The Map Room unearths this interactive map to Narnia.

Maud Newton attacks today’s Rebecca Traister article. And I think that in this case, Maud, who is normally a very thoughtful lady, has made a colossal misstep.

Again, I fail to understand the knee-jerk reactions here. The fashionable thing to do these days is to attack chick lit without actually reading the books and without citing multiple examples as to how chick lit utterly fails to represent women. Further, there is the troubling implications behind the claim that chick lit “treats women like they’re stupid” (as yet unanswered by Jessa Crispin or Emma Garman in yesterday’s thread). And I’m sorry, but snarky generalizations about plotting, which hinge entirely on “significant prototypes” instead of considering, as I suggested yesterday, a book that offers a type of realistic sex scene, an issue that is practically invisible in current literature, do not count. Nor do statements (i.e., Comment No. 7 in yesterday’s thread cited as defense) that suggest that books with happy endings or formulaic plots are somehow damaging or regressive to women. First off, unless I am severely mistaken, there is no demonstratable evidence which suggests that women who take their husbands’ surnames are in any way less empowered than those who don’t. (Even Manifesta author Amy Richards, while expressing dismay about the possessive nature of “Mrs.,” confessed in a column that the option of taking a husband’s name is entirely up to the individual.) Second off, even if we dismiss chick lit as fantasy-based, how is a fantasy of a woman snagging a man in any way harmful to women? It seems to me that the fury directed towards Weiner and other chick lit authors should be directed instead to the advertisers who perpetuate images of emaciated women that are far more false than the novels in question. If the message of a Weiner novel is that a zaftig lady can snag a man or maintain a professional career or be a mother (just as entitled as the skinny waif archetype egregiously held up as our feminine paragon), then how is this in any way regressive?

First off, let’s dispense with all of the inferences that have been drawn from Weiner’s initial quote:

I don’t particularly like being angry about stuff. I’d rather hang out with my daughter and write my little books. But I could not stay silent. It bothers me as a feminist that these are other women throwing stones; we’re all women and we’re all writers. And there is a literary divide that bodes poorly for you if you have the misfortune to be popular.

Nowhere in this statement does Weiner imply that anyone is a “bad feminist” (as both Jessa and Maud suggest). She is clearly suggesting that women might want to be more supportive of literature, whether popular or literary, that convey positive portrayals of women of all types. (In fact, interestingly enough, the divisiveness here is not unlike the fractiousness of the Left.) In other words, this is not a case of “good vs. bad feminist,” but “popular vs. literary.” If Weiner’s critics don’t care for her as a popular writer, then that’s fine. I myself don’t care for a lot of so-called chick lit that I have read, but I do enjoy Weiner’s novels, in spite of their predictable plots, because of their observations, which are topics I quite frankly don’t find within the realm of litearture. It’s the 21st century. Really, we should be a lot further along.

Granted, I will acknowledge that there’s some self-interest involved in Weiner’s statement. But given all the threads that have erupted over this issue, I think her concerns have been proven correct.

To cavalierly dismiss chick lit without reading it or analyzing the issue in depth (as, interestingly enough, Maud, Jessa and Emma have all failed to do here), to evade the issue so thoroughly without quoting a specific passage or citing several examples to prove a point, is to offer a defective argument.

Agree or disagree with the Traister article (or, as Maud has done, evade the issue altogether by dwelling not on the argument presented in Traister’s article but on Traister’s past fallacies as a thinker), but Traister has, at least, presented some solid examples here. Nor did Traister, as Maud has suggested, put Jennifer Weiner on the same level as Edith Wharton. She merely suggested that the attacks on chick lit were similar in temperament to those which affected Wharton. It strikes me as infinitely regressive to ignore such similarities, much less to participate in the kind of dismissive banter that seems to pass these days for serious thought.

[UPDATE: Book of the Day weighs in and suggests that “the impulse to criticize ‘women’s fiction’ is at its heart a criticism of women.”]

CBS News: From 1982 until 1985, he served as director of special projects in the Bureau of East Asian and Pacific Affairs. It was perhaps this post that inspired him to write “The Apprentice,” his 1996 thriller that takes place in 1903 Japan.

BREAKING NEWS ITEM: Libby, inspired by the turn of events while serving as Dick Cheney’s Chief of Staff, has decided to return to novel-writing. Return of the Reluctant has obtained an early excerpt of Mr. Libby’s next novel, tentatively titled The Yesman.

Synopsis: It is the winter of 2005 and an anal retentive yesman, not above lying and obstructing justice, finds himself plunged headlong into the world of unemployment and possible prison time in this gritty new thriller from Lewis Libby.

EXCERPT:

I stood in the dole line, lusting after my ex-boss’s cherubic head. It was all I had left. The vicious scowls he gave reporters had always excited me. But I knew that my ex-boss had a lot more going on than a bum ticker. That’s why I took the bullet. That’s why I was breathing in asbestos from the cracked tiles below. It was the kind of devotion that most people don’t understand. Because corruption’s a bit like an afternoon cookie: warm, comforting yet somehow sinful if you have more than one. Me? I wanted the whole jar. Can you crucify a man for having a large appetite?

The least my boss could have done is let me kiss him: the way that LBJ was always fond of kissing Sam Rayburn’s head. And now I was here, waiting for a measly unemployment check, surrounded by smelly people who were scaring the hell out of me. My ex-boss wouldn’t write me a letter of recommendation. But then he had always rebuffed my advances. That’s why I crossed the line in the end. Now I was standing in one.

This was one of many reasons why I had started using crutches. Perhaps people would feel sorry for me. I was a victim, after all. Perhaps they’d understand that, despite my despicability, I was a wounded man. In need of a cookie. Or maybe a hug.

You work in this town long enough and you find that everyone needs a cookie in the end. And not just a harmless oatmeal one, but maybe a chocolate fudge-striped cookie loaded with additives that isn’t all that good for you.

Well, as my ex-boss always told me, sometimes you have to live a little. Sometimes you have to cross the line.

Sometimes you have to eat a lot of cookies.

George Takei comes out.

The I/O Brush.

The Telegraph has a review of Anthony Biswell’s long-awaited biography of Anthony Burgess (now available from Picador). But it looks as if the Telegraph has their crosshairs locked on Burgess’ twelve year old corpse when comparing Biswell’s previous biography (The Real Life of Anthony Burgess) with Roger Lewis’ 2002 biography. Among the charges: Burgess was a liar, “provisional and opportunistic,” a “highly developed” potency complex, Burgess’ second son not of Anthony’s loin, and the charge that Burgess thought he was Don Quixote. But if it’s the words that count, then Burgess is paid the highest compliment: “He was a terrific journalist. Couldn’t write a dreary column to save his life.”

(For another perspective on the Biswell bio, the Anthony Burgess site has sunk teeth into the bio, which notes that Burgess somehow found the time to write eight hours a day (all seven days) without a break and, by Burgess’ admission (true or false?), he was often in the pub by lunchtime.)

Folks who read this blog last year know that I shamelessly participated in National Drunken Writing Night (aka “NaDruWriNi”), along with Gwenda Bond. The results here weren’t very lucid, and I became obsessed with bolding words. (In fact, Gwenda was far more compelling than I was.) But it was certainly the mark of bloggers who had had too much to drink. (In my case, I had recently broken up with a girlfriend and the results were, as the old song goes, sad and lonely. Read them if you dare.)

Well, this year, the hardest work man in blog business ain’t steering this baby, but Brittanie is. And on Saturday, November 5, 2005, I plan to write a good deal more incoherence while drinking. Tune into these pages that evening for more. I should note that my inhibitions lower rather quickly.

Funny stuff, which could easily be transposed to the freelance writing world.

• Who was Henrik Ibsen? (via Book Ninja)
• At the Frankfurt Book Fair, Korean publishing has been a dominant presence.
• Are zines still viable?
• Another year, another theory about who might have been the “real Shakespeare.” This year, Shakespeare may have been Sir Henry Neville.
• A profile of E.L. Doctorow.
• Every year, the kids get younger.
• Apparently, the young ‘uns aren’t fans of Ba Jin.
• And this doesn’t relate to literature at all, but holy shit! Rush-R30! A two-disc DVD set of Rush’s career! Aw yeah, mofos!

M.J. Rose may have received a strange letter with two unwanted galleys, but I believe that I can top her. For I received an equally baffling letter accompanying a package of books last week. The letter in question made me so uncomfortable that I took three cold showers in a row, turned into a serial caller for four hours, talking with sympathetic friends and using up what few favors remained, and basted my brain in a bit of Gaddis shortly after eating a jar of Gerber’s Apple Sauce for lunch that I had obtained from a thirtysomething mother who saw my sad face as I was walking in the park and promptly gave me the sustenance out of the kindness of her own heart and ran away when a ruffian tried to mug her (who then promptly mugged me instead, although he wasn’t interested in the apple sauce).

Anyway, I hope that I won’t have to experience a day like that again. But for informative purposes, I have reproduced the letter below:

Dear Friend of a Friend of a Litblogger:

I want to have your children. I want to tie you up and make you my slave. Your new name will be “Piñata” and you shall stare at my menacing wooden stick. And I’m sure that after you’ve read the six 2,000 word novels that I’ve enclosed, you’ll understand why we were meant to be together, reproduce, and move to a small shack, sans DSL connection or running water, in the Kansas prairies.

Do not think for a minute that I am not aware of your situation with regard to the opposite sex. I’ve paid a lot of money to a private investigative agency to install video cameras in your apartment, violating your privacy in every way possible. I’ve tracked the number of times you’ve masturbated in the past month. (Please see the attached bar graph if you have somehow lost count. Each “incident” is meticulously logged by time and duration.)

The good news, Mt. Champion (can I climb you?), is that I can give you lots of sex and I can give you lots of books. If you don’t believe me, please consult the attached 400-page analytical essay for the accompanying tomes. It will demonstrate my impeccable taste. I had tried to submit this as a Ph.D. dissertation, but, alas, I didn’t realize that one had to be enrolled in school to earn the appropriate degree.

In any event, I hope that all this will lead to a fruitful relationship which you can then, in turn, publicize on your blog site thingy. If you like, I will install the third nipple before I meet you in person.

Very truly yours,

Juanita M. Underside, FELLATIO PRESS

• Soft Skull now has a blog, demonstrating to the world that Dan Wickett may have some competition from Richard Nash in the We Never Sleep Department.
• If there was any doubt that Lev Grossman was a chickenhead, his status as Chickenhead of the Decade may be confirmed. Judy Blume? Jonathan Franzen? Tolkein [sic]? C.S. Lewis? All authors in their own right, but hardly the names one would expect to see on any serious list concerned with singling out literature. Then again, given Time‘s roots as a magazine devoted to lackluster summaries of news and culture for mass consumption, the list makes sense. Bawk bawk indeed.
• A seven year old has won a book contract. This kid better have life experience or we’ll have someone steal his lunch money.
• Chinese author Ba Jin has died. He was 100.
• Creative Artists Agency has pledged that it will go after “100 percent market share.” A CAA spokesman also contended that it had settled on an operations method predicated on “100 percent hubris.”
• Chekhov: Not a prude and possibly a womanizer.
• Is a major production of Dickens’ Bleak House the reason for the BBC license fee increase?
• Boston Globe on Sara Faith Alterman: “Getting ”15 Minutes’ published was surprisingly simple. She sent her text to multiple literary agents. One quickly picked her up, and ”My 15 Minutes’ was sold to Avon Trade, a division of Harper Collins.” Simple maybe if you’re a flouncy 25 year old whose author photo will sell the book alone. But try telling that “surprisingly simple” story to some talented yet eczema-ridden 55 year old novelist with bad teeth.
• A spirited defense of Pinter’s politics.
• “Phil, I don’t know what to write about this week.” “Well, Bob, what author do you like?” “Philip Roth’s really doing it for me right now.” “Well, then why not take a road trip and write about it. No penetrating insights. Just rambling text.” “You mean it? I mean, you’ll actually buy a column from me without a point?” “Bob, you wouldn’t be on staff if you weren’t pointless. Now let’s go knock back some shots. Drinks are on me.”
• Vikram Seth hates being late.
• Apparently, Jonathan Safran Foer bridges the gap between the hipsters and the philanthropists. There must be some mistake.

[UPDATE: Litkicks has some interesting memories of Lev Grossman: “He was a nice guy, undoubtedly smart, literary and perceptive….But I also found Lev Grossman bland in conversation, and decidedly uncontroversial….Nothing about Lev Grossman shouted out ‘I will be Time’s book critic in five years’.”]

For those who recently took me to task for attacking Somerville, MA, it appears that I was indeed wrong. Massachusetts is the smartest state in the union. My own state, California, is 43rd on the list. In other words, we’re the seventh dumbest state in the union. Dumber than Oklahoma, Texas, and Tennessee. Far dumber than Ohio and South Carolina.

Of course, we also have a hell of a lot more people (33,871,648 of them in fact). So we you consider the law of means, it’s quite likely that, numerically speaking, we may have a larger cadre of smartypants to draw from. And we still have the world’s fifth largest economy and very nice weather. And where would you be without all the vapid movies coming from Hollywood? Resorting to low-budget Canadian films, no doubt. And as dumb as we are, we didn’t vote for Bush in the last two presidential elections.

If there’s any bright side to this, pun fully intended, this should put an end to the whole red-states-they-dumb, blue-states-we’re-enlightened argument. Intelligence, it seems, is entirely relative. Now pardon me while I try to white-out this grammatical mistake on my monitor.

Immaculate gaiters, svelte form prepped for genteel debauchery
Throat cleared, quorum present to reproach murderers
Renowned and redoubtable, he dug into his deepest pockets
To empathize with these wild-eyed machine haters
Interferring with the steady flow of industry
Monied but knowing the worth of a dime
And the starving mouths motivating the massacres

Lone but unfazed, he trivialized the phase
That the expensive parts mulching up and down could not suspend
Gordon pled that perhaps they were going a tad too far
The life of a man not worth the life of a machine
Would they exact vengeance upon these irreplaceable specimens
These ad hoc homicidal men destroyed by progress?

Torrents of commiseration rippled through the great hall
But his listeners were the captains of the ship
And these men o’ war could not accept
Masting down the price of doing business
Where Gordon stayed a sobriquet for unfettered beauty
These others sailed upon avaricious waters

While Gordon stirred the few observers
The mongers relented their time to ferment
It went down, deadly and predictable
Leaving Gordon to weep quietly
For the lives lost in the name of melodramatic justice

Unto a dive I go; I crawl, I creep
   Her lustre shining brighter in the eve
Visage provoked a feeling in the deep
  And if I press the throw, she may bereave
The diff’rence here is one provoked by terms
  But abstract words pollute my gushing soul
Releasing dormant care perceived as germs
  A breakfast poured before a shaky bowl
And should she touch I know I don’t know why
  The quaver seen, disguising proper place
The bootstrapped battles turning out a sigh
  Reveal commiserating face, sere pace
Middling shadows flocking for the light
I hope two hands departing in the night

Source A: John Simon, “Ignoble Nobel: Let Us Pause.

Source B: Dale Peck, “The Moody Blues.”

CRITICAL FUSION:

Harold Pinter is the worst Nobel Prize winner of his generation.

As I made my way through Pinter’s incomprehensible labyrinths, all of them laden with pregnant pauses which kept me perplexed, wondering all the while why the Nobel Committee had not given me the prize, I contemplated my own considerable grace in how to broach this seminal problem in a Radar Magazine essay — which is to say, without humility or nuance.

“Do you have the pepperpot?” “Yes, I have the pepperpot.” This is the stuff of meaningful dialogue? I think not.

Yet another false start: What are we to say to such widespread acceptance of a playwright who specializes in the banal? Are we to cut off the forefingers of every fawning Pinterite to prove a point? Sad to say, this may be the only solution. If we are placed in the position of identifying those who are poorly educated, the dupes and charlatans, by counting nine fingers on their two hands, then it will become that much easier to avoid callow banter at a cocktail party.

For the enlightened members in our society are those who refuse to give Harold Pinter credence. They are the ones who will be invaluable during the upcoming eugenics war, when we wipe the anti-Pinterites from the face of the earth, allowing them to language through slow torture. Who needs the Geneva Convention when so many people are willing to love Harold Pinter? When indeed those pesky Swedes, who have invaded our homeland with their precious IKEAs, give this diabolical menace their highest award?

As to the question of who shall lead this cadre of torturers, I shall be only too happy to put my name at the forefront. I shall lead by example, storming into Greenwich Village apartments (in particularly, those easily amused theatrical types) and start hacking off fingers with a machete after administering a government-devised TTE (Theatrical/Torture Exam).

The salient problem here is that Pinter is no longer writing plays. He insists upon tossing off hastily composed poems as he is dying of cancer. Here is one such poem titled “Malignant”:

Smoked too many fags
Now the scrotum sags

Sags

I ask: is this even poetry? I have passed notes in class that have been more significant. And let’s be perfectly clear about the issue: never once has my scrotum sagged. And how does this even pertain to cancer?

If the Nobel people must encourage such doggerel, then the time has come to cut off their forefingers, ideally throwing them into a burlap sack and hanging this collection of fingers from the highest pike. This will set an example for those proud Pinterites who believe they sit safely behind their Playbills. I call upon our Attorney General to begin counting Pinterites, for they are the greatest threat to our country’s democratic fabric.

PINTER — GENERAL:

• Harold Pinter: the official site.
• Harold Pinter timeline.
• Contemporary Writers: lengthy critical perspective on Pinter.
• The Harold Pinter Society: publisher of The Pinter Review.
• BBC Four: Harold Pinter page (includes Pinter quiz).
• Internet Broadway Database: Pinter credits.
• Internet Movie Database: Pinter credits.
• The Harold Pinter Collection: University of Texas at Austin.

PINTER — EXCERPTS:

• “Girls”: “‘Girls like to be spanked.’ But do they?” (Granta)
• Pinter on Samuel Beckett: “His work is beautiful.”
• Excerpt from The Dumb Waiter.
• Excerpt from Old Times.

PINTER PERSPECTIVES:

• Review of “Betrayal.”
• Review of “The Caretaker.”
• Curtain Up: an overview of Pinter’s career.
• Ian Mackean: “Winners and losers in the plays of Harold Pinter.”

PINTER — INTERVIEWS:

• The Paris Review: Fall 1966.
• The Independent: Pinter on creating a radio play for his 75th birthday and fighting cancer.
• The New Statesman: November 8, 1999.
• The Guardian: August 3, 2001 (mostly political).
• BBC: Harold Pinter vs. Arnold Wesker.

PINTER — POLITICS:

• “The War Against Reason” — Pinter arguing against the war in Iraq (Red Pepper, December 2002).
• “Carribean Cold War”< ?a> — a Pinter pro-Cuba piece (Red Pepper, May 1996).
• “The American administration is a bloodthirsty wild animal.” (The Daily Telegraph, November 12, 2002).
• Pinter on NATO (BBC, June 1, 1999).

Taking a cue from The Mumpsimus:

THE OFFICER: Now hear this. You are mountain people. You hear me? Your language is dead. It is forbidden. It is not permitted to speak your mountain language in this place. You cannot speak your language to your men. It is not permitted. Do you understand? You may not speak it. It is outlawed. You may only speak the language of the capital. This is the only language permitted in this place. You will be badly punished if you attempt to speak your mountain language in this place. This is a military decree. It is the law. Your language is forbidden. It is dead. No one is allowed to speak your language. Your language no longer exists. Any questions?

YOUNG WOMAN: I do not speak the mountain language.

Silence. The OFFICER and SERGEANT slowly circle her. The SERGEANT puts his hand on her bottom.

SERGEANT: What language do you speak? What language do you speak with your arse?

OFFICER: These women, Sergeant, have as yet committed no crime. Remember that.

SERGEANT: Sir! But you’re not saying they’re without sin?

OFFICER: Oh, no. Oh, no, I’m not saying that.

SERGEANT: This one’s full of it. She bounces with it.

OFFICER: She doesn’t speak the mountain language.

The WOMAN moves away from SERGEANT‘s hand and turns to face the two men.

YOUNG WOMAN: My name is Sara Johnson. I have come to see my husband. It is my right. Where is he?

OFFICER: Show me your papers.

She gives him a piece of paper. He examines it, turns to SERGEANT.

He doesn’t come from the mountains. He’s in the wrong batch.

SERGEANT: So is she. She looks like a fucking intellectual to me.

OFFICER: But you said her arse wobbled.

SERGEANT: Intellectual arses wobble the best.

From Harold Pinter’s Mountain Language.

Ask yourself the following question: Would you trust a guy going out of his way to look like Erich von Stroheim on the Nobel Literature committee?

PICTURED LEFT: Henry James, author of The American Scene
PICTURED RIGHT: Winston Churchill, author of A History of the English-Speaking Peoples

PICTURED LEFT: Doris Lessing, author of The Golden Notebook
PICTURED RIGHT: Unidentified woman in Dorothea Lange’s “Migrant Mother.”

PICTURED LEFT: Neal Pollack, former satirist and one-time front man of band.
PICTURED RIGHT: Jack Black, former satirist and one-time front man of band.

PICTURED LEFT: William T. Vollmann, with pistol.
PICTURED RIGHT: Francis Ford Coppola, with pistol.

Not here, mind you, but over at Tito’s.

PICTURED LEFT: Michael Chabon, author of The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay.
PICTURED RIGHT: James Callis, “Dr. Gaius Baltar” from Battlestar Galactica

[NOTE: Both tormented by significant other. Coincidence?]

PICTURED LEFT: Jerzy Kosinski, author of The Painted Bird.
PICTURED RIGHT: Richard Kline, “Larry” from Three’s Company.

(Inspired by Languor Management.)

• Voodoo Lounge author Christian Bauman has apparently promised to reveal some of his personal foibles or, minimally, to blog naked during his guest appearance today at the Elegant Variation. We understand that the man is hot. Smoking hot. So hot that he’ll be serving as a surrogate pair of mittens in December or devoting said thermal energy to more fantastic offerings. In any event, Joe Bob says check him out.
• Frances Dinkelspiel offers a report on the film version of The Prize Winner of Defiance, Ohio. Don’t let the Ohio reference fool you. This does involve a San Francisco local.
• Recently, various personages gathered to pay tribute to Saul Bellow. Jeffrey Eugenides introduced himself as “the guy who never knew Saul Bellow.” The caterer then stepped forward and introduced himself as “the guy who didn’t even know who Saul Bellow was.” He then proceeded to inform Mr. Eugenides that the tapas and canapés were “to die for” and was swiftly removed from the premises shortly after another wave of sobbing emerged from the assembled crowd.
• Edna O’Brien is returning to Bay Area theatre with Family Butchers. It’s a Magic Theatre production. A script excerpt and other goodies can be found here.
• Chris Elliott, novelist?
• A new study suggests that classical English literature is essential to the teaching of English. In other groundbreaking news, it is believed that the theory of relativity might just help you sort out electromagnetic waves. And maybe, just maybe, 3.141592675 might have something to do with circles.
• Some scientists claim to have found Homer’s Ithaca.
• The Sydney Morning Herald talks with Curtis Sittenfeld. Unfortunately, despite being of an age where she should have developed some speaking chops (Sittenfeld is 30), Sittenfeld, like, uses the word “like” in just about every answer to the intrepid Australian journalist. Like wow!
• Does a bear shit in the words? Not always. But in Canada, polar bears go batshit crazy.
• And if you’re aroused by birds, there’s a reason.