"The Tin Drum" and other war stories

I suppose a diary is no good if you beat yourself up for not writing in it, but last fall is a great blank in terms of reading anything other than student papers and the things that I was teaching. My war themed English 111 class featured books that I had read before: Toni Morrison's "Beloved" (the freshman common text for that year); "Heart of Darkness;" "Regeneration" and "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close." I read the latter two in the summer after our Italy trip, and was too busy thinking about how to teach them and making notes to write about them here. "Heart of Darkness" bored them, "Beloved" bewildered and appalled them. "Regeneration" seemed to appeal especially to the men in my class, with it's clear-eyed and unsentimental depictions of masculine friendships and the pressure of "manly" expectations. "Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close" for all the critics' grumblings about the book being gimmicky and overly precious was adored almost with exception. My students loved being able to read a novel that was so wholly contemporary, multimedia, and that dealt with tragedies that they could understand and had gone through themselves.
"The Tin Drum" on the other hand, went over like a lead balloon. They hated its episodic structure, were repulsed especially by Oskar's sexual proclivities and his irreverence. Instead of seeing the book as a celebration of the idiosyncrasies of human life triumphing over forces that sought to homogenize and crush the spirit of a country--a continent--my students saw it as a sick revelry in the bizarre dark side of life. Part of the reason I have not been so good at recording my book log activity is because I have been trying to pull a poem together about the experience of teaching Grass, about all of my apologetics and justifications about why it is necessary to not look away from the mistakes that glare out from human history. The poem is not done, perhaps it will never be, but it captures something about the futility I felt trying to harness the attention of young people who didn't want to see these things in the world.

After class, the seminarians complain

Here’s what breaks them:
Oskar, age sixteen,
spitting into the mound of fizz powder
in Maria’s cupped hand to make it
sizzle and itch, to lap
the sugared bubbles from her skin.
The men of God object.
To now they’ve tolerated
the worst kinds of violence,
vulgarities raw on the page,
an arc of war that spreads
across the centuries like a mold.
It’s an old argument:
they don’t want to dwell
on the ways the world has gone wrong
and most of all,
the perversity of the sensual,
the images flashbulb-blinding.
Would God
deny them that,
the sparkle of carbonation
and sweetness across their tongues,
the shock of the body’s knowledge?
They want permission to close the book.
In sin and shame, I grant it.

travel books: Italy

"Italy Out of Hand" by Barbara Hodgson
"The Passion of Artemesia" by Susan Vreeland
"Death in A Strange Country" by Donna Leon
"Michelangelo and the Pope's Ceiling" by Ross King
"Cabaret" by Lily Prior
"Italian Folktales" by Italo Calvino
"M: The Man Who Became Caravaggio" by Peter Robb

I find it insufferable when lovers of literature brag about how many books they've packed in their suitcase, or how they sat the night before the plane trip and chucked one last pair of espadrilles in favor of the latest Rushdie novel or some nonsense. Maybe because I find this snooty, when really, packing books shouldn't be any more a point of pride as remembering to take your pills along. Why bother sniffing about it? However, I do find it cool when travellers/book lovers advise me what books I want to read about a place before I go there. There is such an astonishment of synchronicity to experience something so intimately through a book and then to be there, knowing things from many angles, seeing through multiple eyes. Like standing in the flesh before something that you have seen in countless photographs--something iconic like the Pyramids or the Eiffel Tower--there is a strange collision of utter newness and complete familiarity that is a wonderfully disorienting pleasure. At any rate, when I was about to travel to Italy this past May for a month, I thought long and hard about where I most wanted to find those moments, and what books could help me find them.
The last time I was in Italy I was fifteen years old, barely equipped to know much about anything, in addition to being away from home for the first time. It is difficult enough to travel and keep track of everything gliding by you; reading about what you are seeing provides, for me at least, essential little handholds to grab on to something recognizable.
Some of the books I chose were for pure Italian-flavored entertainment. "Cabaret" was the only book I began while still at home in the States, and it was a strange and arbitrary choice. The novel is a bit of a dark comedy, almost British in its sensibility, though Italian in its setting. (The author, as it turns out, splits her time between London and Rome.) The novel was the farcical story of a female undertaker in Rome and the story of how she comes to marry a ventriloquist. It was one of the stranger books I've read, its style teetering between romance, adventure, mystery and comedy, but it was schizophrenic in a way that I soon recognized as quintessentially Roman.
I believed something similar about the Donna Leon book, having been well-aware that she is considered one of the premier mystery writers in the world. I suppose that I couldn't resist the lure of the "wonderfully atmospheric" mystery. I read it in Venice, but the novel disappointed me in a way that the city itself certainly did not. Before I left, I had tried to read John Berendt's "The City of Falling Angels" but I was so disgusted by its superior attitude and tourist-bashing that I couldn't even finish it, a rarity for me with any book. Interestingly, the other book on Venice that I tried to read before embarking was Brodsky's "Watermark" with which I had the oppostite problem: I was too overwhelmed with its beauty, with the desire to go slow and savor, that I realized it wasn't the right time to read it, despite its astonishing meditations on Venice and the art of travel, in the midst of my whooshing rush through a literary tutorial of Italy. At any rate, I suppose I write about these failed attempts with Venice books also as a way of not having to write about the Leon book which was dull and nearly as anti-tourist and anti-American as the Berendt book I tossed aside.
Vreeland's book was good for my purpose. I wanted to learn more about the famous Artemesia, but I knew that with the King and Robb books I wouldn't be able, most likely, to finish my non-fiction book about her, so I brought the novel instead, which I read in about two days. I can't say the book had much redeeming value beyond Artemisia's life which was interesting all by itself. It was floridly written and plainly silly, but it provided me with a lot the essential detail behind the precious few works that I saw in Rome and Florence.
The best choices were the non-fiction, and Calvino. "Italy Out of Hand" was made for people like me, who are interested in the morbid and salacious details of history (and Italy has a lot of those): where to find the crypt of the Capuchin monks decorated in ornately patterned human bones, where to see relics, strange statues, how to eat where Byron, Ruskin, Bonaparte, Browning ate, what churches hold strange and unusual paintings, etc. To be honest, if there were one book that I would recommend as an essential travel guide, it would be this one, far more valuable, in an admittedly impractical way, than any Lonely Planet or Rough Guide.
The King book on the Sistine Chapel was also wonderful. Cleanly written, fascinating from beginning to end, it is a must for anyone who can't bear the thought of standing in front of those rolling transparency stations inside the Vatican Museums hearing a stale script about the painting of the ceiling. King's book set up the tense triangle of the arrogant and war-mongering Pope, the misanthropic sculptor and the handsome upstart, Raphael, painting his own masterpieces just steps away from his rival. Besides, the best part of all are the detailed color photos of the chapel; you can study them intently as you learn all the little interesting flourishes that Michelangelo included (look, that cherub's making the fig!) which you won't be able to see when you're really there, and which you won't want to, given the number of hot, sweaty tourists you are crammed in with, and the fascist guards ready to rip your lips off for whispering to the person next to you.
The Robb book, in many ways, is the exact opposite of "Michelangelo and the Pope's Ceiling." It is a sprawling rambling book, packed with minute details, and loaded with Robb's acid tongue, strong opinions and hysterically contemporary translations of court transcripts, obscene doggerel, etc. Robb clearly identifies with his unruly subject, the great Caravaggio, plagued by weasly rivals who wanted to paint like he painted but without the consequences of falling on the wrong side of a rather shocked religious establishment. Robb clearly believes that Caravaggio was not the wild reprobate history has made him out to be, and so the book, while factual, is nothing approaching objective. However, I doubt very much that lovers of Caravaggio would even desire a book that was not at least as untameable as its hero. This, of all the books, was the most moving to learn from, especially at the moment that I stood in a room of the Palazzo Barberini with a Caravaggio painting on one wall and a painting by his chief rival, Baglione, a smug kiss-ass whose painting of sacred love trouncing profane love appropriated Caravaggio's hallmarks while contorting the subject matter into something religiously acceptable (Caravaggio's homo-erotic "Love the Winner" made no such claims for the inferiority of physical, earthly desire) and topping it all of by portraying an ugly, slobbering devil with Caravaggio's face. While this is perhaps one of the most well-known stories of Caravaggio's career, what matters is that I didn't know it, and would have walked through the room without feeling the reverberations that I did knowing what I was really seeing.
Finally, what trip to Italy would be complete without Calvino? When I was in Ascea, a small town south of Naples on the sea coast, our next-nearest neighbor was a woman named Lina who taught us the Italian phrase for "The Wizard of Oz." If there is, in fact, a Wizard of Italy, Il Mago D'Italia, surely it must be Calvino. Most nights before bed, I would crack open the folktales and read yet another tale of a king's daughter who married a man covered in seaweed, or a witch who tricked a man into marrying a sheep. They, more than anything, provided exactly what I was looking for: a glimpse into a country's deepest heart, and enough comforting universality to assuage the longing for a familiar home.

"The Nameless," Ramsey Campbell

"At last the rain pattered away. The circular blade of the sun tore a gap in the clouds. Gerry dug her second pair of shoes out of her bag, then she squelched through mud and drooling grass towards the Euston Road. All the buildings looked washed and put out to dry; the roofs of cars steamed like blocks of ice. She hurried to the station, which was beginning to feel like home."

Horror novels get a bad rap. Maybe not quite as bad as romance novels, but definitely worse than mysteries (which are increasingly elevated by the number of "literary" writers delving into them, like Banville and Chabon) and, thanks to the Harry Potter, worse than fantasy, which requires a similar suspension of disbelief on readers' parts. Perhaps because I was raised on ghost and monster stories, I feel bad about this. However, a bad mystery at least usually has on its side a plot that propels a reader toward some kind of resolution to a puzzle, where a bad horror novel usually just makes the reader cringe. Stephen King is a good example of where horror novels can be either so satisfying or so absurd. King's early books are imaginative, peopled with vivid characters, fast-paced with intense climaxes, and the supernatural elements feel organic and plausible. King's later books are flimsy, cartoonish, with almost universally wretched endings, as King breaks the bond of trust with a reader willing to believe in the supernatural by pushing the endings so far into the realm of the ridiculous that they poison the whole integrity of the novel.

I read "The Nameless" because my father was getting rid of his Ramsey Campbell books and I was interested. Although the characterization wasn't particularly strong, and the main character was not particularly compelling, Campbell is a far above average writer, a master of description, and the book appealed to me on a craft level, and as an Anglophile. Part of the pleasure of the book was in the details of the London and Glasgow cityscapes, and the grey concrete world of the motorways and marshes where the book's "nameless" lived and conducted their nefarious business. The book wasn't the kind that transcended its genre, the way many mysteries are increasingly doing these days, but it was thoroughly entertaining. Other would-be practitioners could definitely learn a thing or two.

"Original Bliss," A.L. Kennedy

"He perched on a chair and sat rubbing his jaw and looking beyond her shoulder. Helen had thought of sitting, but that didn't seem quite the right thing, so she waited as she was. She stood and braced herself against herself and the roiling need that was stroking the meat between her ribs and then dipping its head clear inside her, striking a light. It seemed superfluous that she should move in any visible way."

I figured I would like A.L. Kennedy when I read an article in "The Guardian," in which she explained her resolutely literary attitude toward fiction by saying, "It's like anal sex. If that's what I want to do to you and you're not into it, then go away, because that's what will keep happening." Because I am knee deep in my own book, trying to figure out how to lasso the narrative and inject--without killing--the prose with "craftedness" (a word leveled at Kennedy's work, and a state not easy to avoid for someone who writes mostly poetry) and because her ferocity appeals to me, I thought I should read a novel of hers soon. Again because of the subject matter of my own book, I thought I would seek out "Original Bliss," the story of two psychologically warped people who forge a relationship. The books was astonishing in myriad ways: it was tightly structured and narratively economic in a way that I have trouble pulling off myself. It it probably technically close to a novella, and seems like it marries the best features of the short story with the novel. Kennedy, as other people have often remarked, also writes beautifully about desire and sexuality. In this case, that writing is refracted through the consciousness of Helen Brindle, who is plagued by numerous existential crises. It sounds crass to reduce Helen to labels--she is such a fully live character--but she is clearly submissive to an abusive husband, insecure, and obsessed with the absence of God, around whom her inner life once revolved until she felt God desert her. She hears a self-help guru named Edward Gluck (something like L. Ron Hubbard, perhaps; his work is nebulous, but has to do with "the Process," a way of transforming the brain and the self through thought) and attends a conference to meet him. The first third of the book was uncertain going for me. Edward seemed pompous and cartoonish initially, and as the book opened up toward the middle, I could see that this was Kennedy's intention. It is not until Edward admits an obsession with pornography (and a mirroring disorder to Helen's lack of self-worth) that he becomes full color: hesitant, stammering, gentle, romantic. The book is a long tense held breath of conflicted desire between the two of them. Helen's self-punishing streak and her pathological search for God and moral framework prevents her from committing adultery, though she is still crucified for her sins by husband, first when he finds Helen's postcards from Edward, and then, in the book's climax, after she has returned from the sanctuary of Edward's London flat. The need for ultimate confession dogs her until the chapter in which she shows her husband the evidence of another man's sexual attention. The point of view switches from the third person limited to the second person, a sort of echo of Helen's saint-inspired out-of-body episode, beaten to near death by her jealous spouse.
And the writing! Bring on the craftedness, say I.

Thursday Next: First Among Sequels

"Thursday5 looked thoughtful. 'The readers are everything, aren't they?'
'Now you've got it,' I replied. 'Everything.'"

Although a part of me does wish that the first book I have been able to actually finish since last November was something with gravitas, some weighty tome that has caused many an English grad student to stay up late smoking cigarettes, there is a great rightness to the fact that what I actually read instead was the newest installment of Jasper Fforde's Thursday Next series. I am not sure whether Fforde qualifies as a guilty pleasure or not, but there is something deeply satisfying about his goofily charming books, and I have read, I confess, every one. I can't imagine that anyone who loved books wouldn't love the Next novels, except for the most curmudgeonly intellectuals: say, Harold Bloom. But the rest of us feel like we are part of the coolest inside joke in literature: Next is a kind of FBI agent that is able to leap between the Outland (the real world) and the Bookworld in order to do everything from veto wrong-headed bills passed by the Council of Genres (like turning classic books into interactive reality tv shows) to fighting threats to fiction (falling reading rates, serial killers, errant Minotaurs, piano shortages, etc.). This book, like any true-to-formula series, keeps our beloved heroine, but also multiplies her times five, her other selves representing the protagonists of the previous novels. (Metafiction doesn't even begin to cover it, trust me.) and adds new characters, namely Thursday's children. And for all their dweeby puns and screwball plot twists, the books are also gratifying meditations on literature, on pop culture's distortion of our leisure time, and, perhaps most fun, the vitality (literally) of the classics. This, probably, is why it is the book I picked up first after many months of detoxing from reading (caused by the poison of reading hundreds of bad student papers): it reminds me of the sheer joy that reading affords.

diane middlebrook

Diane Middlebrook died this weekend. It is always a strange experience to lose an author that was particularly important or formative in some way. I didn't know her, of course, although I had sent her a letter when I was awarded a prize that she funded, and she sent me a postcard in return that was utterly exquisite and sweet. I told her about her influence on me, in particular an episode in college where I stayed up all night laying on the bed in my dorm room reading her Anne Sexton bio, and then of another experience about five years later where I was standing at a bookstore in New York City trying to decide whether to spend my last thirty dollars on groceries or on her new book about Plath and Hughes. (Chose the book.) Although writers live beyond themselves, it is hard to imagine that there won't be any more from her now. I am glad, though, that I got the chance to thank her while I still could.

Oryx and Crake, Margaret Atwood

"The Taj Mahal, the Louvre, the Pyramids, the Empire State Building...Imagine coming upon them, 3-D, life-sized, with no preparation--you'd be freaked, you'd run away and after that you'd need an explanation. At first they'll say giants or gods, but sooner or later they'll want to know the truth...Perhaps they'll say, These things are not real. They are phantasmagoria. They were made by dreams, and now that no one is dreaming them any longer they are crumbling away."

I recently read an opinion piece in the local paper complaining about the decision to teach Margaret Atwood's dystopic novel The Handmaid's Tale as the freshman common text at a Jesuit university. The university, of course, had long anticipated complaints about Atwood's speculative vision of a society run by the religious right in which every upper-class woman has a handmaid to have sex with the head of the household in the hopes of producing a child in a time of very low fertility. However, the journalist's complaint wasn't really a moral one, or rather, wasn't entirely that. She actually claimed that the novel was considered "utterly passe" in literary circles. Perhaps this is true; I don't claim to have my finger on the pulse of the literary establishment, but I have to say that I hadn't heard this myself. I think most people feel that book to be as frighteningly relevant now as it was in the 80s when it was published, and Atwood's talent has certainly not diminished in the years since, since she is consistently winning big awards and being generally worshipped by book geeks like me. If anything, Oryx and Crake is perhaps more extreme, given Atwood's clear opinion of the swift decline of our society's morality even in the twenty years since she last wrote about it. The book has the same parallel structure as Handmaid's Tale, where a single narrator (who had made the transition between society as we know it and the new society the book depicts) tells both the story of the way things are now, and how they came to be that way. In Oryx and Crake, this is Snowman, formerly Jimmy, who is the right hand man of Crake, the scientific genius who has engineered a new race of people to inhabit a post-apocalyptic world that Crake, of course, ushered in. Like Handmaid's Tale, sexuality is the most problematic and central element of human existence; in the earlier book it is in tension with religion, and in the later, it is in tension with science. Humans create hybrid animals for medical and consumer purposes (Chickie Nobs, anyone?) with the same arrogance that they employ watching kiddie porn on the Internet or ordering a hooker from Student Services at the University so that they can then be free to concentrate on their studies. Art, as one might logically conclude, is laughable in this society. Our poor narrator had the misfortune of loving words, and was relegated to attending college at the Martha Graham Academy, a catch-all school for those without scientifically inclined minds. This is one of the great underlying griefs of the novel: that our love affair with science, technology, and progress will prevent us from creating the most astonishing things about our species: the Taj Mahal, the Louvre, etc. These things tell us about our origins, the things we most fundamentally seek to understand about ourselves and our human culture. (Crake has programmed this urge out of his genetically engineered people, but it springs up over time, inevitable.) Art in the face of a terrifying hurtling headlong into the future? Not a new idea; even Atwood's done it twice now. But still moving. And most definitely not passe.