They fell down, and the world went numb.
It’s strange when you grow up with so much going on. The Chinese have their infamously mis-translated quote about growing up in “interesting times,” and for most of my life I had been blessedly able to avoid that curse. But those ubiquitous planes, those no-longer towers made life interesting, much like the Holocaust made Europe “interesting” sixty years ago.
This was all after the fact, though. Before all the excitement, my life was the product of a political dichotomy that too often plagues the over-informed. Or, rather, those with delusions of knowledge. When I was little, I had been pegged as gifted, and although unaware such a peg would fit, I nevertheless accepted the title. It’s a nice feeling, being singled out for something good. Also, how else could I explain how emotionally disturbed I was? Insomnia and nightmares, hallucinations and daymares.
Sensitive, I believe they called it. They did tests to find answers, but I was never privy to the actual results. Odd, crying, and alone, I wondered why I wasn’t a normal kid, all the while never considering myself abnormal. Yet there I was, absorbing facts without context, formulas without theory. As most precocious youth are wont to do, I disseminated my knowledge with aplomb, startling (or amusing – you can never be quite sure with adults) those around me. More often than no, it wasn’t “How do you know that?” but “Why do you know that?” Because it was fascinating. And, because the delight of thinking you “know” is a powerful narcotic. Huge ego and low self-esteem is an odd combination, and yet it somehow found a home in me. It was unsettling and appealing.
That’s how politics struck me – not as in that’s how I perceived politics, but how I was brought into that world. In my first, great moment with politics, I was a seven-year-old trying to choose between Bush and Dukakis. Never mind the fact that I had no idea why I would take on such an endeavor: it was simply something we were doing in our second-grade class. Sure, I vaguely comprehended the importance of the President. He was the big guy, the most important man in the country. As far as I knew, he created the laws and ran the government. As far as I knew, Reagan was a great man, and Bush or Dukakis would be the next great man. The more I think about it, second-grade is probably the perfect moment to enter politics, because the decisions are arbitrary, much like how elections seem to work today.
For some reason, I took a flyer on Bush. It might have had something to do with my parents’ politics, but if so, the message must have came to me subliminally. I can’t recall my parents being excessively or overtly political during that election – or really any election throughout my childhood – so I have a feeling it was more a matter of having to make a choice and going with Bush. Far more likely than my parents influence was the fact that my best friend at the time – a boy significantly more “gifted” than myself – found his allegiance sitting with Dukakis. Well, as we were not only friends but friendly rivals, my opposition to the Governor from Massachusetts seemed inevitable.
Besides, I had read Bush’s lips and was pretty sure “no new taxes” was a good thing, even at the age of seven.
Is that how one becomes political? Is that how one sets their flag on Right or the Left? I remember my decision to root for the Yankees was directly tied to my older brother’s belief in the Mets. But are politics and sports the same thing? Can one simply flip a coin and adhere to a platform, like choosing a sports team to support. It seems ridiculous.
Four years later, though, my mind more developed (sixth grade!) and my understanding slightly improved, I was once again barking “Bush!” What’s the economy to a sixth-grader? “Recession” is a buzz-word you hear in passing and although you know it is a negative, compared to the subtle patriotism, the ingrained respect for the Presidency, there was no contest. How could it be? At that age, when questioning authority is still at odds with a conservative Catholic upbringing, wasn’t the man who stopped Saddam Hussein worth much more than a governor from a state whose chief industry is poultry farming? It was around this time that I could see a pattern emerging and my decisions, if not consciously Republican, were certainly find themselves pointing in that direction.
As I grew older and information came – and was understood – more readily, my politics definitely coalesced to the point where I didn’t think it would be possible for me to not identify as Republican. Foremost in this was probably the emergence of my father’s political opinions. As I got more interested in the process and policy, dinner-table discussions brought out a pragmatic Republican: a card-carrying NRA member who wanted little government interference in daily affairs, lower taxes, and a social welfare program based on need but doled out for merit. As a young person, despite the apparent trappings of a Long Island suburbanite, I could still realize that we were a working-class, lower middle-class family. Both my parents didn’t go to college – not for lack of opportunity or ability, but rather for the desire to begin a family.
Did that one decision radically change how I was to perceive the political situation in our country? My father was too young to worry too much about being drafted into Vietnam, so his was the first generation who almost universally lived without war-experience. A generation that was learning that high school no longer guaranteed a great job; that college was slowly making itself known as a way to reach middle class – if not upper classes – that produced results much quicker than simple hard work. It wasn’t that one couldn’t find work, or even a good job, out of high school, but the world was definitely moving progressively towards a college-based work-force, coinciding quite nicely with the export of manufacturing jobs in favor of a service-based economy.
College also exposed the sons and daughters of the World War II and Korean War veterans to an experience almost universally dedicated to a liberal education. College had long been an “out” for those against the war, and many professors were active in establishing minds that id not simply adhere to a status quo: the government was not placed on a pedestal; the First Amendment was regaining its primacy. (Please realize that I am not denigrating those who went to college instead of war – or feel I’m suggesting that all students went to college to avoid the war. This is just a common conception of the time period by those of my generation, for good or for ill).
If this meant opportunity for those exposed to that mindset, it also was an exposure to a guilt-complex so inherent in liberal policies: Why should we retain our wealth when others go without? Yes, we worked hard, but do our efforts equate to being well-off, when others are in poverty?
This is a noble sentiment, but it seems to be a natural off-shoot of a specific lifestyle. Take, for example, the other side of the coin: The working class man who feels he has done what was necessary to achieve what he has. Through labor, through the Puritan work-ethic, he has been able to carve out a slice of the American dream. Who, then, is the government to tell me I have to give my money to someone who hasn’t worked as hard? Nothing was handed to me, and now you want me to give away my efforts, to the detriment of my own family?
Is that greed? Or is that a logical rationale? Is it cold and compassionless, as it seems Conservatives are so often called?
These are excellent and valid questions. I would have to think race certainly plays its role – you get a job at the factory (or these days, office) where you old man worked, because they think his good traits run true. It probably just so happens being white led to that situation in the first place. I would also say that starting-social status also plays a role. Poor people aren’t necessarily poor because they don’t work hard; they are poor because of a confluence of factors that all add to a lack of opportunity and inability to find a way out.
But try explaining that to someone who went from working two crap jobs so that he could support his family. To him, there is a pride in his ability, as well as the idea that, Hey, if I can do it, can’t everyone? This may seem illogical, but I’m sure you can name at least one person you know like this: a self-made man or someone who lifted himself up by his bootstraps.
Does that a conservative make? While I’m not convinced it’s the only factor, I’m fairly certain it was that philosophy which aided my affiliation with the Right.
But then I went to college. And I found myself in a situation where as much as it pained me to listen to, I heard the liberalism nonetheless. The anti-Bush rhetoric. The anti-American sentiment. The anti-Imperialist project. It seriously irked me. For starters, I was at a public university. I also found it ironic to be asked to approach things like literature and history objectively when clearly what I was hearing was not. As this progressed, I found myself being that guy who questioned professors – and amazingly learned something because of it.
As I started to really get into politics (the end of high school; beginning of college), I had always found myself arguing with my friends on their decidedly liberal ideas. In that manner, I thought it was obvious that I was conservative. But when I started to grapple with my professors (who, for all their “faults” politically, were incredibly smart), I started to understand that maybe it wasn’t so much that I was conservative, but rather that I was predisposed to want to challenge concrete opinions. And that’s when I realized: politics are opinions. Again, a simple idea, but one I don’t think too many of us are consciously aware of. We see politics as a black-and-white thing, and that was bothersome. It wasn’t that my friends were arguing for liberal policies, but that they were positive that said policies were absolute.
In the end, I did receive a liberal education, but in the sense that I learned so much and in variety. With my friends, I was Conservative, but with my father, I was most certainly Liberal. Together, I was using the adherence of those around me to hone my own opinions (politics) to try to figure out which policies actually made sense. With my friends, I tried to point out that their notions about Red Staters were usually built around stereo-types – and generally false. I was amazed by how often supposedly open-minded people were so narrow in their ideas and use of generalizations. With my father (and brother), it was the opposite. I was perplexed by their adherence to policies that didn’t seem to mesh with the morals that he has always espoused. He isn’t cold or compassionless in any sense. But his politics are based on a rationality, a common-sense approach that indicates that big government doesn’t work.
Which is what I’ve always thought, myself. But I’ve learned that while on a whole it probably isn’t a good thing, large government can have positive effects, as long as kept reasonable (a requirement almost impossible to attain, I’ve noticed).
What I never thought, though, was that one should disrespect our elected leaders. Naïve, I know – and quite probably hypocritical, considering the way Republicans treated (and I might add, to a degree, rightly) Clinton – but I always had a strong aversion to the way people railed against Bush, Jr. It just seemed wrong to me that someone could actively take shots at the President of the United States. So when I recently read someone who compared Bush to Stalin, Hitler, and (ironically) Saddam, my immediate response was to scoff. But was I right?
I think, all-in-all, I was. And yet there are many similarities that are worth pointing out: a highly charismatic, almost ego-maniacally obsessed leader who ignores public opinion to run roughshod over civil liberties, both home and abroad. But he’s never engaged in an active campaign of genocide, and so, despite the similarities, I find it a little egregious to compare him (faults and all) with those three despicable people. This, in turn, makes me have to side with someone I don’t necessarily want to be associated with. As I recently pointed out to one of my friends: “Why do you make me have to defend these people?!”
I am certainly not (I’m not sure if I ever was, but I’d be willing to say “no longer”) a fan of Bush. I will say this: He sent Colin Powell to the U.N., and we all thought Saddam had weapons of mass destruction. However poorly he managed 9/11, however poorly he spoke (speaks) in public, as long as I thought he was telling the truth (and come on – it was Colin Powell!), I was willing to respect the office. It is only after-the-fact, where everything that emanated from that office was tainted, did my mind change. But the fact is: my mind changed. And it changed because the facts (literally) changed.
That’s what has been so frustrating, though (yes, the lies have been frustrating, but I’d say that’s a given). No, what has bothered me so much is that I’ve always felt I’m arguing against brick walls. Politics has become a faith for so many people, that to question their beliefs is not an intelligent discussion, but a personal affront. Just as Christians can not stand alternate theories about Jesus (or the dissemination of alternate gospels), both Liberals and Conservatives cling to their ideals with a zeal approaching dogma. You hear about a separation of church and state: well, for so many, the state is the church.
Am I a Conservative? Probably not. But I’m also certainly not a Liberal. I’m sure one could call me a moderate, but what would such a label mean? In the end, I hope that I can eschew these kinds of labels. Like most, I wish to be open-minded – although I know that most of my open-mindedness can only occur in hindsight. Shouldn’t that be the way, though? Doesn’t it make more sense to “sleep on it” or “let cooler minds prevail?” I think so. That’s why, if I had to label myself, I’d say I am a pragmatist. A realist. Because I like to explore the options, play Devil’s advocate, and then discuss solutions. To me, any other approach is the equivalent of dream-talking. I’m pretty sure that wasn’t what our system was designed to do.
I began this essay talking about the Twin Towers. I’m going to end it with them too: Go beyond Ground Zero. I’m not saying forget the day – I would never (could never) suggest that. But we have allowed a single moment in time stagnate our society. Name a single major policy that has come about that isn’t tied to 9/11 in one way or the other. Moreover, consider that all the inaction is similarly tied in. If individual people can be narrow-minded in their person politics, and that’s harmful, then what is the result of a political system that has narrow-mindedly adhered to a single notion? If you allow me the hyperbole, our political parties have been co-opted by the terrorists. I’m not sure if that will open up any minds, but I do hope it will open some eyes.
Of course, I could be wrong.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Baby, It's Cold Out There
After what’s probably been years of harping by my friend, I got around to reading John le Carré’s classic novel, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold. I can see why my friend liked it so much. This is not the James Bond spy we have grown to love. Hell, it’s not even the slightly more realistic Jason Bourne. No, le Carré’s spy is probably more akin to the real thing than anything else. How so? Because it is wrapped in the mundanities of human life. Spying is an act – you don’t really “spy on” someone. Spying is a way of life – you become a spy, you live a life that is both your own and someone else’s . . . and yet still your own.
The spy in question is Alec, whose last mission failed and now he’s in it for one last try before he’s “brought in from the cold.” A British agent, he had been in charge of the Berlin office in the 1950s, but his contacts all became compromised, tracked down and murdered by a vicious East German agent.
What this does is provide the perfect cover for Alec – assigned to a desk job back in London, he becomes despondent and irritable, until he can no longer take it. Poor and miserable, he beats up a grocery clerk and gets sent to prison. He ruins his life – on purpose – to make a clean break from the Service, and of course this draws the attention of the Communists. Sure enough, he’s contacted, and he’s soon back on the Continent, “divulging” information and leading the questioner to the point he was meant to reach: that the vicious East German officer is actually a double agent – and needs to be eliminated.
And that’s essentially it. The simplicity of it, the lack of mystery is almost tastefully boring. The crucial scenes are that of talk, of Alec playing the part of someone both disgusted with his country and himself, but desperate enough to gain his 30 pieces of silver. There is some action, some scuffling and fighting, but for the most part, that’s ancillary to the story. It’s the conversation that is the action, and le Carré does an excellent job of not only creating an organic interrogation, but maintaining a subtle menace over the whole thing. While perhaps not a page-turner, it is riveting and thrilling nonetheless.
Which is probably why my friend loves it so much. He’s the same person who found himself enjoying the detestable Phantom Menace because of the political machinations of Emperor Palpatine. Hell, that might not be the most ringing endorsement concerning my friend’s judgment (or his sanity, for that matter), but I assure you that if there was something redeemable about that movie, it was that sub-plot. And so you can trust me when I say I trust him.
However, as well as le Carré writes the “realistic” spy novel, he’s still not the greatest writer. Pacing is definitely an issue here, as is the rather flimsy love pretext (which is very important to the plot). Once Alec is engaged with the East Germans, you can appreciate the pages you read that led up to the meetings, but it comes almost half-way into the book. If le Carré is trying to show that spying is mostly boring, he does it brilliantly. And it’s not as if it’s a snore-bore (I’m not sure if “snore-bore” is clever or gay, but I’m leaving it). It’s just not what one would expect if went to the “spy novel” section of their local book store (which is probably a national chain, and which probably also doesn’t have a “spy novel” section, but you get the idea).
The joy is in the realism. Even the love story is explained in a way that, while not exactly satisfying, isn’t a complete farce. And the end is excellent. Will I read any more by le Carré? Probably not. I had read his latest book, which I reviewed a while back (The Mission Song), and I read this one, and I think I’ve had my fill. But if you have never read him, I think you would do well to put him on you “to read” list. Between him and Ian Fleming, they developed a genre that now does extremely big box-office. If there’s such a thing as a canonical spy novel, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold is definitely on that list.
The spy in question is Alec, whose last mission failed and now he’s in it for one last try before he’s “brought in from the cold.” A British agent, he had been in charge of the Berlin office in the 1950s, but his contacts all became compromised, tracked down and murdered by a vicious East German agent.
What this does is provide the perfect cover for Alec – assigned to a desk job back in London, he becomes despondent and irritable, until he can no longer take it. Poor and miserable, he beats up a grocery clerk and gets sent to prison. He ruins his life – on purpose – to make a clean break from the Service, and of course this draws the attention of the Communists. Sure enough, he’s contacted, and he’s soon back on the Continent, “divulging” information and leading the questioner to the point he was meant to reach: that the vicious East German officer is actually a double agent – and needs to be eliminated.
And that’s essentially it. The simplicity of it, the lack of mystery is almost tastefully boring. The crucial scenes are that of talk, of Alec playing the part of someone both disgusted with his country and himself, but desperate enough to gain his 30 pieces of silver. There is some action, some scuffling and fighting, but for the most part, that’s ancillary to the story. It’s the conversation that is the action, and le Carré does an excellent job of not only creating an organic interrogation, but maintaining a subtle menace over the whole thing. While perhaps not a page-turner, it is riveting and thrilling nonetheless.
Which is probably why my friend loves it so much. He’s the same person who found himself enjoying the detestable Phantom Menace because of the political machinations of Emperor Palpatine. Hell, that might not be the most ringing endorsement concerning my friend’s judgment (or his sanity, for that matter), but I assure you that if there was something redeemable about that movie, it was that sub-plot. And so you can trust me when I say I trust him.
However, as well as le Carré writes the “realistic” spy novel, he’s still not the greatest writer. Pacing is definitely an issue here, as is the rather flimsy love pretext (which is very important to the plot). Once Alec is engaged with the East Germans, you can appreciate the pages you read that led up to the meetings, but it comes almost half-way into the book. If le Carré is trying to show that spying is mostly boring, he does it brilliantly. And it’s not as if it’s a snore-bore (I’m not sure if “snore-bore” is clever or gay, but I’m leaving it). It’s just not what one would expect if went to the “spy novel” section of their local book store (which is probably a national chain, and which probably also doesn’t have a “spy novel” section, but you get the idea).
The joy is in the realism. Even the love story is explained in a way that, while not exactly satisfying, isn’t a complete farce. And the end is excellent. Will I read any more by le Carré? Probably not. I had read his latest book, which I reviewed a while back (The Mission Song), and I read this one, and I think I’ve had my fill. But if you have never read him, I think you would do well to put him on you “to read” list. Between him and Ian Fleming, they developed a genre that now does extremely big box-office. If there’s such a thing as a canonical spy novel, The Spy Who Came in from the Cold is definitely on that list.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Have You Ever Heard of These "Potter" Books?
Obviously I read this the week it came out, but I haven’t had time to actually write it up. In fact, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to write it up. Why not? Because it’s been the most hyped tome since Jesus’ boys penned a little tract called “The New Testament.”
Maybe you’ve heard of it?
Is Potter Jesus? No. Anyone who blows a character out of proportion like the throngs of pre-teens at Barnes and Noble in Union Square needs to know this: fiction = lies. That said, there is some truth to the connection that these people (and lets’ be honest folks: there were some slightly “elder” folk in the midst) have with the characters. And that’s a testament to the genius that is J.K. Rowling.
I’ve had this argument with my more literary-minded friends before, thinking that they’re just kid-books. Or, worse yet, “sci-fi/fantasy” books. Hell, when I talked to my geek/nerd friends when the first books became popular in the U.S., they thought it was the gayest thing in the world to read Harry Potter (because it was “wack; not like The Lord of the Rings – there’s a great episode of “South Park” that echoes this sentiment).
Here’s the problem with both arguments. To begin: What’s wrong with science fiction or fantasy? How much of great literature actually falls under this category? Oh, that’s right, a whole bunch. Shall we do a little list of authors?
Orwell
Bradbury
Asimov
Tolkien
Verne
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
How about perhaps more of a stretch:
William Golding
Toni Morrison
James Joyce
Cormac McCarthy (who just won the Pulitzer)
Philip Roth
Fantastical elements are part and parcel of much of these latter authors' writing, and yet they aren’t classified in a specific “genre” so as not to denigrate their attempts. But it’s there nonetheless.
Magic is magic, boys and girls.
And there’s nothing wrong with that! In the September 2007 issue of Harper’s, an essay from Ursula Le Guin (a canonical sci-fi author – and I love the idea of canonical sci-fi) makes this point abundantly clear when she writes:
“Could he [Michael Chabon] not see that Cormac McCarthy – although everything in his book (except the wonderfully blatant use of an egregiously obscure vocabulary) was remarkably similar to a great many earlier works of science fiction about men crossing the country after a holocaust [speaking of his prize-winning novel, The Road] – could never under any circumstances be said to be a sci-fi writer, because Cormac McCarthy was a serious writer and so by definition incapable of lowering himself to commit genre?”
I’m not saying she thinks that McCarthy holds that opinion, but it’s pretty clear she thinks that the people who read him believe he isn’t “science fiction.” Le Guin’s highly sarcastic essay points out quite clearly the nature of the literary community, in it’s pedestal-placement of “high literature,” as totally ignoring the fact that if you’re going to sneer at “genre,” make sure your Ivory Tower isn’t built on it in the first place!
Moreover, by immediately placing something in a category, you are immediately shutting down any sort of constructive and objective facilities you might have. Considering that the first Potter book, The Sorcerer's Stone, is essentially a mystery novel that incorporates magic shows that it doesn’t easily fit into any genre, per se. It also helps that Rowling is an incredible writer.
Is “incredible” or “genius” too grand of terms? Maybe. But consider these two things: She’s a billionaire and you can read one of her 750 page novels in a day.
I don’t think I’m stretching those words too much.
What makes her so successful? Obviously, I wish I knew the formula, because then I’d be living in a castle in Scotland, too (although, I don’t actually have a desire to live in a castle in Scotland, but if that’s where all the billionaire authors hang out, that’s where my U-Haul will be pulling up to). Instead, though, you can point to a number of things. First, ease of reading. This is fiction at its best, because it is eminently readable. The sentences are not overly complex, the dialogue is natural and flows well, the explanations are short and yet provide information to complex ideas, and the story moves quickly.
Second (and obviously tied to the first) is that it works as YA literature – which I’ve discussed a few times. By being readable and appealing to a wide age-group, she created an audience virtually unparalleled in literature. Think of it this way: Ulysses, often considered the greatest novel ever written, is read by very few people, and understood by even less. You virtually can’t read it for deep understanding without guidance. On the flip-side, an 11-year-old girl can read Harry Potter, and not only get through it without difficulty, but probably give an adult insights they hadn’t even thought of. I’m sorry, but that’s genius.
I recently was speaking with my friend, and she asked me where I thought Potter would rank alongside The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings. I honestly think they will surpass them in terms of literary stature. They have characters that are more readily identifiable. The stories don’t carry any blatant religious overtones or subtexts. And, in an age of instant access, children are growing up with these books. People about to have children are reading these books. And millions and millions of copies are circulating, as well as concurrent movies (something Lewis and Tolkien did not have the luxury of). They have the immediacy of being in the minds of a huge audience, and they have a universality that shouldn’t have any trouble enduring. I love Lewis, and I appreciate Tolkien (I like the story, but I’m not thrilled with the execution), but I think Rowling has taken their tradition and brought it to a whole new place. Because unlike Lewis, her seven books tell one story, and unlike Tolkien, she wrote a populist text.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is an excellent finale to an excellent series. I think it satisfies everything that a fan could want, despite some protestations I’ve heard to the contrary. Rowling was unafraid to make strong decisions regarding characters (some die). Better yet, she answers the questions raised by the series (especially books 5 and 6), and she ends it in a way that leaves very little possibility for there to be more in the Potterverse.
And that’s a good thing.
Imagine you have the ability to write a winning lottery ticket whenever you want. But imagine doing so would destroy something beautiful each time. That’s what Rowling has the ability to do. By ending the last book the way she does, though, she pretty much closes down any future Harry Potter novels. What this means is that there won’t be any Superman IIIs or Batman and Robins or Rocky Vs. In other words, beloved franchises were ruined because of the desire to make more money. It may be over, and that may be sad, but it means the story is complete, and in time I think that’s for the best. I’d rather read all seven and be upset that there’s no more than read an eighth book and hate it.
Like I said, she’s a genius. And I’m willing to go toe-to-toe with anyone who disagrees.
I’m sure I can find a couple of people who might back me up.
Maybe you’ve heard of it?
Is Potter Jesus? No. Anyone who blows a character out of proportion like the throngs of pre-teens at Barnes and Noble in Union Square needs to know this: fiction = lies. That said, there is some truth to the connection that these people (and lets’ be honest folks: there were some slightly “elder” folk in the midst) have with the characters. And that’s a testament to the genius that is J.K. Rowling.
I’ve had this argument with my more literary-minded friends before, thinking that they’re just kid-books. Or, worse yet, “sci-fi/fantasy” books. Hell, when I talked to my geek/nerd friends when the first books became popular in the U.S., they thought it was the gayest thing in the world to read Harry Potter (because it was “wack; not like The Lord of the Rings – there’s a great episode of “South Park” that echoes this sentiment).
Here’s the problem with both arguments. To begin: What’s wrong with science fiction or fantasy? How much of great literature actually falls under this category? Oh, that’s right, a whole bunch. Shall we do a little list of authors?
Orwell
Bradbury
Asimov
Tolkien
Verne
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
How about perhaps more of a stretch:
William Golding
Toni Morrison
James Joyce
Cormac McCarthy (who just won the Pulitzer)
Philip Roth
Fantastical elements are part and parcel of much of these latter authors' writing, and yet they aren’t classified in a specific “genre” so as not to denigrate their attempts. But it’s there nonetheless.
Magic is magic, boys and girls.
And there’s nothing wrong with that! In the September 2007 issue of Harper’s, an essay from Ursula Le Guin (a canonical sci-fi author – and I love the idea of canonical sci-fi) makes this point abundantly clear when she writes:
“Could he [Michael Chabon] not see that Cormac McCarthy – although everything in his book (except the wonderfully blatant use of an egregiously obscure vocabulary) was remarkably similar to a great many earlier works of science fiction about men crossing the country after a holocaust [speaking of his prize-winning novel, The Road] – could never under any circumstances be said to be a sci-fi writer, because Cormac McCarthy was a serious writer and so by definition incapable of lowering himself to commit genre?”
I’m not saying she thinks that McCarthy holds that opinion, but it’s pretty clear she thinks that the people who read him believe he isn’t “science fiction.” Le Guin’s highly sarcastic essay points out quite clearly the nature of the literary community, in it’s pedestal-placement of “high literature,” as totally ignoring the fact that if you’re going to sneer at “genre,” make sure your Ivory Tower isn’t built on it in the first place!
Moreover, by immediately placing something in a category, you are immediately shutting down any sort of constructive and objective facilities you might have. Considering that the first Potter book, The Sorcerer's Stone, is essentially a mystery novel that incorporates magic shows that it doesn’t easily fit into any genre, per se. It also helps that Rowling is an incredible writer.
Is “incredible” or “genius” too grand of terms? Maybe. But consider these two things: She’s a billionaire and you can read one of her 750 page novels in a day.
I don’t think I’m stretching those words too much.
What makes her so successful? Obviously, I wish I knew the formula, because then I’d be living in a castle in Scotland, too (although, I don’t actually have a desire to live in a castle in Scotland, but if that’s where all the billionaire authors hang out, that’s where my U-Haul will be pulling up to). Instead, though, you can point to a number of things. First, ease of reading. This is fiction at its best, because it is eminently readable. The sentences are not overly complex, the dialogue is natural and flows well, the explanations are short and yet provide information to complex ideas, and the story moves quickly.
Second (and obviously tied to the first) is that it works as YA literature – which I’ve discussed a few times. By being readable and appealing to a wide age-group, she created an audience virtually unparalleled in literature. Think of it this way: Ulysses, often considered the greatest novel ever written, is read by very few people, and understood by even less. You virtually can’t read it for deep understanding without guidance. On the flip-side, an 11-year-old girl can read Harry Potter, and not only get through it without difficulty, but probably give an adult insights they hadn’t even thought of. I’m sorry, but that’s genius.
I recently was speaking with my friend, and she asked me where I thought Potter would rank alongside The Chronicles of Narnia and The Lord of the Rings. I honestly think they will surpass them in terms of literary stature. They have characters that are more readily identifiable. The stories don’t carry any blatant religious overtones or subtexts. And, in an age of instant access, children are growing up with these books. People about to have children are reading these books. And millions and millions of copies are circulating, as well as concurrent movies (something Lewis and Tolkien did not have the luxury of). They have the immediacy of being in the minds of a huge audience, and they have a universality that shouldn’t have any trouble enduring. I love Lewis, and I appreciate Tolkien (I like the story, but I’m not thrilled with the execution), but I think Rowling has taken their tradition and brought it to a whole new place. Because unlike Lewis, her seven books tell one story, and unlike Tolkien, she wrote a populist text.
Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is an excellent finale to an excellent series. I think it satisfies everything that a fan could want, despite some protestations I’ve heard to the contrary. Rowling was unafraid to make strong decisions regarding characters (some die). Better yet, she answers the questions raised by the series (especially books 5 and 6), and she ends it in a way that leaves very little possibility for there to be more in the Potterverse.
And that’s a good thing.
Imagine you have the ability to write a winning lottery ticket whenever you want. But imagine doing so would destroy something beautiful each time. That’s what Rowling has the ability to do. By ending the last book the way she does, though, she pretty much closes down any future Harry Potter novels. What this means is that there won’t be any Superman IIIs or Batman and Robins or Rocky Vs. In other words, beloved franchises were ruined because of the desire to make more money. It may be over, and that may be sad, but it means the story is complete, and in time I think that’s for the best. I’d rather read all seven and be upset that there’s no more than read an eighth book and hate it.
Like I said, she’s a genius. And I’m willing to go toe-to-toe with anyone who disagrees.
I’m sure I can find a couple of people who might back me up.
Thursday, August 9, 2007
The Long and Intersting Blog of Dave
Have you ever picked up a book, read it, put it down and gone: What the hell did I just read? And, more importantly, did I like it?
Welcome to my recent book-choice, The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil. With almost no background and/or context, George Saunders (a man who knows how to throw down a title like it’s nobody’s business) throws the reader into a world in which two countries battle each other for sovereignty of Inner Horner. Here’s where it gets weird.
You see, Inner Horner is tiny – it has a population of six, and when the land settles due to geological reasons, they all of a sudden find parts of their bodies on Outer Horner land.
So Phil declares they are being invaded, and takes matters into his own hands.
Part of the problem with him taking things into his own hands is that it’s not quite clear if Phil has hands. You see, all the inhabitants of Inner and Outer Horner are weird amalgamations of machine and organic beings. For instance, Phil’s brain is some sort of rack and not too securely. When it occasionally falls out, it causes Phil to go from a logical being to a pedantic megalomaniac. He rapidly gains control of Outer Horner and is well on his way to destroying Inner Horner when things just as quickly turn on him.
The novel is short, being only 130 pages long with illustrations. But it is also a complete novel: the characters are developed, the setting is defined, the conflict is introduced, and the resolution isn’t forced. Although probably considered a novella, it is not a short story – there is a complete progression here that feels more extensive than a simple short story. For instance, there’s more than just scenes, there are distinct acts. They’re just very, very short.
And the thing is, for all its “weirdness,” it’s also completely hysterical. The President alone is worth reading, being the perfect combination of 1850s political cartoonishness, gasbag, and senility. All the characters are so ridiculously over the top, but considering they are half-robots, half-men who live in a world that seems to have a population of 20, that’s not exactly a huge surprise.
As a fun, quick read, I definitely say check it out. The ending is a bit of a disappointment (a little too easy, in my opinion), but overall, I think it’s solid. Maybe not a classic, but certainly a book you’ll be glad to read.
About 10 years ago, one of the best rappers released an excellent album, Internal Affairs. Pharoahe Monch has probably some of the best flow of any rapper, and a word-play that complements that flow to create innovative rhymes that aren’t simply guns, drugs, and ho’s. Unfortunately, his best song on that album, “Simon Says,” just so happened to sample the theme from Godzilla. And, in the best hip-hop tradition, apparently he didn’t get the permission, and so he kind of got sued . . . a lot. Enough, so, that all the success his album had was pretty much washed away.
It also made it so that he had trouble getting a record label willing to sign him, and so one of the great rap artists sat on the bench for a long time. Yes, he did some collaborations – such as “Oh No” with Mos Def and Nate Dogg, “Ya’ll Know the Name” with The Executioners, and “My Life” with Styles P.
But now he’s finally been able to get back in the drivers seat, and if album titles are any indication of what the artist is feeling, than Desire is probably pretty apt.
While it doesn’t have the break-out single that “Simon Says” was, it is an overall solid album. With excellent production and his ability to craft rhymes, he is assuredly back. Maybe he won’t ever be the commercial, Hot 97 success that Jay-Z or TI is, but for those who appreciate artistry, pick up Desire.
On a much different musical note (I’d say about an F-Sharp . . . ba dum dum – that’s like a four-hit music-pun combo), I just want to mention I also recently got Sara Bareilles’ self-titled album. She’s kind of hard to classify, musically, with a kind of Fiona Apple/Sara McLachlan feel, but I think it’s good that she doesn’t fit into a particular mold. I won’t say the whole album is fantastic – the songs are good, but they’re not all incredibly innovative. They are folk-rocksy and indy-rocksy (I’m digging this “rocksy” word), but not exactly exciting.
Except for a few stand-outs. Foremost is the first song on the album, “Love Song.” With such a creative title, you might be ready to dismiss it, but the music is fantastic, and the lyrics show the beautiful, beautiful irony in naming it “Love Song.” It’s quickly making its way into the I-listen-to-this-song-too-much-I’m-going-to-hate-it territory.
On a map, it’s right next to Wyoming.
In addition to “Love Song,” “Bottle It Up” and “Love on the Rocks” (might be a theme here . . .) have definite single potential. But it’s clear that “Love Song” is not just Bareilles’ best song, but I’m going to say one of the best songs this year.
Go ahead – disagree with that in an objective manner.
Welcome to my recent book-choice, The Brief and Frightening Reign of Phil. With almost no background and/or context, George Saunders (a man who knows how to throw down a title like it’s nobody’s business) throws the reader into a world in which two countries battle each other for sovereignty of Inner Horner. Here’s where it gets weird.
You see, Inner Horner is tiny – it has a population of six, and when the land settles due to geological reasons, they all of a sudden find parts of their bodies on Outer Horner land.
So Phil declares they are being invaded, and takes matters into his own hands.
Part of the problem with him taking things into his own hands is that it’s not quite clear if Phil has hands. You see, all the inhabitants of Inner and Outer Horner are weird amalgamations of machine and organic beings. For instance, Phil’s brain is some sort of rack and not too securely. When it occasionally falls out, it causes Phil to go from a logical being to a pedantic megalomaniac. He rapidly gains control of Outer Horner and is well on his way to destroying Inner Horner when things just as quickly turn on him.
The novel is short, being only 130 pages long with illustrations. But it is also a complete novel: the characters are developed, the setting is defined, the conflict is introduced, and the resolution isn’t forced. Although probably considered a novella, it is not a short story – there is a complete progression here that feels more extensive than a simple short story. For instance, there’s more than just scenes, there are distinct acts. They’re just very, very short.
And the thing is, for all its “weirdness,” it’s also completely hysterical. The President alone is worth reading, being the perfect combination of 1850s political cartoonishness, gasbag, and senility. All the characters are so ridiculously over the top, but considering they are half-robots, half-men who live in a world that seems to have a population of 20, that’s not exactly a huge surprise.
As a fun, quick read, I definitely say check it out. The ending is a bit of a disappointment (a little too easy, in my opinion), but overall, I think it’s solid. Maybe not a classic, but certainly a book you’ll be glad to read.
About 10 years ago, one of the best rappers released an excellent album, Internal Affairs. Pharoahe Monch has probably some of the best flow of any rapper, and a word-play that complements that flow to create innovative rhymes that aren’t simply guns, drugs, and ho’s. Unfortunately, his best song on that album, “Simon Says,” just so happened to sample the theme from Godzilla. And, in the best hip-hop tradition, apparently he didn’t get the permission, and so he kind of got sued . . . a lot. Enough, so, that all the success his album had was pretty much washed away.
It also made it so that he had trouble getting a record label willing to sign him, and so one of the great rap artists sat on the bench for a long time. Yes, he did some collaborations – such as “Oh No” with Mos Def and Nate Dogg, “Ya’ll Know the Name” with The Executioners, and “My Life” with Styles P.
But now he’s finally been able to get back in the drivers seat, and if album titles are any indication of what the artist is feeling, than Desire is probably pretty apt.
While it doesn’t have the break-out single that “Simon Says” was, it is an overall solid album. With excellent production and his ability to craft rhymes, he is assuredly back. Maybe he won’t ever be the commercial, Hot 97 success that Jay-Z or TI is, but for those who appreciate artistry, pick up Desire.
On a much different musical note (I’d say about an F-Sharp . . . ba dum dum – that’s like a four-hit music-pun combo), I just want to mention I also recently got Sara Bareilles’ self-titled album. She’s kind of hard to classify, musically, with a kind of Fiona Apple/Sara McLachlan feel, but I think it’s good that she doesn’t fit into a particular mold. I won’t say the whole album is fantastic – the songs are good, but they’re not all incredibly innovative. They are folk-rocksy and indy-rocksy (I’m digging this “rocksy” word), but not exactly exciting.
Except for a few stand-outs. Foremost is the first song on the album, “Love Song.” With such a creative title, you might be ready to dismiss it, but the music is fantastic, and the lyrics show the beautiful, beautiful irony in naming it “Love Song.” It’s quickly making its way into the I-listen-to-this-song-too-much-I’m-going-to-hate-it territory.
On a map, it’s right next to Wyoming.
In addition to “Love Song,” “Bottle It Up” and “Love on the Rocks” (might be a theme here . . .) have definite single potential. But it’s clear that “Love Song” is not just Bareilles’ best song, but I’m going to say one of the best songs this year.
Go ahead – disagree with that in an objective manner.
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