Web Hype
A Top Three, by Zak Smith
So yesterday I sent out an email asking a fairly large group of writer, editor and publishing friends to send me their top 3 books published this year. I told them to interpret “top” any way they chose to, and to feel no pressure to expound on their choices. One of the first responses was this exuberant, flame-throwing missive from Zak Smith, author of the eminently top 3-able We Did Porn (Tin House Books). I decided that Zak’s note was worth publishing in full, as is, but that it was really too long for the post of mini-lists I was compiling. So here, now, is Zak’s top 3, offered as a kind of advance payment on the full list of lists, which will hopefully be forthcoming next week.
[ZS writes:]
I am about to make great claims for The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave, and overeducated punk rockers are supposed to be all over things like The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave, so first, let me establish my credentials:
Ugly Man by Dennis Cooper
I wasn’t a fan. I’d read Dennis Cooper and thought “Mmmm…okay” and I’d read Dennis Cooper and thought “Meh.” But this collection of short stories is a revelation in hospital white and sweat-stained pink. Go to the store, read “Santa Claus Vs. Johnny Crawford” in its entirety (it’s only nine lines long), and if you don’t like it, you don’t have to buy it. And, also, you are a terrible person with no imagination or sense of humor.
The Original of Laura by Vladimir Nabokov
Ok, so maybe Nabokov didn’t want these fragments of his last, unfinished novel published after he died, but he probably did want to come back from the grave as a ghost to frighten the talentless away from trying to write novels. One out of two isn’t bad.
Now…
Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave
To hear people talk you’d think Roberto Bolano was the next Borges or Cortazar. If he is, his translators have a lot to answer for. Here’s some of that Bolano prose everyone’s raving about:
The name puzzled her. How was it possible, she asked her friend, that there could be a German writer with an Italian surname, but with a von preceding it, indicating some kind of nobility? Her German friend had no answer. It was probably a pseudonym, he said. And to make things even stranger, he added, masculine proper names ending in vowels were uncommon in Germany. Plenty of feminine proper names ended that way. But certainly not masculine proper names.
And that’s not just a temporary dip into stream-of-consciousness: you have to wade through pages and pages of logistics and mental parallel-parking before getting to the isolated sentences of genuine beauty.
But, let’s remember, people–even readers–are mostly stupid, and like things that demand little of them. 2666 is long, but it has little enough poetry in it that it’s easy for people who spend most of their time on Facebook to read.
Plus, Bolano’s dead, leftist, and South American.
Gene Simmons once said: “Music critics like Elvis Costello because music critics look like Elvis Costello.”
Gene might be an asshole, but he gave us ‘God of Thunder’ and ‘Snowblind’, whereas Elvis Costello gave us a bunch of bullshit and then went and hung around with Burt Bachrach, so heed him…
Book critics like Roberto Bolano because book critics look like Roberto Bolano (or his characters, or his voice, whichever): scholarly, neurotic, bibliophilic, unfairly overlooked, eager to somehow find a way to believe that literature is always only a step away from revolution and crime and violence and other more macho and less-bespectacled occupations.
Book critics do not look like Nick Cave, genius behind the following:
A mop of bed-hair crowns his sleep-seamed face, and his pyjamas are runkled and a Spiderman web-blaster is attached to his forearm. He screws up his nose at the cloying odour and waves his hand in front of his face.
Then he sees, with a gasp and a rush of energised wind through his body, his father sprawled motionless on the sofa, grey as a kitchen glove and coated in a patina of cold grease. The metallic, outsize TV remote is still cradled banally in his dead hand like an anachronism.
It looks antique and obsolete and somehow responsible for Bunny’s condition, as if it had failed in its sole responsibility of keeping Bunny alive.
Obscure, dead, leftist South Americans are supposed to write great books, suddenly-mustached rock stars aren’t. So no-one’s noticed that Bolano seems to like books more than words and no-one’s looking for the raw, fluorescent-lit, Martin-Amis-like hollowed-out modernity underneath what looks, at first glance, like a famous hipster’s sex-drugs-death hobby-horse novel.
Tags: nick cave, Roberto Bolaño, the death of bunny munro, zak smith
Taking shots at Bolano is cheap and easy. He’s dead and nothing is going to sully his rep, at least not right now. It’s like shooting a spitball at an R.M Schindler house because it doesn’t look like a Gehry.
But then again, I’m not suprised that Zak Smith doesn’t like Bolano, because Bolano is the real deal. Bolano lived enough life for five Zak Smith’s, and had to face things that would make a nancy boy like Smith piss in his painted Varvatos Chuck Taylors.
Just remember: Poseurs like Nick Cave because that’s who they’re always pretending to be.
Taking shots at Bolano is cheap and easy. He’s dead and nothing is going to sully his rep, at least not right now. It’s like shooting a spitball at an R.M Schindler house because it doesn’t look like a Gehry.
But then again, I’m not suprised that Zak Smith doesn’t like Bolano, because Bolano is the real deal. Bolano lived enough life for five Zak Smith’s, and had to face things that would make a nancy boy like Smith piss in his painted Varvatos Chuck Taylors.
Just remember: Poseurs like Nick Cave because that’s who they’re always pretending to be.
who cares what Bolano faced or how much life he lived? why should any of that matter on the page? if you have to defend his real dealness by appealing to his life, well, you aren’t convincing me
who cares what Bolano faced or how much life he lived? why should any of that matter on the page? if you have to defend his real dealness by appealing to his life, well, you aren’t convincing me
We Did Porn was another great book from this year. Loved it.
We Did Porn was another great book from this year. Loved it.
Life is material. You think Moby Dick gets written by a man who spends most of his time hanging out with his friends and drinking wine? Nope. And neither does a book like 2666. Bolano’s voice is the voice of experience. And I don’t need nor want to convince you. You sound like the type of person who isn’t going to be convinced of anything you don’t already know.
Life is material. You think Moby Dick gets written by a man who spends most of his time hanging out with his friends and drinking wine? Nope. And neither does a book like 2666. Bolano’s voice is the voice of experience. And I don’t need nor want to convince you. You sound like the type of person who isn’t going to be convinced of anything you don’t already know.
I love Bolano and I love We Did Porn. I don’t think critics love Bolano for Smith’s reasons, though I’m sure some do. And I agree with Amy, it’s not about the life, it’s about the writing. There’s is so much to love about Bolano’s writing. For instance, this paragraph from 2666:
What’s sacred to me? thought Fate. The vague pain I feel at the passing of my mother? An understanding of what can’t be fixed? Or the kind of pang in the stomach I feel when I look at this woman? And why do I feel a pang, if that’s what is is, when she looks at me and not when when her friend looks at me? Because her friend is nowhere near as beautiful, thought Fate. Which seems to suggest that what’s sacred to me is beauty, a pretty girl with perfect features. And what if all of a sudden the most beautiful actress in Hollywood appeared in the middle of this big, repulsive restaurant, would I still feel a pang each time my eyes surreptitiously met this girl’s or would the sudden appearance of a superior beauty, a beauty enhanced by recognition, relieve the pang, dimish her beauty to ordinary levels, the beauty of a slightly odd girl out to have a good time on a weekend night with three slightly peculiar men and a woman who basically seems like a hooker? thought Fate. Do I really know enough about Mexican hookers to be able to recognize them at a glance? Do I know anything about innocence or pain? Do I know anything about women? I like to watch videos, thought Fate. I also like to go to the movies. I like to sleep with women. Right now I don’t have a steady girlfriend, but I know what it’s like to have one. Do I see the sacred anywhere? All I register is practical experiences, thought Fate. An emptiness to be filled, a hunger to be satisfied, people to talk to so I can finish my article and get paid. And why do I think the men Rosa Amalfitano is out with are peculiar? What peculiar about them? And why am I so sure that if a Hollywood actress appeared all of a sudden Rosa Amalfitano’s beauty would fade? What if it didn’t? What if it sped up? And what if everything began to accelerate from the instant a Hollywood actress crossed the threshold of El Rey del Taco?
I love Bolano and I love We Did Porn. I don’t think critics love Bolano for Smith’s reasons, though I’m sure some do. And I agree with Amy, it’s not about the life, it’s about the writing. There’s is so much to love about Bolano’s writing. For instance, this paragraph from 2666:
What’s sacred to me? thought Fate. The vague pain I feel at the passing of my mother? An understanding of what can’t be fixed? Or the kind of pang in the stomach I feel when I look at this woman? And why do I feel a pang, if that’s what is is, when she looks at me and not when when her friend looks at me? Because her friend is nowhere near as beautiful, thought Fate. Which seems to suggest that what’s sacred to me is beauty, a pretty girl with perfect features. And what if all of a sudden the most beautiful actress in Hollywood appeared in the middle of this big, repulsive restaurant, would I still feel a pang each time my eyes surreptitiously met this girl’s or would the sudden appearance of a superior beauty, a beauty enhanced by recognition, relieve the pang, dimish her beauty to ordinary levels, the beauty of a slightly odd girl out to have a good time on a weekend night with three slightly peculiar men and a woman who basically seems like a hooker? thought Fate. Do I really know enough about Mexican hookers to be able to recognize them at a glance? Do I know anything about innocence or pain? Do I know anything about women? I like to watch videos, thought Fate. I also like to go to the movies. I like to sleep with women. Right now I don’t have a steady girlfriend, but I know what it’s like to have one. Do I see the sacred anywhere? All I register is practical experiences, thought Fate. An emptiness to be filled, a hunger to be satisfied, people to talk to so I can finish my article and get paid. And why do I think the men Rosa Amalfitano is out with are peculiar? What peculiar about them? And why am I so sure that if a Hollywood actress appeared all of a sudden Rosa Amalfitano’s beauty would fade? What if it didn’t? What if it sped up? And what if everything began to accelerate from the instant a Hollywood actress crossed the threshold of El Rey del Taco?
Considering that most of the writing I read these days is nothing more than gussied up diary entries, I guess it figures that Smith, McDaniel and Elliot are trying to dissemble. Especially Elliot. Without your life, Elliot, you wouldn’t have anything to write about. As a matter of fact, from what I have gathered from the many interviews you have done and which are readily available on-line, you make it pretty explicit that your work directly comes out of your experience. So my question is: what are you talking about?
Considering that most of the writing I read these days is nothing more than gussied up diary entries, I guess it figures that Smith, McDaniel and Elliot are trying to dissemble. Especially Elliot. Without your life, Elliot, you wouldn’t have anything to write about. As a matter of fact, from what I have gathered from the many interviews you have done and which are readily available on-line, you make it pretty explicit that your work directly comes out of your experience. So my question is: what are you talking about?
Nobody is saying that the life doesn’t exert an influence on the work, Mr. Roy. The point is that the life doesn’t add value to the work. When you said “Bolano is the real deal” I thought you meant as a writer, but then you seem to justify your statement with stuff about his life. I may be misunderstanding you here, but it sounds like the worth of 2666 is somehow enhanced for you because the writer of it went through some shit.
Nobody is saying that the life doesn’t exert an influence on the work, Mr. Roy. The point is that the life doesn’t add value to the work. When you said “Bolano is the real deal” I thought you meant as a writer, but then you seem to justify your statement with stuff about his life. I may be misunderstanding you here, but it sounds like the worth of 2666 is somehow enhanced for you because the writer of it went through some shit.
I don’t think anyone is trying to dissemble. I think we’re all having a spirited discussion about a popular author. All but one of us, anyhow.
I don’t think anyone is trying to dissemble. I think we’re all having a spirited discussion about a popular author. All but one of us, anyhow.
and which is more exciting – a story written by a person who has lived through some extraordinary experience and lives to write about it in chilling, thrilling, eye-opening detail? or the person who writes the same story, having never lived a bit of it?
trick question – neither
it’s all entertaining, and certainly informative to hear about the lives behind the stories – but really, what does it matter? It’s a whole other beast and really has nothing to do with the fiction on the page
you dig it or you don’t
and if you want to read about that author later, out of curiosity, so be it…more good stuff, potentially
and which is more exciting – a story written by a person who has lived through some extraordinary experience and lives to write about it in chilling, thrilling, eye-opening detail? or the person who writes the same story, having never lived a bit of it?
trick question – neither
it’s all entertaining, and certainly informative to hear about the lives behind the stories – but really, what does it matter? It’s a whole other beast and really has nothing to do with the fiction on the page
you dig it or you don’t
and if you want to read about that author later, out of curiosity, so be it…more good stuff, potentially
i like books more than language. i am 50% sure of this. if something sounds beautiful why wouldn’t i prefer to hear it as speech? i like the bolano excerpt more than the cave excerpt. i am 100% sure of this.
i like books more than language. i am 50% sure of this. if something sounds beautiful why wouldn’t i prefer to hear it as speech? i like the bolano excerpt more than the cave excerpt. i am 100% sure of this.
um.
“A mop of bed-hair crowns his sleep-seamed face, and his pyjamas are runkled and a Spiderman web-blaster is attached to his forearm. He screws up his nose at the cloying odour and waves his hand in front of his face.”
I would kick Cave out of my writing class so hard that when he finally landed he’d need a proctologist to do his dental work. That shit is so bad it’s toxic.
And Smith’s example Bolaño sentence is fucking righteous.
um.
“A mop of bed-hair crowns his sleep-seamed face, and his pyjamas are runkled and a Spiderman web-blaster is attached to his forearm. He screws up his nose at the cloying odour and waves his hand in front of his face.”
I would kick Cave out of my writing class so hard that when he finally landed he’d need a proctologist to do his dental work. That shit is so bad it’s toxic.
And Smith’s example Bolaño sentence is fucking righteous.
[…] Zak Smith picks a top three over at HTMLGiant. […]
Wow. You sound like a terrible teacher. Where do you teach?
Wow. You sound like a terrible teacher. Where do you teach?
i’d say the paragraphs quoted by zak smith are pretty self-evident.
even without the reams of backstory — backstory which, i’d agree with richard thomas, is separate from the work — you can make your preference fairly easily, i think.
i didn’t read bunny but after seeing that, i’ve seen enough.
i’d say the paragraphs quoted by zak smith are pretty self-evident.
even without the reams of backstory — backstory which, i’d agree with richard thomas, is separate from the work — you can make your preference fairly easily, i think.
i didn’t read bunny but after seeing that, i’ve seen enough.
I respectfully, but wholeheartedly, disagree with Zak’s take on Bolano, but Roy’s critique is the kind of bullshit that made me want skip so many of my undergraduate English discussions. “Life experience” was the favorite subject of future peace corp. dropouts with Hemingway masturbation fantasies. I can’t think of a more boring way to talk about literature.
I respectfully, but wholeheartedly, disagree with Zak’s take on Bolano, but Roy’s critique is the kind of bullshit that made me want skip so many of my undergraduate English discussions. “Life experience” was the favorite subject of future peace corp. dropouts with Hemingway masturbation fantasies. I can’t think of a more boring way to talk about literature.
Full disclosure: I publish Zak’s books. And I think they’re really, really good.
Full disclosure: I publish Zak’s books. And I think they’re really, really good.
Look, I hate to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room but… God of Thunder was written by Paul Stanely and the only song I’ll ever acknowledge as having the name Snowblind was written by Black Sabbath (Maybe Smith is thinking of Ace Frehley’s “Snow Blind”?)
Look, I hate to be the one to bring up the elephant in the room but… God of Thunder was written by Paul Stanely and the only song I’ll ever acknowledge as having the name Snowblind was written by Black Sabbath (Maybe Smith is thinking of Ace Frehley’s “Snow Blind”?)
Bill, have you read Zak Smith’s We Did Porn?
i’d imagine that you haven’t, because i think even by your weird standards, you’d have to say dude’s lived some life: some very unusual, interesting, and introspective life.
which leads me to wonder why you’d shit on someone’s life experience with no evidence of anything about them besides they like a certain book…
not that i’m surprised.
Bill, have you read Zak Smith’s We Did Porn?
i’d imagine that you haven’t, because i think even by your weird standards, you’d have to say dude’s lived some life: some very unusual, interesting, and introspective life.
which leads me to wonder why you’d shit on someone’s life experience with no evidence of anything about them besides they like a certain book…
not that i’m surprised.
that’s the most ridiculous argument i’ve ever heard for not criticizing an author: he’s dead?! cheap shots?! easy?! wtf are you talking about?! the fact that he’s dead is arguably the only reason he’s been placed in the position he’s in now. because it’s easy! almost no one in americ had a chance to criticize bolano before he was dead because he wasn’t published here yet.
funny enough, moby dick was panned until after melville was dead and the rise of modernism began, then it was ‘rediscovered’ and heralded as a masterpiece from an ‘overlooked’ dead author.
that’s the most ridiculous argument i’ve ever heard for not criticizing an author: he’s dead?! cheap shots?! easy?! wtf are you talking about?! the fact that he’s dead is arguably the only reason he’s been placed in the position he’s in now. because it’s easy! almost no one in americ had a chance to criticize bolano before he was dead because he wasn’t published here yet.
funny enough, moby dick was panned until after melville was dead and the rise of modernism began, then it was ‘rediscovered’ and heralded as a masterpiece from an ‘overlooked’ dead author.
you’re a better man than me, tony.
hard to respect an opinion that regards bolano readers as “stupid” and “people who spend most of their time on Facebook.” if that’s true, what would that make nick cave readers?
at any rate, you’re right: a writer’s actual life is a mostly boring way to talk about lit. but to be fair to bill roy, the topic is first broached in zak smith’s original missive. in which bolano’s physical appearance “or his character’s, or his voice whichever” is made interchangeable with his writing.
you’re a better man than me, tony.
hard to respect an opinion that regards bolano readers as “stupid” and “people who spend most of their time on Facebook.” if that’s true, what would that make nick cave readers?
at any rate, you’re right: a writer’s actual life is a mostly boring way to talk about lit. but to be fair to bill roy, the topic is first broached in zak smith’s original missive. in which bolano’s physical appearance “or his character’s, or his voice whichever” is made interchangeable with his writing.
Whether or not it’s true, Zak was pointing to Bolano’s appearance as the thing readers ARE responding to. Roy was suggesting biography is what we SHOULD respond to.
To me it’s a mute point anyway…I don’t think Cave and Bolano look so different:
http://blogs.pitch.com/wayward/nick%20cave2.bmp
http://bullmurph.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/bolano_roberto_250_buffer__v20857165_.jpg
Whether or not it’s true, Zak was pointing to Bolano’s appearance as the thing readers ARE responding to. Roy was suggesting biography is what we SHOULD respond to.
To me it’s a mute point anyway…I don’t think Cave and Bolano look so different:
http://blogs.pitch.com/wayward/nick%20cave2.bmp
http://bullmurph.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/01/bolano_roberto_250_buffer__v20857165_.jpg
by ‘americ’ i of course meant the united states of americ because of course south americ is still technically americ, it’s just you know, i’m an imperialist and stuff
by ‘americ’ i of course meant the united states of americ because of course south americ is still technically americ, it’s just you know, i’m an imperialist and stuff
they have the same ‘stache!
they have the same ‘stache!
You guys are funny. You ask some second-rate performance artist to name his favorite book of the year, which he uses as an excuse to take a dump on one of the most innovative books of the year and the people who liked it, then you take umbrage that someone would make a comment that said watercolorist/part-time woodsman is nothing but a full-of-shit poseur desperate for attention.
My armchair pyschoanalysis is that “Zak Smith” is jealous of people like Roberto Bolano because Bolano’s life experience gave him enough material for what seems like 30 novels, novels he wrote in an indelible voice (which is mainly the reason he is being celebrated over here, Reynard, because of the writing [aren’t you guys all supposed to be like, writers, and interested in, um writing?]), while Smith (who, by the way, looks like every single lit and film blogger I know, all handful and a half of them) foists upon the world another piece of Stunt Lit, albeit one that chronicles his shenanigans fucking hot alt-chicks in front of a camera, much to the envy of all the Post-Palahniukians who write for this site.
You don’t want someone to smack you in the face then don’t spit on their shoes.
You guys are funny. You ask some second-rate performance artist to name his favorite book of the year, which he uses as an excuse to take a dump on one of the most innovative books of the year and the people who liked it, then you take umbrage that someone would make a comment that said watercolorist/part-time woodsman is nothing but a full-of-shit poseur desperate for attention.
My armchair pyschoanalysis is that “Zak Smith” is jealous of people like Roberto Bolano because Bolano’s life experience gave him enough material for what seems like 30 novels, novels he wrote in an indelible voice (which is mainly the reason he is being celebrated over here, Reynard, because of the writing [aren’t you guys all supposed to be like, writers, and interested in, um writing?]), while Smith (who, by the way, looks like every single lit and film blogger I know, all handful and a half of them) foists upon the world another piece of Stunt Lit, albeit one that chronicles his shenanigans fucking hot alt-chicks in front of a camera, much to the envy of all the Post-Palahniukians who write for this site.
You don’t want someone to smack you in the face then don’t spit on their shoes.
Stand and deliver, asshat. The difference between you and me is that, having actually read the Zak Smith book, I’m in a position to judge it, and him. My solicitation of his opinion was directly contingent upon my perception of his intelligence as acute and vast, as derived from my reading of his book, and my interviewing him. You’re free to disagree with my assessment, as Stephen Elliott disagrees with Smith’s take on Bolano, but you’d sound like less of a shitforbrains if you were coming from a place of less ignorance. Two reasonable people who have read the same book may disagree about its merits. When one hasn’t read the work in question, there’s nothing to do but hurl nonsense about people bios (we should all be so lucky as to have such histories as ZS to account for- the Whitney Bienniel, Mandy Morbid, my God!) Which, incidentally, is why I haven’t weighed in with an opinion on Bolano–didn’t read it, not gonna, no opinion or basis for one, case closed.
I’m only spitting on your shoes because that’s where you’re staring. Try looking me in the eye.
Stand and deliver, asshat. The difference between you and me is that, having actually read the Zak Smith book, I’m in a position to judge it, and him. My solicitation of his opinion was directly contingent upon my perception of his intelligence as acute and vast, as derived from my reading of his book, and my interviewing him. You’re free to disagree with my assessment, as Stephen Elliott disagrees with Smith’s take on Bolano, but you’d sound like less of a shitforbrains if you were coming from a place of less ignorance. Two reasonable people who have read the same book may disagree about its merits. When one hasn’t read the work in question, there’s nothing to do but hurl nonsense about people bios (we should all be so lucky as to have such histories as ZS to account for- the Whitney Bienniel, Mandy Morbid, my God!) Which, incidentally, is why I haven’t weighed in with an opinion on Bolano–didn’t read it, not gonna, no opinion or basis for one, case closed.
I’m only spitting on your shoes because that’s where you’re staring. Try looking me in the eye.
Now, Justin. I don’t remember calling you any names. Why are you getting so angry? I don’t sound ignorant. I sound opinionated. You, however, are throwing arounds words like asshat and shitforbrains. It would appear that language fails you when you get riled up.
And I would look you in the eye, except you’re God knows where, sitting in front of a computer, which, of course, makes it very easy for you to adopt your tough guy stance and say tough guys things.
Now, Justin. I don’t remember calling you any names. Why are you getting so angry? I don’t sound ignorant. I sound opinionated. You, however, are throwing arounds words like asshat and shitforbrains. It would appear that language fails you when you get riled up.
And I would look you in the eye, except you’re God knows where, sitting in front of a computer, which, of course, makes it very easy for you to adopt your tough guy stance and say tough guys things.
Zak wins again. Really enjoyed this.
Zak wins again. Really enjoyed this.
I’m sorry. I’m just a lonely man with no one to talk to. This is my way of connecting with people. Engagement via confrontational behavior. It makes me sad to think that I have to stoop this low to have a little human contact. But it feels good in some weird way. It reminds me of when I was a playground bully employing nefarious tactics to win games of full-contact handball.
I’m sorry. I’m just a lonely man with no one to talk to. This is my way of connecting with people. Engagement via confrontational behavior. It makes me sad to think that I have to stoop this low to have a little human contact. But it feels good in some weird way. It reminds me of when I was a playground bully employing nefarious tactics to win games of full-contact handball.
i like some writing, bill. but actually, i don’t like moby dick or the bolano i’ve read (& no, i haven’t read fng 2666 (jesus)). so really, i just think you like shitty writing that a lot of people think is good but i think is shitty (does that make sense?). but i don’t think that’s very unusual either. writing 30 novels means nothing if they aren’t good. i could write a hundred novels in my lifetime, easily, but most of them would be better for wiping butts with. maybe one or two of bolanos novels is great but i have too many other people to read and not enough time and the list goes on and on. mostly though, i thought what you said was pretty obtuse, apart from revealing your pedestrian tastes.
i like some writing, bill. but actually, i don’t like moby dick or the bolano i’ve read (& no, i haven’t read fng 2666 (jesus)). so really, i just think you like shitty writing that a lot of people think is good but i think is shitty (does that make sense?). but i don’t think that’s very unusual either. writing 30 novels means nothing if they aren’t good. i could write a hundred novels in my lifetime, easily, but most of them would be better for wiping butts with. maybe one or two of bolanos novels is great but i have too many other people to read and not enough time and the list goes on and on. mostly though, i thought what you said was pretty obtuse, apart from revealing your pedestrian tastes.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TO5wryDdEI0
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TO5wryDdEI0
So now 2666 is considered pedestrian? Because that’s the only book I have mentioned. Dude, get back to me when you have written something 1/10 as good as one section of that book. I’ve read your work. And I think it’s kind of funny that you would call someone else’s work pedestrian considering the amount of facile pop culture drops you pepper your prose with.
So now 2666 is considered pedestrian? Because that’s the only book I have mentioned. Dude, get back to me when you have written something 1/10 as good as one section of that book. I’ve read your work. And I think it’s kind of funny that you would call someone else’s work pedestrian considering the amount of facile pop culture drops you pepper your prose with.
Before I say anything, full disclosure: I’ve never read a Bolano novel and I’ve yet to read Zak’s book (I’ve read his Pynchon opus, of course, which is stunning stunned). So in even entering in on this, I may be trying to I sort of running with untied shoelaces. But from the post here, I have to admit that I don’t mind the clip from Bolano that Zak provided. Maybe that proves his point about book critics! If so, however, I think I’m okay with that. Mental parallel-parking surely has its own literary power. Looking to language in a Lutzian way – where each sentence could almost be its own ecosystem, live in its own planetary life – is really vital, especially for artistic eyes, with their desire to draw in innovations of the word, but there’s also other things language do, also artistic things, like, in the case of that Bolano segment above, make conceptual blocks at the level of each sentence which create a combination lock that forms a kind of cerebral beauty. It could be that I need to read Bolano in a sustained way because, in a sense, clipping a segment of work lends it a sculptural air at points that maybe the work itself, in its length, turns simply to bloat. I don’t know. But more broadly, if Bill is sort of missing a lobe with his yawn-worthy valorization of ‘experience’, I’m not sure about this unpursued idea Zak gives us either: namely, “the isolated sentences of genuine beauty”. I know what he means here, the wordly words, those sentences you could never see anywhere else, but literature isn’t only that. Maybe the isolation of those kinds of sentences says something about reading Bolano not in the wrong way but not how Bolano is hailing his readers. Again, I haven’t read him before so I can’t speak with authority. But there are many authors who do this, and I actually think here, for instance, of Nicholson Baker’s careful, chilling, beauteous organization of sentences in Human Smoke. Baker can write sentences that spar with the best of them but I think he figured that such an approach was not conducive to the overriding project he faced in Human Smoke. (That isn’t to say beautiful sentences do not emerge in another type of isolation, but again, I hope this only highlights the point I’m making). Anyhow, what I did want to say – the reason I’m writing this – is that I find the way Zac concludes on ‘the books more than words’ thing to be sort of problematic. That take down of book critics is such a weird artist phobia. It’s kind of remarkable how artists can be really repelled by ‘interpretation’, by analysis in and of literature, and by that set of readers who have devoted their lives to make their field a field. The apparatus of book critics is pretentious but so are the authors – there would be no Katakuni without Roth – and, to me, Bolano’s fame is not ‘false’ in that sense, a conspiracy of the wannabe writers desirous to launch their lives into ‘less-bespectacled’ occupations, but more an effect of the establishment of certain ‘serious’ standards of reading and writing in the aspiration toward the great Novel of Ideas (we can thank Doestoevsky for this; serious writers want to be a Doestoyevskian author, even now) which is all a car with only less than half a tank of gas. (As a side note, though I think Roth stinks, he is another example of a person who crafts remarkable sentences that aren’t really about remarkable words: in his case, there’s something about their clarity and extended but shuttling grammatical-‘autobiographical’ construction – self at the level of structuration – that makes him an undeniable artistic ‘talent’, even if it’s almost always blown, in my opinion). Lastly, it’s worth pointing out that Nick Cave would offer book critics their non-bespectacled occupation too, if this were a credible grounds for comparison to Bolano’s fame, just as much as Bolano’s South American leftist persona does. Cave’s book is hardly underrated, especially if you live in the UK or Australia; it was highly anticipated, and loved, as it most absolutely deserves to be: it is a top book of the year. But that special interior – the cave in Cave’s book – is not so unknown to the reading apparatus. Elevation of Cave, by those standards, would only trade one non-bespectacled idol for another. Cave may not look like a book critic but Zac’s logic seems confused because, if we take his argument seriously, it isn’t that Bolano looks like book critics but that book critics, in liking Bolano, don’t want to look like book critics; they want to look like an author. Cave provides that model as well as any other. As does Zak Smith for that matter. I’d also add that authors don’t want to look like book critics either: it’s the dream of all writers to make bookishness glamorous. There’s a little a least of this in the language fixation of writers, I feel. For instance, no one’s recommending in praising “words” that we suddenly can replace literature with lyrics. Obviously, there’s something more here.
Before I say anything, full disclosure: I’ve never read a Bolano novel and I’ve yet to read Zak’s book (I’ve read his Pynchon opus, of course, which is stunning stunned). So in even entering in on this, I may be trying to I sort of running with untied shoelaces. But from the post here, I have to admit that I don’t mind the clip from Bolano that Zak provided. Maybe that proves his point about book critics! If so, however, I think I’m okay with that. Mental parallel-parking surely has its own literary power. Looking to language in a Lutzian way – where each sentence could almost be its own ecosystem, live in its own planetary life – is really vital, especially for artistic eyes, with their desire to draw in innovations of the word, but there’s also other things language do, also artistic things, like, in the case of that Bolano segment above, make conceptual blocks at the level of each sentence which create a combination lock that forms a kind of cerebral beauty. It could be that I need to read Bolano in a sustained way because, in a sense, clipping a segment of work lends it a sculptural air at points that maybe the work itself, in its length, turns simply to bloat. I don’t know. But more broadly, if Bill is sort of missing a lobe with his yawn-worthy valorization of ‘experience’, I’m not sure about this unpursued idea Zak gives us either: namely, “the isolated sentences of genuine beauty”. I know what he means here, the wordly words, those sentences you could never see anywhere else, but literature isn’t only that. Maybe the isolation of those kinds of sentences says something about reading Bolano not in the wrong way but not how Bolano is hailing his readers. Again, I haven’t read him before so I can’t speak with authority. But there are many authors who do this, and I actually think here, for instance, of Nicholson Baker’s careful, chilling, beauteous organization of sentences in Human Smoke. Baker can write sentences that spar with the best of them but I think he figured that such an approach was not conducive to the overriding project he faced in Human Smoke. (That isn’t to say beautiful sentences do not emerge in another type of isolation, but again, I hope this only highlights the point I’m making). Anyhow, what I did want to say – the reason I’m writing this – is that I find the way Zac concludes on ‘the books more than words’ thing to be sort of problematic. That take down of book critics is such a weird artist phobia. It’s kind of remarkable how artists can be really repelled by ‘interpretation’, by analysis in and of literature, and by that set of readers who have devoted their lives to make their field a field. The apparatus of book critics is pretentious but so are the authors – there would be no Katakuni without Roth – and, to me, Bolano’s fame is not ‘false’ in that sense, a conspiracy of the wannabe writers desirous to launch their lives into ‘less-bespectacled’ occupations, but more an effect of the establishment of certain ‘serious’ standards of reading and writing in the aspiration toward the great Novel of Ideas (we can thank Doestoevsky for this; serious writers want to be a Doestoyevskian author, even now) which is all a car with only less than half a tank of gas. (As a side note, though I think Roth stinks, he is another example of a person who crafts remarkable sentences that aren’t really about remarkable words: in his case, there’s something about their clarity and extended but shuttling grammatical-‘autobiographical’ construction – self at the level of structuration – that makes him an undeniable artistic ‘talent’, even if it’s almost always blown, in my opinion). Lastly, it’s worth pointing out that Nick Cave would offer book critics their non-bespectacled occupation too, if this were a credible grounds for comparison to Bolano’s fame, just as much as Bolano’s South American leftist persona does. Cave’s book is hardly underrated, especially if you live in the UK or Australia; it was highly anticipated, and loved, as it most absolutely deserves to be: it is a top book of the year. But that special interior – the cave in Cave’s book – is not so unknown to the reading apparatus. Elevation of Cave, by those standards, would only trade one non-bespectacled idol for another. Cave may not look like a book critic but Zac’s logic seems confused because, if we take his argument seriously, it isn’t that Bolano looks like book critics but that book critics, in liking Bolano, don’t want to look like book critics; they want to look like an author. Cave provides that model as well as any other. As does Zak Smith for that matter. I’d also add that authors don’t want to look like book critics either: it’s the dream of all writers to make bookishness glamorous. There’s a little a least of this in the language fixation of writers, I feel. For instance, no one’s recommending in praising “words” that we suddenly can replace literature with lyrics. Obviously, there’s something more here.
reminds me of Sherdog OT in here.
wow.
free for all friday.
reminds me of Sherdog OT in here.
wow.
free for all friday.
in a word: yes.
in a whole lot more:
words are good but i like books better than words too. books made lovers of words only are just a bunch of wordporn.
i know this isn’t a popular opinion on this site, but a beautifully crafted and contorted never-before-seen sentence doesn’t do it alone for me. there’s got to be something else behind it: urgency, feeling, meaning, mystery, something. something valid, sincere, bright. evidence of a larger, greater organizing intelligence. a sentence’s beauty is secondary, or if not secondary, than at least equal to the larger intent.
otherwise it’s just a smart (or maybe “pretentious” is the better word) man’s guitar solo. wankery.
and that’s one i’ll stand behind.
books, on the other hand, are the things that contain the words, that contain the ideas, eyes and blood. saying you like words over books is like saying you like a really nice line more than you like a painting. it’s, as they say, missing the forest for the trees. the forest is made up of those trees.
i dunno. looking at zak’s art, i’m into it. like, i’m kind of really into it and am excited to look for more of it. i haven’t read his writing other than this, but his art is rad.
this essay, on the other hand, is sorta weak.
in a word: yes.
in a whole lot more:
words are good but i like books better than words too. books made lovers of words only are just a bunch of wordporn.
i know this isn’t a popular opinion on this site, but a beautifully crafted and contorted never-before-seen sentence doesn’t do it alone for me. there’s got to be something else behind it: urgency, feeling, meaning, mystery, something. something valid, sincere, bright. evidence of a larger, greater organizing intelligence. a sentence’s beauty is secondary, or if not secondary, than at least equal to the larger intent.
otherwise it’s just a smart (or maybe “pretentious” is the better word) man’s guitar solo. wankery.
and that’s one i’ll stand behind.
books, on the other hand, are the things that contain the words, that contain the ideas, eyes and blood. saying you like words over books is like saying you like a really nice line more than you like a painting. it’s, as they say, missing the forest for the trees. the forest is made up of those trees.
i dunno. looking at zak’s art, i’m into it. like, i’m kind of really into it and am excited to look for more of it. i haven’t read his writing other than this, but his art is rad.
this essay, on the other hand, is sorta weak.
did you see that i called you obtuse as well? facile’s a good one. i might try to put ‘post-palahniukian’ on urban dictionary with the definition somehow using the word ‘philistine.’ don’t worry, i’ll credit you, bill.
did you see that i called you obtuse as well? facile’s a good one. i might try to put ‘post-palahniukian’ on urban dictionary with the definition somehow using the word ‘philistine.’ don’t worry, i’ll credit you, bill.
Fact check–
I’m not a performance artist.
I don’t do watercolors.
I don’t know what “Varvatos Chuck Taylors” are.
Carry on…
Fact check–
I’m not a performance artist.
I don’t do watercolors.
I don’t know what “Varvatos Chuck Taylors” are.
Carry on…
i cant really get on board with you here, james, though i do appreciate the comment. i’m not above any form of porn, most especially wordporn. i do count myself among the language fetishists, and proudly. i really didn’t mean to devalue wordlove but rather just suggest that wordlove and the sources of literature aren’t exactly umbilical.
i cant really get on board with you here, james, though i do appreciate the comment. i’m not above any form of porn, most especially wordporn. i do count myself among the language fetishists, and proudly. i really didn’t mean to devalue wordlove but rather just suggest that wordlove and the sources of literature aren’t exactly umbilical.
My bad. “Goin’ Blind” not “Snowblind”.
And I meant Gene “gave us” those songs as in–“he was an integral part of KISS, which meant without him those songs wouldn’t exist.”
My bad. “Goin’ Blind” not “Snowblind”.
And I meant Gene “gave us” those songs as in–“he was an integral part of KISS, which meant without him those songs wouldn’t exist.”
[…] and they’re still coming in) but yesterday I kicked off the festivities early by posting one response by Zak Smith in advance of the full list. Today I’m offering up my own selections, prefaced by a short […]
Here is a young Bolano covering the Melvins covering KISS.
Here is a young Bolano covering the Melvins covering KISS.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTWBTu7v668&feature=related
This song is good. I can’t decide if I like Parasite better though.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yTWBTu7v668&feature=related
This song is good. I can’t decide if I like Parasite better though.
Oh, I totally misunderstood. You people are all part of a clique. You all know each other. Friends writing about friends. No wonder. I really am sorry. Seriously. This is an invitation only party. Gotcha.
Oh, I totally misunderstood. You people are all part of a clique. You all know each other. Friends writing about friends. No wonder. I really am sorry. Seriously. This is an invitation only party. Gotcha.
We’re more of a sewing circle, really, though most of us live too far away to ever try each others’ sweaters and dresses on. Anyway, it’s not that you aren’t welcome, it’s just that–speaking strictly for myself–I thought you were being a dick, so I decided to out-dick you. Try being not-a-dick, and I’ll under-dick you by half. I promise. Your comment above about being lonely etc. actually did catch my attention. Though since you’re commenting anonymously, I have no way to know if that was you or someone posing as you, but I’m acting on the assumption that you said it and said it in earnest. So consider the slate wiped clean, or whatever, if you want. Hi, it’s nice to meet you.
We’re more of a sewing circle, really, though most of us live too far away to ever try each others’ sweaters and dresses on. Anyway, it’s not that you aren’t welcome, it’s just that–speaking strictly for myself–I thought you were being a dick, so I decided to out-dick you. Try being not-a-dick, and I’ll under-dick you by half. I promise. Your comment above about being lonely etc. actually did catch my attention. Though since you’re commenting anonymously, I have no way to know if that was you or someone posing as you, but I’m acting on the assumption that you said it and said it in earnest. So consider the slate wiped clean, or whatever, if you want. Hi, it’s nice to meet you.
So Bill Roy is Mather right?
and re: clique. didn’t justin state he posed the top 3 question to writer/editor/industry friends?
pay attention dummy.
i’m pretty sure he was being sarcastic justin.
So Bill Roy is Mather right?
and re: clique. didn’t justin state he posed the top 3 question to writer/editor/industry friends?
pay attention dummy.
i’m pretty sure he was being sarcastic justin.
james i like what you said and i agree.
do not fret over popular opinion.
james i like what you said and i agree.
do not fret over popular opinion.
thanks jereme
thanks jereme
david, your ability to see both sides of the coin is admirable. i mean, don’t get me wrong, i love a good sentence (or good guitar solo, for that matter) as much as the next dude. it’s just language contortion without substance, generally speaking, i’m not talking about either bolano or cave here, is like body-builders. muscles and veins and definition is impressive. but are they actually strong, or can they just lift a bunch of heavy objects repeatedly? there’s a difference, you know?
word fetish is a disease, yo
david, your ability to see both sides of the coin is admirable. i mean, don’t get me wrong, i love a good sentence (or good guitar solo, for that matter) as much as the next dude. it’s just language contortion without substance, generally speaking, i’m not talking about either bolano or cave here, is like body-builders. muscles and veins and definition is impressive. but are they actually strong, or can they just lift a bunch of heavy objects repeatedly? there’s a difference, you know?
word fetish is a disease, yo
Who the fuck is Justin, little girl? Is that your boyfriend?
Who the fuck is Justin, little girl? Is that your boyfriend?
You live in the clouds, little boy.
Yo momma.
One day someone is going to pop your balloon.
Yo bamma.
You live in the clouds, little boy.
Yo momma.
One day someone is going to pop your balloon.
Yo bamma.
Zak Smith is the boozhi Morgan Spurlock. Chuck Klosterman without the Koro.
Zak Smith is the boozhi Morgan Spurlock. Chuck Klosterman without the Koro.
??
Zak Smith is a lucky man–not only do his enemies not know where he lives, they don’t even seem to be able to figure out what line of work he’s in or process any of the other basic information about him that’s available to anybody with a modem.
Who are you people and is it opposite day where you live?
??
Zak Smith is a lucky man–not only do his enemies not know where he lives, they don’t even seem to be able to figure out what line of work he’s in or process any of the other basic information about him that’s available to anybody with a modem.
Who are you people and is it opposite day where you live?
No one knows who Zak Smith is and no one cares where he lives or what he does. Except for you. And apparently this bothers you. Maybe you should think about that for a while.
No one knows who Zak Smith is and no one cares where he lives or what he does. Except for you. And apparently this bothers you. Maybe you should think about that for a while.
Mr Sabbath’s writing to me is not at all interesting, and his literary choices are about as far removed from mine as possible, both in aesthetic and judgmental criteria. But he is a very smart young man who can confidently generate and defend constructs of meaning he has built, never mind his accomplished art career.
I don’t find his ideas compelling in the least but I appreciate that he bothers to exert an ostensibly marked level of energy to consistently maintain his literary opinions and work. Word fetishism, fine. When people start clamoring for a ‘higher meaning’ in all literature they’re n the slippery slope to 1.) grafting cheap ‘meaning’ where it doesn’t belong, creating topheavy rationales balanced on top of unsuited foundations, 2.) rationalising everything. As in, I watch porn, but for /art/ only; I enjoy this novel, but because of its /message/. I understand the concern that style will totally transcend substance but trying to impose substance quota on work that can’t and shouldn’t support it is not only fallacious but crumudgeonly.
It’s the execrable genre of altporn I’d like to lambast, but I’d only like to do so because it doesn’t get me off. I couldn’t care less about any claims made about how empowering it is, etc.
Mr Sabbath’s writing to me is not at all interesting, and his literary choices are about as far removed from mine as possible, both in aesthetic and judgmental criteria. But he is a very smart young man who can confidently generate and defend constructs of meaning he has built, never mind his accomplished art career.
I don’t find his ideas compelling in the least but I appreciate that he bothers to exert an ostensibly marked level of energy to consistently maintain his literary opinions and work. Word fetishism, fine. When people start clamoring for a ‘higher meaning’ in all literature they’re n the slippery slope to 1.) grafting cheap ‘meaning’ where it doesn’t belong, creating topheavy rationales balanced on top of unsuited foundations, 2.) rationalising everything. As in, I watch porn, but for /art/ only; I enjoy this novel, but because of its /message/. I understand the concern that style will totally transcend substance but trying to impose substance quota on work that can’t and shouldn’t support it is not only fallacious but crumudgeonly.
It’s the execrable genre of altporn I’d like to lambast, but I’d only like to do so because it doesn’t get me off. I couldn’t care less about any claims made about how empowering it is, etc.
No, Bill Roy is not Mather, fuckwit.
No, Bill Roy is not Mather, fuckwit.
The only thing that surprises me here is that Mr. Smith doesn’t know what “Varvatos Chuck Taylors” are.
The only thing that surprises me here is that Mr. Smith doesn’t know what “Varvatos Chuck Taylors” are.
You just wrote:
“Zak Smith is…”
in one comment
then you wrote
“No one knows who Zak Smith is…”
So, ok, what you’re saying is it WAS opposite day where you live.
Or you just enjoy typing anonymous things that make no sense about people you don’t know or care anything about and then hitting “submit”.
Takes all kinds I suppose.
You just wrote:
“Zak Smith is…”
in one comment
then you wrote
“No one knows who Zak Smith is…”
So, ok, what you’re saying is it WAS opposite day where you live.
Or you just enjoy typing anonymous things that make no sense about people you don’t know or care anything about and then hitting “submit”.
Takes all kinds I suppose.
Q: “Who gives a fuck about Alt Porn? It’s just like all the other porn!”
A: “-You may very well be right–I say as much in the book. I didn’t dream up these movies and don’t necessarily think you should watch them, I was just in them and then wrote a book about what that was like.”
-Zak in an interview.
Q: “Who gives a fuck about Alt Porn? It’s just like all the other porn!”
A: “-You may very well be right–I say as much in the book. I didn’t dream up these movies and don’t necessarily think you should watch them, I was just in them and then wrote a book about what that was like.”
-Zak in an interview.
after googling them i have to say those must be the most ironic shoes ever created
after googling them i have to say those must be the most ironic shoes ever created
yeah i figured maybe it wasn’t but your comments and his share the same asshole quality. so i was just asking.
fucktwit is a lame insult. i think your spirit has been broken mather.
yeah i figured maybe it wasn’t but your comments and his share the same asshole quality. so i was just asking.
fucktwit is a lame insult. i think your spirit has been broken mather.
i am really confused here. why is someone pretending to be xtx?
i know her and she doesn’t communicate with people like this.
very srange.
i am really confused here. why is someone pretending to be xtx?
i know her and she doesn’t communicate with people like this.
very srange.
Well, having your comments deleted or treated like spam will definitely take the spirit out of you. Fuckwit is a lame insult, you’re right. But I think you catch my drift.
Well, having your comments deleted or treated like spam will definitely take the spirit out of you. Fuckwit is a lame insult, you’re right. But I think you catch my drift.
Mather Schneider’s spirit? That’s a good one.
Mather Schneider’s spirit? That’s a good one.
[…] Smith has this and Justin Taylor this at HTML […]
I think Zak S is wrong about Bolano but none of us can prove that so moving on… it has brought up the question of experience and writing. Why is it that people who live tedious lives as teachers, insurance executives or provincial doctors (calling Wallace Stevens, WC Williams, John McGahern, Franz Kafka and on and on) get to be real artists and those who follow the Hemingway life plan diet often do no better than drool out of the sides of their mouths letting it fall artlessly on the page?
I wanted to include Bruno Schulz in that list but I guess the weird shoe thing and being murdered by a Nazi psychopath count as ‘living it up.’
Btw the best thing that Nick Cave did this year for me was invite Ed Kuepper to play with the Bad Seeds on tour.
I think Zak S is wrong about Bolano but none of us can prove that so moving on… it has brought up the question of experience and writing. Why is it that people who live tedious lives as teachers, insurance executives or provincial doctors (calling Wallace Stevens, WC Williams, John McGahern, Franz Kafka and on and on) get to be real artists and those who follow the Hemingway life plan diet often do no better than drool out of the sides of their mouths letting it fall artlessly on the page?
I wanted to include Bruno Schulz in that list but I guess the weird shoe thing and being murdered by a Nazi psychopath count as ‘living it up.’
Btw the best thing that Nick Cave did this year for me was invite Ed Kuepper to play with the Bad Seeds on tour.
As the earlier commenter said, Zak’s choice of prose samples says it all: the Cave is opaque and overwrought, clogged with awkward comparative devices; the Bolano is clear and concise, concerned more with conveying meaning than calling attention to its writer. Bolano writes like a professional. Cave writes like an amateur.
Smith himself is clearly an amateur writer, and an unpromising one at that; observe his ungainly prose stylings above, the unnecessary italics, the excessive hyphenation, this disaster of a line: “Book critics like Roberto Bolano because book critics look like Roberto Bolano (or his characters, or his voice, whichever): scholarly, neurotic, bibliophilic, unfairly overlooked, eager to somehow find a way to believe that literature is always only a step away from revolution and crime and violence and other more macho and less-bespectacled occupations.”
(How does one look like a dead person’s voice? How does one appear “unfairly overlooked”? In all of that logorrhea that follows “book critics look like Roberto Bolano,” the only detail that actually describes their appearance is the suggestion that they’re somehow too bespectacled.)
Why wouldn’t Smith prefer the work of somebody else who writes poorly but got published based on his career in another field, a field that publishers think they can spin as edgy to sell books?
As the earlier commenter said, Zak’s choice of prose samples says it all: the Cave is opaque and overwrought, clogged with awkward comparative devices; the Bolano is clear and concise, concerned more with conveying meaning than calling attention to its writer. Bolano writes like a professional. Cave writes like an amateur.
Smith himself is clearly an amateur writer, and an unpromising one at that; observe his ungainly prose stylings above, the unnecessary italics, the excessive hyphenation, this disaster of a line: “Book critics like Roberto Bolano because book critics look like Roberto Bolano (or his characters, or his voice, whichever): scholarly, neurotic, bibliophilic, unfairly overlooked, eager to somehow find a way to believe that literature is always only a step away from revolution and crime and violence and other more macho and less-bespectacled occupations.”
(How does one look like a dead person’s voice? How does one appear “unfairly overlooked”? In all of that logorrhea that follows “book critics look like Roberto Bolano,” the only detail that actually describes their appearance is the suggestion that they’re somehow too bespectacled.)
Why wouldn’t Smith prefer the work of somebody else who writes poorly but got published based on his career in another field, a field that publishers think they can spin as edgy to sell books?
To see someone judge a writer’s worth based solely on some subjective opinion of his sentences is like watching some mark falling into a needless con — one that the normally astute James Wood (whom I agree with maybe about 45% of the time) seems to be falling into more frequently. For a writer isn’t merely the sum of his sentences. Nor do his sentences form some absolutist Rosetta stone. A writer is also momentum, perspective, play, narrative, many other qualities too numerous to list here. I haven’t read the new Nick Cave, although it’s absolutely preposterous to suggest that one’s aesthetic similarities to an author form the basis of one’s affinity to the writing. Should I avoid reading Edward Jones because I’m white? Should I avoid Zak Smith because he has a preposterous alt-porn haircut and I maintain either a beard or a bald head? Not at all. The author photo is the least of concerns to any sensible reader, although I suppose this kind of superficial gossip might matter in the same way that an issue of People Magazine matters to a hairdresser. But I will say that prose prejudice, known to afflict literary snobs both Establishment and underground, is one of those troubling diseases that does literature a disservice, that wastes a lot of time, and that causes otherwise rational minds to resemble kooks in the streets spouting forth incoherent propaganda.
To see someone judge a writer’s worth based solely on some subjective opinion of his sentences is like watching some mark falling into a needless con — one that the normally astute James Wood (whom I agree with maybe about 45% of the time) seems to be falling into more frequently. For a writer isn’t merely the sum of his sentences. Nor do his sentences form some absolutist Rosetta stone. A writer is also momentum, perspective, play, narrative, many other qualities too numerous to list here. I haven’t read the new Nick Cave, although it’s absolutely preposterous to suggest that one’s aesthetic similarities to an author form the basis of one’s affinity to the writing. Should I avoid reading Edward Jones because I’m white? Should I avoid Zak Smith because he has a preposterous alt-porn haircut and I maintain either a beard or a bald head? Not at all. The author photo is the least of concerns to any sensible reader, although I suppose this kind of superficial gossip might matter in the same way that an issue of People Magazine matters to a hairdresser. But I will say that prose prejudice, known to afflict literary snobs both Establishment and underground, is one of those troubling diseases that does literature a disservice, that wastes a lot of time, and that causes otherwise rational minds to resemble kooks in the streets spouting forth incoherent propaganda.
Teachers lead “tedious lives?” Really? Wow. That sucks for, like, nearly everyone in my family. I thought their careers were really fulfilling and fun and that they really loved what they were able to educate this country’s next generation of artists. But I guess I should let them know their lives are actually tedious.
Incidentally, Wallace Stevens is probably my greatest literary hero because he loved his job and went to work everyday and did his thing and provided for his family, and was sane and stable and went home and wrote some of the best poetry ever produced. I’d love to be him in that sense. But I guess that makes me tedious, too.
Teachers lead “tedious lives?” Really? Wow. That sucks for, like, nearly everyone in my family. I thought their careers were really fulfilling and fun and that they really loved what they were able to educate this country’s next generation of artists. But I guess I should let them know their lives are actually tedious.
Incidentally, Wallace Stevens is probably my greatest literary hero because he loved his job and went to work everyday and did his thing and provided for his family, and was sane and stable and went home and wrote some of the best poetry ever produced. I’d love to be him in that sense. But I guess that makes me tedious, too.
He’s on your side, you tedious drone.
He’s on your side, you tedious drone.
No criticicism of teachers or their vocation intended Amber. What I meant – very much in passing – is what every teacher I know complains about: dictated curriculums and the attendant mind numbing repitition, philistine school boards, proliferating know-nothing passive aggressive administrators and box-checking inspectors, books disappearing from schools, and so on. I admire anyone that can inspire and inform children in that context.
I am one of those people biting on quite a chew of tedium and taking care of my family at the same time and trying to write. My question was: How do artists do a Wallace Stevens in contradistinction to romantic or bohemian notions of where art comes from via experience?
No criticicism of teachers or their vocation intended Amber. What I meant – very much in passing – is what every teacher I know complains about: dictated curriculums and the attendant mind numbing repitition, philistine school boards, proliferating know-nothing passive aggressive administrators and box-checking inspectors, books disappearing from schools, and so on. I admire anyone that can inspire and inform children in that context.
I am one of those people biting on quite a chew of tedium and taking care of my family at the same time and trying to write. My question was: How do artists do a Wallace Stevens in contradistinction to romantic or bohemian notions of where art comes from via experience?
I think that Wallace Stevens’ work is in direct correlation with his experience; the experience of getting shitfaced in one’s attic every night because you hate your wife and the shackles of domesticity.
I think that Wallace Stevens’ work is in direct correlation with his experience; the experience of getting shitfaced in one’s attic every night because you hate your wife and the shackles of domesticity.
Zak was obviously using the phrase “look like” in the sense of “looks like on paper” and–as someone already pointed out way back at the beginning ot the comments–“Whether or not it’s true, Zak was pointing to Bolano’s appearance as the thing readers ARE responding to” not what they SHOULD be responding to.
His whole point was to re-direct attention from the men to the prose, which he then placed side by side.
As for the sentences, this is a matter of taste, I suspect I could quote quite a few sentences by Melville, Saul Bellow, or Nabokov (“profesionals” all) that Andrew would have a hard time defending as not equally “opaque and overwrought, clogged with awkward comparative devices”.
However, it is something you’ll have to live with since “To see someone judge a writer’s worth based solely on some subjective opinion of his sentences is…” unfortunately the only way to judge them. Whether or not you’re self-aware enough to notice that’s what you’re doing.
Zak was obviously using the phrase “look like” in the sense of “looks like on paper” and–as someone already pointed out way back at the beginning ot the comments–“Whether or not it’s true, Zak was pointing to Bolano’s appearance as the thing readers ARE responding to” not what they SHOULD be responding to.
His whole point was to re-direct attention from the men to the prose, which he then placed side by side.
As for the sentences, this is a matter of taste, I suspect I could quote quite a few sentences by Melville, Saul Bellow, or Nabokov (“profesionals” all) that Andrew would have a hard time defending as not equally “opaque and overwrought, clogged with awkward comparative devices”.
However, it is something you’ll have to live with since “To see someone judge a writer’s worth based solely on some subjective opinion of his sentences is…” unfortunately the only way to judge them. Whether or not you’re self-aware enough to notice that’s what you’re doing.
The issue here is whether cherry-picking sentences truly encapsulates a novel’s totality. I don’t believe it does, but you and I clearly have profoundly different criteria for what makes a great book. Which is perfectly fine. But unusual syntax, or even bad syntax, does not necessarily mean that a book should be dismissed or that original thoughts or feelings aren’t there. The scalpel school of literary criticism, which you seem to advocate, may offer you the illusory solace of feeling morally or intellectually superior. This is often a common feeling among solipsists, and I’m so glad that you love yourself so much. But it’s also the logical fallacy of the insufficient sample and something I just can’t take seriously. Check out Singer’s thoughts on originality and sentences in CONVERSATIONS WITH ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER, and maybe you’ll see where I’m coming from. Expand your horizons for once. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
The issue here is whether cherry-picking sentences truly encapsulates a novel’s totality. I don’t believe it does, but you and I clearly have profoundly different criteria for what makes a great book. Which is perfectly fine. But unusual syntax, or even bad syntax, does not necessarily mean that a book should be dismissed or that original thoughts or feelings aren’t there. The scalpel school of literary criticism, which you seem to advocate, may offer you the illusory solace of feeling morally or intellectually superior. This is often a common feeling among solipsists, and I’m so glad that you love yourself so much. But it’s also the logical fallacy of the insufficient sample and something I just can’t take seriously. Check out Singer’s thoughts on originality and sentences in CONVERSATIONS WITH ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER, and maybe you’ll see where I’m coming from. Expand your horizons for once. There’s more than one way to skin a cat.
I wish Bolaño’s “eñe” didn’t get lost so often in internet-based discussions of his work.
I wish Bolaño’s “eñe” didn’t get lost so often in internet-based discussions of his work.
Edward–
“you love yourself so much”
“expand your horizons for once”
Is there some reason thast you decided to append some random condenscenscion toward someone you don’t know to that otherwise reasonable comment?
Edward–
“you love yourself so much”
“expand your horizons for once”
Is there some reason thast you decided to append some random condenscenscion toward someone you don’t know to that otherwise reasonable comment?
Q: “who cares what Bolano faced or how much life he lived? why should any of that matter on the page?” (Amy McDaniel)
A: the writer cares — bolano cared. take away that (“any of that”) and the page doesn’t matter. who cares what darwin faced during the beagle expedition? on the origin of species sucks.
Q: “who cares what Bolano faced or how much life he lived? why should any of that matter on the page?” (Amy McDaniel)
A: the writer cares — bolano cared. take away that (“any of that”) and the page doesn’t matter. who cares what darwin faced during the beagle expedition? on the origin of species sucks.
I think it might beBolano’s translator. I read Chris Andrews translations of “Last Evenings on Earth” and liked it. Natasha Wimmer translated both Savage Detectives and 2666, and there were sections in both books that I thought were boring. I thought when Melville died his job was serving clam chowder at some inlet town resturant, bitter and underapperciated.
I think it might beBolano’s translator. I read Chris Andrews translations of “Last Evenings on Earth” and liked it. Natasha Wimmer translated both Savage Detectives and 2666, and there were sections in both books that I thought were boring. I thought when Melville died his job was serving clam chowder at some inlet town resturant, bitter and underapperciated.
[…] that, I went and reread Zac Smith’s piece over at HTMLGiant about the book: Book critics like Roberto Bolano because book critics look like Roberto Bolano (or his characters, […]
Blah blah blah. Logos-possessed idiot taking a potshot at Zak Smith aside (I think he’s the best artist my country has seen since the internet arrived, thank you), you have to admit that the segment from Cave’s novel contains far more of the image, thereby far more of what’s eternally contemporary, than the Bolano.
Writing isn’t art, get that straight.
And you can’t make generalizations about what kind of life leads to great creativity.
Bach had a huge family, Chopin had a really difficult personal life, Proust sat in his bedroom all day, Joyce struggled with psychological problems and sometimes locked himself up with his schizophrenic daughter, Pynchon’s never let us known what he really does with his time, and as for all of the unnamed Egyptian scribes and Chinese calligraphers, not to mention the poets and spell-writers of ancient forgotten civilizations, their work was either paid for by patrons or nourished by the demands of the tribe.
How on earth is writing not art? What are you talking about? Sit down.
Blah blah blah. Logos-possessed idiot taking a potshot at Zak Smith aside (I think he’s the best artist my country has seen since the internet arrived, thank you), you have to admit that the segment from Cave’s novel contains far more of the image, thereby far more of what’s eternally contemporary, than the Bolano.
Writing isn’t art, get that straight.
And you can’t make generalizations about what kind of life leads to great creativity.
Bach had a huge family, Chopin had a really difficult personal life, Proust sat in his bedroom all day, Joyce struggled with psychological problems and sometimes locked himself up with his schizophrenic daughter, Pynchon’s never let us known what he really does with his time, and as for all of the unnamed Egyptian scribes and Chinese calligraphers, not to mention the poets and spell-writers of ancient forgotten civilizations, their work was either paid for by patrons or nourished by the demands of the tribe.
How on earth is writing not art? What are you talking about? Sit down.
Bill, you’re making Bolano hard to defend when you drop nancy-boy style insults.