Sunday, May 29, 2011

"The modern waste land,"

. . . as Eliot describes it, is a place where thought and naked desire have taken the place of feeling and comprehension, which have almost completely atrophied. This situation, as we have already seen, is difficult to grasp precisely because to 'grasp' it is to already have lost it, to have become like the characters in all of Eliot's early poems who can only think, not feel, who know too much but understand nothing. (107)

Gabriel Josipovici is an author, literary critic, Professor of English at the University of Sussex, and Weidenfield Professor of Comparative Literature at Oxford. His novel Moo Pak was The Wolves' selection for the month of July 2010.

Josipovici's 2009 non-fiction work, What Ever Happened to Modernism?, at times reiterates what has been said about Modernism already: namely, that it is art produced in reaction to a disillusionment with old forms arising from a disillusionment with the natural order of things. This creative weariness is said to have originated with the Industrial Revolution and crystallized with the discoveries of Darwin and Einstein which effectively demolished the old humanocentric universe. As H.P. Lovecraft memorably said, the consolidation of this new knowledge "will one day open up such terrifying vistas of reality, and of our frightful position therein, that we shall either go mad from the revelation or flee from the deadly light into the peace and safety of a new dark age." He was also famously overwrought and possessed of a fantastic imagination, but his perception of a vast universe beyond human comprehension was shared by many in the early twentieth century.

I did a post awhile back comparing Lovecraft's cosmic outlook to that of Dante, having been impressed by the exquisite orderliness of The Divine Comedy compared to what I was used to in more recent literature. (With the exception of fantasy works such as Lord of the Rings which are also strictly fictional.) Dante's Christian/neo-Classical vision was a comforting one in which divine justice prevailed and eternal reward or punishment was bestowed upon all those deserving. It was in reading Paradiso that I began to feel a sense of loss or nostalgia that such a worldview was no longer possible except as rigid adherence to archaic dogma. To Josipovici, this is precisely the paradox at the heart of Modernism: both the longing for what is lost and the freedom that said loss enables.
Dante, working in an age when an ordered universe was taken for granted, could build his poem out of a hundred cantos precisely (three canticles of thirty-three cantos plus a prologue) and place his sinners and saints in carefully guarded positions in both Heaven and Hell, while drawing on a rich tradition to bring home to the reader how each of us can be saved and what steps need to be taken. By 1840 all that has long gone. All [Søren] Kierkegaard can do is to try and explore in every way imaginable the troubled heart and soul of the nineteenth-century man, one who has been given his freedom twice over, first by God and then by the French Revolution, but who does not know what to do with it except torment himself with the sense that he is wasting his life. (43)
Another example from music would be Haydn and Beethoven. The former was able to churn out hundreds of compositions since he was working within an established tradition that required obedience to prescribed forms. Beethoven, by contrast, started from scratch each time and for that reason produced only a few symphonies.

Although Kierkegaard and Beethoven are denizens of the nineteenth century, Josipovici differs from other critics by locating of the origins of Modernist thought much further back than is conventional. Certainly its manifestations were most prominent between about 1850 and 1950, Josipovici observes, but to limit Modernism to a single era is to risk turning it into just another movement or period in intellectual history. Modernism is a state of being: "the coming into awareness by art of its precarious status and responsibilities, and therefore something that will, from now on, always be with us" (11). The accepted story is that the rise of Protestantism and Humanism in the sixteenth century liberated Western civilization from the superstition and authority of the Middle Ages, thus paving the way for the Scientific Revolution and eventually the Industrial Revolution and the Modernism that developed as reaction to it. Josipovici argues instead that Protestantism and the Renaissance were symptoms of a shifting cultural landscape to which Martin Luther merely provided a focal point. He discusses a pair of engravings by Albrecht Dürer called Melencolia I and St. Jerome in his Study, both completed in 1514. The former seems to already depict that "disenchantment with the world" so closely identified with Modernism, especially as contrasted to the latter, which evokes a sense of peace and order, of the saint at one with God.

This cosmic/artistic assurance is one of Josipovici's primary themes, appearing as a characteristic of "old-fashioned" art, regardless of the era in which it was actually produced. In fact, Josipovici attributes it to many living writers, composers, and painters whose art is, well, artificial: self-contained and dead. The very foundation of Modernism is art's interrogation of its own purpose in the absence of an established tradition. The "dreariness of 'the marquis went out at five'" is scorned by writers who "hunger for that 'relentless contact"' and a "form of fiction which transcends the anecdotal" (166). Josipovici relies mostly on case studies here, such as that of Cézanne, who was an enormous influence on ensuing generations of avant-garde painters.
According to art critic Maurice Merleau-Ponty, landscape painting before Cézanne consisted of flat representation that effectively steamrolled multiple visual impressions into a unified whole.
Landscapes painted in this way have a peaceful look, an air of respectable decency, which comes of their being held beneath a gaze fixed at infinity. They remain at a distance and do not involve the viewer. They are polite company: the gaze passes without hindrance over a landscape which offers no resistance to this supremely easy movement. (93)
Josipovici links this to the use of the passé simple (or récit) in the traditional novel which implies, according to critic Roland Barthes, a hidden storyteller or chronicler and places the verb "in a casual chain, [that] participates in a group of actions which are of a piece and forward driven, it functions as the algebraic sign of an intention" (80). Such novels are neatly packaged, episodic, and bear no resemblance to real world's spontaneity and uncertainty.

To reduce our visual impressions to a singular view "kills their trembling life," says Merleau-Ponty (94). It was Cézanne who first realized that nature does not conform to the guidelines laid out in "how to paint" manuals and sought to portray on canvas how the mountain actually was and not how he, the painter, simply saw it. There is no such thing as background or foreground; these are narrative forms imposed upon nature to render it coherent to the human eye, just as the Right Hegelians used to whittle history down to a convenient tale to assert the historical inevitability of existing institutions (to give another instance of an artificial construct made to represent reality). While the struggle against the dead hand of contingency may be a futile one, Cézanne, according to Merleau-Ponty, was a successful genius whose landscapes depict an "emerging order" when the myriad "perspectival distortions" are viewed globally (95). As far as literature goes in this vein, Josipovici sees T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" as the momentary vision of an Everyman reflecting on his life in opposition to the ongoing enterprise of art itself: "In the room the women come and go / Talking of Michelangelo" goes the refrain. He rolls the bottoms of his flannel trousers and walks upon the beach, hearing the mermaids singing to each other but not to him, leaving Prufrock in the tenuous position of knowing what will give his life meaning but finding it just out of reach. The endcap "each to each," Josipovici observes, is circular and "turns in on itself" (126). The poem seems to disintegrate with the closing verses, reminding us that it only exists as long as we read it.

While again, Modernism may seem like a relatively recent phenomenon, Josipovici argues convincingly that it is not. Nor is it necessarily the future of art that has rendered all conventional forms obsolete. As in Moo Pak, Josipovici takes aim at the current state of literary affairs by decrying Oprah-esque sob stories, Big Important Tomes about Bosnia and Rwanda, and the emptiness of contemporary British literature as a bunch of prep boys showing off their shock value. A particular offender is Irène Némirovsky's Suite Française, written in 1941 during the invasion of France, and then forgotten at the bottom of a suitcase after Némirovsky, a Russian Jew who had converted to Catholicism, was deported and murdered in Auschwitz. The novel's backstory is very interesting and tragic and all, Josipovici admits, but that hardly makes it a Great Book thanks to the "clichés of the middlebrow novel [used] without embarrassment, quickly filling in the background and sketching in her chosen representative family with the minimum of fuss, then cutting to the cat so as to convey the sense of ordinary life going on regardless of the great events that are unfolding" (168). The second passage he quotes demonstrates his point much better, as the "cadenced phrases," tidy description, and blatant symbolism jar badly with the chaos of battle. Josipovici contrasts Némirovsky to a WWI novel by Claude Simon, but I thought the stream-of-conscious ramblings of Mathias Énard's Zone would be another great illustration of his point.

Still, as with Moo Pak, I cannot help but to feel that there is silencing at work here – that Josipovici is telling survivors to go Modernist or shut up. It's quite contradictory that he feels Modernist literature to be closer to life yet is willing to dismiss authors with actual life experience that needs to be heard. And while I prefer more experimental literature myself and am especially partial to Modernist writers, I think it is a mistake to dismiss the traditional novel as somehow out of touch. Zone features a novel-in-a-novel told using conventional forms (passé simple, omniscient third person narration) that would be quite powerful and illuminating on its own. In fact, Énard's narrator identifies with it quite strongly, and there seems to be a strong case here for a diversity of voices and the legitimacy of traditional formats. By his own admission in the beginning, much of what Josipovici says here is subjective and a difference of opinion is encouraged. While I find his conclusions on the contemporary state of Modernism problematic, What Ever Happened to Modernism? is overall an enjoyable read that is scholarly yet never academic. Its case for Modernism's longer reach is a compelling one and quite accessible to a broad audience.




Gabriel Josipovici's What Ever Happened to Modernism? was The Wolves' reading selection for May. Please feel free to join us for the rest! You can find the complete book list here.

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I'm still here.

I went to the mountains with my family on Friday and will return on Monday. Not only have I been busy with Memorial Weekend but my Internet connection is very sketchy. Am working on my Josipovici post using Word and will hopefully have it up later today.

Update: I have most of it done, actually, I'm just having difficulty writing my conclusion. I always have this problem.

Tuesday, May 24, 2011

Top 10 8 Books I Have Lied About


It's been awhile since I've done one of these. This week's topic is books you deny having read, guilty pleasures you keep secret, books you pretend you've read, and other literary activities about which you have not been forthright. In no particular order:

8. Fan fiction

Believe it or not, some of it is damn good.

7. Star Trek books

I've never really hid this per se but I don't advertise it either.

6. V.C. Andrews

Let's make this clear: I DO NOT READ THESE BOOKS ANYMORE. That was a high school anomaly! And they wasn't even the original ones that she actually wrote - it was that formulaic crap churned out by ghost writer Andrew Neiderman. I cringe whenever I think about it.

5. Sweet Valley High series

I WAS ELEVEN OKAY???

4. Jean Baudrillard

French postmodern philosopher, theorist, cultural critic. I've talked about his ideas several times on this blog but I've never actually read him. I confess: all my information about Simulacra and Simulacron comes from Wikipedia.

3. Bentley Little, The Return

I bought this book in high school while on vacation. It was awful. Absolutely horrible. And yet - I occasionally come back to it. In retrospect, it was actually my first introduction to Lovecraftian horror, and I think what intrigued me about The Return is everything I've come to love about the Cthulhu Mythos: madness, ancient horrors, depraved cults worshiping godlike monsters, the vast unknowingness of the universe. So yeah, it's a cheap, silly ripoff, but one of an author I'm quite fond of.

2. Yaoi

I read, like, five mangas. And then I realized how stupid and problematic it was.

1. The Vagina Monologues

This one I feel guilty about. Even as a feminist, I have to admit I'm uncomfortable with it. Not because of the subject matter or the word "vagina" itself but because it sounds like Eva Ensler is just doing what misogynists have always done: reducing women to a sexual body part. I got into an argument about this in college and actually lied about reading it. I ended up bluffing my way through. Feel free to hate me.



Top Ten Tuesday is an original feature/weekly meme created at
The Broke and the Bookish. This meme was created because we are particularly fond of lists at The Broke and the Bookish. We'd love to share our lists with other bookish folks and would LOVE to see your top ten lists! Each week we will post a new Top Ten list complete with one of our bloggers' answers. Everyone is welcome to join. If you don't have a blog, just post your answers as a comment. Don't worry if you can't come up with ten every time . . . just post what you can!

Thursday, May 19, 2011

"The key of joy is disobedience."



"Eternitas" by Satyrian

Black horizons drape the autumn skies
The moon is rising, the night bird flies
We came from beyond the woods of ancient trees
New lively mortal
Passion bleeds

Gates of time arise in the night
From the cave of mystery and delight
Eternitas. . .
Owl of the nightfall fleets the sky
Eternitas. . .
Eternal gates of light and dark
Eternitas. . .
Owl of the nightfall fleets the sky
Eternitas. . .
Eternal gates of light turn dark

Until night's black velvet burns to crimson
Sister of the earth, thy moon's arisen
With love and knowledge drove our innocence
The key of joy is disobedience

Gates of time arise in the night
From the cave of mystery and delight
Eternitas. . .
Owl of the nightfall fleets the sky
Eternitas. . .
Eternal gates of light and dark
Eternitas. . .
Owl of the nightfall fleets the sky
Eternitas. . .
Eternal gates of light turn dark

We came from beyond the threshold of the infinite
New lively mortal, the warmth of passion bleeds

Eternitas. . .
Owl of the nightfall fleets the sky
Eternitas. . .
Eternal gates of light and dark
Eternitas. . .
Owl of the nightfall fleets the sky
Eternitas. . .
Eternal gates of light turn dark
Eternitas. . .
Eternitas. . .
Eternitas. . .
Eternitas. . .

Friday, May 13, 2011

Bookshelves in the Bathroom?

Apartment Therapy has an interesting theme going on. First it was "The Bathroom as a Room" then "Totally Gorgeous Toilets" and, most recently "Art in the Bathroom," among others. But this got my attention!


"Bookshelves in the Bathroom". Hmmm, you know, I love this photo. So very dreamy and serene. But realistically, I feel the same way as I did about that distressed walls inspiration post. They're lovely pictures and all and I would certainly put one in a frame on my wall, but they're just not liveable (unless said walls are in an old village in France or Italy). As far as the books go, the humidity will destroy them and the bookcase itself will probably just be out of place, like one of those "circle the items that don't belong here" picture games.


This looks like they didn't have enough room in elsewhere in the house. And then there's the manners issue. Seeing a stack of reading material in the bathroom is way TMI. Ugh.


An entire magazine rack? Really?


Great decor is marred.


I suppose this is more tasteful but . . . yeah, still not feelin' it. Look, if you want to have a big old bookshelf filled with antique leather volumes to go with the crumbling wall in the vintage bathroom of your medieval Tuscan villa . . . do take a picture and send it to me.

Tuesday, May 10, 2011

"It was hot and humid, the darkness sultry."

. . . It was hard to keep my eyelids open. I wished I could sleep. I wasn't awake enough to fall asleep. And I wasn't really asleep enough to pull myself awake. Trapped in that space between drowsiness and sleep. Somebody once told me that in situations like this, the only option is to adapt. Otherwise, it becomes unbearable. The first step in adapting is to practice forgetfulness. Oblivion.

Rashid al-Daif was born in 1945 in Zhgarta, a region in northern Lebanon populated largely by Maronite Christians. Like many leftist, secular Christians, he spent the civil war in West Beirut, an area known as the "targeted zone" between political and religious loyalties. The experience left him disillusioned with Marxist analytical thought, which felt dry and hollow in the face of history's onslaught. I needed "confession, screaming, and holding pain up in the face of recklessness," he recalled, and subsequently "went back to literature." For only the language of literature, al-Daif found, is as volatile as reality itself. (From the introduction by translator Nirvana Tanoukhi.)

First published in 1986, the original Arabic title of Passage to Dusk is Fus'hah mustahdafah bayna al-nu'as walnawn, which transliterates into "a targeted, or intentional, zone or space, in between drowsiness and sleep." True to its al-Daif's creative philosophy, the story is unstable and constantly shifting. The narrator has returned home after a shell blew his arm off and landed him in the hospital. The building superintendent tells him that his cousin arrived several days ago with his pregnant, widowed sister-in-law and her young son, and that he has lodged them in the narrator's empty apartment. They're still there and he hopes he doesn't mind. But anything beyond that is a waking dream. The narrator spends most of the time in bed, where the feverish heat merges with his PTSD visions in a fugue of unending violence and sexual energy. His voice is muted but his words describe a world dominated by the forces of passion - for faith, party, people - that sweep everyone and everything along in all their tragic senselessness. Beirut is suspended, caught in a zone where the only thing that moves is the cycle of destruction.

At only 100 pages, Passage to Dusk is condensed to what feels like the dream of a single night. Bombs, bloodshed, falling buildings, and sectional warfare have been a universal story throughout the twentieth century, but al-Daif's surrealism is an unusual interpretation. Haunting and evocative, Passage to Dusk is best read in a single sitting to best drive home its visceral impact.

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Monday, May 9, 2011

New Books from Around the World

My TBR list for the next month or two. See, I go to this great secondhand bookstore right up the street from me intending to buy gifts for some upcoming birthdays, and instead I find all these great international titles and end up shopping for myself! (The first one, however, is the upcoming Peirene Press release, so that's a review copy.)

Moody Scandinavian thrillers and Asian coming-of-age seem to be the big themes.

Netherlands (2007)

A story about anger, aggression and the desire for intimacy by a rising star of modern Dutch literature.

A professional boxer and a family man meet by chance on a journey to the Pamplona Bull Run. The boxer is fleeing an unhappy love. The father hopes to escape his dull routine. Both know that, eventually, they will have to return to the place each calls “home”.


Egypt (1943)

Written in the 1940s, this novel by the Egyptian Nobel laureate Mahfouz deals with the plight of impoverished classes in an old quarter of Cairo. The lives and situations depicted create an atmosphere of sadness and tragic realism. Indeed, few of the characters are happy or successful. Protagonist Hamida, an orphan raised by a foster mother, is drawn into prostitution. Kirsha, the owner of a cafe in the alley, is a drug addict and a lustful homosexual. Zaita makes a living by disfiguring people so that they can become successful beggars. Transcending time and place, the social issues treated here are relevant to many Arab countries today. With this satisfying tale, Mahfouz, often called the Charles Dickens of Arabic literature, achieves a high level of excellence as a novelist and storyteller. Highly recommended.

Germany (2000)

Nobel laureate Grass's deft new collection of stories thoroughly and intimately marks the passing of the 20th century. Comprising 100 monologues, each named after a year of the century and spoken by characters who represent a broad spectrum of German society, the work becomes the literary equivalent of a choral symphony. The stories include the reminiscences of ex-Nazis about their activities in 1934; a dead woman's perspective on Germany after the crumble of the Berlin Wall (1999); a delirious letter by the turn-of-the-century poet Else Lasker-Schüler (found by the story's narrator in a used book), in which she imagines herself to be 20 years younger than she is (1901); and the author's descriptions of his beleaguered personal life (1987). Several entries establish some continuity from year to year, while other segments clash brilliantly with each other. The volume progresses less like a narrative than like an argument, each year's oral history advancing the thesis that history and personal identity are inextricably linked. . . Grass (The Tin Drum) concludes with the memories of a 103-year-old woman who has been brought back to life by her novelist son for the purposes of his fiction. As she says: "I'm also looking forward to the year 2000. We'll see what comes of it... "

Sweden (1999)

Eric Winter, at 40, is Sweden's youngest chief inspector, but his brow is already starting to furrow in the manner of Henning Mankell's Kurt Wallander. In this American debut of what promises to be a superior procedural series, a plethora of seemingly insoluble problems contribute to Winter's sense of growing discontent: his father is dying in Spain; his pregnant girlfriend is moving into his apartment; and a bloody double murder suggests a serial killer. As in the Wallander series, the focus here lands not only on the hero but also on his entire team, as Edwardson details the slow grind of the investigative process. The action, beginning in fall 1999 and extending into spring 2000, effectively uses the Y2K panic to heighten the sense of troubled waters approaching that grips Winter and those around him. The comparison to Mankell is obvious, but in many ways, this series harkens further back, to Sjowall and Wahloo's early Martin Beck novels, in which another youngish Swedish inspector was beginning to realize that sometimes a crime's solution solves nothing.

Denmark (1992)

A stunning literary thriller in the tradition of Gorky Park and the novels of John Le Carré.

Smilla Qaaviqaaq Jaspersen is the daughter of a Danish doctor and an Inuit woman from Greenland. Raised in Greenland, she lives in Copenhagen and, as befits her ancestry, is an expert on snow. When one of her few friends, an Inuit boy, dies under mysterious circumstances, she refuses to believe it was an accident.

She decides to investigate and discovers that even the police don't want her involved. But Smilla persists, and as snow-covered Copenhagen settles down for a quiet Christmas, Smilla's investigation leads her from a fanatically religious accountant, to a tough-talking pathologist, to the secret files of the Danish company responsible for extracting most of Greenland's mineral wealth. Finally, she boards a ship with an international cast of villains - and a large stash of cocaine - bound for a mysterious mission on an inhospitable island off Greenland.

China/France (2001)

As the Japanese military invades 1930s Manchuria, a young girl approaches her own sexual coming of age. Drawn into a complex triangle with two boys, she distracts herself from the onslaught of adulthood by playing the game of go with strangers in a public square - and yet the force of desire, like the occupation, proves inevitable. Unbeknownst to the girl who plays go, her most worthy and frequent opponent is a Japanese soldier in disguise. Captivated by her beauty as much as by her bold, unpredictable approach to the strategy game, the soldier finds his loyalties challenged. Is there room on the path to war for that most revolutionary of acts: falling in love?


Japan (1988)

In this translation of a best-selling novel first published in Japan in 1987, the young narrator, Mikage, moves into the apartment of a friend whose mother is murdered early in the tale. What seems like a coming-of-age melodrama quickly evolves into a deeply moving tale filled with unique characters and themes. Along the way, readers get a taste of contemporary Japan, with its mesh of popular American food and culture. Mikage addresses the role of death, loneliness, and personal as well as sexual identity through a set of striking circumstances and personal remembrances. "Moonlight Shadows," a novella included here, is a more haunting tale of loss and acceptance. In her simple and captive style, Yoshimoto confirms that art is perhaps the best ambassador among nations.

All reviews are from either Amazon or Barnes & Noble.

Wednesday, May 4, 2011

"I walked over to the radio and pressed the button that said Phonograph."

The Guinea Pigs
By Ludvík Vaculík
Translated from Czech by Kača Poláčková
179 pages

Open Letter Press
May 17, 2011





. . . I turned off the speaker and locked the pickup arm. Then I went back to the table where Ruprecht was waiting. I carried him over to the phonograph and wondered what speed I should choose for him. First I tried thirty-three rpm. He huddled down on the turntable and made jerky movements with his head, but otherwise he didn't show any distinct attitude towards what was going on. In his voluntary helplessness, he was incapable of moving closer to the center of the revolving turntable, so that he might keep his nose from bumping against the rim of the phonograph. I was beginning to get made at him. I stopped the motor and changed the speed to seventy-six. But that was senseless; at that speed Ruprecht was swept off the turntable and he fell behind the pickup.

Ludvík Vaculík (1926-) is a Czech writer know internationally for his novels The Axe and The Guinea Pigs, as well as a volume of essays called A Cup of Coffee with My Interrogator. A progressive member of Czechoslovakia's Communist party, he was ousted for his manifesto Two Thousand Words that had galvanized the Czech people during the Prague Spring of 1968 and alarmed the Soviet Union. For decades Vaculík faced constant persecution and his writings were censored. From 1971 to 1989 he ran a samizdat publishing house called Padlock Editions that printed and distributed over 400 banned books.

1973's Morcata (The Guinea Pigs, translated by Kača Poláčková) concerns the misadventures of one Vašek. Vašek lives in Prague and has a wife named Eva and two sons. Every day Vašek goes to work at the State Bank where he and most of the other employees routinely try to steal money, only to have it confiscated by the guards when they leave. But the confiscated money never returns to the bank's reserves. This is very odd. His elderly colleague "Mr. Maelstrom" believes the bank intends to suddenly flood the monetary supply and drive Czechoslavakia into a depression. Meanwhile, Vašek's family has acquired several guinea pigs, starting with an albino female named Albínka, followed by a male named Ruprecht, the short-lived Red, and Red the Second. Vašek is very fond of his new pets. The narrative is framed as his hidden manuscript, addressed to an imaginary audience of children, chronicling the weirdness and mystery that daily envelopes him.

Many of the books I've read from Eastern Europe during the Cold War era have a clear Kafka influence, as articulated by Milan Kundera in The Wall in My Head anthology. The expanded role of the state under communism meant greater intrusion into citizens' lives in the form of an opaque and incomprehensible maze of bureaucracy. In the face of such an omnipresent system, the individual is caught up, pulled in various directions, and sometimes ground up in the gears. Not surprisingly, Vašek has gone a bit nuts. He cares for the guinea pigs, he really does. He never explains why exactly he tries to drown Ruprecht in the bathtub or traps him in the window until he nearly freezes or tempts a cat with Red the Second. He does say he wants to hold them in his hands but that only adds yet more incongruity. From the guinea pigs' perspective (and not to mention the reader's), Vašek and his motives are as enigmatic as those of the bank are to Vašek.

The Guinea Pigs is not ostensibly a political novel. It is one man's account of his daily life, dissonantly cheerful and peppered with dark humor. It is a novel of irony: Vašek lacks any self-awareness whatsoever and doesn't consciously recognize how he, his family, and the guinea pigs are linked as the playthings of unknown forces. The power of the story is in the juxtaposition of menace and absurdity that captures the mood of an oppressive society without resorting to documentary-style portrayals of arrests, censorship, and suchlike. It is reminiscent of Mercè Rodoreda's Death in Spring in that respect, as an indirect protest. Ludvík Vaculík brings us a unique and creative take on life behind the Wall that is either amusing or disturbing or both.





Review Copy

Tuesday, May 3, 2011

Sweet Sleeping Cthulhu

I log onto Facebook and find that this redneck I knew in high school had posted the following message a total of forty-four times over a half-hour period:


oh noes! teh negros haz viktory! mah hed asplodes!

Seriously, how desperate can you be?

To give you more context - several months ago he posted a comment full of n-bombs about how if it's okay for black people to be racist against white people, then we can be racist against them too! Apparently he was angry over an interview with some NFL player and decided a dumbass jock represented every black person in the country.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

"This austere skepticism is not so much balanced as complicated by a giddy submission to the mystical."

. . . A true, perfect history of mankind lies elsewhere, inaccessible to man as long as he is led along by his corrupt eyes, touch, hearing, taste, and sense of smell, but perceptible perhaps to the undisturbed motion of the soul. ("Tenebrian Chronicles")

- Not so outré as all that. Didn't Plato say as much? And what of sensible John Locke? Surely it is naïve to believe that the senses are reliable interpreters of all reality. The senses don't see gravity, or electricity or intelligence, and yet we believe these things exist. ("The Parlour Game")

Paul Glennon is a Canadian author who works in the software industry. He is currently writing a trilogy for children called Bookweirder about a young boy who enters the world of books and has to piece plots back together.

According to Glennon's Afterward, the idea for The Dodecahedron, or A Frame for Frames grew from his thoughts about the "geometry of short story collections." In most cases, he observed, the stories follow a continuity similar to that of the novel, progressing through a series of developments until a resolution in the final story. Instead of this "cyclical" geometry, Glennon wanted to produce a unified collection where each story could nevertheless stand on its own and linear order was irrelevant. He also looked to the Oulipo principles that guided another one of our reads, Georges Perec's Life: A User's Manual, and set A Frame for Frames within certain constraints based on the geometry of the twelve-sided dodecahedron. Each of the twelve stories represents one of the dodecahedron's faces, which are pentagonal. These five sides in turn stand for the relationships between the stories: each one must refer to or be referred to by each of the five stories adjacent to it. And so the book's shifting perspectives and all-out Mind Screw were born.

A Frame for Frames is difficult to describe without spoilers. Common themes include an ancient Vatican conspiracy to hide the New World, messages in bottles, the Arctic, the production of fiction by machines or artificial intelligence, the philosophical notion of transcendent paragons (or "types"), and variations on the tale of Scheherazade. Several genres are present in addition to the standard short story, including fantasy, memoir, the children's story, the magazine article, academic paper, adventure fiction, and what seems to be the opening chapter to a novel. Regardless of the order in which you read, the collection as a whole unfolds like endlessly deconstructing origami. The stories both contradict and reinforce one another in a disorienting flux that leaves reality itself in doubt with the faint image of the underlying dodecahedron as the only point of stability. In the self-contained universe of the The Dodecahedron, it is the symbol of ultimate reality - that spiritual truth glimpsed at by monks in the prolonged Arctic night or a casual conversation about said monks at a modern cocktail party. But wait - are the Tenebrian manuscripts just a hoax???

The Dodecahedron, or A Frame for Frames is a constant surprise and one of the most marvelous books we've ever read. The stories themselves are individually gripping in their own ways and the concepts they introduce are delicious food for thought. I would like to thank Sarah for choosing this one and look forward to the responses of the other Wolves.




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Paul Glennon's The Dodecahedron, or A Frame for Frames was The Wolves' reading selection for April. Please feel free to join us for the rest! You can find the complete book list here.
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