girl with glasses

Final sentence(s)

2008-05-23T09:00:00.000-07:00

Here’s the last line of Lee Siegel’s review of my old teacher John Wideman’s new book Fanon:

"Read Wideman and listen to his astonishing bluntness, and you might start wondering, as Fanon himself must have, why white people keep writing novels—and running for public office—at all."

I do wish Hillary Clinton would drop out already.

And I did spend a good deal of my recent time at MacDowell wondering why write another novel.

But along came Fanon, and I had to hand it to John, whose steady, serious output (this is book number eighteen) has long been a bracing fact, an inspiration and lesson. Despite the fact that one does have to wonder, as his brother Rob says in this latest novel, “if writing an intelligent book’s an intelligent idea.”

John shows us in Fanon what it means to be a grown-up in an adolescent culture: He writes as if it’s his last book, as if a novel is a matter of life and death—it was an answer for me, actually, and not to Siegel’s asinine question.

Write what’s urgent. And nothing else.

He always was one for encouraging idealism in his students.

Herewith, a few last lines. (“And the last shall be first.”)

From Fanon:

Love.

From The Wretched of the Earth.

For Europe, for ourselves, and for humanity, comrades, we must turn over a new leaf, we must work out new concepts, and try to set afoot a new man.

From Black Skin, White Masks.

My final prayer:
O my body, make of me always a man who questions!

(Though I think of it as “make of me always one.”)

And here’s the penultimate sentence from the same book, especially for Lee Seigel:

… I want the world to recognize, with me, the open door of every consciousness.

The Adventures of a Book

2008-04-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

Ersi Sotiropoulos’s fifth novel, Zigzag through the Bitter-Orange Trees, was an enormous success on its publication in 2000 in Greece, becoming the first novel ever to win both the national prize for literature and the foremost book critics’ prize, awarded by Diavozo magazine.

Sotiropoulos’s work—which is made only more unsettling by the natural elegance of her prose—was perhaps never going to be an easy choice for a government ministry; her career has not been without controversy and this is not the first accusation of pornography she’s faced. The choice of Zigzag for the prize was subject to some criticism at the time from within the Ministry of Culture, but this did not keep the novel from outstanding critical success (“the best novel of the decade”) as well as translation into French, German, Spanish, and English.

But recently the novel has come under more vigorous attack. Kostas Plevris, a prominent member of the extreme right-wing political party Popular Orthodox Rally (LAOS), has filed a lawsuit denouncing the book: specifically, aiming to force the Ministry of Education, which each year donates copies of the national prizewinning books to libraries around the country, to withdraw all donated copies of Zigzag from schools. The courts have just granted an injunction in his favor—which will result in the book’s immediate removal, pending a final judgment—on the grounds that “A simple reading of this book shows that it includes passages that are clearly pornographic and obscene.”

Even that summary sounds too reasonable for the facts of the case. In December 2007, Plevris was given a 14-month suspended sentence for “inciting hatred and racial violence” in his book The Jews: The Whole Truth—his conviction the result a suit that has also, rightfully, been questioned as a possible infringement of free speech. The Jews: The Whole Truth is apparently (I’m relieved to say that it is not available in translation) a 1,400-page work of neo-Nazi thought and Holocaust denial, declaring among other things that Jews “deserve the firing squad” (See a typical summary here.) Plevris has recently written his own account of the trial, called The Struggle for Truth: The Adventures of a Book (“truth,” featured in both his titles, is clearly a central principle—perhaps he doth protest too much) and is now countersuing. The irony of his own subsequent attempts at censorship seems not to have occurred to him.

Plevris, in short, is certainly no critic of standing: quite the opposite. He seems to have found his ideal reader, however, in the judge ruling on this case, Dimitrios Gavalas. Gavalas justifies his ruling against Zigzag by reasoning that children’s literature should be addressed “to the pure souls of children, which Christ, God incarnate, offered as models to adults.” “School books should inspire children with moral purity and love for their religion and nation,” he continues, and then contemplates such questions as:

“Once most young people went to Church, in order to approach the truth, which is not ideology, or any other point of view, but truth, since the only light and life is Our Lord Jesus Christ; today young people end up in reformatories rotting from drug use. Is that progress?”

“Once the wife concerned herself primarily with child-rearing, which today is left to governesses and babysitters. Is that progress?”

“Once with a thousand drachmas you could buy all sorts of things, today with three euros what can you buy?”

Those of us who believe wholly in the importance of literature may be tempted to take Gavalas’s spectacular accusations as a compliment: what faith he must have in the power of literature, after all, to hold a single novel responsible for the downfall of a culture. But unfortunately, the absurdity of this case does not make its consequences any less dangerous. Books are in fact being removed from libraries—and that certainly is not progress. Please join protestors in Greece in an international petition against this injustice.

And we can’t help but add: Why not buy a copy to donate to your favorite library?
—Hilary Plum, with thanks to Karen Emmerich for her translations from the Greek

The Contest

2008-04-17T11:36:00.000-07:00

I had considerable sympathy for Zadie Smith, when she released her explanation for not choosing a winning short story in a contest she was sponsoring.

The boxes of manuscripts for another contest had just begun arriving at my own door, and I’d cracked the first box and embarked on that batch and come up muddied and confused. I’d said yes to reading. I’d submitted to what friends of mine in other disciplines just couldn’t believe. (A journalist friend, when I told her I had to read 116 manuscripts in a month just started laughing. “But that’s impossible. It’s not right.”)

But I’d submitted willingly—no: enthusiastically—because I thought it would teach me something. Like a marathon reveals the body. Such bulk reading presses the bare essentials: What is worth reading? What do I want from a book? How can I say what is wrong with a manuscript—and what is right?

The next boxes had surprises in store, and at my reading’s end, I was left with more manuscripts I wanted to send on for the final round of judging, rather than none. And all of the first questions, and more.

“And who would want to possess independent aesthetic judgment anyway?” asks the writer of the “Hype Cycle” piece in the winter 2008 “Intellectual Situation” section of n+1).

“…in the middle (there’s no end) of the hype cycle, the important thing is no longer what a song, movie, or book does to you. The big question is its relationship to its reputation. So instead of abandoning yourself to the artifact, you try to exploit inefficiencies in the reputation market…. But anyone sensitive to art is also sensitive enough to feel his true aesthetic judgment under continuous assault from publicists, bloggers, journalists, advertisers, reviewers, and assorted subcultural specimens. Hype-and-backlash overwhelm the artifacts that supposedly occasion them…. Never mind the moon; look at the finger pointing at the moon.”

I liked the idea of avoiding all that. I was on my own with eight boxes of moon.

And what did I find?

The easy part is to say what’s wrong with a good deal of them. It surprised me to see that there’s still a resident strain of Carver that taken in such doses is very dull.

And too many short story collections seem called together at random. (For the deadline? The lure of the idea “book”?) Individual stories might be very good, but they don’t reverberate with or amplify their companions (as Carver’s do). By this I don’t mean that stories must be united by theme or by characters or by setting (though any of these might provide a shortcut to a greater unity of vision).

What is this—“greater unity of vision”—a phrase I don’t even like, a fusty complaining construction. My hands make a rounded shape in the air, and I’m not sure if it’s a basket or an egg. But it’s something that holds and can be held.

An atmosphere.

An intelligence.

It’s amazing how much fails to leave any impression at all. A month has passed. It seems to me very difficult to make an impression.

Though I was amazed to think of so many people, alone in their words, creating worlds. What place for us?

It Really Doesn’t Matter with Me Now

2008-04-04T07:37:00.000-07:00

Today is the 40th anniversary of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s assassination. It devastates me every time I hear the speech from the night before he died.

In it, he says “I want to commend the preachers,” a statement I’d like to draw out in relation to Jeremiah Wright. For more on that, and other thoughts on the relevance of King’s vision today, see Isaiah J. Poole’s “Forty Years Later, Still Far from the Mountaintop.”

So this morning finds me crying at the kitchen table to hear King’s words and contemplate anew that we are the society who killed him (God damn America), confused about which of my several jobs to address first, feeling sorry for myself because I’ll miss my son Amos singing his heart out onstage tonight in “All Along the Watchtower”

“There are many among us /
who think that life is but a joke.”

What I want to hold in the mud of my messy morning (laundry, taxes, the Libyan novel, the overdue library books, the bags to be packed, the evening panel to imagine, the afternoon at school to listen to the 2nd grade biographies) is the vision King still gives us of a man who knew what he was about. That the human spectrum holds such clarity. It must be something to end the day thinking, It really doesn’t matter with me now.

If Mama Ain't Happy...

2008-03-31T08:07:00.000-07:00

I had fun holding Sarah Buttenwieser's new baby while she interviewed me for Mamazine.

On a Scale of 1 to Lish*

2008-03-18T07:19:00.001-07:00

I’ve been nosing around of late in The Afterlife, a collection of Penelope Fitzgerald’s essays and criticism.

First, she wanted to call a novel The Unobservables, “but the publishers, or rather their sales department, rejected this immediately as lacking not only in sex but also in human appeal of any kind.”

Then she tried Mistakes Made by Scientists, which she “liked almost as much.” But she was told “that it wouldn’t fit on the jacket and didn’t sound like a novel.”

Finally, the novel came out in 1990, called The Gate of Angels.

Hmm.

*Thanks to Hilary Plum for the phrase, inspired by the awesome displays of Lish’s editorial interventions covered in the New Yorker late last year.

The Voices of 3 AM

2008-03-08T00:40:00.000-08:00

It’s deep in the night, and the children are asleep under flannel sheets and blankets. The rain is steady on the metal roof; a clock is ticking; every once in a while the oil furnace stirs.

The phone isn’t ringing, and no creepy male voices are whispering threats of any sort.

And still I cannot sleep.

Amazingly, it’s Hillary Clinton and Barack Obama and the news media keeping me awake.

When Michelle Obama said what she did about never having been proud before of the American public (or whatever it was precisely), I didn’t understand the fuss.

And that’s what I’m up thinking about. That I never understand. That I am forever alienated by the voices I hear on the radio (we don’t have any television reception; one must draw the line somewhere), by the framing of—well, almost everything—in the measured, self-gratified tones with which the wisdom of the day is trotted out by the hand-slappers and the naysayers and the sycophants.

Now, that wisdom—and oh, is the paper of the record relieved that their candidate is back!—is that tough-as-nails Clinton has persevered, has shown what every person of gravitas and influence and cultural superiority knew from the start: that the movement for Obama is itself a “fairy tale.” And then its reporting does its level best to make it seem inevitable that Clinton will win, with a number of tricks it’s too late in the night to enumerate or parse, from exaggerating her wins to slighting his delegate lead (“about ninety” says the article, even though the graph on the opposite page says that it’s 105) to making the delegate count itself seem petty compared to voting (as if the pledged Democratic delegates weren’t awarded based on people voting, in primaries and caucuses).

And then there’s the ad. The voice. Who are these people who think of such things, who condone them, who open the door to the creepy insinuations: Your children are safe, the man says—but the implication is NOT SAFE. NOT SAFE.

The night of the latest primary, I was in fact up at 3, putting a cool cloth on Amos’s feverish head, telling him he would be all right, that he wasn’t going to die, that chances were he’d be better in time for his soccer game in a few days. Since we don’t live in Gaza, I thought, where the 8-year-old boy was just killed by Israeli fire, while he was playing soccer.

But I digress. Now is not the time to consider the more considerable asymmetries in the Times coverage of violence in Israel and Palestine.

The very thought exhausts me.

So much is exhausting. Which brings me to what I hauled myself out of bed to try to say: I’m tired of pundits and know-it-alls and the sonorous tones of NPR commentators. Listening to all of this with Rosa and Amos, who at ten and eight are indefatigable in their capacity to ask questions and sniff out hypocrisy, demands something more than the snorting and eye-rolling—and despair—I’ve indulged in all these years with like-minded adults. It demands better listening, better retention, quicker responses, more thorough research, better writing. (Michael Chabon came up with an excellent sample of the latter in the Washington Post .)

But for now, at 3 in the morning, the voices.

Rosa’s hilarious imitation of John McCain folding his hands and saying during the New Hampshire debate, “I will never let you down,” made me realize how when he puts on that syrupy tone, he sounds precisely like Mr. Rogers, who was recently honored with sweater week. A lot of talk about Obama and the youth vote, but McCain seems to be pitching his message to those who haven’t yet learned to read.

“Who was that?” Amos asked, catching the end of a Hillary quote on the radio. When I told him, he scrunched up his eyebrows in puzzlement, said “she sounds different” and shrugged, as though he just didn’t care about any of it any more. True: her voice is never the same. If she answered the phone, you might be afraid you’d called the wrong number. Her voice cracks with the strain of too much bad living: too much power-seeking, too much money raising, too many efforts to match her message to the public mood.

And then there’s Barack Obama’s voice. I grant that he may need some new speeches (they all do) and that he’s doing plenty of the above, too. But his voice is beautiful. Deeply beautiful. And this is not a trivial matter, easily reduced to reporters having crushes on him or women fainting at rallies. It makes me think of the thesis of Elaine Scarry’s On Beauty, proposing that the human capacity to admire beauty is linked to a quest for justice. He appears remarkably centered, astonishingly graceful and comfortable in his own skin; his voice comes from that. It is the voice of the man who wrote Dreams From My Father, a moving book whose writing necessitated a process of growth that is not usually embarked on by people running for president.

One night a few weeks ago, I woke up in the middle of the night to a strange feeling of some expansive, electric joy. My thoughts stumbled to catch up to the sensation—as if I were a child again, standing in the sunshine before the breadth of an ocean. Then I realized that I’d gone to bed reading Obama’s memoir, and that the feeling came from this: the man who wrote this book could become president. Of this country.

And it seemed a different world was possible. Sure: it would go back to the same old; yes, his health plan’s not adequate (nor is hers); no, his Iraq exit plan is not clear enough; why doesn’t he have a better response to the threat of so many foreclosures?

But to have a voice is a start. The first we’ve had in my lifetime, that’s for sure.

So, actually, I want to celebrate: Barack Obama has won. In the delegate count so far, literally. In getting so many people who’ve never been invested in the political process to become involved. In raising so much money from small donations. And in finding a way to give voice to the desperation so many of us feel: There must be another way.

I had a vision recently of him as an old, old man. (Such optimism!—it surprises me.) He’d been president, but we were so old and it was so long ago that it hardly mattered anymore. He’d survived. And I found myself thinking, Longevity has its place. And then the thinking turned into talking to him: Don’t let all this hype and all this ridiculousness get to you, Barack. Just keep being your brilliant self.

I hope that he finds a way not to be crushed by the inhuman test to which we put our political candidates. That he will keep trying to give voice in our public life to the integrity of his memoir.

I hope he is able to, and I hope we let him.

2008-02-19T07:12:00.001-08:00

“I have beliefs,” says Elizabeth Costello, in Coetzee’s eponymous novel, “but I do not believe in them.”

(Noted in the interesting William Deresiewicz review in the Nation last week.)

Losing Sleep

2008-02-18T11:30:00.000-08:00

Robin Morgan’s “Goodbye to All That (#2)” got me so upset it took a few days out of my life. As Emily Hazleton says over at Slate, “you really have to read it to get the full effect.”

Morgan’s piece starts out borrowing the power of her historic piece “Goodbye to All That” and then launches into a rant about much of the appalling behavior we’ve seen directed at Hillary. Goodbye, she says,

Goodbye to the toxic viciousness . . .

Carl Bernstein's disgust at Hillary's "thick ankles." Nixon-trickster Roger Stone's new Hillary-hating 527 group, "Citizens United Not Timid" (check the capital letters). John McCain answering "How do we beat the bitch?" with "Excellent question!" …

Goodbye to the HRC nutcracker with metal spikes between splayed thighs.

I’m no less outraged by any of this, and applaud resisting and exposing such virulent sexism. That’s not all Morgan sets out to do, though, or her piece wouldn’t have gotten under my skin as it did.

She misses an interesting opportunity at this juncture:

I was celebrating the pivotal power at last focused on African American women deciding on which of two candidates to bestow their vote—until a number of Hillary-supporting black feminists told me they're being called "race traitors."

The logic here gives me pause. That someone calls “race traitor” makes the contest itself no longer worth celebrating. “I was celebrating… until.” Why stop? Why not instead critique what disturbs about those feminists being called “race traitors”? What’s odder yet is that Morgan goes on to make the same sort of argument that ruined her celebration in the first place—she doesn’t see how any woman could not vote for Hillary. It’s “with us or with the terrorists” all over again. I must be self-hating, to have voted for Obama. According to Morgan, I’m one of the “women letting history pass by while wringing their hands, because Hillary isn’t as ‘likeable.’”

Actually, I find her likeable enough. I love that picture of her as a college student, with the big chunky glasses and the extremely serious mien; I'm interested in her commencement speech at Wellesley and the speech in Beijing to the 1995 UN World Conference on Women that Morgan excerpts. Lately, in contest with Barack Obama, when they compete for the attention of the left, she can seem almost as appealing to me as she did back when her biography first made the national news. And I’m grateful to her for running for the job of leading this crumbling and corrupt empire. I think it takes courage, and I do believe her candidacy is good for women. I can understand why some people vote for her. I understand why my mother stayed on the Hillary side in the Maine caucus yesterday, after she saw how wide Obama’s margin. (She is an inveterate champion of the underdog. And she knew that she’d have more of a chance to speak if she wasn’t standing next to my father on the other side of the room.)

But for me, the reasons not to vote for Hillary spring from deeply held political convictions that are inseparable from my feminism.

I didn’t vote for her:

—because I remember her praising the Israeli bombing of Beirut in the summer of 2006; she sounded as though she was cheering, and it was harsh and ugly and wrong;
—because she voted for the war in 2003, after millions of people around the world stood up against it;
—because I take her experience seriously—she is heir to the Clinton administration, which may look good from the airbrushing of this particular vantage point, but was nonetheless the architect of, for example, the NAFTA (see the tens of thousands of Mexicans marching in the streets recently to protest its final implementation and the destruction of their livelihoods). She was a part of the rising to power of a segment of the Democratic Party that that turned its back on the country’s poorest and most disenfranchised, that believed that meeting the ravages of the Reagan revolution meant moving toward it. (Don’t think I haven’t read Obama. But that’s another discussion.)
—Because she’s more heavily funded by lobbyists than a Democratic candidate has ever been. (It’s kind of funny that in calling Obama to task—as he should be—for claiming not to be funded by special interests, her website jumps to the Public Citizen, where she leads the list of Democratic presidential contenders, with more than double Obama’s funding from special interests.)

Morgan positions the Obama-Clinton battle historically (“not since the suffrage struggle have two communities—the joint conscience-keepers of this country—been so set in competition”), but without, it seems, reflecting on that painful moment’s lessons.

Those have come up recently in our house. We’ve been watching the excellent 14 hours of the PBS production Eyes on the Prize at home with our kids recently. Toward the end of it, Rosa said: I wish I could watch the same history of the women’s rights movement. (That there isn’t a similarly powerful and comprehensive one is not, by the way, reason alone to vote for Hillary.) We filled in with Ken Burns’ by comparison tepid, but still engaging history of Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton. When we got to the part at Seneca Falls where Frederick Douglass (who once slept upstairs, in Amos’s bedroom) stands up and defends Stanton and women’s suffrage, and because of him the motion carries, we were very excited to see that coalition at work. Then, later after the Civil War, when the former allies are painfully at odds, I found myself covering my face in despair, only to glimpse between my fingers Rosa and Amos, their faces all screwed up, confused, dismayed. We hit pause to discuss the ugliness of what Elizabeth Cady Stanton had just said (that Sambo shouldn’t get the vote before white women, in short) and how someone they had just been learning to admire for her lifelong struggle for women’s rights could have become so “nasty.” She was desperate, I said. That’s what happens when people are desperate. But you can see that the really sad lesson of this story is that the black male leaders and the women’s suffrage leaders turned against each other. But history’s like that, I found myself saying. It’s easy for us to say, sitting on the coach today, they should have defended one another’s right to the vote; they shouldn’t have gotten so carried away with proving who had suffered the greatest injury, who deserved the earliest prize. "Why couldn’t they have just put the word 'sex' in?" Rosa wants to know. I have no answer.

It was in this context that I read Morgan’s piece. She denigrates Obama’s campaign as made up of people who think that “it’s fun to elect a handsome, cocky president who feels he can learn on the job, goodbye to George W. Bush and the destruction brought by his inexperience, ignorance, and arrogance.”

Call it “nasty,” call it “toxic viciousness”: no good comes of it. Does making the case to vote for Hillary require that Obama and Bush be equated? (Presumably that’s what the comma splice is doing: the grammar reflects the tenuousness of the actual connection, a lack of care in her thought.)

This is not an election to decide who has been (or is) more oppressed, and reward the prize accordingly. This is not a race to choose between the rights of women or the rights of African American men. We all have the right to vote, now.

I think Morgan’s suggestion that Obama would make an excellent president—after eight years of Clinton (echoing Gloria Steinem’s similar wish in her Times piece?)—carries a condescension that has historical resonances, too. And I want to cover my face with my hands again. I want nothing to do with—and wish the feminist movement had nothing to do with—that quality of mind that prescribes what’s best for others’ lives; that finds comfort in derision and mockery (“Duh,” she offers as proof that Clinton’s record makes her more qualified; “Grow the hell up” she tells women “who can’t identify with a woman candidate because she is unafraid of eeueweeeu yucky power”). No, no, no. No good can come of such a presumptuous, ugly, rattling, ellipses-driven attack.

A great deal has been made of Obama’s insistence on both/and rather than either/or. Critics can say they’re mistrustful of his rhetorical flourishes. I say: he’s right. That’s what we needed in the struggle around the 15th amendment, and it’s what we need now. Let’s hold both candidates—and their supporters—to the elegance and power of their best phrases. Let’s refuse the positioning of this primary as a battle between African American men and white women, and remember it’s about changing the status quo in Washington. And, really: Why not celebrate a contest that has the power to keep people awake at night, stir historical questions, enliven tired movements, make ten-year-olds fight their parents for the newspaper?

“I like Michelle Obama best out of all the candidates and their spouses,” announces Rosa, tossing down the Sunday Times. “I wish I could vote for her.”

Cross-Generational Appeal

2008-02-03T12:59:00.000-08:00

Fresh back from AWP—no, exhausted back from AWP—I am struck this morning by the fact that various of McSweeneys (see, for example, Animals of the Ocean, in Particular the Giant Squid) excite the same pleasure in both the adult and the child halves of our family as the candidacy of Barack Obama.
R scoots other ordinary looking books aside, pausing only at an issue of n + 1. Look, she says, pointing to the headline: Lower the voting age!

Stay this moment

2007-12-31T09:20:00.000-08:00

"If one does not lie back & sum up & say to the moment, this very moment, stay you are so fair, what will be one’s gain, dying? No: stay this moment. No one ever says that enough. Always hurry. I am now going in, to see L. & say stay this moment."
—from Virginia Woolf's diary, 31 December 1932

"Mom! Mom. I just realized we only live once. I mean, we only have one life. That's a problem for me with my plans."
—from the backseat, yesterday

Dear NYRB

2007-12-30T18:13:00.000-08:00

On Patrick Leigh Fermor’s time at a Benedictine abbey near Rouen:

“Then he started to sleep. He slept until a few meals and church services a day were his only lucid moments. Then the pattern changed again. His lassitude dwindled away and was succeeded by a ‘limpid freshness.’ He now slept only five hours in twenty-four. It was as if a profound tiredness, rooted in the outside world with its demands on nervous libido and instant response, had overswept him, then receded in this quietude to release a flood of unimpeded energy. ‘Even the major causes of guilt and anxiety had slid away.’”
—from Colin Thubron’s review of Fermor’s A Time to Keep Silence (and four other of his travel books)

As I was falling asleep, and thinking that perhaps I should get all five—in lieu of the abbey, which is clearly actually what I need—I suddenly thought, Wait. Isn’t this some kind of racket? Wonderful absorbing review in the NYRB of five books published by NYRB.

Or does the excellence of both the books and the review absolve them?

Oh, perhaps it does.

The Future of the Book

2007-12-21T07:06:00.001-08:00

While I was in New York a couple months ago, I visited the home office of Archipelago Books in their lair in the American Can Factory, down by the Gowanus Canal. Jill Schoolman has put together the most tantalizing operation. Long shelves on either side of the big room are filled with the four-year-old press’s offerings of translated literature, which taken together or singly, are unspeakably beautiful. That’s a physical fact. As for the words—the variety, the challenges and poetry and particular articulations from faraway places—I will want to say more, here and elsewhere: about Magdalena Tulli’s Moving Parts and Dreams and Stones and this season’s Flaw; about Marguerite Duras’s Yann Andréa Steiner; about Elias Khoury’s much celebrated Gate of the Sun and his recent Yalo. (It occurs to me that the blurb from Edward Said about Khoury makes an apt description of Archipelago itself—it is a press giving voice to “dissolving boundaries and changing identities, to radical demands and new languages.”)

Oh, and I want the two previously untranslated Cortázar books and A Mind at Peace, by Ahmet Hamdi Tanpinar, which Orhan Pamuk calls “the greatest novel ever written about Istanbul.”

Yes: I covet them. Even their paperbacks I want to hold and go on holding, and this makes the Archipelago books one answer to the questions raised at the panel and lecture I went to a few weeks ago on the future of the book. When Amazon released their Kindle the next Monday, it felt a bit like a continuation of the conference, at which Joseph Epstein regaled us with his idea of the book ATM; Terry Belanger raised his mischievous brow over the edge of his laptop to talk about how books might be like horses (we may not use them to plow the fields anymore, but people still live with them); Lisa Gitelman performed a neat and energizing debunking of the “moral outrage” and questionable logic at work in the NEA’s “Reading at Risk” report; and Sven Birkerts gave in measured tones a talk about “the hive life” and a promising yelp of discovery at one point in the very brief discussion after.

About Birkerts’ personal revelation, I know nothing. Soon after the very interesting trio of mini-talks, questions were abruptly cut off, discussion ended.

The panel was moderated by Corey Flintoff and the NPR gloss he provided for the Mt. Holyoke/Five College/Museums10 event perhaps perfectly coincided with my colleague’s comment about the quantity of gray hair in the audience and her friend’s grumbling about how no students had actually shown up.

As I drove home, thinking about facing the work that had been on my plate at the day’s start, and was still there because I’d gone to the conference, I got grumpier. I was thinking about the amount of time and money that had gone into the conference—the museum meetings, the devoted independent bookstore owner schlepping the piles of books for people to peruse (buy?), the academics who were paid to present, and arrangements that must have been made to acquire the voice of Flintoff. All the human effort. And it was over. Like that. No real discussion.

And who comes to such things—who from the community, who of working people, who of young people—who comes to discuss the future of the book?

And, indeed, why should we?

Why would anyone who is on the outside of that conversation want to enter it? And how could they?

This passes for intellectual life? I was fuming by the time I reached the Coolidge Bridge. This is public discussion?

As Larry Kramer’s teeshirt says: Where is the outrage?

And yes, over even this: That so much arranging and organizing and spending and politesse and human capital goes into a simulation of intellectual engagement whose very structure dampens its possiblity. And that this is taken as a matter of course.

Why talk about the future of the book, how bleak the year 2007 in publishing as though it’s separate from the bleakness of these times?

So the Congress voted this week to devote $70 billion to the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. That’s about $233 per US citizen.

For much less than my war share, I could get a subscription to the entire spring list from Archipelago.

Three Months Later

2007-12-20T10:53:00.000-08:00

At some point this summer I must have thought: A blog will be the perfect recovery from the long sickness of writing a novel. You will be brief; you will slip thoughts in between unreasonably taxing editing tasks and school pick-ups; you will be easy and light.

But I don’t have high-speed access.

Every Past Thing

2007-10-01T18:19:00.000-07:00

My novel Every Past Thing is just out.

Help me celebrate at a reading at the excellent Amherst Books this Friday, October 5, at 8 pm (where I can promise wine, Cathy Ciepiela, and a surprise guest from Jerusalem).

Come to the panel and reception at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum in New York next Thursday, October 11, from 6 to 8 pm (“Feminist New York” with Laurel Thatcher Ulrich and Deborah Siegel)

Read my editor Fred Ramey’s blog, in which he makes my day, week, year.

Go ask for it at your favorite bookstore.

Write a review.

Forward this.

Thank you. Thank you.

The behavior of women

2007-09-12T09:57:00.000-07:00

Today I had the great pleasure of finding this book inside my mailbox. Laurel Thatcher Ulrich, a historian at Harvard who is best known for her biography of the New England midwife, Martha Ballard, The Midwife’s Tale, is also the author of this bumper-sticker sentence.

Who knew? Ulrich herself could never have guessed her sentence’s fate when she wrote the article “Virtuous Women Found: New England Ministerial Literature, 1668–1735,” which appeared in American Quarterly in the spring of 1976. Here’s the original context:

Cotton Mather called them “the hidden ones.” They never preached or sat in a deacon’s bench. Nor did they vote or attend Harvard. Neither, because they were virtuous women, did they question God or the magistrates. They prayed secretly, read the Bible through at least once a year, and went to hear the minister preach even when it snowed. Hoping for an eternal crown, they never asked to be remembered on earth. And they haven’t been. Well-behaved women seldom make history.

I’m to appear on a panel with Ulrich on October 11 at the Lower East Side Tenement Museum in New York to talk about women making their own rules and changing their lives and the world around them. I love the prospect of hearing what Ulrich has to say about the subject and thinking about Mary of Every Past Thing in this context.

There was an interesting story by Megan Marshall on Ulrich’s book last week in Slate.

(Megan Marshall herself is the author of the splendid hat-trick of a biography The Peabody Sisters: Three Women Who Ignited American Romanticism.
Talk about women changing the world around them. Anyone who’s thinking anything about the history of that period or Transcendentalists and their contribution to our culture should read this book.)

“The sound my country makes”

2007-09-07T08:55:00.000-07:00

Reviewing Marianne Wiggins's latest novel, The Shadow Catcher, has sent me back to reading Sebald, and both of them, and Grace Paley too, oh, and the fact of my own novel out in bookstores, and my reaction last week to the commuting of Kenneth Foster's sentence (Something good actually happened? Something good actually happened?) has me thinking about my own uneasy relationship to the culture I live in. More on that later, no doubt.

In the meantime, a little Sebald. From Vertigo:

"How I wished during those sleepless nights that I belonged to a different nation, or, better still, to none at all."

And this idea of his that has long interested me, from an interview with Arthur Lubow:

“There is so often about the standard novel something terribly contrived, which somewhere along the line tends to falter,” he said. “The business of having to have bits of dialogue to move the plot along, that’s fine for an eighteenth- or nineteenth-century novel, but that becomes in our day a bit trying, where you always see the wheels of the novel grinding and going on. Very often you don’t know who the narrator is, which I find unacceptable. The story comes through someone’s mind. I feel I have the right to know who that person is and what his credentials are. This has been known in science for a long time. The field of vision changes according to the observer, so I think this has to be part of the equation.”

Sacco, Vanzetti, Foster

2007-08-29T12:46:00.000-07:00

Last week was the 80th anniversary of the execution of Nicola Sacco and Bartolomeo Vanzetti, who, as
Emma Goldman put it, “died, as the entire world knows today, because they were Anarchists. That is to say, because they believed and preached human brotherhood and freedom. As such, they could expect neither justice nor humanity.”

Tomorrow, Kenneth Foster is scheduled to die in Texas. Will the protests and appeals to the governor (and visit his website to see how: www.freekenneth.com) save this man, who even the state of Texas knows is innocent of actually committing any murder?

Foster, like Vanzetti, has been writing in prison:

“What do I define a political prisoner as today? While the term still retains its original definition let it now encompass (any) who have been falsely and unjustly incarcerated and are being held captive under frivolous sentences with bias politics affirming them. No matter if these brothers and sisters are Activists, Communists, Muslims or Panthers—they are OUR people and worthy of defense and the opportunity to have a just life and treatment. When we face a system that subjugates, oppresses and murders by politics justifying that regimen (in society or jail) we are political prisoners.

Prisons have become a morbid design to punish and conform people to a regimen far worse than society realizes. It has been purposely made a breeding ground for violence, ignorance and death. But what about those that have not given in? What about those of us who have decided to utilize our time and consciously build our mind and soul? Are we being neglected because we have no revolutionary background or did not come to prison for a political cause? As a people I think we are forgetting to cultivate each other and that we can’t give up on each other. Gwendolyn Brooks said it best: We are each other’s bonds, business and magnitude.”

That quote is from a poem in honor of Paul Robeson, and more fully concludes:

We are each other’s harvest;
we are each other’s business;
we are each other’s
magnitude and bond.

"A summary with some knowledge"

2007-08-27T11:39:00.000-07:00

Go past the blinking pitch for books by NPR correspondents to hear the aforementioned Kamila Shamsie (she of the obituaries dream) and her fellow novelist Mohsin Hamid gamely and beautifully invest in their few minutes of airtime a richer view of Pakistan than we otherwise get. More novelists on NPR, I say.

Grace Paley

2007-08-24T09:32:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamed that Grace Paley and Howard Zinn had died. My friends Kamila and Elizabeth and I found a news kiosk that stayed opened all night and bought the obituaries: columns and columns of a single day’s dead from every place in the world, one line per person, describing the immediate cause in the simplest possible terms.

Paley, Grace: Woke at 5 am, drove straight east.

She drove into the sun.

After the last time I saw her read, in Amherst—it was late and cold: might it snow?— someone was trying to persuade her to stay over, not to drive so far north at that hour. No, no, she said. Don’t worry—I drive sitting down. And then she shrugged her shoulders, hands up, as if she was admitting her terrible weakness: I love it at home.

And off she went: indefatigable, herself.

Earlier that night, when it had been time to wrap up the questions, she’d said, “No, there’s one more,” and gestured to me. I shook my head, she looked at me a little harder, and then said, “Oh, all right then. That’s all.” While everyone clapped, I thought: What question was so naked on my face that she saw it in a crowd without my hand raised?

Of course, she might’ve been eyeing the person behind me. All of us had more questions for her.

How do you do it?
Would you talk just a little longer?

She dedicated her Collected Stories to her friend Sybil Claiborne, who’d asked her a few days before she died: “Grace, the real question is—how are we to live our lives?”

Grace Paley showed us. In every word, every story, every essay, every admonition, every action, every good hard look. The fact of her existence gave me hope.

Herewith, in its entirety, “Wants.”

I saw my ex-husband in the street. I was sitting on the steps of the new library.

Hello, my life, I said. We had once been married for twenty-seven years, so I felt justified.

He said, What? What life? No life of mine.

I said, O.K. I don’t argue when there’s real disagreement. I got up and went into the library to see how much I owed them.

The librarian said $32 even and you’ve owed it for eighteen years. I didn’t deny anything. Because I don’t understand how time passes. I have had those books. I have often thought of them. The library is only two blocks away.

My ex-husband followed me to the Books Returned desk. He interrupted the libarian, who had more to tell. In many ways, he said, as I look back, I attribute the dissolution of our marriage to the fact that you never invited the Bertrams to dinner.

That’s possible, I said. But really, if you remember: first, my father was sick that Friday, then the children were born, then I had those Tuesday-night meetings, then the war began. Then we didn’t seem to know them anymore. But you’re right. I should have had them to dinner.

I gave the librarian a check for $32. Immediately she trusted me, put my past behind her, wiped the record clean, which is just what most other municipal and/or state bureaucracies will not do.

I checked out the two Edith Wharton books I had just returned because I’d read them so long ago and they are more apropos now than ever. They were The House of Mirth and The Children, which is about how life in the United States in New York changed in twenty-seven years fifty years ago.

A nice thing I do remember is breakfast, my ex-husband said. I was surprised. All we ever had was coffee. Then I remembered there was a hole in the back of the kitchen closet which opened into the apartment next door. There, they always ate sugar-cured smoked bacon. It gave us a very grand feeling about breakfast, but we never got stuffed and sluggish.

That was when we were poor, I said.

When were we ever rich? he asked.

Oh, as time went on, as our responsibilities increased, we didn’t go in need. You took adequate financial care, I reminded him. The children went to camp four weeks a year and in decent ponchos with sleeping bags and boots, just like everyone else. They looked very nice. Our place was warm in winter, and we had nice red pillows and things.

I wanted a sailboat, he said. But you didn’t want anything.

Don’t be bitter, I said. It’s never too late.

No, he said with a great deal of bitterness. I may get a sailboat. As a matter of fact I have money down on an eighteen-foot two-rigger. I’m doing well this year and can look forward to better. But as for you, it’s too late. You’ll always want nothing.

He had a habit throughout the twenty-seven years of making a narrow remark which, like a plumber’s snake, could work its way through the ear down the throat, halfway to my heart. He would then disappear, leaving me choking with equipment. What I mean is, I sat down on the library steps and he went away.

I looked through The House of Mirth, but lost interest. I felt extremely accused. Now, it’s true, I’m short of requests and absolute requirements. But I do want something.

I want, for instance, to be a different person. I want to be the woman who brings these two books back in two weeks. I want to be the effective citizen who changes the school system and addresses the Board of Estimate on the troubles of this dear urban center.

I had promised my children to end the war before they grew up.

I wanted to have been married forever to one person, my ex-husband or my present one. Either has enough character for a whole life, which as it turns out is really not such a long time. You couldn’t exhaust either man’s qualities or get under the rock of his reasons in one short life.

Just this morning I looked out the window to watch the street for a while and saw that the little sycamores the city had dreamily planted a couple years before the kids were born had come that day to the prime of their lives.

Well! I decided to bring those two books back to the library. Which proves that when a person or an event comes along to jolt or appraise me I can take some appropriate action, although I am better known for my hospitable remarks.

—the opening story of Enormous Changes at the Last Minute (1974)