Roundup
In Which We Read a Few Good Books, Connect Some Dots, and Have Ourselves a Very Fine Time
I enjoyed David Lehman’s Signs of the Times: Deconstruction and the Fall of Paul de Man so much when I read it in April that I decided to try my luck with another of his several works of nonfiction. I almost picked up Perfect Murder: A Study in Detection, but I’ve been in a gung-ho poetry mood lately, so instead I opted for The Last Avant-Garde: The Making of the New York School of Poets, a group biography of Frank O’Hara, James Schuyler, Kenneth Koch and John Ashbery. I encountered this Ashbery quip earlier today in the book, and was going to share it as a power quote, but that’s not really in the spirit of Ashbery, besides which now I want to talk about something else, too. Anyway the quote goes like this:
Recklessness is what makes experimental art beautiful, just as religions are beautiful because of the strong possibility that they are founded on nothing. We would all believe in God if we knew He existed, but would this be much fun? (p. 39)
Now, the second thing I want to talk about isn’t really connected with that quote–which I like for its own sake–but it does also have to do with John Ashbery. A good 72 pages after the above-quoted, Lehman quotes the painter Fairfield Porter, who “characterized Ashbery as ‘lazy and quick,'” which Lehman points out is an unlikely pair of descriptors. He goes on to explain why (and how) it applies to Ashbery, but that’s not what caught my eye. Two other things did. I wonder if they caught yours? First, that I’ve ripped through better than a quarter of this book in a single day, and after I finish typing this up I’ll probably dig in for another hour or two. Second thing is about the particular turn of phrase. Lehman’s right, of course, it’s a very odd pairing–but the funny thing is that when I encountered it, I knew instantly that I had seen it before, and because of the extraordinary impression it had made on me the first time, I knew exactly where that original sighting had been–in a context the literary equivalent of a world away from the New York School. Does anyone out there know, too? If you’re playing along at home, this is the time to scribble down your guesses.
Inside at the walnut bar leaned the disambulatory god of the lake. The man was both lazy and quick. Many sought him out.
This is the complete first paragraph of the Prologue to Yonder Stands Your Orphan, Barry Hannah’s 2001 novel, and the book that would turn out to be the last one published during his life. Porter’s quote is taken from a poem he wrote called “I Wonder What They Think of My Verses,” which itself is designed as a kind of group portrait of Ashbery, O’Hara and company. Now it is of course possible that this is a pure coincidence–“lazy” and “quick” being, after all, not the absolute strangest of words, and their pairing forming an unlikely but hardly inconceivable little paradox–and the only book I can seem to find which quotes the poem is Material Witness: The Selected Letters of Fairfield Porter (the poem is quoted in the introduction, which happens to be by none other than David Lehman) which wasn’t published until 2005, four years after Yonder came out. But that doesn’t mean that Hannah couldn’t have seen the poem in whatever magazine it originally appeared in (assuming it did), or encountered the quote somewhere–he may have even read it in The Last Avant-Garde, which was published in 1998. It’s also worth pointing out that the title of Yonder Stands Your Orphan is itself a quote–the first half of a line from Bob Dylan’s “It’s All Over Now, Baby Blue.” And were you to complete the line yourself–“yonder stands your orphan, with his gun”–you’d have a pretty good preview of the mayhem that awaits the community around Eagle Lake, Mississippi.
Let’s push this a little bit further–despite the abundance (or, perhaps, superabundance) of plot in Yonder Stands Your Orphan, the book is ultimately less about what happens than it is about the people that it happens to–Yonder boasts an enormous cast of primary and secondary characters, and though their Southern-fried loves and violences have little in common at the level of content with the New York School coterie, the spirit of manic geniality and urgent dreaming that pervades Hannah’s novel seems to me absolutely in keeping with the spirit of O’Hara, Koch, de Kooning, Pollock, et al. It makes sense, furthermore, that Hannah would have been a fan of the New York School–both he and they made great use of humor, irony, fragmentation, and of course the act of quotation itself.
At the end of the day, all three works under discussion here–Lehman’s book, Porter’s poem, Hannah’s book–seem to be undertaking the same project: to paint a portrait of a community, in all its triumph and disarray. It’s enough to send me back through Yonder with a fine-toothed magnifying glass, in the hopes of teasing out or spotting what may well be a trove of allusions, inspirations, and borrowings. Maybe someday soon. Right now, though–the poets!
Tags: Barry Hannah, david lehman, Fairfield Porter, John Ashbery, New York School
There’s a lot of great stuff in “The Last Avant-Garde” that you can’t conveniently find anywhere else, making it indispensable for anyone interested in its subject (and who isn’t?). But the writing is surprisingly sloppy.
There’s a lot of great stuff in “The Last Avant-Garde” that you can’t conveniently find anywhere else, making it indispensable for anyone interested in its subject (and who isn’t?). But the writing is surprisingly sloppy.
I’m not finding that to be the case, alan. I wonder what you mean when you say that.
I’m not finding that to be the case, alan. I wonder what you mean when you say that.
i’ve got that ashbery quote on my facebook page. yep. “the last avant-garde” was an eye-opener for me when i read it, years ago. i knew basically nothing about the poets at the time, and then i was like, “these are my people.” incidentally, i think it also happened to be the first time i encountered the name wallace stevens. good show.
i’ve got that ashbery quote on my facebook page. yep. “the last avant-garde” was an eye-opener for me when i read it, years ago. i knew basically nothing about the poets at the time, and then i was like, “these are my people.” incidentally, i think it also happened to be the first time i encountered the name wallace stevens. good show.
Although I’m never much for labels, Lehman’s “Last of the Avant-Garde” Silliman’s “Quietist,” etc. the book itself is well worth reading. Especially for Koch & Schuyler. Ultimately, this book is why I decided to attend New School & work with Lehman as a thesis adviser.
Although I’m never much for labels, Lehman’s “Last of the Avant-Garde” Silliman’s “Quietist,” etc. the book itself is well worth reading. Especially for Koch & Schuyler. Ultimately, this book is why I decided to attend New School & work with Lehman as a thesis adviser.
great quote
great quote
Well, it’s been a few years since I read it, but I remember a lot of weird repetitions and non sequiturs and strained transitions.
One sentence was so bad it stuck in my mind: “Although Ashbery had never learned how to skate properly, he decided to base ‘The Skaters’ on a collage from his new purchase [of ‘Three Hundred Things a Bright Boy Can Do’ from a second-hand book stall in Paris].” (p. 122)
Obviously there is no logical relationship between knowing how to skate and basing a poem on text from an old book, so the sentence makes no sense. Perhaps Lehman meant to say that despite never learning to skate, Ashbery decided to call one of his poems “The Skaters.” But notice first of all that he doesn’t manage to say this, and that second of all it’s still a total non sequitur.
That wasn’t an isolated example. The book really needed an editor. Despite which I couldn’t put it down. Actually, Justin, now that you’ve put it in my hands again I may have to reread it. So, yeah, don’t mind my carping and enjoy it.
Well, it’s been a few years since I read it, but I remember a lot of weird repetitions and non sequiturs and strained transitions.
One sentence was so bad it stuck in my mind: “Although Ashbery had never learned how to skate properly, he decided to base ‘The Skaters’ on a collage from his new purchase [of ‘Three Hundred Things a Bright Boy Can Do’ from a second-hand book stall in Paris].” (p. 122)
Obviously there is no logical relationship between knowing how to skate and basing a poem on text from an old book, so the sentence makes no sense. Perhaps Lehman meant to say that despite never learning to skate, Ashbery decided to call one of his poems “The Skaters.” But notice first of all that he doesn’t manage to say this, and that second of all it’s still a total non sequitur.
That wasn’t an isolated example. The book really needed an editor. Despite which I couldn’t put it down. Actually, Justin, now that you’ve put it in my hands again I may have to reread it. So, yeah, don’t mind my carping and enjoy it.
I know of at least one other person who has said this exact same thing (the latter part, I mean).
I know of at least one other person who has said this exact same thing (the latter part, I mean).
Lehman’s newest: A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters, American Songs–is essential. The new Bookworm interview w/ Ashbery is smart (what would you expect) and hilarious. Especially neat is a point where Michael Silverblatt asks him about something Ashes said: language sometimes gets in the way of the poetry. Ashbery laughs, says he doesn’t remembers saying it, but plans to have fun thinking about what he meant. Also neat is when Ashbery says that he’s influenced by younger poets and students, especially those that were influenced by him but then got tired of his style and moved away from it. That’s genius!
Send Lehman a buck, buy a new copy:
http://www.amazon.com/Fine-Romance-Songwriters-American-Encounters/dp/0805242503
Lehman’s newest: A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters, American Songs–is essential. The new Bookworm interview w/ Ashbery is smart (what would you expect) and hilarious. Especially neat is a point where Michael Silverblatt asks him about something Ashes said: language sometimes gets in the way of the poetry. Ashbery laughs, says he doesn’t remembers saying it, but plans to have fun thinking about what he meant. Also neat is when Ashbery says that he’s influenced by younger poets and students, especially those that were influenced by him but then got tired of his style and moved away from it. That’s genius!
Send Lehman a buck, buy a new copy:
http://www.amazon.com/Fine-Romance-Songwriters-American-Encounters/dp/0805242503
Hey, you’re entitled to your opinion of Lehman’s prose (for a counterpoisted opinion, see below, where a very excited woman named Donna is recommending other Lehman books and providing purchase links) but I would like to say that the example you’ve chosen is not, in fact, a total non sequitur.
Lehman is saying that the book Ashbery found in Paris, “Three Hundred Things A Bright Boy Can Do”, inspired him in part because it reminded him of a tome called “The Book of Knowledge,” which Ashbery had read as a young child in New York state. In the sentence prior to the one you quoted, Lehman likens “The Book of Knowledge” to “Rosebud,” the lost and lemented sled of Charles Foster Kane’s childhood in Citizen Kane–though Lehman is careful to say that the book is only “a little like the sled”, and that the larger question of the meaning of the poem’s title remains “unsolved.” In mentioning that Ashbery had “never learned to skate properly,” Lehman is further detailing the functional limit of his own analogy.
Hope this has clarified things a bit. I know how it is trying to think back on a book you were once on intimate terms with, but now exists in the mind mostly as a series of impressions. If you get the chance, I’d say definitely give it another go. Or hell, just pick up the work of the guys he’s talking about. I’ve had a Collected Kenneth Koch sitting on my shelf for years that had never been opened until yesterday. The poems look forbidding at first because of their size (and the book’s) but it’s honest to God fun by the shovelful. Anyway, cheers.
Hey, you’re entitled to your opinion of Lehman’s prose (for a counterpoisted opinion, see below, where a very excited woman named Donna is recommending other Lehman books and providing purchase links) but I would like to say that the example you’ve chosen is not, in fact, a total non sequitur.
Lehman is saying that the book Ashbery found in Paris, “Three Hundred Things A Bright Boy Can Do”, inspired him in part because it reminded him of a tome called “The Book of Knowledge,” which Ashbery had read as a young child in New York state. In the sentence prior to the one you quoted, Lehman likens “The Book of Knowledge” to “Rosebud,” the lost and lemented sled of Charles Foster Kane’s childhood in Citizen Kane–though Lehman is careful to say that the book is only “a little like the sled”, and that the larger question of the meaning of the poem’s title remains “unsolved.” In mentioning that Ashbery had “never learned to skate properly,” Lehman is further detailing the functional limit of his own analogy.
Hope this has clarified things a bit. I know how it is trying to think back on a book you were once on intimate terms with, but now exists in the mind mostly as a series of impressions. If you get the chance, I’d say definitely give it another go. Or hell, just pick up the work of the guys he’s talking about. I’ve had a Collected Kenneth Koch sitting on my shelf for years that had never been opened until yesterday. The poems look forbidding at first because of their size (and the book’s) but it’s honest to God fun by the shovelful. Anyway, cheers.
This was great, Justin. I’ve been meaning to read Lehman’s book on the NY poets for years. Is the de book on de Man a critique or a measured defence?
This was great, Justin. I’ve been meaning to read Lehman’s book on the NY poets for years. Is the de book on de Man a critique or a measured defence?
Quite the contrary, David- Lehman’s book is a prosecution, and the case he builds is both compelling and disturbing. As well, it does double duty as a history of the rise of the deconstructionist school of lit-crit in academia. I was initially drawn to it because of my interest in all things Harold Bloom, and I wanted to learn about the origins of the so-called Yale School, and the eventual schism within it. Bloom’s a minor but key player in “Signs of the Times,” and basically steals every scene he appears in–but then again, I *would* think so.
Quite the contrary, David- Lehman’s book is a prosecution, and the case he builds is both compelling and disturbing. As well, it does double duty as a history of the rise of the deconstructionist school of lit-crit in academia. I was initially drawn to it because of my interest in all things Harold Bloom, and I wanted to learn about the origins of the so-called Yale School, and the eventual schism within it. Bloom’s a minor but key player in “Signs of the Times,” and basically steals every scene he appears in–but then again, I *would* think so.
That is a fine quote.
By the way, there’s a very interesting article by Mark Silverberg (actually the intro of a book) on the NY Poets over in a recent issue of the indispensable Jacket magazine…
http://jacketmagazine.com/39/silverberg-koch-intro.shtml
…that starts off with a bit of critique of Lehman’s book.
That is a fine quote.
By the way, there’s a very interesting article by Mark Silverberg (actually the intro of a book) on the NY Poets over in a recent issue of the indispensable Jacket magazine…
http://jacketmagazine.com/39/silverberg-koch-intro.shtml
…that starts off with a bit of critique of Lehman’s book.
It sounds really interesting. Ha, yeah, Bloom is a brilliant, compelling character – that can’t be denied – but he’s also routinely a crank, but those two things are not mutually incompatible nor does the latter undermine, in my opinion, the genuine intriguingness and insightfulness of the former. I have to admit I have a soft spot for Paul de Man’s theoretical work – I find arguments that deconstruction is a project of apologetics for fascism to be obscene: the contradictoriness of de Man’s own character clearly led him away from any direct avowal or engagement with the wartime writings – but I’d be interested to read this: the articles are what they are, despite Derrida’s quite anguished effort to try and locate the old friend in the rhetoric of the enemy. Does Lehman say anything about how he sheltered the Jewish pianist Esther Sluszny and her husband during the war? de Man has always been something of a contradiction to me. His case really raises a lot of questions about what it was to be a person actively *intent* on securing their insulation from events in occupied Europe at that moment. Because it was so ‘stock’ in its racial ‘solution’ (though the Madagascar solution was always implicitly genocidial so that’s not to waive away the grotesqueness simply because the idea was common: only to say it was, indeed, a sort of uninventive trope) and also because it was so isolate as a *theme* for de Man’s criticism, turning up in that article only, I’ve always wondered whether that essay on Madagascar was de Man covering his ass (as he later would again at Bard by fudging the dates he worked for Le Soir – especially since he had was later said to have ties to the Belgian resistance – more than anything like revealing a deeply secreted conviction about the Jews. Though such a cynical strategization of anti-Semitism for personal protection is reprehensible and anti-Semitic in an even darker way, particularly in that time and place. But it goes, I guess, to the meaning of collaboration and how the Jews were indeed appropriable as an alibi to capitalise on under the Nazis.
It sounds really interesting. Ha, yeah, Bloom is a brilliant, compelling character – that can’t be denied – but he’s also routinely a crank, but those two things are not mutually incompatible nor does the latter undermine, in my opinion, the genuine intriguingness and insightfulness of the former. I have to admit I have a soft spot for Paul de Man’s theoretical work – I find arguments that deconstruction is a project of apologetics for fascism to be obscene: the contradictoriness of de Man’s own character clearly led him away from any direct avowal or engagement with the wartime writings – but I’d be interested to read this: the articles are what they are, despite Derrida’s quite anguished effort to try and locate the old friend in the rhetoric of the enemy. Does Lehman say anything about how he sheltered the Jewish pianist Esther Sluszny and her husband during the war? de Man has always been something of a contradiction to me. His case really raises a lot of questions about what it was to be a person actively *intent* on securing their insulation from events in occupied Europe at that moment. Because it was so ‘stock’ in its racial ‘solution’ (though the Madagascar solution was always implicitly genocidial so that’s not to waive away the grotesqueness simply because the idea was common: only to say it was, indeed, a sort of uninventive trope) and also because it was so isolate as a *theme* for de Man’s criticism, turning up in that article only, I’ve always wondered whether that essay on Madagascar was de Man covering his ass (as he later would again at Bard by fudging the dates he worked for Le Soir – especially since he had was later said to have ties to the Belgian resistance – more than anything like revealing a deeply secreted conviction about the Jews. Though such a cynical strategization of anti-Semitism for personal protection is reprehensible and anti-Semitic in an even darker way, particularly in that time and place. But it goes, I guess, to the meaning of collaboration and how the Jews were indeed appropriable as an alibi to capitalise on under the Nazis.
“the contradictoriness of de Man’s own character clearly led him away from any direct avowal or engagement with the wartime writings”
that is to say, and not destruction being some weird project to obfuscate his responsibility. i honestly doubt the articles gave him bad conscience to that extent, which is telling in another way, but says little about his work so much as the autonomy of the project, its ability to become possible, being predicated on not an agential but a systemic occlusion of responsibility from its vision – which is, of course, a very deconstructionist insight
“the contradictoriness of de Man’s own character clearly led him away from any direct avowal or engagement with the wartime writings”
that is to say, and not destruction being some weird project to obfuscate his responsibility. i honestly doubt the articles gave him bad conscience to that extent, which is telling in another way, but says little about his work so much as the autonomy of the project, its ability to become possible, being predicated on not an agential but a systemic occlusion of responsibility from its vision – which is, of course, a very deconstructionist insight
btw, have you met bloom, Justin?
btw, have you met bloom, Justin?
There’s a lot of great stuff in “The Last Avant-Garde” that you can’t conveniently find anywhere else, making it indispensable for anyone interested in its subject (and who isn’t?). But the writing is surprisingly sloppy.
I’m not finding that to be the case, alan. I wonder what you mean when you say that.
Those are my people, too, Matt! I love that book; made we wish I could have hung out with those dudes for a while.
Those are my people, too, Matt! I love that book; made we wish I could have hung out with those dudes for a while.
i’ve got that ashbery quote on my facebook page. yep. “the last avant-garde” was an eye-opener for me when i read it, years ago. i knew basically nothing about the poets at the time, and then i was like, “these are my people.” incidentally, i think it also happened to be the first time i encountered the name wallace stevens. good show.
Although I’m never much for labels, Lehman’s “Last of the Avant-Garde” Silliman’s “Quietist,” etc. the book itself is well worth reading. Especially for Koch & Schuyler. Ultimately, this book is why I decided to attend New School & work with Lehman as a thesis adviser.
great quote
Well, it’s been a few years since I read it, but I remember a lot of weird repetitions and non sequiturs and strained transitions.
One sentence was so bad it stuck in my mind: “Although Ashbery had never learned how to skate properly, he decided to base ‘The Skaters’ on a collage from his new purchase [of ‘Three Hundred Things a Bright Boy Can Do’ from a second-hand book stall in Paris].” (p. 122)
Obviously there is no logical relationship between knowing how to skate and basing a poem on text from an old book, so the sentence makes no sense. Perhaps Lehman meant to say that despite never learning to skate, Ashbery decided to call one of his poems “The Skaters.” But notice first of all that he doesn’t manage to say this, and that second of all it’s still a total non sequitur.
That wasn’t an isolated example. The book really needed an editor. Despite which I couldn’t put it down. Actually, Justin, now that you’ve put it in my hands again I may have to reread it. So, yeah, don’t mind my carping and enjoy it.
I know of at least one other person who has said this exact same thing (the latter part, I mean).
Lehman’s newest: A Fine Romance: Jewish Songwriters, American Songs–is essential. The new Bookworm interview w/ Ashbery is smart (what would you expect) and hilarious. Especially neat is a point where Michael Silverblatt asks him about something Ashes said: language sometimes gets in the way of the poetry. Ashbery laughs, says he doesn’t remembers saying it, but plans to have fun thinking about what he meant. Also neat is when Ashbery says that he’s influenced by younger poets and students, especially those that were influenced by him but then got tired of his style and moved away from it. That’s genius!
Send Lehman a buck, buy a new copy:
http://www.amazon.com/Fine-Romance-Songwriters-American-Encounters/dp/0805242503
Hey, you’re entitled to your opinion of Lehman’s prose (for a counterpoisted opinion, see below, where a very excited woman named Donna is recommending other Lehman books and providing purchase links) but I would like to say that the example you’ve chosen is not, in fact, a total non sequitur.
Lehman is saying that the book Ashbery found in Paris, “Three Hundred Things A Bright Boy Can Do”, inspired him in part because it reminded him of a tome called “The Book of Knowledge,” which Ashbery had read as a young child in New York state. In the sentence prior to the one you quoted, Lehman likens “The Book of Knowledge” to “Rosebud,” the lost and lemented sled of Charles Foster Kane’s childhood in Citizen Kane–though Lehman is careful to say that the book is only “a little like the sled”, and that the larger question of the meaning of the poem’s title remains “unsolved.” In mentioning that Ashbery had “never learned to skate properly,” Lehman is further detailing the functional limit of his own analogy.
Hope this has clarified things a bit. I know how it is trying to think back on a book you were once on intimate terms with, but now exists in the mind mostly as a series of impressions. If you get the chance, I’d say definitely give it another go. Or hell, just pick up the work of the guys he’s talking about. I’ve had a Collected Kenneth Koch sitting on my shelf for years that had never been opened until yesterday. The poems look forbidding at first because of their size (and the book’s) but it’s honest to God fun by the shovelful. Anyway, cheers.
Bloom is awfully strange. I’ve got this study on Wallace Stevens that he did early in his career, and I’m really finding it enlightening as I attempt to steep myself in Stevens. But then Bloom’s more recent stuff—Genius, How to read, Invention of the human, etc.—reads like he was content to just sit on his ass and ride out whatever celebrity he’d garnered. One of the weird little things I wonder about a lot is how a man so obviously committed to literature could have taken such a turn in his writing. A lot of his recent stuff is so vapid and superficial that it’s infuriating; for someone with such a brilliant intellect, I feel like he’s wasting it for. . . for what? He says he’s trying to reach the common reader, but that shouldn’t imply writing like shit. Honestly, it kinda pisses me off. A 700pp. study on Shakespeare by someone with as much experience with the plays as he’s got could have been groundbreaking. Instead, it was dreck. Blargh.
Bloom is awfully strange. I’ve got this study on Wallace Stevens that he did early in his career, and I’m really finding it enlightening as I attempt to steep myself in Stevens. But then Bloom’s more recent stuff—Genius, How to read, Invention of the human, etc.—reads like he was content to just sit on his ass and ride out whatever celebrity he’d garnered. One of the weird little things I wonder about a lot is how a man so obviously committed to literature could have taken such a turn in his writing. A lot of his recent stuff is so vapid and superficial that it’s infuriating; for someone with such a brilliant intellect, I feel like he’s wasting it for. . . for what? He says he’s trying to reach the common reader, but that shouldn’t imply writing like shit. Honestly, it kinda pisses me off. A 700pp. study on Shakespeare by someone with as much experience with the plays as he’s got could have been groundbreaking. Instead, it was dreck. Blargh.
This was great, Justin. I’ve been meaning to read Lehman’s book on the NY poets for years. Is the de book on de Man a critique or a measured defence?
Quite the contrary, David- Lehman’s book is a prosecution, and the case he builds is both compelling and disturbing. As well, it does double duty as a history of the rise of the deconstructionist school of lit-crit in academia. I was initially drawn to it because of my interest in all things Harold Bloom, and I wanted to learn about the origins of the so-called Yale School, and the eventual schism within it. Bloom’s a minor but key player in “Signs of the Times,” and basically steals every scene he appears in–but then again, I *would* think so.
That is a fine quote.
By the way, there’s a very interesting article by Mark Silverberg (actually the intro of a book) on the NY Poets over in a recent issue of the indispensable Jacket magazine…
http://jacketmagazine.com/39/silverberg-koch-intro.shtml
…that starts off with a bit of critique of Lehman’s book.
It sounds really interesting. Ha, yeah, Bloom is a brilliant, compelling character – that can’t be denied – but he’s also routinely a crank, but those two things are not mutually incompatible nor does the latter undermine, in my opinion, the genuine intriguingness and insightfulness of the former. I have to admit I have a soft spot for Paul de Man’s theoretical work – I find arguments that deconstruction is a project of apologetics for fascism to be obscene: the contradictoriness of de Man’s own character clearly led him away from any direct avowal or engagement with the wartime writings – but I’d be interested to read this: the articles are what they are, despite Derrida’s quite anguished effort to try and locate the old friend in the rhetoric of the enemy. Does Lehman say anything about how he sheltered the Jewish pianist Esther Sluszny and her husband during the war? de Man has always been something of a contradiction to me. His case really raises a lot of questions about what it was to be a person actively *intent* on securing their insulation from events in occupied Europe at that moment. Because it was so ‘stock’ in its racial ‘solution’ (though the Madagascar solution was always implicitly genocidial so that’s not to waive away the grotesqueness simply because the idea was common: only to say it was, indeed, a sort of uninventive trope) and also because it was so isolate as a *theme* for de Man’s criticism, turning up in that article only, I’ve always wondered whether that essay on Madagascar was de Man covering his ass (as he later would again at Bard by fudging the dates he worked for Le Soir – especially since he had was later said to have ties to the Belgian resistance – more than anything like revealing a deeply secreted conviction about the Jews. Though such a cynical strategization of anti-Semitism for personal protection is reprehensible and anti-Semitic in an even darker way, particularly in that time and place. But it goes, I guess, to the meaning of collaboration and how the Jews were indeed appropriable as an alibi to capitalise on under the Nazis.
“the contradictoriness of de Man’s own character clearly led him away from any direct avowal or engagement with the wartime writings”
that is to say, and not destruction being some weird project to obfuscate his responsibility. i honestly doubt the articles gave him bad conscience to that extent, which is telling in another way, but says little about his work so much as the autonomy of the project, its ability to become possible, being predicated on not an agential but a systemic occlusion of responsibility from its vision – which is, of course, a very deconstructionist insight
btw, have you met bloom, Justin?
Those are my people, too, Matt! I love that book; made we wish I could have hung out with those dudes for a while.
Bloom is awfully strange. I’ve got this study on Wallace Stevens that he did early in his career, and I’m really finding it enlightening as I attempt to steep myself in Stevens. But then Bloom’s more recent stuff—Genius, How to read, Invention of the human, etc.—reads like he was content to just sit on his ass and ride out whatever celebrity he’d garnered. One of the weird little things I wonder about a lot is how a man so obviously committed to literature could have taken such a turn in his writing. A lot of his recent stuff is so vapid and superficial that it’s infuriating; for someone with such a brilliant intellect, I feel like he’s wasting it for. . . for what? He says he’s trying to reach the common reader, but that shouldn’t imply writing like shit. Honestly, it kinda pisses me off. A 700pp. study on Shakespeare by someone with as much experience with the plays as he’s got could have been groundbreaking. Instead, it was dreck. Blargh.
David- no I’ve never met Bloom. I’d love to, of course. For more on Lehman’s de Man, you’ll need to consult the thing itself. My entire knowledge of de Man is derived from that book, which itself is a sign perhaps of just how far his star has fallen in the academy. By the time I started my undergrad degree in 2000, he simply wasn’t taught or discussed–at least not in so far as I saw. Derrida still had quite a hold, but it was really only in certain niches. But maybe certain schools have their certain favorites– I recall Deleuze & Guattari being very in amongst the faculty & grad students. Foucault of course, and Zizek, though that was before he really came out as a pop-artist. I dug Baudrillard and Virilio, and people seemed okay with that, but those guys weren’t really…taught. I think they were regarded as sort of borderline-relevant figures to be taken quasi-seriously, or maybe with the same kind of intelligent unseriousness you’d bring to, I dunno, watching a Woody Allen movie or something. Which, in retrospect, is probably just about right.
David- no I’ve never met Bloom. I’d love to, of course. For more on Lehman’s de Man, you’ll need to consult the thing itself. My entire knowledge of de Man is derived from that book, which itself is a sign perhaps of just how far his star has fallen in the academy. By the time I started my undergrad degree in 2000, he simply wasn’t taught or discussed–at least not in so far as I saw. Derrida still had quite a hold, but it was really only in certain niches. But maybe certain schools have their certain favorites– I recall Deleuze & Guattari being very in amongst the faculty & grad students. Foucault of course, and Zizek, though that was before he really came out as a pop-artist. I dug Baudrillard and Virilio, and people seemed okay with that, but those guys weren’t really…taught. I think they were regarded as sort of borderline-relevant figures to be taken quasi-seriously, or maybe with the same kind of intelligent unseriousness you’d bring to, I dunno, watching a Woody Allen movie or something. Which, in retrospect, is probably just about right.
demi-puppet– I think you’re wrong about the later Bloom, though it happens to be that you’re talking about three books I haven’t read. I own two of them (Shakespeare, and How To Read And Why) and use them as reference materials, on an as-needed basis. I don’t know that any of those books (excepting Genius perhaps) is meant to be read straight through, though someone certainly could if they wanted to. And I’ll give you that one reason I don’t own Genius (yet) is that it seemed to re-cover some of the same major figures from The Western Canon, Where Shall Wisdom Be Found?, and other books of that approximate era. I’ll also give you this- I think that the short, almost choppy style of the books you’ve named is not the style that suits Bloom best. I like both his books of lectures- The Breaking of the Vessels, and Ruin the Sacred Truths, and The American Religion, which is truly exceptional.
demi-puppet– I think you’re wrong about the later Bloom, though it happens to be that you’re talking about three books I haven’t read. I own two of them (Shakespeare, and How To Read And Why) and use them as reference materials, on an as-needed basis. I don’t know that any of those books (excepting Genius perhaps) is meant to be read straight through, though someone certainly could if they wanted to. And I’ll give you that one reason I don’t own Genius (yet) is that it seemed to re-cover some of the same major figures from The Western Canon, Where Shall Wisdom Be Found?, and other books of that approximate era. I’ll also give you this- I think that the short, almost choppy style of the books you’ve named is not the style that suits Bloom best. I like both his books of lectures- The Breaking of the Vessels, and Ruin the Sacred Truths, and The American Religion, which is truly exceptional.
I agree wholeheartedly that Bloom’s book on Shakespeare is wonderful: he’s all cylinders firing in it. I go back and back to the chapter on Hamlet.
I agree wholeheartedly that Bloom’s book on Shakespeare is wonderful: he’s all cylinders firing in it. I go back and back to the chapter on Hamlet.
David- no I’ve never met Bloom. I’d love to, of course. For more on Lehman’s de Man, you’ll need to consult the thing itself. My entire knowledge of de Man is derived from that book, which itself is a sign perhaps of just how far his star has fallen in the academy. By the time I started my undergrad degree in 2000, he simply wasn’t taught or discussed–at least not in so far as I saw. Derrida still had quite a hold, but it was really only in certain niches. But maybe certain schools have their certain favorites– I recall Deleuze & Guattari being very in amongst the faculty & grad students. Foucault of course, and Zizek, though that was before he really came out as a pop-artist. I dug Baudrillard and Virilio, and people seemed okay with that, but those guys weren’t really…taught. I think they were regarded as sort of borderline-relevant figures to be taken quasi-seriously, or maybe with the same kind of intelligent unseriousness you’d bring to, I dunno, watching a Woody Allen movie or something. Which, in retrospect, is probably just about right.
demi-puppet– I think you’re wrong about the later Bloom, though it happens to be that you’re talking about three books I haven’t read. I own two of them (Shakespeare, and How To Read And Why) and use them as reference materials, on an as-needed basis. I don’t know that any of those books (excepting Genius perhaps) is meant to be read straight through, though someone certainly could if they wanted to. And I’ll give you that one reason I don’t own Genius (yet) is that it seemed to re-cover some of the same major figures from The Western Canon, Where Shall Wisdom Be Found?, and other books of that approximate era. I’ll also give you this- I think that the short, almost choppy style of the books you’ve named is not the style that suits Bloom best. I like both his books of lectures- The Breaking of the Vessels, and Ruin the Sacred Truths, and The American Religion, which is truly exceptional.
Me too! On the Hamlet chapter and just the whole wonderful book. Bloom’s love for, his tenderness for, his happiness with Shakespeare’s characters make me weep rainbows every time I go back to his books, especially this one. As an actor doing Shakespeare, also, that book was absolutely indispensable.
Me too! On the Hamlet chapter and just the whole wonderful book. Bloom’s love for, his tenderness for, his happiness with Shakespeare’s characters make me weep rainbows every time I go back to his books, especially this one. As an actor doing Shakespeare, also, that book was absolutely indispensable.
Demi-puppet, I think you’re reading his Shakespeare book the wrong way. I don’t know Bloom’s intent, but to me it’s not supposed to be an in-depth intellectual treatise on the plays, so much as series of little love letters to the fucking genius that was Shakespeare and the lasting, amazing, never-been-matched-for-depth characters he created. I enjoyed Genius, too, but could see where that got a little repetitive. But that Shakespeare book is anything but dreck–it’s so lovely and warm and beautifully written.
Demi-puppet, I think you’re reading his Shakespeare book the wrong way. I don’t know Bloom’s intent, but to me it’s not supposed to be an in-depth intellectual treatise on the plays, so much as series of little love letters to the fucking genius that was Shakespeare and the lasting, amazing, never-been-matched-for-depth characters he created. I enjoyed Genius, too, but could see where that got a little repetitive. But that Shakespeare book is anything but dreck–it’s so lovely and warm and beautifully written.
Justin, On the Yale school and its context there’s an interesting book edited by Peter Herman called “Historicizing Theory.”
Justin, On the Yale school and its context there’s an interesting book edited by Peter Herman called “Historicizing Theory.”
I agree wholeheartedly that Bloom’s book on Shakespeare is wonderful: he’s all cylinders firing in it. I go back and back to the chapter on Hamlet.
Me too! On the Hamlet chapter and just the whole wonderful book. Bloom’s love for, his tenderness for, his happiness with Shakespeare’s characters make me weep rainbows every time I go back to his books, especially this one. As an actor doing Shakespeare, also, that book was absolutely indispensable.
Demi-puppet, I think you’re reading his Shakespeare book the wrong way. I don’t know Bloom’s intent, but to me it’s not supposed to be an in-depth intellectual treatise on the plays, so much as series of little love letters to the fucking genius that was Shakespeare and the lasting, amazing, never-been-matched-for-depth characters he created. I enjoyed Genius, too, but could see where that got a little repetitive. But that Shakespeare book is anything but dreck–it’s so lovely and warm and beautifully written.
Justin, On the Yale school and its context there’s an interesting book edited by Peter Herman called “Historicizing Theory.”
Yesteday I went to a used bookstore after writing this, and noticed the Derrida Reader edited by Julian Wolfreys, who was a major-league prof at UF when I was there- and he’s really like *the* Derrida guy. I just never worked with him. But it made me want to qualify my remark about “certain niches.” I didn’t mean it derisively, but descriptively. Academia, like art, is so much about individual personalities and spheres of influence. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
Yesteday I went to a used bookstore after writing this, and noticed the Derrida Reader edited by Julian Wolfreys, who was a major-league prof at UF when I was there- and he’s really like *the* Derrida guy. I just never worked with him. But it made me want to qualify my remark about “certain niches.” I didn’t mean it derisively, but descriptively. Academia, like art, is so much about individual personalities and spheres of influence. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
Thanks, alan. I’ll look for it.
Thanks, alan. I’ll look for it.
Yesteday I went to a used bookstore after writing this, and noticed the Derrida Reader edited by Julian Wolfreys, who was a major-league prof at UF when I was there- and he’s really like *the* Derrida guy. I just never worked with him. But it made me want to qualify my remark about “certain niches.” I didn’t mean it derisively, but descriptively. Academia, like art, is so much about individual personalities and spheres of influence. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.
Thanks, alan. I’ll look for it.