Garth at The Millions has some choice words to say about an “essay” that appeared in Issue 5 of n + 1, attacking litblogs. I’ve read the article in question.
Let me just say that I’m not against third parties taking litblogs to task. In fact, informed criticism is a healthy manner of keeping the conversation alive. What I object to is an uninformed statement that goes after any target without using supporting examples. n + 1, with this essay and the adolescent posturing seen in “The Decivilizing Process” has cemented its status as a worthless publication that is intellectually unfit to stand up against The Believer. I’ll confess that it took me a few years to warm up to The Believer, but, after a shaky start, it seems to be turning a corner, expanding its scope, penetrating more obscure and darker pastures and offering all manner of helpful reference points for the curious within its articles. Sure, The Believer still has a bit of a naive sense of wonder attached, and I’m not sure if its play-nice review coverage is entirely honest. But I’ve read the March 2007 issue of The Believer and greatly enjoyed this quirky article on Roberto Bolaño and Stephen Elliott’s lengthy essay, which is one of the most candid essays I’ve seen in The Believer‘s pages.
n + 1, by contrast, is nothing more than hollow posturing. More noise than signal. It believes that risk can be found through poorly thought out statements of outrage. It dabbles in masturbation, literally and figuratively, in a manner reminiscent of obnoxious liberal arts majors with too much time on their hands. Take this excerpt:
At one point the feminist writer Lonnie Barbach even suggested that men’s propensity to ejaculate before their female partners had achieved orgasm was the result not of selfishness but of an oppressive anti-masturbatory regime that taught boys to come as quickly as possible so as to avoid detection by their parents and schoolmasters.
Now to me, regardless of whether I agree with this or not, Barbach’s is an interesting idea. And a good essayist would address the current masturbation situation, either though specific quotes or interviews, or attempt to examine why Barbach drew this association. But instead of trying to place this Barbach paraphrase into context, or to even consider Barbach’s premise at face value, this assertion is followed up with these sentences: “Now this—this was solidarity. Masturbation had achieved the height of its moral prestige.”
$12 for this nonsense? For generalizations more content to waltz around an idea rather than plunge into it?
Why pay $12 when I can have some starry-eyed undergraduate hand me some pamphlet laced with this kind of doggerel for free?
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (
Okay, Ed. Now you are officially freaking me out. I read the Fresan on Bolano piece last night and posted about it this morning. Have you tapped into my brainwaves? Hopped into me via many mice who travel from SF to LA?
Love it though and I think “quirky” is a wonderful way to describe it.
As for n+1, Heidi Julavits’ face said it all at her recent LA reading. When asked about n+1 vis-a-vis The Believer, her face wrinkled up, her lips curled and she gave the questioner a death stare…if ever so briefly. She then regained compusure and went on to say something about it being good that The Believer has opened the door for other publications to offer their version of critical work…and so on. It was VERY clear the Julavits didn’t find n+1 to be on par with The Believer.