It's as if he's transplanted a group of rough-edged, foul-mouthed "folk" from reality TV to the printed page and completely blown off the shallowness and the stereotypes attached to them. His characters are individuals with beating hearts and wounded histories and sentimental hopes for the future. Before long, we sink unresistingly into their stories.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
AWOT in the The Vancouver Sun
AWOT reviewed by MAC Farrant:
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Who stole the soul?
Here's something you don't see every day: a soul record getting criticized, not for any musical lack, but for a spiritual one. And on Pitchfork, no less...
From the review (of the new Al Green):
Speaking of Al Green, you do know the best-ever Green ripoff/tribute was by Keith Richards, don't you? (See it here.)
From the review (of the new Al Green):
The hole in the middle of the album is, in fact, Jesus-shaped. Green's Christianity was always an enormous presence in his music, even before he gave up secular singing for a while; his constant awareness of mortality and divinity is what raised the stakes on his love songs. His best album, Call Me, followed "You Ought to Be With Me" with "Jesus Is Waiting", and the ever-present tension between the sacred and the secular on his records came to a head on 1977's "Belle": "It's you that I want, but it's Him that I need".
There's none of that here-- the closest Green comes is singing about "a love divine" on "Too Much", and he doesn't really mean "divine." Instead, we get flabby romantic couplets ("You're the best thing I ever had/ Losing you, that would make me feel so bad"; "Your love is more than true, oh baby/ It's just, it's just for me and you"). There's no desire here for a person (or a God) that Green wants to bring closer to himself, just an appreciation of someone he's already got. Yes, it's a pleasure to hear Green articulate romantic satisfaction, and good for him if he's satisfied. But the grain and pull of his voice is all about longing for both flesh and spirit, and it doesn't quite fit here. Green's classic records were never just baby-making music, and without a context greater than a shared bedroom, this precise reconstruction of their sound is a ritual that's lost a lot of its meaning.
The Devil may have the best music, but the stuff God cranks out is a close second. (And either are preferable to whatever the hell someone like Richard Dawkins puts on his iPod....)
Speaking of Al Green, you do know the best-ever Green ripoff/tribute was by Keith Richards, don't you? (See it here.)
Wednesday, May 28, 2008
Gone into Exile
My story "Mr Harman's Wedding" – which, up until recently, was downloadable from my other site – will be published in the spring 2008 issue of Exile quarterly.
To launch the issue, I'll be reading with Zoe Whittall and others at the Dora Keogh Irish Pub on the Danforth on June 3. Details here.
In AWOT news, Alex Good posted a slightly extended version of his review on GoodReports, and the novel got mentioned in the "Book Hound" column of the Comox Valley Echo.
To get away from books for second, I have to note that this is great stuff. Fela is a near-constant in my musical diet, but all the driving I've been doing over the past month or so has got me back onto side-length grooves that stretch and stretch without snapping.
To launch the issue, I'll be reading with Zoe Whittall and others at the Dora Keogh Irish Pub on the Danforth on June 3. Details here.
In AWOT news, Alex Good posted a slightly extended version of his review on GoodReports, and the novel got mentioned in the "Book Hound" column of the Comox Valley Echo.
To get away from books for second, I have to note that this is great stuff. Fela is a near-constant in my musical diet, but all the driving I've been doing over the past month or so has got me back onto side-length grooves that stretch and stretch without snapping.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Sydney Pollock
Sydney Pollock dies at 73.
This is another blow for those of you still waiting for the sequel to Eyes Wide Shut:
Eye Wider Shut – "This time it's impersonal..."
(Why make a lame joke when a man has died? Because laughter starts the healing. And because I thought of it.)
This is another blow for those of you still waiting for the sequel to Eyes Wide Shut:
Eye Wider Shut – "This time it's impersonal..."
(Why make a lame joke when a man has died? Because laughter starts the healing. And because I thought of it.)
Friday, May 23, 2008
Thursday, May 22, 2008
Talking Down to the Dirt
On Monday, I taped an episode of CBC Radio's Talking Books with Ian Brown. I was part of panel discussing Joel Hynes’s first book, Down to the Dirt, which, if you haven’t read, I recommend you go do so.
Now. (I can wait.)
The discussion (which should air either this Saturday or the next – I’ll let y’all know when I know) was breezy and entertaining, etc., but I never got around to making the point I wanted to about Hynes’ book, which is that it is about authenticity, and the fervent search therefor, or rather the desperate attempt to maintain a personal, sexual, cultural, and political sense of authenticity when all the world’s forces seem deadset on destroying all such notions.
That’s what gives the book so much of its life, but it’s also the achilles heel. Books with a laser-focus on preserving authenticity tend to burn themselves out before they’re done, and DTTD is no exception. They also tend to reserve the fight for one character, often the authorial stand-in, which means everyone else in the book is forced to play straight men or blocking characters, which reduces complexity and eventually makes the whole thing start to feel inauthentic. It’s not long before you start to wonder why only it’s only this one privileged person who ever figures out the lie that is modern life, society, etc. It starts to feel like a set-up. It often feels as though the book has to work twice as hard to maintain this "one vs. the world" stance. “Never let them see you sweat” is good advice for fiction, too, and there are moments near the end of DTTD where the book’s armpits start to darken from all the effort made to keep the main character fighting the good fight.
And it has to be said: books about one character’s desperate search for authenticity tend to appeal most to a particular kind of male reader/writer; one who, for better and worse, can’t quite let go of that part of their personality that was forged in adolescence. I’m not condemning it, and it’s not like I’m personally any different. On a personal level, it’s very important to keep in close contact with this part of your personality, the one that refuses all compromise, detests hypocrisy, and cannot understand why reality fall so short of ideals. But it can often have a limiting effect on art, precisely because it is such a self-centred perspective.
Women, for various cultural and biological reasons, tend to discover woefully early on that the ideal of “do whatever you want whenever you want” is either impossible, or sustainable only at the risk of enormous unhappiness, even destruction. “But that’s the point!” is the obvious objection. Live hard, die young, etc. It’s not really the ideal itself I’m arguing against here, it’s the reaction that comes when you finally realize it’s pretty much impossible. And even then, only how that reaction manifests itself in fiction.
As I said, women tend to learn this lesson early on, which is why it’s usually male characters who spend so much time throwing petulant fits at the discovery that their world has limits, that society has expectations, and that other people have needs. I often find myself, when reading these kinds of books, trying to look over the shoulder of such main characters to where someone else is standing, some overburdened, thoroughly comprised, even weak-willed character who may be less fun at parties, but is much richer fictional material, precisely because he or she is so burdened. As Mordecai Richler said (though didn’t always follow), novelists should be the “loser’s advocate.” It’s not about picking the most boring person in the room, but it shouldn’t be about simply picking the most exciting, either.
That all sounds harsh, and I don’t want to suggest at all that DTTD is a failure – even if it were, it’d be a hell of a noble one. In fact, one thing I especially liked about the book is that it provides a more dialectical view of its raging main character than is the usual case. In fact, it's made pretty clear that the main character, Keith Kavanagh, is as much simply vain and emotionally childish as he is heroic. (Mike Leigh did a similar trick with Naked.)
Down to the Dirt spills over with verbal energy – it’s great to see a Canadian work of fiction that gets ridden hard and put away wet. So everything I write above should not be taken as being prescriptive – i.e., the book would have been better if only Hynes had made everyone in it a little more boring/sensible. It wouldn’t have. This is just me playing critic/spoiler.
More Hynes matter here and here.
Now. (I can wait.)
The discussion (which should air either this Saturday or the next – I’ll let y’all know when I know) was breezy and entertaining, etc., but I never got around to making the point I wanted to about Hynes’ book, which is that it is about authenticity, and the fervent search therefor, or rather the desperate attempt to maintain a personal, sexual, cultural, and political sense of authenticity when all the world’s forces seem deadset on destroying all such notions.
That’s what gives the book so much of its life, but it’s also the achilles heel. Books with a laser-focus on preserving authenticity tend to burn themselves out before they’re done, and DTTD is no exception. They also tend to reserve the fight for one character, often the authorial stand-in, which means everyone else in the book is forced to play straight men or blocking characters, which reduces complexity and eventually makes the whole thing start to feel inauthentic. It’s not long before you start to wonder why only it’s only this one privileged person who ever figures out the lie that is modern life, society, etc. It starts to feel like a set-up. It often feels as though the book has to work twice as hard to maintain this "one vs. the world" stance. “Never let them see you sweat” is good advice for fiction, too, and there are moments near the end of DTTD where the book’s armpits start to darken from all the effort made to keep the main character fighting the good fight.
And it has to be said: books about one character’s desperate search for authenticity tend to appeal most to a particular kind of male reader/writer; one who, for better and worse, can’t quite let go of that part of their personality that was forged in adolescence. I’m not condemning it, and it’s not like I’m personally any different. On a personal level, it’s very important to keep in close contact with this part of your personality, the one that refuses all compromise, detests hypocrisy, and cannot understand why reality fall so short of ideals. But it can often have a limiting effect on art, precisely because it is such a self-centred perspective.
Women, for various cultural and biological reasons, tend to discover woefully early on that the ideal of “do whatever you want whenever you want” is either impossible, or sustainable only at the risk of enormous unhappiness, even destruction. “But that’s the point!” is the obvious objection. Live hard, die young, etc. It’s not really the ideal itself I’m arguing against here, it’s the reaction that comes when you finally realize it’s pretty much impossible. And even then, only how that reaction manifests itself in fiction.
As I said, women tend to learn this lesson early on, which is why it’s usually male characters who spend so much time throwing petulant fits at the discovery that their world has limits, that society has expectations, and that other people have needs. I often find myself, when reading these kinds of books, trying to look over the shoulder of such main characters to where someone else is standing, some overburdened, thoroughly comprised, even weak-willed character who may be less fun at parties, but is much richer fictional material, precisely because he or she is so burdened. As Mordecai Richler said (though didn’t always follow), novelists should be the “loser’s advocate.” It’s not about picking the most boring person in the room, but it shouldn’t be about simply picking the most exciting, either.
That all sounds harsh, and I don’t want to suggest at all that DTTD is a failure – even if it were, it’d be a hell of a noble one. In fact, one thing I especially liked about the book is that it provides a more dialectical view of its raging main character than is the usual case. In fact, it's made pretty clear that the main character, Keith Kavanagh, is as much simply vain and emotionally childish as he is heroic. (Mike Leigh did a similar trick with Naked.)
Down to the Dirt spills over with verbal energy – it’s great to see a Canadian work of fiction that gets ridden hard and put away wet. So everything I write above should not be taken as being prescriptive – i.e., the book would have been better if only Hynes had made everyone in it a little more boring/sensible. It wouldn’t have. This is just me playing critic/spoiler.
More Hynes matter here and here.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Foto fun
Some photos from last week's event at Supermarket in Kensington Market, courtesy of Open Book Toronto and Lisa Myers.
Note my skateboarding sweatshirt, which I only wear to make my son jealous.
(By the way, I'll be Open Book's Writer in Residence for the month of June, which means there'll be some cross-posting going on. Oh, and a party.)
Note my skateboarding sweatshirt, which I only wear to make my son jealous.
(By the way, I'll be Open Book's Writer in Residence for the month of June, which means there'll be some cross-posting going on. Oh, and a party.)
Monday, May 19, 2008
Meet the CFACers
Trying to work out the logic in this letter to the editor in the Toronto Star:
(Magic 8 Ball says: "I don't know karate, but I know ke-razee.")
But no, they are not about censoring dirty movies – what a suggestion! – all they want is for our precious key grip and best boy dollars be taken away fromimmoral unprofitable films and put toward potential blockbusters like: Without the Family, There Is No Freedom, or Sex Crazed Government Adults, or Another Case of Intolerant Homosexuals (and its sequel, It is A Queer Thing!), or The Enemy is Not Done With Canada, or my personal favourite, Virgin is Not a Dirty Word. (All titles from the CFAC site - go look.)
Your statement, "Right wingers like Charles McVety, president of Canada Christian College and the Canada Family Action Coalition, are all for C-10 because it's a way of keeping sex and violence off the screen," is either wilfully ignorant or wilfully false.That would be this Canada Family Action Coalition, whose site poses such chin-scratchers as "Childcare - nationalized or socialism?" and "Will England develop 'camps' for 'homophobes'?"Had you even attempted to be fair and accurate you would know that CFAC has not called for banning, censorship or any curtailment of making any films. We have supported Bill C-10 on the sole basis that taxpayers should not be required to pay the salaries of wannabe film producers, etc., for films that are likely losers at the box office.
Brian Rushfeldt, Canada Family Action Coalition, Calgary
(Magic 8 Ball says: "I don't know karate, but I know ke-razee.")
But no, they are not about censoring dirty movies – what a suggestion! – all they want is for our precious key grip and best boy dollars be taken away from
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
This in THIS
One more quick one: AWOT reviewed in THIS magazine.
"Whitlock has an excellent grasp of metaphor and simile, and A Week of This is a highly polished novel."
And a quick reminder: I'm a guest eulogist at the launch for Bigfoot: I Not Dead tomorrow night at the Gladstone. It's free, so come one, come all.
"Whitlock has an excellent grasp of metaphor and simile, and A Week of This is a highly polished novel."
And a quick reminder: I'm a guest eulogist at the launch for Bigfoot: I Not Dead tomorrow night at the Gladstone. It's free, so come one, come all.
Monday, May 12, 2008
More of this
I'm back from reading and talking here and there, and am a little tired of self-promotion at the moment...
...but all the same, one must soldier on, so here's some places where AWOT has popped up over the past couple of days:
Review in The Ottawa Citizen.
Review in the Guelph Mercury.*
Review in The Danforth Review.
(Thanks to everyone who came out to the various events over the past week or so.)
ADDED: AWOT was also reviewed in the May 8 issue of Scene magazine (London, ON), which said the book is "filled with vibrant, gritty imagery and wondrously colourful turns of phrase" and "an ideal springtime read."
* this one also ran in The Waterloo Region Record.
...but all the same, one must soldier on, so here's some places where AWOT has popped up over the past couple of days:
Review in The Ottawa Citizen.
Review in the Guelph Mercury.*
Review in The Danforth Review.
(Thanks to everyone who came out to the various events over the past week or so.)
ADDED: AWOT was also reviewed in the May 8 issue of Scene magazine (London, ON), which said the book is "filled with vibrant, gritty imagery and wondrously colourful turns of phrase" and "an ideal springtime read."
* this one also ran in The Waterloo Region Record.
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
Some Montreal numbers
Six hours of driving, three minutes reading, one mid-reading Bob Newhart reference, a dozen or so drinks, a couple of old friends, two separate conversations about No Country for Old Men (the movie), one lost room reservation, one basement bed in a student hostel, three hours sleep, one big hangover, a $40 parking ticket, two cans of Red Bull and a stale croissant, six more hours of driving, listening to Hank Williams, Richard Pryor, Lindsey Buckingham, Bill Hicks, Nigeria Special, and a lecture on Kierkegaard, of all cheerful things – I feel like I need the mental equivalent of a tub of Rolaids, along with the actual kind.
Thanks to everyone who came out, and thanks to the LPG for hosting/organizing.
One day back and then it's on to the Ottawa Valley. Onward and northward.
Thanks to everyone who came out, and thanks to the LPG for hosting/organizing.
One day back and then it's on to the Ottawa Valley. Onward and northward.
Sunday, May 04, 2008
Montreal reading
A reminder: I'm reading in Montreal tomorrow night (Monday, May 5) at the Casa del Popolo as part of the LPG's "Fiery First Fiction" campaign.
Come have your brain melted by the scorching words of some incendiary–
Never mind – just come out if you're in the 514.
Furthermore: May 8 - Pembroke Library, ON; May 10 - Bean House Cafe, Deep River, ON; May 11 - Collected Works, Ottawa, ON; May 12 - Supermarket, Toronto (another "FFF" event).
It's the "AWOT Across Montreal and Parts of Eastern Ontario" tour.
Come have your brain melted by the scorching words of some incendiary–
Never mind – just come out if you're in the 514.
Furthermore: May 8 - Pembroke Library, ON; May 10 - Bean House Cafe, Deep River, ON; May 11 - Collected Works, Ottawa, ON; May 12 - Supermarket, Toronto (another "FFF" event).
It's the "AWOT Across Montreal and Parts of Eastern Ontario" tour.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Choke me
From the Toronto Star:
Chasing cheap highs, tens of thousands of Ontario adolescents are strangling themselves or each other in what's known as the choking game, a report out of Toronto's Centre for Addiction and Mental Health says.Even when I was a dumb teenager – and choking highs were a six-month fad – I thought the whole thing was stupid. Hilarious, but stupid. I remember being at a house party and watching two drunken 15-year-olds earnestly trying to make each other pass out. I couldn't breathe either – from laughing so hard. One of the most ludicrous sights I've ever seen. I said then, and I saw now: what happened to good, old-fashioned glue huffing?The report says as many as 7 per cent of Ontario students – some 79,000 – between grades 7 and 12 will have played the game, which is often prolonged to the point of fainting and is blamed for at least 82 deaths in the United States since the mid-1990s.
Monday, April 28, 2008
AWOT: the trailer
Below is the web trailer for A Week of This. All of the footage is taken from the film loop Ian Daffern made for the Toronto launch – chopped up, re-ordered, and played out over a plinky little tune I whipped up on a laptop. (Macs are wonderful things.)
Watch it, share it, pan it, forget it.
ADDED: Ian gives a little background here.
Watch it, share it, pan it, forget it.
ADDED: Ian gives a little background here.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
Too much of a good thing
Based on this review of his new one, it would appear James Kelman has not yet lost the habit of writing novels you really want to like and that are intermittently brilliant but that are just too frigging long and loose to really work. (I'm still curious to read it, though.)
Here's my review of Kelman's previous novel, You Have To Be Careful In The Land Of The Free, from way back in 2004.
Here's my review of Kelman's previous novel, You Have To Be Careful In The Land Of The Free, from way back in 2004.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Confucious say: what were they thinking?
A rather unfortunate juxtaposition of story and image on the front page of the Toronto Star this morning:
You can juuuuust see that "Sinophobia" story on the right, which is what the image actually refers to.
You can juuuuust see that "Sinophobia" story on the right, which is what the image actually refers to.
Beer League Band Man
I have a thing in the Globe T.O. section today about a recent night out at The Rehearsal Factory.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Getting fried with Mr Frye
It's been a long while since I've had Northrop Frye over to guest blog (see here and here), so we're long overdue.
What's he on about this time? Why, gettin' loaded, of course:
(From here, as always)
What's he on about this time? Why, gettin' loaded, of course:
For the relaxations of the spirit which is wisdom some kind of narcotic is essential, I think. It disturbs routine existence enough to suggest the infinite. Teetotallers are often cultural go-getters & over-rationalized. Their rhythm is all wrong. In the Middle Ages everybody was stewed in beer all day long.
(From here, as always)
Rhetorical question
Who the fuck steals a ten-year-old's new bike?
There is indeed evil in the world.
There is indeed evil in the world.
Sunday, April 20, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Last night
The launch for AWOT went smoothly, I think – the room was crowded, the books sold out, and people seemed to enjoy it.
The piece Alex composed (and performed) was odd, spiky, hypnotizing, and way beyond what I would have settled for. I would have been happy with entertainment, and the fucking guy brought music – which is why I love his stuff.
Ian Daffern’s film loop was even more hypnotizing – we may be doing something more with it.
I was glad to be able to thank certain people who helped out, and I’m glad the books sold – not only for my own egotistic purposes, but because Chris Reed and Pages put so much into this event, I didn’t want to lay an egg. I was especially glad that I could publicly thank Phil Rudz for the fantastic cover he made for the book. I’ve heard that people were getting him to sign the cover, which is at it should be.
Everything from now on is gravy, as far as I'm concerned.
Some photos therefrom (courtesy of Chris Reed) -
The Weeklongs - a.k.a. Ryan Driver, Brodie West, Alex Lukashevsky, and Colin Fisher:
Some dork and his Powerpoint presentation:
Thanks to all who came out.
ADDED: More photos here.
The piece Alex composed (and performed) was odd, spiky, hypnotizing, and way beyond what I would have settled for. I would have been happy with entertainment, and the fucking guy brought music – which is why I love his stuff.
Ian Daffern’s film loop was even more hypnotizing – we may be doing something more with it.
I was glad to be able to thank certain people who helped out, and I’m glad the books sold – not only for my own egotistic purposes, but because Chris Reed and Pages put so much into this event, I didn’t want to lay an egg. I was especially glad that I could publicly thank Phil Rudz for the fantastic cover he made for the book. I’ve heard that people were getting him to sign the cover, which is at it should be.
Everything from now on is gravy, as far as I'm concerned.
Some photos therefrom (courtesy of Chris Reed) -
The Weeklongs - a.k.a. Ryan Driver, Brodie West, Alex Lukashevsky, and Colin Fisher:
Some dork and his Powerpoint presentation:
Thanks to all who came out.
ADDED: More photos here.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Where I'll be
If you're looking for me tonight, I'll be the one puking at The Gladstone – in panic, before the event, recreationally afterwards.
Come on out. Listen, laugh, buy a book. Be a good sport.
Come on out. Listen, laugh, buy a book. Be a good sport.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
AWOT gets Pickled
Pickle Me This goes firm but fair on the book.
I especially appreciate this:
I especially appreciate this:
Manda is a great character, altogether realized. She's mean, which I appreciate – I don't find nearly enough mean and sarcastic heroines in books who we're still meant to like.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
AWOT in the Winnipeg Free Press
A Week of This just got reviewed in the Winnipeg Free Press.
Here's the money quote:
Please read the whole thing here.
And don't forget: the big launch is this Wednesday, 7 pm, at the Gladstone Hotel in Toronto.
I've also got events coming up in Montreal, Ottawa, and beyond. (Plus more Toronto readings.) See here (under "News") for more events.
ADDED: if you haven't seen the window display at Pages Books, see below (courtesy of Chris Reed, who took the photos).
And closer up:
Here's the money quote:
A good novel can take you some place you've never been. But it takes a great one to take you some place you've been a thousand times and show it to you anew.Holy mac.
Please read the whole thing here.
And don't forget: the big launch is this Wednesday, 7 pm, at the Gladstone Hotel in Toronto.
I've also got events coming up in Montreal, Ottawa, and beyond. (Plus more Toronto readings.) See here (under "News") for more events.
ADDED: if you haven't seen the window display at Pages Books, see below (courtesy of Chris Reed, who took the photos).
And closer up:
Thursday, April 10, 2008
There are limits
Overheard in the Eaton Centre, yesterday:
Older man, talking on a cell phone: "I try to respect all points of view and people's opinions, but not when it's coming from those bastards."It was like my conscience was talking.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
More me
Interview in The Danforth Review.
Plus a short piece about waiting to run the review gauntlet on the Pages site.
(Thanks to Shawn and Shaun for these.)
Plus a short piece about waiting to run the review gauntlet on the Pages site.
(Thanks to Shawn and Shaun for these.)
Monday, April 07, 2008
Damn dirty japes
You'd have a hard time finding sang that is froider than this letter to the editor in today's Globe and Mail:
(Context.)
Now that Charlton Heston is dead, perhaps it's time to pry the gun from his cold, dead hands. - Peter Dawson, Halifax
(Context.)
Thursday, April 03, 2008
AWOT arrives at last
Look what the cat dragged in:
Want one?
Bookstores should start getting copies in stock around April 12th. Pages at Queen & John will have copies earlier than that, I believe. (And they will soon have a window display for the book – go see it if you can.)
Also, for the next two months, the Revue Cinema will be running an ad for the book before every movie.
A million thanks to everyone who helped to make this book happen, most especially Michael Holmes and everyone at ECW Press, Ciabh (my goodwyfe), Phil, who did the cover, posters, ad, and much more, and everyone else who helped, offered advice and support, or just generally helped me on my way, most of whom I remembered to thank in the book itself.
ADDED: The Library Journal review is now online. (Scroll down.)
Want one?
Bookstores should start getting copies in stock around April 12th. Pages at Queen & John will have copies earlier than that, I believe. (And they will soon have a window display for the book – go see it if you can.)
Also, for the next two months, the Revue Cinema will be running an ad for the book before every movie.
A million thanks to everyone who helped to make this book happen, most especially Michael Holmes and everyone at ECW Press, Ciabh (my goodwyfe), Phil, who did the cover, posters, ad, and much more, and everyone else who helped, offered advice and support, or just generally helped me on my way, most of whom I remembered to thank in the book itself.
ADDED: The Library Journal review is now online. (Scroll down.)
DeNiro's (big league) Game
Congratulations to Rawi Hage on the IMPAC shortlisting.
In the Toronto Star, the headline for Hage's IMPAC nod is:
In the Toronto Star, the headline for Hage's IMPAC nod is:
Canadian up for $160K PrizeThere's a whole lotta national and cultural anxiety packed into that little five-word hed.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Me talk pretty one day
A brief Q&A for the "Fiery First Fiction" promotion, which is based on the notion that first works of fiction can induce either aneurysms or explosive diarrhea, I forget which.
(I tried not to let the thing devolve into a series of one-liners, but only partly succeeded.)
(I tried not to let the thing devolve into a series of one-liners, but only partly succeeded.)
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Gott in himmel!
Things have been getting awfully high-minded and literary around here, so we are overdue for some good, clean smut.
Unfortunately, this is neither good nor clean:
Unfortunately, this is neither good nor clean:
Max Mosley, one of the most powerful men in world sport, was under pressure to resign as boss of Formula One’s governing body last night after he was exposed enjoying a Nazi-style orgy with five prostitutes.Really? The Nazi angle wasn't creepy enough so he had to add a lice check? This is the point where most people would look at their genitals and say, "you know, I'm starting to think I shouldn't listen to you so much."Jewish groups condemned the behaviour of Mosley, 67, whose father, Sir Oswald, was the leader of the British Union of Fascists and a friend of Adolf Hitler.
Mr Mosley was caught on video by the News of the World with five women in an underground “torture chamber” in Chelsea, where he spent several hours allegedly indulging in sado-masochistic sex.
The Oxford-educated former barrister, who is president of the Fédération Internationale de l’Automobile (FIA), reenacted a concentration camp scene in which he played the role of both guard and inmate.
Speaking in German and brandishing a leather whip, he beat the women after allowing himself to be subjected to a humiliating inspection for lice and an interrogation in chains. [Emphasis added, maybe unnecessarily]
Monday, March 31, 2008
Price is right
James Wood on the new Richard Price.
Recommended not just because it's Wood on Price, and because it's really an essay on the use of dialogue in fiction, but because it refers to Henry Green's Loving (not that surprising, given that it's Wood, but always a welcome sight), and because it quotes one of the characters in Price's novel on how he knew the event he was at was a poetry reading: “I guess it was poetry because it had that pronouncement thing, you know, where you say each word like you’re angry at it?”
Exactly.
Recommended not just because it's Wood on Price, and because it's really an essay on the use of dialogue in fiction, but because it refers to Henry Green's Loving (not that surprising, given that it's Wood, but always a welcome sight), and because it quotes one of the characters in Price's novel on how he knew the event he was at was a poetry reading: “I guess it was poetry because it had that pronouncement thing, you know, where you say each word like you’re angry at it?”
Exactly.
Friday, March 28, 2008
Writing lessons
From The Finishing School by Muriel Spark:
“You begin,” he said, “by setting your scene. You have to see your scene, either in reality or in imagination. For instance, from here you can see across the lake. But on a day like this you can’t see across the lake, it’s too misty. You can’t see the other side.” Rowland took off his reading glasses to stare at his creative writing class whose parents’ money was being thus spent: two boys and three girls around sixteen to seventeen years of age, some more, some a little less. “So,” he said, “you must write, when you set your scene, ‘the other side of the lake was hidden in mist.’ Or if you want to exercise imagination, on a day like today, you can write, ‘The other side of the lake was just visible.’ But as you are setting the scene, don’t make any emphasis as yet. It’s too soon, for instance, for you to write, ‘The other side of the like was hidden in the fucking mist.’ That will come later. You are setting your scene. You don’t want to make a point as yet.”
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
The scaaaarrrrryyy Mr Stine
My son's "favourite author" (his words) is profiled in the NY Times.
He gobbles those books up at a rate of about 4 or 5 per week – which may be a conservative estimate. He has a box – a war-surplus crate that used to hold grenades or something – in which he keeps them all. And trips to Value Village are always being requested, because he knows he can pick up half a dozen of the books for about two dollars. He has already started to eye the Stephen King paperbacks on the adult shelves – It being of particular interest. (Killer clowns? Sign him up.)
Some kids go through a kind of "reading puberty" just before the onset of real puberty. Even kids who are book-friendly from the moment they can hold one can go through a spurt that looks almost manic. My own is acting like a little pothead when it comes to reading – there's very little that can get his attention when he's on the stuff. I knew a kid, who is in her mid-teens now, who used to lock herself in a lit, walk-in closet in the basement of her house and spend the entire day reading in her pajamas. The losses in Vitamin D exposure, exercise, and basic socialization are outweighed by the benefits of getting in the habit early. Everyone knows that the fat, pasty-faced weirdos become the cool kids later on. Or sex offenders. But you have roll the dice.
He gobbles those books up at a rate of about 4 or 5 per week – which may be a conservative estimate. He has a box – a war-surplus crate that used to hold grenades or something – in which he keeps them all. And trips to Value Village are always being requested, because he knows he can pick up half a dozen of the books for about two dollars. He has already started to eye the Stephen King paperbacks on the adult shelves – It being of particular interest. (Killer clowns? Sign him up.)
Some kids go through a kind of "reading puberty" just before the onset of real puberty. Even kids who are book-friendly from the moment they can hold one can go through a spurt that looks almost manic. My own is acting like a little pothead when it comes to reading – there's very little that can get his attention when he's on the stuff. I knew a kid, who is in her mid-teens now, who used to lock herself in a lit, walk-in closet in the basement of her house and spend the entire day reading in her pajamas. The losses in Vitamin D exposure, exercise, and basic socialization are outweighed by the benefits of getting in the habit early. Everyone knows that the fat, pasty-faced weirdos become the cool kids later on. Or sex offenders. But you have roll the dice.
Monday, March 24, 2008
What's Ricky Gervais up to?
The concept of "blogging for the express purpose of promoting cultural product" – which I invented, about a year or so ago – is really catching on, isn't it?
Ricky Gervais, busy putting together his latest movie – Liar Liar II or something like that – has taken the idea and run with it.
(Thanks to Gary C for the link.)
Ricky Gervais, busy putting together his latest movie – Liar Liar II or something like that – has taken the idea and run with it.
(Thanks to Gary C for the link.)
Saturday, March 22, 2008
It ain't me
I recently came across a quote I had dog-eared in Typing, Matt Cohen's memoir:
Probably not hard to figure out why I marked that particular quote.
Beckett's novel trilogy spun my head around when I first read it. And while I am not nearly as hot for the stuff as I once was, I spent a couple of years gobbling up everything by and about Donald Bartheleme I could get my hands on.
On the other hand, Alice Munro's stories, however brilliant they are individually, still tend to make me a little restless after about three or four in a row.
And yet, in my own writing so far, I see very little Beckett (though there is definitely some, in altered form) and no Barthelme at all. But I do see repeated attempts to achieve the kinds of effects that Munro is a master of, effects that bring with them a certain amount of dryness and distance, along with the itch for lives depicted with a little more raucousness and mess.
Thinking about the first novel about to drop out the chute – which I try not to at this point, focusing instead on the mechanics of publicizing it, and on the second novel currently in the works – I worry that it could have been more raucous and less dry. But I don't regret at all the fact that my own consciousness does not appear as a major character.
This has been a very self-indulgent post about literary self-negation.
ADDED: Before anyone makes the objection, I should say that I'm only talking about myself here, and only about the way I mostly write right now. I am fully aware that some of the greatest works of literature were born out of thinly veiled autobiography.
And I reserve the right to one day write a series of novels about Jason Whitelore, the handsome and unconventional young dreamer from nowhere who is forced to make his way, aided only by his boundless charisma, wit, and libido.
I'm also in the middle of Reinhold Kramer's upcoming bio of Mordecai Richler, a writer who made a lot of sweeping (though mostly dead-on) statements about novelists shamelessly (if backhandedly) congratulating themselves in their fiction, and whose best novels do exactly that.
My discovery of my own voice came along with the realization that I was the kind of writer who wrote much better when I was writing about other people. Only when it was about other people did my writing seem to have the freedom, the texture, the conviction, that had been so lacking from my earlier efforts, all of which had centred around various imaginary versions of myself.Cohen spent a long time trying to write the kind of proudly solipsistic, defiantly avant-garde and non-linear prose that he saw as a kind of challenge to Canada's Scotch-protestant culture and that was big among his literary peers at the fledgling House of Anansi and Coach House presses. Somewhat to his own horror, he found himself – after a couple of failed novels of just that sort – drawn more and more to the idea of writing about the lives of seemingly boring and non-avant garde people in rural Ontario.
Probably not hard to figure out why I marked that particular quote.
Beckett's novel trilogy spun my head around when I first read it. And while I am not nearly as hot for the stuff as I once was, I spent a couple of years gobbling up everything by and about Donald Bartheleme I could get my hands on.
On the other hand, Alice Munro's stories, however brilliant they are individually, still tend to make me a little restless after about three or four in a row.
And yet, in my own writing so far, I see very little Beckett (though there is definitely some, in altered form) and no Barthelme at all. But I do see repeated attempts to achieve the kinds of effects that Munro is a master of, effects that bring with them a certain amount of dryness and distance, along with the itch for lives depicted with a little more raucousness and mess.
Thinking about the first novel about to drop out the chute – which I try not to at this point, focusing instead on the mechanics of publicizing it, and on the second novel currently in the works – I worry that it could have been more raucous and less dry. But I don't regret at all the fact that my own consciousness does not appear as a major character.
This has been a very self-indulgent post about literary self-negation.
ADDED: Before anyone makes the objection, I should say that I'm only talking about myself here, and only about the way I mostly write right now. I am fully aware that some of the greatest works of literature were born out of thinly veiled autobiography.
And I reserve the right to one day write a series of novels about Jason Whitelore, the handsome and unconventional young dreamer from nowhere who is forced to make his way, aided only by his boundless charisma, wit, and libido.
I'm also in the middle of Reinhold Kramer's upcoming bio of Mordecai Richler, a writer who made a lot of sweeping (though mostly dead-on) statements about novelists shamelessly (if backhandedly) congratulating themselves in their fiction, and whose best novels do exactly that.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Voulez vous coucher avec moi? *UPDATED*
Help wanted: I'm doing a reading in Montreal on May 5 as part of the Literary Press Group's "Fiery First Fiction" campaign.
I'm arriving in town the day before, and have a place to stay Sunday night, but does anyone have suggestions as to cheap places to stay downtown Monday night?
Offers of friendly couches or spare rooms will be met with gratitude, the purchase of the drink of your choice, and a free copy of my book. (Which can always be exchanged for one you actually want to read.) I can handle no-star hotels/hostels, though.
E-mail me at nathanwhitlock[@]gmail.com.
Many thanks.
UPDATE: Found a room, right above where I'm doing the reading. And it's cheap. Can't get simpler than that.
(Many, many thanks to Carmine, Chris, Zach, and Gary for the help and the offers.)
I'm arriving in town the day before, and have a place to stay Sunday night, but does anyone have suggestions as to cheap places to stay downtown Monday night?
Offers of friendly couches or spare rooms will be met with gratitude, the purchase of the drink of your choice, and a free copy of my book. (Which can always be exchanged for one you actually want to read.) I can handle no-star hotels/hostels, though.
E-mail me at nathanwhitlock[@]gmail.com.
Many thanks.
UPDATE: Found a room, right above where I'm doing the reading. And it's cheap. Can't get simpler than that.
(Many, many thanks to Carmine, Chris, Zach, and Gary for the help and the offers.)
First review for AWOT
A Week of This just received its first review – a positive one – in The Library Journal in the US.
This is either a good omen or a last pat on the head before running the gauntlet.
This is either a good omen or a last pat on the head before running the gauntlet.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Unexpected pleasures
Who would have thought anything so fun/good/heartening could come out of The Breeders this late in the day?
It's not a clincher, but it's a good sign. Part of me thinks they could/should have stretched that groove out over a few more minutes.
Still, somewhere Frank Black is jumping up and down on his cowboy hat, Warner Brothers cartoon-style. ("Dagnabbit!")
It's not a clincher, but it's a good sign. Part of me thinks they could/should have stretched that groove out over a few more minutes.
Still, somewhere Frank Black is jumping up and down on his cowboy hat, Warner Brothers cartoon-style. ("Dagnabbit!")
Thursday, March 13, 2008
We are somewhat awesome!
They've changed it online, but in the paper the headline for this story was:
Canada's shaking things up a bit.I dunno – still feels insufficiently qualified. A tad? A tinch? Within proscribed limits?
Sunday, March 09, 2008
My Unwritten Books by George Steiner
My review of George Steiner's My Unwritten Books is online here.
Someone – smarter, better read, and with a significantly more puckish literary sensibility – could do a whole study of the peculiarly Borgesian faith in the power of non-existent books.
Maybe someone already has, and I just haven't heard of it. Wouldn't be the first time.
Someone – smarter, better read, and with a significantly more puckish literary sensibility – could do a whole study of the peculiarly Borgesian faith in the power of non-existent books.
Maybe someone already has, and I just haven't heard of it. Wouldn't be the first time.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
The four-stringed joy machine
You can't be down with one of these around:
And so I bought one. And it looks exactly like the one in the picture.
Life may not be good, ever, but it just became a wee bit more bearable.
And so I bought one. And it looks exactly like the one in the picture.
Life may not be good, ever, but it just became a wee bit more bearable.
Friday, February 29, 2008
The next bk
"The bk is hard and I am truly exhausted. Often I thk I don't like or dislike writing, it's just something I've got to do. The way I feel abt this one: is fine, it's out of the way. But on my desk is a big pile of things to be done, especially this next bk which I am very excited abt." – Mordecai Richler, in a letter to his UK editor, after turning in the final draft of his first novel.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
The Minister of Poopy-Pantsedness
From CBC.ca:So serious is he about the welfare of seniors, Ontario's health minister said Wednesday he's prepared to don an adult diaper - and use it - to satisfy himself that elderly residents of the province's nursing homes are getting appropriate care.George Smitherman sent eyebrows skyward when he made the straight-faced suggestion in response to critics who say the standard of care in Ontario nursing homes is so bad, residents are being left to wallow in soiled diapers for hours on end.
[...]
He said some of his staff laughed at him "the first three times" he talked about the idea, but Smitherman insisted the matter is no joke.
And I'll bet that the next three times he brought it up in the office he was met with looks of dawning horror.
You know, I'm all for testing out a hypothesis, but I'm more than willing to accept on faith, and faith alone, that shitting your pants is unpleasant.
"I said, 'How does a guy like me really actually figure out what's right about all this?"' he said. "Is a product that offers greater absorption capability an appropriate product or is that a front for some diminishment of care?"
To be fair, this may all be part of an initiation for a frat.
[Thanks(?) to Emily D. for the link – and the title.]
Saturday, February 23, 2008
Down at the Globe
An article I wrote about a creative writing contest held for people living in shelters and on the street is in the Globe and Mail today.
Speaking of the Globe, here's an understatement:
Speaking of the Globe, here's an understatement:
Resorting to the use of mental patients to carry out recent Baghdad bombings suggests a moral bankruptcyYes, there is a suggestion of moral bankruptcy there, I suppose. Just as feeding infants to bears would hint strongly at a possible dearth of benevolence.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Raggin' Canada Reads
Steven Beattie and Alex Good are conducting their own two-man panel on this year's edition of Canada Reads over at Steven's That Shakespeherian Rag.
I have to admit, I've never really listened to the thing, though I did, I think, play a very minor, offstage role in the selection of one of the contending books way back when the program was a toddler. I pretty much concur, though, with Stephen and Alex's opening take on the program, which is that, despite initial suspicions, it has at least proved itself to be a less boring, more readerly approach to books than some of the other big book events/awards out there. (Cough cough Giller cough.)
I'm not as enthusiastic about the use of quasi-celebrities as panelists, but I agree that it's no worse, and potentially better, than a jury stocked with the Usual CanLit Subjects. The problem with quasi-celebrities from well outside the book world is that one of their main priorities in these things tends to be demonstrating just how much they loooove books. I don't think this always happens, and I think some of the more counterintuitive choices Canada Reads has made have been solid – and occasionally more than that, from what I've been told – but all too often, when you bring someone in from way, way outside the book world, this vaguely condescending tone appears that says: "It's so wonderful that people write books. And books are just, well, wonderful, aren't they? I'm so proud of you people." That doesn't just happen at Canada Reads, but in any situation where a non-bookish V.I.P. gets to hold forth on the wonder that is literature. I've had to stand through dozens of long, earnest speeches by bank execs and actors and radio hosts and elected officials and dignitaries that amounted to a pat on the head for the ink-stained wretches in the room. The eyes tend to get sore from all the rolling, and the bar usually stops serving during the speeches.
But again, looking outside the CanLit oatmeal box is often a good idea. I just think there are lot of high-to-medium profile cultural commentators around who could at least be relied upon to take the goodness of books as a given and get on with seeing if any of the ones before them are any good.*
* I should make clear, lest anyone think I'm arguing that bookishness is next to godliness, that I'm not saying that these cultural commentators are inherently wise or even trustworthy, just that – theoretically, anyway; are there any other ways I can qualify this? – they'd be less likely to approach literature as a kind of charming folk craft that has not yet been snuffed out. (Problem is, a whole lot of its practitioners treat literature this way, however intentionally. Even I have my doubts sometimes.)
UPDATE: giving credit where credit is due, the discussion on this year's Canada Reads – as described by Steven and Alex, at least – sounds better so far than the kind of thing I was describing above. I can detect, even within their descriptions, the presence of certain kinds of book talk the likes of which tends to boil my boots, but still, it's better than it could be.
I have to admit, I've never really listened to the thing, though I did, I think, play a very minor, offstage role in the selection of one of the contending books way back when the program was a toddler. I pretty much concur, though, with Stephen and Alex's opening take on the program, which is that, despite initial suspicions, it has at least proved itself to be a less boring, more readerly approach to books than some of the other big book events/awards out there. (Cough cough Giller cough.)
I'm not as enthusiastic about the use of quasi-celebrities as panelists, but I agree that it's no worse, and potentially better, than a jury stocked with the Usual CanLit Subjects. The problem with quasi-celebrities from well outside the book world is that one of their main priorities in these things tends to be demonstrating just how much they loooove books. I don't think this always happens, and I think some of the more counterintuitive choices Canada Reads has made have been solid – and occasionally more than that, from what I've been told – but all too often, when you bring someone in from way, way outside the book world, this vaguely condescending tone appears that says: "It's so wonderful that people write books. And books are just, well, wonderful, aren't they? I'm so proud of you people." That doesn't just happen at Canada Reads, but in any situation where a non-bookish V.I.P. gets to hold forth on the wonder that is literature. I've had to stand through dozens of long, earnest speeches by bank execs and actors and radio hosts and elected officials and dignitaries that amounted to a pat on the head for the ink-stained wretches in the room. The eyes tend to get sore from all the rolling, and the bar usually stops serving during the speeches.
But again, looking outside the CanLit oatmeal box is often a good idea. I just think there are lot of high-to-medium profile cultural commentators around who could at least be relied upon to take the goodness of books as a given and get on with seeing if any of the ones before them are any good.*
* I should make clear, lest anyone think I'm arguing that bookishness is next to godliness, that I'm not saying that these cultural commentators are inherently wise or even trustworthy, just that – theoretically, anyway; are there any other ways I can qualify this? – they'd be less likely to approach literature as a kind of charming folk craft that has not yet been snuffed out. (Problem is, a whole lot of its practitioners treat literature this way, however intentionally. Even I have my doubts sometimes.)
UPDATE: giving credit where credit is due, the discussion on this year's Canada Reads – as described by Steven and Alex, at least – sounds better so far than the kind of thing I was describing above. I can detect, even within their descriptions, the presence of certain kinds of book talk the likes of which tends to boil my boots, but still, it's better than it could be.
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Flaming Queen
This is pretty fucking shitty.
I used to live right near the corner of Bathurst & Queen – and yes, I know I'm doing that thing where you employ trivial or tenuous means to insert your own petty, attention-seeking self into
someone else's tragedy. Portland St. was my second Toronto address, Markham St., a block west, was my third. I was vaguely aware that the area had a reputation as a perpetual crime-scene, but I never really saw it, and never once felt unsafe around there. I still miss it. Compared to where I live now, it was downright gentlemanly. (Though I do remember my son, at about the age of four, taking his grandfather for a walk around the old neighbourhood to show him his favourite shops, etc, only to find every doorway stained with blood or vomit, or with someone sleeping in it. And yet.)
I used to live right near the corner of Bathurst & Queen – and yes, I know I'm doing that thing where you employ trivial or tenuous means to insert your own petty, attention-seeking self into
someone else's tragedy. Portland St. was my second Toronto address, Markham St., a block west, was my third. I was vaguely aware that the area had a reputation as a perpetual crime-scene, but I never really saw it, and never once felt unsafe around there. I still miss it. Compared to where I live now, it was downright gentlemanly. (Though I do remember my son, at about the age of four, taking his grandfather for a walk around the old neighbourhood to show him his favourite shops, etc, only to find every doorway stained with blood or vomit, or with someone sleeping in it. And yet.)
AWOT has a new address
I am now a dot-com.
Over there you'll find info, novel-specific news updates, unpublished short stories, prizes for the kids – you name it.
That's site's more pro. I'm going to keep this place going as a repository of casually lobbed snark, bored huffing, vaguely literary-themed marginalia, ad hominem attacks on my social and cultural betters, and the occasional lengthy take on some new spasm from one of our B-list cultural pundits.
The good stuff, in other words.
(Thanks to Lorne for the site, and Gary C. for the author photo*.)
*I still jam econo, it would seem.
Over there you'll find info, novel-specific news updates, unpublished short stories, prizes for the kids – you name it.
That's site's more pro. I'm going to keep this place going as a repository of casually lobbed snark, bored huffing, vaguely literary-themed marginalia, ad hominem attacks on my social and cultural betters, and the occasional lengthy take on some new spasm from one of our B-list cultural pundits.
The good stuff, in other words.
(Thanks to Lorne for the site, and Gary C. for the author photo*.)
*I still jam econo, it would seem.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
Quantum of Solace
Help me here – which does the title of the new James Bond movie sound more like: a Canadian small press poetry collection, or a mid-album track from Yes's classic years (say, part IV or V of one of those album-length epics)?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
The events of September 10th
From the Globe:
Moncton – The definition of "indecent" was debated in Provincial Court yesterday as the trial of a man accused of dancing naked on his lawn concluded in Moncton.Wait, this is against the law now?Peter William Bulman is accused of exposing himself to a woman and her young daughter on Sept. 10, 2006. The woman testified last month that she came out of her apartment building and saw Mr. Bulman with a beer in his hand, his pants around his ankles, dancing in circles on his front lawn.
The woman said Mr. Bulman took no notice of her or her daughter, but he continued to expose his buttocks and genitals for several minutes as he danced in the sun.
The missing piece
I saw a handmade flyer stapled to a telephone pole this morning that said “FOUND: Jigsaw Puzzle Piece,” followed by a description of where the piece was found and, amazingly, a hand-drawn, full-colour picture of it.
I think it was part of a sky.
Honestly – there’s being civic minded and then there’s simply having too much time on your hands.
I think it was part of a sky.
Honestly – there’s being civic minded and then there’s simply having too much time on your hands.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Sharp Teeth by Toby Barlow
My review of Toby Barlow's werewolves-in-L.A. novel was in the Toronto Star yesterday.
And on Saturday, I had a short thing in the Globe's T.O. section about birds and the Dufferin Mall. (Hey, a man's gotta eat.)
And on Saturday, I had a short thing in the Globe's T.O. section about birds and the Dufferin Mall. (Hey, a man's gotta eat.)
Friday, February 08, 2008
A slice of a slice of life
The good folks over at LWOT magazine – "the world's greatest fiction magazine" according to, well, them – have been kind/foolish enough to include an excerpt from the novel in the current issue.
I think they overhype it just a wee bit on the splash page, and I don't know why I look 70 years old in the drawing of me that accompanies the thing, but the little pictures throughout are a cute touch.*
Thank you, gentlemen of LWOT. Much appreciated.
* Just in case my genuine sense of gratitude is being lost in an ironic fog, let me make clear I think this is very cool, and I'm flattered they even asked.
I think they overhype it just a wee bit on the splash page, and I don't know why I look 70 years old in the drawing of me that accompanies the thing, but the little pictures throughout are a cute touch.*
Thank you, gentlemen of LWOT. Much appreciated.
* Just in case my genuine sense of gratitude is being lost in an ironic fog, let me make clear I think this is very cool, and I'm flattered they even asked.
Mark's minder
Just because it's been a while since there's been any Mark Steyn content around these parts, here's Tbogg.
Mocking Steyn is a losing game because it's hard to shame the shameless, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try.
Mocking Steyn is a losing game because it's hard to shame the shameless, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't try.
Thursday, February 07, 2008
Snowblind
Toronto officially has the most pathetic weather of any city on the planet.
It's not so much the extremes – other cities have those to a much more jaw-dropping degree – it's the absolute lack of any logical sense or consistency that makes Toronto's weather so pathetic. Three days ago, it was dry as a bone and springtime warm. Then a snowstorm, followed immediately by a day of melt, then another snowstorm – this one approaching East Coast levels of intensity – and now it appears that we'll have light snow, sunshine, and cold weather for at least a week. After that, who knows? Chinook? Ice age?
(And spare me the "call in the army" witticisms - that's the Toronto-twitting equivalent of Michael Jackson jokes.)
(Just like bitching about the weather is the equivalent of an AM Radio call-in host demanding that the government "get off our backs.")
Like everything else in the city, our weather is just poorly thought out, and seems to have been designed by committee. Who do I call about this?
But I'm still biking through it, dammit. And for that I deserve, as my older brothers used to say, a hero biscuit.
It's not so much the extremes – other cities have those to a much more jaw-dropping degree – it's the absolute lack of any logical sense or consistency that makes Toronto's weather so pathetic. Three days ago, it was dry as a bone and springtime warm. Then a snowstorm, followed immediately by a day of melt, then another snowstorm – this one approaching East Coast levels of intensity – and now it appears that we'll have light snow, sunshine, and cold weather for at least a week. After that, who knows? Chinook? Ice age?
(And spare me the "call in the army" witticisms - that's the Toronto-twitting equivalent of Michael Jackson jokes.)
(Just like bitching about the weather is the equivalent of an AM Radio call-in host demanding that the government "get off our backs.")
Like everything else in the city, our weather is just poorly thought out, and seems to have been designed by committee. Who do I call about this?
But I'm still biking through it, dammit. And for that I deserve, as my older brothers used to say, a hero biscuit.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
AWOT day
Mark your calendars:
Nathan Whitlock - A Week Of This: A Novel in Seven DaysThe book, in case you're curious, has at long last been sent off to the printers, and should pop into view around the first week of April. For the moment, I'm feeling more relief than postpartum depression. More on that later.
To celebrate the release of his widely anticipated first novel, A Week Of This: A Novel in Seven Days (ECW Press), Quill & Quire review editor Nathan Whitlock will deliver a comic mock lecture titled "Seven Steps To A Seven Day Novel". Also, musician Alex Lukashevsky—whom Kevin Drew of Broken Social Scene has called "one of the best songwriters Canada's ever been blessed with"—will perform songs inspired by Whitlock's tale about the lives of an extended family over seven increasingly desperate days. — A This Is Not A Reading Series event presented by Pages Books & Magazines, ECW Press and EYE WEEKLY.
Gladstone Hotel Ballroom, 1214 Queen St W, Toronto
Wed, Apr 16; 7:30pm (doors 7pm) free
Thursday, January 31, 2008
The richards are different from you and me
This long article in the new Vanity Fair about the battle between Richard "Dick" Scaife, ultra-rich funder of numerous right-wing causes, and Ritchie, his second (now ex-)wife , is a hoot – even if you're not into that kind of thing.
The funniest part is the account of the pair's wedding:
The funniest part is the account of the pair's wedding:
For the exchange of vows, on the old Penguin Court property (Dick had had the gloomy mansion torn down after his mother died, in 1965), Ritchie wore a short white dress. For the reception, at Ligonier’s Rolling Rock Club, the new wife surprised her husband, a fireworks aficionado, by hiring Zambelli, which is responsible for the July Fourth shows on the Mall in Washington, to create a blazing sign on the lawn that proclaimed, in sparkling letters, RITCHIE LOVES DICK. Even today, a certain set of Pittsburgh women, including wives of some of the country’s most brass-knuckled industrialists, speak of Ritchie’s flaming double entendre as among the most shocking moments of their lives.
New Day Resigning
Twenty years ago Monday, Bob Mould officially quit Hüsker Dü, and here's the letter to prove it.
(Found this on the man's blog.)
(Found this on the man's blog.)
Having a Vampire Weekend
Thoughts on that Vampire Weekend record:
Thought A): King Sunny Ade sits in with some first-year EngLit and Philosophy undergrads who are putting together a New Pornographers tribute band. To warm themselves up, they try to imagine what it would sound like if The Strokes had written "Sloop John B."
Thought B): Despite all that and much more to its superficial discredit, the album is almost criminally listenable and fun.
Thought C): Which is also to its discredit, in the end, as it yields up pretty much everything it's ever going to yield up on the very first listen. I've listened to the thing 1 1/2 times, and a lot of it is already starting to sour on me. It's at the far, opposite end of the artistic spectrum from Eyes Wide Shut or that new Wu Tang Clan record or the novels of Virginia Woolf – works that are truly unlikeable, but which compel endless revisiting. (To be fair, it's not like they set out to record To the Lighthouse in sound, or anything. Being lite and hooky is just fine. It's just that these hooks don't go in very deep. It's like fishing with shiny nails.)
Thought D): But still, good driving music. And good to sprinkle across mix CDs. And kids like it.
But see for yourself:
Thought A): King Sunny Ade sits in with some first-year EngLit and Philosophy undergrads who are putting together a New Pornographers tribute band. To warm themselves up, they try to imagine what it would sound like if The Strokes had written "Sloop John B."
Thought B): Despite all that and much more to its superficial discredit, the album is almost criminally listenable and fun.
Thought C): Which is also to its discredit, in the end, as it yields up pretty much everything it's ever going to yield up on the very first listen. I've listened to the thing 1 1/2 times, and a lot of it is already starting to sour on me. It's at the far, opposite end of the artistic spectrum from Eyes Wide Shut or that new Wu Tang Clan record or the novels of Virginia Woolf – works that are truly unlikeable, but which compel endless revisiting. (To be fair, it's not like they set out to record To the Lighthouse in sound, or anything. Being lite and hooky is just fine. It's just that these hooks don't go in very deep. It's like fishing with shiny nails.)
Thought D): But still, good driving music. And good to sprinkle across mix CDs. And kids like it.
But see for yourself:
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
A little (Mississippi John) Hurt never hurt
I saw this posted elswhere, and thought I ought to post it myself. Because I can.
Pure ear candy:
Pure ear candy:
Saturday, January 26, 2008
What a character
I haven't had a chance to actually read it yet, but because this essay on the nature of character in The Guardian is not only written by James Wood, but also references Pnin and The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie, I will have no real choice but to read it later.
(My bobby soxeresque enthusiasm for James Wood's critical essays is not as gushing as it once was, but I still read pretty much everything I can find with his name attached to it.)
(My bobby soxeresque enthusiasm for James Wood's critical essays is not as gushing as it once was, but I still read pretty much everything I can find with his name attached to it.)
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
New blurb! From a dead man!
The novel is still a couple of months away from publication, and already the raves are piling up.
I'm very excited about this one:
It certainly sums up the book, but I don't know – seems a little less glowing than I'd originally thought...
I'm very excited about this one:
"An insignificant trifle on the lives of provincial porpoises."
– Anton Chekhov (from a letter to A.S. Suvorin, Nov., 1889)
It certainly sums up the book, but I don't know – seems a little less glowing than I'd originally thought...
Heath Ledger
Look out for all the articles claiming that Drugs Are Big Again in Young Hollywood.
Also, look for at least one newspaper or magazine article writing that "although Heath Ledger's final performance was as The Joker, in the end it was [drugs, depression, fame] that had the last laugh."
Also, look for at least one newspaper or magazine article writing that "although Heath Ledger's final performance was as The Joker, in the end it was [drugs, depression, fame] that had the last laugh."
Saturday, January 19, 2008
No strike at the Toronto Star?
Shaun S. just sent me this link:
From what I was hearing and reading, the two sides were pretty far apart in terms of demands, so this is hopefully good news for everyone there.We have a tentative agreement, reached at 2pm on Saturday after days of round-the-clock bargaining with the mediator.
We have also agreed, and so has the company, that no details will be released, by us or by them, before we have a ratification vote with you some time next week. We don't even know the day of the meeting yet.
So we are barred from telling you anything here. The good news is that we can stand down from strike posture. It's back to work as usual. And thank you all for your support; it's made all the difference.
– Maureen Dawson, unit chair
Friday, January 18, 2008
New blurbs
My humble tome just got two new endorsements:
"A portrait of people in a small town so intimate that it feels like you are under the covers with them. Like Tom Perrotta's Little Children, Whitlock examines the horror and grace of suburban life." – Heather O'Neill, author of Lullabies for Little Criminals
"With this debut novel, Whitlock demonstrates a keen insight into the hearts of those living lives of quiet desperation, and deeper, into the fundamental truths of the human soul." – Robert J. Wiersema, author of Before I Wake
Also, the cover is almost done, and it looks fanfuckingtastic. It's been such a long haul with this thing, but all this has got me excited again. By tomorrow, I'm sure I'll be back to wishing the book would just die already, but for now, all is well.
"A portrait of people in a small town so intimate that it feels like you are under the covers with them. Like Tom Perrotta's Little Children, Whitlock examines the horror and grace of suburban life." – Heather O'Neill, author of Lullabies for Little Criminals
"With this debut novel, Whitlock demonstrates a keen insight into the hearts of those living lives of quiet desperation, and deeper, into the fundamental truths of the human soul." – Robert J. Wiersema, author of Before I Wake
Also, the cover is almost done, and it looks fanfuckingtastic. It's been such a long haul with this thing, but all this has got me excited again. By tomorrow, I'm sure I'll be back to wishing the book would just die already, but for now, all is well.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Brad Renfro's dead?
Really? Huh.
Don't ask me why, but I once had to endure a viewing of Tom and Huck. Even in that piece of crap, it was clear he was a very talented – but very troubled – guy. Certainly, the gulf between Renfro and Jonathan Taylor Austin Jamal Amber Spyglass Thomas was so obvious it was like watching a duet between Nick Drake and Donnie Osmond.
I'm exaggerating, but still, it was a big gulf.
Too bad.
ADDED: My god, I've made the Knoxville News Sentinel. (Scroll through the links, this humble blog is near the end.)
Don't ask me why, but I once had to endure a viewing of Tom and Huck. Even in that piece of crap, it was clear he was a very talented – but very troubled – guy. Certainly, the gulf between Renfro and Jonathan Taylor Austin Jamal Amber Spyglass Thomas was so obvious it was like watching a duet between Nick Drake and Donnie Osmond.
I'm exaggerating, but still, it was a big gulf.
Too bad.
ADDED: My god, I've made the Knoxville News Sentinel. (Scroll through the links, this humble blog is near the end.)
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Free speech for creeps
Glenn Greenwald, apropos of Canada's troubling hate speech laws, makes the should-be-obvious point that speech – even that of smarmy, leg-humping, intellectually dishonest shits – has to be free:
People like Mark Steyn and Ezra Levant are some of the most pernicious commentators around. But equally pernicious, at least, are those who advocate laws that would proscribe and punish political expression, and those who exploit those laws to try use the power of the State to impose penalties on those expressing "offensive" or "insulting" or "wrong" political ideas. The mere existence of the "investigation," interrogation, and proceeding itself is a grotesque affront to every basic liberty.(Interesting – though occasionally goofy – discussion going on in Greenwald's comment thread, by the way.)
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Some of my best friends are paranoid writers
Here we go again: Stephen Henighan has responded to some of the people who responded in an over-the-top way to his over-the-top Giller rant of last year.
In a column in Geist entitled "Witch Hunt"– there's that famous Henighan restraint and sense of proportion! – the man kicks back against those (such as Lisa Moore and Michael Redhill) who would call him racist:
It's almost easy to forget the comment that started all this hullabaloo:
Now, as I try to always make clear, I usually have a lot of sympathy for what Henighan is trying to get at. There is a literary establishment in Canada that is always looking for some appropriate new recruit to be plucked up and absorbed, as there are also many fresh-faced recruits waving their hands frantically in the air and hoping to be picked, like it's Let's Make a Deal and Ondaatje is a bearded Monty Hall. That is just about self-evident. The sheer number of low-selling, undistinctive writers who all the same bob along on the warm gases of award jury seats, creative writing positions, peer-reviewed grants, plum editing jobs, and writing retreats is proof of that. It's annoying, and occasionally more than that, but it's also understandable and human. It's exactly like political patronage – one time in ten it genuinely is a case of the right person for the job being close at hand; the other nine times, well....
(And, just in case anyone from the establishment is reading this, I'm right here for the plucking. I'm housebroken, I've read some Proust, and though I don't know a lot about wine, I'm willing to learn.)
What Henighan repeatedly does with his poorly aimed jeremiads, however, is reveal the limits of his understanding as to how this establishment works. There is obviously a great deal of spite and vanity and simple greed, yes, but there's also a lot of dumb blundering and good intentions gone awry.
As James G pointed out here in comments a few months ago, the fact that Atwood – the scourge of right-wing philistines and art-hating greedocrats, the first with the fuming editorial in the Globe about how the poor, literary pigeons must be rescued from the miserable, bean-counting fatcats, the one who stood up against the forces of avian destruction with nothing but a gym bag full of specially made delicacies – would put her image and her Can(Lit)adarm at the service of Chapters/Indigo and Conrad Black – and nobody even bats an eye – reveals just how dimly self-aware and ineffective this establishment really is, and how pointless it is to butt heads with it. After all, if they knew what they were doing, the books would be selling better and/or having a larger cultural impact and the literature as a whole really would be enjoying that Golden Age we kept hearing about a few years ago (though less and less these days).
Come to think of it, maybe Henighan is the perfect foil for this group, matching their clumsiness and lack of self awareness every step of the way.
Every literary culture gets the critic it deserves, I guess.
In a column in Geist entitled "Witch Hunt"– there's that famous Henighan restraint and sense of proportion! – the man kicks back against those (such as Lisa Moore and Michael Redhill) who would call him racist:
Redhill’s cynical invocation of racism belittles the pain caused by racist acts, just as people who liken everyone they disagree with to Adolf Hitler banalize the monstrous reality of Nazism. An observer of colour would be justified in finding ridiculous the spectacle of three overprivileged white people such as Moore, Redhill and me squabbling over who is a racist. We may all claim our own forms of marginalization—Redhill is Jewish, Moore a Newfoundlander, and I am an immigrant—but none of us has to contend with the distrustful stare on the street, or the nervous hostility of the attendant at the drugstore counter, that are the daily currency of, for example, Canadians of Afro-Caribbean descent. All three of us draw on the European cultural tradition whose development fed on the wealth Europe accumulated by classifying the inhabitants of much of the rest of the world as subhuman in order to colonize them. It would be suicidally foolish to repudiate the European cultural heritage; it would be naïve, however, not to recognize that racism is fatally interwoven into that heritage. The issue is not that some white people are racist and others aren’t. We are all the inheritors of a culture drenched in racist assumptions. The question is: to what extent can we examine these assumptions, explore and analyze the ways that interracial interactions play themselves out in our multiracial society, and, in this way, understand and better appreciate the multicoloured patchwork of our daily lives?This is all very perceptive and true. Race in Canada is a discussion that rarely gets beyond the level of a high school social studies class, and while this ends with some of that same whiff of chalk dust about it (or is it now the squeak of the dry-erase marker?), he at least aims initially for something a little more clear-eyed and grown-up.
It's almost easy to forget the comment that started all this hullabaloo:
In an instant Vincent Lam, in contrast to previous “multicultural” Giller winners Vassanji, Rohinton Mistry and Austin Clarke—all of them relative loners, none of them born or raised in Canada, none of them able to boast an exemplary interracial marriage such as that between Lam and his Anglo-Greek-descended wife—became a member of the Family Compact and a potential teddy bear. [Emphasis added.]And who wrote that again? Oh right.
Now, as I try to always make clear, I usually have a lot of sympathy for what Henighan is trying to get at. There is a literary establishment in Canada that is always looking for some appropriate new recruit to be plucked up and absorbed, as there are also many fresh-faced recruits waving their hands frantically in the air and hoping to be picked, like it's Let's Make a Deal and Ondaatje is a bearded Monty Hall. That is just about self-evident. The sheer number of low-selling, undistinctive writers who all the same bob along on the warm gases of award jury seats, creative writing positions, peer-reviewed grants, plum editing jobs, and writing retreats is proof of that. It's annoying, and occasionally more than that, but it's also understandable and human. It's exactly like political patronage – one time in ten it genuinely is a case of the right person for the job being close at hand; the other nine times, well....
(And, just in case anyone from the establishment is reading this, I'm right here for the plucking. I'm housebroken, I've read some Proust, and though I don't know a lot about wine, I'm willing to learn.)
What Henighan repeatedly does with his poorly aimed jeremiads, however, is reveal the limits of his understanding as to how this establishment works. There is obviously a great deal of spite and vanity and simple greed, yes, but there's also a lot of dumb blundering and good intentions gone awry.
As James G pointed out here in comments a few months ago, the fact that Atwood – the scourge of right-wing philistines and art-hating greedocrats, the first with the fuming editorial in the Globe about how the poor, literary pigeons must be rescued from the miserable, bean-counting fatcats, the one who stood up against the forces of avian destruction with nothing but a gym bag full of specially made delicacies – would put her image and her Can(Lit)adarm at the service of Chapters/Indigo and Conrad Black – and nobody even bats an eye – reveals just how dimly self-aware and ineffective this establishment really is, and how pointless it is to butt heads with it. After all, if they knew what they were doing, the books would be selling better and/or having a larger cultural impact and the literature as a whole really would be enjoying that Golden Age we kept hearing about a few years ago (though less and less these days).
Come to think of it, maybe Henighan is the perfect foil for this group, matching their clumsiness and lack of self awareness every step of the way.
Every literary culture gets the critic it deserves, I guess.
The big muddy
I’m nearing the midway-point on my attempt to ride my bike to work right through the winter. So far, I’ve only had to give it up for two days after we got dumped on with snow, and there’s only been a couple of times where I’ve been so cold as to wish myself dead, and at least one of those was due to a poorly thought out decision to wear kid gloves on the coldest day of the year. When your fingertips are in such pain that you want to puke, it’s time to re-think strategy.
So far, it’s been shockingly easy. I find most rides actually relaxing, despite the numerous near-misses and constant four-wheel bullying. (It’s been interesting to see just how long it takes to turn a person into a wild-eyed cycling militant – about three minutes, usually.)
The greatest boon is simply not having to sit on the subway for 45 minutes at the end of the day. I don’t mind the streetcar in the morning – in fact I like it, and kind of miss it – but I find that, on the subway rush home, without a seat or even any space around you, you have to put your mind on idle just so you don’t go nuts with the thought that you’ll be standing there, desperately trying to hold onto a strap, while everybody steams and drips up against you, for the better part of an hour. It’s not plebe-fear – though the occasional vocal crackhead tests my mushy liberal nerves, and any group of teenagers ignites my inner Andy Rooney – but simple frustration at so much mental dead time. I’d happily put up with anything if I could at least sit and read. I get off the subway more exhausted than I ever am biking home.
Plus, on a bike you’re somewhat more in control of your own destiny, even if it is your destiny to be killed by a commuter in a Honda Civic happily distracted by Jack FM and coffee in a spill-proof mug.
And, you get the little bonuses. For example, this morning I ran over a dead rat. So I guess I can strike that one off my bucket list.
(That's my backpack in the photo above, by the by.)
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
Hitch's wagon, fixed
I was going to do something on this awful column by Christopher Hitchens, but Chet Scoville at Shakeville has already done it for me.
Roy puts it well (as usual):
Roy puts it well (as usual):
I do find these early, baffled stirrings of Obama dread amusing, but if things go like they're going I expect they'll haul out the firehoses soon enough.
Must I see must-see TV?
Whenever some must-see TV series comes along, I am again reminded of the merciful genius that is the six-episode U.K. series. You can get through the complete run of Black Adder, including the Christmas special, in about three nights, but some of these shows go on for about twenty-four one-hour episodes a season – my god, who needs that much low-yield entertainment?
I don't have cable, so anything I watch has to be in gluttonous, "complete season" marathons either on DVD or acquired through.... other means. This means that the shows just keep piling up, the total running times stretching beyond the horizon and coming into conflict with all the music I haven't listened to, all the movies I haven't seen, and especially all the books I have every intention of reading.
For someone with about eight minutes of unscheduled time per day, this presents a problem.
For example, I am only now giving in to the chorus of voices assuring me that The Wire is the best show since, what, Dexter? Battlestar Gallactica? The Sopranos? Six Feet Under? (All shows I never really got around to, either.) I've got the first season all ready to go – fuck's sake, there's four more! – and I swear I will get it under my belt soon enough. (I swear to god, if it turns out to be crap...)
In the meantime, I've been introducing my son to the classicist-yet-campy pleasures of Star Trek: The New Generation. I'm only able to survive that seemingly endless journey by poking around online episode guides so as to avoid altogether those black-mark episodes where, say, Data learns about humour from Joe Piscipo.
I don't have cable, so anything I watch has to be in gluttonous, "complete season" marathons either on DVD or acquired through.... other means. This means that the shows just keep piling up, the total running times stretching beyond the horizon and coming into conflict with all the music I haven't listened to, all the movies I haven't seen, and especially all the books I have every intention of reading.
For someone with about eight minutes of unscheduled time per day, this presents a problem.
For example, I am only now giving in to the chorus of voices assuring me that The Wire is the best show since, what, Dexter? Battlestar Gallactica? The Sopranos? Six Feet Under? (All shows I never really got around to, either.) I've got the first season all ready to go – fuck's sake, there's four more! – and I swear I will get it under my belt soon enough. (I swear to god, if it turns out to be crap...)
In the meantime, I've been introducing my son to the classicist-yet-campy pleasures of Star Trek: The New Generation. I'm only able to survive that seemingly endless journey by poking around online episode guides so as to avoid altogether those black-mark episodes where, say, Data learns about humour from Joe Piscipo.
Sunday, January 06, 2008
The Star, by the stars
My joke for the way Dan Smith at the Toronto Star puts together his weekly book section is that he is guided "by the stars." Anyone who has written reviews for him knows the drill: a review submitted one week can appear in the paper the next, or not for months, and occasionally not at all.
Case in point: I picked up Eliza Clark's Writer's Gym last June and sent in the review shortly thereafter. And now here, more than six months later, is the review.*
The more significant piece in this weekend's Star book section was the farewell by Phil Marchand, who is moving over to the film beat (?) to make room for the incoming Geoff Pevere (??).
While Marchand's reviews have been showing distinct signs of reviewer-fatigue of late – a lot of plot summary to bulk up the word count, a tendency toward repetition, and an overall sense of resignation in the face of a steadfastly parochial literary culture – when his boiler was sufficiently stoked, he wrote the kind of sharp criticism he was known for, the kind that can be found especially in his book Ripostes, which I end up re-reading every year or so, both by design and by accident.
Personally, I think the guy should get a medal. (And okay, so should Dan... but have it come much later than expected.)
My hopes for Pevere are, or course, that he will be sharp and funny and perceptive and all that, but really, I just hope that he sticks with it, and that this isn't the first step in the elimination of that position altogether. After all, count the number of full-time literary critics we have in this country.
* ADDED: Awfully good idea to begin the lead up to the publication of my first novel by suggesting that ordinary people shouldn't write novels, isn't it? I sometimes adhere too closely to Klingon-style diplomacy. Oh well.
Case in point: I picked up Eliza Clark's Writer's Gym last June and sent in the review shortly thereafter. And now here, more than six months later, is the review.*
The more significant piece in this weekend's Star book section was the farewell by Phil Marchand, who is moving over to the film beat (?) to make room for the incoming Geoff Pevere (??).
While Marchand's reviews have been showing distinct signs of reviewer-fatigue of late – a lot of plot summary to bulk up the word count, a tendency toward repetition, and an overall sense of resignation in the face of a steadfastly parochial literary culture – when his boiler was sufficiently stoked, he wrote the kind of sharp criticism he was known for, the kind that can be found especially in his book Ripostes, which I end up re-reading every year or so, both by design and by accident.
Personally, I think the guy should get a medal. (And okay, so should Dan... but have it come much later than expected.)
My hopes for Pevere are, or course, that he will be sharp and funny and perceptive and all that, but really, I just hope that he sticks with it, and that this isn't the first step in the elimination of that position altogether. After all, count the number of full-time literary critics we have in this country.
* ADDED: Awfully good idea to begin the lead up to the publication of my first novel by suggesting that ordinary people shouldn't write novels, isn't it? I sometimes adhere too closely to Klingon-style diplomacy. Oh well.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
Cozy up with a book
I don't care all that much about the debate over e-readers – I will probably never own or even use one, but I don't plan to tear my hair... er, teeth out in righteous anger if my kids end up using them for textbooks and the like.
Honestly though, sickeningly cozy and simplistic sentiments like the ones in this Opus cartoon just about make me want to switch to digital. We get it: books are great. Books, yum. Does that mean every book has to be paper and ink, or just classics? Would it have made a difference if the book the penguin wanted to read was volume #46 of The Executioner? Goosebumps books are starting to multiply like Tribbles in my house; given that those books get read and discarded in a matter of hours, would it be okay with Breathed if my son just downloaded them instead of raiding the library and our local Value Village every week or so? (Though I admit he learns more by actually going to both locations. Certainly there's lots to learn at Value Village.)
And note, dear reader, that Breathed's cartoon is published... online.
(I've been waiting for an excuse to use that...)
Honestly though, sickeningly cozy and simplistic sentiments like the ones in this Opus cartoon just about make me want to switch to digital. We get it: books are great. Books, yum. Does that mean every book has to be paper and ink, or just classics? Would it have made a difference if the book the penguin wanted to read was volume #46 of The Executioner? Goosebumps books are starting to multiply like Tribbles in my house; given that those books get read and discarded in a matter of hours, would it be okay with Breathed if my son just downloaded them instead of raiding the library and our local Value Village every week or so? (Though I admit he learns more by actually going to both locations. Certainly there's lots to learn at Value Village.)
And note, dear reader, that Breathed's cartoon is published... online.
(I've been waiting for an excuse to use that...)
Monday, December 31, 2007
Resolution
"I will liberate myself from deadlines, but not at once. There is no possibility of getting out of the rut into which I have fallen. I don't mind starving as I have already done, but there are others involved too. I give my leisure to writing, two or three hours a day and a little bit of the night, that is, time that is suitable only for trifling work. This summer, when I will have more leisure and will have to earn less, I will undertake something serious." - Anton Chekhov, in a letter
Friday, December 28, 2007
Holiday blessings
I spent Christmas day driving back from Pembroke to Toronto in a rented minivan full of adults, children, a newborn baby, and shoulder-high piles of luggage and presents.
And it was utterly painless. Enjoyable even.
And nobody even complained about having to listen to the Louvin Brothers so much on the way.
Hot dog.
(Not that you could ever really have too much of the brothers Louvin...)
And it was utterly painless. Enjoyable even.
And nobody even complained about having to listen to the Louvin Brothers so much on the way.
Hot dog.
(Not that you could ever really have too much of the brothers Louvin...)
There will be blood
I promise not to be so knee-jerk juvenile in the coming year, but for now, does anyone else see anything odd about the headline The Globe used today for its story about the horrific events in Pakistan?
Friday, December 14, 2007
Closing the vinyl café
What Roy Edroso said:
There are probably far fewer analog audiophiles now than there were once upon a time. That battle has been lost by attrition. When I first heard Raw Power on CD I thought it was crap, and maybe if I still had the LP and a really good sound system I'd still think so. But I don't, and digital is what there is. To what extent was the ass-kicking power of "The Real Me" from Quadrophenia through my college roommate's maxed-out shelftop stereo a superior experience to whatever digitally remixed version we're on now? Was it the grooves, or the time and place? I can't tell you and I don't have thousands of dollars to try and recreate the experience. Maybe we were all better off with Edison cylinders.I'm tempted to add "literary fiction" to that list of cultural marginalia, though not at all in a mean way – not this time, anyway.
But the recesses of our cultural memory are an archipelago where vinyl certainly rules. Things were caught on wax that, with rare exceptions, no one will bother to digitize because there's no money in it, or because no one cares, or because they just plain suck. These artifacts have the same value as any unobserved details of life: they are either worthless or a treasure trove, depending on how much faith one has in the obvious, or patience for that which is not obvious. Like bookstall remainders, garage-sale handicrafts, photos found in the trash, or conversations overheard on the bus, or anything you might happen to attend that did not call attention to itself, they are part of a secret world that is larger, and often more interesting, than the consensus reality we half-awakenly inhabit, and to which we can only abandon ourselves at great risk to our souls.
Meet me in Paris
If you have any friends (or, indeed, enemies) in France, let them know they can now pre-order my book.That's right: I'm an auteur.
"Ah bon! I love storeez about zee unhappy Canadians and zere leettle problems wiz zee sex and zee ice hockey!"
¿Que pasa, Enterprise?
Yesterday, I got this e-mail from Enterprise Rent-a-car:
Gracias, Enterprise!
Dear Nathan,Which, in practical terms, means that I'll be saving nearly a hundred clams on the minivan I'm renting over the holidays, all because Enterprise assumed I have a violent aversion to the sight of Romance languages in my Inbox.
On Tuesday, we sent you an email in Spanish by mistake. To apologise, please accept 15% off your next rental at any neighbourhood location or get a free upgrade at any airport location. We look forward to seeing you soon.
Gracias, Enterprise!
Clichés can come true, part II
This morning I saw a man drop his knapsack while crossing Yonge St. It split open upon impact, and out came a flurry of white paper that proceeded to scatter across the street and into the air like a flock of rebellious geese. Passersby tried catching them and herding them back to their owner, who was grabbing the nearest pages and stuffing them back in his bag while wearing the silliest, shit-eatingest grin imaginable.
I like to think they are all out there chasing them still. (I was too busy being amused to actually stop and help.)
I like to think they are all out there chasing them still. (I was too busy being amused to actually stop and help.)
Tuesday, December 11, 2007
AWOT advances
The advance reading copy of the PFN* just landed on my desk, thanks to the incomparable Sarah D.
This, for those not in the know, is the version that some reviewers willlacerate review from.
Here 'tis:
Actually, that shot doesn't really do justice to my feelings about it. Second try:
That's better.
So... should I start my Giller neglect whining now or wait until next November? I'm new to all this.
* Promising First Novel. Soon to be PBUDFN (Promising But Ultimately Disappointing First Novel).
This, for those not in the know, is the version that some reviewers will
Here 'tis:
Actually, that shot doesn't really do justice to my feelings about it. Second try:
That's better.
So... should I start my Giller neglect whining now or wait until next November? I'm new to all this.
* Promising First Novel. Soon to be PBUDFN (Promising But Ultimately Disappointing First Novel).
Monday, December 10, 2007
Connie Lunchbox
Conrad Black, taking stock of his current situation, attempts the vernacular:
And even as Black admits he's vexed over why Canadians "seem so obsessed with Barbara and me," he said of his battle against the U.S. government: "It's like I'm wearing a home (hockey) sweater in an opposing arena."
Sunday, December 09, 2007
More Martin
Shaun Smith on the Steve Martin memoir:
The last 30 or so pages also seemed in a mad rush to wrap everything up and get out.
The paradox of Martin's success was that his everyman appeal was built on analytical coldness. Unfortunately, that frost carries over into this memoir.I read the book in fan-boy mode and was thus happy for scraps, but I was always aware that what was provided was just scraps.While Martin provides a fascinating analysis of his technical development in Born Standing Up, he provides precious little direct insight into his own persona. Why was he capable of so successfully exploiting his ability to stand outside a subject (i.e.: comedy) and look at it sideways? Why could he not now bring that same faculty to bear on his own character?
The last 30 or so pages also seemed in a mad rush to wrap everything up and get out.
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Fun with cultural stereotypes
From Robert Priest's account of his trip to St. John's in Now magazine:
I can't wait for Priest's reports from Vancouver:
This just wouldn't happen in Toronto, I marvel to myself. The literati wouldn't dream of reciting aloud at a party...And thank god for that. Literary parties are bad enough as it is.
I can't wait for Priest's reports from Vancouver:
No one back in Uptightville, Ontario, would dream of breaking off in the middle of a meeting to smoke a doobie and go kayaking...
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
Out of time
The clock is out of whack on Blogger – I don't actually post things at four in the morning.
I'm not that pathetic...
I'm not that pathetic...
Kids say the darndest things (about their dead siblings)
I understand why journalists do these kinds of things, but is anyone else creeped out reading this story from The Globe and Mail?:
WINNIPEG — The little girl shuffled through the snow until her progress was halted by the line of yellow police tape flapping in the wind. Barely four feet tall, she shivered in the cold, her hands hidden inside the dangling arms of her winter coat.
She stared up at the blackened shell of the burned-out house, smoke still rising from what remained of its roof. She said her name was N'Tasha, and she was 11 years old. She wasn't supposed to be there, but she wanted to see the house where her brother, 14-year-old Nathan Starr, was killed yesterday morning.[...]
"Was my brother trapped on the third floor?" N'Tasha asked, her voice even and her eyes wide. A few moments passed and she shuffled to the other side of the crime scene to get a better look. She said she woke up around 4 a.m. yesterday and found her father speaking to police in her living room.
"It was heartbreaking," she said. "When I watched the news they said he was in something condition."
Critical?
"Yeah, critical. But then he died."
She continued to stare at the house, where even the snow around it had turned to a black sludge. Every few minutes a new question emerged.
"How did Nathan get stuck in that room? Do you know where the fire started?" she asked.
"I wonder which window they escaped from? Not any on the third floor."
She's a grieving little girl, for fuck's sake, not Little Nell...
Tuesday, December 04, 2007
More Pullman
Dan Smith, the potty-mouthed books editor at the Toronto Star, wrote a short piece in the paper this weekend on the Philip Pullman fooferaw. Here's the main bit (it's not online):
In our practising Catholic household, The Golden Compass remains a treasured read. It spurs kids to think and question. Good. That’s what great books are for.
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