Some early reviews of The Confusion, the next round in Neal Stephenson’s interminable prize fight, have started hitting the wires. The boys over at The Complete Review are generous, giving Stephenson props for erudition. The Guardian‘s Josh Lacey is less forgiving, noting that “pages read as if they have been copied directly from history books.” Both reviews confirm that, aside from a few action sequences, The Confusion looks to continue Quicksilver‘s tedium. It’s too bad. Thomas Pynchon, John Barth and David Mitchell all mined detailed historical territory, but at least they had the good sense to make it rewarding. This could very well make the Baroque Cycle the Matrix trilogy of literature.

The Known World has won the Pulitzer for Novel.

Drama went to Doug Wright’s I Am My Own Wife.

William Taubman won for Biography for Kruschev: The Man and His Era.

History went to Steven Hahn’s A Nation Under Our Feet.

Anne Applebaum won general nonfiction for Gulag.

Franz Wright’s Walking to Martha’s Vineyard won for poetry.

Paul Moravec’s Tempest Fantasy won for music.

Ten years ago today, I was in my English class when I heard the news. Kurt Cobain was dead. He had blown his head off with a shotgun.

The professor, who read Bob Dylan and Jim Morrison weeks before, allowed this news to seep in. She understood the significance too well. We didn’t. At least not then.

I remember a hush lasting a minute. The power chords shimmered through my mind. Nirvana, man. Kurt Cobain. “Floyd the Barber.” “We can plant a house, we can build a tree. I don’t really care. We could have all three.” The honesty of “Rape Me.” The secret track at the end of Nevermind. The Meat Puppets there during the Unplugged appearance. All gone save through the discs we spun.

Cobain hated being hassled. He hated playing stadiums. He was raw and angry and depressed and somehow sensitive. His voice sounded like a spatula scraping paint from a wall, the noise somehow filtered through a shaky Sennheiser, and committed to a reel-to-reel machine found in somebody’s basement. He was beautiful in his simplicity. Because he was the DIY punk inside us all.

Everyone knew Nirvana. Whether they had discovered the trio (then quartet) through the amazing Bleach, or had become part of the grand throng latching onto Nevermind. Nirvana had even obtained a strange legitimacy with the Weird Al Yankovic parody, “Smells Like Nirvana.”

But was Cobain the voice of my generation? Fuck no, I said back then. I was nineteen and cocky. And I was damned if I was going to let anyone — MTV, Ted Koppel, or any pundit trying to eulogize — throw labels around. We were the generation that had grown up during Reagan. We were the generation who knew that there wasn’t the house with the picket fence and the dog and the 2.2 children. There was no American dream. There was only a nation throwing its grandchildren into debt.

Cobain gave credence to our anger. We could crank up his music and feel the shimmering cesspool of suburban impoverishment. We could deny the existence of Motley Crue or any of the hair bands that came before. Because Nirvana was about something. The music was never overtly political, but it was sure as hell visceral.

I was in a garage band back then. And we all got together that Sunday and decided to pay tribute to Nirvana. It seemed the right thing to do. We played the songs and tried to make them sound as shoddy and slapped together as Cobain’s. But it was never the same. I screamed and grumbled into the mike. We all did. But it was never Kurt’s rage.

Nobody seemed to know the secret ingredient. But Nirvana somehow worked. Cobain was the rare voice who infiltrated both mainstream and underground circles. And, like it or not, he was the voice of my generation.

[UPDATE: More memories at The Black Table. (via Maud)]

[UPDATE: More remembrances of the Daleks Cobain from Tom, Graham, Syntax, Ellen, Coolfer, and Infoleafblower.]

Despite repeated inquiries by telephone and email to Senior Vice President Sallie Huntting, I’ve received no answers to any of my questions on recent policy changes.

I’ve learned that a U.S. District Court lawsuit was filed against the Academy of Art University back in September by the U.S. Equal Employment Opportunity Commission on behalf of a courier. The suit alleged that a manager subjected this African-American employee to repeated racial slurs. I haven’t determined whether this lawsuit has had any bearing on current policy changes, which were instituted at the beginning of the current semester.

The policy changes, as reported to Neil Gaiman by Daniel Handler last night and as I learned from both Jan Richman (the instructor who wasn’t rehired) and a source who wishes to remain anonymous, are as follows: Shortly after the student story incident, there was a series of individual meetings between administrative heads and instructors. The school then required all instructors to approve any supplemental instructional materials through administration. Students are no longer permitted to distribute their work to fellow students. The teacher must now see the work and approve it first. Before the current semester, teachers were allowed to use whatever materials they wanted, with stories and artwork passing directly into the classroom without any safeguards.

Alan Kaufman, another Academy of Art instructor, has had writers attending his classes to discuss the matter. As reported in the intiial Chronicle story, one of Kaufman’s students had been asked to leave when she submitted a paper related to suicide threats. I asked Kaufman if I could speak to him at length about this, but because I didn’t belong to a major media outlet and this was “a sensitive issue,” he declined.

I’ve also made efforts to track down the student. The student hasn’t talked to any reporters yet.

I will get my interview with Richman up later this week.