Vikram Chandra Quote

This is a quote from Vikram Chandra and although it specifically addresses Indian literature and criticism, I find it applies to all cultures and broad issues of the written word and the world around it:

"There will always be a prevailing market and a prevailing ideology, and a head of department who fiercely upholds that prevailing ideology, a head of department whose cousin owns the press that publishes the books, whose cousin’s best friend reviews the books for the Sunday paper, whose cousin’s best friend’s cousin gives out the government grants and the fellowships to Paris. All art is born at this crossroads of ambition and integrity, between the fierce callings of fame and the hungers of the belly and the desires of one’s children and the necessities of art and truth. Michelangelo knew this, and [popular nineteenth-century Urdu poet Mizra] Ghalib knew this. There is no writer in India, or in the world, no artist anywhere who is free of this eternal chakravyuha, this whirling circle that is life itself. To have less money does not mean you are more virtuous, to have more money does not mean you are less capable of integrity. Those who believe in the salutary effects of poverty on artists have never been truly hungry, and are suspicious of money from the safety of their own middling comforts. Finally, I suspect, whatever language we write in, we are all equally capable of cowardice and heroism. . . . In case it makes anyone feel any better, let me state for the record my considered opinion that for sheer incestuousness, for self-serving pomposity, for easy black-and-white moralizing, for comfortably sneering armchair wisdom, for lack of generosity, for pious self-interested victim-mongering, for ponderous seriousness and a priggish distrust of pleasure, there is no group on earth that can match the little subcaste that is the Indo-Anglian literary and critical establishment. I say this with full cognizance of my own somewhat contested membership in said establishment. "

Brilliant Story by Matthew Derby on Guernica

Here's a paragraph of the story "January in December" by Matthew Derby, found at
http://www.guernicamag.com/fiction/742/january_in_december/ :


"Fancer set the rocket launcher down on a mound of hard snow and rose slowly, the street lamps illuminating his lower half in dishwater light. He had failed to put into motion even this, his last attempt to push something back out into the world instead of taking it, once again, in. If he had been a better man, a more reasonable man, hardened by life instead of merely weakened by it—if he had been a man who planned out a day instead of mincing his way through, bitching out the hours one by one until they disappeared up the steel column of night, he might have made something of the moment, put his signature on it. He might have set a special, public fire. But this other man beat him to it. He felt a clean tremor of recognition then—clean because it was like the wispy white center of an ice cube—at what the man across the street had done, what he had failed to do himself. The man had cut a hole in the history of the world, and fallen in, and Fancer was standing at the freshly cut edge, peering down."

A David Foster Wallace Quote from Rolling Stone Magazine

This is a quote from David Foster Wallace, regarding his experience with triclyclic ant-anxiety medication that he was on at one point for two months, which made him feel "stoned and in hell":

"You are the sickness yourself.... You realize all this...when you look at the black hole and it's wearing your face. That's when the Bad Thing just absolutely eats you up, or rather when you just eat yourself up. When you kill yourself. All this business about people committing suicide when they're "severely depressed;" we say, "Holy cow, we must do something to stop them from killing themselves!" That's wrong. Because all these people have, you see, by this time already killed themselves, where it really counts.... When they "commit suicide," they're just being orderly."

On a very clinical note, this makes me think of the point that most suicides don't happen in the deep part of depression, but when people are on the upswing, and have the energy and mental strength, to be, as DFW says, "orderly".

And this all makes me think of this Philip Lopate quote, found on Sean Lovelac'es blog: Lopate says; “One of the things that literature does…is it allows us to be more understanding about human frailty, about error, tragic flaws, and therefore, makes us more forgiving, and more self-forgiving.”

A review of Kim Chinquee's "Down the Road"

I reviewed an excellent story, "Down the Road", by Kim Chinquee for Five Star Literary Stories, T.J. Forrester's online review. Here's a description of the site:

"Five Star Literary Stories combines three integral facets of the writing life: publisher, story, and reviewer. Each short story or flash fiction is editor nominated and considered one of the best the mag has published."

It was a great pleasure and honor to be involved with this wonderful project.


http://www.fivestarliterarystories.blogspot.com/

A new short story "Pussies" published on Night Train

The wonderful Rusty Barnes edits Night Train, and also is the author of Breaking It Down, a collection of flash fiction published by Sunnyoutside Press. I've been a huge fan of Night Train for years- I've discovered great writers through reading it, like Scott Wrobel and T.J. Forrester -- so I'm very excited to be in it. Here's the link:
http://www.nighttrainmagazine.com/contents/bomer_8_2.php

David Gates on Lolita

The excellent David Gates, author of one of my favorite novels, Jernigan, (among other great books), on Lolita:

http://www.newsweek.com/id/163440

A Year With W. Somerset Maugham Blog

I like this idea and the bio talks about the author of the blog being an atheist who trained for the seminary. That, and he's from Lincoln, Nebrasksa, the land of Jason Peter (the amazing co-author with Tony O'Neill of Hero of the Underground). I found it on Maud Newton's blog.

http://wsomersetmaugham.wordpress.com/

On Reading Dan Chaon's "Falling Backwards" and Mary Gaitskill's "The Arms and Legs of the Lake"

I've read about Dan Chaon and possibley have read other stories by him (because I've read many journals over many years, and he's widely published in lit mags), but I recently purchased the collection, Among the Missing. I had read an interview and something he said, and I'm paraphrasing here -- "I don't understand how some people can devote themselves to excessive drinking and write...writing is destructive enough for me" -- intrigued me. The idea that writing fiction is a destructive behavior is sensible enough, but the idea that someone "devotes" themself to alcohol abuse perplexed me. In the article he was a bit apologetic for the comment - again, I am paraphrasing here -saying something like "sorry if that sounds unkind", and also explaining that he knows many "writers who do abuse alcohol".

I loved the story, "Falling Backwards", but my reading of it was very much colored with having read this interview and I wondered how sympathetic he was for the two alcohol abusing characters in the story, the father and the son of the main character, Colleen. Part of my wondering, too, is that I was looking for an answer while reading the story, and didn't really come away with one. That said, I, the reader was sympathetic, so perhaps that is all that matters. Also, Chaon is adopted, which also greatly colored my reading of this story. ( Here's the interview: http://www.believermag.com/exclusives/?read=interview_chaon ) When Colleen wants to know about her family history from her father (biological and raised her), he is not impressed. "Genetics is destiny, she told him." He responds "...all that DNA stuff is just chemicals! It doesn't have anything to do with what what's real about a person." The question of nature over nature is very old and widely discussed. I read the book The Nurture Assumption with great curiousity when it came out. But fiction has a way of attacking these issues sidways that can illuminate complexity of feeling in a way that a book like The Nurture Assumption cannot.

And so it is with "Falling Backwards". Here is Colleen on her son; "...she rarely speaks to her grown son"; "it disturbs her that she can't muster much compassion". Chaon sums up this section of the story with; "She can't believe how far away she is, how distant from the people that she should love." Implicit in this, to me, is that she does not love her son, or her father, for that matter. Love, here, can be understood in two ways. One, love as a finite thing, existing inside the heart of a person. Or two, love as something that flows, is an action, something we do, not something we have. It is the latter definition that makes this sentence bearable to me: she is not loving, in that moment, people she should be loving. But to think to oneself- I have no love in my heart for my son and father- this would render the story outrageously bleak. Is that what Chaon wants to do?

I choose to not read Chaon's story that way. I choose to see him having compassion for the icy Colleen, even in the most brutal section of the story, where she is being cruel to her very small son. It is not a sick sort of cruelty, like in the book A Small Circle of Beings by Damon Galgut that I was unable to finish, but it is painful enough. So it is in the final sentence of that section where, "she begins to weep herself, with shame and fear", where I again choose to see Chaon giving his heart to his creation. It is a crushing story, infused with suffering and alienation above all things, one where the image of a braid of hair found in an old trunk resonates with gorgeous symbolism throughout, in particular in that it belonged to a girl to whom all the "loving and willing hands could do did not save the child."

Ideally, I would discuss this story alongside Mary Gaitskill's recent New Yorker story about two middle-aged women travelling to Ethiopa to adopt a child. But I can't find it at this moment and I just finished reading, "The Arms and Legs of the Lake". Also, when Veronika came out I read an interview with Gaitskill on which I took some notes, but of course I will have to paraphrase, because my notes are shabby. In the interview, in 2005 in the NY Times, Gaitskill talked about the "pure hell of a loveless home and world" and that the opposite of compassion is "smugness". What strikes me most is the idea that smugness, not violence or necessarily, vitriolic hate (although yes, to that, as well), is the opposite of compassion. I found that wise beyond anything I had read in quite some time.

In "The Arms and Legs of the Lake", a black (hey, he could be West Indian), disturbed, Iraq veteran named Jim Smith (everyman sort of name) is taking a train usptate to visit his foster mother. A white middle-aged female professor is also on the train, as are others - another Iraq vet named Bill, an older WW2 veteran, an African American couple on their honeymoon, the train conductor -- whose inner thoughts (and voices, really, but not aloud) and occasional voices combine to give us a disparate, rich viewing of a few hours of life.

I've read all of Gaitskill's four books and have found her growth as a writer stunning. (That said, her very first book, Bad Behavior, greatly affected me and would be on a list of favorite books if I made one.) Her more recent work shows a progression of her preoccupations as a writer and it is one of intense deepening of emotion and an expansion in character study.

There is never any doubt for me where the author's compassion lies in this story. It is everywhere, diffused, yet specifically lands hard on occasion. Gaitskill's use of language has always struck me as ornate, very adjective heavy (particularly with Veronica) and it can take me awhile to read fluildy through her sentences. In the very first paragraph, Gaitskill establishes her tone with her highly observant, detail-oriented language: "A big, white bartender slapped the bar with a rag and talked to a blobby-looking white customer with a wide, red mouth." Bright, even harsh feeling, colors, a "slap" noise, the word "blobby"- she is, no matter what others say, unconventional.

Here is an example of Bill's interior thoughts: "You talk to a little boy in broken English and Arabic, make a joke about the chicken or the egg, you light up a car screaming through a checkpoint and blow out a little girl's brains. You saw it as a threat at the time-- and maybe the next time it would be. People could understand this fact - but this was not a fact. What was it?"

And here is the disturbed Jim, asking Bill about the Hudson river, including the sentence from where the story gets its title; "'The reason I'm asking is it looks too big to be a river. A lake is always going to be bigger than a river. I remember that from school. The river leads to the lake; the river is the arms and legs of the lake. Only thing bigger than a lake is the ocean. Like it says, in the Bible, you know what I'm saying?'" (This sentence takes on all sorts of meaings as the story densifies, the mulitiple voices layering the meaning, and if nothing else, becoming "the arms and legs of the lake" itself. )

And here is some of Jim's interior rambling: "Outside the window the mouth of God was silent. It was silent and it was chewing--it was always chewing. That was OK; it needed to eat to keep the body going. And the eyes of God were always shining with love. And the nose of God- that was something you grabbed at on your way to the chewing mouth." This would be funny if the darkness weren't already illuminated by everything that Gaitskill is doing. Here, her imagery gets eccentric again, but it is never silly and it is never gratuitiously weird. It all works; it has a purpose.

And later, in the climactic scene, we read the thoughts of the beautiful black woman on her honeymoon, who feels for Jim when he loses it; "Because he like my brother...I can't talk about it here, Chris, all these people listening...But my brother coulda turn out like this man here. Kids beat on him when he was like six; he had to be in the hospital, and for a long time after, he talk in this whisper voice that you can't hardly hear, like he talkin' to himself and to the world in general, talkin' like a radio with the dials just flipping around, givin' out stories that don't make no sense, but all about kickin' and punchin' and killin' people."

Gaitskill's story bleeds and shits compassion all over her tragic humans; it is an ugly, beautiful thing. All of the myriad voices are damaged or stupid or loving and not one is beyond sympathy regardless of the wrongdoings they've done or do in the action of the story.

How to achieve compassion not in a clinical way? Do you have to like the characters? Does the author have to like the characters? (Does the reader?) I would hope not; compassion is not "like". And then there is the issue of respect- does Chaon respect his alcoholics, even if he has enough heart to love them? Should he? Perhaps not. To feel for is enough. It makes me think of something I read, an article on Richard Yates where he is answering questions after a reading and one person mentions how horrible one of his female characters ( a mother) is (--in The Easter Parade? A short story? I can't remember --), calling her cold, selfish, crazy, terrible and so on, and Yates replied; "Oh, I don't know. I sort of love her."

A Few Facts About Alice Munro

http://www.newyorker.com/online/blogs/festival/2008/10/things-you-may.html

Good Discussion of the Story by Sana Krasikov

http://beatrice.com/wordpress/2008/09/29/sana-krasikov-selling-shorts/#more-57