Chekhov’s Mistess

Baby Bjorn

Rarely does a man get to feel what it’s like to be a woman; he can only stand by and watch the baby being born or try and understand what goes on with that unfathomable species with whom we men share the planet. And why, you ask, would he want to? He wouldn’t, I say, but when it happens, even in a small way, it’s shocking.

And so I’ve been trotting our six-month old out in the Baby Bjorn – a carrier where the baby is held on your chest, facing outward – recently and have enjoyed the attention that our little cutey gets. But in some bizarro (reference Seinfeld) way, I’ve gotten a small taste of a woman’s world. Not in the obvious way; carrying around 18 pounds of baby over your belly may be some simulation of being pregnant, but as my wife says, “try that with him kicking your organs and constantly resting all his weight on your bladder.” No, what has been interesting is that I feel like, to be cliched, a piece of meat. Walking down the street, everyone, men and women, are staring at my chest and smiling. They rarely look up at me, but they inevitably smile – at my chest! Now, of course, I know what they’re smiling at, and I appreciate it, but I indulge myself and imagine that this must be what it’s like to have breasts.

Mentioned in this post: literary criticism, business of literature, criticism and personality, Bookforum, Birkerts, Peck, Maisonneuve, Amazon.com, Oprah, Believer, snarking

Perhaps every generation believes it is they who are in the dark ages, clamoring for an unseen way out from the mediocrity that popular demands have dictated on the seriously talented writers who are wasting away on fame and money. And maybe each of those generations battles over the written word through yet more written words until only the best are left writing [insert pen/sword imagery here]. Yet with few exceptions, it is the fiction that remains for the next generation and not the criticism.

I should disclaim any formal knowledge of literary criticism right up front. I am an avid reader and writer and I enjoy reading about literature and the book world, but consider myself intellectually ignorant of what makes good literature what it is, although I have a pretty good idea of what it is not. Eye nose it when I seize it and dats about it. I’m a hanger on. I read a lot of serious books without understanding much and hope that through osmosis I can at least connect the dots from Dante to Shakespeare to Joyce and Faulkner and their heirs, and enjoy the beauty of the language; that is all I hope for.

The other side of literary addiction is following the business. While the world watches Ben and J-Lo (?) or OJ and Ice T (??), I enjoy hearing what Dave Eggers and Paul Auster are up to (professionally, that is). And even though it seems like the whole world is watching these guys too, I know that it’s a small world relative to the former.

When these two sides of literature, criticism and personality, collide, the debris has the unfortunate effect of remaining scattered about indefinitely; particularly in the case of the ephemerally permanent World Wide Web. So begins my snark hunting journey. (argh, you say this is the beginning!)

In the April issue of Bookforum I read an article by Sven Birkerts who nostalgically writes about the state of criticism today and mentions this guy Dale Peck who has supposedly written some damning reviews of the entire body of work of authors such as Rick Moody and most recently the very author whose piece I was reading. Apparently this had been going on for several years and seemed to be coming to a head with the publication of Peck’s book of these essays. I saw a piece in Time Out New York (TONY) that dismissed Peck as a “failed fiction writer shouting, ‘Look at me!’” Knowing that TONY’s was less than a subtle analysis, I was nevertheless getting my Tucan Sam worked up and wanting to know more about this snarking business.

My next stop on the Peck walk was the April/May issue of Maisonneuve, a Canadian magazine that published an excerpt from Peck’s aptly titled book, “Hatchet Job.” That article, which apparently was to have run in the New Republic, chopped Mr. Birkerts in to so many obsessively detailed pieces, I had visions of “Notes from the Underground” running through my imagination – with Peck of course being the unnamed conscious of society (see, connecting those dots…).

Now Hatchet Job is getting more attention than one of those controversial old Benetton ads and its sales are ranked as of this writing at 8,684 on Amazon.com. That’s not exactly Oprah standards, but it is outstripping sales of his previous book, released just last November, which ranks just over 264,000, and is quite a good showing for a book of book reviews. Incidentally, Oprah’s latest pick, Anna Karenina, 124 years after being written, is ranked #26 and is enigmatically dubbed by Amazon as the #1 “Early Adaptor” product in literature & fiction.

I decided to hunt the snark to see if I could make some sense of all this public sparing, and so started to snake my way through a bevy of articles beginning with the first issue of Believer Magazine, which apparently coined the term (via Lewis Carroll). Then over to Salon.com where some of the E-team reside, around to the New York Times and now to reviews of the book (The Elegant Variation , a bookish blog, does a nice taxonomy of some of the reviews and promises to do one of their own).

As a casual observer to this world, I find the egoistic banter a little self-indulgent on all sides, but I think that the negativity that makes the core of Peck’s reviews a cure worse than the disease. It’s one thing to try and shape criticism by actually being critical and not taking the easy route, which is one of Peck’s laments about the industry, but another to attack other writers. It seems like such an obvious point – to just set the standard for criticism instead of burning at the stake those that don’t measure up – that it is tempting to believe that the assessment made by some reviewers may be right after all: Peck is building a career by being outrageously negative. After all, audacity, whether honest or not has generated a lot of fame and fortune in our culture.

Nonetheless, all this snarking has people talking, and that may be good for literature, I suppose, in that, as some have said, it shows that people still care. But perhaps this feuding reveals that there is just nothing better to talk about. And that is the state of literature today. Hatchet job indeed.

p.s. I will add links to the other articles I’ve found (not already linked to above) within a day or two, but my window of consciousness is closing for the night.

Download articletnr_040521_snark_believer.pdf

Download articletnr_020701_snark.pdf

Download articletnr_011231_snark.pdf

Download articlesalon_031212_dale_peck_.pdf

Download articlesalon_020724_snark_ltrs.pdf

Download articlesalon_020724_snark.pdf

Download articlenyt_031026_snark.pdf

Download articleguardian_031123_snark.pdf

Download articlenyt_030907_snark_.pdf

Download articlenyrb_040715_mendelsohn_snark.pdf

Download articlebeliever_030901_snark.pdf

Once or twice a week I ask myself “why am I writing these silly little essays?” I’m much too old to spend my time “blogging” and I should probably roller-skate if I want to act young. But, every time I decide to quit, I end up sitting down to write yet another entry. So if I needed a reason, at least for all those people that ask me why, then I could point to this article at the New Yorker that says that literary agents are out there surfing blogs for the next big thing and some of the people in this blog community are publishing books. Well, this is not why I’m compelled to pour my soul onto the net and I don’t really know, other than I like the way the keyboard sounds on my sleek PowerBook G4, but if I were going to have a solid reason, then this article would be it.

I saw the NYer article referenced at Zulkey.com

I get obsessed, mildly if that makes any sense. Last weekend, my wife and I took the Sun King (my son) down to the W Village for the afternoon. It was a perfect circle of sorts because we took the C train to West 4th (a familiar stop from my NYU days months and years) and walked over to the White Horse Tavern, which is famous for its literary history. After a nice lunch (actually the food is not great there, but the place has its charm) we walked over to Three Lives and Co. Bookstore on 10th. It was a hot day and the bookies decided to not have a/c, so we didn’t stay too long; that’s too bad actually, because it is really a beautiful shop with a well chosen selection of books. By now, quite a bit of time had gone by, but naturally we stopped in to Joe: the Art of Coffee, for a perfect double shot of espresso. Amazing! Joe is located on Waverly street and happens to be at the northern end of the West 4th C-train stop, so back on the subway we went.

I took my Brother-in-choice to Joe and Three Lives just yesterday and he was equally enthusiastic. Despite not even living in the same area, I’ve quickly filled up my “Joe” card, so my next espresso is free.

p.s. The perfect shot of espresso is an illusion. I don’t think it exists and every shot is just a wee bit different, but Joe’s baristas have a great “pull.”

Neighborhoods, haircuts, homeless people

Neighborhoods are not what they used to be. At least that’s what my friends who knew what a neighborhood once was tell me. Still, living in the city and walking around the same area every day, one builds familiarity with the people there. My neighborhood, the Upper-west side of Manhattan is a comfortable, affluent and not terribly diverse enclave neatly tucked within a much larger city. [This is soon to change, by the way; as soon as our visas are stamped, my wife and I are moving to Brooklyn in search of more space for our son – a common migration in these parts.] Many of the people we know in the neighborhood work here, commuting from other boroughs.

This week, the guy who cuts my hair disappeared. We called him Eeyore because he mumbled over his Russian accent so quietly that a) I never understood his real name, and b) he always seemed sad. The truth is that I was always nervous having him cut my hair because we weren’t able to communicate very well. I never knew if, when I said “a little off the top,” he wouldn’t understand “whittle it all off.” This may not seem rational, but something like that did happen to a friend who went to the same shop. However, I kept going to him. The haircuts were just fine, despite my fears.

Not long ago, I got a glimpse into his life and he suddenly became human to me and not just the guy-up-the-street-who-cuts-my-hair. After having gone to him for quite some time, we ventured into conversation about our children and I found out that he had problems with his wife and was not allowed to see his two kids, both of whom were not much older than my son. This knowledge further inhibited conversation between us because I was afraid to bring up our commonality being that it seemed so unfortunately sad for him. I found out this week, that that was the very problem that caused him to leave the shop. I do not know if he will be back and I may not remember him so well this time next year.

There’s another guy in our neighborhood that we don’t see any more. A couple of years ago I began to notice a man who had what I think is cerebral palsy. He walked with an extreme limp that was excruciatingly awkward and his upper body was contorted (this is not a very complete or good description). He had difficulty speaking, yet, when I did speak to him once, he seemed friendly. I found him intimidating nonetheless. He seemed to get along pretty well for himself, although I don’t recall ever seeing him with anyone.

Last fall, this man was homeless. I often saw him on the street and he looked worse each time, progressing into a reality that we typically only see once it has already devastated a person. I offered him a gift certificate for McDonalds (see my earlier post), but he refused. I’m not sure why. He was dirty and lay in the street. I found this change in him unfathomable as I watched over time. I felt particularly bad for him because his obvious medical condition put him in a different category in my brain than other homeless people; probably not a correct response, but living in the city, I have found I have certain prejudices (a loaded word, yes, but I will stay with it) about the myriad types of people that I encounter everyday; none of these preconceived notions are malicious, but most designed by a dosage of ignorance.

I’m not sure how much time went by before I noticed that he wasn’t around any more. I didn’t see him on the street and I didn’t see him in any of the stores or restaurants where I used to before his decline. I don’t know where he went.

Today, I went to the CLMP’s annual Literary Magazine Fair at Housing Works Bookstore (see my earlier post). An impressive group, considering that most of the journals represented (perhaps all?) are either not-for-profit or not profitable – a labour of love, as they say. I don’t know anyone in this crowd, but I listened in to some chatting (a flaw of mine) and I would gather, as I guessed, that most everyone there was a writer. Where are the readers? I bought several journals, after perusing quite a few more, not to read, but to find homes for my own writing. The audience for these journals is small, and I suppose that most who subscribe or buy are also submitting too. This is in no way meant to be a criticism, merely an observation, or maybe even a lament. Nonetheless, there is a good deal of impressive writing out there (and some bad), and these folks make sure it exists.

Still, I’m a bit confused about this community. Maisonneuve, a Canadian journal, sitting there on the shelf among its peers, opined that “Some of the dullest, least imaginative people you’ll ever meet seem to coagulate around the literary quarterlies…” This comment, in the Letter from the Editor section, seems a little naughty, considering that they mingle among the very company who they damn. I didn’t see an editor from Maisonneuve present, but presumably someone must have been there, grinning through at least one of his faces.

Anyway, I bought eleven literary journals (at $2 per), most of which I had never before heard of; they had names like The First Line, Spinning Jenny, and The Land-Grant College Review. I put quite a bit of energy into sifting through the myriad zines represented for good content with themes and styles that I found appealing. One I found particularly interesting, which exists only on-line, is Memorious. Among other things, the inaugural issue includes audio recordings of three poems and a story by JT LeRoy that looks pretty good. LeRoy, while being very young, is already making a name for himself.

The First Line has an interesting concept at least; they give the first line and writers are to submit stories taking it from there. Each quarterly issue features nothing but stories using that line. These guys, incidentally, are from Texas, which leads me to my last impression taken from the fair – not all literary people are from New York City! And I thought you had to live within a small radius of Paul Auster in Park Slope, Brooklyn, to be literary.

I was thinking yesterday, while passing a man wearing a Hemingway Festival t-shirt, about this coming Bloomsday, which I typically participate in at Symphony Space in New York City (which coincidentally is one of the largest of these gatherings in the world). The thing is that I hate the idea of idolatry and it seems that intellectuals (or should I just say readers, so as not to sound too high-minded) are equally guilty as hysterical Michael Jackson fans at getting overly enthusiastic about a single person and treating them as some sort of god. Admittedly, being a literature lover, I think of the masters in a god-like way, in the sense that I truly believe what each has contributed can not be replicated (although see Borges’ “Pierre Menard, Author of the Quixote) and mystical. But, as Hamlet said, “The play’s the thing.”

The Economist Magazine just ran an article asking “Is the fuss over James Joyce’s Ulysses greater than the book?” They talk of the trend in tourism “in which a dead author becomes a lure for living admirers and the merely curious” and a late-night light show on the banks of the river Liffey that will project images of Joyce. I agree that that does seem an odd celebration for an self-exiled writer whose portrayal of the city was anything but flattering. But they also point out that most of the celebrants have never actually read the entire book. That’s not necessarily true, but even if so, okay, because, for example, like “haute couture,” the clothes on the runway are there merely to exploit the possibilities, not to be worn prosaically everyday.

My point is, that I respect the desire to admire the work of Joyce through readings and some of the other artistic out-shoots, even if they seem silly in more sober moments. That is probably the only, and perhaps the best way the book can be enjoyed – believe me, to hear Frank McCourt and his brother Malachy, and Marian Seldes and some of the other famous, and not-so, read this book on stage at Symphony Space makes it truly come alive. So, I think those that bash Ulysses and Bloomsday, like Reason Magazine’s on-line editor, who asks “Why does a book so bad it “defecates on your bed still have so many admirers?” need to loosen up a bit, because their criticisms are pointless. People seem to fear that which they don’t understand, and that, judging from most of the quotes in Reason’s article, may be the case.  On the other hand, while I would indeed join a bunch of people I don’t know in reading a book, typically a solitary act, and pay $16 for the privilege, I think a laser light show would merely be like a screaming teenager at a Beatles concert – they can’t hear the music.

Toward the end of his life, James Joyce strolled around Zurich with his young grandson Stephen, according to Richard Ellmann, Joyce’s biographer. One can only wonder what the genius of modern literature might have been telling his only grandson on these walks, but perhaps it would seem that Joyce was telling Stephen: Sue! Sue! Sue!

Stephen Joyce, now 70 and the only living heir of the man who pushed the English language beyond its limits, has developed a reputation for litigiousness that apparently has stifled many attempting to use Joyce’s work for artisitic or homage purposes. This should come as no surprise because Joyce himself was often rabidly ligitous, pursuing pirates of one form or another, often against logic and his friend’s advice.

Still, it would appear from a recent article in the Guardian that Mr. Joyce has taken his charge of protecting the literary legacy much too far. Some accounts, such as not allowing eighteen words of Finnegans Wake to be used in a piece of music, are arguably overblown – he doesn’t like the music, and that, in my opinion, is his right. But to block the Irish government from displaying Joyce manuscripts, which they own and want to display to the public out of homage and celebration is ridiculous. Mr. Joyce threatened to sue, and Irish Parliament, rightly, pushed through legislation that will allow the manuscripts to be displayed as part of the Bloomsday 100th anniversary celebrations.

I think that Mr. Joyce’s behavior goes beyond the spirit of his grandfather’s pursuit of pirateers. James Joyce was proud of his work and quite self-consciously sought readership and recognition. Why would his heir want to close the book on the appreciation of what really belongs to the world anyway?

p.s. I originally saw reference to this story at Moorish Girl, a literary blog

Cuban food in NYC, Joe – the Art of coffee, Biography Bookshop, Italo Calvino’s “The Uses of Literature.”

In my unceasing search for good Cuban food in NYC, I found myself at Alma Havana, off Bleeker in the WestVillage. I sat in the “jardin”, which is somehow evocative of anything other than a garden, although I’m not sure what, and larger than the dining room of the restaurant. The low lying clouds provided for a tent-like roof to block those nasty UV rays, and the backs of 5-story walkups (poor souls) surrounded the enclave, creating a not-quite hemmed in, but cozy feeling; typical of a WV garden.

The food was good; I had arroz con pollo, a simple dish. What I liked about it, which is what I like about Cuban restaurants generally, is the fact the meat is rawish. Not uncooked raw, but the skin is there, and the bones, and you feel as though the chicken was just plucked (or pig slaughtered, however the case may be). There seems to be a certain messiness that accompanies the great gastronomical delights of the world, and this is one of them. I also liked the peppers laying across the top, which when mingling with the rice and beans and chicken and sauce, transformed the dish from mere chicken and rice to a sweet and spicy combination – particularly apt since there was no hot sauce on the premises (other than Tobasco, liberally used by myself, but bland compared to what you can usually find in many of these Havanese spots.

Another good thing about this restaurant is that it is conveniently juxtaposed between Biography Bookshop on Bleeker, and Joe – the Art of coffee, on Waverly. (Not precisely juxtaposed, I have to say, but what a nice word). BB has a fair amount of new/cheap books on the table outside and is always worth a quick browse. I bought (as I report in keeping with the Hornby/Believer tradition) a copy of Italo Calvino’s “The Uses of Literature” for $5.98 – less than half the cover price and worth a baker’s dozen more times than that.

That’s all for now. I will talk later about the perfect ristretto at Joes, but this post was really a roundabout way of mentioning an independent bookstore, which I aim to talk more about in the future.

Council of Literary Magazines and Presses (CLMP), Annual Literary Magazine Marathon Weekend, readers or writers?

I received an email from Pen America on the Council of Literary Magazines and Presses’ annual fair. I wonder if there will be more readers or writers trying to hawk their work to the editors, who are there to sell their journals. I know what I’ll be doing. No matter, Housing Works is a worthy cause. Here’s the info…

ANNUAL LIT MAG MARATHON WEEKEND IN NEW YORK CITY

June 12th and 13th

All events are free and open to the public

New York –

The magazines may be little, but the weekend is big, big, big! It’s time once again for CLMP’s Lit Mag Marathon Weekend, a massive showcase highlighting America’s literary magazines and journals. Discover hotbeds of talent and free expression. Engage with new writers and the editors who cultivate them. Hundreds of lit mags will converge on NYC to present new writing and sell their issues for $2 a pop with all the proceeds going to Housing Works, a nonprofit organization serving homeless people living with AIDS.

The Magathon kicks off the weekend with a celebratory “marathon” reading on Saturday the 12th from 4-6:30 PM at the New York Public Library Periodicals Reading Room, on Fifth Avenue at 42nd Street. Over a dozen readers-editors representing journals of every size and style, from promising upstarts to the oldest most established-will present favorite selections from their latest issues.

The reading leads up to the much-anticipated Fifth Annual Literary Magazine Fair at Housing Works Used Book Café, Sunday, June 13 from 12-5PM at 126 Crosby Street in Soho, where readers hungry for the freshest literature leave with armfuls of lit mags discounted more than 50% at $2 a copy! An astounding array of journals will be on hand, hundreds from all over the country, half with editors present to meet and greet. Web-based literary magazines will also be on display via laptop computers.

The fair was founded in 2000 by editors Jenine Gordon Bockman of Literal Latté and Rebecca Wolff of Fence; to date the event has raised over $30,000 for Housing Works and connected thousands of readers and writers by raising the profile of these exceptional literary publishers.

The Council of Literary Magazines and Presses (CLMP) was founded in 1967 to serve independent publishers of exceptional fiction, poetry and prose through technical assistance and advocacy. This program is made possible with support from the New York State Council on the Arts and is co-sponsored by the Humanities and Social Sciences Library of the New York Public Library, Fence and Literal Latté.

**********

[clmp]

COUNCIL OF LITERARY MAGAZINES & PRESSES announces…

LIT MAG MARATHON WEEKEND!!!!

June 12th & 13th, 2004

ALL EVENTS FREE

THE MAGATHON

Saturday, June 12th  4-6:30PM

New York Public Library Periodicals Reading Room

Fifth Avenue 42nd Street </p> <p> Leading lit mag editors read favorite selections from their latest issues. </p> <p> FIFTH ANNUAL LIT MAG FAIR <br /> Sunday, June 13th, 12-5:00PM <br /> Housing Works Used Book Cafe <br /> 126 Crosby Street (btw Houston and Prince) </p> <p> FOR MORE INFORMATION: Please see www.clmp.org or contact Thom Didato at&#160; tdidatoclmp.org

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