On Hysterical Realism

[liehtzu]

Recently posted this on another forum (over at Goodreads), but will re-post here for discussion:

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James Wood popped up on the back cover of my recently-purchased Collected Stories of Vladimir Nabokov - "a tutor in exquisiteness" was his contribution to the field of Nabokov jacket blurbs, and he's dead right. It's so good, this book, just breathtakingly great, and while reading it I began to wonder who would get the kind of kick out of it that I do. I don't think many would, really. I think most people would find it dull. But I got to wondering: Who is this James Wood? Why has this name flitted across my radar on a number of occasions recently? What is it trying to tell me? So I dug around online for Mr. Wood, and came across an article of his written just after the September 11 event in The Guardian that stirred some passionate responses. Wood has also written some books on literary criticism I haven't read. Here is the article:

Tell me how does it feel? | Books | The Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/oct/06/fiction)

and here is Zadie Smith's response:

This is how it feels to me | Books | The Guardian (http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2001/oct/13/fiction.afghanistan)

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After posting the above on the other forum there were mostly digs at Wood ("he just doesn't like postmodernism") and glib responses along the lines of the kind of writing Wood denounces. So I offered up my take, because I seemed to be in the minority of finding Wood largely on-target. Here we go:



For me it's the tedious frivolity and self-absorption of these kinds of books. They're not written by stupid people, they just demonstrate a very superficial sort of intelligence, the manic chatter of the short attention-span age. Or as Wood says:

novels of immense self-consciousness with no selves in them at all, curiously arrested and very "brilliant" books that know a thousand things but do not know a single human being.

I like the word "arrested" here: these books and their celebrators spring from the same mentality that tells people they ought to take Batmen and the angst of callow adults seriously. Batmen and Harry Potter and Gee-I-gots-middle-class-blues are celebrations of never having emerged from teenagerdom. And to justify that retrograde thinking, we must now dub comic books graphic novels.

The point Wood is making is not that literature shouldn't be "a broad church," or that all books have to be Important and make Monumental Declarations on the State of the Human Condition, but that the flippant, oh-so-ironic, I'm-real-real-good-at-Trivial-Pursuit-yup is what dominates the "literary" scene today. Wood traces it to Underworld and its imitators, but I think it goes further back: the twin towers of Catcher in the Rye and Gravity's Rainbow, books which whatever their literary merits have wrought the twin phenoms of navel-gazing whine and diarrhetic sentences with much loopy character names - Zaggy Goosewallow, say - that flit between the conspiracy to assassinate Lenin pre-revolutionary St Petersburg and the tragic business failure of Zaggy's lemonade stand in that blissful summer when Hootie and the Blowfish was all the rage. I mean, who gives a shit?

Right now I'm tied up with two Russian books: Nabokov's stories, mostly translations of stuff he wrote in the '20s and '30s, and Nadezhda Mandelstam's Hope Abandoned, about the dreariness and terror of Stalinist Russia and her husband poet's life before his deportation to the Siberian labor camp where like so many others he would simply disappear (it wasn't until many years later that she started to unearth information about his last days). I think they're both great, but for very different reasons. They are totally different people, and surely it would be an uncomfortable thing for them to be in a room together (Mandelstam even makes a point to say she doesn't like Nabokov in her memoir). Nabokov, with his impeccably constructed sentences, his lightness and brilliance, his aristocratic melancholy, and Mandelstam, the old woman who's endured unimaginable hardship behind the Iron Curtain and lived to tell the tale, whose life was devoted solely to preserving her husband's works from being annihilated in the same way his body was, and whose book is primarily valuable as a record of her times: here we have to personalities who both have places in Zadie Smith's "church of literature." What unites them is seriousness of purpose. Both are scornful of what they see as bad art. Nabokov, for all his lightness, is not flippant, or smug, or smitten with how cool and clever he is. He was dead serious about his work, and the language in this book of his is so beautiful, it gives you the shivers, it can break your heart. One of the lesser stories of this book, one sliver, is worth than the latest 800-page tome of post-modernist drivel.



So...

[beelzebubbles]

I have to say I agree with Miss Smith. My response to your post is this, "why has it got to be either/or?

The callow characters in the cushy world full of the distractions they catalog in their prose are suffering as are the characters living in oppressive or impoverished places. One is just a much more comfortable form of suffering that encourages a kind of arrested spiritual development instead of the twisted development of those who suffer greater hardship.

Though I have to admit that I don't care about Mcinerney, Easton Ellis, or Dave Eggars.

So I may be in your boat, on your team (pick the exhausted metaphor of your choice), but I am not worked up about it.

Thanks for posting those articles.

[e joseph]

I mean, who gives a shit?

Clearly lots of folks do or the literary scene wouldn't look the way it does. Without lots of people giving a shit you wouldn't have this topic to rail against.



It's so good, this book, just breathtakingly great, and while reading it I began to wonder who would get the kind of kick out of it that I do. I don't think many would, really. I think most people would find it dull.

So what would make this work more valuable then that of someone like Pynchon, who seems to appeal to a wider audience? I'm not claiming that popularity equals value, I just feel that dismissing something that a lot of people connect with while lauding the greatness of something else that alienates most people sometimes misses the point of human existence.



I like the word "arrested" here: these books and their celebrators spring from the same mentality that tells people they ought to take Batmen and the angst of callow adults seriously. Batmen and Harry Potter and Gee-I-gots-middle-class-blues are celebrations of never having emerged from teenagerdom. And to justify that retrograde thinking, we must now dub comic books graphic novels.

One of my biggest hallmarks for teenagerdom is getting hung up on people liking things that they themselves just don't get. When I was in high school it drove me nuts that people liked all the crappy music that I heard on the radio. I was the one that really got it man; I understood that the best music was being played in tiny clubs in dirty parts of the city by bands that would never make it big. And while I still think I was right (that part of teenagerdom I'm sticking to!), I think it was foolish of me to write off what most people found value in as "worthless" and champion my own likes as being what truly mattered.

I guess the point I'd like to make is that getting hung up on what others like and you don't seems kind of pointless. If you don't care for Gravity's Rainbow, don't read books like Gravity's Rainbow. With that said, when someone talks about the great relevance of postmodern fiction, I'm not suggesting quietly standing by. Going on an unprompted attack on "who gives a shit" books seems a little teenagerish to me though.

[liehtzu]

Clearly lots of folks do or the literary scene wouldn't look the way it does. Without lots of people giving a shit you wouldn't have this topic to rail against.My apologies for my ineptly worded question. I'll rephrase: Why do people give a shit?


So what would make this work more valuable then that of someone like Pynchon, who seems to appeal to a wider audience? I'm not claiming that popularity equals value, I just feel that dismissing something that a lot of people connect with while lauding the greatness of something else that alienates most people sometimes misses the point of human existence. I have no gripes with Pynchon. My gripes are with his poor imitators. Although reviews of recent Pynchon novels suggest that the author may be verging on self-parody, I'll concede that one of the major critics who dismissed Pynchon's latest is that stirring genius Kakutani Machiko of the New York Times, who begins her review of our latest Pulitzer Prize winner, which sounds more like the sort of thing I was thinking of when I wrote the above, thus:

Junot D?az?s ?Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao? is a wondrous, not-so-brief first novel that is so original it can only be described as Mario Vargas Llosa meets ?Star Trek? meets David Foster Wallace meets Kanye West.

I can't be the only one here who shudders at the thought of such a novel, or at Ms. Kakutani's sloppy shorthand.


One of my biggest hallmarks for teenagerdom is getting hung up on people liking things that they themselves just don't get.Funny, I tend to think of it more as one of the biggest hallmarks of crankyoldmanism.


When I was in high school it drove me nuts that people liked all the crappy music that I heard on the radio. I was the one that really got it man; I understood that the best music was being played in tiny clubs in dirty parts of the city by bands that would never make it big.That's lovely. I sympathize with the feeling. However, I'll have to maintain that the biggest hallmarks of teenagerdom is a startling conformity. You're talking about the malcontents, who were surely in the minority. But no worries - if you're not a rebel by twenty you've got no heart, and if you haven't gone establishment by thirty you've got no brain, right?


And while I still think I was right (that part of teenagerdom I'm sticking to!), I think it was foolish of me to write off what most people found value in as "worthless" and champion my own likes as being what truly mattered. Hmm... I see what you're saying, but I've said all along that it's not a matter of what I don't like. I don't personally dig a number of things that I'll still concede have literary (or other) merit. Your argument is an apology for mediocrity, and part of the trend in our oh-so-civilized society that everything has value and that everyone is a special and important human being, when in actuality very little in our society has value - and that which does is usually ignored, floating in along with some stray litter in a corner of the massive lake of everything-has-merit - and most people are barely awake.

Ah, I can forsee the response already: I'm betting on a snide "You're so valuable, liehtzu, you're so awake, we should bow to your superiority." Which is exactly the tiresome response I tend to get around here. But I don't honestly want to start arguments, I don't want everyone to agree with me, that's not the point. I'd like to have a nice, (fairly) civil discussion about this, without (too much) namecalling and knee-jerk responses. Because I think it's important to think about these things.


I guess the point I'd like to make is that getting hung up on what others like and you don't seems kind of pointless. If you don't care for Gravity's Rainbow, don't read books like Gravity's Rainbow. I've never read it. A very good friend of mine thinks it's the greatest thing since (sliced bread), and he's a gentleman and a scholar. However, my timid dips into it have shown rather quickly that it's just not my thing.

[beelzebubbles]

One of my biggest hallmarks for teenagerdom is getting hung up on people liking things that they themselves just don't get. When I was in high school it drove me nuts that people liked all the crappy music that I heard on the radio. I was the one that really got it man; I understood that the best music was being played in tiny clubs in dirty parts of the city by bands that would never make it big.

Holden Caulfield? Is that you?

[e joseph]

Funny, I tend to think of it more as one of the biggest hallmarks of crankyoldmanism.
------------------------------------------------
Ah, I can forsee the response already: I'm betting on a snide "You're so valuable, liehtzu, you're so awake, we should bow to your superiority." Which is exactly the tiresome response I tend to get around here. But I don't honestly want to start arguments, I don't want everyone to agree with me, that's not the point. I'd like to have a nice, (fairly) civil discussion about this, without (too much) namecalling and knee-jerk responses. Because I think it's important to think about these things.

Dear Jerkass,
I kid, I kid. I'm hoping that my last post didn't come across as snide. If it did, I apologize. One of the signs that I'm moving into crankyoldmanity is my need to argue against something that I don't entirely disagree with. I think the only problem I have with this discussion is the idea of devaluing authors and works that some readers enjoy and connect with. Snobbery when it comes to books is a pet peeve of mine and the original post veered close enough to strike a nerve.


Your argument is an apology for mediocrity, and part of the trend in our oh-so-civilized society that everything has value and that everyone is a special and important human being, when in actuality very little in our society has value - and that which does is usually ignored, floating in along with some stray litter in a corner of the massive lake of everything-has-merit - and most people are barely awake.

First off, I like your metaphorical lake. Well put. And while I agree with what you're getting at, I'm uneasy conceding that all of these "postmodern" books are mediocre. If reader after reader truly enjoys and connects with some of these books, I hesitate to call them unimportant or of less value then say a work of Nabokov. What I'm getting at is that I've seen enough folks declare the brilliance of Infinite Jest that I'm not willing to say that it's a case of the teacher giving it a gold star because it tried its hardest. Some books sure, but not all. I'll have to leave it there for someone who appreciates these works to defend them.


I'll rephrase: Why do people give a shit?

Ah crap, now it's harder to argue with this question. I'm going to have to dodge pretending to know why people give a shit about the "poor imitators" of Pynchon (to group the fiction we're talking about under one convenient label - convenient for me at least). Truth be told, I haven't read most of the authors under attack; however, I'll make a few generalities, most of which will I'm sure be invalid and pointed out later as such.

It seems to me that most people enjoy the familiar, in music, movies, food, books, etc. Not necessarily a replica, which is seen as boring, but something familiar. If it's slightly different from what we're used to (Dave Eggers maybe?) we feel like we're branching out, experiencing something new, yet it's familiar enough that we know we're supposed to like it. It's safe, there's a context to put it in so we're not confused. We like it before we experience it. This sort of post-Pynchon lit works doubly well because reference after reference also gives us that feeling of familiarity. I know who Cheech and Chong are! Hey, I saw that episode of Diff'rent Strokes! Schlitz beer is awesome! And so on...

Unfortunately for you (and all of us really), the easier something is to copy, the more imitators you end up with. I'm not suggesting Pynchon is easily copied, but parts of his style are, which is maybe why we end up with all those poor imitators. And if some authors can be described as such, I would guess in a few more years, you won't be the only one tagging them with that label. Shall we say you're ahead of your time?

Non-postmodern examples: How many Kafkaesque books do I really have to read? Why not read some Kafka and move on? "Southern gothic"? I'm a sucker for it.


Junot D?az’s “Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” is a wondrous, not-so-brief first novel that is so original it can only be described as Mario Vargas Llosa meets “Star Trek” meets David Foster Wallace meets Kanye West. editors note: not Liehtzu's actual words or thoughts.

This quote alone pretty much wins you any argument that could ensue on this topic.


if you haven't gone establishment by thirty you've got no brain, right?

I had to do that by thirty?! Crap. Cue the song by the scarecrow and I'll do a funny little dance. Sorry, had to postmodern this post up and toss in a cultural reference or two.


I've never read it. A very good friend of mine thinks it's the greatest thing since (sliced bread), and he's a gentleman and a scholar. However, my timid dips into it have shown rather quickly that it's just not my thing.

Confession: I've also never read Gravity's Rainbow. Nor Zadie Smith. Nor David Foster Wallace. Nor Dave Eggers. Nor [insert relevant writer's name here]. You can see right now how credible all my points on this topic really are. Maybe I just like to argue.

[e joseph]

Holden Caulfield? Is that you?

In retrospect, why did I find Holden Caulfield irritating? Apparently he hit a little too close to home. Or I've merged Catcher with my own life; in reality I was star shortstop on my high school baseball team and homecoming king.

[promtbr]

Yeah the famous dual between Woods and Smith. Not that it wasn't interesting and it made for whole megabytes of lit blog discussions for months.. It was enlightening and for me both made valid points, but my discovery of Tom McCarthy's Remainder was the best thing I took away from that discussion.


My response to your post is this, "why has it got to be either/or?


Exactly.

Please, please let there be room for both. Its too boring to dredge up an elucidation of how the 'isms' evolved .. but they did...." ________ ism was a reaction to_________ism , meanwhile __________ ism responded to________" and so forth and so on.

Bless the writer's little hearts that all did'nt pay attention to what _____ism they were supposed to be pinned like Eliot's moth to.

I like the idea we can enjoy and marvel at Achebe's No Longer At Ease and revel in Roth's Ghost Writer (read them back to back and it re-enforced this for me)...There IS room for both. we are bigger for it....*insert self effacing attempt at wit here*


'e' don't ever stop posting dude. :D:D:D



___

[e joseph]

'e' don't ever stop posting dude. :D:D:D


Yeah, you say that now. Just you wait.

[Liam]

Wood has also written some books on literary criticism I haven't read.Well, you should. The Broken Estate: Essays on Literature and Belief is brilliant: exactly what literary criticism should be. Where he excels as a critic however, Wood fails dismally as a novelist; The Book against God, his first novel, was horrid. Prettily written, but horrid.


If you write your own fiction you might also want to check out How Fiction Works, but I doubt it'll teach you anything you don't already know. The highlight of this little treatise is Wood's quotation from V. Woolf's novel The Waves (which I haven't enjoyed quite as much as he did, it must be said), which he offers as an example of how language "should" be used. "The day waves yellow with all its crops."

[Mirabell]

I think most people would find it dull.

which book? Nabokov's? really? to quote barney frank: what planet do you spend most of your time on? 100% of all people i know who read the book and told me about it loved it to bits.

[liehtzu]

I speaketh of the average man-on-the-street, I suppose.

[nnyhav]

I've found Wood well worth reading, though not at book length, even while in disagreement (unlike, say, B.R.Myers, even when in agreement eg DeLillo). There's a willingness to engage that extends even to litblog commentary (in which he himself questions an either/or):
The Reading Experience: Rigid and Impacted (http://noggs.typepad.com/the_reading_experience/2005/07/james.html)
And as for Nabokov, I respect the critical facilities he displays in his fiction much more than that in his lectures and interviews.

[liehtzu]

Because the "postmodernist" discussion has come up again, and this relates. I do hate to use Zadie Smith as the whipping-girl twice, I do feel bad about that. But:




[The Autograph Man's] central character, Alex-Li Tandem, is a dreary blank, an empty centre entirely filled by his pop-culture devotions. Around him swirls a text incapable of ever stiffening into sobriety, a flailing, noisy hash of jokes, cool cultural references, pull-quotes, lists and roaring italics. It is like reading a newspaper designed by a kindergarten. (Or by the editorial staff of McSweeney?s.) It is sick with silly epigraphs: from Marilyn Monroe, Kafka, Lenny Bruce (who occupies an entire page), Billy Wilder, Madonna (or the ?popular singer Madonna Ciccone?, as Smith has it, a tic that runs throughout the book), Walter Benjamin (or ?the popular wise guy Walter Benjamin?). Each chapter has a cute digest at its head, announcing the delights on offer: ?Alex-Li Tandem was Jewish ? A rainbow over Mountjoy ? Hand-print ? Superstar ? Princess Grace ? Marvin is a milk operative ? Alex?s feminine goy side.? Each of these chapter digests continues a running joke: ?Muhammad Ali was Jewish? (Chapter 2); ?Bette Davis was Jewish? (Chapter 3); ?John Lennon was Jewish? (Chapter 4); and so on. The text often blooms into a special boxed feature, such as: ?The Joke about the Pope and the Chief Rabbi? (this takes a whole page) or:
Haggadah (Pop Quiz #1)
Q. When Alex and Adam had a smoke, how much of the fun was in the rolling?
A. In the book it is written: Oh, about 78 per cent.
Every so often Smith will surprise us with an informational interpolation: ?And now here are some facts. When Queen Victoria first met Albert she wasn?t really all that smitten.? Or, ?Interesting fact: Rubinfine?s father, Rubinfine, wants Rubinfine to grow up to be a rabbi.? The novel, which is set in a fictional North London suburb and in New York, bears the impress of American writers like Dave Eggers and David Foster Wallace, clever, nervy exhibitionists, IQs-with-i-Books, guys who, as Smith has put it, ?know things?, writers with a gift for speedy cultural analysis, whose prose is choppy with interruption. The Autograph Man may indeed be the nearest that a contemporary British writer has come to sounding like a contemporary American; the result is disturbingly mutant.



Who can read those paragraphs without reaching for an Aspirin is a greater man than I.

LRB ? James Wood ? Fundamentally Goyish (http://www.lrb.co.uk/v24/n19/james-wood/fundamentally-goyish)