Dan Green takes umbrage with Wendy Lesser’s establishing principles behind The Lesser Blog. I’m a big fan of The Threepenny Review (and Lesser was once interviewed for The Bat Segundo Show; ironically, paired up with a certain poet-litblogger), but I actually agree with Dan that there are already plenty of “self-contained essays” to be found within the litblogging community. Of course, if Lesser really does desire to organize her blog, she can start by offering an RSS feed for those of us who hope to keep up with her thoughts. Lesser may claim to offer content which resembles “a printed article more than most blog entries do,” but I presume she refers to the completely disorganized navigation currently found at the Lesser Blog rather than any elitist qualifier. At least I hope that is the intent.
Nevertheless, Lesser’s stance continues the troubling hard line spouted off by John Updike and those dashing critics who seem to prefer gasconade over civil discourse. The continuing assumption that print is somehow superior to online writing simply because trees are massacred is as disingenuous a claim as Intelligent Design or proving the existence of the Tooth Fairy. Perhaps if these print-to-online greenhorns actually presented convincing arguments rather than generalized castigations sans examples, proponents of both mediums might find ways to learn and benefit from each other. Which seems to me a more constructive use of the Internet.
[6/21/06 UPDATE: Interestingly, Lesser has amended her post and removed the offending remarks from her blog. While it's good to know that Lesser is reading the blogs and responding accordingly, one would hope, however, that Lesser (or another critic) could simply offer an explanation of where she's coming from instead of a wholesale deletion. Perhaps one print critic being honest about the way she feels might lead to both sides understanding why there's this continuing divide, driven by a fey animosity, between print and online mediums. As I suggested in my initial post, I believe that both sides have a lot to learn from each other. And wouldn't the willful antagonism of the Sam Tanenhauses and the John Freemans of our world be better expressed with open communication and respectful conversation? (Thanks for the tip, Scott.)]
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. (
I’ve made a posting on the Elegant Variation site to explain the deletion. As for the odd structure of my blog in the first place: well, I guess I didn’t think there was a great need for yet another place where everyone could vent their opinions in front of everyone. I kind of hoped for a more intimate level of response, in the form of email and such, whereby criticism and discussion and agreement and disagreement could be carried out in a private context and not under the eye of the ever-reacting public. But then, perhaps I was wrong to call it a blog at all. Still, it seems to me that the definition is not yet frozen in stone (as another communicant in this controversy put it), and therefore my weird version of a blog should count as one too. But what do I know?
–Wendy