I finished The Dead Fish Museum yesterday, on the plane back from the Tin House Writer’s Workshop (which, by the way, was inspiring and encouraging and absolutely worth the money). One of the unexpected things about the book was how it ended up making me an even bigger proponent of re-reading than I already was; I had read two of the stories before (“Screenwriter” and “The Scheme of Things”) and was tempted to skip over them in favor of the ones that were new to me, but I’m very glad I didn’t. Even though I remembered a fair amount of the plot details of each story, the undertones and subtleties they took on this time around were definitely richer than if I had only read them once. Being a fairly impatient person with a better-than-average memory for literature, I always think that I have captured the essence of stories and books the first time through, but this experience was a nice little reminder of how important re-reading can be. Especially when you’re dealing with short stories.
I also didn’t realize until this week how affected I am by actually hearing a writer read his or her own work aloud. There’s something about the spoken voice and the peculiarities of inflection that each person has that, once internalized by a listener, can really enhance the listener’s subsequent reading of the writer’s work. All of a sudden, the words on the page come to life, and you can hear the story the way it most likely sounded in the author’s head. So, hearing Charles D’Ambrosio read this week was really a gift in terms of my reading of The Dead Fish Museum. He read the first half of the title story at Tin House (which I hadn’t yet gotten to at that point in the week), so going back and reading over it later was fascinating. His voice is sort of gravelly and constantly ironic – he actually reminded me (vocally) of Jack Nicholson in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”
But anyway.
I think a lot of the stories are about people who have trouble communicating or connecting with others, and perhaps that’s why he chose the title that he did. “The dead fish museum” is what Rigo’s El Salvadorian wife calls the refrigerator, in her struggle to understand how to use the English language. This is, obviously, a fairly major glitch in communication; however, it ends up sort of communicating more fully the truth of the matter, which is not about a refrigerator at all. It is, instead, a revelation of the isolation and fear and strange un-settledness that lurks within every one of us, and can only really be expressed through a woman who has literally been uprooted and thrown into a brand new world with different rules than she’s ever played by before. People in D’Ambrosio’s stories are always finding themselves strangers in the world, which is perhaps phrased most eloquently by Tony in the story “Blessing.” Looking through old photographs of a father he never really knew, Tony says,
When I look at the photographs – old black-and-whites, with deckle edges and the date printed along the bottom border – I understand that my father was topping off the tank of his car at a filling station (in Tucson, my mother says) and I see that he was, apparently, quite a handsome man. My mother stands beside him, wearing a neat white scarf and squinting into the harsh sun, but other than that, the photo yields nothing in the way of memories, nothing I might attach myself to, and my perspective on the scene, those rare, bemused times when I open the box and linger over its contents, is that of the anonymous young man who, strolling down a sidewalk sometime in AUG 1961, was stopped by a young couple, handed a camera, and asked to press the button – a stranger on his way elsewhere.
Though Tony certainly possesses formidable skills of self-analysis, he seems not to process the fact that this feeling he has of being a stranger to his parents’ marriage and, in a way, to the entire concept of family, goes beyond just his particular relationship with his parents and bleeds into all aspects of his life. In fact, this role of “stranger on the street” is the same exact position he finds himself in at the end of the story, as he takes a Poloroid picture of his wife and her immediate family “singing the words to a song I’d never learned.”
This motif surfaces again and again in D’Ambrosio’s stories, often revolving around the concept of estrangement from a family: I’m thinking specifically of the fatherless boys in “The High Divide” and “The Bone Game,” as well as the practically son-less father in “Drummond & Son.”
There is also a hint throughout of the struggle that many writers face in their profession – the feeling of impotence in the face of dynamic issues occurring off the page, the deep-seated apprehension that perhaps writing is their only way of escaping from the world, that they are writers because they are not strong enough to face certain problems without the mediation of language, the screen of typeset to hide behind. Poor, indifferent Tony acknowledges that he has no ambition, saying
My ideal life is a quiet one. I like to read, to sit still in the same chair, with the lampshade at a certain angle, along, or with Meagan nearby, and now and then, if I’m lucky, I’ll come across a lovely phrase or fine sentiment, look up from my book, and feel the harmony of some notion, the justice of it, and know that everything is there. That’s life to me, those privately discovered moments.
Well, that’s great, Tony, but what happens when things actually occur in the real world? Sitting in your chair and reading something beautiful isn’t going to fix your relationship with your wife’s father, or address the alienation that is eroding your life, just as the flood waters from the river erode the banks near your house. And then there is this delightful gem, from Rigo in “The Dead Fish Museum”:
“You are not at the bar,” he said. Without the past tense he could only protest pointlessly against the present; his eyes shifted, staring into the room.
And by breaking the encounter down into a diagrammed sentence, Ramage himself (the narrator of the story) turns a confrontation of his unreliability and tendency to distance himself from those around him into a grammar lesson – again using language as an avoidance tactic.
I don’t think D’Ambrosio really needs to worry that he himself is falling into that trap, though. If he keeps producing stories as insightful and lovely as these, his words may indeed have currency in the world outside the page.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Friday, July 06, 2007
The American Berserk
I thoroughly enjoyed American Pastoral. You know, I used to think that I was such a literary elitist, but lately I've ended up with a good feeling about basically every book I've finished, so maybe I'm losing my taste factor. Either that or I'm a fucking badass at choosing good books to read.
Anyway. Back to Roth. It's always a bit difficult for me to read one of those "I-am-a-novel-about-America" novels, especially when "American" is even in the freaking TITLE, but I do think Roth did a nice job avoiding Great American Novelist Syndrome by focusing in tightly on a single character. Some people might say that it was a novel about the dissolution of an American family, but you don't really get insight into any of the characters' heads besides Swede Levov. You don't even really get that much insight into the peculiar American discomforts of the narrator (unlike, say, The Great Gatsby, where you can discover truths about both Nick and Gatsby through Nick's narration, Nathan Zuckerman politely makes way for Swede Levov after the first less-than-one-hundred pages of the novel, never to reappear and shatter the spell he's cast over the readers, leaving us dangling at the end of a fiction within a fiction, knowing nothing except that, as Roth so deliberately puts it, "what was not supposed to happen had happened and what was supposed to happen had not happened."
I also thought the ending reeked strongly of Flannery O'Connor, in that concept of senseless violence that brings to the character a possibly devastation revelation. I suppose the difference is that Flannery O'Connor's displays of senseless violence are always linked strongly to religious truth, whereas I'm still not sure what Roth's exact take on religious truth is (if I'd read more of Roth, I'd probably have a better idea), but whatever it is, it isn't life-affirming. The other very Flannery part of the novel is the naming - I mean, come on, Merry? Dawn? - which, I suppose, draws attention to the fact that it is a fiction of a fiction, a self-consciously created world that never presumes to be "real."
I wonder, though, if the idea that life is nonsensical, that there is no such thing as order, that the American Pastoral is, in fact, the American Berserk, isn't some kind of a desire for order in itself. It is almost too easy to simply say that we, as a human race, don't deserve or wield any control over our lives in any way. And in the end, doesn't one come to envy Merry just a little bit, in her supreme conviction, in her ability to claim for herself a unilateral mission? Yes, she is destroying herself, but so are the others, and where they are destroying themselves steeped in generations of self-doubt and despair, she is drowning herself in the pure, if blind, waters of belief that what she is doing is right. And, furthermore, that what she is doing can somehow save the world from itself.
Literature that can make me think like that must be good. Charles, you have some big shoes to fill.
Anyway. Back to Roth. It's always a bit difficult for me to read one of those "I-am-a-novel-about-America" novels, especially when "American" is even in the freaking TITLE, but I do think Roth did a nice job avoiding Great American Novelist Syndrome by focusing in tightly on a single character. Some people might say that it was a novel about the dissolution of an American family, but you don't really get insight into any of the characters' heads besides Swede Levov. You don't even really get that much insight into the peculiar American discomforts of the narrator (unlike, say, The Great Gatsby, where you can discover truths about both Nick and Gatsby through Nick's narration, Nathan Zuckerman politely makes way for Swede Levov after the first less-than-one-hundred pages of the novel, never to reappear and shatter the spell he's cast over the readers, leaving us dangling at the end of a fiction within a fiction, knowing nothing except that, as Roth so deliberately puts it, "what was not supposed to happen had happened and what was supposed to happen had not happened."
I also thought the ending reeked strongly of Flannery O'Connor, in that concept of senseless violence that brings to the character a possibly devastation revelation. I suppose the difference is that Flannery O'Connor's displays of senseless violence are always linked strongly to religious truth, whereas I'm still not sure what Roth's exact take on religious truth is (if I'd read more of Roth, I'd probably have a better idea), but whatever it is, it isn't life-affirming. The other very Flannery part of the novel is the naming - I mean, come on, Merry? Dawn? - which, I suppose, draws attention to the fact that it is a fiction of a fiction, a self-consciously created world that never presumes to be "real."
I wonder, though, if the idea that life is nonsensical, that there is no such thing as order, that the American Pastoral is, in fact, the American Berserk, isn't some kind of a desire for order in itself. It is almost too easy to simply say that we, as a human race, don't deserve or wield any control over our lives in any way. And in the end, doesn't one come to envy Merry just a little bit, in her supreme conviction, in her ability to claim for herself a unilateral mission? Yes, she is destroying herself, but so are the others, and where they are destroying themselves steeped in generations of self-doubt and despair, she is drowning herself in the pure, if blind, waters of belief that what she is doing is right. And, furthermore, that what she is doing can somehow save the world from itself.
Literature that can make me think like that must be good. Charles, you have some big shoes to fill.
Finally
I've successfully moved across the country and have been slowly but surely settling in to my new place in L.A. Obviously, things have been a bit crazy. I'm almost at the end of American Pastoral, and I definitely have things I want to say about it - I'm hoping to finish it today, so maybe there will be a new post up about that soon. Part of the reason I want to finish it either today or tomorrow is that I'm heading off to the Tin House Writer's Workshop on Sunday, so I'll be immersing myself in poetry and attempting to read Charles D'Ambrosio's The Dead Fish Museum while I'm there. I'm very excited for it. I've got to do some much-needed cleaning up in my apartment first, and then on to the reading.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Looking Back on The Intuitionist
Well, I definitely finished this book with overwhelmingly positive feelings. What surprised me, as I neared the end, was that it ended up really being a book about race; however, Whitehead did a skillful job navigating the dimensions of racial conflict without screaming at the reader "I AM WRITING A BOOK ABOUT RACE!" That seems, unfortunately, to be my experience with many books revolving around racial conflict (and is one reason why I'm still resisting Edward P. Jones, because I fear that I might feel like his stuff is the same way). By plunging his characters into a world that revolves around a dichotomy between those who judge based on looks (Empiricists) and those who judge based on feeling/emotion (Intuitionists), Whitehead has set the stage for a discussion about that most simple of concepts in the field of racial conflict. However, the way he writes about this concept is anything but simple. By adding in the dimension of verticality - can one rise in society, or does one find oneself standing always on the ground floor, waiting for the elevator to arrive? - Whitehead increases the metaphorical conceits he has at hand to disguise his subject, to speak about it in as many subtle ways as possible.
I loved the passage where Lila Mae realizes (spoiler alert!) that the Fanny Briggs accident was just that: an ACCIDENT. Whitehead writes:
The elevator pretended to be what it was not. Number Eleven passed for longevous. Passed for healthy so well that Arbo Elevator Co.'s quality control could not see its duplicity, so well that the building contractors could not see for the routine ease of its assembly coeval doom. So well that Lila Mae Watson of the Department of Elevator Inspectors, who is never wrong, did not see it. Did it know? After all of Fulton's anthropomorphism: did the machine know itself. Possessed the usual spectrum of elevator emotion, yes, but did it have articulate self-awareness. ... Did it decide to pass? To lie and betray itself? Even Fulton stayed away from the horror of the catastrophic accident: even in explicating the unbelievable he never dared broach the unknowable. Lila Mae thinks: out of fear.
The dialogue of "passing" is, of course, a direct reference to the dilemma of many lighter-skinned African Americans. Lila Mae herself experiences "passing" in the opposite context, when she puts on the maid's uniform at the Funicular Follies and goes unrecognized by everyone she works with, as they suddenly see nothing but the uniform and the color of her skin. This passage's wonder about whether one chooses such a life or whether it occurs by accident is interesting. When Lila Mae went to the Follies, she did choose to put a maid's uniform on, but she did not choose to make her co-workers blind to the person in the maid's uniform. That happened on accident. If "on accident" means "because of society," I suppose.
I also like how Whitehead presents the idea of Intuitionism as a "postrational" idea. Are we in an age that has passed reason & rationality? Must all literature now be postrational? It certainly seems that in order to be taken seriously as an artist your work must have a flare of the absurd, the nonsensical, the "I-am-so-brilliant-that-my-mind-makes-connections-no-one-else-could-have-dreamed-of." That bothers me.
So, anyway, in the end, thumbs up to Colson Whitehead. I'm looking forward to seeing him at Tin House. Perhaps I'll read Apex Hides the Hurt, too, although that one seems to have gotten much more mixed praise than The Intuitionist.
I loved the passage where Lila Mae realizes (spoiler alert!) that the Fanny Briggs accident was just that: an ACCIDENT. Whitehead writes:
The elevator pretended to be what it was not. Number Eleven passed for longevous. Passed for healthy so well that Arbo Elevator Co.'s quality control could not see its duplicity, so well that the building contractors could not see for the routine ease of its assembly coeval doom. So well that Lila Mae Watson of the Department of Elevator Inspectors, who is never wrong, did not see it. Did it know? After all of Fulton's anthropomorphism: did the machine know itself. Possessed the usual spectrum of elevator emotion, yes, but did it have articulate self-awareness. ... Did it decide to pass? To lie and betray itself? Even Fulton stayed away from the horror of the catastrophic accident: even in explicating the unbelievable he never dared broach the unknowable. Lila Mae thinks: out of fear.
The dialogue of "passing" is, of course, a direct reference to the dilemma of many lighter-skinned African Americans. Lila Mae herself experiences "passing" in the opposite context, when she puts on the maid's uniform at the Funicular Follies and goes unrecognized by everyone she works with, as they suddenly see nothing but the uniform and the color of her skin. This passage's wonder about whether one chooses such a life or whether it occurs by accident is interesting. When Lila Mae went to the Follies, she did choose to put a maid's uniform on, but she did not choose to make her co-workers blind to the person in the maid's uniform. That happened on accident. If "on accident" means "because of society," I suppose.
I also like how Whitehead presents the idea of Intuitionism as a "postrational" idea. Are we in an age that has passed reason & rationality? Must all literature now be postrational? It certainly seems that in order to be taken seriously as an artist your work must have a flare of the absurd, the nonsensical, the "I-am-so-brilliant-that-my-mind-makes-connections-no-one-else-could-have-dreamed-of." That bothers me.
So, anyway, in the end, thumbs up to Colson Whitehead. I'm looking forward to seeing him at Tin House. Perhaps I'll read Apex Hides the Hurt, too, although that one seems to have gotten much more mixed praise than The Intuitionist.
Wednesday, June 06, 2007
Towards a Definition of this Blog
I realized recently that I really ought to be gearing this blog more towards a potential readership. I mean, right now, I don't think anyone really reads the blog besides me. And sometimes my boyfriend, if I say something like "Hey, I just posted on my blog. Do you want to read it?" And really, that's not very effective blogging.
Also, so far, the posts have been rather inward things - just a way for me to keep my literary analysis skills ticking while looking forward to a time when I can do that in a more professional sense. But I'm not just a reader - I'm a writer, too. So shouldn't that come into some play on my blog?
Right now I'm mostly writing poetry - I have a few poems up in accessible places online. Ghoti Magazine and PoetryX.com have poems of mine, and HazMat Literary Review sent me a notice saying they'd like to publish one of my poems, but they've got a backlog of about three years. So check back in three years or so for that one. Actually, I think I got that letter in December, so the wait might be down to 2 1/2 years. Hopefully I can get a chapbook published in the next year or so.
I've been tentatively trying my hand at fiction, as well, but I'm not quite ready to submit that anywhere. I'm hoping to be able to devote more time to writing fiction starting in about a month, after I have definitively finished my teaching and successfully relocated to Los Angeles. I'll be spending the week of July 8th up at the Tin House Summer Writer's Workshop, which I'm very excited about, as I've never participated in a writing workshop before. Although I do always THINK I'm going to love feedback on things until I actually get the feedback, and then I feel hurt and annoyed. We'll see if I'm able to break that pattern this summer.
Finally, I want to get into writing book reviews, although with the current "crisis" in book reviewing, I'm not sure if that's going to happen any time soon. Freelancing scares me a bit. But I definitely won't end up writing any book reviews if I sit around waiting for someone to come ask me to write one, so I suppose I'll have to start sending out queries soon.
All right. That was a lot of information. But if I'm going to use this blog the way a "real" blogger should, I think it was necessary.
Also, so far, the posts have been rather inward things - just a way for me to keep my literary analysis skills ticking while looking forward to a time when I can do that in a more professional sense. But I'm not just a reader - I'm a writer, too. So shouldn't that come into some play on my blog?
Right now I'm mostly writing poetry - I have a few poems up in accessible places online. Ghoti Magazine and PoetryX.com have poems of mine, and HazMat Literary Review sent me a notice saying they'd like to publish one of my poems, but they've got a backlog of about three years. So check back in three years or so for that one. Actually, I think I got that letter in December, so the wait might be down to 2 1/2 years. Hopefully I can get a chapbook published in the next year or so.
I've been tentatively trying my hand at fiction, as well, but I'm not quite ready to submit that anywhere. I'm hoping to be able to devote more time to writing fiction starting in about a month, after I have definitively finished my teaching and successfully relocated to Los Angeles. I'll be spending the week of July 8th up at the Tin House Summer Writer's Workshop, which I'm very excited about, as I've never participated in a writing workshop before. Although I do always THINK I'm going to love feedback on things until I actually get the feedback, and then I feel hurt and annoyed. We'll see if I'm able to break that pattern this summer.
Finally, I want to get into writing book reviews, although with the current "crisis" in book reviewing, I'm not sure if that's going to happen any time soon. Freelancing scares me a bit. But I definitely won't end up writing any book reviews if I sit around waiting for someone to come ask me to write one, so I suppose I'll have to start sending out queries soon.
All right. That was a lot of information. But if I'm going to use this blog the way a "real" blogger should, I think it was necessary.
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