Nabokov: Not a D.H. Lawrence Fan

The Paris Review DNA Archive has been a bit slow in getting their 1970s interviews up (James M. Cain! Anthony Burgess! William Gass! Kurt Vonnegut! Eudora Welty! And more! Hurry up! It’s past March 1, dammit!). But this interview with Nabokov is a hoot. Some choice excerpts:

INTERVIEWER: And the function of the editor? Has one ever had literary advice to offer?

NABOKOV: By “editor” I suppose you mean proofreader. Among those I have known limpid creatures of limitless tact and tenderness who would discuss with me a semicolon as if it were a point of honor — which, indeed, a point of art often is. But I have come across a few pompous avuncular brutes who would attempt to “make suggestions” which I countered with a thunderous “stet!”

INTERVIEWER: Are there contemporary writers you follow with great pleasure?

NABOKOV: There are several such writers, but I shall not name them. Anonymous pleasure hurts nobody.

INTERVIEWER: Do you follow some with great pain?

NABOKOV: No. Many accepted authors simply do not exist for me. Their names are engraved on empty graves, their books are for dummies, they are complete nonentities insofar as my taste in reading is concerned. Brecht, Faulkner, Camus, many others, mean absolutely nothing to me, and I must fight a suspicion of conspiracy against my brain when I see blandly accepted as “great literature” by critics and fellow authors Lady Chatterly’s copulations or the pretentious nonsense of Mr. Pound, that total fake. I note he has replaced Dr. Schweitzer in some homes.

Tanenhaus Watch: March 6, 2005

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WEEKLY QUESTION: Will this week’s NYTBR reflect today’s literary and publishing climate? Or will editor Sam Tanenhaus demonstrate yet again that the NYTBR is irrelevant to today’s needs? If the former, a tasty brownie will be sent to Mr. Tanenhaus’ office. If the latter, the brownie will be denied.

THE COLUMN-INCH TEST:

Fiction & Poetry Reviews: 2 one-pages (Despite its sneaky layout on the cover and two pages, let’s face the facts: Chip McGrath’s John Ashbery profile, with its liberal quoting and padding, can just about squeeze onto one page), 1 one-page roundup, 2 half-page reviews. (Total books: 8. Total space: 4 pages.)

Non-Fiction Reviews: 3 half-page, 3 full-page. (Total books including Ashbery Selected Prose: 9. Total space: 4.5 pages.)

We suspect that Sam Tanenhaus deliberately tried to make our job difficult this week by listing Chip McGrath’s John Ashbery profile twice in the table of contents: under fiction and nonfiction. Unfortunately, Tanenhaus’s editorial shenanigans haven’t stopped us from applying our column-inch test. To resolve this dilemma (and to give Sam some additional leverage; we do want to send him a brownie one day), we’ve categorized the profile as a “fiction review” while tallying the Collected Prose book under our non-fiction book total.

This week, Tanenhaus has done better. But of the 9.5 pages devoted to reviews this week, only 44.4% are devoted to fiction and poetry. This is close to the 48% required. Admittedly, the John Ashbery profile does complicate matters. But when you factor in the sizable real estate given to blowhard Franklin Foer (which belongs in the Week in Review section, not the NYTBR), the ambiguity over the Ashbery profile dissipates and Tanenhaus’ continued disrespect for solid literature coverage becomes clear.

Too bad, Sam. You could have earned your brownie point had even one of those pages gone to fiction.

Brownie Point: DENIED!

THE HARD-ON TEST:

This test concerns the ratio of male to female writers writing for the NYTBR.

Unlike last week’s chicks reviewing fiction/dudes reviewing nonfiction problem, we’re delighted to report that Tanenhaus has allocated things quite nicely this week. Disregarding the Ashbery profile, men and women cover fiction down the middle. And discounting the Ashbery profile, A.O. Scott is the only dude covering nonfiction this week. The rest are women writers. Too bad that Tanenhaus can’t relinquish more features to the ladies. But we’re still extremely pleased to see women given a shot (including the divine Miss Packer!).

Brownie Point: EARNED!

THE QUIRKY PAIR-UP TEST:

While we’re pleased to see ZZ Packer in print just about anywhere, we have to wonder if she was picked to review Charles Johnson’s latest book because she’s African-American. Since Ms. Packer has proven to be a solid thinker on several topics and since her valuable input on all things literary is a veritable boon for the Times, why not have her weigh in on, say, Ian McEwan’s Saturday? Conversely, why not have Suzy Hansen review Johnson? This is the kind of pair-up that makes us wonder if Sam’s been revisiting Jack Hill’s oeuvre on DVD. This sort of white liberal guilt went out with the pet rock. Just hire a writer because she can write.

Beyond this, there’s really not a whole lot to say, except..

Brownie Point: DENIED!

CONTENT CONCERNS:

Bullshit sentence of the week (from Pamela Paul’s The Sociopath Next Door review): “But just as most of us aren’t having backyard barbecues with the trust-fund set, neither are we living down the street from dangerously ill people whose ruthless behavior constitutes a covert public menace.” Clearly, Ms. Paul has never heard of the Megan’s Law database. Instead of encouraging these broad generalizations, a smart editor would have had Paul take the piss out of the book while recognizing that Americans can live with sociopaths in their neighborhood, perhaps tying this in with The Wisdom of Crowds or Jane Jacobs’ theories on urban watchers, without resorting to alarmist thinking.

If you’re a senior editor of the New Republic, isn’t it a bit self-serving to quote your employer in the second paragraph?

Even if it’s misplaced and tertiary to books (all we have really is a Recommended Reading sidebar), I do applaud the roundtable discussion, not because of its discussions of liberalism, but because it presents a more thoughtful take on current politics than Foer’s essay.

Nary a followup on the “Marilyn as Metaphor” to be found in A.O. Scott’s review, save the silly notion that it takes a book to remind us that “Monroe was a complicated human being.” Wow. Thanks for that glaring insight, Scott.

And Benjamin Markovits’ hypothesis on how British novelists are terrified of American novelists falls apart. He fails to mention that David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas. Besides transforming into last year’s literary sensation, Cloud Atlas was a finalist for this year’s National Book Critics Award. I’d say that’s progress for Brit lit.

CONCLUSIONS:

Brownie Points Earned: 1
Brownie Points Denied: 2

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How Barbara Bel Geddes Revealed the Sad State of Online Cultural Posterity

There are really only three reasons to see 1947’s The Long Night: Henry Fonda, Vincent Price and Barbara Bel Geddes. Bel Geddes is, strictly speaking, what made me stick around for what is undeniably one of the most ludicrous films noir ever made.

Lengthy aside: Fonda, holed up as a lodger, refuses to come out of his room. So what do the local police do? Call up the entire police force and shoot the hell out out of the place. Hundreds of bullets tear through the walls. And it is at this moment that the police decide that tear gas might be an option. To understate the obvious, it’s pretty clear that writer John Wexley — writer of Angels with Dirty Faces! — and director Anatole Litvak (the Nick Castle of his day; not exactly the brightest bulb helming in the 1940s; see also Sorry, Wrong Number, which turns the sumptuous Stanwyck into a one-dimensional puppet, as prima facie — riding on the coattails of Frank Capra as a directorial clone after co-directing Why We Fight) have no understanding of police procedure. Fonda, of course, stays alive, with enough vigor to spend the entire movie flashbacking to what got him into this ignoble spot.

But let’s go back to Bel Geddes. The woman is stunningly beautiful. Her acting is nuanced. On the basis of one movie alone, I am what you might call a fan, in the same way that I’m a fan of Liz Scott and Paulette Godard. Which is to say in a slightly unhealthy and decidedly masculine way.

One would hope that this (ahem) passion might be rewarded through the informational conduits of the Internet. If Google is a purported deity, we should be able to find all sorts of information about her, right? Nope. Because Bel Geddes is barely a blip on the cultural radar, here’s where the Internet’s powers are sorely lacking.

The Internet Movie Database, for example, suggests that Bel Geddes’ “career was damaged during the 1950s by McCarthyism” (as does Wikipedia). Okay, she’s had some sort of interesting political existence. But is there anything to corroborate this claim? Nope. Not even my dogeared copy of Victor Navasky’s Naming Names references her.

An interview with Larry Hagman reveals that Bel Geddes was one of the reasons he appeared on Dallas — largely because Bel Geddes was the first lady to say “pregnant” on the American stage. Is there anything to back this up? Not at all.

Hagman also reveals that Bel Geddes has become extremely reclusive and is hard to get a hold of. Further interest! But is there anything to back this up? No, not really.

So all any random person has to go on is unconfirmed rumors. There are no books. No newspaper citations. No abstracts. Almost nothing for someone who may have been a key figure in the political froth and who revolutionized theatre.

And the reason you can’t find anything on Barbara Bel Geddes is the same reason you can’t find much on John P. Marquand or even Sally Cruikshank’s wonderful animated shorts. If a person is not of the moment, then they are doomed to fall through the cracks of posterity.

I would suggest that bloggers and online enthusiasts have a duty to reference the people they love and back up their findings with links and citations. Because if we don’t keep these people alive, then who will?

[UPDATE: A reader writes in to remind me that Bel Geddes played the unfortunate Midge in Vertigo. I suppose I overlooked this because I’ve always been troubled by this misogynistic aspect (one of many) of Hitchcock’s overrated classic and the Midge character in particular.]

A Few Words on Fear

It’s come to my attention that an impending “crackdown” on bloggers is in the works. Bloggers will be arrested without due process, left to rot in a small 3 X 5 room, forced to hum ELO tunes at gunpoint, and asked if they’d prefer a stale menthol before being executed.

Of course, all this sounds very exciting and ominous. Someone in the shadowy hallways of the Pentagon is no doubt laughing his ass about all this. Presumably, they won’t be contributing to the edrants micropatron fund. Their loss. The empty Stoli botle is A-1.

But, for the record, you won’t find this place catering to the alleged rules and regulations — mostly, because we’re too lazy to keep track of the type of linking that might construe terrorism. We’ll link any damn way we want to and we encourage you to do the same.

Free Gifts for Micropatrons

Ever since I decided to become a lazy bastard and ask my readers for money, I’ve had lots of laughs spending my days in bed naked, smearing myself with Vaseline, watching Jose Mojica Marins movies on DVD, heating and eating donated cans of Progresso Soup (might I recommend the Manhattan Clam Chowder?), growing a poorly trimmed beard and, when really bored out of my gourd, posting content here that you can get elsewhere for free.

Sifting through monster.com ads and slaving away at some dull office job like most foolish Americans was never a consideration. And I had no desire to film myself having a nervous breakdown. There are enough 900 MB Quicktime movies floating around. (Just type in “Edward Champion drunk phone breakdown BitTorrent” into Google and see the insalubrious results for yourself.)

But I genuinely had no idea that you’d want to give me so much money to post long screeds about ME! ME! ME! I have difficulty enough jogging three times a week. And the last woman who slept with me thought my penis was too small.

However, fair is fair. Since some of you actually care enough to send me your hard-earned dollars, I figure that you deserve more incentive than reading about some 30 year old Caucasian whining about books during office hours. With this in mind, I’ve prepared some contribution gifts for the true suckers…ahem…patrons:

MY NINE INCH NAILS T-SHIRT: I’ve had this thing for at least twelve years. Frankly, it’s too embarassing for me to wear and I can’t even use it as “doing laundry” attire. But if you’ve ever wondered what it might be like to come close to all of the sweat I accumulated in my twenties, now’s your chance. Donate away and relive my glory years!

THE EMPTY BOTTLE OF STOLI FROM LAST WEEK: Hero worship doesn’t stop with sartorial artifacts. If there are any genetic scientists in the house who desire to clone me, you can do no worse than extracting some of the dried saliva around the bottle cap. Why, together we’ll create a whole army of self-absorbed bloggers asking for money! What lucky payee will be the first to start this revolution? The first one who sends in $400 gets this puppy.

SLOPPY SECONDS: The aforementioned woman who thought my penis was too small? Well, guess what, kids! She’s offered to throw herself at anyone willing to pay me money, largely because she figures that my readers are far more interesting and sexier than I am.

Act now and one of these (or perhaps all!) of these gifts can be yours!

Remember, kids! Blogging is all about the money!