by Edward Champion

Dave Sim: The Stalin of Comics

In case you haven’t heard the news, the once great Dave Sim has demanded that anyone who corresponds with him must pledge that Sim isn’t a misogynist. The whole business has erupted into a sad and terrible train wreck in which Sim has nearly alienated his friend Chester Brown and spurned long-time fans. And it’s all because Sim doesn’t appear to be acquainted with Article 19 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights:

Everyone has the right to freedom of opinion and expression; this right includes freedom to hold opinions without interference and to seek, receive and impart information and ideas through any media and regardless of frontiers.

Calling Sim a misogynist is not libelous. It is the truth. A misogynist is someone who hates women. And the man who wrote, “It wouldn’t be that big of a stretch to categorize my writing as Hate Literature against women,” in Issue #186 of Cerberus, speaking in his own voice, is most certainly a misogynist. For years and years, Sim has been spewing out this bile. And rather than take his lumps and be the man he thinks he is, he instead wants to set terms and alienate everyone in the process. These are not the actions of a civilized person.

For years, I’ve tried to overlook Sim’s hateful ramblings for the great wonders contained within the early books of Cerberus. But if Sim is going to set terms for us, I’m going to set a few terms for him. Until Sim can confess that he is the working definition of a misogynist, I will never buy another comic written or illustrated by Dave Sim or acknowledge Dave Sim in any way ever again. The great talent Dave Sim has been replaced by an atavistic creature who now calls himself “Dave Sim,” who believes himself to be some small-time Stalin and perpetuates this sad despotism as long as his delusional hubris will let him. He has now fully disappeared from my cultural radar. And it’s too damn bad. Because when he was still sane, he was an innovator.

by Edward Champion

Solving the Literary Critical Crisis

Nigel Beale points to some startlingly reactionary remarks from Salon’s “Internet Killed the Critical Star” article. Now that I’ve read this “discussion” a second time, Nigel is right. Why would anyone go to the trouble of reading a literary critic if there is “no intention of ever opening books they tout?” Is Miller really so recalcitrant a reader that she’s incapable of picking up a book that James Wood has liked and deciding for herself whether it’s any good? Is she seriously suggesting that there isn’t a single work of fiction overlapping her tastes and Wood’s tastes? This strikes me as a sad, incurious, and mononuclear existence. Perhaps Miller prefers a supplemental relationship with literature, as opposed to something that involves the book itself!

Here is my solution to the literary critical “crisis”: To ensure that those practicing literary criticism still maintain some passion for books, I think that all literary critics should be asked what they read for fun. Not a list of the greatest books. Just the last thing they read for fun. If the literary critic cannot name a single book that made them laugh, filled them with joy, or otherwise caused them to get excited over the last year, then the guilty literary critic should be banned from writing for any newspaper or periodical for a six-month period until they can truly embrace a love for literature. This should weed out the dullards and the dimwits and the humorless individuals who transform the promising pastures of literary criticism into soporific fallow.

by Edward Champion

Roundup

  • First, R. McCrum was against blogs. And now he’s for them. Or was he for them before he was against them? Or was he against them before being for them before being hopelessly confused? There seems to be a common trait among those who rail against litblogs without providing sufficient examples: schizophrenia. (via Jeff)
  • It seems I’m not the only person having strange moving-related conversations. Last night, I spent fifteen minutes talking with a stray dust jacket. It did not respond back. This is most certainly a sign that I am ready to occupy the new premises.
  • Does James Bond prefer Bentleys or Aston Martins? And why are so many auto executives getting their panties in a bunch over this? We all know that Bond is promiscuous with the ladies. Why not the cars too? Hell, I’d like to read a James Bond story in which he must penetrate a muffler in order to protect national security.
  • If you thought your place was a mess, you haven’t seen Josh Freed’s apartment. Freed has made a documentary about his right to clutter, defying what he calls “the tyranny of the tidy.” Fred doesn’t appear to have heard of Langley Collyer, who experienced a more naturalistic tyranny when he was crushed by his own detritus and rats were masticating upon his body when it was discovered. (via Bibliophile Bullpen)
  • Incontrovertible evidence that book covers can be compared to a ZZ Top song. (via Booklist)
  • So Borders is now jumping back into online retailing with a vengeance. I’m sure the B&N buyout offers had nothing to do with this.
  • Hanif Kureishi has described university creative writing courses as “the new mental hospitals.” Furthermore, Kureishi doesn’t seem to understand that most American campus massacres have involved a pistol or a rifle, not a machine gun. If you’re going to be a writer, shouldn’t you at least get the details right? Unless, of course, Kureishi is listening to his dog right now and planning upon sending a letter to Jimmy Breslin. In which case, we should probably be worried. (via Bookninja)
  • In space, nobody can hear you scream. In fact, you don’t really need to. Because your jaw will be left drooping down by these amazing photos.
  • Murakami interviewed: here and here. (via Orthofer)
  • Terry Eagleton on anonymity.