I spent Saturday afternoon reading in the sun in Charlottesville, Virginia, the way I spent many weekends when I lived in this little town.
Dar WilliaI spent Saturday afternoon reading in the sun in Charlottesville, Virginia, the way I spent many weekends when I lived in this little town.
Dar Williams refrains filled the cul-de-sac, and the wireless networks were named "TJistheman", "PabstBlueNetwork", and "moonbaker" (the last, perhaps belonging to a baker at Mellow Mushroom pizza near campus).
I thought about how hard it is to leave this place, and the first time I heard the author's name of the book I was reading, Love is a Mix Tape. Rob Sheffield, like me, was once in Professional English Nerd School at the University of Virginia. Now he's a contributing editor at Rolling Stone, so perhaps we're the same type of academic flake. Charlottesville formed us in many ways, but we had to leave the field to use what we learned here.
The best explanation I've found for why this particular track of graduate school remains a ludicrous idea happens on page 90 (I will say knowing how to survive on $14k a year is a useful skill in any economy and also that I have close friends who I do not doubt will be successful at this):
My friends and I assumed that we would soon be tenured professors, which is an excellent life goal--it's like planning to be Cher. You think, I'm going to wear beads and fringed gowns, and sing "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves" on the way to work every morning, and then one day, I'm going to get a call saying, "Congratulations! You're Cher! Can you make it to Vegas by showtime?"
I know I channeled Bob Mackie when I dressed to teach class.
The music scene was different when Sheffield lived in town and the highlight of the summer was the Pavement show, but there are still a few people from Charlottesville who make music; I've bought eggs at Dave Matthews's farm, watched Carbon Leaf rise to national prominence, and wished for better sound in Satellite Ballroom for Dave Berman (of the Silver Jews).
And there are places to buy records like in everyone references to talk music and record store culture, but an elegiac tone elevates Sheffield's book from what could be a trivial subject. Like the wind that whips around town in winter months, the prose reveals a narrator smarting from the death of his wife and the included music must be intimate and loss-y.
MP3s buzz straight to your brain. That's part of what I love about them. but the rhythm of the mix tape is the rhythm of romance, the analog hum of a physical connection between two sloppy, human bodies.
The dialogue between the two, Rob and Ren茅e, flickers at that wonderful level that will never translate for a mainstream blockbuster audience:
"Where are you parked?" "I walked." "What's a catachresis?" "A rhetorical inversion of tense, kind of like a transumption. Let's go."
Hot.
Even narrating Ren茅e's "big, messy, epic" life, the author finds room to celebrate that forgotten classic music video "Justified and Ancient," a few pages to brood on quibbling couples shopping in the middle of the night at Wal-Mart (173), imagines gonzo names for chain restaurant carb offerings (175), and insists that the songstresses run away from the "Magic Man," a troubling song I've always avoided too (199).
Inexplicably, you leave parts of yourself in Charlottesville. For me, it was the first time that I had a group of friends, a whole group, that mixed and mingled and was largely, incredibly cohesive. My role was to throw parties and feed those that sat on the chairs by the kitchen and, through that, to heal the parts of me that I stayed in Charlottesville to repair, to remember.
The book echoes that sort of affection for the place while voicing a big love for a woman who changed the author. The narrator closes with a meditation on strong women in rock during his tenure in Virginia, wistfully hoping they still exist in pop music. He talks about Ren茅e's sewing, and how the clothes she made (often to wear at shows at Toyko Rose) fit her body as it became more like the women before her.
And so the mix tape playlists that begin each chapter add explanation to this real woman rather than reduce her (or the author) to a series of lists, ranked in order. This was a real, true, I'll-love-you-even-and-especially-when-your-hips-spread love. Like a really good album, that kind of relationship nudges forth nuances each time you listen closely. ...more
Last night, I sat with vintage dresses draped across my lap, remembering the moment the bottom seam came loose on the brown velour, thinking about the Last night, I sat with vintage dresses draped across my lap, remembering the moment the bottom seam came loose on the brown velour, thinking about the scene in Virginia Woolf's Mrs. Dalloway where Clarissa Dalloway sits in her drawing room recalling the instance of the tear she is mending in her party dress.
The silvery-green dress folds spill over her while she stitches and sorts through the morning's moments, completely mistress of the room and the household being polished and primped in anticipation of her guests that evening.
All of London June day somehow fits in Virginia Woolf's crisp text, and even the doors are about to be taken off their hinges as Clarissa strides into the book's opening pages and the morning, exhilarated with the day's possibilities. Her thoughtful musings interrupted with the bombastic Hugh Whitbread's, "Where are you off to?" She deflects breezily; "I love walking in London," and carries on toward the shops, reveling in even her errand run.
Though bounded by the "leaden circles in the air" as clocks chime the hour and increments between, Clarissa radidates "on waves of that divine vitality." And like the flowers in the flower shop, Woolf's beautiful phrases wait for us to admire, inhale, and gather up as we walk from one basin to another with Clarissa:
How fresh like frilled linen clean from a laundry laid in wicker trays the roses looked; and dark and prim the red carnations, holding their heads up; and all the sweet peas spreading in their bowls, tinged violet, snow white, pale---as if it were the evening and girls in muslin frocks came out to pick sweet peas and roses after the superb summer's day, with its almost blue-black sky, its delphiniums, its carnations, its arum lilies was over; and it was the moment between six and seven when every flower---roses, carnations, irises, lilac---glows; white, violet, red, deep orange; every flower seems to burn by itself, softly, purely in the misty beds...
If Clarissa repeatedly mentions her lack of knowledge, gesturing at a life experience limited by class, sphere, role, that combined with the nearness of death throughout (especially appropriate in this post-war novel) brightens the shine around her small triumphs and actions connecting people, one to another. While Virginia Woolf stated Mrs. Dalloway's double is the doomed war veteran Septimus Smith, Clarissa's opposite is zombie Lady Bradshaw, who infects others with her stupor as she entertains.
Our heroine Clarissa pours out courage, quietly affirming the extraordinary capacity to give and forgive as we press on into our days, buying the flowers, mending the dresses ourselves. And she is the perfect hostess (a role she both embraces and refuses), standing at the top of the staircase welcoming and wishing us safe passage.
As Peter Walsh, the old flame who truly sees her, notes, she perseveres; "there being in her a thread of life which for toughness, endurance, power to overcome obstacles, and carry her triumphantly through he had never known the like of."...more
If nothing else, former lovers should give good fodder for brunch conversations. Laughter (and mimosas and cosmopolitans) mitigates the grieving proceIf nothing else, former lovers should give good fodder for brunch conversations. Laughter (and mimosas and cosmopolitans) mitigates the grieving process for relationships, particularly important for a the "chick lit" cottage industry that Melissa Bank is said to have spawned with her Girl's Guide to Hunting and Fishing in 2000.
Much like her previous collection of short stories (the format perhaps best suited for her style), this novel opens with a protagonist of biting wit, cigarette gestures, and composure beyond her teenage years. Plot details are in service of protagonist Sophie's one-liners, and aside from college roommate Venice (who counts herself lucky she wasn't named 'Gondola' or 'Canal'), the book settles into the yawning heteronormativity of this genre.
The difference being, the significant affair is between the city and Sophie--the narrative drives toward Williamsburg and Pennsylvania (and back) instead of a ring. In the penultimate story, she is rescued from party drama and a suitor who will disappear before the next episode with a wonderful line of prose that stretches out to lift her from the loft's balcony.
In the midst of another party with an indie rock date, Sophie thinks:
"The women are young, young, young, liquidy and sweet-looking, they are batter and I am the sponge cake they don't know they'll become. I stand here, a lone loaf, stuck to the pan."
Sophie's baking line reminded me of one of my favorite exes, who hung a large poster of that incorrigible loafer-poet Walt Whitman on a wall, winked at me; "Isn't he handsome?" he said.
"Mm," I replied; alone with the poster's self-satisfied grin, I rolled my eyes. Sure, this old man could call himself large, contain multitudes--in this younger man's apartment, I felt like a floufy sponge cake, bloated with age.
Connecting the reader with those interior moments--like when we turn social unease into a self-deprecating food metaphor--demonstrates the promise good work in this genre still holds. Sophie and the musician pick up milk and the paper on their way back, closing the narrative with a small, habitual New Yorker moment that might lead (as all those airbrushed magazine covers in late-night corner grocers guarantee) to the discovery of the wonder spot. ...more
About a month ago, online buzz surrounded a " designed to determine whether a Web site was written by a man or a woman.
I was remAbout a month ago, online buzz surrounded a " designed to determine whether a Web site was written by a man or a woman.
I was reminded of the flurry of indignation and amusement caused by the tool (on my personal site: "We guess is written by a man (58%), however it's quite gender neutral. Is this correct?") in the review my friend posted of Jeffrey Eugenides's Middlesex the other day:
Despite the fact that the author of the book is male - as is the narrator - I often thought of the narration as neither male nor female. As if the writing itself - like Cal - somehow transcended the very concept of gender.
For me, the story's gender play nestles in poignant details--the unexamined mention that Uncle Pete's suspect chiropractic practice in a 1959 Detroit wasn't for clients "to free up their kundalini," that the narrator's grandfather chooses Sappho's glyconic poetry to translate for decades.
Less playfully, the narrator observes restrictive male desire:
Jerome was sliding and climbing on top of me and it felt like it had the night before, like a crushing weight. So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.
Eugenides channels earlier, Italian postmodernism to write an epic novel that undercuts the epic, grandiose authorial fashion of recent years. Middlesex is, at moments, a heartbreaking work of staggering genius because the reader watches as grandparents Lefty and Desdemona create their genealogical fictions (as the narrator "dutifully [oozes] feminine glue").
Piscine metaphors stream through the text, schooling Callie/Cal in gender assertion--key scenes include bathing suits, sea anemones in locker rooms, battles between gravity and bodies of water, faked menstrual cycles marked by catacomb fish symbols on a calendar.
While the protagonist's childhood years are charted by a procession of family Cadillacs (the 'boys & toys' model), the novel scolds Dr. Luce (and by extension, the reader) for wanting to read straight toward one event in Callie's life without the greater familial context.
The future is in bed in Sch枚neberg, but that's not the end of the book. There must be a return to the matriarchal line first, a presentation of self in a book about self-presentation. The scratchy intercoms in the Middlesex house without walls reconnect mother and child: outmoded technology delivers comic relief.
And harkening back to the reverberating rustles of her silkworm chorus, the reader joins the vindicated Desdemona in the last spoken word of the text, as she looks at Cal and says, "Bravo."...more
Larry Lessig beckons us in his new book, Remix, to think about the future of a generation weaned on pirated media. In his usual elegant style, he cleaLarry Lessig beckons us in his new book, Remix, to think about the future of a generation weaned on pirated media. In his usual elegant style, he clears the bramble around thorny issues of gift economies, fan labor (though he doesn't use the term), and what he calls the "Copyright Wars." (Here's of the author reading the book's introduction.)
If you regularly read books in this genre you will recognize many of these examples; accordingly, Lessig works to reinvigorate the Potter Wars anecdote by focusing Warner Bros.'s continued waffle acknowledging profit margins from fan sites dedicated to Harry, Hermione, and the Weasley brood.
The young creator network that fought in the Potter War skirmishes are part of Lessig's most interesting argument: deregulating amateur creativity. The distilled argument begins chapter nine---the chapter that will appear on syllabi and circulate online (especially as it's a list, which bodes well for bookmark-sharing site Digg, and a list that ends with decriminalizing filesharing, a topic dear to Digg users)---and Lessig defines amateur creativity as different from professional creativity. A silly family video would be the former, the remix artist the latter, and he proposes flipping the model so a site host like YouTube absorbs responsibility for copyright fees in uploaded files instead of the user. Sexy, but I'm not convinced Big Brother aspires to be Daddy Warbucks.
Think of Clay Shirky's on cognitive surpus and how he argues it was masked for decades ("Did you ever see that episode of Gilligan's Island where they almost get off the island and then Gilligan messes up and then they don't? I saw that one. I saw that one a lot when I was growing up.") and about how Shirky argues that . Lessig teases out some (he could go further) of the legal usage implications of these production/consumption patterns--ceding that money pollutes gift economies, but pointing out absurd "user-generated content" sites for commercial entities like the Star Wars franchise that own the remixed fan products added to the "community" site.
On page 248 of Remix, he writes "the agreement between media companies, or media companies and artists, are not love letters. They do not express mutual respect." Lessig a copyright abolitionist--the movement concerns him greatly; neither does he promote filesharing (he responded to a filesharing question last night ). Respect for the laws governing copyright will work, he suggests, when the laws reflect the current culture (read his distinction between thin-sharing and thick-sharing). Without alteration, the regulations will continue to be ignored and this disregard may bleed into other areas of regulation, a dangerous trend for an entire generation.
At an event last night near Los Angeles, Lessig protecting use of amateur performance and the dangers of read-only societies.
And speaking of silly family videos, last week I posted a Thanksgiving dance clip, a Taylor tradition we now share with friends by posting online. As the cruise director of this particular family activity that was destined for YouTube, I made sure we used a remix of a Jackson 5 song, one I like better than the original spun by a Japanese DJ. We researched the original choreography on YouTube--the , the . And instead of dubbing over, I left our voices and the scuffles of our shoes, adding a layer that adds value for the audience of this video: the small circle of family and friends who enjoy watching .
I agree with Lessig that trying to live without the love of amateur remixers in an online world filled with video will be "one long sleepless night." Let's hope the new copyright czar will know wrong from right.
I think of Malcolm Gladwell books as a sophisticated guilty pleasure.
He Who Must Name Patterns is the darling of airport bookstores (which I think amI think of Malcolm Gladwell books as a sophisticated guilty pleasure.
He Who Must Name Patterns is the darling of airport bookstores (which I think amuses him; there is a part on airplane crashes in Outliers that is difficult to read on a flight, similar to beginning Ian McEwan's Saturday while in the air), and the chapters are nicely organized for casual reading--each extended anecdote about the length of a New Yorker article, come to think of it.
Gladwell's books belong in the self-discovery section of a bookstore that I imagine next to the self-help aisles, their cheerful covers in contrast to the signature manilla Gladwell covers with serious serifs and a centered object (Outliers has a colored orb, Blink an asterisk that makes me think of Vonnegut's infamous doodle in Breakfast of Champions, and Tipping Point a match). Whereas in the previous books you might be able to slot yourself into one of the three special groups of people (Connectors, Mavens, Salespeople) or note your snap judgments, this recent book has fewer lessons that can be easily applied--aside from his 10,000 hours thesis.
Of more interest, Gladwell takes the signature Stewart Smalley line to pull apart specific examples of success; beyond the "smart enough" threshold, social savvy makes key figures (read: connectors) in your life like you enough to bend the norms and let 10,000 opportunity hours bloom.
The epilogue is an explanation of how Gladwell explains the community figures who paved his path to success, and I couldn't resist marking the page lauding "divergence tests"--an alternative way of measuring intelligence through timed creative responses. In elementary school, I put in a good thousand hours or so solving problems with my Odyssey of the Mind teams, the brainiac Olympics for entitled children (Gladwell mentions entitlement as a key skill for success), and I do want to think those Saturdays spent designing PVC pulley systems and blurting out ten spontaneous uses for pipe cleaners will serve some larger purpose.
After spending years at a top ten U.S. university in a graduate program with disturbingly smart people, I will cite Gladwell's book in this season of cocktail parties and feel entirely justified in my prediction that the wittiest of my friends are marked for success in that field. Comprehensive knowledge as well as a keen sense of timing in impersonations on John's part, snarky classroom literary dissections on Ben's, obscure musical categorization references from art historian/XML geek Dana, appreciation of rap and West coast culture from ascot-wearing Miltonist Eric, and Jordan's inspired nudges in the Charlottesville underground arts recommend them for future renown.
If success depends on your forbearing community, perhaps the next Gladwell treatise will be on how to sustain the communities you successfully choose later--...more
"Proof" is ideal for the witching hours of the night, when you cannot sleep, idly flip television channels to idly flip television channels, and then "Proof" is ideal for the witching hours of the night, when you cannot sleep, idly flip television channels to idly flip television channels, and then toss the remote / click the laptop shut and wonder if you might be crazy.
Incidentally, that's where Auburn's play begins, and we are ushered into what I'd call Second City Gothic (sister to the Southern Gothic subgenre): a big, drafty Chicago house looms, complete with a clanking radiator, absent mother, ghost, tortured heroine wearing a key around her neck, and a supernatural object (the proof itself, which fairly glows).
While ostensibly about mathematics, the tense moments feature Catherine learning kindness--we cringe as she illuminates the shortcomings of her fellow players, but we forgive her impatience when she practices kindness with her father, too far gone to retort.
How far do you trust what you intuitively know?
When prowling our own houses where things go bump in the night, don't we all grasp for someone who believes in our logic--that inelegant architecture we build to explain who we are?...more
I have always thought the opening sentence of a book is the author's best pickup line pitched at the reader.
More so, then, in a book where well-constI have always thought the opening sentence of a book is the author's best pickup line pitched at the reader.
More so, then, in a book where well-constructed paragraphs hold the explicit promise of intimate relations--that, at least, is the premise of this post-postmodern epistolary novel where the two hyperarticulate protagonists agree to reveal the nasty bits of their romantic pasts in letters before meeting up again in real life.
My former colleague Craig Stoltz put it best, I think, when he reviewed the book for the Washington Post:
"This book is full of superb writing, and that is precisely its problem...The trouble is Jane's letters sound an awful lot as if they've been written by an award-winning author and writing instructor with an MFA. So, alas, do John's. To say this spoils the fun is to understate."
To return to the first line of the book, though, it reads: "I know my own kind." I can only assume that many of the fine 欧宝娱乐 members who give such lukewarm reviews below are not sympathetic to this kind. Whether the lack of sympathy for this kind is due to character, snark, or textual framing, the book's prelude section remains a worthy meditation on a smushed boutonniere and contains a line of sexual absolution on page five that I have taken as a personal motto (curious? I thought so).
Moreover, how can you ignore the serious fun of keeping the conceit of a post-postmodern epistolary novel aloft for the length of a novel? I mean, really, our two protagonists always have stamps on hand?
And when one mails a drunken letter irretrievable from the postal carrier once deposited in the mailbox, a "remix" chapter follows with all the apology that comes after drunkdials and drunken texts/emails and none of the clarifying horror of the "sent messages" outbox (tell me the "sent messages" folder isn't your favorite, and I will denounce you for the terrible liar that you are).
Perhaps I read this in one sitting because each chapter contains character details I covet. To have our hero admit he is a "marginalia junkie"; to be able to refer to a past lover as "the caramelized one"; to articulate an awareness of destructive tendencies and the wherewithal at seventeen to intuit that "boys were dangerous. Each one was shining, lit from within; their souls were torches." Seemingly trivial and breathy at times, this is true stuff of the sort flawed, complicated, real relationships are built upon.
It's worth remembering that epistolary works were originally "penned" by female characters (Aphra Behn, of course, used the form; male authors like Richardson would take pains to insist in the introduction that the female narrator's story was "true") when the novel was still crystallizing into a genre. Appropriately, the end of the novel careens a bit like its tipsy characters, and structurally, the multiple peaks within the letters throughout are followed by valleys leading to more peaks.
The very end comes together in that elegant way that always brings me to tears--not because it's an emotional moment (it is), but because each reveals their understanding of the other's most significant, sustaining source of pain, and those final admissions seal a narrative that the two characters share voicing--imperfectly and, ultimately, full of hope. ...more
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