.” Another occurs in the 1970s detective story, in which a scientist sketches out a “model of time” just before the plane that he is riding in explodes: we exist within “an infinite matryoshka doll of painted moments,” he writes, each present shell encased inside a nest of virtual pasts (the pasts we create from memories, hearsay, fiction), and likewise encasing a nest a virtual futures (the futures we construct from wishes, prophecies, daydreams).
I prefer, however, to think of the narratives as building upon one another like a mountain until their reach the apex—the tale of young Valleyman Zachry, who spins his futuristic yarn in a creepy Twain-like vernacular—before descending down the other side and ending where they started with the nineteenth century journal. The idea of a mountain is akin to my experience of reading the book: on the climb up, I worked hard to put together the structure of the narratives and the overall cohesion of the book; on the descent, I was dizzy, following each tale to its individual denouement in the context of the overall story whose ending—the end of the civilized world, no less—I already knew.
In addition to their innovative structure, Mitchell uses the different narratives to play with genre. The ocean journey recounted by Adam Ewing in his journal is reminiscent of Defoe or Melville, while the 1970s “Luisa Rey” murder mystery reads like an airport suspense novel, and the latter two dystopian worlds borrow from the likes of Orwell, Huxley, Atwood, and (I am told though have not yet read) Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker.
This genre-jumping allows Mitchell to experiment with different rhythms and vernacular. My favorites are the corporate speak of the near-future slave narrative (where brands like a ford, a kodak, and a starbuck have replaced their generic counterparts a car, a photo, a cup of coffee), and the urban comedy of hapless British publisher Timothy Cavendish (in one particularly memorable scene Cavendish demands the unhelpful woman at the ticket counter “evolve problem-solving intelligence” and sell him a train ticket).
While Mitchell’s writing may at times border on the derivative, this seems precisely the point. Each story means much less in isolation; indeed, some would hardly qualify as literature. It is the context in which these narratives are placed that elevates their style and their meaning. (In any event, Mitchell’s borrowing can hardly be seen as objectionable in a literary climate in which Jonathan Safran Foer writes an entire book simply by cutting away words from another book, and French novelist Michel Houellebecq “recycles” whole passages from Wikipedia.)
The story line, “Half Lives: The First Luisa Rey Mystery,” is a prime example of how Mitchell uses the structure of the novel to add depth to his chosen subject matter. The narrative is, on its surface, rife with cliché and convenient plot lines—the plucky female journalist who is killed multiple times but never dies, the dogged hit man, the shadowy corporation whose greed threatens to destroy the world. Its simple tale is, however, much more moving when placed within the overall context of the book, in which the machines of science, big business and human greed grind onward toward a pre-determined, post-apocalyptic world.
The story line is, as well, the only among the six acknowledged as wholly fictional—in the subsequent narrative we learn that “Half Lives” is a manuscript written by one Hilary V. Hush and submitted for publication to Timothy Cavendish. It is therefore the outlier among the continuum of narratives, all the rest of which are presented as first-person accounts of “actual” events, which allows us to see more clearly the Borges-like interplay between fact and fiction, or to use the novel’s terms, the “actual past” and “actual future” and the “virtual past” and “virtual future.”
Finishing Cloud Atlas, I was left wondering why its obvious cleverness did not bother me more. It has none of the attributes that usually make a novel great in my eyes—Toni Morrison’s lyricism, Jonathan Franzen’s fully human characters, Michael Chabon’s and Jeffrey Eugenides’ historically epic plots. But it is, as I have already described, a novel that is greater than the sum of its parts.
As its core, I see the book as a reflection on the power of story and imagination. On the one hand, it is with stories that those who control the present rewrite the past and steer us toward the future they desire. Yet, even after science and technology have died, storytelling survives—in the form of the only remaining survivor of his tribe sitting around the campfire telling his progeny from whence they have come. As one character puts it, “Belief is both prize & battlefield.” Mitchell’s vision is both beautiful and frightening, and above all, absolutely vital.
There has been a lot of focus lately on Argentinian literature. Of the 22 writers on Granta’s Best of Young Spanish-Language Novelists, 8 are from Argentina — more than any other country. Last year, Argentina was the Guest of Honor at the Frankfurt Book Fair. And starting in April, Buenos Aires will begin its reign as the World Book Capital 2011.
Having spent the last four months in Buenos Aires writing and eating copious amounts of dulce de leche, I thought it would be the perfect time to start a reading challenge devoted to Argentinian literature.
The goal of Ficciones is simple: to read books written by Argentine authors (loosely defined as those writers who were born in Argentina or who spent a significant amount of their professional careers in the country). There are very few rules in this challenge, but the point is to read literature in translation (or in the original Spanish), so books originally written in English do not count.
Check out the Ficciones website for more information about the challenge and to sign up.
And now for the books I intend to read as part of the challenge. I am signing up in the “Porteño/a” category, which means that I am committing to read at least 6 books, 1 of which must be in Spanish. In keeping with my usual strategy for these reading challenges, I have tried to strike a relative balance between women and men and between younger and more established writers.
1. Manuel Puig, Kiss of the Spider Woman
2. Alan Pauls, The Past
3. Adolfo Bioy Casares, The Invention of Morel
4. Alicia Kozamen, Steps Under Water
5. Pola Oloixarac, Las Teorías Salvajes
6. Samanta Schweblin, Pájaros en la Boca
7. Julio Cortazar, Hopscotch
8. Elsa Osorio, My Name Is Light
I hope you will join me in discovering the literature of this amazing country.
Feel free to contact me through this website with any questions or suggestions about the challenge.