In which we discuss resolutions for the new year

Whether we write them down or not, we all make New Years Resolutions. So let's have'em. Out with your 2012 reading resolutions! Mine are relatively simple, because I'll foul up anything even remotely complex. Here they are:

#1) Read more women:

Some of my all-time favorite books have been written by authors like Harper Lee, Toni Morrison and Zora Neale Hurston, but anybody who's read my 2011 reading recap will see that I've been swirling in an eddy of literary testosterone for the better part of a year: One female author, out of twenty-eight read last year. Yikes.

In fact, let's just look at eminent American authoresses for a moment: if you were to ask me right now to tell you the difference between Edith Wharton, Willa Cather, Flannery O'Connor and Carson McCullers, the best I could come up with is that Flannery O'Connor raised peacocks in Milledgeville, Georgia- and that's because I live in Georgia. I hope to remedy that in 2012 (the cluelessness about women authors, that is- not the living in Georgia.)

#2) Read an Agatha Christie Poirot novel:

This second goal supports goal number one, but it also gives me one last chance to actually read a Poirot mystery before David Suchet acts out the final handful of stories on my TV. Not high literature, but hey, I've got to switch things up from time to time.

#3) Read a foreign language novel in the original:

Little-known fact about me: I speak Slovene, along with about two million other people on earth. But the only adult book that I have actually completed in the language is a cheap translation of a Barbara Cartland romance that I bummed off my wife when I had run through my own reading material at the beach one year.

I did read Camus' L'Etranger in college French, but that was more a linguistic adventure than a literary one. So, this year I vow to finally get over the hump and tackle a great work of Slovene literature, probably Boris Pahor's Trg Oberdan.

What are you're reading resolutions for 2012?

Happy New Year!

Most of us are waking up this morning after a very late, if not altogether crazy, night of celebration. And before long we'll turn our thoughts to the New Year and the many new beginnings it promises. Given those two prompts (the morning-after funk, and the appeal of a clean slate), there's no better story to share with you today than the Jay McInerney tale "It's 6 a.m., Do You Know Where You Are?"

Originally published by the Paris Review, this story later became the opening chapter to McInerney's classic novel Bright Lights, Big City. Since the story is written in the second person, the narrator is, well... the reader. It's the story of a man who 'comes to' out of a drug-addled haze, and continues his cocaine-fueled romp until he is brought to the realization that his life is in tatters. 

In the closing lines he is so desperate for real nourishment that he trades his designer silk jacket for a bag of warm rolls. It is a glimmer of hope that suggests things are about to turn around for this sorry addict:

"You tear the bag open and the smell of warm dough rushes over you. The first bites sticks in your throat and you almost gag. You will have to go slowly. You will have to learn everything over again."

It's a nice message for New Year's Day. Give it a listen. The 20 minute recording was made for a recent Selected Shorts podcast. Start at 3:00 minutes in if you want to hear Jay McInerney talk about the genesis of the story, or jump to 7:00 minutes in to start listening to the story itself (you can click ahead just above the green line in the player.)

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Happy New Year.

My shelf life: 2011

Alright. The year is quickly coming to a close, so it only makes sense to bare my 2011 reading list to the world. Let's all pretend you care for just a moment.

I'm not sure how to label myself as a reader. I plowed through 32 books and a total of 11,358 pages this year. That puts me at just over 31 pages per day. In other words, I'm a piker compared to other book bloggers, and a veritable reading machine compared to the general public. Given everything that's on my plate, I'd give myself a grade of "not too shabby" for 2011.

Here's the complete list, in the order I tackled them, along with their respective page counts (top 10 reads are in bold):

1. Blue Heaven, C.J. Box   352
2. On Writing, Stephen King   288
3. The Red Dancer, Richard Skinner   272
4. A Brief History of Time, Stephen Hawking   248
5. All the Pretty Horses, Cormack McCarthy   301
6. The Lost City of Z, David Gann   352
7. King Solomon’s Mines, H. Rider Haggard    320
8. Ender’s Game, Orson Scott Card   324
9. Our Town, Thornton Wilder   112
10. The Road, Cormack McCarthy   256
11. Trojan Oddyssey, Clive Cussler   480
12. Smoke From This Alter, Louis L’Amour   75
13. The Collected Short Stories of Louis L’Amour, Vol IV   672
14. Grapes Of Wrath, John Steinbeck   619
15. Crime and Punishment, Fyodor Dostoevsky   480
16. The Associate, John Grisham   434
17. Cry, The Beloved Country, Alan Paton  256
18. The Appeal, John Grisham   384
19. Animal Farm, George Orwell   128
20. 2666, Roberto Bolano   912
21. The Chosen, Chaim Potok   284
22. A Mercy, Toni Morrison   176
23. Don Segundo Sombra, Ricardo Guiraldes   212
24. Fathers and Sons, Ivan Turgenev   226
25. The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafon   565
26. 1984, George Orwell   326
27. The Elements of Style, Strunk & White   176
28. Death in Venice & Other Tales, Thomas Mann   476
29. As I Lay Dying, William Faulkner   288
30. A Room With A View, E.M. Forster   321
31. Lord Jim, Joseph Conrad   451
32. Angle of Repose, Wallace Stegner   592

As you can see above, I'm not a complete book snob, though my favorites tended overwhelmingly to be classics or high literary fiction. All told, that's 17 so-called classics, 7 works of commercial fiction, 2 short story collections, 2 non-fiction reads, 2 books on writing, 1 poetry collection and 1 play. Continuing on the assumption that you care, here is the breakdown by page count:

It's kind of interesting to take a look back and see how you spent your reading life in the past year. What about you? What did you read this year? What were your favorites? What stunk? What should I pick up in 2012? Show us your cards...

First Line Friday!

Today is officially the last Friday of 2011 (sigh). As such, today's first line is the last piece of prose to roll around in your mind as the clock strikes midnight tomorrow night. And, it's a dandy.

"If I am out of my mind, it's all right with me, thought Moses Herzog."

Great opening line, right? Well, it's from Saul Bellow's "Herzog." Again, it's short (15 words), but says so much. And I love love love the name Moses Herzog. Moses Herzog? Are you kidding me? Great name.

But listen. The real reason that this first line is so astounding is that, after reading the whole novel, one realizes that this 15 word introductory sentence is basically a prolific summary of the novel as a whole; a novel where the reader, and the protagonist himself, wonder aloud whether or not Herzog's mind is slipping, and, if his mind has indeed slipped, is it all right to be out of one's mind?

One more plug: Herzog is far and away my favorite Saul Bellow novel. I've struggled with many of Bellow's novels (especially Augie March), but absolutely loved Herzog.

Happy Bellovian New Year . . .

Sticking the Landing (and avoiding the faceplant)

With ‘First Line Fridays’ we talk pretty regularly about beginnings, so sooner or later it only makes sense that we make some noise about endings. Today we’ll tell a tale of two stories; both by the same author, and both incredibly compelling up until that crucial moment at the end. One of them gets a fantastic ending, and the other is maddeningly bad. If you want to make your own assessment before I begin my bloviation, take a few minutes to read "Class Picture" and "Bullet in the Brain", both by the very talented Tobias Wolff.

The Faceplant:

Let’s start with “Class Picture.” This is a story that I loved right off the bat, and one that just continued to grow on me as Wolff brought the thing to a crescendo. Here’s the premise: students in a Dead Poets Society-style prep school await the arrival of the poet Robert Frost. A poetry contest judged by Mr. Frost will determine which of the boys will be awarded a personal appointment with the great man. What follows is a fascinating look at prep-school politics and the rivalry between young, aspiring men of letters. The fragments of poems and stories are especially funny, like when the narrator and his roommate poke fun at Hemingway:

“That is your bed, and it is a good bed, and you must make it and you must make it well.

“Today is the day of meat loaf. The meat loaf is swell. It is swell but when it is gone the not-having meat loaf is tragic and the meatloaf man will not come anymore.”

Anyway, despite the narrator’s best efforts, it is his friend George who wins the honor with a poem entitled “First Frost.” Still, we anxiously await whatever words of wisdom the great poet will share with the winner. I'm sad to say that it has been longed for and built up and fought over for so long that when the great moment arrives, Wolff performs the storytelling equivalent of a bellyflop:

'Mr. Frost told me I was wasting my time in school. He said I should go to Kamchatka. Or Brazil."

There is some confused debate between the two boys about what the advice could possibly mean, and then the story closes with the narrator’s search for answers in the library:

I closed the encyclopedia and sat listening to the wind rattle the mullioned panes behind me. What was it about Kamchatka, that a young writer should forsake his schooling and go there? Spectacle, maybe. The drama of strange people living strangely. Danger. All this could be good matter for stories and poems. But Frost himself had lived in New England all his life at no cost to his art, and I wondered if he'd ever actually been there. I guessed not. But it meant something to him, Kamchatka, something to do with the writer's life, and what else could it mean but hardship? Solitude, darkness, and hardship. But he had also mentioned Brazil. I rose from my deep chair and crossed the room past boys dozing over books and exchanged the "K" volume for "B."

And that's it. Ugh. You can tell me I missed the whole point of that ending, and you can tell me it was an intentional letdown, but you can’t tell me it’s anything other than a turd in the punchbowl. Or if that’s too strong, at least a band-aid in the ice bucket. And let me state once again: I absolutely loved that story up until that dud of an ending. But hey, the New Yorker bought it, so what do I know. On to the next ending!

The Perfect 10:

“Bullet in the Brain” is the story of a book critic, Anders, who finds himself at the center of a bank robbery. Upon entering the bank he criticizes the woman in front of him in line, criticizes the canned jargon of the jittery robbers who break in and, with a pistol under his chin, criticizes the fresco on the ceiling of the bank. He finally bursts into laughter when the hold-up man threatens him with that ultimate cliché of warning, “capiche,” and as the title of the story foreshadows, he get a bullet right through his brain.

But here’s where Wolff takes the story to another level. After some quick anatomical description of the damage to Anders’s grey matter, he recounts all the images one might expect to have flashed before his eyes in such a moment. And then, he focuses our attention so beautifully on the unexpected, fleeting memory that did become his last.

You’ve got the link above, so I won’t spoil the imagery for you here, but what Wolff does with the ending is turn this story into a profound statement about language and words and “their pure unexpectedness and their music.” He transports us from what is essentially a dark comedy at the beginning, to a deeply moving look at life’s smallest moments at the end. It’s an incredible finesse job, and an incredible ending to a great story.

What did you think? Anyone want to pile on? Contradict? Share other good or bad endings?

Haiku-ption Contest #3

It's that time once again. Previous rounds are here. My entry's below, and yours are in the comments. May the best man win.

Outside chance, you said?

How d'you like my lion, sir?

Outside chance, me arse.

The floor is yours, ladies and gentlemen. Comment your entries below...



An ear for authentic dialogue

Writing good dialogue is tough. Getting the dialogue of children to ring true adds an even higher degree of difficulty. A lot of decent writers just don’t have the ear to pull it off. Their young characters are either petulant, whining brats or super-genius wunderkinds that talk just like the adults. It’s rare that someone truly nails the child’s voice in an authentic, powerful way. Cormack McCarthy does exactly that in his post-apocalyptic novel The Road.

The following passage highlights one such interaction between the two main characters, a man and his young son. Earlier in the day they had broken into a locked cellar in search of food, and were horrified to discover a pitiful collection of fellow human beings who were being held captive as a source of food. Now, after having been chased away by that pathetic assembly, the two of them are settling down for the night:



Can we have a fire? The boy said.

We don’t have a lighter.

The boy looked away.

I’m sorry. I dropped it. I didn’t want to tell you.

That’s okay.

I’ll find us some flint. I’ve been looking. And we’ve still got the little bottle of gasoline.

Okay.

Are you very cold?

I’m okay.

The boy lay with his head in the man’s lap. After a while he said: They’re going to kill those people, arent they?

Yes.

Why do they have to do that?

I don’t know.

Are they going to eat them?

I don’t know.

They’re going to eat them, aren’t they?

Yes.

And that’s why we couldn’t help them.

Yes.

Okay.

 ...

They sat by the side of the road and ate the last of the apples.

What is it? The man said.

Nothing.

We’ll find something to eat. We always do.

The boy didn’t answer. The man watched him.

That’s not it, is it?

It’s okay.

Tell me.

The boy looked away down the road.

I want you to tell me. It’s okay.

He shook his head.

Look at me, the man said.

He turned and looked. He looked like he’d been crying.

Just tell me.

We wouldn’t ever eat anybody, would we?

No. Of course not.

Even if we were starving?

We’re starving now.

You said we werent.

I said we werent dying. I didn’t say we werent starving.

But we wouldnt.

No. We wouldnt.

No matter what.

No. No matter what.

Because we’re the good guys.

Yes.

And we’re carrying the fire.

And we’re carrying the fire. Yes.

Okay.

If you ask me, this is an absolutely amazing passage. Some will look down their nose at McCarthy’s stubborn avoidance of quotation marks. Others will fault him for his apostrophe-less contractions. But neither of those eccentricities is material in my view. The biggest charge that will be leveled against this passage is that it flaunts the modern adage that every single word of dialogue has to move the story forward. Dogmatic, by-the-book critics will argue that McCarthy’s action gets stalled in the repetitive back and forth between father and child. But that’s precisely why it works. The plot may not be barreling forward, but the emotional story is growing more and more complex.

Here’s what makes this so good: The dialogue of both characters is incredibly telling in what is not said. The boy’s sparse words and long pauses put his cognitive processes on full view for the reader. We can see the wheels turning inside his head. And anyone with little kids will see the authenticity in this kind of multi-layered communication. The father’s simple explanations and one-word answers reveal his own compassion for the boy, and his empathy for someone trying to figure out why the world is the way it is.

The boy puts up a stoic front, as most kids would in his situation, but he can’t hide his fears from a caring, probing father. Meanwhile, the father stonewalls some of his son’s direct questions. He is set on protecting his child from the hellish realities of life on the road, yet quickly perceives when it’s time to level with the boy. They were going to eat those people. That knowledge not only explains why they had to abandon them, but it reinforces the reasons that father and son have to stick together. It illustrates exactly what they’re up against.

Finally, the familiar refrain of “carrying the fire” leaves us with the impression that this is only one of many such discussions they’ve had since the world went to hell. It is their private rallying cry. It’s their only real reason for moving forward. It’s the only reason for refusing to give up, as their wife and mother had done.

I think the whole thing is just brilliant. Buy the book.

What do you think? Who else really hits the mark when writing children?

Is Murakami a Letdown?

Oh Murakami . . .

His novel, 1Q84, was the most hyped literary release of the year (its English translation, that is). I mean, a huge deal. The novel was published in Japan two years ago, and finally hit the shelves in the US in April. So, how critically acclaimed has the novel been? Well, not very . . .

"1Q84 is an enormous letdown - rather like a big budget, much publicized Hollywood film that cost over $200 million but leaves you feeling that it was overstuffed and 45 minutes too long . . . Trying to say anything definite about 1Q84 is like trying to nail Jello to a wall. It's an elaborate puzzle in which the pieces seem to change shape just as you try to fit then into place or a puzzle which, when assembled, adds up to a picture of a perfect blank." - Allen Barra (The Atlantic)

"Don't get stuck in the quicksand of 1Q84. You, sucker, will wade through nearly one thousand uneventful pages . . . 1Q84 has even Murakami's most ardent fans doing back flips as they try to justify this book's glaring troubles." - Janet Maslin (The New York Times)

A year or two ago, I agreed to read a Murakami novel with some friends of mine. We decided upon A Wild Sheep Chase. And, as I read these reviews for 1Q84, I felt like I had already read a Murakami novel that is so amorphous and bizarre, with hints of great writing and sensible characters, that I don't need another Murakami experience. My friends, on the other hand, loved A Wild Sheep Chase. But for me, it was too hard to tie down. As we discussed the novel back then, we decided that the randomness of the novel can be attributed to Japanese culture (which none of us claim to understand). But I'm just not sure.

That is my opinion on Murakami: I'm just not sure.

And it sounds like 1Q84 is more of the same?

Happy Holidays!

As usual, we mark the holiday with some short fiction appropriate for the occasion. Here is John Cheever's "Christmas Is A Sad Season For the Poor," (which is hardly a sad story, it should be pointed out.)

Christmas is a sad season. The phrase came to Charlie an instant after the alarm clock had waked him, and named for him an amorphous depression that had troubled him all the previous evening. The sky outside his window was black. He sat up in bed and pulled the light chain that hung in front of his nose. Christmas is a very sad day of the year, he thought. Of all the millions of people in New York, I am practically the only one who has to get up in the cold black of 6 a.m. on Christmas Day in the morning; I am practically the only one.

Read more...

Home for the holidays (in a manor of speaking...)

Well, the holidays are upon us at last. And while I’m looking forward to another day or two of full-blown Christmas cheer, there’s a part of me that is already longing for that post-holiday exhalation that every parent of small children knows. I’m eating too much, sleeping too little, and I’ve got Rankin-Bass TV Christmas Specials coming out my ears. It will be nice to collapse on the couch tomorrow night and watch something normal for a change. For Mrs. DeMarest and me, this probably means working our way back through Season 1 of Downton Abbey on PBS.

Yes, go ahead and make fun. I’ll just say my wife is a very lucky woman. I have an amazing tolerance for chick-flicks in general, and an undeniable affinity for well-done series like Downton Abbey. Then again, who doesn’t love a little English Manor intrigue?

For any of the rest of you who are gearing up for Season 2, and even for those who aren’t, I thought we’d share a few reading suggestions to slake your thirst for that venerable institution known as the English Country Estate, courtesy of the Guardian:

"Evelyn Waugh came to regret Brideshead Revisited… That his novel would still be popular more than half a century later would have surprised Waugh. He would be even more surprised to find that novels with an English country house setting are among the most acclaimed written in recent years, among them Kazuo Ishiguro's The Remains of the Day (1989), Ian McEwan's Atonement (2001) and Sarah Waters's The Little Stranger (2009). Next month brings another notable addition to the genre, Alan Hollinghurst's compelling new novel The Stranger's Child, set partly in a 3,000-acre estate called Corley Court. All these are historical novels, set at different points of the last century, with Hollinghurst's spanning 95 years and concluding in 2008. Like Waugh's novel, they're also revealing about present-day preoccupations. And what they confirm is the continuing attraction of the English country house to the literary imagination.

              

There are plenty more, to be sure. What other books bring the English country house to life for you? Share your favorites in the comments.