I get enamored with eras too easily. I imagine this happens with anybody who reads a lot of historical books, once you dip your toe into a certain area of the pool, the temptation to plunge in headfirst comes fast. My fascinations include delusions of belonging to that era, throwing myself in the narrative, so to speak. I love reading about the first 30 year period of the last century; have read more books about Theodore Roosevelt than any other American historical figure, count F. Scott Fitzgerald as one of my favorite authors, enjoy watching early cinema from that era, including some silent movies. If I was actually able to stomach music made before 1990, I would have probably become a fan of Jazz and big band music by now. We all need something to be parochial about, I guess. The funny part about this, is that I am a terrible fit for that time. My bouts of anti-socialness would not go over well with the Flapper-age, and I'm pretty sure that if I had met Fitzgerald, I would have hated him for being the pompous dandy he so eloquently writes about. But, I don't think about that too much, just going where my internal compass points.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
DFW Rocks... (and makes me sick)
I just finished Brief Interviews with Hideous Men: Stories, by David Foster Wallace.
Wallace killed himself at a fairly young age, and the amount of writing he produced is amazing. The quality is staggering. But, if you read too much of his writing, you will begin to see his suicide as something completely predictable.
I have never read a more talented writer. His pure ability is unmatched by even the masters (provided you can stomach his style). He seems intent on mastering every possible writing stunt and he finds ways to make use of every possible writing tool.
As much as I love his writing, his content will mess with your head. And, this particular book has been really messing with me. Consider the Lobster, also a compilation of stories, articles and such, was so much lighter and more enjoyable (provided you can tolerate the most in-depth and artistically-written analysis of grammar and Dostoevsky ever produced by man kind).
I think this book should have been titled This is Some Dark Shit, by David Foster Wallace. It should say something that I went back to War & Peace for a break. And Tolstoy was absolutely a breath of fresh air. Tolstoy is never easier to read than following David Foster Wallace.
Every book of his fatigues me. I love his books, but by the end of any of them, I'm just worn out. This one utterly exhausted me because of the topics.
So, what did he write about? In no particular order (and not all-inclusive):
-- A father who secretly loathes his son for intruding on his life, manipulating his wife and basically severing his relationship with her;
-- a sexual predator;
-- a story called "the Depressed Person" which literally follows a borderline personality over the edge to such an amazing degree that you won't know to even close your mouth while reading it and won't acknowledge the world for a solid hour after you finish it. Seriously, this story is riveting and ruinous. His writing mirrors the descent and by the end his sentences go for pages as he illustrates the logical clutter of a panic-stricken mind. Let's just say the illustration is so vivid, and its effects so strong, that you will feel as though his suicide (with such a personal insight into such mental workings) makes complete sense and was really a mercy-killing. It may be a work of fiction, but no mentally-stable person could ever pull this from imagination.
-- a "pop quiz" which morphs from pop quiz into an essay about the manipulation of readers through the use of a pop quiz (designed to make you give a particular type of attention); followed by his admitted and complete manipulation of you the reader; followed by a moral discussion of the propriety of that trick; and you finish it feeling completely used as a reader and yet apologized to and ... just... weird. It's like he's screwing with you from the grave. Eerie as all hell.
-- a story titled "Suicide as a sort of present." I'll just say it's another gut punch.
I've left out much, but I think you get the idea.
So, why would you read David Foster Wallace? Good question, because this doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement.
Well, because he was completely and totally brilliant. Just don't read this book. Read Consider the Lobster or A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, but not Brief Interviews with Hideous Men.
I'm supposed to read Infinite Jest, which is considered his masterpiece, but I need a break. I'll get to that one later. To be honest, I'm not sure I want to get stuck in his mind for 800+ pages. We'll see.
As for this book, ruinous as it was to my psyche, there were still brilliant lines and concepts. So, I'll give a little taste.
Some favorite lines...
"...sad near-pink color of bad candy."
-- Just a small example of his unique descriptions.
"People's psychological dynamics are fascinating - that a subject's first, unconscious concern is what it might be about her that might prompt such a proposal, might lead a man to think such a thing might be possible."
-- Analysis of a man who asks after every third date if she wants to be tied up.
"eyes resemble two enormous raw cigar-burns in an acrylic blanket..."
-- Again, just a neat description.
"For one it's perilously close to 'Do you like me? Please like me,' which you know quite well that 99% of all the interhuman manipulation and bullshit gamesmanship that goes on goes on precisely because the idea of saying this sort of thing straight out is regarded as somehow obscene. In fact one of the very last few interpersonal taboos we have is this kind of obscenely naked direct interrogation of somebody else. It looks pathetic and desperate. That's how it'll look to the reader. And it will have to. There's no way around it."
-- This is from the story where he literally screws around with you, the reader.
"(The memory of this paralyzed feeling would astound her later in life, when she was a very different person.)"
-- Seriously, his insight into people is amazing.
"That one's own wife might judge you deficient simply for remaining the man she married. Was I the only one not told?"
-- The father's deathbed confession of hating his son for being born.
"Who could - where was it determined that this sort of thing is acceptable, that such a creature must be not only tolerated no but soothed, actually placated as she was on her knees doing, tenderly, in gross contradiction to the unacceptability of what was going on. What sort of madness is this?"
-- That father's description of the coddling his wife did for their son. He was not given a voice in rearing the child without such coddling and his pent-up rage over this led to hatred for his son.
Finally, DFW will outsmart your dictionary. Many of the words he uses are not even in there. Not just a few, either. Here are a few of the kinds of words he uses casually. Most are in the dictionary, but I've had to really dig for some definitions. Either read his stuff on an e-reader or with a dictionary not two feet away. Do not try otherwise. You've been warned. Examples:
otiose; coprophagous; antediluvian; sedulously; insouciantly; solipsistic (he uses this word like 4 times a book and why not? It's a great word); Onanistic; lugubrious; nomological; katexic; lapidary; sybaritic; "piacular recompense"; Nehruesque; sapropel; thanatotic; atavistic; "eccrine tang"; and Shibboleth (to name but some).
Nine of those words are not found by this blog's spellchecker. I'm just saying...
Like I said... you WILL need a dictionary. You might also want to rid yourself of sharp objects... you know, just in case.
Wallace killed himself at a fairly young age, and the amount of writing he produced is amazing. The quality is staggering. But, if you read too much of his writing, you will begin to see his suicide as something completely predictable.
I have never read a more talented writer. His pure ability is unmatched by even the masters (provided you can stomach his style). He seems intent on mastering every possible writing stunt and he finds ways to make use of every possible writing tool.
As much as I love his writing, his content will mess with your head. And, this particular book has been really messing with me. Consider the Lobster, also a compilation of stories, articles and such, was so much lighter and more enjoyable (provided you can tolerate the most in-depth and artistically-written analysis of grammar and Dostoevsky ever produced by man kind).
I think this book should have been titled This is Some Dark Shit, by David Foster Wallace. It should say something that I went back to War & Peace for a break. And Tolstoy was absolutely a breath of fresh air. Tolstoy is never easier to read than following David Foster Wallace.
Every book of his fatigues me. I love his books, but by the end of any of them, I'm just worn out. This one utterly exhausted me because of the topics.
So, what did he write about? In no particular order (and not all-inclusive):
-- A father who secretly loathes his son for intruding on his life, manipulating his wife and basically severing his relationship with her;
-- a sexual predator;
-- a story called "the Depressed Person" which literally follows a borderline personality over the edge to such an amazing degree that you won't know to even close your mouth while reading it and won't acknowledge the world for a solid hour after you finish it. Seriously, this story is riveting and ruinous. His writing mirrors the descent and by the end his sentences go for pages as he illustrates the logical clutter of a panic-stricken mind. Let's just say the illustration is so vivid, and its effects so strong, that you will feel as though his suicide (with such a personal insight into such mental workings) makes complete sense and was really a mercy-killing. It may be a work of fiction, but no mentally-stable person could ever pull this from imagination.
-- a "pop quiz" which morphs from pop quiz into an essay about the manipulation of readers through the use of a pop quiz (designed to make you give a particular type of attention); followed by his admitted and complete manipulation of you the reader; followed by a moral discussion of the propriety of that trick; and you finish it feeling completely used as a reader and yet apologized to and ... just... weird. It's like he's screwing with you from the grave. Eerie as all hell.
-- a story titled "Suicide as a sort of present." I'll just say it's another gut punch.
I've left out much, but I think you get the idea.
So, why would you read David Foster Wallace? Good question, because this doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement.
Well, because he was completely and totally brilliant. Just don't read this book. Read Consider the Lobster or A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, but not Brief Interviews with Hideous Men.
I'm supposed to read Infinite Jest, which is considered his masterpiece, but I need a break. I'll get to that one later. To be honest, I'm not sure I want to get stuck in his mind for 800+ pages. We'll see.
As for this book, ruinous as it was to my psyche, there were still brilliant lines and concepts. So, I'll give a little taste.
Some favorite lines...
"...sad near-pink color of bad candy."
-- Just a small example of his unique descriptions.
"People's psychological dynamics are fascinating - that a subject's first, unconscious concern is what it might be about her that might prompt such a proposal, might lead a man to think such a thing might be possible."
-- Analysis of a man who asks after every third date if she wants to be tied up.
"eyes resemble two enormous raw cigar-burns in an acrylic blanket..."
-- Again, just a neat description.
"For one it's perilously close to 'Do you like me? Please like me,' which you know quite well that 99% of all the interhuman manipulation and bullshit gamesmanship that goes on goes on precisely because the idea of saying this sort of thing straight out is regarded as somehow obscene. In fact one of the very last few interpersonal taboos we have is this kind of obscenely naked direct interrogation of somebody else. It looks pathetic and desperate. That's how it'll look to the reader. And it will have to. There's no way around it."
-- This is from the story where he literally screws around with you, the reader.
"(The memory of this paralyzed feeling would astound her later in life, when she was a very different person.)"
-- Seriously, his insight into people is amazing.
"That one's own wife might judge you deficient simply for remaining the man she married. Was I the only one not told?"
-- The father's deathbed confession of hating his son for being born.
"Who could - where was it determined that this sort of thing is acceptable, that such a creature must be not only tolerated no but soothed, actually placated as she was on her knees doing, tenderly, in gross contradiction to the unacceptability of what was going on. What sort of madness is this?"
-- That father's description of the coddling his wife did for their son. He was not given a voice in rearing the child without such coddling and his pent-up rage over this led to hatred for his son.
Finally, DFW will outsmart your dictionary. Many of the words he uses are not even in there. Not just a few, either. Here are a few of the kinds of words he uses casually. Most are in the dictionary, but I've had to really dig for some definitions. Either read his stuff on an e-reader or with a dictionary not two feet away. Do not try otherwise. You've been warned. Examples:
otiose; coprophagous; antediluvian; sedulously; insouciantly; solipsistic (he uses this word like 4 times a book and why not? It's a great word); Onanistic; lugubrious; nomological; katexic; lapidary; sybaritic; "piacular recompense"; Nehruesque; sapropel; thanatotic; atavistic; "eccrine tang"; and Shibboleth (to name but some).
Nine of those words are not found by this blog's spellchecker. I'm just saying...
Like I said... you WILL need a dictionary. You might also want to rid yourself of sharp objects... you know, just in case.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Throwing to myself
I came home tuesday evening to find the newest version of the Madden video game sitting on the tv stand, which can only mean that Allen stayed up for the midnight release. This works out well for him because, A. he works to 11:30pm anyway, and B. While I do not handle the type of sketchy, pimpled youngsters who are tripping on a delirious cocktail of Mountain Dew, weed, and hormones, those people are Allen's people. As much as they could be anybody's people. The release of Madden is another signal in the buzz that is, if only in my head, screaming about the return of football. Soon, the weekends will be dominated by who's playing, what time, and where are we going to watch it?
It started with the football magazines. When I started reading, much earlier than anyone expected, I was spoonfed with my Mother's collection of children's books. She was a schoolteacher, and so acquired the habit of picking up any brightly-covered cutsy story she found interesting, a habit that continues to this day years after retiring from education. Dad wanted to leave his mark, but I was never interested in his automobile rags, even after his tales of race-car driving at East Tampa Bay speedway. But every sunday, after church and the extended family meal, there would be a gathering around the TV for the games, a few male adults, and one very small guest, in rapt attention, continually taking census of who was on the screen. "Who dat?" "That's Ricky Bell" "Who dat?" "That's Doug Williams. He's our quarterback" "and dat?" "That's Lee Roy Selmon. He's our best player" "I like im daddy" And that why he came home one day, with a glossy magazine, full of pictures of violent collisions and frozen mid-celebrations. I scoured every inch, but my favorite was the back cover, which showed all the helmets from every team, in all colors, like a candy display. Dad pointed towards the first few, sounding out the names, then backed away in mock exasperation when I waved at him, assuring that I could read it myself.
By the time I was 10, I was in Colorado, and taking weekly trips to the library. While I picked up books like "The Phantom Tollbooth", there was always the sports books in the youth section. There was a section, not exceptionally large or easy to find, but I found it. About a couple dozen books, maybe 25 pages each, every book focused on one football team's history, packed with black and white pics, which is where I learned about old-time players like Dick Butkus, Johnny Unitas, and Jim Brown. It was where I learned that you're supposed to hate the Raiders, because everybody hates the Raiders. I learned that apparently I was the only one who liked Tampa Bay's old Orange Uniforms, and no matter how many times people told me those were hideous, I argued, because those were my first love, so how could they be ugly? And I learned that, except for one magical year, the Broncos were largely terrible in their existence. Which was interesting to me, watching a young quarterback who seemed destined to change that history, even if by himself.
But the real find was at the annual Scholastic Book Sale at Monroe Elementary that year. My mother, piles of books weighing down her arms, was at the counter, asking if I had found a book for myself. I sheepishly held up a book that I can remember now with clarity. Small, but thick, pale blue cover with Joe Montana tossing a football over the heads of two Miami Dolphins. The title, in bubbled white letters, said "Super Bowls I-20: A Complete History." The book went over every game in detail, complete with full box score, and I must have read it 30 times. I memorized every game, every detail I could, to the point where I could watch the Super Bowl Highlight shows, and I knew that this was where Max McGee blew the game open with a big td reception, or how Jackie Smith dropped the easy touchdown catch that doomed the Cowboys against the Steelers, or when Jake Scott was MVP for the Dolphins in their SB VII win that clinched the perfect season. And then, with all these moments in my head, I would take the book outside, later to be reinforced with duct tape, and in our backyard, reply the whole games by myself. Throwing the ball up and running underneath it, making my own commentary as I dove for the ball.
"AND WHAT A CATCH FOR LYNN SWANN!!!!!!!!"
I like to read a couple of gridiron books before the season starts every year, and this year I chose David Maraniss's great biography of Vince Lombardi, "When Pride Mattered". Lombardi, one of the great coaches, and the namesake of the Super Bowl trophy, made for a great story, and a sad one, as football swallowed his life and his family, throwing his wife in depressions and taking precedent over his children. The other book, which I almost done with, is the excellent "It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium", by John Ed Bradley. Bradley does not talk about his career as an all-conference center for the 1979 LSU Tigers, but the aftermath, when he decides to forget about football and focus on his writing career (Bradley has written several novels; his most famous is Tupelo Nights). But he finds it difficult to break into writing, and even more challenging to let go of the sport that has been his life and family for a decade. He's desperate to not be the old man who won't shut up about his "playing days", but begins to realize that no matter how much you try, you never forget your first love.
It started with the football magazines. When I started reading, much earlier than anyone expected, I was spoonfed with my Mother's collection of children's books. She was a schoolteacher, and so acquired the habit of picking up any brightly-covered cutsy story she found interesting, a habit that continues to this day years after retiring from education. Dad wanted to leave his mark, but I was never interested in his automobile rags, even after his tales of race-car driving at East Tampa Bay speedway. But every sunday, after church and the extended family meal, there would be a gathering around the TV for the games, a few male adults, and one very small guest, in rapt attention, continually taking census of who was on the screen. "Who dat?" "That's Ricky Bell" "Who dat?" "That's Doug Williams. He's our quarterback" "and dat?" "That's Lee Roy Selmon. He's our best player" "I like im daddy" And that why he came home one day, with a glossy magazine, full of pictures of violent collisions and frozen mid-celebrations. I scoured every inch, but my favorite was the back cover, which showed all the helmets from every team, in all colors, like a candy display. Dad pointed towards the first few, sounding out the names, then backed away in mock exasperation when I waved at him, assuring that I could read it myself.
By the time I was 10, I was in Colorado, and taking weekly trips to the library. While I picked up books like "The Phantom Tollbooth", there was always the sports books in the youth section. There was a section, not exceptionally large or easy to find, but I found it. About a couple dozen books, maybe 25 pages each, every book focused on one football team's history, packed with black and white pics, which is where I learned about old-time players like Dick Butkus, Johnny Unitas, and Jim Brown. It was where I learned that you're supposed to hate the Raiders, because everybody hates the Raiders. I learned that apparently I was the only one who liked Tampa Bay's old Orange Uniforms, and no matter how many times people told me those were hideous, I argued, because those were my first love, so how could they be ugly? And I learned that, except for one magical year, the Broncos were largely terrible in their existence. Which was interesting to me, watching a young quarterback who seemed destined to change that history, even if by himself.
But the real find was at the annual Scholastic Book Sale at Monroe Elementary that year. My mother, piles of books weighing down her arms, was at the counter, asking if I had found a book for myself. I sheepishly held up a book that I can remember now with clarity. Small, but thick, pale blue cover with Joe Montana tossing a football over the heads of two Miami Dolphins. The title, in bubbled white letters, said "Super Bowls I-20: A Complete History." The book went over every game in detail, complete with full box score, and I must have read it 30 times. I memorized every game, every detail I could, to the point where I could watch the Super Bowl Highlight shows, and I knew that this was where Max McGee blew the game open with a big td reception, or how Jackie Smith dropped the easy touchdown catch that doomed the Cowboys against the Steelers, or when Jake Scott was MVP for the Dolphins in their SB VII win that clinched the perfect season. And then, with all these moments in my head, I would take the book outside, later to be reinforced with duct tape, and in our backyard, reply the whole games by myself. Throwing the ball up and running underneath it, making my own commentary as I dove for the ball.
"AND WHAT A CATCH FOR LYNN SWANN!!!!!!!!"
I like to read a couple of gridiron books before the season starts every year, and this year I chose David Maraniss's great biography of Vince Lombardi, "When Pride Mattered". Lombardi, one of the great coaches, and the namesake of the Super Bowl trophy, made for a great story, and a sad one, as football swallowed his life and his family, throwing his wife in depressions and taking precedent over his children. The other book, which I almost done with, is the excellent "It Never Rains in Tiger Stadium", by John Ed Bradley. Bradley does not talk about his career as an all-conference center for the 1979 LSU Tigers, but the aftermath, when he decides to forget about football and focus on his writing career (Bradley has written several novels; his most famous is Tupelo Nights). But he finds it difficult to break into writing, and even more challenging to let go of the sport that has been his life and family for a decade. He's desperate to not be the old man who won't shut up about his "playing days", but begins to realize that no matter how much you try, you never forget your first love.
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