The Map and the Territory begins with the composition of a painting, but it's truer to say it emerges from out of the painting—or out of its description. A little more than a paragraph in, the fiction of the scene yields: "They could have been in Qatar, or Dubai; the decoration of the room was, in reality, inspired by an advertisement photograph, taken from a German luxury publication, of the Emirates Palace Hotel in Abu Dhabi." An investigation of the interior leads to a revelation about the exterior. It's a small turn in the sea of them that we find in Michel Houellebecq's new novel, but it's one that deserves our attention. As readers, it's the first sign of our conditioning to a world where reality is the continuity or discontinuity between texts. This particular text, a painting called Damien Hirst and Jeff Koons Dividing Up the Art Market, depicts what it says. If the irony of the conceit isn't lost on us, the passing affinity Houellebecq himself has with Hirst's epithet isn't either: "Hirst was basically easy to capture: you could make him brutal, cynical in an 'I shit on you from the top of my pile of cash' kind of way; you could also make him a rebel artist (but rich all the same) pursuing an anguished work on death…" The painting itself suggests an analogy to its over-text, to the parallel aesthetics—classical and iconoclastic, conservative and decadent—at work in The Map and the Territory. Houellebecq's protagonist, Jed Martin, is painting the ersatz mythology of the world of art in the time of hyper-capitalism; his two contemporaries are symbolic, godlike, free as representations to take refuge in a kind of essential commercialism through the rite that the sale of this painting would renew. But the latter will never come to pass: "On closer inspection, the night itself wasn't right: it didn't have that sumptuousness, that mystery one associates with nights on the Arabian Peninsula; he should have used a deep blue, not ultramarine. He was making a truly shitty painting. He seized a palette knife, cut open Damien Hirst's eye, and forced the gash wider; it was a canvas of tight linen fibers, and therefore very tough." This time the path from interior to exterior leads through an act of violence that renders the boundary between the two meaningless. Continue Reading »
The House Next Door
Archive: Books
The Conceptual Ambivalence of Michel Houellebecq's The Map and the Territory
by Ryan Meehan on February 3rd, 2012 at 5:37 pm in Books
A War-Time Fever Dream: Ramona Ausubel's No One Is Here Except All of Us
by Sumanth Prabhaker on February 2nd, 2012 at 1:46 pm in Books
Based partially on Ramona Ausubel's own great-grandparents' experiences during WWI, No One Is Here Except All of Us concerns a village's attempts at self-preservation during WWII, focusing on one particular eventual family. The village is a tiny Romanian peninsula made up of nine families whose ancestors wandered the eastern European countryside for decades in search of shelter; Zalischik, where they finally settled, provided food (cabbage, mostly) and, more importantly, isolation from persecutors. By 1939, the isolation is such that the residents don't know Hitler and have heard nothing of his agenda, and they only learn of the surrounding air strikes when a neighboring village is hit and its sole survivor washes up on their shores.
The survivor, whom the 30 or 40 village residents refer to as "the stranger," is subsequently imbued with oracular gifts (she knew of the war, after all, so there's no telling what else she may know). She is God, of course, to them, despite her claims otherwise, and the villagers soon come to her with their troubles, the chief among them being what to do in the face of permanent disappearance. Her somewhat baffling response serves as the engine for the resulting narrative: Pretend like it's not happening. Continue Reading »
An Enjoyable Beginning: Roberto Bolaño's The Third Reich
by Malcolm Forbes on January 22nd, 2012 at 9:17 pm in Books
In Roberto Bolaño's riotous compendium of fictional pan-American writers, Nazi Literature in the Americas, we read of an Argentinean author who "had been dandled by the Führer" and who "treasured the famous photo of her baby self in Hitler's arms." If her house was on fire and she could save only one possession it would be this picture, "even over her own unpublished manuscripts." Earlier, in another fictional entry, we hear of another Argentinean writer who "financed the magazine The Fourth Reich in Argentina and, subsequently, the publishing house of the same name." There's yet another, a successful sci-fi writer, who's creator of something called the Fourth Reich saga.
Such writing manages to incorporate several of Bolaño's themes—violence, evil, Nazism, the value of literature—while showcasing his in-built trademark style and tone: blackly humorous, bitingly satirical, and so weirdly inventive that we don't question any blurring between the real and the absurd. The Third Reich, his latest novel to be translated into English, doesn't take us into a Fourth Reich, rather it deals with ways or "variants" to reimagine the Third. It was probably the first novel Bolaño wrote (it has been dated as late '80s) and consequently those themes and styles, though undeniably present, are only nascent, and would not be developed and perfected until the later exuberant masterpieces, The Savage Detectives and 2666. This debut is decidedly slight in comparison and yet there is still much to enjoy. Continue Reading »
Winding Down: Occupy! Scenes from Occupied America
by Ryan Meehan on December 26th, 2011 at 3:14 pm in Books
Occupy! Scenes from Occupied America, the latest book from the editors of the Brooklyn-based literary journal n+1, would seem to have arrived just in time. As I write, much of what Occupy Wall Street meant in 2011 looks as though it will be a memory in 2012. Major occupations throughout the country, including the flagship encampment at Zuccotti Park, have been dismantled. Others that remain, like the one in Washington, D.C., face the growing threat of eviction and the deteriorating weather of a North American winter in full effect. Mainstream media coverage, ambivalent even during the movement's high watermark, has turned definitively to a more reassuring, if less comprehensible, strain of political theater in the Republican presidential primary. Whether or not this decline in profile and enthusiasm is permanent, the evident phase-change merits a look back at the movement's first chapter.
The writings assembled in Occupy!—from the journal's editors, as well as other writers and thinkers sympathetic to OWS—chronicle the movement's first month and a half, from the settlement by protesters in a small park in New York City's Financial District, to eventual expansions in Oakland, Atlanta, Philadelphia, and Boston. The book consists of first-person anecdotes about life and activity within the occupations, as well as essays on various theoretical and practical aspects of the movement as it grew. Many of these pieces originally appeared in the Occupy! Gazette, a special newspaper printed by n+1, and on the journal's blog where content about OWS is regularly posted. Also reprinted are speeches made at encampments in New York by Judith Butler, Angela Davis, and Slavoj Žižek. The book's account ends two weeks before the Zuccotti eviction and the subsequent Day of Action on November 17 that found some 30,000 marchers in the streets. The preface acknowledges that these events took place as the book was going to print, and its posture is one of defiance: "You can pull up the flowers but you can't stop the spring…The movement and this book are not over." It sets the tone for much of what is to come, namely articulate endorsement of its subject. For all the collection's problems, mistaking its audience isn't one of them. Continue Reading »
No Consolations: Benoît Peeters's Hergé, Son of Tintin
by Sumanth Prabhaker on December 22nd, 2011 at 10:54 pm in Books
For those counting, Hergé, Son of Tintin is anywhere from the third to sixth high-profile English-language biography of Georges Remi (a.k.a. Hergé), translated from a 10-year-old French edition to coincide with the arrival of Spielberg's The Adventures of Tintin in an apparent attempt to capitalize on an unlikely subsequent surge of interest in the great Belgian cartoonist. Hergé's is a story that merits telling, retelling, and exporting to other nations, if only due to the effect of his life's work, and the author of this particular version, Benoît Peeters, adds a substantive volume to a crowded and growing library.
Characterized most by what it lacks, Peeters's biography omits graphics in favor of verbal explication; throughout the book we're told about the development of Hergé's style of cartooning, from the active black-and-white panels of his earlier newspaper work to the stoic, multicolored spreads of his later work. We're told about the movements of his lines and his arguable disdain for exposition and the kinds of clothes his characters wear, but never to prove a point. The images matter, of course, but just not here; what matters, instead, is the influence the images had on the shifting moods of their creator. This, with the book's awkward title, becomes a recurring message—that Hergé's life follows Tintin's, and that the critical focus should follow suit. Continue Reading »
Citizen Kael: Brian Kellow's Pauline Kael: A Life in the Dark
by Chuck Bowen on December 18th, 2011 at 9:00 am in Books
What's left to say of the film critic who haunts all others? To risk an unoriginal sentiment, I'm inclined to say that Pauline Kael remains the best critic with which the movies have ever been graced. She wasn't the sharpest or the most acute with detail (her friend Manny Farber could write circles around her in that regard), but like most great writers of all shapes and sizes, she was able to obliterate that often insurmountable distance that exists between the writer's intent and the reader's interpretation. Kael drew the reader directly into her obsessions and predilections, and to do that she often embraced an unapologetic recklessness that was exhilarating and infuriating in often equal measure. Like many young(-ish, sigh) aspiring film writers battling the blank page, the day I discovered Kael was a legitimately life-changing one.
As many others have sadly written, there's now at least a generation of filmgoers who have no idea who Pauline Kael is, and most of her books are distressingly out of print. The work of a giant such as Kael is, in these slam-bang hyperbolic times of Internet-empowered film illiteracy, more important than ever, and so it's somewhat comforting that The Age of Movies, a new collection of her work, has been released at nearly the same time as her first true biography, Pauline Kael: A Life in the Dark. Continue Reading »
Comic Retros: Jack Davis: Drawing American Pop Culture and Tony Millionaire's 500 Portraits
by Tim Peters on December 16th, 2011 at 2:00 pm in Books
In time for Christmas, Fantagraphics Books has released two new thick and fancy illustrator retrospectives. One is a coffee-table book about the career of Jack Davis, the other a smaller volume with the portraits of Tony Millionaire.
If you're unfamiliar with comics and cartooning, neither of those names may mean much to you. Jack Davis was one of the most well-known and well-paid cartoonists in the world during the 1960s and 1970s. His career started in the 1950s, drawing for EC Comics, and then Mad, Trump, and Humbug magazines. Davis then worked on LP covers and movie posters and made it big with his drawing for It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World in 1963. And in the 1970s he did dozens of covers for TV Guide and Time.
Davis is best known for watercolor drawings that cram a group of characters into a frantic and grotesque and exaggerated pose. You can see this in his posters for The Long Goodbye, Bananas, or A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Continue Reading »
A Career-Defining Primer: Don DeLillo's The Angel Esmeralda
by Sumanth Prabhaker on November 17th, 2011 at 8:56 am in Books
Comprising not quite half of the shorter stories Don DeLillo has published over the past 50 years, The Angel Esmeralda is a surprisingly introspective addition to a catalogue of serious, farsighted novels in which politics, language, and corporeality interact like characters, one brimming with selves and others, insights and projections, novels admired for their author's keen sense of impending cultural shifts. And talking points do constantly surface in these stories, from global economic crises to the view of one's homeland from afar, but the literature here is not foremost, and the focus, for the first time, is instead the author himself. Clearest of all are not the plots, which often middle around or don't bother showing up, but the progression from start to finish, 1979 to 2011, further refined by the book's division into three segments, each of which is given a mascot (the Earth, a painting of a bullfighter, and a kind of blurry thing), and that movement turns out to be the true narrative.
The most notable movement is in the tone of the stories, which begin with spells of DeLillo's early-career dialogue, insufferable and infrequently brilliant—everything sighed, contrapuntive and deaf, somehow always one step ahead of the curve. (The first spoken line in the book: "How neo-romantic, and how right for today.") Most of the characters are too involved in their inner worlds to lose their cool in the face of whatever great terror looms, and those who aren't come across as a little weird. The weird ones, however, gradually migrate from the fringe around the middle of the book, when the damage brought about by the constant terrors (natural disasters, murder) are seen, finally, as more and more personal. There's a telling moment in the title story when a character yells at a tour bus called "South Bronx Surreal" that they, the tourists, are the surreal ones, and that the Bronx is the only real place in the world. DeLillo still doesn't dare employ an exclamation point, despite the yelling, but the sentiment comes through, especially given the narrative unimportance and hard-to-believability of the long exchange. Continue Reading »
What Just Happened: The Pale King
by Vadim Rizov on October 31st, 2011 at 9:55 pm in Books
Most reviews of The Pale King followed the same wary pattern: an acknowledgment of David Foster Wallace's seemingly unstoppable posthumous ascent in the literary firmament, a list of traits commonly held against the author (sentence length, infinite spirals of neurotically involuted thought, a socioeconomic milieu and cast of characters mostly limited to the first-world problems of the white American middle-class), a carefully measured evaluation of the book as worthy yet flawed, a mention of his suicide, a cursory notice of his recently published modal philosophy thesis. No one wants to be the person declaring war on the recently, tragically dead (except for those who do; more in a second), yet these sympathetic-minded reviews seem flawed and unhelpful, leaving two questions unaddressed: what does it mean to be a DFW fan, and (how) does that affect The Pale King's stand-alone literary value?
One of the quickest ways to voice doubts about DFW's legacy and skill is to remind people that his work is long, demanding and—the most commonly trotted-out detail—contains sentences that can be three pages long. "Ah-ha!" cries the skeptic. "This may be all good for me, but a three-page long sentence? What gives? Is such indulgence really necessary" This is where DFW's famously anal-retentive attitude towards grammar and syntax comes in handy: assuming you have the attention span to read three pages in one go, these famous behemoth sentences aren't hard to read. Every clause logically follows the preceding one, everything clicks: you don't look up after those three damnable three pages and wonder what just happened. Continue Reading »
An Immersive "It": Haruki Murakami's IQ84
by Sumanth Prabhaker on October 25th, 2011 at 6:07 pm in Books
Those of us who know what to listen for start any Haruki Murakami book the same way, with our ears pricked for it—the rich, ineffable, operative it, that semi-transcendent metaphysical scenario at the source of so many of his stories, the thing for him that makes things happen—and 1Q84 is 925 pages of it. The word ambitious appears all over the marketing copy, and it's no exaggeration; never before has the author committed so persistently to building and exploring the images that haunt his body of work, and to omitting anything in the way. Despite its length, or because of it, the book becomes an essential and deeply personal experience, dependent on a curated worldview and surprisingly telling. There is little build-up here, and hardly any reflection, and the result, though not always artful, is certainly the most immersive it Murakami has written.
The book opens in the middle of a traffic jam in the year 1984, but it's only a matter of pages before Aomame, one of two main characters, leaps out of her cab in frustration and unknowingly into a slightly alternate world she later comes to know as 1Q84. Tengo, the male half of the book, similarly enters into this new world after agreeing to ghostwrite a novel conceived by a spooky teenage girl with an occult background. Though they live particularly different lives, one constantly on the run, one as routined as a housecat, the two of them navigate the busy world of 1Q84 in each other's direction, beneath the gaze of religious factions, hired watchmen, NHK fee collectors, and a sky with a second moon, misshapen and greenish and off to the side. Not exactly parallel but not quite the same, the possibility of overlapping worlds hovers at their every turn, and the occasional discovery of these overlaps creates the friction for the book's ecstatic moments, of which there are many. It's familiar territory for Murakami, a menacing infrastructure in which the threat of lasting isolation propels disparate characters in search of connection, but the thrill of following his career is less in the repeated establishment of these elements than in finding out what happens next. Continue Reading »
Freaks and Geeks: Shade Rupe's Dark Stars Rising: Conversations from the Outer Realms
by Jeremiah Kipp on October 19th, 2011 at 4:30 pm in Books, Film
Shade Rupe's Dark Stars Rising is a collection of interviews with first class weirdos in the world of cinema and performance. What makes it a special read for connoisseurs of this sort of bizarre entertainment is Rupe's earnest, non-ironic, deeply curious set of questions, which bring out a candor and trust in his subjects. Told entirely in Q&A format, there's a shortage of editorializing, and Rupe allows his superstars to speak for themselves.
For example, the spectacularly large drag queen Divine, best known for appearing in such John Waters classics as Pink Flamingos and Polyester, opens up about various inherent vulnerabilities and interests. Perhaps it's because Rupe's very first question isn't a question—he simply states, "Those are great shoes." Divine's response is, "I always say I look normal from my neck to my ankles, and the head and the shoes are always, as I say, fucked up." Rupe's follow-up question wonders if Divine gets bugged a lot for looking "normal" and already we're set up for a little more to the discussion than, "Did you really eat the dog turd in that movie?"
Transgressive bad-boy filmmakers like Gaspar Noe (I Stand Alone) and Richard Kern (You Killed Me First) delve into their work, and how they have evolved over the years. Kern's deadpan sense of humor about living in his fantasies is summed up when he says, "[When I was making] all that violent stuff, I was in that phase. Now I'm in the pervert phase. I don't have to hide anymore." Noe explains how his projects became fueled by personal anger at being rejected by financiers, or observing his friends make movies while his hands were tied. "Then you start hating the person who refused your script," he says, "[to the point where] you kill her in your own dreams…and [when you finally make the film] it all comes out in the movie!" Continue Reading »
Dense and Masterful Visions: Seth's The Great Northern Brotherhood of Canadian Cartoonists and Daniel Clowes's The Death-Ray
by Tim Peters on October 3rd, 2011 at 8:15 pm in Books
Two short graphic novels are coming soon from Montreal publisher Drawn and Quarterly. One, Seth's The Great Northern Brotherhood of Canadian Cartoonists (hereafter The G.N.B. Double C) is in black and white, and a second, Daniel Clowes's The Death-Ray, is in color, and though each one reads more like a chapter from a longer work, they're nevertheless complete and dense and masterful.
These days, any comic by Clowes or Seth unmistakably belongs to each man—in the style of their lines, the speech of their characters, and the mood of their fictional worlds. They are two of the best cartoonists around these days, often doing work for The New Yorker and The New York Times. But despite such success, there's still uneasiness in many underground comics about the status of the medium—about whether comics can grow away from its childish superhero stereotypes, about whether comics can be taken seriously as literature, about whether comics have a future. Both graphic novels deal with these ideas.
Seth's book is a fictional reminiscence about the history of cartooning in Canada. It's a counterpart to his 2005 book Wimbledon Green, which was a light-hearted tale about obsessive comics collectors. The G.N.B. Double C is one long, digressive monologue, given by a cartoonist wandering through an empty and quiet branch of the Brotherhood in the city of Dominion, Seth's fictional Canadian metropolis. The man tours the building and reminisces about Canadian comics and the lives of some of the men who wrote them. The mood and structure reminded me of Aleksandr Sokurov's Russian Ark, or even St. Augustine's Confessions—which is to say it takes memories and builds them into an elaborate physical space, and nostalgia and wonder are the shoes you have to wear to walk through its corridors. Continue Reading »
A Useful Reminder: Jack Hart's Storycraft
by Tim Peters on September 28th, 2011 at 10:27 am in Books
"You can't teach writing. You expose students to good work and hope it inspires them. Some can write, others will never learn," or so says Woody Allen, portraying Gabriel Roth—famous writer and creative-writing professor—in the film Husbands and Wives. Depending on how you feel about Allen's remark, the rapid increase in creative-writing programs throughout the United States in the past 30 years or so will seem to you either like a hideous rash or a fragrant blossom. n+1 recently described this trend in its fall 2010 issue, in an article title "MFA vs. NYC," and way back in 1988, David Foster Wallace complained about it in an essay for the Review of Contemporary Fiction.
For Wallace, creative-writing programs entailed all sorts of intellectual and spiritual problems that would impede someone trying to write well. One of these problems is that a writing program is going to program its writers to compose in a similarly polished, professional, and boringly unoriginal way. n+1 also complained (in an opposite way) about the ineffectiveness of creative-writing instruction: "MFA programs themselves are so lax and laissez-faire as to have a shockingly small impact on students' work—especially shocking if you're the student, and paying $80,000 for the privilege."
So how does one become a writer? Maybe one of the assumptions behind Allen and Wallace's contempt for writing instruction is that really great and unique writing—be it screenplays or novels or essays or journalism—is spirited and intelligent and honest, and writing that has those qualities can only come from a human being who's also spirited and intelligent and honest. But you can't acquire those essential personal qualities by just listening to someone lecture about them. You need to be born that way, or to spend thousands of hours, day in and day out, taking the risks and doing the work and making the choices necessary to, slowly and painfully, become that kind of person. And as you become that person, your vision would become sharper and you could peer more deeply into the world. To write, then, would be to file reports on all the interesting human stuff that's revealed by such a vision. Continue Reading »
Chad Harbach's The Art of Fielding and the Art of the Narrative Confine
by Christopher Gray on September 20th, 2011 at 10:03 pm in Books
In retrospect, college is an experience defined by its comforts. The responsibilities of young adulthood are often largely confined to academics and social maturation before they yield to the expenses incurred over four years, which are then exacerbated by new demands: meeting rent and converting one's new expertise into gainful employment.
The petri dish of college, and its invitation to unfettered self-enhancement and self-discovery, make a convenient, insulated setting for a novel, one where human drama can play out with relatively minor consequences and characters can seem witty and idealistic without raising any eyebrows. Chad Harbach's winning debut novel, The Art of Fielding, takes great advantage of its cozy narrative confines, though its final pages are perhaps too enamored of them.
Harbach's appealing cast of characters is led by Henry Skrimshander, a "scrawny novelty of a shortstop" who turns out to be an impeccable defensive presence on the field. Skrimmer, as he comes to be known, is recruited to tiny Westish College—which sits on a hill overlooking Lake Michigan—by Mike Schwartz, the baseball team's captain and hulking spiritual leader.
Henry arrives at Westish with little but for his personal bible, a book called The Art of Fielding, written by his idol, Aparicio Rodriguez (modeled closely after Ozzie Smith). The book imparts a Zen wisdom and awareness Henry attempts to master on the baseball field, and more clumsily adopts off the field as well. (Snippets offered include "The true fielder lets the path of the ball become his own path, thereby comprehending the ball and dissipating the self, which is the source of all suffering and poor defense" and "There are three stages: Thoughtless being. Thought. Return to thoughtless being.") Henry's clumsy stoicism is well remarked upon by Harbach, in lines like "Henry nodded in a way he hoped was appropriate." Continue Reading »
If there's a love triangle at the center of The Marriage Plot, then it's isosceles—two towering male characters (one autobiographical, one biographical) grounded by one basic female, Madeleine Hanna, about whom, despite her prominence in the novel, we end up knowing very little. She's an English major at Brown University who loves both Jane Austen and Roland Barthes; she's better behaved than her older sister; she's shown, at one point, perched on her dorm room's bed in some kind of pajama, eating peanut butter from the jar with a spoon, looking for all the world like a commercial of a girl hard at work. For much of the novel, Madeleine's work consists of a paper about the use of the marriage plot in Victorian novels, a de facto focus arising from a college course entitled, of course, "The Marriage Plot." It starts as an assignment, turns into her undergraduate thesis, and is later edited into a published article (presumably by Madeleine, though aside from her peanut-butter bender we rarely see her consult her books for anything but romantic fortunes, and her only use of a pencil comes in the form of a Dear John letter), but through her hours of work on "I Thought You'd Never Ask: Some Thoughts on the Marriage Plot," those elusive thoughts never really take shape.
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