— Peter Handke, The Weight of the World, p. 16

Joaquín Font, El Reposo Mental Health Clinic, Camino Desierto de los Leones, on the outskirts of Mexico City DF, January 1977:

There are books for when you’re bored. Plenty of them. There are books for when you’re calm. The best kind, in my opinion. There are also books for when you’re sad. And books for when you’re happy. There are books for when you’re thirsty for knowledge. And books for when you’re desperate. The latter are the kind of books Ulises Lima and Belano wanted to write. A serious mistake, as we’ll soon see. Let’s take, for example, an average reader, a cool-headed, mature, educated man leading a more or less healthy life. A man who buys books and literary magazines. So there you have him. This man can read things that are written for when you’re calm, but he can also read any other kind of book with a critical eye, dispassionately, without absurd or regrettable complicity. That’s how I see it. I hope I’m not offending anyone. Now let’s take the desperate reader, who is presumably the audience for the literature of desperation. What do we see? First: the reader is an adolescent or an immature adult, insecure, all nerves. He’s the kind of fucking idiot (pardon my language) who committed suicide after reading Werther. Second: he’s a limited reader. Why limited? That’s easy: because he can only read the literature of desperation, or books for the desperate, which amounts to the same thing, the kind of person or freak who’s unable to read all the way through In Search of Lost Time, for example, or The Magic Mountain, (a paradigm of calm, serene, complete literature, in my opinion), or, for that matter, Les Misérables or War and Peace. Am I making myself clear? Good. So I talked to them, told them, warned them, alerted them to the dangers they were facing. It was like talking to a wall. Furthermore, desperate readers are like the California gold mines. Sooner or later they’re exhausted! Why? It’s obvious! One can’t live one’s whole life in desperation. In the end the body rebels, the pain becomes unbearable, lucidity gushes out in great cold spurts. The desperate reader (and especially the desperate poetry reader, who is insufferable, believe me) ends up by turning away from books. Inevitably, he ends up becoming just plain desperate. Or he’s cured! And then, as part of the regenerative process, he returns slowly — as if wrapped in swaddling clothes, as if under a rain of dissolved sedatives — he returns, as I was saying, to a literature written for cool, serene readers, with their heads set firmly on their shoulders. This is what’s called (by me, if nobody else) the passage from adolescence to adulthood. And by that I don’t mean that once someone has become a cool-headed reader he know longer reads books written for desperate readers. Of course he reads them! Especially if their good or decent or recommended by a friend. But ultimately they bore him! Ultimately, that literature of resentment, full of sharp instruments and lynched messiahs, doesn’t pierce the heart the way a calm page, a carefully thought-out page, a technically perfect page does. I told them so. I warned them. I showed them the technically perfect page. I alerted them to the dangers. Don’t exhaust the vein! Humility! Seek oneself, lose oneself in strange lands! But with a guiding line, with breadcrumbs or white pebbles! And yet I was mad, driven mad by them, by my daughters, by Laura Damián, and so they didn’t listen.

The Savage Detectives, Bolaño (p. 184-85).

In vain I searched for a way to piece this particular monologue out, but I’m not smart enough to thread my way through the layered ironies here & not confident that excerpting would do anything but misrepresent it. I’m left in a welter of confusion — half wanting to nod my head in simple assent, half wondering how straight to take something that, for starters, calls the project of Bolaño’s misspelled alter ego a terrible mistake & is a paeon to the virtues of cool-headed detachment narrated from a mental asylum — and that becomes, as it goes along, more & more agitated itself, less & less cool-headed. Eating its own tail.

It reminded me, in a way — probably because I read it yesterday — of Andrew Seal’s years-old piece about regret & avid readership, and of the reactions to Salinger’s death, and the presumed audience for Catcher in the Rye. Can we assume, for instance, that Belaño is or isn’t trying to write a literature of desperation? (Garcia Madero, our narrator for the first howevermany pages of the novel, being a prime example of a desperate reader, although the novel is full of them, & full of people too who reach a point in their lives where they’re no longer really reading or writing poetry anymore.) Can we point to a kind of fantasy of the disinterested spectator, uncoupled from deprivation or investment, the sort of person only moved by a ‘technically perfect page?

SH: Why do you think people are interested in art?

DH: I think they want to touch the source of something, you know? It doesn’t make people better. It doesn’t make them happier. It doesn’t make them smarter, and you can’t teach people to do it or like it. So who knows?

Believer interview with Dave Hickey

It comes down to, I think, whether literature is redemptive — does it cure us? (“The desperate reader . . . ends up by turning away from books. Inevitably, he ends up becoming just plain desperate. Or he’s cured!”) And if it doesn’t make us better or happier, what does? — and does that destroy our capacity for literature? — or for an identification which Joaquín Font calls an ‘absurd or regrettable complicity,’ which is to say, a visceral, personalized response instead of a considered one.

A multivocal novel, I called SD a couple days ago, sure: voices, choruses of them, unharmonized. And we could say that the author himself is effaced, the fiction speaks on its own, except of course that Bolaño is well-known to have a stake in this, a definite extratextual point of view, a history that can be mapped onto the novel.

Jeeze, folks, I don’t know. I’ve waded into this now, it’s too late to stop, but I’m over my head. All I can do is place things on the table next to each other & see if you can make more sense of it than me. Fill my mouth with the words of others. As, for instance, Gabriel Josipovici on the Psalms, via the Space:

‘It is as if simply opening your mouth, giving utterance to your voice, releases something in you; as if finding words to express your total despair and the sense you feel of being shut up, unable to come forth, of having been rejected by the whole world, God included, makes the water return to the desert, makes life return to the one who was dead. The fact that the Psalm in Jonah is embedded in a narrative allows us to verify the truth of this, for no sooner has Jonah finished speaking than ‘the Lord spake unto the fish, and it vomited out Jonah upon the dry land.’ [10] Of course it is important that Jonah and the ‘I’ of the other psalms on this topic cry out to God; but in a sense they only do so because God is the one who will always be prepared to listen. Simply giving voice, I would suggest, finding words for your anguish, is what in the first instance, makes it possible to overcome that anguish.’

—  Gabriel Josipovici, “Singing a New Song.”


31 January 2010

So I’m still thinking about Dave Hickey’s response to the question, “Do you think humor’s a very important element of art?”:

DH: It would be if anybody could take a joke! Alec Waugh proposes “seriousness” as a form of infectious stupidity. I agree.

On my new humorlessness, or:
How reading too much Borges doesn’t make you
into Borges, it makes you into Pierre Menard.

Somewhere along the line — I’m no longer sure when or how — I think I came to lose my sense of humor — or rather, my ability to write funny. This is what I used to do, how I used to define myself as a writer (I’m talking like, 13 years old). I wrote jokes, I made people laugh, this gave me a sense of purpose. I felt like I had an audience. I always wrote for someone else. I’ve always defined myself, like Didion or DeLillo, by how I could work through a sentence. And somewhere along the line, I stopped being  funny. Maybe this had to do with me feeling like I was ‘growing up’ — I think there’s probably a linear correlation you could draw between the humor sieving out of my work & me self-defining as an artist with the A capitalized. I don’t know. These days, when I write — let’s say, in a blog comment — I suddenly feel like I’m overdressed, wearing a too-tight rounded collar, earnest & boring, talking somebody’s ear off at a friend of a friends’ cocktail party, sweaty-palmed & too eager to make an impression. Picture those Spanish scholastics assembling elaborate systems of inquiry to determine the composition of the Throne of God or the ranks of the angels. All of the actual professors I know are funnier & more self-effacing than me, so the problem can’t be academic knowledge as such — it’s not as though, properly, you come to read Serious fiction and Borges causes you to Put Away Childish Things.

Probably part of this is that when I write I overdetermine my prose (“…a technique for withholding whatever it was I thought or believed behind an increasingly impenetrable polish….”) — I’m not good at committing myself to mistakes, or wandering lines of inquiry. I don’t tend to go on & on; I underwrite instead. Most of rewriting for me is prying open my placid sentences & trying to inject some life into them, & most of what I write on my blog is first-draft stuff anyway, & so I sound more serious & self-important than I mean to.

On being funny, or:
How to satirize a world that
bombs the moon for water.

Me aside, though, the rest of this is all tied up with the question of satire in a postmodern world, or the degree of engagement, or the extent to which you allow yourself to be earnest about something. I’m kind of thinking about typing this quotation out from an interview with Rebecca Solnit & taping it above my desk at home:

The challenge is how can you not be the moralizing, grandstanding beast of the baby boomers but not render yourself totally ineffectual and—the word that comes to mind is miniature. How can you write about the obscure things that give you pleasure with a style flexible enough to come round to look at more urgent matters? Humor matters here, and self-awareness, and the language of persuasion and inclusion rather than hectoring and sermonizing. You don’t have to be a preacher to talk about what matters, and you don’t have to drop the pleasures of style. If you can be passionate about, say, Russian dictionary entries from the early nineteenth century, can you work your way up to the reconstruction of New Orleans? And can you retain some of the elegance and some of the pleasure when you look at big, pressing topics?

What bedevils me, I’m tying to say, is the question of how one goes about making this stuff, where stuff is some value of work — fiction, performance, gallery art whatever — that engages with the world in a meaningful way & doesn’t dodge out. To set out to do something like that is maybe the wrong way to go about it (that is, you don’t sit down to write an Important Novel) — but somewhere along the line, maybe while you’re revising, you have to acknowledge a certain amount of ambition or earnestness, and this acknowledgment is inherently ridiculous. It is kind of silly, in either a despairing existential way — all’s dust — or a hardheaded, pragmatic way — how many people read literary fiction? — or in a purely formal way — here you are, sitting in a room & inventing people who talk to each other & worrying about whether they’re speaking correctly, and it all reminds me a little of that Vonnegut line about reviewers expressing rage & loathing for a novel being preposterous, “like a person who has put on full armor and attacked a hot fudge sundae.”

The worrying thing for me is how to make it, which is sometimes superseded or confused by the usual preoccupation of, say, a literary review, which is usually more along the lines of, how do we judge this? Having critical training is nice, I guess, if you’re going to make something, but it’s not necessarily helpful while you’re working on draft no. 1.

How do you make this stuff? How funny can you be in these Times? — and I think by that I don’t mean, in these Serious, Serious times where we are presented by Serious issues, but rather in a climate where the thing to do is to be distantly ironic about everything —  because who knows what will happen next?

I mean, I did my high school senior thesis on satire, which I think is what started me getting earnest in the first place, because while satire may be funny, it’s funny in an earnest kind of way, it takes itself seriously enough to aim itself like a weapon, and how, for instance, do you satirize a world that bombs the moon for water? (this is scrawled in my notebook).

This is the problem, because even though Seriousness is probably a form of infectious stupidity, sure, ok (& look at the infectiousness of the Seriousness that’s driven us braying into all sorts of hysterics & barbarities, where not demonstrating the appropriate level of Seriousness disqualifies you from the debate) — but Funny can be an easy way out too.

Now that I think about it, that’s more or less the preoccupation of this essay by Chris Bachelder, which once you get past the table counting the number of exclamation points in Upton Sinclair’s OIL! is actually about the difficulty of satire & the ridiculousness of being earnest & the way you go about trying to negotiate a middle path, the difference being that it’s by someone who kept trying to be a comic writer, whereas I’m rearranging myself from the other end.

I’ll let Bachelder define the crux for me:

I guess one of the things I’m arguing here is that in wanting to engage the world but in reacting against the sincere, naïve, programmatic Novel of Exclamation Points, today’s satirists in fact often end up writing Novels of Wry Gags that are just as superficial, tendentious, and programmatic as a Sinclair novel. We’re no doubt funnier than the muckrakers. We’re more laid-back and resigned to global capitalism. For exclamation points substitute winks. We’re less politically astute and more comically and culturally astute. Despite a 180-degree tonal shift (and with notable exceptions), we really haven’t moved the political novel forward. The beginning of The Jungle is really good (remember? It’s the wedding party—a truly jubilant scene despite the fact (or perhaps because) the participants cannot afford it). The end of The Jungle (the socialist pamphlet part) is almost unreadably bad. It can certainly make you want to flee. But the danger is fleeing from one dead end to another dead end. Doctorow again, speaking of the politically sentimental writers of his childhood: “When it’s all toted up, it may turn out that we’ve written as badly in our time as they did in theirs.”

So. The problem is how to be ambivalent while holding convictions, or how to be earnest without being humorless, or how to be funny without being trite. And I’m writing this, I suppose, out of the feeling that — probably out of a Napoleon complex of short-statured blog readership — I’ve written here in an imperious, over-detached tone at odds with my actual cultural standing, & not done a good job of being inclusive, humorous & self-aware while I grandstand. I don’t think I got around to explaining this, but yes, I know keeping a blog that purports to really like analog things is kind of ridiculous, given, you know, that it’s a blog.

Tomorrow I’ll be back to writing about Basque, which I don’t speak, & local politics, which are hard to understand, & I hope you’re as interested as I am to try to make sense of it all, even though I acknowledge I’m not the best person to be doing the sense-making.

Matter of time

28 January 2010

The Matter of Time (Richard Serra), now at the
Guggenheim in Bilbao, scanned from a postcard a visiting
friend bought for me in the giftshop.


The Guggenheim is the first thing I thought of when I thought of Bilbao. Before I knew anything else about the city, I had a vague mental image of a silver, billowing, sail-like building, blurred green hills behind, something near water. This is particularly ironic because the Guggenheim is, really, still a new building, and because it really doesn’t belong to Bilbao or to the Basques at all. Nonetheless, as a single piece of architecture it’s done more to reshape the city than anything since the steel industry. (Bilbao is Birmingham is Pittsburgh is Glasgow; they’re refranchising the Gugi’s starchitecture to Abu Dhabi).

Funny: it photographs well, but it doesn’t look like much from the street. It faces away from where anybody lives or works; it’s best viewed from a bridge, or the hills overlooking the city, or like a paddle-boat. You occasionally catch glimpses of it, if you’re out that way, down a side alley: an anonymous wall of tarnished silver. It doesn’t loom over the city or mark the skyline—it’s not even central, it’s shunted off to the other end of the Abando, way across the 19th-century extension and as far away from the Casco Viejo’s dank & twisting medieval cobbles as you can get. It’s best viewed, and most dramatic, from the river, which used to be where the docks and the factories and the steelyards were and now is a kind of postindustrial parkway.

At any rate. I’ve seen Serra’s Matter of Time twice since coming here; it’s probably the best reason to visit the Guggenheim (overpriced compared to the Museo de Bellas Artes, which has a bigger collection & is free on Wednesdays). Photographs of it are kind of beside the point—lacking better words, I’ll just reprint here what I wrote in my notebook while sitting in the center of one of those loops of steel:

Richard Serra’s labyrinth: a nautilus, high rust-colored walls, sloped steel, narrowing & widening. An endless feeling, walking through, something about the angles producing a self-renewing feeling of anticipation, of expectation — almost there . . . . A constant sense of being about to arrive, that something decisive is approaching. Deceptively simple.

Appropriate for Bilbao, which has been forging steel since the 6th c.

Being inside the pieces warps your sense of space. You loose yourself. The walls bulge and recede in equal measure. You are made to feel endlessness, momentum, sudden absence of light. Sounds become distant. Someone whistles, a thousand miles away. Far-off footfalls.

The snake [center] is darker than the others, gradients of light near the lip. Stamp your food and the echoes are inhuman. The walls ring like gongs. One spiral feels like it is collapsing, the walls changing color, and you lean to avoid the fall.

A week or so later, Serra came up —one of those moments where what you read all seems to be interrelated— in a Believer interview with Dave Hickey. (About all of these Believer references: I don’t have internet at home. One day, I opened every free online article in the Believer in a tabbed browser so that I’d have something in English to read at night before I go to bed. This is the result.)

DH: Alec Waugh proposes “seriousness” as a form of infectious stupidity. I agree. Actually, Bruce Nauman is pretty funny. Everybody pretends that he’s not, but clown torture is pretty funny! You know? And, uh, I think Peter Saul is funny, he’s very witty, and I think Ellsworth Kelly is not funny but he’s witty, and Ed Ruscha is extremely funny and extremely witty, you know?

SH: I love Serra but he’s not funny.

DH: No, well, but Richard’s smart. And he’s an artist. He can’t talk without drawing. He’s the real fucking thing. Not nice.

SH: Not nice. No, he doesn’t seem so nice. [Laughs]

DH: But Richard’s really fun to go look at art with, because he will look at anything, and he likes to look at art, and when you see him you don’t sit around. He says, “Let’s go look at art,” so that’s what he does. He’s kinda corny because he’s not hip at all. He doesn’t know anybody. He doesn’t know who got AIDS, he doesn’t know who got fired. But he’s a real artist to me anyway.

More photographs — the dumbest way to experience Serra ever — on my tumblr. Tomorrow, I want to take this quotation & think about what seriousness as an infectious form of stupidity might mean.