Showing posts with label NYRB. Show all posts
Showing posts with label NYRB. Show all posts

Thursday, October 19, 2006

Lovecraft's legacy

  • Luc Sante discources on H.P. Lovecraft at The New York Review of Books.
Just in time for Halloween, a scholar takes on everyone's favorite Gothic [over]writer:
...Lovecraft's work is essentially unfilmable, not because his special effects are too gaudy or too expensive to translate to the screen, but because they are purely literary. Lovecraft was bookish in an extreme, almost parodistic way. He may not have worn a fez or been able to afford a wing chair, but he assumed the archetype of the nineteenth-century man of letters (Wilson calls him "a literary man manqué") with his circle of disciples, the roughly 100,000 letters he wrote to them (and he was only forty-seven when he died), the preciously archaic language in which he expressed himself (almost always using "shew" in preference to "show," for instance), the humid cultivation of in-jokes that migrated from the correspondence to the stories and were perpetuated in stories by the disciples, and the carefully tended aura, if quite self-aware, of "forbidden knowledge."

In other words, he was a nerd. He was a nerd on a grand scale, though— a heroic nerd, a pallid, translucent, Mallarméan nerd, a nerd who suffered for his art. His art consisted exclusively of conveying horror, and in this his range was encyclopedic. As a setting for his horror he built a whole world—a whole universe, with a time-span measured in eons—which others could happily continue furnishing indefinitely. His horrors themselves are, with a few unhappy exceptions, described loosely and suggestively enough that in effect they present a blank screen on which the reader can pro-ject whatever visual imagery is most personally unsettling. This explains the seeming paradox of an exceedingly bookish writer enjoying a legacy that is to a very large degree extraliterary. As a supplier of instruments for the cultivation of horror he was custom-tailored for the suggestible fourteen-year-old boy, and the number of fourteen-year-old boys—some of them chronologically rather older, a few of them even female—is continually on the increase.

Tuesday, August 01, 2006

Bargain alerts

Get 'em while you can:

A pretty cool series of classics with cover designs by comic artists. By the way, the 2nd round is due in October, featuring an edition of Thomas Pynchon's Gravity's Rainbow with cover art by none other than Frank Miller:

Alas, this one is not part of the buy-one-get-one deal, but hey, you can't have everything in life.
Simenon's a pretty interesting writer, and an astonishingly prolific one at that; according to Wikipedia, "his oeuvre include nearly 200 novels, over 150 novellas, several autobiographical works, numerous articles, and scores of pulp novels written under more than two dozen pseudonyms." I read his Tropic Moon earlier this year and liked it; it's a trim, Jim Thompson-esque hardboiled noir set in a sweltering African outpost. Simenon's style is lethally precise, and despite the genre familiarity of his plots, the writing is often exquisite.

Monday, July 10, 2006

Breaking the spell

I find it interesting that these reviews are only now starting to appear in the usual publications, especially since it was published back in February. I read the majority of this book a few months back (delighting as I did so in the irony that I'd checked it out from a public library in the buckle of the Bible Belt), so take my comments with the appropriate grain(s) of salt.

Both of the heavy-hitter-type reviews I've come across tend to have the greatest amount of criticism for Dennett's method, as opposed to his message. First up is Freeman Dyson's review in The New York Review of Books:
I see no way to draw up a balance sheet, to weigh the good done by religion against the evil and decide which is greater by some impartial process. My own prejudice, looking at religion from the inside, leads me to conclude that the good vastly outweighs the evil. In many places in the United States, with widening gaps between rich and poor, churches and synagogues are almost the only institutions that bind people together into communities. In church or in synagogue, people from different walks of life work together in youth groups or adult education groups, making music or teaching children, collecting money for charitable causes, and taking care of each other when sickness or disaster strikes. Without religion, the life of the country would be greatly impoverished. I know nothing at first hand about Islam, but by all accounts the mosques in Islamic countries, and to some extent in America too, play a similar role in holding communities together and taking care of widows and orphans.

Dennett, looking at religion from the outside, comes to the opposite conclusion. He sees the extreme religious sects that are breeding grounds for gangs of young terrorists and murderers, with the mass of ordinary believers giving them moral support by failing to turn them in to the police. He sees religion as an attractive nuisance in the legal sense, meaning a structure that attracts children and young people and exposes them to dangerous ideas and criminal temptations, like an unfenced swimming pool or an unlocked gun room. My view of religion and Dennett's are equally true and equally prejudiced. I see religion as a precious and ancient part of our human heritage. Dennett sees it as a load of superfluous mental baggage which we should be glad to discard.

A much less well-reasoned stance comes from Jack Miles in The Washington Post:
"Breaking the Spell" puts this reader in mind of a night at the Jazz Bakery in Los Angeles when, it is said, somebody slipped the drummer Joe La Barbara a note saying that the famous British jazz critic Leonard Feather had arrived. "Oh, goood," La Barbara said. "Now we can begin." Daniel Dennett is to the scientific study of religion what Leonard Feather was to that night at the Bakery: He has a great deal to say, and his opinions are always worth hearing, but the band has been smokin' longer than he seems to realize.
Let's get this out of the way: I am not, and have never been, a spiritual person. I'm a thick-skulled literalist in that respect. The idea of getting to go to Disneyland and hang out with Voltaire and Hemingway once I die is a nice one, but come now, let's be adults here. Deciding whether or not the role of religion in others' everyday lives is or is not a good thing requires a level of intelligence and knowledge that I simply do not possess; I don't have the answers.

I tended to agree with Dennett's main points in Breaking the Spell, and I agree also with Dyson and, to a lesser extent, Miles' points about the flaws in Dennett's approach. Miles, in particular, seems to be most put off by Dennett's at-times-combative approach. I would argue, however, that with the prevalence of religiously-inspired violence not just in today's world but throughout history, a bit of combativeness on the part of the opposition is as valid a weapon as any. (Miles even goes so far as to position, in all apparent seriousness, Howard Stern as "America's most influential single atheist," an assertion so laughably ludicrous in the context of his argument that it makes the rest of his essay almost unreadable.)

Many people who share a more atheistic mindset are fond of repeating the observation that more people have died in the name of their god or religion than for any other reason. This is true, but you might also consider that when you get down to it, there's no real demarcation between religion, politics and philosophy. They're all systems of thought, designed by men, in the altruistic hope that if everything was done this way, and not that way, then everything that happens tomorrow will be better than what happened yesterday. Either way you slice it, it all comes down to which ideas you're willing to ignore, and which ones you're ready to die for. Belief in a god is much the same thing as faith in a political leader, or reliance upon the speeches and/or writings of a great thinker; you're looking to someone else for guidance.

It seemed to me that the main thrust of Dennett's argument was that religion has always been a man-made coping mechanism, one that evolves out of different cultures and mutates accordingly into many different forms. The notion that religion is man-made is, of course, threatening to those that grow up with the belief that there are beings greater than us, beyond the scope of our understanding. Scientists and atheists who attack the notions of religion are often ridiculed for being "cold" to the possibilities of spirituality, by opponents who turn a deaf ear to the logic and rationality of hard science. If nothing matters, if we all are just random specks floatin' about in a big void, then what's the point? It's far more comforting to think that you're working towards some sort of greater good than to consider the alternative.

Like I said, I don't have the answers, and this topic is far bigger and more complex than a mere blog entry could ever encapsulate. But Dennett's book is at least getting people talking, and with the dominance of religiously-motivated leaders of governments around the globe (including our own), this is a discussion that should stay at the forefront.

Closing thought:

"There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable. There is another theory which states this has already happened." - Douglas Adams

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Lost in an art, conservative bears, and a very good excuse

The difference between the Moncrieff translations of In Search of Lost Time and the new series overseen by Christopher Prendergast are indeed very distinct; Moncrieff tends to tie Proust’s sentences into knots, whereas the James Grieve translation of In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower, for example, flows silky-smooth. You get the point (and with Proust, there are many worth getting) without having to untangle an overtly-ornamental rendering to do so. Aciman’s article, however, serves the dual function of being at once a perfect example of tunnel-vision typographical nitpicking, and an illustration of the inherent pitfalls of translation, proving again that the process involves its very own prickly form of creativity. It could be that Moncrieff’s original versions better approximates the context from which the work emerged (as Aciman notes, Moncrieff began his work on Swann’s Way just before Proust’s death in 1922), but as language inevitably evolves into different forms it does become necessary to take a fresh look once in a while.
Having grown up in the same region of the world that Berenstain hailed from, his Berenstain Bears series does have a nostalgic appeal to me, but I can’t say I ever saw much correlation between his vision of the world and mine; I just thought that living inside a tree would be pretty neat. Berenstain’s conservative storytelling was less interesting than his art; the books were always fun to look at, anyway. Ironic, then, that Theodore Geisel, also known as Dr. Seuss, helped get the series started at Random House in his days as an editor. Small world.

And now, an early holiday gift for all frustrated arty types:
Old news, really. Just save this article and use it as you might a “Get Out of Jail Free” card. Then thump your chest and bellow, "I am all that is man!"