July 12, 2010
Just a reminder to anyone who used to read or subscribe to Novel Readings and hasn't seen any activity over here recently: new posts are going up at the new address:
Don't forget to update your blogrolls, subscriptions, or RSS feeds.
May 9, 2010
Don't forget to update your blogrolls, subscriptions, or RSS feeds.
March 21, 2010
Novel Readings at Open Letters
And here's the new URL:
This site will stay where it is, but new posts will go up only at the new one. Hope to see you there!
March 19, 2010
Between my finger and my thumbI opened by asking about the pen as a gun: why make that particular comparison? What is the risk or the threat of his pen? Pretty quickly we were talking about the difficulty of the poet son, who has broken from the tradition of his father and grandfather, writing about them and their work without condescending to them or, at the other extreme, sentimentalizing them. It turned out (and I think that this is why the discussion became so animated) that many of them understood the anxiety, or perhaps just self-consciousness, of that kind of break from tradition because they have been through it themselves, coming from mining or farming or military backgrounds, sometimes themselves among the first in their families to go to university, or to study something like English, or to want to be writers. One student also pointed to the "sloppily" corked milk bottle, a sign, he suggested (and many agreed) that it speaks to an anxiety also about the manliness or practical value of choosing poetry: there's an ideal of the "man of the house," good with his hands, tough, physical, that the speaker can't reach ("I've no spade to follow men like them"). Though he looks down on his father from his window, he isn't looking down on him otherwise, we thought, but rather seeing him clearly, seeing the dignity of his skill and hard work. He puts his pen to work, in turn, digging up memories (which "awaken in [his] head") and making something himself that (as another student suggested) his father would understand--it's not difficult poetry, there are no unusual words in it, it's hardly "poetic" at all, but direct, colloquial, even (sorry) earthy. And yet for all its seeming simplicity, as we dug into it, we found more and more of interest, even before we moved into the more abstract idea of poetry and/as archeology (another of our poems was "The Grauballe Man").
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awakens in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.
Though we all hate the reduction of literary value to what is " relatable" (a coinage many students seem unable to resist), and though I'm a big believer in stretching ourselves and our students into what is unfamiliar, there was a great energy today that came from this poem having meaning for them--meaning of its own, that they could appreciate, but also meaning for their own lives.
March 18, 2010
So, what have I been doing, when I could? In Mystery and Detective Fiction, we're on to our unit on 'the contemporary police procedural, with short stories by Ed McBain, Peter Robinson, and Ian Rankin. I haven't actually read any of McBain's 87th Precinct series, only a few short stories in the various anthologies I've used over the years, which have felt to me a bit too much like reading episodes of Law & Order. It's just not my favourite style, though maybe I just haven't read the best examples. I generally enjoy Robinson's Inspector Banks series, but our story was actually a one-off, a historical mystery that is not really (as my students quickly discerned) a police procedural proper, as its detective is only a "special constable" and has the usual run-ins with the official officers of the law that we expect of the amateur detective or private eye. Set in September 1939, the story ("Missing in Action") evokes a feeling of civilization spiraling out of control; vigilante justice, justified in hard-boiled detection as the only way for Our Hero, however morally questionable, to fight for The Right in a corrupt world, is shown in a darker light here, reminding us of why we need to rely on formal systems of law and evidence, even if the outcomes are not always satisfactory. Tomorrow, it's Rankin's "The Dean Curse," which sets us up well for Knots and Crosses next week, not only by introducing Rebus, but by making similar connections between military training and police work, and asking difficult questions about the moral responsibility of a military organization that (of necessity) trains men away from their humanity only to loose them on the world at the end of their service. Rankin is the best stylist of this group, for sure.
Having said that, I confess to feeling some impatience in the last week or so with the preponderance of mediocre-to-fine writers on that reading list. Though I wouldn't accept any argument that genre fiction is inherently or inevitably less "literary," it's striking that the prose is so rarely excellent, even among the most popular or innovative mystery writers. "Workmanlike" is how I would describe, for instance, the writing in Paretsky's Indemnity Only: important as her work is, for its contributions to breaking open the feminist potential of crime fiction, there's no temptation to linger over the language at any point. In fact, only Chandler and Hammett much tempt me that way, this term, which may be one reason I'm missing P. D. James's An Unsuitable Job for a Woman, removed from the syllabus because of its unpopularity with students over the years--James cares about language as well as story and character. When I go looking for new writers to include in this course, I usually tire of the exercise quite soon because however interesting the angle or scenario may be, so many are badly, even dreadfully, written (The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, anyone?).
It's only fair to say that bad or mediocre writing occurs in all forms, including self-consciously aspiring "literary" novels (The Mistress of Nothing, anyone?). But much of the time there's no reason to teach a mediocre work. For a course on the contemporary novel, I don't think Tracy Chevalier, for instance, would even be a contender for the syllabus. But when your criteria is not literary excellence but something else, then you do teach material that is "interesting" for other reasons, and I think what happens is that once you've gone through it a few times, it isn't really that interesting to you anymore and you're just reiterating stuff about its relationship to conventions and social / political issues and so on, reading it symptomatically, for what it is, rather than (dare I say) lovingly, for what it specifically says, or, as important, how it says it. I know, I know: "literary excellence"--what does it mean? But surely one defensible measure of excellence is "bearing up well under repeated, attentive readings." It might be intellectual qualities or aesthetic qualities that achieve this quality of endurance, and there are certainly many, many ways of being excellent, but a book that eventually lies flat before me like a deflated balloon because there's really nothing else to discover in it is not excellent, I feel pretty sure about that. I routinely teach some pretty bad books (Aurora Floyd, anyone?)--but so far, some of them do continue to bear up, maybe because they are so odd and unfamiliar that they resist deflation despite everything. But I think I'm going to start purging my teaching life of the ones that have become perfunctory. That may mean giving up the mystery and detective course, at least for a while. I know I still make the books interesting for students coming to them for the first time, but I'd really rather those same students were getting excited and interested in better books, books that will survive to become real literary friends of theirs and/or that will encourage them to set their sights higher. In spending a lot of time explaining what's interesting about not-very-good books, it sometimes seems I am implicitly allowing that it's OK to settle for them.
I wonder if I'm fretting over this problem this term because of the contrast with the readings for the Brit Lit survey: because there I have had to be so selective, I often feel overwhelmed with the fabulousness of our readings. This week, for instance, we've done Auden, Dylan Thomas, and Seamus Heaney, all writers who seem to me to offer the whole package.
And having said all that, I started rereading Daniel Deronda last night and I'm very excited about going through it again, with all of its challenges and rewards.
March 16, 2010
It's Tolstoy's first novel, yet is so Tolstoyan. The obsession with death, for example, the way death mingles with life. In Chapter 23 of Boyhood the children are all sent on a surprise sleigh-ride. What a lark!:The series continues here, here ("He makes peers like Balzac or Dickens, whatever their strengths, seem so convention-bound. Tolstoy wrote in the service of Truth. His integrity is bracing. Thank goodness, though, not everyone writes like him"), and here (with "Sevastopol Sketches"--"Many passages...would not seem out of place in War and Peace. It all sounds like Tolstoy. What a powerful writer").As we drew up to the house on the way back I open my mouth to make a fine face at [my sister] when my eyes are startled by a black coffin-lid leaning against one panel of our front door, and my mouth remains fixed in its distorted grimace.
'Votre grand'mère est morte!' says St-Jérome with a pale face, coming out to meet us.
Yes, the novel has a healthy sprinkling of the untranslated French that we all loved in War and Peace. The Sevastopol Sketches, written at the same time, contain untranslated Polish, so count your blessings, I say.
The single great touch, though, the art of that passage, is the boy's frozen mouth.
And at The Millions, Kevin Hartnett writes beautifully about reading War and Peace:
In the end, though, the reason I read novels is not because I can talk about them with other people, or because I’m looking for ideas to explain the world. I read them for the pure aesthetic moment that comes from seeing life perfectly distilled into words. In this respect, I don’t think there is a more able book than War and Peace. Tolstoy’s singular genius is to be able to take the torrent of conscious experience and master it. There are countless moments in the book where this happens, but the one that left me reeling was Tolstoy’s long, exquisite depiction of the Battle of Borodino, which was the deciding battle in the war and one of the bloodiest in history.I've been feeling dissatisfied with much of my recent reading, much of which has been second-rate, but under the pressure of a term with lots of assigned books I'm wary about picking up something that deserves my full attention and probably can't get it. I think I'll put my copy of War and Peace out where I can see it, as a promise to myself that there are better things ahead.
The night I finished reading about Borodino, it was plainly obvious that I had just read something great. Yet here I was sitting in a corner of my couch, just the same as I had been an hour before. I thought about the question with which I opened—what is it that greatness does? An encounter with greatness, I would say, is like a bright light fixed in time, a marker that defines memory and makes it clearer than it otherwise might have been, that we were here.
March 15, 2010
How happy the lot of the mathematician! He is judged solely by his peers, and the standard is so high that no colleague or rival can ever win a reputation he does not deserve. No cashier writes a letter to the press complaining about the incomprehensibility of Modern Mathematics and comparing it unfavorably with the good old days when mathematicians were content to paper irregularly shaped rooms and fill bathtubs without closing the waste pipe.
I bet that Great Achievements in Math are debated by mathematicians, too, and not, say, by former Olympians, doctors, or journalists.