How to Irritate and Confuse People: A Case Study
I don’t know what it is about the internet that causes people to forget what it means to be a human being. Look at the speed at which comments threads degenerate into hateful, vitriolic invective–people spew things out via their fingertips that they wouldn’t say out loud to someone who was mugging or divorcing them. But it’s a two-way street, and to me, what’s perhaps more interesting than moments when somebody forgets that s/he is talking to a REAL PERSON, are moments when the writer seems to forget that s/he him/herself is a REAL PERSON. I’m not asking for Victorian etiquette here. I’m just saying that when you pop into a stranger’s inbox, unannounced, in a message with no subject-line, from a personal email address with a joke-name (“redhotstudonearth”–seriously) asking that stranger to give you things without explaining who you are, what exactly you’re asking for, what you hope to do with it, or why you deserve it… I mean what do you expect is going to happen?
After the jump, the transcript of an utterly surreal email exchange I had yesterday, with annotations.
WAYYYBACK MACHINE: Updike & Cheever on the Dick Cavett show
I found this earlier today. Who even knew that Cavett had an NYT blog? Anyway, he somehow got the Times to post a full episode of his show from October 1981, with Cheever and Updike as his guests. I’m not a huge fan of either man–dig Cheever, as far as it goes; basically have never read Updike–but there was something really fascinating about this, and I wound up watching the whole 28-minute clip. Cheever’s voice is amazing. They really don’t make ’em like him anymore. In the post itself, Cavett writes-
True, but that notwithstanding–or perhaps because of it–Cheever is the one to watch for. I love the part where he talks about church, and Cavett tries unsuccessfully to get him to recite the Apostles Creed.
Updike is mostly quiet, and I think very conscious of his role as the young up-and-coming writer. (How could he not be? Cheever points out “I’m old enough to be John’s father.”) He sits back trying to look comfortable for a few long stretches, while Cheever lavishes praise on him, his work, his talent, etc. They also talk about several things we still argue about more or less daily on this website: can you / should you live and write in NYC? What kind of public profile should a writer have? How does reviewing books fit into writing books? Even though you’re famous, will the New Yorker still reject your story if they don’t like it? (Updike: “they should.”) Etc etc. And plus there’s the sheer joy of watching this kind of televsion, delightfully stone-age, with no commercial breaks, cuts to new segments, and almost no graphics. Nothing but smart, decent people talking about stuff smartly and decently: an idea so out-moded and archaic it might just be revolutionary again.
posted without comment
Other than to say, thanks Amy, for the tip! (Also, this came from here.)
Our Value
Fellow Giants, I was going to wait until the board meeting on Monday, but maybe I’ll just go ahead and do this now. According to the website $timator, we’re worth $7,049.
I say we sell.
Fabiana Semprebom: Think Borges’ lady was as hot as Canas’?
Writing is nothing more than a guided dream.
Borges said that. I would say that Fabiana is a dream. I go now to watch her boyfriend play tennis, or at least some of her other compatriots. Happy Boobs Friday, people.
Artistic expression is impossible under Barack Obama
This arrived in my email inbox this morning from a contributor who has asked to remain anonymous. I feel like posting it, so I will:
See what was happening was
See people were going to have the best hamburger yet, Puff Daddy had been sighted at the Anne’s Snack Shop in Pittsburgh for a ghetto burger
Dogs were having fun
See what was happening was there were no stop signs in any of the apartment complexes where anyone had grown up
Barack Obama brought the meat
Every morning in his cells, Bret Easton Ellis stands up and looks at the wall for 100 minutes before beginning on the sentences that will be deleted from his next novel
Someone is ready for hungry time
Today someone is ready for hungry time
When I say that ‘Artistic expression is impossible under Barack Obama’ I’m not any way trying to be funny
Though it will be easy to say I am
The best advice I ever got on writing was when the small woman full of blue blood stopped me in the street and asked me if I could help her tie her shoe
Which never happened
But was still the best advice I ever got on writing
People are getting afraid more often now, while eating waffles
At 4:04 am on 19th street in downtown Hemmings, a small child wriggles his fists in anticipation of the museum that will be built in the next 2-18 years over the ground where the room where he was going to one day cheat on his wife once stood
Today Barack Obama gets up in the morning and goes to the kitchen for a ham sandwich
But there is no longer any ham
There is an autographed replica of the first woman ever to be eaten alive, and there is a pack of Starburst gummies, and there is a lariat
But no ham
Types of novel: Cult, or coterie, novels
April and Frank's trip to Paris
Kate Winslet won an Oscar for The Reader, but Richard Yates fans everywhere thought to themselves, I’m just going to pretend she won this for her portrayal of an American housewife instead of an illiterate fräulein.
So, the movie wasn’t exactly fantastic. You, and every other literature major undergrad, film critic over the age of 45 (new yorker review cough cough) were willing to forgive the movie for it’s, shall we say, defects. Obviously you could look past the “limitations of the medium” because Yates finally got the recognition he deserved! This is obviously a year of triumph for underdogs. Obama is president, Kate Winslet WINS an Oscar, Richard Yates’ magnum opus is turned into a film and nominated for three Academy Awards. Woo, hoo!
This recognition is not without its drawbacks, and clearly you wouldn’t be a Yates fan if you didn’t get all hot and bothered by life’s bittersweet moments. In the aftermath of a booze soaked celebration you awake a little less certain about the cultural capital of your precious dog-eared copy of Revolutionary Road.
It’s not long before your shadowy unease grows to proportions of nightmarish beast. Shortly after you mom visits you for the weekend and steals your beloved 12th edition paperback, the horrific truth dawns on you; the cult classic value of your blue chip investment has plummeted, you are now culturally bankrupt.
Sucks to be a Mushroom: in which we read David Orr’s essay on poetic greatness until our hangover goes away
In this weekend’s NYT books section, David Orr weighs in on the sweat-to-brow question of whether Poetic Greatness is suffering–or has already suffered–its Peak Oil moment.
In October, John Ashbery became the first poet to have an edition of his works released by the Library of America in his own lifetime. That honor says a number of things about the state of contemporary poetry — some good, some not so good — but perhaps the most important and disturbing question it raises is this: What will we do when Ashbery and his generation are gone? Because for the first time since the early 19th century, American poetry may be about to run out of greatness.
Yikes. I keep wanting to be annoyed with this essay, and when Orr is throwing out gems like “Poetry has justified itself historically by asserting that no matter how small its audience or dotty its practitioners, it remains the place one goes for the highest of High Art[,]” it’s really hard not to just smack myself in the forehead, except my head already hurts for some seriously non-poetry-related reasons, so I’m going to save all self-flagellation for the repentance session I have scheduled for later this afternoon.
CAN SOMEONE HELP ME PLEASE
hi. i just realized my blog has entirely disappeared for seemingly no reason. is there some way to remedy this? i will send you a copy of my book if you can help me and if you are interested in the book.
