Michaux loves to generalize about nations, so let’s apply that here. The French are unqualified masters of the travelogue that says little to nothing Michaux loves to generalize about nations, so let’s apply that here. The French are unqualified masters of the travelogue that says little to nothing about the place itself, and everything about the preconceptions and hastily drawn conclusions of the clearly all-seeing and intellectually superior French observer (Jean Baudrillard and Bernard-Henri Levy’s risibly stupid books about American yahoos come to mind too). The descriptions in Michaux’s book border on the discussions of physiognomy and national character in 19th Century textbooks (“consider the perfidious Chinaman”). A legitimately idiotic text by a legitimately great surrealist poet....more
The eternal subject of Korean art – why is shit here so fucked?
And yet I think The Vegetarian was so, so much better, so dark and visceral and discomfThe eternal subject of Korean art – why is shit here so fucked?
And yet I think The Vegetarian was so, so much better, so dark and visceral and discomforting. Human Acts was chillier, to the point where it kind of lost me. Maybe there is a bias at play – I’ve engaged with a fair amount of art regarding the Gwangju Uprising and its aftermath (the movie Peppermint Candy plays with similar themes, and does it so much better, so check that shit out if you have a taste in cinema as masochistic as mine), and also spent extensive time in and around Gwangju. That does elevate one’s expectations. ...more
This was a rather fun little novella by the always enjoyable Robert Coover, who just can’t stop writing about spanking. What Coover gets is something This was a rather fun little novella by the always enjoyable Robert Coover, who just can’t stop writing about spanking. What Coover gets is something that has always struck me as very funny about BDSM as a subcultural practice, as opposed to a simple and enjoyable bedroom game – just how OCD ritualized and excessively formalized most of it is. The mainstream perception (in its positive sense, at least) might be sexy libertines engaging in ecstatic releases of pain and pleasure. The reality, though, is that is mostly just a bunch of nerds who have intellectualized their sex life beyond recognition, and need to manifest it in the form of consent workshops and aftercare protocols that are, to my mind, about as sexy as doing your taxes. Spanking the Maid promises titillation with that cover of delicious ivory buttcheeks in a garter belt, but it’s a 1040 of the libido, and for that reason it is very funny....more
At first, I was a bit nonplussed. These were early stories, and I didn’t get any of the freewheeling brilliance of Berlin Alexanderplatz. And yet eachAt first, I was a bit nonplussed. These were early stories, and I didn’t get any of the freewheeling brilliance of Berlin Alexanderplatz. And yet each story became a little bit better crafted, until they were downright brilliant. By his middle period he was hitting his stride, and damn these stories are fun, with a little of the old Calvino fabulism in them. Those weirdo bits at the end? Not so sure, but if you liked Berlin Alexanderplatz, seriously check this out, you’ll probably find something to love....more
The interview-subject weirdo has always interested me as a device in fiction, whether written or audiovisual, as perfected by DFW among others. FreaksThe interview-subject weirdo has always interested me as a device in fiction, whether written or audiovisual, as perfected by DFW among others. Freaks, weirdos, grotesques, beautiful losers, anyone on a long strange trip… gotta love a fictional interview with them, especially when they are given all the empathy they are due. And Wagner’s are no different in these not-so-brief interviews with the hideous. I vastly preferred the first half for whatever reason, but this is worth picking up in toto all the same....more
This feels like quite the relic sort of novel, a tale of forces of evil and the solitary human struggle for meaning against the backdrop of BuchenwaldThis feels like quite the relic sort of novel, a tale of forces of evil and the solitary human struggle for meaning against the backdrop of Buchenwald, mostly set before and a bit after the Semprun stand-in narrator’s time there. And I don’t know how necessary this is 70+ years on. We’ve had, perhaps, our fill of this story of survival, and I’m not sure what more I got out of The Long Voyage. It’s well-written and expresses a perspective well, but it seems second-fiddle when compared to Levi, Kertesz, the obscure but divine Mihail Sebastian, and the rest....more
It’s hard to know what to make of this. It definitely pales in comparison to Markson’s later masterpieces. Especially given the ‘70s “I have seeeeex” It’s hard to know what to make of this. It definitely pales in comparison to Markson’s later masterpieces. Especially given the ‘70s “I have seeeeex” plot points, which I get are satirical (after all doesn't "Springer's Progress" sound almost comically like a shitty '70s novel, q.v. "Rifkin's Dilemma" in the Nick Kroll Oh Hello sketch), but still… it grates. Markson’s wit is there, and towards the end you get more of a portent of things to come, but I think there’s probably a reason I came to this particular volume a bit later. For most of you, you can stick with Wittgenstein’s Mistress and The Last Novel....more
It was hard to believe that this was the same author as The Master and Margarita and Heart of a Dog. This had really more in common with an older idioIt was hard to believe that this was the same author as The Master and Margarita and Heart of a Dog. This had really more in common with an older idiom of Russian literature, that of Tolstoy and Turgenev. The Turbin family lives their lives amid the chaos of war, and it can be really quite tough to follow the action in this relatively slim novel. And largely for that reason, I wasn’t quite as smitten. This was by no means bad, but I far prefer the weirder Bulgakov....more
The “novel of ideas,” stretched to its logical limit. Which is frankly unfortunate. As much as I loved Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins or any of thThe “novel of ideas,” stretched to its logical limit. Which is frankly unfortunate. As much as I loved Simone de Beauvoir’s The Mandarins or any of the bibliography of Umberto Eco, it can get a bit silly, and I Love Dick came off as a bit silly. I understand there’s a formal experiment happening here – and that I encourage and appreciate – but is it a successful experiment? I don’t think so. Maybe you should check it out though, I’m not confident enough in my judgmental faculties to dismiss this outright....more
I’m on volume 3 of this motherfucker. I’ve already waded through two 1000-page volumes, and the fact that I’m still committed (sunk-cost fallacies asiI’m on volume 3 of this motherfucker. I’ve already waded through two 1000-page volumes, and the fact that I’m still committed (sunk-cost fallacies aside) should tell you everything. This isn’t just history, this isn’t just biography, this is a goddamn motherfucking soap opera, and I mean that as a high compliment. Lyndon Johnson was, long before Lil Peep, everyone’s everything, and is all the more fascinating for it, and the more of an absolute bastard he is, the more fascinating he is. ...more
To be fair, I’m not encountering much original here, and I feel that if you follow the Zero Books imprint to any degree, you would probably feel the sTo be fair, I’m not encountering much original here, and I feel that if you follow the Zero Books imprint to any degree, you would probably feel the same. Ergo, that through some heady combination of avant-garde cinema, brutalist architecture, and forgotten Roxy Music singles, we can constitute a counternarrative of a liberatory and alternative modernism, versus the various currents bundled together as “postmodern” (q.v. Mark Fisher and the gang). Were its theses correct? Probably. Did I need to read this? Probably not. But I am curious to read more of Owen Hatherley....more
Cult classic? Really? Maybe this is like a ‘60s art-scene version of the incomprehensible anti-memes that seemed to have peaked a couple years ago, a Cult classic? Really? Maybe this is like a ‘60s art-scene version of the incomprehensible anti-memes that seemed to have peaked a couple years ago, a sort of borderline Dada act of giggling in the quotidian as opposed to trying to make a statement. Of course that giggle changes a lot from that in the smoking craters of post-WWI Europe to that of depressive postcollegiate Zoomers, and I guess this kind of 1960s wackiness was one such stopover. I’m glad Rosenthal chose to play with form, but this… big no from me....more
You and I have been a told a million lies in the media about the American working class. If you’re American, regardless of which stratum you’re in, yoYou and I have been a told a million lies in the media about the American working class. If you’re American, regardless of which stratum you’re in, you’ve been told lies since birth. They are the strength of the nation, they want too many damn handouts, they got taken over by greedy union bosses, they are coddled little brats, they are the reactionary rump of cishet white patriarchy, they are an unrealized reservoir of revolutionary potential, they will always cast their lot in with those in power, they were hoodwinked by Nixon, they were hoodwinked by Reagan, they were hoodwinked by Trump, they didn’t actually support Nixon, Reagan, or Trump. Cowie examines each of these (mostly bullshit) assertions and finds the nuance therein.
And Cowie – like E.P. Thompson before him – refuses the easy castigation, and unlike Thompson, he refuses sainthood. He is more interested in granting subjectivity and understanding above all else. Or, to give a more pertinent analogy, one brought up by Cowie again and again, like Bruce Springsteen and those left in the darkness at the edge of town.
I went back to my hometown for the first time in years recently – on the western fringe of the Rust Belt, and reading Cowie, it was hard not to look back on all those vacant lots and all that peeling paint. Like all good history books, it gets you in the spine....more
Stories of modern Tokyo have a distinctive tone to them, decidedly fluffy and blasé and sighing. The best representatives of that style there – what’sStories of modern Tokyo have a distinctive tone to them, decidedly fluffy and blasé and sighing. The best representatives of that style there – what’s up, Banana? – and there are some rather pointless misses. But on the whole I liked this volume. That aforementioned Tokyo tone just generally works for me, and especially given how much of my life I spend book in hand in quiet megalopolitan bars and lost in my own world in otherwise noisy izakayas....more
This barely counts as a novel – it’s agit-prop, and little more. Other explicitly Marxist writers manage to be both clear in their political perspectiThis barely counts as a novel – it’s agit-prop, and little more. Other explicitly Marxist writers manage to be both clear in their political perspective and also masters of craft and style. This? This was a cartoon, to the point where the bosses were basically the Monopoly man and the workers were noble and put-upon muzhiks, even if they jerked off in the corner. Kobayashi was important as a comrade who died for his beliefs, but this wasn’t a great book....more
A trippy, dreamy little thing, and for a writer as associated with Latin American magical realism as Fuentes, Aura has more in common with the creepy A trippy, dreamy little thing, and for a writer as associated with Latin American magical realism as Fuentes, Aura has more in common with the creepy deathbed stories of Edgar Allan Poe than anything that Gabo and the gang ever penned. And I have to wonder – certain things about the ending – if Mssrs. King and Kubrick may have read this before some of these ideas found their way into The Shining. I’m not sure if this counts as horror fiction, probably not, but it is creepy as all hell....more
The Great Fire of London starts as an Oulipian novel, things inside things, math problems, and all the rest, and then you realize what it actually is The Great Fire of London starts as an Oulipian novel, things inside things, math problems, and all the rest, and then you realize what it actually is – a novel about failing to do what you set out to do, and for Roubaud, more importantly, a novel about the absence of his wife after her death at a young age. The feels are a bit backgrounded, and yet they’re omnipresent. And so it’s a shockingly moving document – Oulipo, you think, is such a chilly project, but this now largely forgotten novel might be its beating heart....more
Boy, this was a tough climb. Matter = perception, I think? Memory as habit, cognition as embodied. William James took a similar vibe and made it gruffBoy, this was a tough climb. Matter = perception, I think? Memory as habit, cognition as embodied. William James took a similar vibe and made it gruff and plainspoken and Amurrican, and his writing is all the stronger for it, and his philosophy can be engaged with more readily as philosophy. Bergson made it dense and Frenchy, and while there’s a lot to unpack here, a lot of it seemed valuable, even if it was tough to parse. This is something I should come back to later before I make a more definitive assertion as to its value....more
My European history class in high school began with our much-loved teacher quoting Henry Adams, pointing out how the dynamo, unlike the virgin, could My European history class in high school began with our much-loved teacher quoting Henry Adams, pointing out how the dynamo, unlike the virgin, could not have built Chartres, and then asking us if we thought Chartres would still stand in 500 years. Our hands all raised. He then asked us if the newly built Los Angeles cathedral would still stand in 500… you can probably guess how we responded…
And reading Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres brought me back to what it’s hard to believe was a small-town Midwestern classroom, that heady world of ideas we were being introduced to by our teacher, delightful old commie that he was. Few still bear Henry Adams’ torch. That great big Library of America volume of the man’s work? That’s a sign that Adams is nothing more than a museum piece, condemned to obscurity, other than the occasional trotting out of his name by some National Review bowtie dipshit.
Which is a shame. When you read this hopelessly out of fashion text, what you get above all else is Adams’ nerdy enthusiasm for each arch, each pointed window. For his love of their place in the narrative, for their clues into the worldview of a different time with a different set of aspirations and conceptions of the good, into a world in which theology was still the queen of sciences. I can already imagine the protestations – Eurocentrism, elitism, the privileging of certain grand narratives, a privileging of the decidedly aristocratic authorial gaze. And all of that is unquestionably true. And yet the text is a fucking rapture....more
Timothy Morton should have been a novelist. By drawing parallels between everything ever, whether that’s at the scale of the cosmologicNot even wrong…
Timothy Morton should have been a novelist. By drawing parallels between everything ever, whether that’s at the scale of the cosmological or the Newtonian or the quantum or for that matter the psychic or the social, he’s not being more materialist or “object-oriented,” he’s talking shite. Unless, of course, you believe that the ultimate mediator of reality is one Timothy Morton.
He’s writing about “hyperobjects.” What’s a hyperobject? Glad you asked! He gives a definition right at the beginning, with a series of criteria. Unfortunately, in the actual meat of the text, he extends the definition to everything ever, and he more or less cops to the fact. Not that those criteria were valid – if someone considers things being “viscous” to be a critical ontological category, you’re allowed to call this grade A bullshit.
That sounded harsh. And it is. But he has real writing capability! When he called large swaths of postmodernist philosophy an “airport lounge,” I lol’d, and that’s a metaphor I’m going to carry with me like Wittgenstein’s ancient city. Like I said, should have been a novelist. This would have been gorgeous as a novel, actually, in which things like hyperobjects can have real narrative value. It’s not philosophy. ...more
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