Humbletron 2000

REMEMBER:
1. I’m not a genius. I just like books.
2. I can be a little off-task at times.
3. I’m not exactly topical.
4. I never claimed to have good taste.


This week: How to keep writing even when you’re pretty sure you suck at it. The advantages of brain damage. Does anyone know some good work music?

So I’m writing a book. I’m about 250 pages in, which I suspect is a little over halfway. It’s a historical adventure set in the Republic of Venice in the early Fourteenth Century. It won’t change anyone’s life, but I think it will be good fun to read: and I don’t think there’s anything essentially ignoble about a little escapist literature. I had a title I thought was pretty good, but then I found out that another book had pretty much the same one. Clearly that won’t do, so the book is a bit unnamed at the moment. The closest thing I’ve got at to an idea at the moment is The Arrowcatcher, but that seems a bit corny. I’m open to suggestions.

Anyhoo, I sent the first chapter to fifteen literary agents a month or so ago. And I’ve heard back from all but three of them (rejections) so that’s a bit of a bummer. But that’s part of the process. I’ve started hanging all my rejections around the full-length mirror in my hallway, the one I always look in right before I leave the house. I’m calling this device the “Humbletron 2000,” and it’s a revolutionary new weapon in the fight against ego. I’m working on a model for the general public, it will utilize DMV photographs, love letters from girls who don’t love you anymore, and reminders of times you were publicly embarrassed, typed out in haiku-form like this:

An outdoor lunch date
Sticky birdshit in my hair
Freshman year sucked bad

It’ll catch on, just wait; everyone will have a Humbletron.

Enough. Let’s talk about Solnit’s River of Shadows, like I’ve been threatening to do for weeks.

This book is difficult to discuss because it’s hard to pin down what exactly it’s about, or even place it in a definite genre. One could point out that it focuses on the life and career of a man named Edweard Muybridge, and thus call it biography. Or one might notice how much it has to say about his work (photographer, photographic innovator) and call it art history. Then again, it lovingly describes the society and conflicts of California in the 1870’s, so maybe it’s just plain history? Of course, one can’t discount Solnit’s careful, scientific analysis of the changes wrought on the human psyche by the completion of the transcontinental railroad and the invention of the motion picture…so, sociology maybe?

Enough. This book, finally, reminds me of a number of other titles I’ve read and enjoyed that use a human life as a lens through which to view a distant time and place. Barbara Tuchman’s A Distant Mirror is a famous example of this kind of writing, and also, more recently, The Devil in the White City. I love these kind of books, they have the combination of escapism, exoticism, and education that one finds in the best histories, but they also give the reader a protagonist to root for.

The main character in River of Shadows is the above-mentioned Muybridge. He is the daddy (or at the very least the granddaddy) of the motion picture. Apart from his passion for pushing the boundaries of photography, he was also a pretty interesting cat in his own right. He comes off the page as a kind artistic Prophet of Doom: an unkempt, excitable, glowering Michealangelo with vats of volatile chemicals (essential for that era’s cumbersome photography) rather than a serene painter’s palette. He is one of the horsemen of an apocalypse long-past: the end of the natural world that included humans as an integral part, and the beginning of our own age of separation from nature. He was one of the men who helped, as thinkers of his era phrased it, to “destroy time and space.” For the motion pictures he helped create can be thought of, at their core, as a technology for nullifying the effects of time.

The nineteenth century was all about destroying time and space; with the advent of the railroads time needed to cross vast areas was so reduced that the world seemed to shrink. The human race stopped living by the natural rhythms of sunrise and sunset and began to live on the industrial standard of railroads and factories. Muybridge’s part in all this was multifaceted, which is why he is such a good subject for this book. Solnit makes a compelling case for this man being the zeitgeist. He was a photographer who took pictures of the world as it was ending: capturing the transcontinental railroad’s inexorable march across native America, with each tie laid bringing death to herds and tribes. He documented Indian wars, ruins, and earthquakes. His photographs were some of the first to have a mood to them. Before him landscape photography was a collection of clear, still, straightforward pictures of mountains and rocks, images fit to be painted on teacups. Muybridge was the first photographer to prize cloudy, brooding skies and heaps of jagged rubble, to prize a landscape for its upheaval and disorder. He enjoyed photographing falling and running water, which appear white and ghostly at 1870’s shutter speeds.

One aspect of Muybridge’s life I found very interesting was the theory put forward by Solnit that the man’s passionate, moody, and at times maniacal creativity was the result of brain damage. The artist’s life can be divided neatly into a before-and-after, with the central event being a grisly stagecoach accident that nearly killed him. Before, he was a prosperous San Francisco bookseller, seemingly self-satisfied. Afterwards he was Edweard Muybridge: artist, innovator, and future murderer (he shoots his wife’s lover, good for him). So, in short, in the pursuit of personal creative development, I’m currently seeking volunteers to bash me in the face with a sledgehammer.

In other news: I’m looking for some good writing music. I like writing while listening to things that are cool and have no lyrics. I normally write to Erroll Garner’s Body and Soul, but I’ve completely worn it out. Suggestions?

Shooting puppies is just wrong, even if it is literary.

REMEMBER
1. I'm not a genius. I just like books.
2. I can be a little off-task at times
3. I'm not exactly topical.
4. I never said I had good taste.

Howdy,

I say howdy because it's been Wild West week in my reading life. Apart from my continuing work on the Inferno I've wrapped up Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, and started work on Rebecca Solnit's River of Shadows (which I'll talk about next time). In other news, there is now a picture of me on the blog, so you know what I look like. Exciting, yes? No? Not even a little?

You're a fucker.

So, fucker, have you read Blood Meridian? It's. . .ah. . .good. Possibly.
Listen, I'm not really sure what to say about this book. It's definitely bold, definitely unique, definitely orgasmically violent, but if you're idea of a good Western includes any of the following elements: rough-hewn, plainspoken heroes, black-hatted villains, great-hearted heroines in gingham dresses meeting life's hardships with stoic courage, a moral universe looked after by a just God, or The Duke, then I don't think this book is for you.

The book is set primarily in the southwestern U.S. and Mexico during the 1850's, and centers on the. . .eh. . ."adventures" of a character known only as The Kid. He joins up with a group of mercenary Indian killers contracted by the Mexican Government to collect Apache Scalps. Cormac McCarthy's West is a place of unrelenting and senseless bloodshed, with all parties killing all parties for any (or no) reason throughout the book. Thus, it is only a matter of time before this little army starts killing pretty much anyone they run across.

McCarthy's West is also a land of almost supernatural beauty, of dense primeval forests and high mountain passes, of volcanoes where the prints of cloven hoofs can be seen in dried lava, of deserts where lonely trees are decorated by the dead, or burn for no reason, where blue fire and lightning dance around horses and riders. The petty, pointless brutality of The Kid and his companions stands out even more starkly against this backdrop of lovingly-described natural grandeur. The humans are like cockroaches scuttling through the walls of Versailles.

His writing is, for the most part, very minimal. The thoughts and emotions of his characters are almost never revealed, and dialogue is pared down to almost nothing (FUN LITERARY DRINKING GAME FOR BLOOD MERIDIAN: every time a character spits instead of talking, chug a beer! Also: anytime anyone dies, in any way or for any reason, take a shot. . .no wait, that would kill you) There are only two things Cormac McCarthy seems to really enjoy describing: landscapes and gore. His writings about death and dying, and all the many, many wonderful ways in which they can be brought about, are almost erotic. He loves to talk about blood, how it squirts and flows and arcs from wounds (skeet skeet), and how it congeals on stone floors and soaks into one's hair and clothing. There are corpses of all kinds, minutely described, in varying states of freshness, littering his landscape. I enjoyed the dead baby tree particularly. There's also plenty of fun for animals: donkeys falling off cliffs, snake-bit horses with hugely swollen heads, and let's not forget when the Judge buys, and immediately shoots, some puppies. Mr. McCarthy likes some death. I've heard some of his other books flirt with Necrophilia. Hmmm. . . I wonder.

But...did I like it? Yes, I'd have to say I did. It was weird, it disturbed me, but at least it was different. One of the book's saving graces is the character of Judge Holden (the above-mentioned puppy-shooter), who is perhaps the best villain in American literature. He is colossal, obese, pale, hairless and gleefully, insanely amoral. And there is also some strong evidence that he's not entirely human. First of all, he's omnipresent, appearing as if by magic whenever there's some good quality killing to be done. He never ages, he apparently knows everything, and whenever he opens his mouth you can count receiving a first-class mindfuck.
I'm not sure what the hell the Judge is, other than scary. So I consulted my brain trust (folks I know who are just as nerdy as I am) and asked them what they thought. Among those who've read Blood Meridian the answers were diverse; one guy though he was god, another thought he was the spirit of war, most thought he was the Devil. I'm nursing a theory that the Judge is the spirit of the modern age, but I'll need to make some notes before I defend my case.


In other news: I WON FIVE GRAND!
I'm not really sure how this happened. All I know is that my school, the University of Memphis, has elected to give me something called the Graduate Research Award. I don't really know what it is, I've never heard of it, and I didn't apply for it, but I'm gonna ride that $5,000 into the damn sunset. I may have to reconsider that whole "worst student in my program's history" thing, though. It's a shame, I kinda liked the distinction.

The most positive thing about the money is that it will give me the financial ability to not work this summer, so I can focus on My Book. This entry is running long, so I'll tell you about it next time.

Sending Your Enemies to Rot in Hell for Fun and Profit

So I'm reading The Inferno right now and I can't think of a better way to kick off a summer in Memphis. It's May 11 and we're already pushing 90 degrees, with a humidity factor of...well...too damn high anyway. To be accurate, there isn't nearly as much fire in the Inferno as one might expect. So far Hell's only had gale-force winds, chilly rain (which falls forever on the gluttonous) and stinking bogs full up with sinners. Fun!

Some people think Dante was an egomaniac, which is understandable considering that he pretty much comes out of the gate saying he's the greatest poet ever, the successor of Homer and Virgil, and a man for whom God is bending the rules of the universe. Far from being turned off, I'm awed. I mean, check out the balls on this guy. In modern parlance he's basically grabbing his crotch, throwing the goat, and shrieking "I'm motherfuckin' Dante, Bitches, whooooo!" Considering what the man had been through (exile, accusations of treason, the loss of family and friends and his nice cushy political career) he'd have to be an egomaniac just to keep going. And how therapeutic must it have been to write the Divine Comedy? Living well might be the best revenge, but if you can't live well then you can always write a long poem in which you send your loved ones to heaven and your enemies to hell, where they rot and fester and have their heads turned around backward so their tears fall down the cracks of their asses.

But Seriously Folks, this IS a good read (the translation I'm using is bad ass, it's by Anthony Esolen and has beautiful engravings by Gustave Dore). Many people are smart enough to not enter into battles they cannot win, and even good readers will shy away from six hundred year old poems. I am pleased to say that Dante's Inferno is in no way the uphill struggle I feared. You see, I recently read Paradise Lost, and while I did eventually get through it, and even enjoy it, and not just in that "hah, another one bites the dust" kind of way, it was the reading equivalent of trench warfare. I lost a leg. Dante's reading difficulty, to extend the battle metaphor, is more like a pillow fight with the elderly: don't worry, you can handle it. Take the appropriate precautions, of course, carry a pocket dictionary, have two bookmarks (one for the end notes, one for your place), and drink a cup of coffee (because coffee is tasty).

And, before my sarcasm runs off with the show, let us not forget to mention how beautiful it is. True, I am reading it in translation, so I cannot grasp the fullness of the poet's intention, but I can respond to the story that is being told. The Inferno, very simply, has a lot to say about love, justice, and the importance of overcoming fear and living well. These are all undying issues, and explain to a great extent why the work has endured.

So anyway. In this, the second installment of BASSD, I have decided to take a que from Dante Alighieri. Ahem: "I'm motherfuckin' Book Guy, bitches. Whoooooo!"

There, if that doesn't keep you reading I don't know what will.

Howdy, Acolytes!

Memphis is a surprisingly good town for a reader. This has much to do with the way that summer here is so goddam hot that all one wants to do is sit naked in front of an AC unit with a beer. Such immobility lends itself very well to reading, and it's one of the curses and blessings of books, and the curses and blessings of books are what I want to talk to you about.

My name is Colin, I'm 28, and I've been a reader all my life, or since age seven, anyway, when I participated in Lake Louise elementary school's "Read-Aloud Crowd". I had the book The House with a Clock in its Walls read to me by my Mom, and for this non-feat won a trip to the Museum of Science and Industry. I would still recommend this book to anybody, by the way. What could be a better intro to the universe of letters than a story about bright, apple-cheeked kids raising evil corpses from the dead? Nothing, of course. I maintain, to this day, a great love of evil, reanimated corpses, but now I tend to get that fix from the movies.

So, why am I doing this? I guess what fired me up to try the new-fangled blogging thing was a statistic I heard the other day (you'll find I'm a person who is troubled perhaps too much by statistics; I've been hoarding canned goods and sucking my thumb since I saw An Inconvenient Truth). What I heard is this: people in their forties read 10% less than people in their fifties, and people in their twenties read 10% less than people in their thirties, and so on down the line.

I find this ominous, not only because I'm an aspiring writer, but also because it reminds me of my absolute favorite quote: W.C. Fields said that "Life is a banquet, and everywhere you look some poor son of a bitch is starving to death." I doubt he was talking about reading, specifically, but more about using your time on earth to enjoy the full spectrum of pleasures. To me reading is the main course at the bar-b-que of the arts, and art accounts for a little over half of that aforementioned pleasure spectrum. Books get us all the way to ROY G, and that's nothing to sneeze at. Sure, a lot of people go in for BIV and BIV alone, and I'm not faulting them–I think bowling's awesome too– but if BIV was all I had I'd be pretty bored pretty quick.

Has the world reached a point where it no longer wants or needs books? I'm afraid it has. I'm trying be a writer, as I mentioned earlier, and the decline of readership wouldn't worry me so much if I was better at it. I am, at best, a B- writer, and I don't think the industry can support anything less than A+'s anymore. So what do I do? I do what I can. I buy books, I write, I light a candle and sing hymns and ritually smack my head with a splintery board. Mostly, I start a blog to talk about reading and life.

So let me tell you about The Stack.

The Stack is a complete denial of conservation physics: it gets taller, it gets shorter, parts are added, parts taken away, but it never disappears. It's the three foot, papery monster that sits by my turntable, flipping me the bird and scratching itself. It's the books I have (for some reason) paid for, and that I'm determined to read. I do not remember a time when The Stack didn't, in some form, exist. If you're a reader you might understand this urge to hoard, or if not understand then at least recognize it and sympathize, as one junky to another.

This blog is about my ongoing struggle with The Stack, and I hope you will join me as I duke it out. There's four things I want you know on the front end (and these will be placed at the front of every posting).

1. I'm not a genius. I just like books.
What qualifies me to write about books? Absolutely jack shit. Nothing. Nada. My undergrad degree wasn't even in English, and while I am currently pursuing an MFA in creative writing, I'm confident that I'm one of the worst students in the history of my program. After two and a half years I'm still a little hazy about what "modernism" actually means. So don't talk theory with me, we won't get far. I want to shoot the breeze about books, not dissect them. Also, I'm self-editing, so forgive the occasional typo.

2. I'm not exactly topical.
What ends up in The Stack is governed by no other force than my mood the last time I was at the bookstore. It's a mixed bag, you're going to get novels, history, biography, science and whatever else. Some of the books will be current, many will not. It could be David Sedaris this week and Homer the next. But that's how people read, isn't it?

3. I can be a little off-task at times.
I'm a culture junky and I have adult ADD, so forgive me if I get a bit tangential. While I love books more than anything else, I might occasionally have something I'm dying to say to you about movies or music or TV, bear with me.

4. I never claimed to have good taste.
This last one is important. I love Filet Mignon, but sometimes I just want a damn cheeseburger. It won't all be Anna Karenina around here, as you'll find out when I get around to Bruce Campbell's biography If Chins Could Kill (currently at the bottom of The Stack).

So, I guess that's it for now. Stay tuned, folks, next week I'll be talking about The Inferno, Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian, and Rebecca Solnit's River of Shadows: Edweard Muybridge and the Technological Wild West.