Wednesday, January 31, 2007

Start it and When it's Over, Finish It

The other day, I had the pleasure of interviewing Irish writer Colm Toibin for a profile I'm doing for Out Magazine. In person, Toibin turned out to be charming and witty, overflowing with wise and funny observations about life and writing, and in fact, I couldn't fit them all into the piece I wrote.

One thing he said has stuck with me. He was talking about a story he wanted to write and trying to figure out how to structure it. Finally, after two years of struggling, he came up with the following. "I thought fuck it, start the story at the beginning of the story and when it's over, just end it. Tell the fucking thing. No framing shit. No Calvino, no Borges, no being told by two different narrators, almost no flashbacks... and I do think I got it right for once."

Writers today are under a subtle but perceptible pressure to develop some kind of narrative gimmick, a telling trademark style that makes their writing unique and immediately identifiable. David Foster Wallace? He's the guy with the clever footnotes. Rick Moody? He writes long sentences punctuated with italics that pop up seemingly for no reason. Jonathan Safran Foer? He makes experimental writing reader-friendly, even poignant. The list goes on.

If you don't have a stylistic gimmick, it's helpful to have some kind of personal story to make your mark. Who can forget J. T. Leroy's shyness about public appearances? Or the fact that Zadie Smith was ONLY 23 when she wrote her first novel, or that Nick McDonnell was ONLY 17 when he wrote his novel Twelve, etc., etc.

These kinds of considerations have everything to do with publicity but very little to do with the business of writing, which is simply to choose your story that you need to tell and figure out the best way to tell it. The author as a person is free to vanish within the text, and it's perfectly acceptable, even honorable, for the author's hand to seem almost invisible.

Recently I've been reading the work of Jean Stafford (a former student gave me a book of her stories as a gift). What's remarkable to me about these radiant stories is the use of adjectives, the precision with word choice, and the intensity of the pain faintly palpable underneath the highly-polished surface of Stafford's writing. It's interesting to note that Stafford was married to the poet Robert Lowell and suffered from disease and depression most of her life, but it doesn't change the quality of her writing, which doesn't need pictures or footnotes or italics or words in capital letters to be powerful.

I wish that the people in our media who decide which books get attention and which books don't would start thinking more seriously about what makes for a groundbreaking work of literature. Today it seems that it isn't enough for a book to be well-written; a book has to also signal to readers and reviewers that it is well-written with a host of post-modern devices that in many cases are so showy that the book turns out to be less well-written as a direct result. But what about those writers who don't feel the need to imitate Calvino or Kafka or the latest spawn of literary imitators of W. G. Sebald? I love David Foster Wallace as much as anyone. But what about writers who commit the radical act of telling a story simply, starting at the start and finishing when it's over, with words instead of punctuation marks and graphics, with calm, steady voices instead of shrieking? They deserve a little attention too.

Monday, January 15, 2007

Martin Luther King Day Thoughts

For many of us it's an extra day off work or school. For our politicians, it's a chance to score some easy flattering news coverage by uttering the usual noble messages about racism. And for a few of us, Martin Luther King Day is a holiday with meaning.

My own view is that it's a shame we as a nation have missed the chance to make more of this holiday than we do. Somehow we have this notion that race is an issue that affects only black people, gender is for females, sexual orientation for gays and lesbians, ethnicity for Latinos and perhaps Asians, and the list goes on.

But of course, white people do have a race, males have a gender, Christians have a religion, and straight people have a sexual orientation. The culture of the majority may be more visible to the minority, but it's still there, and worth more attention than we usually pay these matters.

Furthermore, as the newly-elected Lieutenant Governor of New York pointed out today, racism is a white problem, just as sexual discrimination is a male problem, and religious discrimination is a Christian problem. When we needlessly marginalize anyone in our society, we miss out on the contributions that person may have made to our community, had he or she been allowed to become a full member.

Nowhere in literature is this lesson more powerfully evoked than in a novel I tend to advocate reading every few months or so, called Three Cities by Sholem Asch. In what is probably the definitive look at the Russian Revolution, Asch describes (through a fictional narrative) how a variety of regimes missed out on a chance to reform the Russian empire into a fair and thriving country for all its citizens because the suggestions of a few smart, capable people who happened to be Jewish were ignored.

For more on the dangers of needlessly marginalizing people for reasons of religion, nationality, or politics, we need look no further than our own present regime's conduct of the war in Iraq. As Jonathan Alter of Newsweek reported on MSNBC, potential candidates for participating in the reconstruction of Iraq were asked, "Do you support Roe vs. Wade?" Why a person's stance on abortion has anything to do with their capability to help rebuild Iraq makes no more sense than why (under this administration) several of our few fluent Arabic speakers in the military were removed from their jobs because they happened to be gay. Nor does it make any sense to disallow companies from countries who did not participate in the invasion of Iraq from participating in the reconstruction, simply by virtue of nationality.

We may never know if our current misadventure in Iraq may have been less of a disaster if our administration had included the best people for the job at each stage of the invasion and reconstruction, rather than the people who seemed most likely to hold views and/or come from backgrounds most similar to the people in the executive branch of our government. What we do know for sure is that the current cast of characters in charge do not seem to have learned any lessons from their mistakes. Then again, have any of us learned any lessons about tolerance from history? What are we doing in our own lives, not just on Martin Luther King Day, but every day, to see people clearly as they are instead of as the preconceived stereotypes we seem to prefer them to be.

Tuesday, January 02, 2007

Top Ten Lists

It's that dreary time of year when magazines and newspapers get into the business of ranking works of art. Imagine applying such a system to nature. "That tree is the best one I've seen all year!" "I really liked that river, but it wasn't as good as the one I saw last month." "Gee, that sky is such a disaster. It's the worst one I've ever been under."

To me, talking about a movie or a book in this way is equally absurd. When I go to a theater or museum or when I open a book, I don't think to myself, "Now, where will I rank this on my year-end list of reading or viewing experiences?" And if Pedro Almodovar's last movie was the best or the worst movie I saw between the dates of January 1 and December 31 2006, who cares? And five years from now, who will remember? I read, watch, and listen because I want to have an intense experience that will leave an impression. Excellence? I suppose that's nice, but I don't mind a movie or painting with flaws, as long as they're interesting flaws.

This list-making business reaches unparalleled heights of stupidity when it comes to books because there simply aren't enough days in the year to read all the books that come out in one year. Supposing you read a book a week all year long. That would mean you'd tackled fifty books out of all the ones that had been published that year (assuming that you hadn't read any books that came out earlier than the current year). Supposing you read two books a week. You'd have one hundred. Now think of how many books come out in a calendar year (a number that's somewhere in the thousands). How can anyone with a straight face claim to have read all these thousands and from these have culled a list of the Top Ten?

So rather than give you my top ten of 2006, I'm going to list here, in no particular order, some books I've read this past year that made their mark on me for one reason or another, listed in no particular order. I have no idea where The Radetzky March ranks in relation to The Mayor of Casterbridge or Veronica, but I won't forget any of these three books or the others below any time soon:

The Leopard by Tommaso di Lampedusa: I was (understandably) on a bit of an Italian lit kick this year, and this novel, about an aristocratic family on the decline in Sicily, is a classic that doesn't feel the least bit musty.

The Day of the Owl by Leonardo Sciascia: Continuing my Sicilian tour, I turned to this gripping novella about the mafia, fascism, and the culture of corruption.

The Radetzky March by Joseph Roth: A moving evocation of an Austrian dynasty trying to cling to old values while the world is changing all around them. One of the great works of European literature.

The Mayor of Casterbridge by Thomas Hardy: This book begins smashingly, with a man selling his wife and child because they're getting on his nerves (a practice that apparently was not uncommon in early nineteenth century England). Does this guy know how to tell a story or what?

Veronica by Mary Gaitskill: Gaitskill uses language with the precision of a stonecutter. An intense and moving experience.

The Last of Her Kind by Sigrid Nunez: This is a fascinating read about the sixties, sex, and class. Written as a faux-memoir, this book has the immediacy of non-fiction with all the craft we expect of a great novel.

Absurdistan by Gary Shteyngart: Funny, smart, and supremely necessary for our times.

Never Let Me Go, An Artist in the Floating World, A Pale View of Hills by Kazuo Ishiguro: Reading a bunch of this guy's work at once made me realize that Ishiguro baasically only does one thing in his fiction, but what a thing that he does! I can't think of another writer who uses unreliable narration with such confidence and deftness. These books made me want to run to my notebook and get to work.

The Captain's Fire by J. S. Marcus: A brilliant book you may not have heard of. If you like experimental fiction on historical themes like W. G. Sebald's books, this novel is for you.

Twelve Caesers by Petronius: I never thought I'd be interested in Roman history, but this chatty, gossipy, downright bitchy book had me enthralled. These guys make George W. Bush seem like a saint. I'll never forget the emperor who lost his grip on power because he stopped to tie his shoelace.

There's a start. I'm sure there are others I've forgotten to mention. Feel free to chime in with your recommendations.