Latter-Day Crews

The latest issue of the Georgia Review is dedicated to Harry Crews, who is 73 and still writing in Gainesville, Florida. Despite his ill health, he comes off as pugnacious as ever in an interview with the Gainesville Sun, discussing whether he’ll finish his memoirs:

“Can I get it done before that? I don’t know. I think not,” he says. “But I can leave instructions: If there’s not a note here saying it’s fine to publish, then don’t do it. Will they honor that? Well, they haven’t honored anything else, so they probably won’t honor that either. I don’t know.”

The online edition of the Georgia Review has a brief excerpt (PDF) of the memoir.

Disgrace, a Novel

The Law & Order episode about Eliot Spitzer is surely being written as we speak–I picture the late Jerry Orbach quipping, “You don’t just prosecute hookers, you’re also a client” as he cuffs the gov (donk donk!)–but Richard Russo has a more sophisticated take on how Spitzer’s life might be fictionalized. In the process, he gets at the thought process of a novelist when it comes to nuts-and-bolts matters of conflict and characterization:

Arrogant? He’d simply tried to put criminals in jail where they belonged. Wasn’t that his job? Is that any reason he should be friendless now? So I’ll give my Eliot one friend, someone to help him put what he’s done into perspective. I’ll give this friend some of my own cynical humor. Ah, what the hell, I’ll give him my name. Call him Rick. I can change that later with a keystroke.

Cutting Crew

Quarter Horse News (“the newsmagazine of the performance horse industry”) has a lengthy profile of Thomas McGuane. The piece is focused mainly on his second career as a rancher, and on his history as a fan of cutting horses (it’s less violent than it sounds). The sport, in McGuane’s estimation, has apparently sold out in recent years, but though some of the story’s details are a bit snoozy, he gets off a good quote or two that evokes his own earthy, rough-hewn prose:

“Cutting has this mystery at the center of it. The only thing that brings that mystery is the individuality of the horse,” he said. “If the horse is over-corrected or over-disciplined, over-controlled, it’s at the risk of losing some of that [mystery]. On the part of the human factor, there has to be an element of restraint about what we ask of the horse because we don’t want to take the spirit out of the horse. Everyone has to be judged as another living entity, and that’s the way you have to look at cutting horses if you’re ever going to get very far. There are mechanics out there that can train a horse to do things correctly and by the rules, but those horses are never real winners. You come to an agreement about the correct way of doing things without breaking the spirit of  the horse.”

The End of the Road

Jack Kerouac Day was a couple of days ago. You missed it, probably. I know I did, and I happened to have Kerouac on the brain lately. A week ago I was at the New York Public Library to see its exhibit Jack Kerouac: Beatific Soul (n.b. to NYC readers: It closes tomorrow). It’s . . . OK. There’s a facsimile of the scroll on which he wrote a draft of On the Road, some Allen Ginsberg photos, some scribblings about religion, some movie posters, cards and notes for an amazingly intricate fantasy-baseball game he came up with as a kid. (Something Paul Auster also got into, as he details in his excellent memoir, Hand to Mouth.) But though I still remember the electric charge I got out of reading The Subterraneans when I was in high school, I have the feeling that picking it up again would only be a letdown.

I’m not alone in feeling so conflicted about Kerouac: Bill Peters, writing at masslive.com, pays tribute to the ambivalence that Kerouac inspires, the way his books can make you feel like the whole world’s burst wide open when you’re 15 but just feels gassy and meandering when you get older:

And Jack Kerouac – like Charles Bukowski and Jim Carroll – is a writer who you grow up with, want to imitate, and eventually rebel against in a way that seems mature at the time but, in hindsight, is actually kind of childish. Jonathan Lethem wrote an article in the New Yorker a while ago that sort-of addressed this: when you realize, at age 19, that your favorite writer isn’t perfect, their entire body of work feels like a travesty. You take it personally.

Easy P.C.

I’m currently reading Roger Rosenblatt‘s new novel, Beet, a send-up of academia that pokes a lot of fun at extreme political correctness and at the ridiculousness of lots of liberal arts scholarship. (One graduate of Beet College’s Department of Ethnicity, Gender, and Television Studies wrote a thesis titled “No Transgender Asians on Will and Grace: An Oversight or an Insult?) I’m not far enough into the book to register an opinion on it, but I did ask myself pretty much immediately: Isn’t this an old story? I was an undergrad at the University of Chicago in the early ’90s, the height of the P.C. wars; I vividly remember much seminar-room squabbling over themes of oppression in the video for “Baby Got Back,” and a female classmate who found a short story’s portrait of a sympathetic mother completely untenable because, she said, “I hate my mother.” That’s all done, now, right?

Writing in the Nation, Yale English professor William Deresiewicz suggests that the handwringing over what’s proper to study hasn’t ended, and that it creates a smaller culture of literary scholarship that isn’t doing a whole lot of reading of literature:

More revealing in this connection than the familiar identity-groups laundry list, which at least has intellectual coherence, is the whatever-works grab bag: “Asian American literature, cultural theory, or visual/performance studies”; “literature of the immigrant experience, environmental writing/ecocriticism, literature and technology, and material culture”; “visual culture; cultural studies and theory; writing and writing across the curriculum; ethnicity, gender and sexuality studies.” The items on these lists are not just different things–apples and oranges–they’re different kinds of things, incommensurate categories flailing about in unrelated directions–apples, machine parts, sadness, the square root of two. There have always been trends in literary criticism, but the major trend now is trendiness itself, trendism, the desperate search for anything sexy. Contemporary lit, global lit, ethnic American lit; creative writing, film, ecocriticism–whatever. There are postings here for positions in science fiction, in fantasy literature, in children’s literature, even in something called “digital humanities.”

Watch Your Back, Mr. Bezos

There’s been a lot of back-and-forth about Steve Jobs‘ recent comment about how most Americans don’t read books. I’d argue that Jobs voices a valid concern, but a couple of recent pieces serve as a reminder that Jobs is speaking as a businessman, not as a person with any particular interest in literacy, and it may be that he’s setting the stage to compete with the Amazon Kindle. John Markoff, probably the smartest tech reporter the New York Times has, suspects that Apple is working on its own reader; in TidBITS–still around! I was reading it back when I owned a Mac Classic II–Adam C. Engst makes the case for an iPod Reader:

The iPod already gives us access to Beethoven and Bob Dylan, to snapshots of our children, and to The Incredibles and episodes of Lost. Let’s add to that The Hobbit and Harry Potter, 1984 and Catch-22, and the complete works of Dr. Seuss. Book publishers have been waiting for a mass-market ebook reader for years, the newspaper companies are dying for a new online business model, and normal people just want to read on the train to work.

Hey, whatever saves publishing, I’m for it. (Thanks to Andrew for the link.)

The Slows of Kilimanjaro

I’m starting to fall deeply in love with Voice of America Special English, a radio programming feature that combines the lightly chastising tone of NPR’s Morning Edition with the  two-thirds-speed wooziness of a screw tape. (I’ve written before about a feature VOASE did on Thomas McGuane and Cormac McCarthy.) New on the site is the first of a two-part piece on the life of Ernest Hemingway. The transcript is a nice enough read, but you really do have to download the MP3 and listen to comprehend the program’s pleasures–the sense that you’re back in an eighth-grade classroom, the languorous Calgon-take-me-away slowness, the assured and comforting voices of Shirley Griffith and Frank Oliver. When they get around to the bit about the shotgun in part two it’s gonna be agony, and it’s gonna be beautiful.

Lesson: It’s Perfectly OK to Steal Your Mom’s Pack of Kents

Old news to many fans of The Hours, I’m sure, but news to me: Michael Cunningham explains how he came to read Virginia Woolf in the first place.

We lived in Pasadena [Calif.]. I seemed to be growing up to be sort of a skateboard kid. I wasn’t opposed to books — I thought they were fine, but I wasn’t especially interested in them.

One day, when I was a sophomore, I was having a cigarette, in a dusty little section between buildings. I was 15, smoking a Kent stolen out of my mother’s purse, trying to look as dangerous as possible.

I was standing next to this girl, a senior I can only describe as the Pirate Queen of my high school – every high school has one: tough, beautiful, sarcastic, impossibly cool. I, being more ambitious than realistic, started talking to her. I started talking about Bob Dylan vs. Leonard Co hen, that Cohen was undervalued, and she looked down at me and said, “Have you ever thought of being less stupid?”

I had, but I was happy with the stupid I was. She asked, “Why don’t you read a book? Have you even heard of T.S. Eliot or Virginia Woolf?”

Later on, I went to the school library, a Band-Aid-colored trailer, and there was no Eliot and one Woolf, “Mrs. Dalloway,” and that was the one I checked out. I couldn’t make sense of it or tell what was going on, but I could see the beauty and clarity and muscularity of those sentences. I had never seen writing like that. It never occurred to me that you could do with words what Jimi Hendrix did in music.

“Mrs. Dalloway” made me a reader, turned on a little light bulb in my head. . . . I’ve come to think that most of us had a first book, not necessarily a great book, that cracks the world open for us.

About Those Fakes…

Chicago Tribune cultural critic Julia Keller may be responsible for the hokiest lede to ever appear in a Pulitzer-winning story, but she’s pretty good when it comes to literary affairs, and she has a thorough piece on the latest round of fake memoirs. Among those quoted is D.C.-based novelist and critic Thomas Mallon:

The current crop of faked memoirs and fib-filled autobiographies may emanate from the complications of the Internet era, Mallon says. “As George Orwell noted, people write as an assertion of the ego. And when people fabricate memoirs, it’s an homage to the fact that writers still have stature in the culture.” Ironically, though, “the Web has made authorship a much less exclusive club. You can self-publish now so easily.”

And we may only be at the threshold of the Internet’s effect on literary originality, Mallon warns. “We’re not that far into it, and we just don’t know. It’s still very unsettled.”

That Stegner Fellow

I lived for eight years in San Francisco, a famously beautiful city that famously has a chip on its shoulder when it comes to getting respect from the alleged “East Coast establishment.” The San Francisco Chronicle once ran a Sunday magazine piece about the Bay Area’s culture of young writers, and the story’s author found multiple ways to say, “You won’t find this kind of writing in that snobby/elitist/hermetically sealed New York culture!” I suspect most of the writers profiled now live in Brooklyn.

Anyway, one of the main talking points in this debate, at least when it comes to books, is Wallace Stegner, who wrote one of Northern California’s defining novels, Angle of Repose. You heard about it often out in San Francisco, where it’s the point of reference for any novel about the American west that picks up themes of pioneering and the environment; on the East Coast, you’ll hear nary a peep about it. The New York Times gets at this divide a little in a piece on a writers’ gathering dedicated to Stegner in Point Reyes, Calif.:

The East’s perceived dismissal of Stegner’s Western-ness was another leitmotif during the conference. [Stegner biographer] Mr. [Philip L.] Fradkin made repeated references to the failure of The New York Times Book Review to publish a review of “Angle of Repose” — and the dismissive column about it in The Times (“a Pontiac in the age of Apollo, an Ed Muskie in the fiction sweepstakes”) written by John Leonard after the book was awarded the Pulitzer Prize in 1972.