The Decadent Book, or the Book of the Decade?
July 14, 2009 § 1 Comment
Now reading: Only Revolutions, by Mark Z. Danielewski.
I will get into the specifics of what this very strange book might be about and how it might work soon, but first I can’t resist talking about the book itself: its physical form, its extravagant typography and layout, and the experience of reading it. And in fact, as in all books, but especially in this strange one, that experience is a very large part of its subject and function.
Only Revolutions is a Choose Your Own Adventure: there is no set way of reading it. Although there is a publisher-recommended way, the reader has to make many choices based simply on the book’s unusual presentation. There are two title pages, one for the “story” by Sam, the other for Hailey. The Sam-story and the Hailey-story start from opposite ends and meet in the middle, then go back the other way: the story you’re not reading is always upside-down on the page. From the jacket flap: “The publisher suggests alternating between Sam and Hailey, reading eight pages at a time.” They rather strongly suggest that — or, I suspect, Danielewski does — by introducing every ninth page with a large initial letter, intimating a break at the end of the previous page. (And yes, I’ve followed this suggestion.) But of course, you can start from either end. And you can certainly disregard the advice and read all the way through one story, then all the way through the other.
But further, there is also more than one section of text on every page: there’s a main body of varying size and layout which looks suspiciously like verse, but always mostly right-justified on versos and left-justified on rectos. In the gutter of each page is a sidebar, in small (different) font: a chronology of real-life national and world events, from 1863 to 2005. (There are also empty sidebars up to 2063.) These sidebar snapshots can be rather cryptic, given the space restraints and the author’s stylistic preferences: a typical line from World War II reads “6 German saboteurs go” (go being a multivalent word in the book, but very often meaning die). Many are even less descriptive: a simple number, the meaning of which is only revealed (or not) after later repetitions. (I hate to do this to someone as cool as Danielewski obviously is, but the device is reminiscent of nothing so much as the wildly popular but, in retrospect, horribly embarrassing Billy Joel boomer anthem “We Didn’t Start the Fire.”)
You can choose to read these and attempt to decipher them or just skim for a sense of time and zeitgeist or utterly ignore them as annoying contrivance, simply acknowledging their perceived use in the book. But if you do pay attention to them, you can also choose what kind of meaning you wish to assign to them: are they summarizing events contemporaneous with the personal events in the main body of text? Are they only a kind of symbolic anchoring of the themes of the text in the history of the “real” world? What is the purpose of the bizarre but rigorously uniform phrasing and syntax and style evident in the sidebars — a cipher or code, or (dare I dream?) a kind of Oulipian game, or merely a sort of literary ticker-tape, or what?
But wait! There’s more! The letter “o” and the number zero always appear in green ink in Sam’s narrative, gold in Hailey’s. The page numbers — two for each page, one for each narrative — appear on the side of the page, in two circles within a larger circle; the numbers rotate 360 degrees around each other through the course of the book. The sidebar dates appear in a kind of deep magenta. And the word “creep” (and character The Creep) also appears in a kind of reddish-purple (which may or may not be the same as the date-magenta — I really can’t tell if there’s a difference, because of the different sizes and fonts). Also, characters’ names (and some important objects) besides Sam and Hailey appear in small caps. Names of animals in Sam’s narrative, and plants in Hailey’s, appear in boldface (gray boldface in the second half).
Beyond all that, the book features across its boards a gorgeous photographic collage of plants and animals in green and gold and earth-tones, and on its two dust jacket covers extreme close-ups of a green-flecked gold iris and a gold-flecked green iris. Plus two slightly different jacket blurbs — one for Sam, one for Hailey. Also, gold and green ribbons, for keeping your place. And a “concordance” of many overlapping circles of words on both sets of endpapers, to be read in a mirror.
If you’ve read his first book, House of Leaves (a book I utterly adore, and a real candidate for my favorite book of the decade), this is not exactly a surprise — but Jesus, what a load of paratext! It is tempting to read it as a conceptual poem: more like Kenneth Goldsmith‘s work than Joyce’s, even though Finnegan’s Wake is what first springs to mind as a comparison, in that its existing is as much or more the point as anything it actually says.
That’s an overstatement, because documentation of the process is certainly not the end point of Z’s work, but it leads me to one of the things I find so interesting about the book’s format. This is a book, published in 2006, and very much about cosmic themes of birth and death and renewal and obsolescence, which is also very much about being a book published in 2006, about what a book might be. I don’t know how much Z actually thought about the book’s publication/marketing during its composition — while I think writers don’t much like thinking about publishing, I think Z is perforce an exception — but I think the folks at Pantheon/Random House must’ve thought of the book as a way to make “the book” hip again. I think they had to think of it as futuristic/avant-garde/cutting-edge, for promotional purposes. And perhaps it is; it certainly would’ve been utterly impossible to commercially produce 20-30 years ago. But it also strikes me as, possibly, a kind of death-knell: a really remarkable piece of decadent bookmaking, an example of digital typography and layout and contemporary cheap-but-flashy binding run amok, the kind of thing that gets designed and pushed by a really very respectable publisher and nominated for the National Book Award when “the book” is going through a massive identity crisis.
In some ways the book is very book-specific, in that the look of it and the rotation of the book 360 degrees to read the other narrative and the thematic import of its typography and layout are meant to be quite profoundly part of the book’s meaning — its “content.” In other ways it’s very hypertextual: one of those works moving past the book, which only feels constrained when it’s moved from a screen where it can more fully interact with a reader or “user” to a page.
None of which I mean to detract from the work itself, which is really quite remarkable in many respects. It just strikes me, when I look at it on the table, and when I hold it in my hand, and when I read its overflowing pages, as being simultaneously a very exciting and very sad thing. And even though I’ve just spilled a lot of language about it, I’m still not sure I’ve quite captured why that is.