Arthur C. Clarke, 1917-2008

Clarke was a Brit, of course, but I won’t stand on ceremony here–his fiction played as formative a role to my childhood reading (and viewing) habits as it did to many of the folks paying tribute to him today. Jeff VanderMeer has a lovely tribute at Omnivoracious. Back in 2001 I reviewed Clarke’s Collected Stories for the New York Times; excerpt of the blurb:

Clarke began writing shortly before World War II, and he consistently infused his work with both an optimism about technology and a fear of its misuse; the atomic bomb looms large over this book’s 900-plus pages. That balance of dread and wonder is Clarke’s hallmark, and it’s what made his (and Stanley Kubrick’s) screenplay to ”2001: A Space Odyssey” such a deft fable — after all, what’s the HAL 9000 computer if not our collective technophobia personified?

Roundup: Mission Accomplished

  • Dave Eggers speaks at TED about the success of his 826 Valencia project.
  • That’s not just a white suit–that’s a heavily armored ego-protecting shell. Tom Wolfe says the critiques of I Am Charlotte Simmons only prove he’s Pete Rose: “”I feel like Pete Rose did when his batting average dipped from something like .331 to .308, and he said, ‘That’s not bad for a guy entering his fourth decade.’ “
  • The latest issue of Bookforum is now online. Hard to figure out where to start but I gravitated to the Jhumpa Lahiri interview, in which she discusses immigrant fiction and the Indian writer pigeonhole:

I get frustrated by this tendency to flatten whole segments of the population, like the Indian immigrant or the Jewish immigrant. I know these are just words and phrases, but I think people tend to see these other groups as a people. They are “other,” and it’s harder to see the nuances and the variations because they’re just a group of people. I have been sensitive to it my whole life, and annoyed by it. As a writer, I didn’t set out to represent a certain group of people, but I acknowledge that I write about Indians and Indian Americans. And I hope at least in writing about these characters, you can prevent those generalizations.

Breaking: Books Portable

British publishing exec Scott Pack talks a little sense when it comes to the integration of books and handheld technology:

“The iPod allows you to listen to Shostakovich on the train, Kate Nash on the walk to the office and then Radiohead at your desk.

“But it doesn’t work like that with books. You don’t want to read James Joyce on the train, Maeve Binchy while you’re walking and John Grisham at your desk.

“I’ve got every album I own on my iPod and can listen to anything I want whenever I want. But books are already portable and even if they weren’t, you don’t need to transport your entire library around wherever you go.”

“Factors which were very important on the music side, just aren’t at all with books.”

However, he argues that new technology will eradicate the cookbook, and we’ve heard that one before. As Chris Anderson points out in his recent article on free economies, people first thought that the home PC would only be useful for recipe filing, and look how that turned out.

Your Guide to the Depression

As somebody who cherishes his Illinois and California WPA guides, it’s hard to argue with David Kipen‘s plea to revive them online:

I’m calling for the creation of a free, route-based, readily searchable online repository of all the text and photography from every last American Guide, with the Center for the Book’s literary maps to all 50 states thrown in for good measure. Copyright law here should prove less of a headache than usual, considering that the American taxpayer already paid for this priceless treasure house a lifetime ago.

The WPA guides, somewhat famously, helped support many writers during the Great Depression, including Ralph Ellison, Zora Neale Hurston, Nelson Algren, Eudora Welty, and more. (A 2003 New York Times piece captures the breadth of the contributions.)

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.”