I ain't got time to read

Here is Sarah Palin on her current reading habits:

“There’s nothing different today than there was in the last 43 years of my life since I first started reading. I continue to read all that I can get my hands on — and reading biographies of, yes, Thatcher for instance, and of course Reagan and the John Adams letters, and I’m just thinking of a couple that are on my bedside, I go back to C.S. Lewis for inspiration, there’s such a variety, because books have always been important in my life.” She went on: “I’m reading [the conservative radio host] Mark Levin’s book; I’ll get ahold of Glenn Beck’s new book — and now because I’m opening up,” she finished warily, “I’m afraid I’m going to get reporters saying, Oh, she only reads books by Glenn Beck.”

First of all, this is all bullshit, but not just because everything that comes out of Palin's mouth is bullshit (though that is true), but because Palin is someone with a schedule crammed with daily interviews, fundraising, conference calls, strategy sessions, and meetings with image consultants and political managers. She must also put aside time to promote her new eight-part infomercial, as well as turn out to support her daughter on that dancing show. When all that is done, and there are no animals to shoot or fish to be snatched out of the water bare-handed – you know, like a grizzly would – then Palin must also squeeze in a minute or two to help raise her large family, which includes a toddler with special needs. Filipino nannies are not exactly thick on the ground up there in Alaska.

You can call her a cynical, thin-skinned, corrupt, hypocritical, and ideologically thuggish embarrassment spurred on by nothing more than greed, self-regard, and a vampire-like hunger for attention – but don't call her idle. She is busy, busy, busy, and as such, probably has precisely zero time to read anything longer than a tweet or a Facebook update.

As an author and an all-around books guy – with all the petty resentment, agoraphobia, and sense of entitlement that implies – I should now be expected to chuckle haughtily at Palin's claims of well-readedness. But here's the thing: I don't care if Palin doesn't happen to read any hefty tomes in the five or six minutes of free time she has leftover in a day. I have a part-time job, zero public stature, and only two (blessedly healthy) kids, and even I cross myself at the sight of a book that pushes the 400-page mark. (Thanks a lot, Mr Foran...) If someone with as busy a schedule as Palin's can't actually find the time or energy for the collected letters of her supposed political heroes, that's entirely understandable. I've been meaning to re-read Anna Karanina for a while now, but every time I pull it off the shelf, some part of my mind says fuck that shit and reaches for something slimmer.

Palin's a liar, sure, and a pretty bad one, but why does she feel she needs to lie in the first place? Well, because we demand that politicians display such cultural signifiers. Books = smart. Books = gravitas. Books = seriousness. Witness (and I swear I will try not to reference this here anymore) Yann Martel's ongoing unilateral book club, which might as well be re-titled Haught or Not? Just as we want our leaders to demonstrate some level of cultural hipness (What does Ms Palin think of Bieber's big win at the AMA's? What's on her iPod? Does she think Glee has fallen off this season?), we want the other side of the coin covered, too. We want fireplaces and wingback chairs and leather-bound volumes and Vivaldi's Four Seasons.

This speaks to an enormous amount of cultural anxiety, as well as at least a small serving of class-lensed elitism. The fact is, books also = a certain amount of spare time. I am certain that Palin has a team of researchers combing the letters of Reagan and Adams for possible quotes to be used in interviews and speeches, but cozying up with them herself at the end of a long, long, Alaskan day? Bullshit. My guess is that most high-profile politicians feel they are doing well if they can put aside the briefing notes long enough to read Get Shorty for the fifth time while on a red-eye to Los Angeles.

And so what? Obviously, I think anyone who is so politically influential should read widely and be familiar with modes of thinking that can only be achieved through long immersion in perfect-bound texts, and I like the idea of a politician who sees reading serious books as a necessary component of being in a position of power, but I don't actually expect them to be sitting up until 5 am with a flashlight under the bedsheets, tracing the fall of the Roman Empire or Leopold Bloom's progress across Dublin, even as half-a-dozen morning show hosts are warming the mikes for them.

That Palin would try to represent herself as a voracious reader is a laughable and not at all surprising. That we should care either way is just kind of dumb. There are, after all, many other reasons to despise her and everything she stands for than just her non-existent reading habits.

Feelin' Groovy

Here's some excerpts* from the self-help book I'm writing called Take It Slow: The Wisdom of Gaspereau Press, which I should have done by next year. Or the next. Or the one after that - don't rush me!

• From the chapter on Raising Kids: "This is risotto, not mac & cheese! Tell them to sit outside and take in the wonder of the sky while they wait. And if you miss the birthday party, well, there's always one next year."

• From the chapter on Finances: "Monthly rent payments are an abomination. They turn what should be a gift - a living space, a home - into a kind of regular shakedown. Landlords must learn patience. Instead of cheques, offer them roasted chestnuts, or fresh apples straight from the tree."

• From the chapter on Friendship: "A true friend knows that, even if you have not called them or sent them an email in a long time, that you still speak them them every day in your heart. And they would know that expressions of condolence for a dead parent or partner are meaningless - death comes to us all in the end."
  

• From the chapter on Sex: "One must never be trapped into an artificial quid pro quo framework when it comes to orgasms. The essential question is the quality of the orgasms, not their even distribution. Sexuality is not socialism."

• From the chapter on Publishing: "A book is only ever perfect in the conception, in the idea. So if, say, you are unable to get finished books into the hands of readers, know that this will only preserve this perfection for them. The book will always be the book they want, and never the book they have. To have the anticipated object in their possession can only be a kind of disappointment. In this way, NOT publishing books is the best way to ensure their eternal perfection."

* I've already posted these on my Facebook page, but hey: why waste comedy gold on mere friends?

"I mean, when you've loved and lost the way Alice has, then you know what life's about"

You know what the title of my book should be? Yes I Can, If Alice Munro Says It's Okay.

I had to forcibly put yet another of her books aside the other night because every time I read or re-read one of her stories, and then try to do some of my own writing, a tiny, limo-driving Bruno Kirby pops up in my head saying, "I would never tell you this, but... this, this is a fad."

The Big Fog

I took the kids out for a late-night walk last night specifically to see the fog, which was so thick at its peak, we could barely see the houses on the other side of the street.

Here are some photos people have posted to give you and idea of how truly cool it looked here. (Some of those shots are from my neighbourhood, or close enough.)

It all looked like something out of a horror movie - like, say, The Fog. Or even The Mist, for that matter.

Needless to say, I had a little hand clutching at mine for most of the way.

Don't bring dead canaries to a coal mine

A blog I often go to, one that deals mostly with US politics, recently touted a new book about how America is nickle-and-diming itself to death by refusing to pay the full costs of things like energy and infrastructure.

The blogger then noted enthusiastically that the book could be had for more than 40% off the cover price on Amazon.

Sigh.

It's oh so quiet

Around here, anyway. Life has been elsewhere.

Last night, out of curiosity, I mentally stacked up the books I've read (for reviews and other purposes) over the past two months or so, and the stack was rather sickeningly impressive, if I do say so myself. Eye-high to a mermaid's knees.

I'm also continuing to prod this bugger of a second novel toward its conclusion. Why is it that this "light" book has been so hard?


ADDED: well, at least my troll still loves me... (see comments)

Mordecai and I... again

My review of Mordecai: The Life and Times is online at The Toronto Star.

A wee taste:

In his preface, Foran states that Richler “was a novelist who, though he debuted at 22 . . . may not have produced his finest works of fiction for another three decades.” This means that much of this biography is concerned with what can only be termed — inevitably, inescapably — a very lengthy apprenticeship. Indeed, Mordecai is not so much the story of an author slowly building toward late-career literary triumphs and vindication as an account of one who expended enormous amounts of effort chasing a stated goal — the creation of a great novel that will last — that may have eluded him right to the end.

Whole thing here.

This is my fourth kick at the Richler bio can - two previous kicks here and here (can't find the other one). I am reluctant to check, but I am fairly sure I have not repeated myself much. And if I have, oh well...

Arguing with idiots

Double down edition.

Has Ford driven a city (off the cliff) lately?

I sometimes push back against the reflex mocking of my adopted city, but if this man becomes mayor - and I think he will - we deserve everything anyone says about us from now on:



I will say this: his grasp on municipal budgeting is as firm as his grasp on the importance of appearing relaxed and confident on video.

I've seen more natural-looking performances in an S&M dungeon.

Memories of 2010's Word on the Street (Toronto)

Stuart McLean reading in a nearby tent, making me think someone had CBC Radio on too loud.

Yann Martel in the audience, bouncing a baby on his lap, while I moderated a panel on YA writing that included his wife.

My ugly mug on the Toronto Star's billboards all over the park. (Thought about stealing one.)

A chat about circumcision in the VIP Lounge (hello...) with Andrew Kaufman and Steven Beattie.

An old man wandering around the park wearing a skull cap with a fake, blue mohawk - for no apparent reason.

Dan Smith of the Star, answering an audience member's question about whether her self-published book could get reviewed in the paper thus: "Not with a ten-foot pole."

Human feces all over the inside of one porta potty, which I later used as a metaphor for the life of a book reviewer. (VIP Lounge notwithstanding.)

A child of about five, not wanting to go home and crying "No no no no no no no no no..." For about ten minutes.

A veteran author saying hello at the end of the day and asking, "I was on the jury that gave you some prize, wasn't I?"

Trevor Cole and Ken Finkleman - a double-shot o' murder

My double-review of the new Trevor Cole and Ken Finkleman novels is in today's Toronto Star. If you disagree, come tell me at the Word on the Street TO Star tent today at 4. Come one, come all.

A taste:

Murder mysteries are among the most conservative of literary genres. Though their plots revel in crime, corruption, lies and death, the understanding is that murder happens for a reason, and those reasons are discoverable, even if the perpetrators are not always apprehend able. There are many brilliant exceptions to this formula — most sophisticated mystery fans will already be silently mouthing them — but that is the formula at its simplest.

Comic writing, especially the black-hearted kind, is possessed of a much more anarchic vision, one that delights in disorder and sees no reason to correct it. When a murder occurs in a comedy, the reason behind it is often irrelevant or non-existent. Simply put: Nobody really cares why or how Bernie died, they just want to watch two goofs spend a weekend with the corpse.

Let freedom reign!

Given that the Tories feel the long gun registry represents wasteful and unconscionable interference by the govt, I assume they will next be supporting marijuana legalization, abandoning their opposition to things like gay marriage, stripping anti-terror laws of anything that undermines the justice system and legal protections, stop muzzling their own scientists (not to mention their own MPs and bureaucrats), drop all moral or ideological objections to instances where potentially "controversial" art receives public funding, and making a formal apology to all those detained during the G20.

That's the shortlist, but it's probably where they'll start. Right?

(What's so funny?)

Andre Alexis, c'est moi

There are many, many things upon which Andre Alexis and I disagree (one might say furiously), but on this, he and I are like two bitter, occasionally impulsive, and potentially career-damaging peas in a pod:

"i hate the literary community so much, i hate its “careful you might insult so-and-so” very much. so much that i’d love to be something other than a writer. vomiting things up on a blog allows me to contemplate a desired outsider-ness. a good thing, a helpful thing, in the end."

As for the rest of that comment, in which AA takes about 800 words to say "sometimes it feels good to talk shit about your cultural enemies online," well, birds gotta fly, fish gotta swim, literary writers gotta literaryize.

(I am reviewing Alexis's new book for a easily guessed daily newspaper, btw. Coming soon.)

Topsy Turvy

Some say that one of the great things about the Internet in general, and social media in particular, is discovering who else shares your own deeply felt cultural enthusiasms.

Those people are wrong:



In my best Captain Kirk: "Jiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaannnn!!!"

Sappy-go-lucky

I plan to write about this here at greater length later on in the week, but having seen the new Mike Leigh movie last night (with Leigh in attendance: my pants are still peed), I can only say this: lengthy, autumnal films that employ cello-laden soundtracks, gardening scenes to represent the passing of time, and nothing but long scenes of dialogue in kitchens and living rooms, and that focus on slightly self-satisfied older couples and their desperately lonely friends, should not be so fucking entertaining.

Uncorking the imagination

Got another good email from a publicist:

Authors Reveal Step-by-Step Plan for Wine Tasting Party at Home

All authors have such a plan: it's called "alcoholism."

Hell, defined

Tell me about the war book, Grampa

Steve Galloway, in the process of reviewing Alison Pick's Far To Go in the Globe, writes this:

It’s very popular these days to declare historical fiction irrelevant, a wallowing in nostalgia, rife with over-moralizing and easy answers. Perhaps this is occasionally true, even often true, but this position strikes me as intellectually lazy, and dismissive of the obvious fact that everything that’s ever happened is now history. To suggest that writing about the past is somehow dismissive of the present is the literary equivalent of teenagers rolling their eyes when grandparents try to tell them what things were like when they were children.

The teenager believes that everything he needs to know about the world is happening right in front of him, that what he sees at that moment is all there is or ever will be. The grandparent is trying to tell him something about the world as it once was and therefore is now – the past is a story that exists in its connection to the present.

Now, being one of the people who argues that historical fiction is very often "rife with over-moralizing and easy answers," I have to admit I'm a little surprised to discover that this is the "popular" opinion these days. And not only that, this position is "often true."

(I am also surprised to discover that it is also "often true" that historical fiction is "irrelevant." I would not go that far myself, but hey, facts are facts.)

But then, having been told that my opinion is both often true and the popular one, I am informed it is also intellectually lazy, the equivalent of the arrogant, impatient, baseless certainty of a teenager.

I'm confused: if it's often true, how is it intellectually lazy? Am I lacking in the mental energy and stamina required to believe something that is very often not true? And really: when did this impatience with the middlebrow sentimentalities that so often form the basis of historical fictions become the popular position? As far as I can tell, the people expressing this impatience tend to be a small minority of cranky reviewers, writers, and readers - and often all three in one. (Hello.)

Now, I will readily concede that there is probably a lot of opposition to historical fiction that comes in the form of simply not caring about any time other than one's own. There are enough readers out there who won't bother with books that don't describe the comings and goings of their own narrow, self-absorbed cohort. But that's not my own feelings toward historical fiction, and nor is it the position of a number of writers who have argued that literature should be more concerned with engaging with the present, less so with revising or unearthing the past. Not solely concerned, just more so than it is at the moment.*

The paradox is that a lot of readers and critics (like myself) who argue for more contemporary-minded fiction spend a lot of their time reading books written decades, if not centuries, ago. And that is because what these readers and critics are looking for are not books that grapple with their own times in some way (though that's nice to have once in a blue moon), but books in which an author grapples with his or her own times. Which is why some novels written a hundred years ago feel so much more alive and fresh and contemporary than last year's historical doorstop.

There is no substitute for the feeling of reading someone who is writing their own society into literary existence, who is writing into a void, as it were, and having to do most difficult thing, which is establish a point of view in relation to a world that is still in the process of coming into being.

* The reign of the historical fiction in Canada has weakened slightly in the past decade, and there seems to have been a bit of a peasant's revolt in the form of a lot of very sharply contemporary (or at least non-historically minded) novels appearing and getting some attention, but that reign is far from over.

Is our children yearning?

Given my day job, I get a lot of kid/book/literacy-related e-mail, most of it instantly disposable.

But every once in a while, there is a gem - an unintentionally dirty, greasy gem - such as the message I got this morning that asked,

Is Lap Reading to Children Still Important?

(The answer to that question is: of course! Cuz all kids like a happy ending.)

A Labour Day at the races

Thanks to my daughter - that is, thanks to my unrelenting efforts to fill my children's heads with the ripest fruits of klassic komedy - Charlie Chaplin has reared his bechapeaued head in my life after a few years' absence. (My son currently prefers Mitchell & Webb, and I went through a period of finding Chaplin too sentimental, especially as compared with Buster Keaton*.)

It being Labour Day, I should probably post something from Modern Times, but I would much rather post this, a short that I still think about every once in a while, and have done so since I first saw it in the Concordia University library AV department nearly two decades ago [pause for stunned silence] while skipping an evening class. The set up and premise is so dead simple - some people just love to get in front of a camera - and he doesn't exactly stretch the idea very far, but I find there is something hypnotically funny about the bit. (It also, I think, anticipates much of the satirical hay made in the past few decades about the lengths ordinary people will go to to get on TV.)







*I still get impatient with some of Chaplin's later reflex sappiness and heart-tugging, but am more willing to see that all as merely the inevitable excesses of genius. Isn't that big of me?

ADDED: And by "sappiness I am impatient with", I don't mean the ending of City Lights, which even a UFC champ would tear up over. That's the good stuff. (Talking to myself, now...)