Tag: Shakespeare

I Hate The Sun, and We Have to Save America From It.

In 2007, Slate inaugurated the A Fine Whine column, in which a Slate writer lets fly at some (usually petty) annoyance for a couple of pages. It came infrequently at first, but its been appearing more and more often lately, and, at the risk of imitating what’s bugging me, it’s starting to make my back teeth itch.

Reason? It’s enervating when young, reasonably successful people sound like the fogeys who protested WKRP’s changeover to rock and roll:

Carlson: …We had a group of crackpots over there. They were attacking everything. They were attacking rock and roll, WKRP, me, and pay toilets.

Having said that. I know that Slate‘s running columns about why its writers hate dogs and fireworks because they’re click and comment bait. So, whore that I am, I’ll tell you right now that I hate the Sun, and I don’t care who knows it. I hate its prominences, and I hate its stupid flares that mess with my cell phone. Who likes skin cancer? Am I right? And where does the overrated Sun get off taking up exactly the same amount of sky as the vastly superior Moon? Think of the Moon. It’s got phases and craters and shades, and sometimes it doesn’t appear in the sky at all, allowing us an unobstructed view of the universe. The Moon is the total package of celestial objects. What’s the Sun got? It’s bright. And it the only reason it looks good rising or setting is because of assists from the Earth’s clouds and humanity’s smog, while the Moon’s awesome on its own merits.

Shakespeare’s Juliet knew what she was talking about. The goddamn sun is garish, and if all the world isn’t in love with night, it damn well should be. You know who else was on to something? Mr. Burns from The Simpsons, who hit it right on the snout when he said that for centuries mankind has yearned to destroy the Sun. If anyone wants to get a Kickstarter project going to build Mr. Burns’s giant sun blocker, my $10 is in, baby. Give me the T-shirt.

You know what the slogan on it will say? “Fuck the sun.”

Am I right?

Stupid Things Great Writers Say

Let’s start with V.S. Naipaul, Nobel Laureate of 2001:

I read a piece of writing and within a paragraph or two I know whether it is by a woman or not. I think [it is] unequal to me.

I’d be interested to see Mr. Naipaul put to a blind test. The closest thing we have online comes from The Guardian and from Nicole Bernier at Beyond the Margins. I took both, scored 60% accuracy on The Guardian’s test, but only 29% on Nicole’s test–my first eight answers were wrong. Statistically this makes me an average guesser, nothing more. Maybe Naipaul’s could hit 80% or better on both. Maybe that’s why he won the Nobel. (I kid, but don’t assume it’s because I love.)

The whole thing did get me thinking more broadly about the jackass pronouncements of brilliant writers. It’s strange. A author writes a compelling piece of fiction. It moves us, scares us, or makes us laugh. The author certainly has demonstrated a skill at spinning amusing and illuminating lies, but many try to translate this into erudition of a more general kind and turn authors into sages.

Given the nonsense a lot of brilliant authors take seriously, we should be at least a little more circumspect about doing this.

D.H. Lawrence, modernist author:

You have a Sam, a fat slow fellow, who has got slower and more slovenly as the weeks wear on. You have a master who has grown more irritable in his authority. Till Sam becomes simply wallowing in his slackness, makes your gorge rise. And the master is on red hot iron.

Now these two men, Captain and Sam, are there in a very unsteady equilibrium of command and obedience. A polarized flow. Definitely polarized.

The poles of will are the great ganglia of the voluntary nerve system, located beside the spinal column, in the back. From the poles of will in the backbone of the Captain, to the ganglia of will in the back of the sloucher Sam, runs a frazzled, jagged current, a staggering circuit of vital electricity. This circuit gets one jolt too many, and there is an explosion.

‘Tie up that lousy swine!’ roars the enraged Captain.

And whack! whack! down on the bare back of that sloucher Sam comes the cat.

What does it do? By Jove, it goes like ice-cold water into his spine. Down those lashes runs the current of the Captain’s rage, right into the blood and into the toneless ganglia of Sam’s voluntary system. Crash! Crash! runs the lightning flame, right into the cores of the living nerves.

And the living nerves respond. They start to vibrate. They brace up. The blood begins to go quicker. The nerves begin to recover their vividness. It is their tonic. The man Sam has a new clear day of intelligence, and a smarty back. The Captain has a new relief, a new ease in his authority, and a sore heart.

There is a new equilibrium, and a fresh start. The physical intelligence of a Sam is restored, the turgidity is relieved from the veins of the Captain.

It is a natural form of human coition, interchange.

It is good for Sam to be flogged. It is good, on this occasion, for the Captain to have Sam flogged. I say so. Because they were both in that physical condition.

It’s a good thing old D.H. was always broke. I’d hate to think what would have happened if he’d ever employed a housekeeper. Lawrence claimed that such a master/servant blood bond, strengthened through horrific violence, is infinitely preferable to contemporary employer/employee relationships. I don’t know. I’ve never much liked being an employee, but I’ve always been gratified to know that I could sic cops on any boss who raised a hand to me. I get that modern capitalist relationships have their alienating drawbacks, but Lawrence’s cure seems far worse than the disease.

Ezra Pound, modernist poet, rabid anti-semite:

You let in the Jew and the Jew rotted your empire, and you yourselves out-jewed the Jew.

And the big Jew has rotted every nation he has wormed into.

Your infamy is bound up with Judaea. You can not touch a sore or a shame in your empire but you find a Mond, a Sassoon, or a Goldsmid.

These gems came from Pound’s Italian radio broadcasts, made in support of Il Duce. I take it a close reading isn’t necessary. Pound gets credit for a great deal in literature. Certainly without him James Joyce, T.S. Eliot, and Ernest Hemingway would have had a rougher time getting their work out and noticed. Pound advanced 20th century literature. He also advanced 20th century fascism and gave intellectual cover to people who murdered millions out of bigotry. I’ll leave the question of which is more important to you.

Orson Scott Card, renowned sf author, homophobe:

 Laws against homosexual behavior should remain on the books, not to be indiscriminately enforced against anyone who happens to be caught violating them, but to be used when necessary to send a clear message that those who flagrantly violate society’s regulation of sexual behavior cannot be permitted to remain as acceptable, equal citizens within that society.The goal of the polity is not to put homosexuals in jail. The goal is to discourage people from engaging in homosexual practices in the first place, and, when they nevertheless proceed in their homosexual behavior, to encourage them to do so discreetly, so as not to shake the confidence of the community in the polity’s ability to provide rules for safe, stable, dependable marriage and family relationships.

As a man of letters, Card doesn’t bat in the same league with Pound and Lawrence, but he is a figure of renown with the science fiction community, which by now must be well practiced in separating an author’s work from his personality. I wish them luck with that. With every statement like that, and Card just keeps on making ’em, it gets harder.

Henry Rollins, the rock and roll raconteur, once said that if you read the graffiti that your favorite band left backstage at a venue, your opinion of the band would plummet. The same is true of writers, and it’s going to get worse. Once upon a time, an author could cultivate a kind of semi-divine detachment from the audience, speak rarely, and every so often toss his work to the crowd the way John D. Rockefeller tossed dimes to the nobodies. But now, authors have to be on Facebook and Twitter, and have to push to do blog tours and interviews and speaking gigs, and thanks to the internet, every weird, stupid thing we say lives forever.

I’m not sure how to feel about that. What I try to do is ask myself whether the thoughts I express today will look barbaric twenty years from now. At the same time, I think about the bullet Shakespeare dodged. As far as we know, no one wrote down all the racist, sexist, monarchist shit that he surely must have thought.

Are You Pondering What I’m Pondering?

I just mailed off five free signed copies of Dismantle the Sun to some lucky so-and-sos at librarything.com. Of the five winners, two are residents of rural Michigan, and one of them comes from a town close to the location I pictured for my (not real) Menominee Falls, MI. That tickles me, though I wonder if Shakespeare ever got a letter saying “Dear Bill S., I just couldn’t get into Hamlet, sorry. It’s just not real to me. To start off, it’s not Elisinore, you knob. It’s Helsingør. And look at your costumes. We Danes don’t wear stuff like that. That’s much more Dutch. And why do your women look so much like guys? Next time, do some research, you inkstained wretch! I expect my money back.”

Or maybe this will happen:

An interview with Rob Paulsen, who voiced Yakko Warner and the indispensable Pinky.

In The New Yorker, Joan Acocella taps David Copperfield, Song of the Lark, and Huckleberry Finn as great novels with bad endings. While I wouldn’t know anything about writing a bad ending to a book personally, I’ve always thought that the ending of the novel was less important than the middle. It’s the biggest difference between the novel and the short story, where the ending really is the ball game. For me, the novel doesn’t explode at the end. The novel simply gathers momentum like a great, mile-long freight train, until it roars past us, overwhelming us with its sheer power and leaving nothing behind but the memory of its passing and a wake consisting of little curlicues of wind and dust, which we call the ending. (But that’s just me.)