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"Why do I write? It's not that I want people to think I am smart, or even that I am a good writer. I write because I want to end my loneliness."--Jonathan Safran Foer The New York Times Magazine, 2-7-05.
Our Australian correspondent says: "You'd think people who didn't have to work a couple of shit jobs would have a little less torture about what they do."
Goodonya, mate.
So sorry to leave you all without my crazy prose stylings during this week of gonzo mourning, but I've been deep inside the book I'm working on, and there have been other deadlines, and plus I really haven't had anything to say. I sure miss all those letters from Led Zeppelin fans.
I'm no Bookslut, who appears to be reading a book a day, but after all, that's her job. Still, I have completed book number 9 for the year. It was actually a book that a publisher sent me to blurb: Belly, by Lisa Selin Davis, a gritty and darkly comic novel about a guy getting out of prison who comes home to find that the seedy world he once inhabited has been gentrified beyond his recognition. This is Davis' first book, and I admire how un-autobiographical it is; the themes, if not the prose, reminded me a lot of William Kennedy. Definitely recommended.
Also recommended is this work by a painter to whom I am not related at all. This is a purely unbiased endorsement of one of America's most talented artists. Now I must go prepare for this weekend's 35th birthday party. It will be cold and rainy, and the party is outdoors, but we are currently devising creative ways for people to keep warm.
"It is all well and good for children and acid freaks to still believe in Santa Claus -- but it is still a profoundly morbid day for us working professionals. It is unsettling to know that one out of every twenty people you meet on Xmas will be dead this time next year....Some people can accept this, and some can't. That is why God made whiskey, and also why Wild Turkey comes in $300 shaped canisters during most of the Christmas season."
The man could write.
If you get your news from this site, then you're really in trouble. I wisely gave up running a current-events blog right when current-events blogs became popular and profitable. Nothing like cashing out before the boom. Regardless, I'd like to call your attention to the fact that President Bush has just nominated John Negroponte for the new position of Director Of National Intelligence. If you don't know who John Negroponte is, study this page. Expect people to start "disappearing" soon and expect innovations in Third-World dentistry. Government-sponsored torture, death squads. Put your hands in your ears. Nyah nyah nyah!
The Green Day/Led Zeppelin debate continues on my letters page.
My radio show, experiment alpha (an alaskan show good enough that the BBC played a few episodes), usually started with a 10-15 minute pre-show show on a "station named KZEP" which boasted 25 hours a day of the Zep classics you crave - all Zep, all the time. We had to eventually stop doing that since giving out false call letters is an FCC violation, albeit one we committed weekly for 2 years.
It made the 25 hours a day claim because of the Dreaded Zeb Doublecast where we played two zep albums at once - do you think you can handle it? We awarded prizes to a random listener we called who could name both songs currently playing, and had one of our friends blow the guess and say he was going to shoot himself and then hang up.
Our public service contribution was to recite the lyrics from truly brain-dead crap like "The Song Remains the Same" as coffeehouse poetry and then marvel at its nuances. Most of our audience loved it as a hilarious send up (our DJ nicks for that showlet were Bob Page and Jim Plant). Some Zep fans were furious and howled for our blood, or more appropriately, cancellation. However, a majority of Zep fans that called us took the show quite seriously, saw nothing amiss about it, and were only startled when our real show suddenly preempted it (usually after some situation-comedyesque misfrortune had befallen the two Zep DJs). Even then, they didn't grasp that the Zep station didn't exist or that it was satire.
I think that's indicative of something.
By the way, while Zep certainly have a few quite good songs, the idea that "being important to guitarists" is the only way to evaluate music really sickens me. By that standard, why aren't Zeperationists out demanding that Blind Lemon Jefferson and Elizabeth Cotton and Leadbelly and BB King get all the Rock Grammies? It's also the kind of thinking that leads to idolization of, at best, Stevie Ray Vaughan and Eric Clapton, and at worst, Joe Satriani or Yngwie Malmstein. Can you play guitar like them? Neither can I. Therefore, QED they must be the best musicians living.
The truth is, music is a spiritual child. At its best, within a band. At least, between a performer and her or his audience. Masturbating with your guitar IS craftsmanship, but it doesn't even deserve pop success, let alone cult status. In fact a nerd locked in his bedroom with his beloved computer is much closer to interesting-dude-whose-opinion-I-would-care-about-re-music status than a pretentious moron jerking his Stratocast off, even if the latter has groupies and heroin lying around as props.
Zep rarely if ever communicated anything worth communicating except a love of rockified blues. Green Day, on the other hand, got mind expanding ideas across to moshing rugrats. History will vindicate us, the discerning.
I'll be appearing on March 13 at 3 PM on the "Interactive Day Stage" in the convention center during South By Southwest. The title of the program is The Bad Sex With Neal Pollack Show. More details as they emerge, but the organizer assures me that Malcolm Gladwell will be signing books directly opposite me during my reading, so there will definitely be people in the audience. Hey. I'm not ashamed to take a best-seller's sloppy seconds, especially when that best-seller has such amazing hair.
Meanwhile, I've completed book number 8, finally, in my 50 Book Challenge. I've been bogged down with work and also watching Season One of Deadwood on DVD, so my reading time has been limited. But the book is Air, by Geoff Ryman, a gay British science-fiction writer, though the book has no gay themes and doesn't take place in England. The premise is this: Mae Chung, a peasant woman from a made-up country that is half-China and half-East Asian Soviet-era breakaway republic, goes mad during a worldwide test of Air, a new technology that can be best be described as an Internet of the mind plus a time machine, but rather than let that madness stop her, she instead starts a global fashion-design business. OK. So maybe there are some gay themes. The premise is compelling and the details of the technology are elegantly laid out. Plus Ryman does a remarkably good job at describing Third-World village life and discussing the geopolitical politics of technology. There are a couple of disastrous missteps in the plot and several sags of 15 pages or so. But the conclusion is satisfying and hopeful, and beautifully rendered. I'm undecided about the talking dog. An interview with Ryman provides excellent background if you're interested.
Getting published on Salon is like moving to a new town with a new identity. There are so many readers, and of such a variety, that none of the usual pre-conceived notions apply. Unfortunately, this time the town was filled with rabid Led Zeppelin fans.
A reader, "Doug," sums it all up wisely and kindly:
Neal: As soon as I read "...Led Zeppelin gets a lifetime achievement award. In a case of reverse irony, Green Day wins best rock album immediately after. They're a band far better than Zeppelin..." I knew you were in for it. In point of fact, I was sorely tempted to send you email and say, "Hope you donned your asbestos suit, pal; the flames, they is a'comin'." And in reading the letters page of Salon today, I see that, yup, I was right.
Here's the thing: in your own defense, you write: "Why should I apologize for liking what's actually popular at the moment?" And you're right; you shouldn't. Hell, I've personally got Bowling For Soup's "1985" on heavy rotation on my iPod; I don't give a rip that my 6 and 9 year olds also love it (which some would point out is highly indicative of my level of musical sophistication). But you didn't write, "I like Green Day a hell of a lot more than Led Zeppelin these days," or even "Green Day means more to me than Zeppelin does." Nope, you made a flat value judgement: Green Day > Led Zeppelin.
And that's the rub. I think you would be hard-pressed to find many people who would agree that Green Day has produced the same volume, quantity, and variety of material that Zeppelin did. But even more, Zeppelin influenced countless musicians and fans, whereas Green Day, no matter what their qualities, is pretty much lost in the wash of modern music. Led Zeppelin was a giant; Green Day, a talented bunch, is a popular band with a loyal following that makes damn fine records. To compare them is to invite, ahem, vehement reaction. (As an aside, while I acknowledge the influence of Velvet Underground, I plain can't stand 'em.)
Just my opinions. Hang in there.
Thanks to Doug. Here was my response to him:
That's what happens when you write a thing quickly on deadline. The rest of the piece was good, except for my horrible stoner's judgment on Across The Universe, right? Didn't anyone enjoy my takedown of the Freebird medley or my J. Lo jokes?
Ah, well. Who the fuck cares? If I could have clarified, I would have. Instead, I ignited a shitstorm It's just music, maybe I was wrong, and the last couple of days have been hilarious.
And now, I pray, this ends.
Hi Neal,
Thanks for the recent posts on your blog and the great Grammy piece in
Salon.
Someone needs to do a long essay questioning where American literature
is going and I think that you are the one to do it.
Tom Wolfe in 1989 in Harper's published something called "In Search of
the Billion-Footed Beast" (that might not be an accurate title) that
suggested that young writers need to move away from what they learned at the Iowa writers' workshop or at Stanford and return to a naturalism, using Zola as a model.
You raised a good question a few days ago: Where is American lit going, post 9/11? You are right in that Irony and McSweeney's are not the only answers.
I haven't looked a the Wolfe essay in a long time and I don't think that it is available on the web unless Harper's has it, but you are the one to write an update to it. We deserve more than Alexander Payne showing us Bill Murray mugging for the camera or Dave Eggers.
Please think about it.
Thanks,
Les
Dear Neal,
I just finished reading your book, "Never Mind the Pollacks". I know
it's been around for awhile, and you've probably had your back patted
a number of times, but I thought I'd send you my praise and
congratulations anyway. Not only am I not at a the forefront of the
latest/greatest in contemporary literature, I am barely able to call
myself an informed reader. I just tried to read "Everything Is
Illuminated" a few weeks ago and couldn't make it through the first 50
pages. I'm about as far from the literary elite as one could get.
That being said, I think your book was one of the most satisfying,
entertaining and fun reading experiences I've had in a long time.
Reading it really felt like sitting on the floor with a glass of
whiskey, listening to the best records of the last 50 years while
imagining what strange and bizarre environments and personalities
could have produced such sounds. I guess that's kind of obvious, but
I just want you to know how much I appreciated the experience.
I am going to read your other books now, and I will probably read your
next books, whenever they might appear. I think you're a great writer
and I'm glad I discovered "Never Mind the Pollacks", even if it was
after all the hip kids.
Thanks a lot - and good luck.
Sincerely,
Alex C. Blagg
ps. Having grown up there, I laughed out loud when Neal proclaimed
Memphis to be "the greatest city in the world".
One AM on a Monday night, and the caffiene is finally wearing off. I'm on the brink of shutting down the computer. Then I get an email from someone I've never met named Bob, calling me an "adolescent contrarian" and bashing me for daring to say, over at Salon, that Green Day is a more relevant band right now than Led Zeppelin. Also, he cc'ed all his friends on the email, urging them to drive me into the ground with a series of withering responses. Let's tune in:
"yeessh. green day, what sex? a band so "tight" they've got ZERO
seduction, featuring the most bland, formulaic vocalist since bon jovi
-- green day worked hard and led zeppelin didn't? right. they're
churning out derivative pop trash. meanwhile let's piss on a group that defined decades of rock. pollack makes such awkward comparisons, across vast oceans of style, one wonders if he ever listened to SST in the early to mid 80s. now that was the punk that green day is not."
Yeah, like we've never heard THAT argument before, Bob. When you were young, it was punk, and it meant something. Here's what I wrote back, though I didn't actually write back in bold.
Bob:
So I make a snap judgment on deadline. So I've never liked Led Zeppelin, or at least not since I was 12 years old, which was the last time I found solace in pretentious mytho-poetic nonsense. And so I admire a band like Green Day, whose music isn't exactly original-sounding and whose lyrics aren't Leonard Cohen, or even Henry Rollins. So what?
Green Day found their initial success through the classic punk-rock DYI model, playing fun songs for relatively comfortable kids. It's not their fault they were born into a post-shock, post-rebellion world, or that they found a formula for commercial success. "American Idiot" may not be deep like, say, "Misty Mountain Hop," but what's so wrong with making an anti-establishment statement that's also palatable to the mainstream? Is it only acceptable for a small number of head-bobbing followers to criticize authority? That model didn't exactly change the world, either.
Popular music is good right now. It is exciting. I stand by my judgment.
Thanks for the passionate response. Please don't encourage your friends to blast email me anymore.
Best,
Neal Pollack
I don't know what the fuck I'm talking about most of the time. Now I really am going to bed.
Read your Grammy article at Salon.com. Nice article, but did you really say Green Day is a far better band than Led Zeppelin? Misprint maybe? Of course you never heard of Dickie Betts either...
Nick
Neal--
Good for you for defending the McSweeney's crew. It's funny that Ada Calhoun rips apart McSwy solipsism when it's her own that is so suspect: by confusing the legacy of McSwy with her own lame NY smartsex-in-the-city love life. What I wish she had written was this....the thing for so many of us who loved McSweeney's that is so sour now is that Eggers and Crew have produced one thing--and that's A Heartbreaking Work--of any sort of actual literary merit (I love the NP Anthology, but that is a work of comedy; great comedy). For so many of us who went to the readings and the bars and did the whole thing....what feels so empty now is that those writers have produced NOTHING of lasting merit...and God, how foolish I feel that I was going nuts for McSwys when a real writer like Philip Roth was publishing American Pastoral or Ford was writing Independence Day...looking back at the journals and the writing, I realize the problem was that McSweeney's was just a really great humor magazine that became artistic, and those stories are such a waste, not a page as rich as some of the great writing that came out at the time...I think that's the reason for Calhoun's anger...not that some hipster didn't go down on her, but rather, with artists, it's nice to feel like you've invested your time and are at least by association part of something that matters, something that people will care about, and the legacy of McSweeneys is sadly not that, and a lot of us just feel gypped....which is why I applaud your new direction....
Joey
Hey Neal,
If you have given up being a "one-trick retardo pony" or the mantle of
America's greatest living writer, to pursue the real hard road of
being a real writer, well Fuck yeah man.
Not sure--if you remember me-- I did the video for I wipe my ass upon
your novel for book tv in Canada. Now I'm out on the streets as a
freelance videographer dude--and trying work on being a real writer
myself.
I just want to say keep on rocking cause your still an inspiration.
sincerely,
Ian Daffern
I think that whole essay may have been written around
that clever ending. I enjoyed reading it in a "look at that silly
girl" way, but it didn't make me respect the author. Especially that
whole "recently I was asked to write a sestina..." part.
Your commentary is great.
Lindsay
Saw your review on the Grammys at Salon.com. Good review except for two minor quibbles: The "Southern Rockers" DID include the verse about Neil Young in the song. I was surprised they included it, along with the George Wallace verse. I guess they had to give a shout out to the red states. I know you didn't TIVO the Grammys but go to the streamed version to double check.
Also you eluded to it but, I wish you would have mentioned how much Green Day rocked the house during American Idiot. My 12 year old daughter who is into Usher was on the edge of her seat during that performance and my 9 year old son, who is just getting into rock took my GD American Idiot CD up to his room at bed time.
Also since I'm writing I might as well mention that I really enjoyed "Never Mind the Pollacks" I sent copies to about 6 of my friends and we had a long distance, on-line "book club discussion" about the book. I know you're moving on past that persona, but it was a brilliant book nonetheless. One unresolved issue from our book club: Is Paul St. Pierre a stand in for Griel Marcus or his he a composite character, of which GM would be a major component?
Thanks
Dean E. Carlson
DEAN:
St. Pierre is a composite of several "academic"-type rock critics.
NP
My comments about Ada Calhoun's Nerve.com piece on The Men Of McSweeneys will be brief. I'm not going to address her aesthetic concerns with the magazine or its associated writers, some of which I share, though I'm tired of defending myself at having been part of something that was fun and exciting for me at the time. Still, it's rare that one's intellectual disapproval of something comes out as a full-frontal assault on group sexual potency. And that's where Ada Calhoun takes a turn for the cuckoo.
I don't like any of Wes Anderson's films and wouldn't know a Will Oldham song from a Todd Oldham garbage can at Target. The phrase: "Only when you play their game in exactly the right way will you earn love, or whatever passes for love in that sphere" definitely doesn't apply to me. During those years that Calhoun writes about, I would have returned the love of any woman who asked me, which my own Nerve.com column confirms. But this wasn't a personal attack on me, every woman's best pal. I took it more as an attack on my friends.
It's hard to deny that the twee, detached men Calhoun describes in the piece existed. They certainly did, and such men still exist today. They're called Men In Their 20s. The Men Of McSweeneys that I knew had nothing in common with the men she described, other than their relative ages and the shameful fact that they'd gone to college. No, they weren't linebackers, but most people aren't. I'm sure that Ms. Calhoun's new husband is a brute who came from the impoverished working class and has never read a book in his life. That's exactly the kind of man I imagine for her.
Here's the money point: The men who I knew the best at the time, including myself, all ended up married (or soon to be married) to strong, independent women who don't display any of the neuroses that make their sad parade across Calhoun's article. Every one of those guys treat women with respect and honor. They were never a whit like the gang of roving ironic cads that Calhoun describes. They grew up long before she did, and I'm proud to know them.
So I just finished my first "chat" for my Salon humor-writing course, which you all could have joined for only $395.00. But why buy the cow when, right?
Anyway, if this were two years ago this time, I'd be writing something "funny" about the Jeff Gannon controversy. Instead, I'm going to the next level and creating a new generation of satirical masters. I'll give nothing away about the content of the course, except to say that at one point tonight, I decided to try an "exercise" in which we'd all do a "satire" of a chat room, which was a briliant idea previously unthought of in the history of scholarship. Immediately, one guy started pretending to be the Pope, and the rest of us descended into sex talk within seconds. Such are the dangers of chat rooms. Fortunately, one of the students, an attorney in his 60s who has limited time left to engage in such tomfoolery, pulled us out of our reverie with a pointed question.
And then we proceeded.
Now I return to working on my memoir. I am currently trying to figure out a way to write about my "McSweeneys Years" without making myself sound too self-absorbed or special. As always, my fallback position will probably be drugs and vomit, which are, after all, the common denominators of my life.
Actually, when I said I'll return to working on my memoir, I meant that I will now drink a Scotch, eat a box of Junior Mints, and watch my rental DVD of the thrilling movie Cellular. Oh, excuse me for not renting I Heart Huckabees, you artfuck! Go watch Garden State for the 75th time and tell me about how it's a movie made just for you!
I really do need that drink.
Regarding "So I was wrong:"
Yeah, so I had the same feeling. What if that asshole was right? What if it all worked out and his whole grand plan ended Islamic terrorism as we know?
Yeah, I opposed the war from the beginning, and I felt I was right. I questioned myself after the fall of Bahgdad. I questioned myself after Saddam was captured.
But after the Elections, I had that sinking feeling again. What if these lying pieces of shit were right all along? I decided to wait. I am still waiting for the real truth to the outcome of the Elections.
But this time is different. I still hate this war, and I disagree with everything that led up to it, but I still feel like in order for me to feel good, America has to lose. For the first time, I feel like I understand that classic right wing criticism that the "left" (or me) is rooting against America. Before, I didn't feel that. But those dark thoughts entered my head before the elections where I thought, "this is going to be a fucking disaster." I feel bad about that. I feel like a squishy, dumb, mealy-mouthed liberal about that. I feel like I've been placed where I have to literally root against America in order to feel good. And that confirms every single right wing criticism since 9/11. Hell, that confirms Ann Coulter. I don't hate America. I hate this war, and I hate my President. But, politically, that doesn't seem to matter.
I have this feeling that we'll learn within the next few weeks that the elections weren't so "peachy keen." We'll learn that things actually aren't that great and that Iraq is still a hellhole.
But, I can't feel better about that. But, I know it's not about me, but still, I feel defeated.
Jeff
In his new book, Foer wrote,
"Another good thing is that I could train my anus to talk when I farted."
And apparently he did teach himself this. Thus, I don't need to tell you anything about the sloppy prose disguised as the thoughts of a nine year old genius and the fact that Foer has never actually spoken to a nine year old, genius or otherwise, in his entire life. The new book is just rich boy wank disguised at literacy, which is a problem all in itself, and not isolated to Foer. Anyhow, buy the book and feel Foer jerk himself off all over you. Some people will like that, I guess.
ben peek
Just couldn't help myself. Read the excerpt from the novel and granted I have not read the book. But please somebody stop this. Cute and prattling, like his last overly praised book.
Glad to see Foer went right for the comic jugular with the talking
anus/fart/French jokes. Slays 'em every time. And then the coup de grace-- the old kick in the balls ('privates' in the boy genius lexicon) bit.Rib splitting stuff.
This will be hailed as a comic masterpiece, startling, original, inventive,tour de force and all that good stuff. And it will sell. Crumbling the ramparts of literature so that we may have a bonafide wunderkind spillingwords in our midst.
Elwood Reid
For you few, you happy few, I have little to offer. Many things have come up, work-wise, this week, and I'm at least three or four days away from finishing my next volume in the 50 Book Challenge. So instead I direct you here for some New-Jack book criticism. The editors of The Morning News hired interesting, smart people to judge this strange Tournament Of Books. To borrow from Cronenberg a little: "All Hail The New Snark"! Take out the long knives, book critics. Let's be cruel occasionally.
And check out Sarah Weinman on the Edgar Awards. Scroll down past the top couple of posts. One gets the feeling that English-language literature is about to take a seismic shift toward the interesting. Genre is happening, and I don't mean as the experimental playground of "literary" types. That period is about to come to an end. Based on the reading list I've compiled for this year, and just on books that people are recommending to me, the future is noir and science fiction. Or maybe I'm just a nerd. Or both.
Also, um, Jane Friedman? Where was my Publishing Plus?
Well, I guess I did have stuff to talk about after all. Now I need to develop a signature sign-off as part of my new, fully authentic Self-Branding process. How about Bon Appetit, Mis Amigos! That's a start.
Bon Appetit, Mis Amigos!
NP
Hi NP -
After slogging though that excerpt from the Foer, all I could think of was the lab tech it must have taken to implant a Glass Family sperm (freezer burned, too) into this kid's Mom. Fucking intolerable little prick, and even more offensive if he's narrating a 9/11 story. JFC!
I must now be thankful for missing Everything Is Illuminated. What troubles me is that there is such an audience for this archness. It's worse than the Reagan-era hotshots - he's not doing drugs, he's sucking blood (if that tambourine doesn't come from a vein of Gunter Grass, then I'm an idiot).
Thanks for the book project you're running on the blog. It's a fine corrective.
I also hope you get generous enrollment for the Satire class - I'd love to do myself, but even with the discount I can get from Salon, it's too expensive. Maybe next year.
Rock on -
Greg
So I finished Book Number 7. It's a lurid pulp novel in the Hard Case Crime series. The title is The Confession and the author is Domenic Stansberry. There's some nice atmosphere about Marin County and some effectively creepy sex writing and a twist ending handled with reasonable skill and grace. But as is often the problem in noir, particulary modern noir, the subsidiary characters have no real personality. Often, I find a character appearing in a key scene at a key moment, and I can't remember who they are or where they entered the story. That's a sign of a troubled book, not a bad attention span.
Nevertheless, this small book has its merits, and I'm still very excited about the slow movement back toward grit in literature. I don't want fancy writing or coy narrative tricks. I want a good story, well-told, but with that extra something that distinguishes literature from certain kinds of bestselling dross. That's once of those things that makes literature endlessly interesting to me. It's almost impossible to pinpoint what makes it good. I can't think of another art form that has so many intangibles tied up in its creation.
Of course, I could just be blathering because literature is the only real art I know how to practice. But if I could just figure out the perfect formula....
That's what most writers want. And that's what so few writers ever achieve. How certain writers arrive at perfection, or near-perfection, can never be quantified.
Anyway, The Confession by Domenic Stansberry. Not perfection. Though would you really expect perfection from a book with a cover painting that depicts a woman being strangled to death with a necktie? Probably not.
I just received a letter from "Josh," a reader, who offers a different perspective on the new Jonathan Safran book I discuss in the post below. I print his letter here, to show that I am fair. This is an interesting discussion, and I'm guessing I've struck a bit of a nerdy literary nerve and will receive some letters. But from here on, it will be relegated to the letters page. Let me set the terms, and you may talk among yourselves, including a discussion of the ironic fact that I'm backhandedly contributing to the unstoppable Safran Foer publicity machine here:
What is the appropriate literary response to 9-11? Or to life during the "War On Terror"? Are these magical-realist times or gritty noir times, or both, or neither? Inquiring minds want to know. Now Josh says,
"I attended one of the New Yorker Festival literary readings here in the Mother City last fall. It was a double-header: Foer and Martin Amis back-to-back on the same stage. Fifteen bucks. And can't you just guess whose name was printed in 38-point font on the Ticketmaster tix, vs 9 or 11 points for his considerably more accomplished and astute and uproarious and accented elder? Hm. The publishing industry, in its Foer - LeRoy - et alia love for boy phenoms, increasingly resembles the music biz. Well, I thought, Amis has been reading to audiences longer than this kid's known English and is going to rip him a new one.
I was wrong. Foer read what sounded like Ch 1 to his new novel, and he had us utterly seduced and did all the good stagey shit with his voice, and Amis was up there droning and soporific. That's honestly how it was. I know the stage tricks are different from the print tricks, but young Jonathon Safran at least had the former mastered and made you want to go read more and more, where Amis left you wanting to reread Money just to make sure it was really quite so nice as you recalled.
I dug the boy-genius character, at least as the young buck realized him live on stage. And as to the diciness of tackling 9/11 so supposedly close to the Event, which your previous commentator deplored, I'm a little shocked. NOBODY can handle it? Maybe not, but the implication that nobody should try -- to write the tough stuff, man, can't honestly be what you, Neal, believe; even if you're sure most of the lugubrious pricks will fail horribly. Right?"
I sensed movement beneath the earth a month ago, when a reporter from Elle emailed me to ask for a comment about Jonathan Safran Foer. She was writing a profile of him. But she caught me at the beginning of my relatively non-confrontational anti-cat-fight period, so I declined.
Now Houghton Mifflin has posted this excerpt of Safran Foer's forthcoming novel, Extremely Loud And Incredibly Close.
Lest I find myself accused of professional jealousy and bad faith, I'm going to withhold all public judgment of this book, that I haven't yet read, about a nine-year-old boy genius searching through the five boroughs of New York to find the lock that fits a mysterious key belonging to his father, who died in the attacks on the World Trade Center. I will let you, my readers, provide comments instead, either about the excerpt linked above, or, even better, on the actual book when it's published.
One reader has already chimed in:
"Alas, it's as bad as it reads. I'd known about the premise of that book for a long time. This gave me confidence that it would be a disaster, but he's fulfilled even my wildest dreams. That said, I
was fully prepared to eat crow if it was any good. Luckily, I don't have to.
A 9-11 premise? Come on. NOBODY can handle that yet. Think about "A Farewell to Arms" and "All Quiet on the Western Front," the two best novels about WWI. Hemingway and Remarque worked until 1929 -- ten years after the war -- to process those events and get the books right. And that was in an age when people actually read books.
I'd love to have Foer's money and fame, but he simply cannot write. He's chattering on paper."
Again, though. That's just one man's opinion, not mine. And that man could be jealous, bitter, or wrong. Other opinions are always welcome here.
just wanted to mention some recently enjoyed favorite cheeses:
domestic -
Red Hawk by Cowgirl Creamery in CA
Crater Lake Blue from Central Point, Oregon.
Humboldt Fog from Cypress Grove
Hooligan from Cato Corners
Evangeline from Bittersweet Plantation in Louisiana
Vermont Shepard
and from Switzerland:
Rolf Beeler cheeses, Hoch Ybrig and Appenzeller especially
Best,
Elissa
There's a lot of nyah-nyah-I-told-you-so going around. But anyone who opposed the war should still hold their heads up. Only the most deluded and reactionary among us said that the Iraqis couldn't build a democracy or didn't want one. We have to remember that we criticized the dishonest way we went to war and the incompetent and often brutal way we went about the occupation, not the concept of democracy itself. We were right to distrust the government's motives in Iraq. We should continue to distrust them.
The fact that so many people distrusted our government and held its feet to the fire actually helped speed up what happened on Sunday. We should all take pride. This is not just a victory for the Bush Administration, particularly since the elections, as conducted, were the idea of Grand Ayatollah Sistani. We kept the pressure on the prevailing powers, therefore sort of functioning as a free society should, and it led to good results.
Here endeth the lesson. Tomorrow, back to writing about books and cheese.
