June 6, 2012 § Leave a comment
I’d begun to convince myself that Ray Bradbury was going to live forever, I guess. Why else would I feel so gut-punched this morning? I can remember thinking that he would probably be gone soon back in the 199os; he continued to live and write until he was 91.
The New Yorker‘s current (first-ever) Science Fiction issue contains a remembrance by him, entitled “Take Me Home.” And now he’s gone.
Ray Bradbury’s books mean as much to me as anything I’ve read. This is something you can hear from many thousands of readers: he was a gateway drug, and he was a molder of minds and lives and space programs. I came to him at the perfect time, when I was twelve or so. If you were a certain type of kid who was getting tired of kid stuff like the Oz books and Choose-Your-Own-Adventures, but were finding the literature you really wanted to comprehend a little over your head, Bradbury showed you the way, led you into the world of adult reading for serious pleasure, made it obvious that you would want to read all of those classics, as well as all of the great fantastic stories out there. (I can remember checking out the Inferno, and The Waste Land, and even The Mystery of Edwin Drood, and returning them all unread, in the couple of years before I found Bradbury. After him, anything seemed possible.)
It was the giant Stories of Ray Bradbury collection, checked out from my small town’s public library. It was summer.
That book is the Proustian madeleine of my reading life: no other book, to this day, so conjures up a total sense memory of my reading it, where and when and how the reading happened. Most of the others that are close are Bradbury, too: Dandelion Wine, The October Country, and The Martian Chronicles especially. And, oh God, Something Wicked This Way Comes. This is ironic, considering that he’s one of the writers most closely associated with fantasy and imagination, not sensory detail. But it’s also fitting, for our laureate of nostalgia. (The very best kind of nostalgia, by the way: the kind that redeems the word itself. Ray Bradbury loves the best parts of the past like he loves the best parts of the future. He was one of our most loving writers, wasn’t he?)
I read “The Small Assassin” on a boat on a small lake on the Nebraska-South Dakota border. And “A Sound of Thunder” on our couch at home, with an afternoon thunderstorm outside. And “I Sing the Body Electric!” (the titular Whitman allusion of which I did not get) in the backseat of our station wagon. And “The Veldt” on a barstool, the book open before me on the bar, with that yellow summer light coming in through the windows. And, oh, “Mars Is Heaven” in bed, late at night, crickets outside…
Dandelion Wine remains, for me, the best book ever about what childhood should be like — which is the book’s subject — and one of the most beautiful works of lyricism in 20th-century America. The Elliott family stories like “Homecoming,” “Uncle Einar,” and the late novel From the Dust Returned remain some of my favorite weird fiction. Something Wicked remains the perfect horror folktale, and, along with The October Country, one of the best books to read in the week before Halloween.
It’s impossible now to imagine Fahrenheit 451 not having been written — it was a thing that just had to happen — but it’s Bradbury that did it. And it’s impossible now to imagine who I would have become without Bradbury, without him opening up the world to me and showing me all this amazing stuff. Here we all are, without him now. He should outlive us all, but damned if we don’t need to make sure it happens. Give a 12-year-old you know a Bradbury book. They’ll thank you later.
July 28, 2011 § Leave a comment
Here’s a little story to restore your faith in humanity.
I just accidentally left a book — a signed first edition, no less — in a busy public space in a major metropolitan area for over an hour, and when I came back, it was still there, apparently untouched.
I’m in Boston for work right now, and went down to the North End for dinner and (mostly) dessert. So I took my chicken parm sub and tiramisu in a cup from Bova’s Bakery to this really nice park on the edge of the neighborhood. As I ate, and called Jaime to gloat, I set my book down on the edge of my chair. And then I packed up the uneaten half of my sub and walked back to catch the shuttle from North Station. (I think I forgot the book because I hadn’t been carrying anything else before getting food, and then I had this bag, and I didn’t notice any weight missing.)
The book, by the way, is David Eagleman’s Sum: Forty Tales from the Afterlives. It means a lot to me because I got it on a trip to see our friend Spiff in Seattle. (I brought it with me because it’s small, and short, and seemed appropriate after The Pale King.) And yet I didn’t notice until I was at my stop that I’d forgotten it. After a brief internal debate (why bother? it’s surely gone already) I decided I had to go back and at least see if it might be there. So I turned right back around to go back to the North End.
And there it was, exactly where I left it. I know at least some people saw it, because I’d been sitting next to an empty chair, and now that chair had been moved elsewhere.
This brings a few thoughts to mind:
1) This may mean that Bova’s tiramisu-in-a-cup really is magic. As in nothing bad can happen to you for two hours after eating it.
2) Or is this another indication that people don’t care about books anymore? In the morning I saw one of the sidewalk booksellers in Harvard Square and wondered how many $2 books he could possibly hope to sell that day; in the evening I left a legitimately collectible book in perfect condition in view of hundreds (if not thousands) of people in broad daylight, and not one picked it up.
3) I love public transportation. The luckiest stroke here was that the Green Line’s under construction from Lechmere to North Station, so they’re running shuttle buses (for free). Since it was free, and I didn’t have to wait at all, just walk onto the next shuttle going back to the North End, it was easy to go back after the book.
4) Boston has proved itself, once again, my good luck charm. Beautiful day, 80 degrees, no humidity, a perfect sunset as I walked back to the bus with my miracle book in hand.
So thank you, people of Boston, for protecting and returning my book to me. It’ll always remind me of you, now, as well as Seattle. And it’s proof that everyone’s luck has to turn around eventually.
June 26, 2011 § 1 Comment
Now reading: Hopscotch, by Julio Cortázar (trans. by Gregory Rabassa).
In his brief, iconic, and tricksy “Table of Instructions,” Cortázar suggests that there are “two books above all” to be read in Hopscotch: a normal, linear reading of the first 56 chapters, and a second reading which incorporates the later section of chapters “From Diverse Sides,” reading chapters in a non-linear sequence denoted at the end of each chapter (“hopscotching” around the book, so to speak).
Because I am a rather obsessive reader, I’ve chosen to follow both sets of instructions, first reading the linear novel, then going back and reading the second way. (In fact, this seems to be the only way to read the entire text without “cheating” on the instructions, as one chapter is left out of the second sequence.)
“Instructions” is an interesting word here. Hypertext, and other associated experimental literary forms, have come to be associated with a rebellion against the linearity of reading, and a way to democratize (at least partially) the relationship between author and reader. That doesn’t seem to be Cortázar’s primary motivation in Hopscotch, since the non-linear path through the novel is prescribed (and remains a matter of reading the linear novel sequentially with “expendable” chapters mixed in); rather, it is a matter of form following content, the serious play of hopscotch in the novel reflected in the reader’s hops over its pages, attempting to move the “pebble” of understanding from one “square” to another.
There is also the matter of shaking readers out of ossified patterns of reading and being, and this, too, seems to be important to Cortázar. Chapter 34 is an excellent example: it is read on two parallel tracks of alternating lines, with the text of a traditional, realist novel by Benito Pérez Galdós intertwined with the thoughts of its reader, Horacio Oliveira. It’s a brilliant technique, with the reader finding a way into the text after some minutes (at least in my case) of trying to understand how to make sense of what seems a mess of garbled noise. The reader then hops from line to line, experiencing the transfigured text through the eyes of an unsympathetic reader, who is reading it for clues about what made it interesting to its original owner, Horacio’s lover La Maga.
In this way, the chapter seems utterly new and refreshing while also reaching back to the earliest forms of what might be considered proto-hypertext, the glosses, commentaries, and cross-references of sacred texts in the Judeo-Christian tradition. In this tradition, the interpretation often overwhelmed the text itself, arranged around the edge of the pages (as here), just as the text here is less important than Oliveira’s gloss upon it, and his attempt to understand La Maga and his life with her (although the read text’s status as a work of canonical Spanish literature remains fundamental). The collapsing of traditional experiences of literary time and space that is embodied in this chapter — one text is read, then another text is read to interpret that one, and one proceeds from one line to the next in linear fashion — is fundamental to Cortázar’s explorations of human experiences of time in the novel.
And of course, as one is reading this and other chapters of Hopscotch, other texts are evoked and echoed. That the Hamlet and Ophelia are inescapable reference points for Horacio and La Maga, that Homer and Joyce are frequently brought to mind, and that Borges hovers like a patron saint deepens the reader’s sense of skipping across a complicated, playful pattern of texts. But then there are echoes from the future, too: Roberto Bolaño’s Savage Detectives springs to mind, and the complicated play of networked texts, electronic literature. That field would surely be important to Cortázar, as a response to the following rumination in the first chapter (chapter 73) of the hopscotched text:
How often I wonder whether this is only writing, in an age in which we run towards deception through infallible equations and conformity machines. But to ask one’s self if we will know how to find the other side of habit or if it is better to let one’s self be borne along by its happy cybernetics, is that not literature again?
December 18, 2010 § Leave a comment
Finished a while ago: The Ring and the Book, by Robert Browning, and The Divine Husband, by Francisco Goldman.
Reading now: David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens.
It’s been a strange few months, reading-wise: for the first time in a while, I felt a little worn out with my reading. Basically, I overloaded my plate with long, long books. I averaged about a book a month for most of the year. That’s pathetic, really, but these were all doorstops. Since March, I read seven very ambitious, self-consciously epic books, all of which I enjoyed to varying degrees. But by the time I got around to Browning, after reading Possession, I was burnt out.
Now, exhaustion with the long form and the grand scope is no time to read a 12-book, 600-page Victorian historical poem, replete with Browning’s characteristic erudite allusions, multiple languages, and exotic vocabulary. I should’ve just waited on it, but it seemed such a perfect follow-up to Byatt’s book that I soldiered on. I love Browning, but I was unable to muster any sort of enthusiasm for The Ring and the Book.
And then there was The Divine Husband, a really pretty great novel about Central America. I felt like it would be a nice palate cleanser, but it turned out to be rather grand and sweeping itself. This is normally a good thing; however, in my state, I found myself taking breaks to read from an anthology of new fabulists stories called ParaSpheres, with no better reason that that they were short. (Though it’s a good anthology, don’t get me wrong.)
All of this by way of some sort of explanation for the silence here. I have not died and this is not the typing of a ghost. Nor has The Ambiguities died. It’s been on hiatus, placed there by the TV executives in my brain who were too dumb to muster up any energy to write.
So, by way of restart, a new look for the blog. It’s called “Oulipo,” so I was going to pick it no matter what it looked like. Luckily it’s pretty nice, too, I think. Coming very soon: top fives of the year, and then a flurry of David Copperfield posts. (Yeah, I know: “You’re reading Dickens when you’re tired of long books, idiot?” You’re right, but it’s Dickens. In December. And it’s snowing. How can I not read Dickens?)
August 8, 2010 § Leave a comment
Just finished: The Lost Books of the Odyssey, by Zachary Mason.
Reading next: At Swim-Two-Birds, by Flann O’Brien.
There comes a moment, occasionally, when you’re reading along and suddenly, for no obvious reason, the rows of the Cosmic Slot Machine line up and some insight smashes into the front of your skull. Oftentimes it turns out to be no great fundamental innovation, but the truth behind something that’s become a truism, or something you’ve always known but never understood.
That happened for me as I was reading the fifth story, “Agamemnon and the Word,” in Zachary Mason’s book, an assemblage of fictional “concise variations” on the “crystallized,” canonical version of the Odyssey, said variations supposedly recovered from manuscripts, urns, and other sources and duly translated. Something about reading these fragments — and especially this fifth, about a knowledge-hungry Agamemnon asking Odysseus and his other “sages” to give him the world’s knowledge in a book, a sentence, a single word — written by a computer scientist, with their artifice of scholarly footnotes linking the variations to the canonical text, made me think that the book could be emblematic of — perhaps is consciously about — our culture’s shift back toward the varietal, the local, the fragmentary, away from the canonical, the universal, the definitive.
Much later, near the end, comes “Record of a Game,” a story begun with a footnote stating that “Though written in credible Homeric Greek, the contents of this chapter cannot be dated much before the early Middle Ages,” and telling us that much of the “papyrus” is damaged, leaving sections of the text up to “conjecture.” It’s one of my favorites in the book, reading the Iliad and Odyssey as instructional texts for a game of military tactics similar to chess, wildly corrupted and elaborated through years of use and elaboration.
All of this reminded me of Jeanette Winterson saying that “we might be going into a cultural dark ages.” (You can find the quote here, in an interview with Bill Moyers, though I think she’d said it before then, as well.) And in my profession, we’re constantly worrying about the creation of a historical dark age through the loss of digital information, the difficulty of capturing and preserving that information (though we seem to finally be turning a corner on that issue, as a profession). Winterson’s worried about people no longer interested in culture, no longer reading, and whether that absence of market will mean the end of literature and other high art forms. Archivists are worried about the loss of the historical record.
When Mason writes in his brief preface that “the Homeric material was formless, fluid, its elements shuffled into new narratives like cards in a deck,” he is almost certainly closer to the truth than the idea that one can find a definitive text of a definitive Odyssey, by a definitive Homer. There were surely many different versions of the Odyssey, as many different versions as there were storytellers, almost all of them lost now. And yet we — civilization, in general, especially the kind that gets called “Western” — have been engaged, for 600 years or so now, in the systematic canonization of information: putting down authoritative versions of events between covers, over the airwaves, and into the public record of newspapers and legal documents. This is what scholars, journalists, culture workers of all stripes, have been engaged to do. But what Mason’s book reminds me of is connection of the pre-Homeric tales of the adventures of a trickster lost on his way back home from war — of that fabled “oral culture” — to the wired world’s increasing proliferation of versions of narratives, “memes,” apocrypha, images real and doctored, commentary, flame wars, propaganda, misinformation. Crowdsourcing: the creation of large-scale narrative through local knowledge and aggregated data. Is it possible to see the Internet, again, as some hoped it would be, as a colossal hearth across which storytellers toss the tales they’ve heard, and listeners choose the ones they like best to pass along in their own ways? Are we in a medieval age of multiplicity, rather than scarcity, of knowledge?
This seems one of the many possible ways to understand Mason’s reasons for reworking one of Western civ’s most fundamental texts, at this late stage in its history, after myriad other reworkings. The irony, of course, is that Mason wrote a book, and certainly no one can blame him for that: it’s what writers still tend to do, after all. Not only did he write a book, he published it first with a small press, Starcherone Books, after which the book was picked up and repackaged by Farrar, Straus and Giroux: it’s worked its way up the chain of respectability and wide distribution. Again, still the logical move to make. But like a number of other things I’ve read lately, I can’t help but think that the work would be improved, structurally and thematically, by turning away from mainstream publication, and producing it as an online text: a work of electronic literature, not an “e-book” or print book in digital form. A work inherently unstable, a hypertext in which the reader chooses the order in which to read the narratives, or the narratives are provided in random order. But one does not get paid (or gets paid very little) for e-lit: there is no market. Its practitioners, by and large, give content away. Winterson’s dark age looming, again.
January 26, 2010 § 2 Comments
Now reading: The Gambler, by Fyodor Dostoyevsky.
It’s been a long time since I’ve read Dostoyevsky, or any Russian writers at all, for that matter; I think the last thing I read was The Brothers Karamazov, maybe six or seven years ago. I’m amazed at how suddenly the force of his writing came back to me. Partly this is due to the nature of The Gambler, which begins very much in media res and plunges headlong, with part of the “fun” being to determine what’s going on among these seemingly sordid characters. But I think it’s also at least in part due to the very distinctive world Dostoyevsky creates in his books.
We don’t hear much about Dostoyevsky the creator of imaginative recreations of the world, of cities and places, as we do with, say, Dickens. Mostly this is because Dostoyevsky spends precious little time doing any sort of describing or scene-setting. And yet his focus on psychology, voice, relationship, and character create a kind of claustrophobic universe just as visceral and recognizable as the London of Dickens. You’re plunged into an alternate reality — or, if you prefer, a fantasy — with Dostoyevsky just as surely as you are in a science fiction novel; it’s just the alternate reality of a mind, usually a mind in serious trouble.
For me, this intense, almost hallucinatory quality to Dostoyevsky’s works makes for an odd reading experience. I find myself quite involved with the books as I read them, gobbling up chunks of text, catching intricacies of interrelationship and forebodings of coming events, savoring Dostoyevsky’s little flashes of surreality and powerful emotion. And then, when I finish… they somehow vanish. I’m astounded by how little I remember of what I’ve read of his. I remember more of Anna Karenina, read about ten years ago, than any of the three major Dostoyevsky works I read since. I’m baffled by this.
No one claims The Gambler is Dostoyevsky’s masterpiece; it’s better known for his having to write it in a hurry under great pressure, and for its autobiographical elements, than for anything actually involved in the text itself. But in a way its subject and setting — a group of nobles desperate for money and love, set loose on the roulette tables of a fictional spa town — are perfect for the fevered tone of his prose (or at least, his prose as it seems in translation). The most remarkable passage so far is in chapter two: in a single three-page paragraph, the narrator (about whom we know next to nothing at the point) discourses on the “two kinds of gambling: the genteel kind, and the plebeian or mercenary, such as that played by all sorts of riffraff.” (The translation I’m reading, by the way, is by Victor Terras.) He ranges over a variety of observations and anecdotes; he is witty and interesting on the various kinds of gambling; and yet the length and intensity of the discussion, and the switchbacks and asides and seeming contradictions and pronouncements such as “of late I have been finding it somehow extremely repulsive to apply any kind of moral standard to my actions and thoughts” contribute to a sense of derangement. The narrator (and an author?) plunge into their monologue to such a depth as to barely find their way back to the surface, the masterful tics and ramblings giving the sense of a character seriously lost in their subject, betraying a very likely problematic fascination.
September 30, 2009 § 1 Comment
Now reading: The Manuscript Found in Saragossa, by Jan Potocki.
Have I mentioned before how important it is to pick a good book for traveling? Going all the way to Seattle last week (thanks, Spiff!), with a side trip to Vancouver, I really thought hard about what I wanted to take. I tend to better remember books that I read while traveling — something about the sensory connection of a fresh setting around the page, I think — so I want to pick something I’ll actually want to remember. I came up with this, and if I do say so myself, it was a great choice. Here’s what I look for in a travel book:
–Plot-driven. You need something that can both take you away from the horror of being trapped in a metal tube miles above the earth for hours and give you a pleasurable read in a coffee shop while everyone else is working (if you’re traveling for pleasure rather than work, anyway). This book involves demons, cabbalists, possibly haunted inns in the mountains of Spain, bandits, life stories, etc., etc. It’s plot-tastic.
–Episodic. Partly this is just personal taste, but I also think episodic narratives nicely mirror the experience of traveling on vacation: a variety of incidents, different settings, small experiences. Plus I tend to get bored with just one book while on vacation, so it’s nice to read a shortish episode and then move on to another book for a while. TMFIS is divided into 66 days, and those days are further subdivided into stories and stories within stories.
–Comedic elements. No one wants too much angst while traveling, or on vacation. It doesn’t have to be a laff riot, but a little humor helps. Potocki has a somewhat peculiar, but very definite, sense of humor; much of this, as I’ll discuss later, is rather complexly self-referential. There’s some broad humor in the plot itself, as well.
–Long — epic, even. Because when else are you going to get around to it? TMFIS is a doorstop: over 600 densely-printed pages.
–Long-awaited. Something I’ve meant to read for a long time; often a classic nicely fits this bill. I’ve been drooling over TMFIS for years.
–Easy to transport, no big deal to damage. Cheap, easily replaced paperbacks are good. Expensive first editions, not so much. What I’ve got here is a Penguin Classics edition which got beat to hell on the trip, but survived.
So I picked a real winner this time. Judging by these criteria, Don Quixote is probably the all-time champion of vacation lit. I took Tom Jones to Denmark and that was also great, although not quite as episodic as I might have liked. This is also full of stories within stories, all within plot-based and form-based framing structures. Enough to make me swoon.
Speaking of DQ, Potocki clearly loved it, and the book often reads like an amalgam of Boccaccio and Cervantes, with some Ann Radcliffe thrown in (the Gothic was so hot in the 1810s!) The framing device is strongly reminiscent of Cervantes, with the supposed manuscript of the title being found in a box some 40 years after its apparent writing, then dictated to its finder from its original Spanish into French. A transcript of a spoken translation of a manuscript of unknown credibility: way to destabilize the text, Jan! (There’s all kinds of weirdness around Potocki’s own manuscript and the publication of the book, too, which I won’t go into, but which is equally fascinating and destabilizing.)
August 27, 2009 § Leave a comment
Now reading: A Child Again, by Robert Coover.
I’m going to pick a nit today, because what good is having a blog if you can’t pick a nit now and then?
This is a McSweeney’s book, and as such a good deal of thought has been given to the book’s design: it’s a nice size, with cover art (no jacket, so hot right now, a trend started by McSweeney’s) that hearkens back to mid-century children’s literature. There’s also a pocket on the back cover for a hypertext-y story on oversized playing cards.
So all I’m saying is, they put a lot of thought and effort into this book, as the folks there seem to do with most all of their productions. As a matter of fact, I heard Eli Horowitz, publisher and managing editor for McSweeney’s, speak at a conference this summer, where he said in no uncertain terms that he feels that there has to be a reason to publish something in paper rather than online; that there has to be a reason to make a book of it. The onus is now on the printed book, in other words, to justify its existence: by being beautiful, being cool, being interesting to look at and hold and read.
So what the hell’s up with the paper, here? I am not a bibliographer; I am not a bibliophile of the kind that obsesses over the details of bookmaking materials (and yes, they are out there); I am not even all that picky, really, most of the time, when it comes to this sort of thing. I read crappy paperbacks and books bound in library buckram all the time. But the paper on which this book is printed is way too white. Blindingly bright. And there’s something about the feel of it, combined with the font (which seems to be the standard McS font, which I should know but do not — someone help me out here), which makes reading this book feel like reading a very nicely bound bundle of computer printouts.
Maybe it was just a mistake. I don’t know. Or maybe costs have to be cut somewhere when you’re paying for nice cover design and a pocket so Coover can have his crazy card-story. Or — I wouldn’t put it by them — maybe McSweeney’s decided to include a wider variety of paper brightnesses and colors in their never-ending quest to invigorate American letters. Whatever the case, it’s amazing how glaringly obvious an inappropriate book paper is. A good paper, easy on the eyes, is one of those things you take for granted until it’s not there anymore.
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.