Paul Auster: The Master's Voice. Interview with Regina Hamsun

I read Knut Hamsun's "Hunger" so many years ago I can't remember exactly when that was.  I believe it was in the summer of 2000 or a little before that.  I was an interesting book about a writer who willingly starves himself.  The narrative was exquisitely translated from the original Norwegian by Sverre Lyngstad, who also wrote a magnificent introduction.  I had not thought about the book much until coming across this interview.  I am not sure who is interviewing who here, but Paul Auster and Regina Hamsun, the granddaughter of Knut Hamsun, talk about the work itself and the film version of the novel.  I have to say, though, that for as much as I admire Paul Auster, the interview was a bit lopsided and he monopolized much of it.  I would have liked to hear more from Regina, particularly about her opinions and perceptions of her grandfather's work.  Nevertheless, it is an interesting interview/pseudo-dialogue and most insightful about the film version of "Hunger" (which can be watch entirely HERE).

Here's the interview between Paul Auster and Regina Hamsun.

Report from the Interior: Paul Auster's Grand Voice Becomes Our Own

Paul Auster's "Report from the Interior" is the continuation of his biographical chronology (or non-chronology) and it covers the very early years of his life.  Certainly, I am not objective in my review of this volume due to my absolute fanaticism about his work.  Yet, I found the book so personally and tenderly rendered that I will suspend my lack of objectivity and surrender to a new level of love for Auster's words.  While being a companion to "Winter Journal," this book holds its own very much the same way that Auster's stories hold their own orbit in "The New York Trilogy."

The book is written in the second person, as Auster offers the reader the opportunity to participate in the investigation of extremely early age.  It is, however, a literary device that can be misused or poorly applied.  In Auster's case, his experience as a writer and thinker reconciles the line between the narrative technique and the metaphysical levels of "who's writing/narrating this."  There are so many universals about the narrative that it touches everyone who reads it.  One doesn't have to be a Jewish kid growing up in New Jersey, or a teenager hopelessly full of angst trying to find his way or even an early college student full of ambition and confusion to fall in line with the "you" of the narrative.  One tends to appropriate a narrative voice regardless of the grammatical construct, but Auster's masterpiece technique is one that does more than simply drawing the reader into the narrative.  The "you" in this book allows the reader to breach the lines between author and reader, narrator and listener.  The universality of life in full development can be a daunting, giant border to overcome.  How can a writer "hook" the reader (a description of this technique that I despise), keep her interested in the narrative, making her wanting to forgo all other things vying for her attention, and how can that writer assume the reins of direction without intruding in the "you" that constantly appear on the page?  And, in addition, how can he do that without falling into literary trickery?  The answer to this comes as an omnipresent voice at the start of the book, “In the beginning, everything was alive. The smallest objects were endowed with beating hearts, and even the clouds had names. Scissors could walk, telephones and teapots were first cousins, eyes and eyeglasses were brothers. The face of the clock was a human face, each pea in your bowl had a different personality, and the grille on the front of your parents’ car was a grinning mouth with many teeth. Pens were airships. Coins were flying saucers. The branches of trees were arms. Stones could think, and God was everywhere.”  This passage sets the tone that illustrates the mind of the very young, the Kantian apriori, or, say, for example, the opening passage of "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man."  This does the "trick" rather well without losing the effect of the second person voice which appropriates the narrative shortly thereafter.

The only lapse of temporary confusion I had with the book were the two lengthy retelling of two films that were instrumental in shaping Auster's identity.  One of these, "I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang" is told in amazing detail, so much so that I had to go find the film and watch it.  Naturally, it felt like cinematic deja vu.  I gave this some thought.  Why would Auster spend so many pages retelling the story of two films?  Why not list the titles and allow the reader to pursue them if they chose to?  The reason was not obvious to me, but later I found a couple of podcasts where Auster explains his indulgence.  The truth presented itself in the retelling of the film; that is to say, the impact of shaping Auster's young mind can only be apparent to the reader if he retells the plot illustrating the pressing importance of specific details.  Simply listing the title would have lost the meaning of what these two films meant to Auster.  "I am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang" illustrates Auster's early concern with issues of justice and history--the chronicle of unfairness and tough-breaks any individual can fall pray to.  The second film is "The Incredible Shrinking Man" which shows Auster's early concerns with identity, self and the ephemera of the physical existence.  The influence of this film compared to the issues of social justices carried in the previous one is less clear, but the amount of metaphysical inquiry it proposes is thrilling to the reader.  A man begins to shrink physically, what measurable (no pun intended) consequences can this have to the psyche of man--in the case of Auster, a very young man figuring out the world as it appears before his eyes.

The book is marvelously and tenderly rendered.  Auster designs the narrative like a museum gallery of the ages we travel.  The colors, light, shadings, shadows and composition of paintings hanging on the walls go from the elementary literary stick figures to complex avant garde depictions of the human condition.  Paul Auster remains, without a single doubt, my favorite writer and THE leading literary voice of his age.  Everything Auster writes shines with absolute perfection.

Here and Now: Letters 2008-2011 by Paul Auster and J.M. Coetzee

What strikes me the most about this short collection of letters is how discreetly it came and went through the literary radars, and how little notice it received from reviewers.  I must admit that the entire volume strikes as (for the lack of a better term) fabricated, but this is something that is openly accepted on the dust-jacket summary of the book.  Paul Auster (the great, white Jewish one) approached J.M. Coetzee about engaging in open-ended letters, topics as varied as the open world and not limited to literary matters.  Thus begins a conversation between these two literary giants that is at once trivial as it is insightful.  I know, I know... the typical polite self-contradictory description used by many when they cannot commit themselves to make an assessment resembling either/or.  Yet, the more I read, the more engaged I became.  Rarely does one see a collection of letters of varied topics such as the nature of sports, incest in literature, death and living, parenthood, statistics, art, politics and history in the Middle East, etc.  I found many of the discussions trivial, yes, but the real revelatory moments more than made up for the investment.

What happens in collections of letters is that the reader 1) expects a long period of correspondence, and 2) correspondence that in some ways encapsulates the events of the day, at that time, as they are occurring.  My last experience with "the letters of..." was that of "The Collected Letters of James Wright," a book I often refer back to, looking randomly at underlined passages for their powerful content, and mere brutality of description.  I don't foresee myself the same with "Here and Now: Letters 2008-2011" but I am glad I got to read something new by Paul Auster (sorry, Mr Coetzee) because he's the one and only for me.  I don't engage in hero-worship, not in sports or politics or history, and certainly not in literary matters (with the aforementioned exception, of course).

One passage that struck me as perhaps the most important is that of Paul Auster explaining his reservations about electronic readers.  Auster is honest about being a technophobe, and at the same time not being against electronic readers due to the fact that they promote the act of reading, and anything that does that should be encouraged.  Where things go awry (and I confess that, as an opponent of electronic readers, I never looked at it this way) is the flexibility of the technology to "destroy" the impermeable, hard object.  Auster explains: "On the other hand, I do have certain fears. (Fears, by the way, already borne out by the destruction of the music business. How I miss browsing in record shops!) Amazon, which has so far cornered the market here, is selling books at too low a price, is in fact taking a loss with each book it sells in order to woo the public into buying the machines. One can foresee dire consequences in the long term: the collapse of publishing houses, the death of bookstores, a future in which every writer is his own publisher. As Jason Epstein pointed out in an article in the New York Review [of Books] some months ago, it is absolutely essential that our libraries be maintained, since they are the bedrock of civilization. If everything went digital, think of the possible mischief that could ensue. Erased texts, vanished texts, or, just as frightening, altered texts."  This last prediction was one I never thought about.  It is, indeed, frightening.  As for Epstein's plea about the libraries, the same thing goes.  I used to believe that libraries were exempt from the threat of electronic text/readers until I visited the newly restored main campus library at the undergraduate college I graduated from.  The library is not almost entirely stripped of books in the second and third floor.  There are all sorts of "reader friendly" areas but most people are engaged in the use of computers rather than the act of reading itself.  I was waiting for a friend who was attending a class at the time and went for a walk, an investigating journey to see what the library had been transformed to.  My shock was severe when I entered the third floor to notice all the periodicals (peer-reviewed journals and popular magazines) were gone, scanned in part and now available in micro-strip.  I cannot recount the hours I spent there as an undergraduate when, left alone on campus with nowhere to go during breaks, I would pick random bounded volumes of "Time Magazine" from the 1920s and just past the pages (as well as the hours).  The third floor currently houses a great number of pseudo-offices (more like encapsulated cubicles) for para-professionals offering tutoring services, and, housing support professionals with important sounding titles like "Assistant Director of Student Achievement."  But I digress.  Imagine an electronic text of "Moby-Dick" in which the thinly-veiled homo-erotic scene of Ishmael and Qeequeg tossing in bed at the Nantucket inn is turned explicit by someone with a hyper-sexual imagination bordering on the pornographic... or a "Crime and Punishment" where Raskolnikov is able to make it to America as a stowaway and works himself through the ranks of Wall Street and into American financial "respectability."  Hard to imagine that happening?  Really, just browse Wikipedia for an hour and see for yourself.

I don't expect to agree with Paul Auster on every topic.  Even with my admiration of his work, I know enough to separate the man from the artist.  I confess I find his excessive criticism of conservatism (here in America and in Israel) a bit on the simplistic side.  That is to say, at the point where the subject is broached, Auster sounds like a blind liberal, a person that as soon as the term "conservative" or "right-wing" is mentioned in conversation, all bets are off and the engagement on ad hominems and hasty generalizations of all sorts is fair game.  I hold that type of liberalism and conservatism at a distance.  I've been on both sides of the political spectrum, and find myself disgusted by both in ways that are both irreparable and final.  What I see happening in political discourse is painful (even more painful when it comes from someone as intelligent as Auster)... the whole idea that someone will find Fox News irritating, despicable, dishonest and nauseating but just as well find MSNBC the pinnacle of intelligence and decorum makes me weep in silence for the idiocy of this country.  I don't watch television and only collect news items from the international press.  The American press is a cesspool of misinformation and unethical brain-washing on both sides of the political spectrum.  Those who see evil at the mention of George W Bush are the same sheep who can find no fault with Barack Obama despite his many violations (many of which, the overseas use of drone, is far worse than Bush... but of course, I will be accused of being a victim of right-wing propaganda).  Nobody is perfect, but both sides are equally rotten.

J.M. Coetzee is an enigma to me.  I believe I've read a few of his essays but none of his books.  I am eagerly awaiting my next trip to the bookstore.  Certainly his most famous titles are in order.  If anyone could recommend a title to start off with, please let me know.  I am more than intrigued.  I find him sensible and deeply honest in all and any of the topics these two giants engage in in the course of their correspondence.

It's a short and almost predictable little book, but "Here and Now: Letters 2008-2011" will not disappoint.

James Salter' "Dusk and Other Stories"

Some years ago, I bought a copy of "A Reader's Manifesto" by B.R. Myers at a used bookstore.  The book might have been misplaced, or shelved incorrectly on purpose by a disgruntled employee or customer or both.  I didn't read the book... the introduction was enough to make me put it down and regret spending all of $2 on it.  B.R. Myers apparently got a memo from God telling him Ed McMahon had died, and God decided (against His better judgment) to name Myers the new host of "Star Search."  Perhaps my humor doesn't carry via the Internet, or the joke is simply my own personal bitterness at the misguidedness of B.R. Myers.  It's one thing to singlehandly decide, "well, here... this is what is wrong with contemporary American literature... it's full of pretentiousness and high-brow idiots," and to actually say it with a straight face and mean it, and publish a book about to boot.  It is another thing altogether to actually have the credentials to criticize indiscriminately while at the same time not having produced a novel of the quality of any of the authors he blasts throughout the book.  I know, I know, I can already hear Myers say, "If you didn't read the entire book, you can't say shit about it."  But more on this later because, as you will see, I can say shit about it.

The introduction to this post is based on the fact that when I began reading "Dusk and Other Stories" by James Salter I couldn't decide on whether or not B.R. Myers was right all along.  James Salter was introduced to me by a very good friend, and since my good friend is someone whose literary taste I have supreme confidence on, I figured I had nothing to lose and everything to gain.  The first short story, "Am Strande von Tanger" struck me odd from the start.  What I mean with this cryptic statement is that I couldn't decide if this was great literature because of its style, or whether I was being filmed secretly by a "Candid Camera" crew waiting to see my reaction.  It was tough going, but once I got to the middle of the story, I was hooked.  My initial reaction was based, in part, on some criticism I read while in graduate school about the "young literary men" of the 1920s who tried so hard to imitate the language and style of "The Sun Also Rises" that everyone sounded like Ernest Hemingway regardless of genre.  Imagine a romance novel written in the voice of Nick Adams and you might get the idea.  I don't know much about Salter, but the first few pages of "Dusk and Other Stories" made me think he was a left-over from that very period of time.  Here's a sample of the opening story,
"Morning.  Villa-Lobos is playing on the phonograph.  The cage is on a stool in the doorway.  Malcolm lies in a canvas chair eating an orange.  He is in love with the city.  He has a deep attachment to it based on a story by Paul Morand and also on an incident which occurred in Barcelona years before: one evening in the twilight Antonio Gaudi, mysterious, fragile, even saintlike, the city's great architect, was hit by a streetcar as he walked to church.  He was very old, white beard, white hair, dressed in the simplest of clothes.  No one recognized him.  He lay in the street without even a cab to drive him to the hospital.  Finally he was taken to the charity ward.  He died the day Malcolm was born."  And then, a little further on...  Malcolm has a pair of shorts made from rough cotton, the blue glazed cotton of the Tauregs.  They have a little belt, slim as a finger, which goes halfway around.  He feels powerful as he puts them on.  He has a runner's body, a body without flaws, the body of a martyr in a Flemish painting.  One can see vessels laid like cord beneath the surface of his limbs."  But by the end of the first story, I was a convert... James Salter is down-right a master of descriptive artistry and a weaver of amazing plot structure.

Two things are absolutely genius about Salter's work.  First, the amount of description can be misleading.  I've tried to analyze the amount of skill and talent it takes to pull this off, but to no avail.  Salter draws the reader in with descriptive passages that paint a complete picture in the reader's mind.  He builds the characters around these settings and allows them to take shape inside these imaginary worlds.  Secondly, the number of brilliant literary analogies (often found at the end of paragraphs) makes me feel like a young lady sighing the night away.  Somehow (and this is the part that is nearly impossible to pin down), all of the stories work so brilliantly that any suspicion of pretentiousness or high-brow posturing evaporate.  There's a genius here that is hard to dissect, a type of word-craft and skill at writing that borders on absolute perfection.  Not one word (and this is no hyperbole) seems out of place.

The story "Dusk" is (despite being the title story) not one of the most impressive, but it illustrates Salter's ability to construct a character by telling details about her/him all the while incorporating the character into the description, the setting, the vast canvas of the imagined world.  The main character, a woman named Marian is, from start to finish, an enigma... even when minute details about her life story have been revealed, she remains open to the reader's interpretation.  It is simply masterful, and I can't stop saying it again and again.  The entire collection is an absolute pleasure to read and an intellectual challenge to boot.

Which brings me back to B.R. Myers.  James Salter did, in fact, bring back B.R. Myers to the forefront of my literary reading list.  My impression of Salter made me dig out the little book of criticism, but after re-reading the introduction, I had to once again put it down.  This is all I need to know about "A Reader's Manifesto."  You have to understand... I wasn't always a scholar.  I was a U.S. Marine in my youth and not prone to lengthy diplomatic discussions about any topic.  So, when I read Myers' criticism of my favorite writer, Paul Auster (the anointed one... the Great White Jewish One... pound for pound the best writer in the world) I took it personally.  I won't stand for it.  I worship the literary ground Auster walks on, and, as a devotee, I have a strong warning for B.R. Myers that comes from the regions of my being where I am still a hard-charging U.S. Marine, an infantryman with a bad attitude and a cutting-edge will to get the mission done.  First, stop using initials and write out your real fucking name--most pretentious, high-brow asshats use initials.  Second, you criticize Paul Auster again, and I swear I will fucking cut you, bitch.  (End of rant).

Paul Auster's "Sunset Park" -- Coming To Terms With The Fact Talent Has Its Limits

I will still praise "Sunset Park" as an excellent novel, but a disturbing pattern began to develop around the middle of the novel that, while it didn't exactly disappointed me, it made me realize that even geniuses have faults.  Again, I still think the novel is a must-read, a very human, existential and compelling portrayal of feelings that is second to none.  Perhaps it is my inability to fully understand the structure of the novel and the flow of the narrative, but I felt some discontentment the deeper I got into the plot.

First, the structure of the novel is that of chapters entitled with the names of the characters center to said chapter.  For example, the protagonist, Miles Heller has a number of chapters where most of the action is based on allowing the reader to obtain, digest and piece together Mile's fragmented last seven years of his life.    The same goes for the rest of the main characters.  There is, without a doubt, a conjoining pattern to all of this, I just haven't discovered yet.  I wonder if this is not the reason why, at times, it feels like too much information is being jammed in so as to appear crammed with bits and pieces I am not quite sure add anything to the character's portrayal.  For example, the father-son relationship for which Auster's work is notorious is once again excellently examined.  Miles and his father, Morris, relate in a constant shift between past and present.  In addition to what the reader can absorb on the surface, the character of Alice, a struggling PhD candidate writing a dissertation on The Best Years of Our Lives is displayed as another element in the individuals' dismantlement in views of the past/present environment and personal inclinations toward melancholy.  A key scene to this post-World War II classic is examined by Alice--the father trying to bequeath war trophies to his son, and his son's indifference to the trophies (a Japanese flag and Samurai sword).  This scene is connected to others in the film--the character of Harold Russell's inadequate relationship to his father and mother (but particularly his father) when his hooks (hands) become a fixture of challenge ahead.  All of this adds to Miles and his relationship to his father.  There are periphery relationships too disconnected to mention here: Miles' mother, the actress MaryLee Swann, absent for most of Miles' life; Morris Heller's second wife, Willa, whose son Bobby from a previous marriage Miles' has been "blamed" for killing in a bizarre accident; other relationships like the one between Miles and Bing Nathan, a childhood friend whose long-term friendship is now being saturated with homo-erotic tendencies--all of these seem, in some way or another, linked intricately with an almost invisible line to the relationships in The Best Years of Our Lives.

As for the writing itself, one is always safe to bet on Auster's magnificent construction of passages that are as poetic as they are moving.  For example, Morris Heller's ruminations late in the novel, "We do not grow stronger as the years advance.  The accumulation of sufferings and sorrows weakens our capacity to endure more sufferings and sorrows, and since sufferings and sorrows are inevitable, even a small setback late in life can resound with the same force as a major tragedy when we are young." This is one of the many passages Auster's fans are always looking for every time he publishes.  All in all, there's nothing extraordinary about the passage, but if looked at deeper level (not of meaning but semantics), one realizes how much craft goes into a passage like this.  This is where Paul Auster always shines--a master language handler and king of the revision process.  Hands down the best contemporary author!

I am not a great writing teacher; most of my work at the academic level has been less than stellar. I'll be honest enough to confess to several thousand writing mistakes/errors on this blog itself.  Yet, there's an element of grammar in the second half of "Sunset Park" that (while being an issue of contention regarding style) I cannot ignore.  The use of the pronoun "you" late in the novel, while artistically permissible, acts as a repelling factor to many writing teachers.  This is no doubt a personal preference of mine... or, in fact, not a preference of mine, but one inculcated in my head while I was an undergraduate.  One of my professors in an Introduction to Fiction course felt it was his duty to "assassinate" authors he considered "old-fashioned," or "politically incorrect" to prove a point.  What that point was, I don't quite remember.  But the jest was something to the effect of killing the excitement some readers have when they discover, say, Hemingway's writing.  I am only using Hemingway as an example.  We had a long discussion in class one day about the use of the "you" in a narrative.  The professor indicated that Hemingway was known vastly for this "trick," and may be even to blame for its propagation.  He stated that Hemingway, like many others, use the "you" as a cheap trick to draw the reader into the plot, while "real" or "authentic" fiction writers worked harder and drew more talent to achieve the same effect without the use of a pronoun.  As ridiculous as that point of view is, it somehow remained in my brain strongly enough to think about it every time I see it in someone writing.  Again, this is more my perception (or even misinterpretation), and not Auster's fault.  He has paid his dues, really, after 19 novels, to prove that his use of "you" is not a cheap trick but part of the craft itself.

I cannot wait until the next Paul Auster novel.  Every release of a new book is an event to me.  Let's hope he continues to publish and share his amazing talent with all of us for years to come.

Paul Auster's "Sunset Park" -- The First 70-something pages...

The First 70-something Pages:
I am a fan, I am not going to lie; nevertheless, to categorize "Sunset Park" as anything but the almost perfect novel would be a disservice.  How can this man continue to produce books as good as this one is right up there with the mysteries of the Great Pyramids.  I know it all sounds hyperbolic, but I contend that with a long list of excellent novels Paul Auster should be considered a national treasure (again, hyperbolic).

"Sunset Park" is a return to the fiction that made him one of the great literary fiction authors, away from meta fictions and mind-bending abstractions.  This return--after much criticism of meta fiction efforts in "Travels in the Scriptorium" and "Man in the Dark"--can be seen to match the Auster efforts in both "The Brooklyn Follies" and "Oracle Night."  This is fiction that is painfully clear, allowing the reader to focus on nuances of language and style without losing the plot in the process.  The third person narrative adds to the detachment Auster is trying to achieve after his most recent works but does not in any way take away from the personal observations of one Miles Heller (first part of the book).  At the risk of sounding a little prude, my only negative observation is that of Miles Heller's relationship with a much younger woman and their "different" sexual activity brought upon by the young woman's fear of getting pregnant.  Aside from this, the first part of the book (first 70-something pages) are both engaging and naturally drawing to the reader.  I have been "milking" the first part of this novel because I don't want to burn off and sky-rocket through it in a day (a task I am able to).  I am savoring more as the pages break, as if in an endless wave-watching meditation.  More to come in the next few days and then on to Christopher Isherwood's Diaries Volume 2 which will be my final book for 2010.

Reading for the Rest of the Year: Literary Fete Sauvage

I am about to embark on a literary fete savauge, away from all and mentally remote in enchanted woods.  I've only experienced this once before--my two favorite literary figures having works published close to one another. The first time it was the year in which Paul Auster and Haruki Murakami both published within weeks of each other (at that, Murakami had two books published that year).  And now this new experience... I am going to relish this, every delicious page by page... hopefully, I'll be done by December 31st because I suspect my Reading List for 2011 will not wait.

Literary Detours: Henry James' "Daisy Miller and Other Stories"

Why in the name of all that is sane and logical did I begin reading James' "Daisy Miller" days from Paul Auster's "Sunset Park" being released? The only answer to this dilemma, I believe, can be found in my reading list for next year. I will be re-reading "The Portrait of a Lady," a novel, which, having the displeasure of remembering how difficult it was to read, gave me many problems of readability. That's not to say James is a bad writer--far from it! Perhaps it was a combination between my inability reading serious literary fiction (I was a very late starter) and the lack of reading practice (the proverbial, "I just finished this paragraph/page and I have no clue what I just read"). What escaped me then--that doesn't now--is the idea that becoming a reader is very much like lifting weights or playing an instrument: the more you practice, the better the chances that you will do it better in the future. Well, after all of these years teaching--and years as a grad student--I've come to the conclusion of giving Henry James' work the attention and respect it deserves.

"Daisy Miller and Other Stories" has been a delight to read; the characters are fresh, albeit the fact that they all suffer from undertones of psychological insecurity/apprehension. What I loved the best is Henry James' style of description of both characters and settings. As a Europhile, Henry James wrote both intelligently and authoritatively about the great cities. When it comes to the characters, Daisy Miller's persona is as complex as she appears coquettish. The most difficult part of understanding a character like her, I believe, stems from the fact that her mind traveled 100 miles per hour. While it was hard to keep up with her changing preferences and attitudes, this was precisely what Henry James' masterfully weaves and depicts. She is a young woman of her age. Daisy's complex behavior not only reflects rebellion against Victorian rules of society but also her own fabric as an imaginary person made "flesh" by a master writer. When it comes to those psychological undertones, one is quick to realize the influence of Henry James' brother (William James) in his works. William James was a professor of philosophy, psychology and even theology at Harvard, developing many epistemological treaties including his major achievement, Pragmatism. Henry James' no doubt benefits from a constant and rich correspondence with his brother (James having established himself permanently in England). Interesting bits of information about these genius brothers can be found in Linda Simon's "Genuine Reality: The Life of William James").

It isn't like "Sunset Park" has had to wait. I've read the first chapter, slowly (painfully so). I am taking in every word and nuance of sound, rhythm, in this flawless prose. Paul Auster is one of these writers that when they die, they leave a large hole in contemporary literature. That's not to say that there aren't better writers than him (although, being a fan, I can't pretend to be an objective reviewer). For example, the empty space left by the suicide of David Foster Wallace might give us some glimpse into the tragic end of a genius writer being missed for all the works he didn't have the opportunity to write. I wish nothing but blessings and eternal health to Paul Auster. Do live to be 110+ years old, dear sir, and enlighten us with many more novels, films, nonfiction, reviews! Dare I say the world depends on it. :-)

2009: The Losses and The Consolations

Therefore, he begins again,

as if it were the last time

he would breathe.

For there is no more time. And it is the end of time

that begins.

Paul Auster, "Wall Writings, 1971-1975"

Paul Auster's "Invisible..." Taking My Time with a Jewel

Once again, the best writer pound-for-pound in the world delivers a jewel of a novel. While I have to admit "Invisible" is not for everyone, it is perhaps vintage Auster--the mature craftsman going back to the intricacies of prose that made him a literary fiction master. When I say that "Invisible" is not for everyone, I don't mean that only the "Austerites" of the world should be the only ones to read it, but not knowing the dimensions of Auster's previous works would prove a hindrance for someone trying to read him for the first time with "Invisible." I've made the suggestion on this blog again and again, that if one wants to start to read Paul Auster's work, one should stick to "The Music of Chance," "Leviathan," "Oracle Night," or "Moon Palace." Starting out with "Man in the Dark," or "Travels in the Scriptorium" won't do it for a beginner "Austerite."

"Invisible" is the type of novel that shocks and awes; that is to say, the twists and turns of the narrative (not a point A to point B format) makes the reader stop and re-read, trying to make sure of what exactly what it was that they've just read. As a long-time Auster fan, I've come to expect just about everything from the Brooklyn genius. When "Invisible" (a narrative told in four interlocking parts) turned to the protagonist's incestuous relationship with his sister, I realized that anyone else would have been turn off and disgusted. And this is where Paul Auster puts it all on the line. The artist needs (is obligated) to take risks in creating art; without those risks, the artist turns mundane and stale. I assume that there will be two types of interpretations, both of which, I believe, he took into account. First, the experienced literary fiction reader will understand the risks as an artistic "pushing of the envelope" to the very extreme of art. Secondly, the inexperienced literary fiction reader might consider the entire narrative obscene, and Auster as "just another dirty old man" distastefully showing the world what's on his mind. Again, it's difficult to understand the workings of an artist. I think Paul Auster took a great risk in writing so explicitly about the protagonist's relationship with his sister, but looking at it objectively, I have to say that Ars Gratia Artis carries the day in Auster's most powerful book yet.

Many people ask me about my obsession with Paul Auster's work. I have little to say to them other than only those who examine art deeply can be confounded when facing genius. If one doesn't take the time to appreciate everything to the maximum, whether it be Shostakovich's Complete Symphonies, Sylvia Plath Collected Poems, or Marcel Duchamp's theories of "Ready Made" art, one will miss the point altogether. Explain Shakespeare's works and how they evoke genius--there's a reason why Hamlet still resonates today. At any rate, I am not expecting generous or positive press for "Invisible" just as I didn't for "Travels in the Scriptorium," or "Man in the Dark." However, there's always a critic out there with the objective and sharp eye for quality literary fiction: "I don't think people read Auster because he's beautiful, although his spare, exact language has always reminded me of Mozart minus the emotional colors. He's a good read because he's confounding. Many writers are sure they've got the answers, but it's often more honest to admit there's no answer at all." This is from "The San Francisco Chronicle's" Laurel Maury.

I have nothing but praise for Paul Auster's work. I think he is the most generous writer today--generous in the sense that he has confidence in the reader and, as a result, he surrenders the narrative to the reader completely, without explanation, and the reader will make her own decision. Austerites everywhere are already waiting for the next masterpiece from the one and only American literary master.

Paul Auster, the Master Speaks...

I am not sure which rock I was sleeping under while this took place, but here it is. I found it this past weekend.

Gender, Creative Writing and The College Race

I am still "milking" the last 20 pages of Paul Auster's "Man in the Dark." I know it sounds ridiculous, but I am afraid of finishing it because I am going to miss reading the Master. If you've never read Auster, please do soon. I went running on Tuesday and promised myself 10 pages if I did 4 miles instead of 3, and ended up stopping at 3 just to prolong the inevitable. Again, I am being silly... but then again that's what love and passion for something makes you act like. It's a rule of life, so why fight it.

Teaching is going well. My poor Seniors are going mad with all those college applications, etc. I do have to say this in defense of female high school students--I think they have more pressure than young men when applying to college. My students... poor souls, and on top of all that, they have me for a teacher. :-) We just finished "A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man," and a couple of my Seniors, who are interested in going into the creative writing field, felt that Stephen Dedalus' extremism hurt him more than it helped him. "Just like you all applying for college, now," I responded. "How so?" Well, a discussion ensued as to what hoops we are forced to go through when applying for college entrance. Are those "hoops" necessary, really, and are they the same "hoops" for everyone? Conclusion: I think female college applicants have an uphill battle, really, to prove themselves "good candidates." "Boys," my student seem to believe, "can somehow 'fake it' if they need to, enough to make college interviewers believe." The argument varied in terms of how my students (all girls) think the boys have an advantage. "If a male applicant to a creative writing program produces a sample writing," one of my students pointed out, "then it is taken as a given he is a writer, whereas a female applicant would be an 'aspiring writer.'" I am not quite sure where they get these ideas, and even if it's healthy to think that way, but going back to my own college application process a decade and a half ago I could--to some extent--agree with them.

At any rate. 12 days to go until November 1st. One more book to finish off this month (Murakami's "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running"). A a tonnage of grading and reading for work to do. NaNoWriMo approaches.

"Man in the Dark" Post 003

This is the passage I was referring to in my earlier post...

The election of 2000... just after the Supreme Court decision... protests... riots in the major cities... a movement to abolish the Electoral College... defeat of the bill in Congress... a new movement... led by the mayor and borough presidents of New York City... secession... pass by the state legislature in 2003... Federal troops attack... Albany, Buffalo, Syracuse, Rochester... New York City bombed, eighty thousand dead... but the movement grows... in 2004, Maine, New Hampshire, Vermont, Massachusetts, Connecticut, New Jersey and Pennsylvania join New York in the Independent States of America... later that year, California, Oregon, and Washington break off to form their own republic, Pacifica... in 2005, Ohio, Michigan, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota join the Independent States... the European Union recognizes the existence of the new country... diplomatic relations are established... then Mexico... then the countries of Central and South America... Russia follows, then Japan... Meanwhile, the fighting continues, often horrendous, the toll of casualties steadily mounting...

This is what to some critics constitute meta-fiction. I call it having a sharp eye for the disastrous possibilities our ever-increasing political strife and polarity could eventually lead us to. If you think this is a hash-wash scenario, think again.

The novel takes a turn for the "very strange" when August Brill decides to "finish off" Owen Brick, who is the man in the story within the story who is supposed to kill him. Why did Brill do this? Wouldn't the story within a story then go on and on and the suffering and Civil War never end... that's the brilliant aspect of this that--again--critics can't understand. The story within the story is only in Owen Brick's mind. No Owen Brick, no war. In the same parallel, if Owen Brick actually had gotten to Brill first, the war would have ended and possibly Owen Brick would also be gone... gone in the mind of August Brick. Confused? That is the reason that this book breaks away from the pack. Of course most people can't digest it... it's not a lineal narrative or a spoon feeding session with a NYT bestselling author... this IS fiction at its best. If you can't hack it, Jack... then too bad.

How to do you "milk" a 180 page book so that it lasts you into a good two weeks? You set goals for yourself and use the goddamn book as a reward. Um, let me see? If I run 5 miles instead of 3 then i get to read 10 extra pages today... if I run 10 miles then I get to read 50 more pages. Not too much, though. Okay, if I finish my grading for this week and plan my syllabi for next week, then I get to read an additional 20 pages. And you see, when you love an author as much as I love Paul Auster, you do this sort of thing. And now I am down to the last 20 pages.

Next: Haruki Murakami's "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running." Another 180 page book I am going to have to "milk" for all it's worth. I've got 19 days before the madness of NaNoWriMo begins again. No actual reading taking place in November outside of work reading.

"Man in the Dark," & The Case for Prophesy

Paul Auster has done it again. Not only has he created a fiction that is more real that the current state of affairs in the United States, he has done so with the keen and exceedingly sharp eye of a modern-day prophet. Of course it sounds like I am exaggerating, but taking into consideration that a certain presidential candidate has an extravagant Messianic charisma I guess I can declare the best "pound-for-pound" writer in the world a modern-day prophet. (Of course I should also make the disclaimer that I aim for humor and a dash of sarcasm when I refer to the presidential candidate, lest I offend anyone).

One of the main characters of "Man in the Dark" refers to the election 2000 as a turning point, the seminal moment in which the destruction of the noble experiment of democracy in American came to an end. The events that followed November 2000 were not so much related to 9/11 but rather the overwhelming discontent of our polar-opposite ideologies. Eventually, Auster makes his protagonist plot the tragic story, people begin a movement to end the Electoral College process, there's civil unrest and states begin to leave the Union as a second Civil War engulfs the United States.

Now, could this happen in real life? All one has to do is to look at the presidential campaign today, not to mention Wall Street and what appears as the end of our high standard of living to realize that Auster's protagonist and his conception of the story within the story is not as far fetch as one thinks. Add a dash of media-generated "Culture Wars" and generational divergence, and moral absolutism versus relativism and we are literally inside Paul Auster's new novel.

"Man in the Dark" has already been labeled "not the best by Auster." If you read my blog you know I have gone into great detail to examine the opposition to Auster's last two novels. But people missing the point of this excellent novel are perhaps not ready to embrace a Master who has moved on from his traditional plot building skills. So critics call all of this meta-fictions.... I call it simply brilliance and the guts to take chances with fiction. These are not easy times in which to produce literature that breaks out of the norm. The media has created entire generations of people who need stories told in much the same way we spoon feed an infant. Literature that is too hard to read is deemed not good literature. I see Paul Auster as perhaps many people saw James Joyce in 1922 when Sylvia Beach helped him release "Ulysses." The problem today that Joyce didn't have to concern himself with back in 1922 is that of audience. Paul Auster's literature is so far ahead into the future (or I should say into the past if you're standing in the post-post-modernist stand) that people are not bound to understand it. Joyce literally became an overnight literary god simply based on the fact that those "in the know" read Joyce's challenging novel and were able to immediately recognize its genius and uniqueness. Unfortunately for Auster, the few critics that read him are perhaps also writing novels of their own, and if you tell me jealousy is not a factor here I have a bridge I want to sell you. To create literary uniqueness is to take a chance with the corporate bottom line that allows for that publication to hit the market. We can almost hear, "uhm, who's the target audience? How are the demographics for this novel divided? Age group? Is there potential film contract value to the story?"

This weekend I am gearing to finish "Man in the Dark" and make my final comments on it. It's sad, you know, how one reads a book by one's favorite author, wondering and hoping and praying and wishing he or she has enough health and peace of mind to produce another one... Paul Auster is that author. Let's start the countdown to the next novel by this genius/prophet. :-)

"Man in the Dark" by Paul Auster, Part 001

The religious communion of self with self has begun. "What I Talk About When I Talk About Running" by Haruki Murakami and "Man in the Dark" by Paul Auster are the central books of my literary well-being and mental health at the present time. And while I have placed "Great Expectations" on hold, and "The Midnight Disease" on temporary leave, the joy I am getting right now from reading both Auster and Murakami at the same time is only equaled by the fact that this is my second experience in which both my favorite authors have new books out at the same time. (Two years ago, Murakami and Auster also published weeks apart). I am lost--despite my tendencies to feeling guilty about work--in a meta-world where only literature is once again "the great escape." There are other challenges that occupy my mind, some far more serious than others, but all in all, I am in a place far away from all of the mundane.

"Man in the Dark" received terrible reviews from the now defunct "New York Times Book Review." I will have to say that while some of the criticism was mostly ad hominem in nature, the difficulty of understanding this masterpiece by one of the top (if not the top) pound-for-pound best writers in the world today stems from the fact that "this is not for everyone." Paul Auster is beyond money-making plot-boilers. Hats off to Henry Holt and Faber & Faber (his European publishers) for keeping Paul Auster out there. They know that there is a strong following of readers out in the real world that live off substance rather than plain thrilling entertainment. Case in point: "Man in the Dark" is as surrealist as it gets. The lines between reality get tripled and made to run layered on top of one another. An old literary critic (a Pulitzer Prize winner in criticism no less) is recovering from an accident. He realizes he is in his last years, and suffers from terrible insomnia. All the while, he has created the story of Owen Brick in what becomes an alternate reality rather than a fiction. Make a long story short (since I haven't finished reading it, and I am savoring every single word), Brick needs to return to "this" reality and "kill" August Brill (the book reviewer/literary critic) because the story deals with a second Civil War in America in which millions of people have already died. Kill August Brill, end the war and the suffering. Owen Brick has little or no alternative. Why him? Why not? The action goes back and forth between "Second Civil War America" and present time. The narrative is not straight forward, and perhaps this is the reason why people who are used to the vintage Auster (Leviathan, Music of Chance, The New York Trilogy, etc.) cannot handle this type of confusing yet highly artistic narrative. I used to be one of them, although I worship everything "The Great White Jewish One" writes. "Man in the Dark" is a revolutionary book dealing with blends in time and narrative, vision and imagery that makes people think they've just walked into a Salvador Dali painting (a comment I usually reserve for Murakami). I am off to finish some work for this week... I've got tons of grading to do and some prep for this coming week. Other news are keeping me down and not being quite myself, but I will struggle on.

NaNoWriMo begins in exactly 31 days. I already signed up for it again, and I am hoping that despite the fact of a busy schedule, I can complete my project again this year. 2007 taught me a great deal in terms of writing, and I want to build upon that. It is a magical thing to turn out a 50,000+ word draft, even if it's in desperate need of a life-line of revision. They've got some new exciting things planned around the NaNoWriMo central idea, and it's a community thing.

Literary Bias in "The New York Times" Confirmed

With the news of the Brooklyn Book Festival out on Sunday, September 14th, and the announcement on the "News" section of the "Paul Auster Definitive Website," it was with some excitement that I ventured over to the NYT Book Review to seek out news of "The Great White Jewish One." Well, a total omission of Paul Auster from the reported festivities has now confirmed with long-standing-rag-passing-as-a-newspaper" status (at least in my mind). You'll have to forgive my Ad Hominems, but I just can't understand. It's almost like the case of Jim Carrey not winning an Oscar for many of his absolutely brilliant performances. I am not a fan of Jim Carrey, but I've heard speculation from people who know that he must have really pissed off some people over at the Academy. Fans continue to wonder why Carrey hasn't won an Oscar for the performances he gave in "Man on the Moon," "The Truman Show," or "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind." Could it be because he started out as a comedian? Not enough serious for the Academy to consider? Just like Paul Auster (who has ventured into other art mediums), Carrey seems to have stepped on some toes. Paul Auster's only fault is to write first-rate literary novels (and write and direct some of the top meaningful films today)... guess that's enough to throw people into fits of jealousy. Case in point: Tom LeClair. I guess I can't throw the same accusation at him that I threw at Kakutani, that of Hemingway's blow to his critics... something to the effect that "they [the critics] take something you've done and worked hard and tear it apart but couldn't bring themselves to create something like it in a million years." I can't level this at Mr. LeClair because he is a novelist and should know better.

I said in my previous post regarding the review of "Man in the Dark" that I must really sound like a high school girl defending her crush on the varsity quarterback 20 years after the fact, but I can't help to question the NYT absolute hostility to Paul Auster, a New York (and Brooklyn) institution in his own right. Here's the most recent review from the NYT Book Review, this time written by Tom LeClair. HERE is the link. Contrary to the previous one by Michiko Kakutani, this one levels covert and subversive criticism over Auster's "audacity" to in turn criticize the critics. The protagonist of "Man in the Dark" happens to speak, not very fondly about his own life as a literary critic. So, that's the reason why this book is "not as good as previous work by Auster?"

I submit the following: Tom LeClair's novel has just been published. Is he perhaps fishing for a nice review from a fellow NYT reviewer? Is he doing this because--as far as I know--he can't hold up to the genius level of Paul Auster's work. If you are reading this, Mr. LeClair, and you think that I am hiding behind a blog and talking tough, you can send me an email and we can arrange for a meeting. I'd be happy to show you how we (back in the day) used to deal with this type of unfair character assassination down in the South Bronx where I grew up. You may take the boy out of the South Bronx, make him a teacher, a literary man, and a deep thinker, but you can't take the South Bronx out of the boy. If you ever decide to be a real man, gimme' a call, or else, "fuggetaboutit."

The "Argument/Case" Against Paul Auster

Paul Auster's new book "Man in the Dark" was just recently published. If you know me, and if you visit this blog often, you'd know that this is a life-altering event for me. I am absolutely biased for the Great Master, but I am beginning to notice a trend against Paul Auster that is not only disturbing to me, but also (and from a purely objective stand point) bordering on the Ad Hominem/character assassination. Now, "fair is fair..." but this trend doesn't even reflect an ounce of fairness.

First, Paul Auster is "pound-for-pound" the best contemporary writer today. Most people would probably ask who he is, or how could he be such a good writer and not be rubbing elbows with Dan Brown, Dr. Phil, or Jodi Picoult? The most recent New York Times Book Review issue featuring the review for "Man in the Dark" might prove helpful in deciphering the new trend of Paul Auster Bashing. While the review was not favorable, I tried very hard to look deeply (and objectively) into it to see what the discontent is with this great writer. First, I need to point out that the previous effort by Paul Auster "Travels in the Scriptorium" suffered from the same lack-luster review, mainly based on personal attacks and distorted "artsy" language that tends to be more political than literary. Nevertheless, why would a reviewer risk such a personal attack disguised as an objective review, a review attacking the man, and not the work that is indeed of the highest caliber? Could it be personal and professional jealousy? (And I say this because Paul Auster's wife, Siri Hustvedt suffers from the same poor reviews). Could it possibly be because Paul Auster's reclusive life? (He lives quietly in Brooklyn, NY... he's no Dan Brown or Dr. Phil). Could it possibly be because of his most recent film, "The Inner Life of Martin Frost?" (oh, yes... I suspect that is part of the problem... 'What do you mean? He writes and directs films?'). Here are some other facts that might clear up the argument for or against the fact that other people are jealous of Paul Auster:

1--Paul Auster is admired, loved and considered a 'genius' in Europe. Considering the fact that the French view him as a literary "Second Coming" of sorts should win you enough enemies.

2--Paul Auster is an accomplished film director/screenwriter. "Oh, but I've never heard of his films!" Exactly.

3--Paul Auster has a following within the literary circles in New York. You know, those stuck up artsy types who think they are better than the rest of the world. The interesting fact is that Paul Auster's writing doesn't aim to cater to that group. If you are a voracious reader, and you like to think deeply about literature, then Paul Auster is for you. No artsy attitude needed.

4--Paul Auster's academic essays (collected, among other volumes, in "The Art of Hunger") are of the highest ranking among college professors who want to challenge their students with deep literary analysis. Want to read about The Book of the Dead, Celine, Kafka and Dada? This book is for you.

I realize I must sound like a teenage girl defending her high school "crush" 20 years after graduating. But taking aside the fact that I am a great fan, what's going on in the book review business is simply deplorable. I suppose it has to do with the Global Economy and 21st Century gaga... but give Paul Auster a break! To say he is running out of material is simply a personal opinion, not an objective assessment. When (and I say when because it is a goddamn matter of time) Paul Auster wins the Nobel Prize for Literature, I'll have the last laugh.

"Oracle Night" and Socrate's Dialogue with Ion....

Now, don't mind me for being such a geek--if I am indeed willing to admit to such a title. And if it seems I am making some wild connections here between classical and contemporary literature, I confess I am not doing with ill intentions. Now, a word about Paul Auster: He is indeed my favorite contemporary author, along with Haruki Murakami. I don't think Auster can write a bad sentence even if he tried (although while re-reading "Oracle Night" I found some things that sounded awkward indeed--more on this later). What I suppose has happened since October 2001 (when I discovered Auster--a recommendation from Takami Nieda) is that in reading him I have found a certain rhythm, pace and literaria that I can't find anywhere else. While I don't consider myself an Auster scholar, I have introduced many people to this "seemingly" unknown author. I speak of his work as if I were speaking of Biblical apocryphas, and in a way I have become an interpreter of Auster's work to the "outside" world. And this is why I made the connection to Socrate's dialogue with Ion.


I was in a mad rush the other day to photocopy as much material as possible to prepare my absence from the classroom during my trip to China. Rather than wait for the copy machine to do its work and daydream while inhaling the delicious fumes of toner, I always bring a book to read--something random, not what I am reading at the time. So, the day in question (Wednesday), I picked the W.H.D. Rouse translation of "The Great Dialogues of Plato." I began with the dialogue with Ion because it is the first entry after the introduction. The jest of the dialogue is that Ion believes himself the acme and epitome of all the Homer interpreters. He claims himself to be the best performer of epic poetry and says he can "read" more into Homer than anyone else alive, dead or yet to be born. You can follow how Ion's humility shines through, eh? At any rate, here are some back and forth things that made me think of myself as an interpreter of Auster's work:


"Socrates: I have often envied you reciters that art of yours, Ion. You have always to wear fine clothes, and to look as beautiful as you can is a part of your art. Then, again, you are obliged to be continually in the company of many good poets; and especially of Homer, who is the best and most divine of them; and to understand him, and not merely learn his words by rote, is a thing greatly to be envied. And no man can be a reciter who does not understand the meaning of the poet. For the reciter ought to interpret the mind of the poet to his hearers, but how can he interpret him well unless he knows what he means? All this is greatly to be envied.

Ion: Very true, Socrates; interpretation has certainly been the most laborious part of my art; and I believe myself able to speak about Homer better than any man; and that neither Metrodorus of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus of Thasos, nor Glaucon, nor any one else who ever was, had as good ideas about Homer as I have, or as many."

Ion explains that this is because Homer speaks to him better than any other poet. Which brings me around to claim the same for Paul Auster. It was "The Invention of Solitude" that first broke through to me--my father was in the throngs of death at the time and my friend Takami Nieda recommended the essay "Invisible Man" by Auster. So many of the passages I read were so universally perfect--a prose like none I had ever read from any contemporary. Thus began my relentless marathon to read EVERYTHING by Paul Auster.

I suppose that from time to time we vary what we read. There was a time when reading Hemingway spoke to me, as well as reading Fitzgerald's work. I am certain that when it is time to go back to them, I will and they will appear to me as fresh as if it was the first time. It's part of being human. There are genres I am not quite sure I feel deeply about--mystery genre or sci fi. There are people who swear by these--they've found life's great significance in genres that are mainly associated with mere entertainment. Of course, that's a bad characterization. But I have tried to get into those books and I haven't been able to. I started my education quite late, and at times I still feel I have to catch up in some of my classics; hence no time for Harry Potter, among others. But it is what speaks to us--the author's particular voice as opposed to the topic they write about. Socrates oversimplifies this point:

"Socrates: Then, my dear friend, can I be mistaken in saying that Ion is equally skilled in Homer and in other poets, since he himself acknowledges that the same person will be a good judge of all those who speak of the same things; and that almost all poets do speak of the same things?


"Ion: Why then, Socrates, do I lose attention and go to sleep and have absolutely no ideas of the least value, when any one speaks of any other poet; but when Homer is mentioned, I wake up at once and am all attention and have plenty to say?

"Socrates: The reason, my friend, is obvious. No one can fail to see that you speak of Homer without any art or knowledge. If you were able to speak of him by rules of art, you would have been able to speak of all other poets; for poetry is a whole."

I think I love Auster for its amazing ability to explore the randomness of fate and destiny. True, many other authors have written about those, but there's something to that unique voice of Auster that hypnotizes me. And just like Ion, I do lose interest if the author doesn't reach out and drag me into the plot, or if he is lacking in philosophy (not so much technique). Someday I hope Paul Auster wins the Nobel Prize for Literature (although chances are he never will, since the prize is now a geo-political farce). It would validate much of what I am unable to explain here.

So, Wednesday, the 16th I depart for China. I'll be gone for ten days and there will not be another entry until then. I might even post some pictures when I get back.

Closing on "The Aeneid" & Taking a Little Literary Detour...

Aeneas fights the Harpies. Thinking about it makes me squirm, reasoning as well that I hadn't ever heard of the Harpies until I read the poem "Old Ironsides," by Oliver Wendell Holmes. At any rate, Aeneas and his crew are cursed by the Harpies and their journey continues to more exciting and pressing adventures: let's link "The Odyssey" to this maelstrom of stories. I suppose Virgil does a great job with this, but it leaves one a little confused at the end of Book III.

Dido falls for Aeneas, or did she? Many people overlook the fact that Dido's affection also has a connection that by uniting with Aeneas, Carthage will become more powerful. I think this is so because Dido is portrayed as the victim of a bad love when Aeneas plans his escape in secret and abandons her in despair. To complicate matters even more, both Dido and Aeneas have "councils" to decide their own separate futures. The storm, the cave, the insinuation that Dido and Aeneas have given themselves over to lust sounds like a common television soap opera. It isn't until Mercury--acting as council--reminds Aeneas of his rightful destiny to found and people Rome that Dido and Aeneas' passion goes sour. Her attempted suicide aside, I don't think it would have been a good match to begin with. Imagine, you and your love interest trying to forge a future for yourselves and a massive amount of gods overlooking and deciding in turn what eventually is "best" for you both. I know I am taking a modern view of the plot, but it's so complicated one spends half of the time trying to see which path the protagonists are to follow.

The Christian overtones of the voyage to the "underworld" renders this text a "masterpiece" in the Europe of the 1400s and 1500s, but it does nothing to entertain. Later, Dante will draw much of his vision of the "Inferno" from Book VI of "The Aeneid." Virgil's persistence to show the underworld as a challenge the protagonist needs (or is forced) to overcome is what seals the deal with later classic theology about the soul having to overcome sin in order to avoid the underworld. It's amazing to think how much of this is precursor to Christian belief, but how much of it remains the seminal foundation for what we believe today.

Turnus and Aeneas "duking it out" serves as the closing of the story. Again, the gods play "chess" with the characters. The battle is not described in as much detail as the sacking of Troy was at the very beginning, but Virgil does provide the reader with the one-on-one, blow-by-blow final meeting between Turnus and Aeneas. Aeneas is saved by Venus' balm when he is wounded on his leg by an arrow that cannot be dislodged. Once the balm does its thing, Aeneas returns to beat Turnus. In a moment of twisting hesitation, Aeneas pities the defeated foe whom he had decided to allow to escape with his life. But, as a master stroke, Virgil makes Aeneas realize what Turnus wears Pallas' belt around his shoulder... violence and death are the real legacies of Aeneas. He kills Turnus.

I took a little literary detour this week when I surrendered to re-reading "Oracle Night," by Paul Auster. I am reading differently now, however, seeing technique and way of introducing things into a story--not giving it all away at the beginning; how to make a character real; developing sub-plots, etc. Auster is the master of the "alternative driven" fiction. That is to say, characters are forced to make decisions that impact their entire lives and the plot of the story really is fueled by these decisions. First person narratives are the best for doing this. Friday alone I read over 200 pages in little under 3 hours. I simply adore Auster's prose, and I am learning a great deal in terms of what to do in my own writing.

The China trip is still on the works despite the little spurs of dissent about the Olympics and the violence in Tibet. I am to leave here on Wednesday, April 16th (I leave at 3 PM, have a lay over of 10 hours in Chicago, fly 13 hours to Korea spending 4 hours there, and finally arrive in Beijing at 10 AM of the following day). I suppose I could show some excitement for going, but after traveling most of Southeast Asia (while avoiding the communist countries), China sounds like a "burden" rather than an "exciting or exotic" trip. I am not quite sure where it is that I am teaching, other than the school at Changchun that is. I'll be counting the 10 days to return... and reading my way across most of the countryside (I have a six hour train ride from Changchun to Shanghai). I'll be taking more books than actual luggage with me.

Beyond Great Writing: Magic

Yesterday, I went to Half-Priced Books and did the common rounds... look at the Auster books, the Didion, the Eco, the Murakami... and found a first print of Murakami's "A Wild Sheep Chase" for $5. This is a top find. It's a Kodansha edition, introducing Murakami to the American public for he first time (1989). The book has both Japanese and American ISBN numbers and the price in dollars and yen. I couldn't believe my eyes; even the dust cover has the author's photograph.

"Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman" is now slipping into its last pages. Last night I finished reading "Tony Takitani," "The Rise and Fall of Sharpie Cakes," "The Ice Man," "Crabs" and "Firefly." All of these were great. I loved the "Tony Takitani" story. I was reading it during lunch and didn't want the bell to ring again before class. It is the story of a trombonist during the Pre-World War II days. He enjoys great deal of comfort in Japan but finds himself going to China to play in the fashionable western establishments. In the conflicting ideologies of the post-World War II days, he is imprisoned and almost put to death. Back in Japan, he never marries but has a son whom he names Tony. Tony becomes an artist and from this point, the story take a wild but realistic rush through a myriad of emotions: sadness, joy, reflection, nostalgia, etc. All rolled up in the perfect Murakami form. "The Rise and Fall of Sharpie Cakes" is a different story (no pun intended). This story feels as if Murakami was experimenting with extravagant elements. Certainly, it feels as if he sat down in front of the computer one day and said to himself: "Let's see how absurd I can make things." It is not a very good story. It's rushed and not polished. I don't really know what else to say about it. I had read "The Ice Man" before on "Vintage Murakami." But "Firefly," well... "Firefly" is something altogether apart. This is certainly Murakami's crowning achievement... it is part and parcel of "Norwegian Wood," one of his most famous novels.

Reading "Firefly" was like taking a trip back to 1994 Japan. This was the year I discovered Murakami. I was living in Japan at the time and my then friend-now-brother-in-law gave me a copy of "Norwegian Wood." I could not put down the book. I cried, real tears, moved by the lyrical and poetical style... along with the pains of the "coming of age" story. Here's an example from the selection included in "Firefly:"

.... A long time later, the firefly took off. As if remembering something, it suddenly spread its wings and in the next instant floated up over the railing and into the gathering dark. Trying to win back lost time, perhaps, it quickly traced an arc beside the water tower. It stopped for a moment, just long enough for its trail of light to blur, then flew off toward the east.
Long after the firefly disappeared, the traces of its light remained within me. In the thick dark behind my closed eyes that faint light, like some wandering spirit, continued to roam. Again and again I stretched my hand out toward the darkness. But my fingers felt nothing. That tiny glow was always out of reach.

There are perhaps a hundred or so different passages on this 250+ page novel that I would love to post, passages of long lost love and nostalgia, agony and yearning. It is going to be hard once I finish "Blind Willow, Sleeping Woman" and begin some other author's book.

Just off the press... I just found this while searching for link on Amazon... Paul Auster's new publication... the film script of "The Inner Life of Martin Frost." I am so excited!