Literature goes meta

A relatively recent New Yorker article by Louis Menand reviewed James English's The Economy of Prestige and Pascale Casanova's "rather brilliant" The World Republic of Letters. Both discuss the interplay of the global literary economy and the system of awards that has grown up around it. They seek to understand trends that make works of world literature transcendent, whether they eschew place with a (Western) null environment or embrace a local and exotic place and culture, using the particular to get at universal truths. And how literary awards denote value (but in a strange way only because there is the possibility for argument over which works were actually more deserving). It was a little complicated, and I read it a while ago. But it's worth taking a look at. For example:

Of course, as English and Casanova would agree, books are read on this side of the looking glass. We are ourselves products of the culture whose products we consume, and we can’t help taking it, for the most part, on its own terms. Still, their very strong books belong to a general challenge to the usual practices of literary pedagogy. Literature departments are almost always organized by language and country, but Casanova’s book gives us many reasons to doubt whether this captures the way literature really works. She has an excellent account, for example, of the international influence of Faulkner—once his novels had been translated into French. ... Faulkner was the novelist of the American South who demonstrated to novelists of the global South how to represent a marginal community in an advanced literary style, a style that could gain the respect of “Paris.”
English’s and Casanova’s books also challenge the conventional “shock of recognition” idea of influence, which imagines literary history as one soul speaking to another across time and space. The soul may speak, but the international context is the reason it is heard.
...
Literature is conventionally taught as a person-to-person aesthetic experience: the writer (or the poem) addressing the reader. Teachers cut out English’s middlemen, the people who got the poem from the writer to us, apparently confirming his point that we have to deny the economics of cultural value in order to preserve the aesthetics (emphasis mine).

With the examples given by the article (and I guess by English and Casanova) this makes for an interesting exploration of how we assign certain works (A Million Little Pieces anyone?) value in our society.

Books and iPods: a marriage made in heaven

Senior technology correspondent and reading partner Michael officially joins the Erin's Library team with a report on yet another way in which technology is changing reading.

I've been listening to an audio recording of P.G. Wodehouse's Psmith in the City, which is very enjoyable. More about the book below, but in this case, the medium is the message. I downloaded the book from the LibriVox in the form of mp3 files that I listen to through my iPod on the way to work. Actually, I've only downloaded the first 24 chapters (they come in one to three-chapter files). LibriVox is a nonprofit, community run website where amateurs can post readings of public-domain books. Many of the books, including Psmith are collective projects, in which many different readers submit chapters. I was a bit surprised that the changing voices and reading styles didn't bother me very much, although some are certainly better than others. The biggest difficulty I've had so far was when one of the files started stopped midway through. I'm not sure if the problem was with the LibriVox file or iTunes. In the event, I followed the link at the top to the text of the book and read the two missing chapters there, then picked up again with the book.

Besides their price (free), a benefit of listening to books from LibriVox is that the files are plain mp3 files that can be played on any computer or mp3 player. Most, if not all of the audio book companies that sell books for use on mp3 players use a form of digital rights management (DRM) that restricts their use to certain kinds of players and a limited number of computers/mp3 players.

Currently, the LibriVox catalog is limited. There are 16 complete books, 12 short works (or story collections), and 13 works of poetry (there are also two works in languages other than English). There are significantly more projects underway. Only works in the public domain--basically books published before 1923--are allowed.

Psmith is about a couple of young men in England who, for different reasons, go to work for a bank in London instead of university. The premise is thinly drawn, but the scenes at the bank are great and show that office life has not changed very much in a century. Psmith--I'm not sure what the P is for, maybe it is just supposed to be funny--is a lazy and spoiled rich kid who believes he can entertain enyone by talking to them. Psmith's friend Mike, who's father has gone bankrupt, is Psmith's straight man, a harder worker who is along for the ride as Psmith schemes ways to make their life at the bank easier. Psmith succeeds in winning over the notoriously strict head of the stamps department by discussing Manchester United with him; he is less successful, so far, at winning over the higher ups.

I'm intrigued. I love the idea of having books in the commons, available to listen to as well as to read. One day, if we ever have the equipment, we'd like to add a couple items to the LibriVox library. I am thinking of stories by Ivan Bunin. If you have any ideas, send them along.

Silas Marner

While the rest of my book club has plowed through over 400 pages (i.e. half) of Middlemarch, I larked my way through Silas Marner. At 183 pages in the Penguin Classics edition, it was practically a short story.

And George Eliot is just as good at this length. Her characters are incredibly rich and complex - I feel as though she must have known precisely how they would act in any given situation, not just in those that compose the plot. However, we don't know them perfectly; (perhaps as a consequence of a century and a half) some of their inner life remains a mystery.

Silas Marner is a pretty downtrodden fellow, so pitiable that you wonder how he will hold together an entire novel. And yet he does (albeit a short one). Fate works in mysterious ways over the course of the novel. And while the plot ties together neatly, it doesn't seem contrived.

There are times when the going gets a little rough. Some of Eliot's tangents are less useful than others, and her keen ear for provincial dialect makes for a couple pages of incomprehensible dialogue. But keep going through those pages - it's worth it.

Mark your calendars

I recently decided to expand my reading list. Having left DC for my hometown, I realized that while I don't have to give up Wonkette, I should go Hollywood too. So my regular blog checking now includes LAist and LA Observed. I'm still getting the feel for them, and also wouldn't mind other suggestions for LA blogs.

But the positives of the decision were immediately clear when I found out that the LA Times has announced the dates for this year's Book Festival. (Last year's was a blast.) From their site, I discovered that the festival will take place April 29-30 and that it will feature

131,000+ Passionate Readers
370+ Famous Authors
300+ Popular Exhibitors
900+ Loyal Volunteers
6 Exciting Stages
2 Interactive Children’s Areas

Mmm, a little taste of heaven at UCLA. (Another taste of heaven can be found down the hill in Westwood Village, at Diddy Reese.) Hope to see you there.

George Eliot as Prophetess

I'm currently reading Silas Marner, a stand-in for the excellent Middlemarch, which is this month's book club selection and which I've already read.

I'm still gathering my thoughts - in general I can say that I love how richly she develops all of her characters, and that nineteenth-century provincial England is surprisingly interesting - but I wanted to share a line that popped up early in the novel.

Writing of superstitions, medicine, and outsiders, Eliot writes:

There were women in Raveloe, at that present time, who had worn one of the Wise Woman's little bags round their necks, and, in consequence, had never had an idiot child, as Ann Coulter had.

Is it wrong that I found that so amusing?

"Surviving Hitler's War and Stalin's Peace"

Earlier this week, I finished Ester and Ruzya, Masha Gessen's account of the strong women who survived war, anti-Semitism, and other upheaval in the Soviet 20th century to become best friends and give birth to the son and daughter that would become her parents. The native Pole Ester and Muscovite Ruzya are opposites in many ways: their views on their religion and the Jewish state, their political histories (though both are silently opposed to the Soviet regime), and their personalities. But both face the challenges of retaining a moral sense of self while struggling to survive. And both lose their life loves at a young age (although they remain sexually and romantically active) - their true soul mates during their adulthoods are one another.

Gessen is, unsurprisingly, sympathetic to her grandmothers; she forgives them moral compromises that they still question. While they didn't keep their pasts secret as she was growing up, as a child she couldn't comprehend the full meaning of their stories, and as a teenager her family emigrated to the US. Not until Perestroika was she reunited with her grandmothers; the fall of the Soviet Union brought her back to them for good.

This is a lovely book for Soviet history buffs like myself, and a fascinating look at Jewish life behind the Iron Curtain, in all its contradictions. But it's also a rich memoir and tale of family - and deserves to find a wider audience than it likely will.

Ana's crossover bid in jeopardy

As Wonkette, Ana Marie Cox gained a reputation as Washington's dirtiest online gossip mongerer, broke a minor sex "scandal," fell in love with the sweetest thing ever, and made fun of an assortment of the "famous for DC." She was also amazing at liveblogging speeches and debates.

She had some great material to work with. Apparently, truth and speculation are funnier than fiction. her upcoming novel, Dog Days, for which she essentially ditched Wonkette, is getting seriously blasted. The L.A. Times took aim over the weekend, with Diana Wagman's review:

Why couldn't I just get with the wisecracking, confidential tone of this book and have fun? Why did I find it so offensive?

She continues with what is supposed to be a reason she'd love the book, but it seems to me to be the reason she'd probably hate it regardless:

Like Melanie, I was a 20ish aide in Washington, D.C., who worked for the losing side in a presidential race. I too can tell anecdotes about Ted Kennedy and Bob Shrum. I was also inappropriately sleeping with someone on another staff and drinking too much and traveling across the country day after day in the same old tired suit.
...
I object to people who are celebrities in another field selling novels and getting lots of attention — including reviews in papers like this one — they don't deserve.

Am I the only one who thinks she sounds a little jealous? Still, when Wagner writes that the novel is "predictable" and "mean-spirited," I can believe that it's true. Which makes me sad. Almost as sad as knowing that Cox has handed over the Wonkette mantle for good.

Ew...

For the link, I have to credit Daily Kos (which I almost never check - it must be serendipity?). But check this out from the Boston Globe. I feel really truly ill. I am also rethinking my occasional pastime of collecting aged books. Who knows what they may contain...

Bros. K - LIVE

Russian literature and the theatre make for a nice Saturday evening. We checked out the local Circle X Theatre Company's production of The Brothers Karamazov. The plot is full of love and hate and sex and violence, and all of this leads to both a rollicking good time and a fair amount of overacting. (Forgiveable.) The set was kind of fun - very minimal, with Russian "graffiti" carved or chalked in. Among the phrases that appeared multiple times - part 2, sinner, heart. Most of the cast members looked just right. Alyosha looked ridiculously Russian (although darker than I had once pictures); Dmitri was nice and swarthy; Ivan was picture-perfect; and Katya appropriately goody-goody. Grushenka was played by an understudy, one of the producers, and the regular actress probably is a better fit. Anthony Clarvoe's adaptation of the Dostoevsky novel departs from the original fairly often, with varying levels of success, and some of the character's line rang false - too anachronistic. But all in all, live theater rocks, and seeing the play made me want to re-read the book. Which is never a bad thing.

New Rules on Kashmir, or an unfunny attempt to condense holiday reviews

I read two books over the holidays, plus a fair amount of various other material. Both were enjoyable; both didn't make too many demands, fortunate due to family, illness, travel, yummy food, and presents.

Bill Maher's New Rules (which I hear is taken from a bit he does on his show), was a clever series of small things that he would change about our society. One example is that presidents must stop referring to "Washington insiders" - since they have become, by virtue of their job, the ultimate insider. There were other funnier ones (and ones I disagreed with too) but at this point I can't remember them well enough to report. Never mind. They are a great idea as a recurring part of his show - probably more enjoyable than Letterman's Top 10 lists - and since I don't have cable and I go to bed early, reading a compilation of them now and then works for me.

(Another point about Bill Maher that makes me feel good about myself. One problem with the political climate in this country is that people who care about politics tend to reinforce their beliefs by reading authors who share their views. I am totally guilty of this, and when I do read "the other side," I tend to choose those who I can essentially discount. Bill Maher, as I've mentioned in an earlier post, is a little complicated, and therefore challenges me a little more.)

The other reading choice was Salman Rushdie's Shalimar the Clown. My favorite thing about this book was that one major storyline occurred in LA in the early '90s. And not just LA, but practically my neighborhood. The day I finished the book, Michael and I, driving to Westwood, were able to pinpoint the block on which India Ophuls lived. And Rushdie likes nothing like filling his novels with scads of popular references and details. I felt right at home. (Michael has said he finds this obnoxious, which I guess I can see and why I liked the alternate plot which was...) Kashmir in the decades following partition. Identities shift from being Kashmiri to Muslim or Hindu (and back) - and violence, of course, must follow. It's a good history. The wars over Kashmir and the Israeli-Arab wars during the Cold War era are strange to me - I know they happened, but because I know so little of them, and they were so far away, and they didn't lead to nuclear holocaust, they seem a bit unreal.

So the broad strokes and the little details were good. What I didn't like was the love story. Which might have been my fault. Turns out there wasn't really a love story (the closest thing was between India and her father). Some tales of lust, but the ruling emotion was hatred. There was a LOT of hatred. That's hard to read, even if it is faithful to the tragedy of Kashmir. I could have used a little hope.

Now I'm caught up enough for a fresh start in 2006. I should be posting weekly, so hold me to it if I start flaking.

A final thought: I haven't reviewed them as a whole, but newspapers are good, guys, even when they're imperfect. Keep reading them.

New Year's Resolutions

1. Try to make some effort at remembering that I have a blog.

2. Figure out how to transfer archives off the main page of Erin's Library so that it's not so bloody long. -CHECK-

3. Read more (incl. a return to Russian history, a little intellectual history, recent Nobel winners, cheesy chick lit, and one really old classic).

4. Consider moving to the larger ("normal") font size.

So Happy 2006, any readers that still have faith that I am posting. I will try to win you back.

Envy

...by Kathryn Harrison. That's the title of the mystery novel. Envy. This is a freaky book; I can't think of any other succinct description. Harrison goes inside the head of Will Moreland, a forty-something psychoanalyst who is himself dealing with: the death of his young son, sexual unease between him and his wife, an absentee twin, a sex-crazed patient, his twenty-fifth college reunion, his father's new art career and new mistress, and surprising news from an old lover. And boy, it all fits together with quite a bang.

It's a bit much really, but she ties Will's life together so neatly that it's hard to begrudge Harrison her fun.

A couple quotes:

Will pondering: "I worry that my tendency to insist upon connections leads me to find significance where there isn't any. Create meanings that don't exist outside of my consciousness."

On his father: "Every once in a while his father makes an observation meant to prove he's not out of touch, leaving Will feeling less impressed than protective of whatever inspires this earnestness, because this is the quality that's most palpable when his father produces what he believes to be evidence of his being hip ... and it's the same quality that insures he'll never be hip."

In my last post, I spoke about how the novel was both cerebral and sexy. The sexiness also has a very creepy edge to it. So it's a dark book, but then again, envy is a dark emotion. And the envy that turns out to be the driving force behind this plot is as dark as it gets.

Teaser

I'm about halfway through a quite fascinating novel. I'm really intrigued by it, and not quite sure where it's going to take me. I like that. And because the book itself is a bit of a tease, I'm not going to tell you the title yet.

It's a very cerebral book, with a lot of discussions. This makes sense, seeing as how the main character is a psychologist. On the other hand, another overarching theme of the book is sex. Will (that's his name, a hint) is utterly consumed with thoughts of sex, but attempts to intellectualize the obsession. Analysis is in its own way pretty sexy. And everyone around him is as thought-provoking as he is.

I've been reading with a raised eyebrow. I like that.

The Curious Incident

This month's book club selection was Mark Haddon's The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time, an autistic teen's tale of solving mysteries both big and small. The title refers to the event that kicks off the action, Christopher's discovery of his neighbor's stabbed dog. After being wrongly suspected of the killing, he vows to solve the mystery. He finds himself dealing with the more mysterious doings of the human heart.

Haddon, who worked with autistic children, shows what I have read called an acute understanding of the autistic mind. And Christopher is a compelling and fascinating character. Sympathetic to be sure, but even reading events through his eyes, you can see how he must be a handful for the adults around him. Achieving mutual understanding is a painstaking and ongoing process.

I haven't fully fleshed out another observation, and so it may sound ridiculous, but I also felt this novel evoked magical realism. Seen through Christopher's eyes, the whole world is a little fantastical.

That's it for commentary now, but if anything comes out of the book club, I'll report it as well. And there are plenty of new library books awaiting me, so posting may pick up in the next few weeks, despite the holiday madness.

I skipped a book

Despite composing an entry in my head while walking to the office, I completely forgot to post on a book that I read last week. I blame tryptophan blues.

The book was Susan Vreeland's Girl in Hyacinth Blue, another of the guilty-pleasure-art-historical-fiction novels that I keep coming across and reading as soothing and romantic intervals. This one chronicles the history of a Vermeer, beginning in the present day and journeying backwards to its germination. What you end up with is a very different conception of Vermeer - and "the artist" in general - than in the more famous Girl with a Pearl Earring. (For example, this has what I see as a more realistic view of how Vermeer must have felt about his wife, considering the passel of children they had. On the other hand, the relationship between Vermeer and Griet was far more delicious to read.)

The main story was the impact of the painting on people's lives, specifically why an array of owners felt that they couldn't live without it. Each found what it was they were searching for in the girl. It reminded me that art is a dialogue between the product and the viewer.

So while not the most important or memorable of novels, a sweet way to spend a little bit of time during a busy holiday season...