WordWacky

Want to read with me? I just joined the Infinite Summer initiative: a group of readers tackling Infinite Jest, the 1,079-page, heavily annotated tome by the late David Foster Wallace. (I think this book warrants the use of the word tome—if ever there was a valid Kindle argument…) There’s a daily post at the blog by one of several writers. I have had to abstain from reading them because I’m behind. I didn’t get my book until this week, so I’m on page 50, when I should be somewhere between 150 and 225.

As I’ve mentioned before, my mother read to me every night until I could read myself. It was the highlight of my day—I was the child of a single parent, so one-on-one time was rare and precious. Add what was to become my lifelong addiction, story, to the mix, and you have one happy—if sleepy—preschooler.

Then there was school. Once everyone was able to read, we all would read the same stories and talk about them together. I was (am?) often the slacker, behind in my (school) reading, but I would still benefit from the social aspect of the reading, the discussion and analysis.

I’ve never joined or started a book club, though I’ve often thought about it. Post college, many of us are starved for some debate, a more in-depth reading of a book, or even just the fuzzy feeling of knowing someone else liked something, too. I’m pretty good about keeping up my Goodreads account, and while I often find good things to read there, it lacks the real-time interactivity that a classroom or a book club have.

So I don’t know if Infinite Summer will fulfill my need for social reading. As a social tool the Internet has its benefits (reach, specificity) and its shortfalls (anonymity, creepy people who profile well). And blogs tend to be less interactive—call them Web 1.5, perhaps. But I am following Infinite Summer on Twitter, so who knows. Maybe once I’m caught up and not concerned about spoilers I will really feel like part of the party.

As a child I wanted nothing more than to escape the world with a thick, long-lasting book. And now I want that same low-tech device to connect me to the world.

[Picture via MAKE:Blog]

My love affair with crosswords began in high school. See, when you’re cutting classes, it helps to have something to do to pass the time. I would do the Daily News or New York Times crossword, sometimes with my friend Denise. She would put two letters in a box to fit words that she wanted to place. It was infuriating.

That love affair revived a couple of years ago, and I dragged my wife in for a threesome. We’d trade the crossword back and forth when we were stuck, and sometimes — but not always — we’d get it all done.

It is my ambition to one day complete (solo, sorry honey) a Saturday New York Times crossword. Everyone thinks Sundays are the hardest, but that’s not true. It’s just the largest. From the Amazon listing for the Saturday book:

The Saturday New York Times crossword puzzle is the most challenging puzzle of the week, which is why it has gained such an eager following. The most serious solvers know that actually finishing the puzzle is no small feat.

No small feat, indeed. When I get any of the words in that puzzle, it’s a triumph. A girl can dream….

The Story of Forgetting: A Novel by Stefan Merrill Block

Rating: 4 of 5 stars

If I didn’t really like this book, I’d hate Stefan Merrill Block. The kid – and yes, I mean kid – was born in 1982, as his book jacket brags. He’s still in his 20’s. And this book is good, not good like macaroni art is good, or good like that time that your 12-year-old cooked you pancakes and forgot the eggs, it’s bona fide good. Maybe it’s not great, but jeez, he’s gotta have something to do with the rest of his life, right?

Block creates a familial mythology that is interwoven with a genetic disease, an imagined variety of early-onset Alzheimer’s. On his website, stefanmerrillblock.com, he details the personal origins of his fascination with Alzheimer’s:

When I was a small child, my grandmother was diagnosed with probable Alzheimer’s disease. At that time, I hardly knew what the disease was (I thought the word was “Old-Timer’s”). For the first year or two of her decline, her symptoms were subtle and I was too young to notice anything unusual. By the time my mom invited my grandmother to come stay with us, however, the disease was in its middle stages, and I was old enough to understand that something was deeply wrong. Just before my grandmother arrived, my mom explained to me what I should expect: cognitively, I was now more advanced than she. Difficult as it was to comprehend, I would now have to think of myself as more mature than my grandmother. I would have to watch out for her, like a brother would for his little sister.

Like the disease, the myth of Isidora is carried from parent to child, from one generation to the next. The Isidorans start out unable to remember anything – this is not considered a flaw, but key to their bliss.

Complicated are his ideas on memory, but they are ideas, not permutations of characters at play, but actual ideas. He could have been more coy with his ideas, weaving them seamlessly into stories, but he states them outright, with poetry and grace, and I, for one, am glad he does. Take his ideas of DNA as Memory, birthed of its parent, Chance:

…Chance also created some astoundingly complex and resilient successes, and memory didn’t miss a chance to take these opportunities as far as it could. Eventually, with higher domains of complexity, Memory took on new responsibilities. Once Chance and Memory devised the nervous system, for example, Memory found work for itself beyond its endless, monotonous transcription. Chance interred Memory in their mutual creations, allowing, for example, a simple fish to remember not to eat a bluish alga, or swim too close to the coral. Chance encouraged Memory’s new work, and in new organisms new forms of memory were invented all the time: instinctual memory, procedural memory, sensory memory, short-term memory.

Perhaps the ending, which carefully leaves some laces untied, is still a little too perfectly assembled. I can’t say that I understand how you strike that balance between order and potential, though. Maybe in the next ten years, either Block or I will get there.

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Diary of a Bad Year by J.M. Coetzee

My review

rating: 4 of 5 stars

Fiction in which a writer is the protagonist bores me. Faulting the author for too little imagination, I imagine the protagonist to be an ill-veiled version of the real person, the author. Indeed, the protagonist of Diary of a Bad Year is a writer, a writer who is perhaps named Juan C. (The author’s name is John Maxwell, or J. M. Coetzee.)

That’s my own personal bias, not any kind of objective truth — but here’s another piece of much more reputable advice that this book ignores. Don’t build a book around your political agenda. Not only does Coetzee do this, he does it completely blatantly, with little narrative intertwined.

The protagonist has contracted with a German publisher to contribute to a collection of of six authors’ “Strong Opinions.” Those opinions, such as “On Language,” and “On Intelligent Design,” are short non-fiction passages from an old man to the world he finds himself living within.

About assigning the opinions of Señor C to Coetzee, The New Yorker says this:

Many of the protagonist’s essays are reproduced in the novel we are reading. Naturally, the reader wants to make Coetzee’s novels confessional, to claim these opinions as his rightful children. But Coetzee explicitly complicates the question of his paternity, so that these books read less like confessions than like books about confession.

This is an idea I consider, but at best I see Señor C as a self-conscious exaggeration of the author, not as being of an entirely different character than the man who created him. As Coetzee is notoriously reclusive, we may never know how closely the two resemble each other.

But there’s something else much more compelling in the book’s structure. Below each page of the writer’s “Strong Opinions” is a footnote of sorts, finally the narrative we need to hold our interest through this barrage of editorial. The story that surrounds the writing of the opinions is told by the writer, in the first person.

And both are good. Both are engaging, and if we prefer the narrative (which is generally limited in page real estate to less than a third, and often ends leaving white space), we are soon rewarded with more — a third section on each page representing our romantic-platonic leading lady, also told in the first person.

About the opinions I won’t say much, except that I agreed with many, including some harsher reviews of our American Empire. What’s very interesting in the reading of the book is that depending on the story that is taking place, the opinions seem more or less valid — as you grow to know the writer, your opinion of his opinions changes and adjusts. Ultimately, you are left to miss the author’s narrative voice altogether, left with only his opinions and those of Anya, his typist. Could this be the demise of us all, survived only by our strongest opinions and others’ somewhat misinformed ideas about us?

Reading this book is an experience I recommend. Its engaging, lively structure contains a story of its own.

View all my reviews.

To call In the City… lyrical, brilliant, epic, ambitious, and accomplished is certainly true, but also disappointing. Don’t use such ordinary words for this book. This book inspires the study of ancient languages and invention of new words to surround it. Choreograph a 1000-person line dance in Thompkins Square Park as a humble tribute. Buy a copy for every rehab and homeless shelter and gay community center in the country.

I want to live in this book. I have lived in this book. I am still living in this book. I’m in love with the characters: William of Heaven, Fiona Yet, Rose and Ruby, Charlie and True Shot. They are my Art Family, hanging out in the foundation of my memory, lovely new additions to the swarm under the jumbotron that says “Gotham.” How could new people — fictional characters, even — insinuate themselves into something so impermeable as my own history? It’s magic, but they have done just that.

Speaking of magic: I knew there was a divine tether between the Known Universe and this book, that it is somehow a hologram of the human experience twisted into a raunchy fable. That is magic enough, but here’s some more magic: In the City of Shy Hunters was published in the early months of 2001. A quote from p. 437:

“As I lit the cigarette, the World Trade Center was in the rearview mirror, and I turned around to look. The World Trade Center buildings were so beyond human they’d disappeared.”

This book is a beautiful example of contemporary urban wisdom, heart, and tragedy as it truly is — inseperable from, a celebration of Life Cafe: the ouroboros, the peace pipe, and the pungent wafts of dog shit.

Every now and then, for years, I have strolled down Broadway in Seattle’s Capitol Hill and passed Brett Dean McGibbon and his sidewalk book stand. Sometimes he’s handing out free poems to passers by. Always there are his own works, handbound in both paperback and rough-cut leather. He sells similar volumes as journals.

I remember taking a poem from him once, and though I don’t remember how I felt about his poetry, I do remember thinking long and hard about his business model, only to decide he must be at least a little off to think a home-baked scheme like his would work.

On Friday, after a happy hour cocktail smoothed my work-frayed mood, I passed McGibbon, sitting at his card table with his books. He was outside the new location of Capitol Hill News, on the north end of Broadway. Feeling chatty, I stopped to talk.

“So can I ask you something?” I’ve never been one for false formality.

“Sure,” he said, his face not revealing any sign of unease.

I waved my hand at the table. “So, do you make your living from this?” Maybe my incredulity was insulting. “I mean, I’m a writer, too, and I just wondered if you were able to support yourself this way.”

“I make my living through my book sales, yes.” And a man who knows his audience, he then tried to sell me a copy of his CD, Successful Self Publishing of Fiction and Poetry.

I didn’t buy the CD. It’s not that I support wholeheartedly the publishing institutions, it’s more that the leap of faith required to “go McGibbon” is so great that the barriers to getting your book published through traditional means seem minor in comparison.

Returning to the car with my copy of Lucifer’s Redemption, I told my wife, “I’d be good at that. Sitting around talking to strangers and selling books.” I started to read the book aloud to her during the ride home, and we’ve left it in the car for story time. While I’ve found a few places that McGibbon could have used a good copy editor, and the book is decidedly handmade, I’m also finding great sentences and vivid imagery.

It’s a little bit like building your own house versus hiring an architect and a contractor. The outcome may not be as polished as some of the other houses on the block, but every inch of it is your own.

There’s nothing more to say about this book, it’s true. Yet I also believe my reading experience is enhanced by a multitude of ideas around a single work.

This is the book your creative writing teacher wants you to write. It is sparse, and the verbs are active. Epic without being overwritten, it has a verbal landscape that exactly mirrors the charred country the protagonists traverse.

Yes, it’s apocalyptic; yes, it’s man versus man — along with man versus nature (himself?). It is every paranoid’s fantasy taken to its impossible, right-around-the-corner conclusion. It is predictable in this way.

You won’t care.

This is a story of love and commitment under the harshest imaginable conditions. Our unnamed heroes walk on, always at the brink of unthinkable deaths, and still there are lessons, a father’s lessons, his legacy to his son, a son’s lessons of innocence for his father.

Most of the insights of the father go unspoken, however: “The last instance of a thing takes the class with it. Turns out the light and is gone.”

McCarthy doesn’t use quotation marks to mark dialogue. His commas are so infrequent, you almost believe they’re completely absent (on two full pages of complicated sentences, I counted two). All of the -n’t contractions lack their apostrophes. Many to-be verbs are just missing. Civilization has broken down completely, and with it all order, says McCarthy with these omissions.

The placement of text on the pages — lone paragraphs and vacant expanse of page — contribute to the barren landscape of the characters’ worlds.

A paragraph separated by breaks on either side:

In that long ago somewhere very near this place he’d watched a falcon fall down the long blue wall of the mountain and break with the keel of its breastbone the midmost from a flight of cranes and take it to the river below all gangly and wrecked and trailing its loose and blowsy plumage in the still autumn air.

I had to read this paragraph several times, inserting mental commas as I went. I enjoyed every reading of it more than the last.

What do you want when there’s nothing left to want? Who do you trust when there’s nobody left to trust and the rules you learned to live by no longer fit — how would you even figure out who to trust? What would you do — or not do — to survive?

These are worn out questions that are haunting and dusty and new and familiar in The Road.

In a Radiohead-like move, author Paulo Coelho increased sales of his books by offering downloads of them for free. His publishers, inspired by the increase in sales, later did the same.

Coelho himself has an answer to my title question, “Why buy the book…?” from Torrentfreak:

“A (real) book is easy to carry, easy to read anywhere. Reading a book on a monitor on the other hand is very tiresome, and it would be even more expensive to print (considering cartridge prices) than to buy a paperback,” he says.

Coelho considers the downloads previews, and hopes that previewing encourages readers to buy the book. It has, too — in its 34th week on the Bestseller List, The Alchemist is number six.

Never mind that citing Coelho as a favorite will lose you dates, if you believe the readers of the New York Times book blog, Paper Cuts (read the comments). This is the same New York Times that maintains the bestseller list on which Mr. Coelho has managed to rise back up to #6 with a book that is fifteen years old.

In A.M. Homes’s novel, This Book Will Save Your Life, middle-aged protagonist Richard Nowak has had what he believes is a brush with death, followed by a mid-life crisis.

This is a story we’ve heard before — in fact, Homes is flirting with some real cliche in the subject matter of her book. But it manages to be completely unexpected, anyway.

Bizarre things happen to Richard Nowak. They will make you laugh.

The characters in This Book… are mostly described without any real reference to their physical form. We understand them, picture them because of their actions and dialogue. We imagine we know someone like each of them.

Richard’s position and circumstance (crossed with his near death experience) allow him to be absurdly helpful to others — strangers, family, his housekeeper — and as a worldly cynic, you wait the entire story for this to backfire on him. People can’t just go around being maniacally generous like that, you think. And his life definitely gets more complicated, but it also gets richer.

The prose is simple and unobtrusive, allowing the incredible plot (and I mean that in a couple of ways) and pitch-perfect dialogue to stand out. My critic was forced into hiding, edged out by the characters that had come to life in my mind.

Can a fable take place in modern day LA, with complex, quirky characters that curse and threaten and fuck? A.M. Homes says yes, and she’s proven it to me with This Book….