"Thou shalt not extinguish thine anger, but shall master it,
that thy conscience may not be blunted by adjustment
to wrong causes."
-The Dutch Ten Commandments to Foil the Nazis
We have had a lot of storms in the last two weeks. When I lived in Michigan, storms went one way: west to east. In the last week here, we have had:
It's enough to drive a man to madness.
Alvaro Enrigue, Sudden Death
Most of the way through this one I was afraid my initial impulse about it had been right: the tennis match between Quevedo and Caravaggio was too cute by half, and ruining a lot of other good material. There were some interesting threads on Cortés and what Spanish colonization meant on a human level to the civilizations that were destroyed; there were some other interesting threads on Italy and England, and on Caravaggio the eternal man of mystery. And in the middle of this, and threaded throughout, a history of tennis and a seemingly pointless fictional tennis match. I like playing tennis, and in my youth I watched a lot of tennis. Reading about tennis seems to be my breaking point.
And then it turned into something else, a different kind of narrative of decline, where Cortés snuffs out millions of lives and hundreds of years of knowledge and the Counter-Reformation snuffs out the Renaissance. Well, I've read a dozen accounts of the decline of and in modernity, and I've never seen that one before, nor put about so persuasively.
Uwe Johnson, Anniversaries
I have a long and never-to-be-published post building off of Phoebe's recently posts on whether and to what extent children can tell stories about their parents, having taken for a long time the position that parents should not be telling stories about their children to the world. I am ~1350 pages in to Anniversaries, with another 300 pages (!) and just under five weeks to go. Gesine's going to land in Prague on her business trip right as the Soviet tanks roll in. What happens then will presumably be beyond the scope of the Jahrbuch. We are firmly in the territory, narratively, of attempting to land the plane, and it seems clear that the plane will land one way or another. At a certain point, the impressive thing about a very long book is that it ends at all; if well, so much the better.
But I found myself last night thinking about its extreme length, and Phoebe's question about parents and children and their right to their own stories, and the extent to which this book is obviously and obviously not autobiographical. The length and form of the book pushes that last dichotomy to the very breaking point, since the structure of first-person narration and one entry per day removes a lot of the narrative place to hide. So I have this formulation I am now kicking around:
An autofictional-ish first-person narrative is both from personal experience and of necessity fictional.
a. From personal experience: you can't write a book of 1600 pages about nothing, there must be something in it worth expressing and passing on, especially tied as so much of it is to the author's own personal experience (Germany after the war, trying and failing to live in America)
b. Of necessity fictional: not merely in formal ways (the author is male and a small character in the book, the narrator is female; the narrator is happier in NYC) but in everything else because the sheer volume of research needed to convincingly describe the past in the eyes of other characters requires knowledge that has to be sought and cannot come natively. It just has to be made up.
...and if you want a way to separate, say, Soldiers of Salamis or for that matter War and Peace from contemporary first-person light autofiction, there's your difference--the research needed to make the other voices real, to provide a world beyond subjective impressions.
There is a child in my house who would like to know when they are allowed to not be in a booster seat anymore. I informed them that the NC law, which I researched, is very clear: at 8 years and 80 pounds. They usually emphasize the "and".
Of course, as I reflected on it, it seemed clear this was wrong in some way, since not all 8 year olds are going to clear 80 pounds, or even be close. So I did additional, more detailed research, and discovered further explanatory language to this effect: "a child must be 8 years of age and weigh 80 pounds. If either condition is met, a booster seat is no longer required".
Where I come from (Michigan), the term we use to describe when only one condition need obtain is "or", not "and". But I guess they do things a little differently down here...
Stipulated: Pixar movies are not really for kids. Kids are not gonna cry at the beginning of Up. A memory of your childhood means little when you yourself are a child, so Ratatouille is out, too. Who doesn't love a good wordless 45 minutes baked in nostalgia? Etc etc.
Cars 3, the end of a hack series that shouldn't have existed in the first place, looks like it's headed in the same direction: Lightning McQueen is supposedly too old to compete anymore, so he makes a desperation move to train himself to get back to where he wants to be. His personal consequences for failure are steep. He is teamed with a young whippersnap who thinks she knows more than he does, and he has to teach her the history of the sport she's supposed to be an expert at. He gets to the big race, does better than expected, and... hands the reins over to his young woman of color protege, who wins the big race without him.
A tale of aging gracefully and accepting that newer things can sometimes be better than the older things.
AI advocates often sound like logical positivists from the early 20th century: "All we need is a list of all true statements, which we know must be finite and discoverable, and then we can rationally construct a logical language and science out of it, no problem" except that you will never generate a list of all (and only) true statements, so the claim can never be true. Wittgenstein, who was smarter than you, moved from the Tractatus to a never-finished second work for more or less this reason, and it's not coincidence the second one was never finished.
There's something dispiriting about the wide use of AI, but it's no different than what is dispiriting about people not reading, or watching reality tv, or never paying attention to politics or the world around them. I long ago accepted that people don't read like I do; I suppose it follows that people will not write like I do, either.
Everything seems inevitable until it doesn't. Thank sports for teaching me that: USC was never going to lose at college football, then they did; Alabama wasn't ever going to lose at football, then they did; Georgia, Ohio State, etc etc.
Jay McInerny, Bright Lights Big City
You approach this one with some trepidation. Somewhere in the back of your head, you have the idea that you don't like the author, possibly by association: he didn't like DFW, right? (He wrote a pretty favorable review of Infinite Jest, so that's not it.) Maybe he was too nice to DFW? He might've been part of that clique of overrated writers from Bennington, who wrote ponderous tomes of dubious quality, like American Psycho or The Secret History? (He was not.) Maybe you remember him from your parents' bookshelves, and associate him with fads of the 80s? In any event, you know his book is about a writer (strike one) in NYC (strike two) who does a lot of coke (strike three) in the 80s (strike four. What sport are we playing?). And you will refrain from saying anything about the author's weird narrative conceit, which reminds you unfavorably of novels of that period (The Mezzanine) that try too hard to be clever. You know it's going to be a big book, and a slog, but you figure you should be open to trying new things.
What you find is not a big book, but a small one. You expect bombast but it's a fairly reasonable catalogue of actual human emotions. The parts that seem overwrought--the drugs, the poor treatment of women--come to have an explanation in the twist, and the twist feels earned and, for once, as though it provides a sort of reasoning for the personal dissolution taking place in the book. The novel indulges in some misogyny but, unusually, lets the women involved have some amount of agency and dignity. You find it to be a hard book to hate, and leave yourself open to the possibility it might even be a book you love.
Hilary Leitcher, Temporary
As a reader I have begun to come around to the idea that the success of a novel depends on whether it does the thing it sets out to do. I have lately been putting whether I like said novel to the side as a relatively uninteresting question--I should probably write on this at some point. I Who Have Never Known Men was not a novel I particularly liked but largely because it seemed to need to violate its own rules to keep the plot moving along--it perhaps somewhat lacked the courage of its convictions. Temporary sticks to its guns: there's little to no explanation of the process by which one becomes a Temporary and the metaphysical turn that comes late when it becomes clear what it means to be allowed to become Permanent moves it perhaps into fairy tale or myth. It's not an unpleasant read, playing out like a longer version of a Cesar Aira conceit, though I will confess to being somewhat unclear at the end about What It All Meant; but perhaps, like a Cesar Aira story, the narrative is itself its own justification for being.
Uwe Johnson, Anniversaries
It took almost a year and 1200 pages, but I've finally begun to lose track of the minor characters. There's been a shift for the last 200 pages--no dead characters coming back to talk with the narrator--and so we're left with a teenager's recollections of what 1946 was like. The recollections, like all of ours, are a mix of things she saw and noticed at the time with the addition of things she knows to have been true, and as a result a bit of the focus is lost. The stakes are also unclear: preparing for and surviving war are comprehensible; the outcome of municipal elections do not have as clear stakes. (I think the implication of all this business is that the Soviets are attempting to get the East Germans to do what they want without explicitly instructing them, for the resonances with Prague in '68, but this has not developed yet.)
George Eliot, Middlemarch
The one-chapter-a-day-to-finish-in-three-months system has, as predicted, allowed me to get past secondhand embarrassment at Dorothea's poor decision-making, but it has alas reminded me of all the other young people also making poor decisions. But it's a good reminder that Eliot has the authorial and narrative presence that so many other narrated novels (movies, tv shows) wish they had but do not. If it weren't for the length and density of the books, Eliot would be a perfect author for the stereotypical gen z reader: she will tell you exactly what she thinks about everything.
Heinrich Böll, Collected Stories
The "literature of the rubble" is as advertised, painting what one feels to be a accurate portrait of what it must have been like to live as a former soldier of a defeated and shamed nation, and manages to do so without incurring any sympathy at all for the people who more or less knew what they were doing. The Train Was on Time does what it says on the tin, and while it has a certain thinness, it is a novella, and so effective as long as you're not expecting a novel. But the literature of the rubble gives way to just plain literature, and the success or failure of the stories depends on whether the hook is any good--metier is no help.
Thomas Mann, Buddenbrooks
Over time, you read enough novels and you can pick up the themes--so this is another multi-generational story of familial decline that is meant to throw light onto Germany's decline as a country and empire. I liked Doktor Faustus but was a bit cooler toward The Magic Mountain, so I guess we'll see.