Blooming hell!

This week in my Theory class we looked at Modernist writers and James Joyce's Ulysses in particular. I have to be honest, I tried reading this book for about 7 months last year and got as far as chapter 6. I think I'd read each of those chapters 3 times because I was sure that if I could just get under the language I could work out why this book had been labelled the most important text of the C20th!

Then one day I read the following Joyce quote: "I've put in so many enigmas and puzzles that it will keep the professors busy for centuries arguing over what I meant, and that's the only way of insuring one's immortality" (R.Ellmann). Read completely out of context, this confirmed a suspicion I had that Joyce is an immortal narcissistic psycho whose sole purpose in life (and death) is to play sinister mind games with me. I rolled my eyes when I saw the Ulysses chapter on the course reading list. Of course it was! Joyce has single handedly hoodwinked the entire literary academia into believing that he "meant" anything at all. 

But then, in class we looked at something I had not seen before, the deliberately incomplete Schema for Ulysses:

LOOK AT THIS! It makes sense! There is so much detail, meaning, richness in every chapter. He wasn't just messing with us... he wasn't exclusively messing with us! He was doing something deliberate and meaningful.  And so, with my faith somewhat (though shakily) restored in there being a point to reading Ulysses, I will attempt to complete it in my end of year break. Not because I think it's going to enlighten or inspire me, but because it's important. He is described as forerunner, a leader in literature. Any author who invests so much into their experimental work, with no real chance of ever being recognised in their lifetime, is worth a closer look, right?

 

This is never going to be a pleasant read - any one who says that they love it are lying or mental. The last chapter, Penelope, is made up of 8 HUGE sentences in stream of consciousness - oh what delirious fun! (Serious question, would reading such a thing disturb the delicate molecular structure of the my eyeballs?) And if these supposed fans start throwing around terms like "subversive work of art" or encourage you to join them on a trip to Dublin next June 16th for Bloomsday, you may want to gently back out of the conversation OR point over their shoulder, yell "Look, half priced sheep kidneys" and then run away.

What books did you force yourself to read from start to finish, because it was important? 

Opening lines good and bad

via beehives

I've just finished re-reading one of my favourite books: White Teeth by Zadie Smith. Please do yourself a favour and read this book; it is intelligent, colourful, rich and hilarious! Among the multifarious (I learned a new word, you like? You don't do you? I sound like one of those first year university kids who use the word "erroneous" instead of "incorrect" or "wrong" in their tutorial oral presentations. We all know that no-one actually talks like this!) things that I love about White Teeth are the opening lines:

Early in the morning, late in the century, Cricklewood Broadway. At 0627 hours on January 1, 1975, Alfred Archilbald Jones was dressed in corduroy and sat in a fume-filled Cavalier Musketeer Estate facedown on the steering wheel, hope the judgment would not be too heavy upon him. He lay in a prostate cross, jaw slack, arms splayed on either side like some fallen angel; scrunch up in each fist he held his army service medals (left) and his marriage license (right), for he had decided to take his mistakes with him.

Before learning anything else about Archie, these pathetic and but cheeky first lines convince me that I'm going to like him, or at least chuckle at the tongue in cheek melodrama of his life. I want to know more about Archie, what has brought him to this place, what's up with his marriage, why does he choose to wear corduroy to his suicide? Now that's a great opener to a novel!

I wonder how long it took Smith to craft these opening lines? Do the rest of us plebs have any hope of being as clever with our own openers? If not, do you think perhaps that we should aim for the opposite and craft the most awful opening lines know to man? If you plan to do so, I suggest perusing www.bulwer-lytton.com for the worst opening lines in published novels, updated annually. Here are some of my favourites from the 2010 winners:

For the first month of Ricardo and Felicity's affair, they greeted one another at every stolen rendezvous with a kiss--a lengthy, ravenous kiss, Ricardo lapping and sucking at Felicity's mouth as if she were a giant cage-mounted water bottle and he were the world's thirstiest gerbil.
Molly Ringle

(Hmmm, nothing says passion like water guzzling gerbils.) 

The dark, drafty old house was lopsided and decrepit, leaning in on itself, the way an aging possum carrying a very heavy, overcooked drumstick in his mouth might list to one side if he were also favoring a torn Achilles tendon, assuming possums have them.
Scott Davis Jones

(If you squint you can almost see the metaphoric connection... almost)

Wearing his new slacks from L.L. Bean, and entering the pen to feed his three big dogs their usual three cans of dog food, some of which ended up on his new pants, Kevin then left the house to attend a revival screening of ‘Serpico’ with Alpo chinos.
Greg Homer

(Greg, awful puns are never acceptable)

She purred sensually, oozing allure that was resisted only by his realization as an entomologist that the protein dust on the couch from the filing of her crimson nails was now being devoured by dust mites in a clicking, ferocious, ecstatic frenzy. Jonathan Blay

(I'm sorry, what?)

Happy crafting!

Lit Theory minus the Snobbery

Literary Theory, A very short introduction by Jonathan Culler

Thinking about study, I've gone back to an introductory book that I bought in my first year of university. This is a really refreshing and engaging little book about, let's be honest a pretty dull topic. Well I find it facinating, but I definately think I'm in the minority - you don't hear too many people raving about Lit Theory.

Anyway, if it is your cup of tea, or you're looking to start a Literature course, I highly recommend this book for the following reasons:

1. It's very very short (handy for those of us whose handbags, or manbags, are groaning as it is).

2. Culler writes incredibly concisely and is easy to understand despite the fact that he is explaining quite challenging ideas.

3. Culler has a great way of building on knowledge chapter by chapter.

4. Culler uses really simple examples - literary, pop culture or everyday language - to explain complex theories.

5. There are great resources at the back of the book, designed to explain differing schools of thought and terminolody and to inspire further reading.

Now saying all this, I did not get through this entire book when I was actually in first year. But this is due to the fact that I got by on an absolute minimal amount of effort in those days (quite shameful really). My second attempt at reading this book has been far more successful and rewarding.

Are you interested in Literary theory? How do you think Lit Theory helps writers? Also, out of interest, which novels do you consider to be literary? 

4 lessons from an unsuspecting mentor

I've finally finished reading Midnight's Children. What an epic, witty, tragic story! Rushdie is so gifted and while I don't admire everything about him or his philosophies, I am so astonished | bewildered | mesmerised by his creativity. I've been re-reading the introduction to the book, in which he outlines the origins of the characters and his family and friends' reactions to having been caricatured in the story. He highlights the political climate in India when he wrote the book and then reaction to its publication. He also talked a little about working in advertising at Ogilvy's while writing MC. 

These are just a few of the lessons I've gleaned from this short introduction, written retrospectively in 2005.

1. Writing is not the best get rich quick scheme going.

Rushdie had published a novel - Grimus - prior to Midnight's Children, but even after publication and after receiving an advance on the second novel, he could not give up his day job, well he did for a bit but he had to ask for it back! If you want to be a writer, you need to love writing for what it is, not for the potential ca-ching that you've been pinning your dreams and your financial future on. If you are truly talented and hard working, maybe (just maybe) you can be very successful!

2. Fear not.

 
Don't be afraid to offend people that are close to you with your thoughts, memories and expression. Personal history is a huge repository for joyful, bizarre, interesting and macabre inspiration. Use with wisdom, but don't stifle it.

3. It's not that common knowledge.

In the 80s Indian university students said to Rushdie: "I could have written that book, I knew all that stuff."

Use what is known to your locale - most people outside of your ethnic group, geographical setting, culture, heritage, etcetera, may just be completely fascinated by facts that are common knowledge to your people.

4. You don't need more free time/inspiration, you need a kick in the backside.

The following quote from the Introduction really inspired me:

On Friday nights I would come home to Kentish Town from the agency's offices near Waterloo Bridge, take a long hot bath, wash the week's commerce away, and emerge - or so I told myself - as a novelist. As I look back, I feel a touch of pride at my younger self's dedication to literature, which gave him the strength of mind to resist the blandishments of the enemies of promise. The sirens of ad-land sang sweetly and seductively, but I thought of Odysseus lashing himself to the mast of his ship and somehow stayed on course.
Still, advertising taught me discipline, forcing me to learn how to get on with whatever task needed getting on with, and ever since those days I have treated my writing simply as a job to be done, refusing myself all (well, most) of the luxuries of artistic temperament.

Just like the rest of us, he had to work a day job out of necessity. But because he loved writing, he MADE time for it. Don't cry and moan about how little time you have to write because of your "real" life, let the challenges you face sharpen you, teach you to be disciplined. (I say this to myself -  the biggest whiner of them all.) You need a strong (perhaps stubborn) mind to resist the blandishments of the enemies of promise. The enemies of promise are your job, your busy-ness, your distractions, the kids, the cat, the bag of giant triple choc cookies, sleep!. If you don't resist these you'll never prioritise your writing/creativity/happiness!

So, what's your day job? What is it teaching you about writing or expressing your creativity? How does it help your writing?

Ps. As I'm writing this on the train, the girl next to me is reading a copy of Midnight's Children! I love that.

The death of books?

via fatbrides

The buzz about ebooks and speculation that they will displace print books in the near future has got me thinking about the outlook for books, bookstores and libraries.

I've read articles and blogposts about a neat, organised future that the ebook revolution will unfurl. I've heard the radio ads which posit that just as the mp3 superseded CDs, the iPad and Kindle will make hard copy books obsolete. The minimalists among you are salivating at the thought and hey, it makes sense. I can personal attest to having damaged (probably irreversibly) my shoulders with years of lugging around stupidly huge novels, just so I could read another chapter or two in my infrequent and short breaks from class, work, etc. And yes, to be honest, if (when I go back to university this year) there are cheap e-versions of textbooks available, I will unashamedly plunder that particular source

I am, however, in total denial that the end is nigh for print books! Books are some much more than just the words on the page. I feel like the books I own are a part of me! It feels kind of materialistic, because the truth is I don't need to keep those books in my bookcase (so bounteous I swear it will give birth to something inky soon) not if the story contained has touched me and the ideas therein have intermingled with my own imagination. And yet, I feel that my books are a physical reflection of my personality, my thoughts and the things I value.

I particularly love old books, found in second hand book stores, which often have Bolognese (or other) sauce and ink stains on random pages. Or books from the library where if you're lucky, you sometimes find the previous borrower's shopping list in the middle. I also loved reading the cramped handwritten notes in the margins of prescribed texts from the university library. The physical story of the book, that tantalising connection with other readers is what I love. Reaching up, grabbing a favourite read from my dilated bookcase and pressing it into the open palms of a dinner guest saying: "This is the one, you HAVE to read it." that's what I'm holding onto.

Print books are romantic and those of us horders (or as I prefer, "collectors") will always want to fill our homes with (read show off) the beautiful and special books that have coloured our lives, don't cha think?