Live Deliberately: Play Video Games

One of our inaugural posts last November pointed people to the Great Gatsby video game. In the comments of that post I joked that a “first-person hacker” game a la Crime and Punishment  might be equally engaging, if a little more violent. Not to be outdone, some enterprising minds at USC have suckered the NEA into a $40,000 grant to develop an online video game based on Henry David Thoreau’s contemplative classic, Walden:

“The player will inhabit an open, three-dimensional game world which will simulate the geography and environment of Walden Woods.”

It should be a rip-roaring good time.

-H/T GalleyCat

First Line Viernes

Alas, it's time to look at a first line from a reputable novel once again.  And this novel is very reputable.  Of course, it's none other than Faulkner's "As I Lay Dying," which commences as follows:

"Jewel and I came up from the field, following the path in single file."

Now, I have the same sentiments toward this first line as I do the rest of the novel; indifference.  This first line does nothing for me, although I find it acceptable.  Simply acceptable.  Not stellar, not intriguing, not even interesting.  I struggle with ol Faulkner (perhaps because I am a self-proclaimed Hemingway-phile).  Perhaps I have lost my mind and am just now exposing my literary merit as weak, but Faulkner, to me, is simply bleh.

If you are a Faulkner connoisseur, PLEASE help me!

"The Trench" by Erri De Luca

Welcome back to ShelfActualization's monthly short story club.  This month, we have a dandy.  To start, look at this opening line:

"When I found the sewer pipe I was happy, but I couldn't smile."

Beautiful, short, and altogether intriguing.  But the rest of the story is what really burns me up.  I've been fascinated by this story for years simply because it takes an otherwise ordinary, or even sub-ordinary, situation (that of digging a trench outside of Paris to locate a buried sewer pipe) and converts this ordinary situation into an immense moment of profundity.

All of a sudden down in this ordinary trench with a shovel and pick ax, we are dealing with a myriad of profound human experiences.  For example:

• Identity ("The other man was me, a thirty-two year old Italian laborer . . . At midday, between mouthfuls of highly spiced watery soup, we talked for a while in our rudimentary common French, then each returned to his own thoughts in his mother tongue.")

• Sanity ("At the end of the first week the man who was with me started to crack . . . 'Trouve? Tu l'as trouve?' the hoarse voice of a lost man, the common exhalation of the trenches of the century.")

• Death ("I assured him that if the trench were going to collapse it would do so only at night, when the damp came . . . one shouldn't speak of death with one's foot in the grave.")

• Socioeconomics ("But why should a man have to suffer this way?  Why in the world should a human being have to earn bread for his children with a noose around his neck?") 

• Free Will ("Then I decided that he was no help to me - I would manage better on my own. So, in front of the other workers, I asked [the boss] to let me finish the job alone."

Thus we have an ordinary situation laced with profound themes.  And so, my conclusion is this:  The Trench masterfully portrays the immensity of a mundane moment in a trench with a shovel under the French sky.  And why do we not notice more often the immensity of mundane moments in our own lives?

Why?

Short Story Club: The Trench by Erri De Luca

Welcome (again) to ShelfActualization.com's Short Story Club.  This month's selection comes to us from arguably the most over-trodden god-forsaken country of Europe: Italy.

But, in spite of my low-level contempt for Italy, I find this month's short story selection very relevant.  Erri De Luca published The Trench in the March 2006 edition of The New Yorker.  I am assuming most of us are completely unacquainted with Erri De Luca, so let's have a quick look:  Born in 1950 in Naples, he has become a radical left wing idealist.  He has worked in Italy and France as a truck driver and mason.  Now considered to be a recluse, he lives in an isolated cottage in the hills far outside of Rome.

Now again, he is Italian.  So that sucks.  But let's get over it.  Here is the link to The Trench.  We'll meet back here tomorrow to discuss.  I couldn't look forward to it more than I currently do.

Russian Rumble

We haven’t forgotten about you, Literary Death Match fans. We’ve simply had to postpone our next match a couple of weeks while ringside reporter Kelly Wallace continues to recover from injuries sustained in the last title bout. 

But while you wait for the highly-anticipated Bronte sister beat-down, we thought we’d point you to another head-to-head match up playing out over at the Millions. They asked the experts who’s greater, Tolstoy or Dostoevsky. It's definitely worth a read.

How to Read Truly Great Literature

My apologies to anyone who thought this post was going to be profound.

"The Punishment of X4" and "The Man With the Miniature Orchestra"

Well, it only took four episodes for Mad Men to stroke our curiosity of a few weeks ago. Closet fictioneers, all is well; account man Ken Cosgrove is writing again.

Last week we learned that he has begun training his fiction-writing fetish on the science-fiction & fantasy genre, under the pen name of Ben Hargrove. We got the description of one story titled “The Punishment of X4” wherein a robot who maintains a commuter bridge between two planets removes a bolt that brings the whole thing crashing down. Genius.

He’s publishing in magazines, pitching an anthology to Farrar Strauss, and things generally seem to be looking up for him until Roger makes it clear that he is to stop moon-lighting and focus on his day-job. Ken dutifully kills off the Hargrove alias, and with it, his foray into genre fiction.

But he’s far from giving up his one true passion. Ken takes up a new pseudonym, Dave Algonquin, and the episode ends as he scribbles the opening lines of his newest short story, “The Man With the Miniature Orchestra.”

“There were phrases of Beethoven’s 9th Symphony that still made Coe cry. He always thought it had to do with the circumstances of the composition itself. He imagined Beethoven, deaf and soul-sick, his heart broken, scribbling furiously while Death stood in the doorway clipping his nails. Still, Coe thought, it might have been living in the country that was making him cry. It was killing him with its silence and loneliness, making everything ordinary too beautiful to bear.”

Anyone want to take a crack at finishing that one off? I’d get a kick out of reading it.

The Writer's Voice

Sometimes we become so immersed in the distinctive literary voice of an author, that when we hear that same author's actual speaking voice, it can be a little jolting. My little brother forwarded me this interview at the passing of Mike Wallace last week. Take a moment to soak up Ayn Rand’s arrant views, as delivered through her strong Russian accent and cigarette-scorched voicebox.

So …Ayn Rand.

Some people have problems with her Objectivist philosophy. Others take issue with her Godlessness. Still other criticize her characters and her writing. But why on earth do I never hear one word about her love scenes? She’s got a little bit of a rape fantasy she’s trying to work through, and to me at least, it’s a little unsettling. And the exchange on the subject of love  embedded above  (about 8:00 in)  doesn't exactly help. In case you didn’t watch to the end, here is the excerpt I’m talking about:

Rand:    You love only those who deserve it.

Wallace:    And then, if a man is weak, or a woman is weak, then she is beyond, he is beyond, love?

Rand:    He certainly doesn’t deserve it. He certainly is beyond- he can always correct it. Man has free will. If a man wants love, he should correct his weaknesses or his flaws, and he may deserve it. But he cannot expect the unearned, either in love, or in money; either in method or in spirit.

Wallace:    But you have lived in our world and you realize, recognize the fallibility of human beings. There are very few of us, then, in this world, by your standards, who are worthy of love.

Rand:    Uh, unfortunately, yes. Very true.

Yikes!

First Line Friday!

"Longtemps, je me suis couché de bonne heure."

That’s how this famous first line appears in the original French. It’s a line that has been translated a number of different ways throughout the years:

"For a long time I used to go to bed early."  (C. K. Scott Moncrieff)

"For a long time I would go to bed early."  (D J Enright) 

"For a long time, I went to bed early."  (Lydia Davis)

Then again, it’s from a book whose translated title is still the subject of some debate. It’s an interesting first line, in that it serves as the opening salvo for the novel Swann’s Way, as well as the introduction to Proust’s seven-volume masterpiece, In Search of Lost Time (or Remembrance of Things Past, if you prefer that title).  

In either case, it’s a deceptively short and straightforward opening into a work whose later sentences can seem like veritable labyrinths to an overwhelmed reader. You’ll feel like a world-class hurdler as you learn to work your way over dependent clause after dependant clause, keeping your eye on the subject and racing in search of its main predicate ten lines down the page. Frankly, it’s a bit of a mess before you get used to it.

Still, I don’t know if I’ve read many books that reached me on quite so deep a level, or many authors who are quite so precise or so thorough in getting their meanings across. And I think the extremely personal nature of the prose starts in that very first line.

Anyone read it? Did you like it? Hate it? Toss it of with ambivalence? I’d be interested to hear.

Review: A Room With A View, by E.M. Forster

There are some among our readership who really have it in for E.M. Forster (what gives?), but we hope you’ll bear with us as we review that author’s A Room With A View.

The book was my first introduction to Forster, and I have to say that I came away generally pleased. It’s not a read that will keep you on the edge of your seat- its major plot points are conversations, betrayals of confidence, and rumors about who will rent the vacant cottage at such and such a place. But if it won’t keep you on the edge of your seat, I think there’s enough to keep you in  your seat- to keep you reading right to the very end.

Now, it is at its core, a romance. This means that the story is wholly dependent on a simple misunderstanding between the two principle characters stretching the entire length of the book. If George an Lucy were able at any moment to actually sit down and have a half-way decent conversation, there would be no story. But true to form, they aren’t; and so there is. Fine.

But here’s where Forster really whimps out: The tension builds and builds (Will Lucy end her engagement to Cecil? Is George’s father really a murderer? Did George not only steal a kiss, but blabber about it to a popular novelist?) We anxiously await the moment when George and Lucy do  finally hash things out, when she realizes that she loves him and always has- but just at the crucial moment- Forster fumbles the ball! He hits the fast forward button and next thing you know, George and Lucy are back in Florence, reminiscing about the winding road that brought them back there. No catharsis, just a few loose ends tied up after the fact. It’s as if he thought that scene would be really difficult to write, so he played it out off-stage. It was a bit of a disappointment.

Still, there is a lot of beautiful writing, some great characters and nice settings. And he presents enough interesting insights into love and happiness and religion to have earned a second read from me. So, for the Forster fans out there: where should I go next? Howard’s End? Or A Passage To India?