March 5, 2007
Weapons to be deployed
~It is easy to make light of this kind of “writing,” and I mention it specifically because I do not make light of it at all: it was at Vogue that I learned a kind of ease with words (as well as with people who hung Stellas in their kitchens and went to Mexico for buys in oilcloth), a way of regarding words not as mirrors of my own inadequacy but as tools, toys, weapons to be deployed strategically on a page. In a caption of, say,eight lines, each line to run no more or less than twenty-seven characters, not only every word but every letter counted. At Vogue one learned fast, or one did not stay, how to play games with words, how to put a couple of unwielding dependent clauses through the typewriter and roll them out transformed into one simple sentence composed of precisely thirty-nine characters. We were connoisseurs of synonyms. We were collectors of verbs. (I recall “to ravish” as a highly favoured verb for a number of issues, and I also recall it, for a number of issues more, as the source of a highly favored noun: “ravishments,” as in tables cluttered with porcelain tulips, Faberge eggs, other ravishments.) We learned as reflex the grammatical tricks we had learned only as marginal corrections in school (“there are two oranges and an apple” read better than “there were an apple and two oranges,” passive verbs slowed down sentences, “it” needed a reference within the scan of the eye), learned to rely on the OED, learned to write and rewrite and rewrite again. “Run it through again, sweetie, it’s not quite there.” “Give me a shock verb two lines in.” “Prune it out, clean it up, make the point.” Less was more, smooth was better, and absolute precision essential to the monthly grand illusion. Going to work for Vogue was, in the late nineteen-fifties, not unlike training with the Rockettes~ Joan Didion, Telling Stories
March 4, 2007
Drawer, get ready for this.
Finished. Conversations About Gravity. 80500 words, many of which, I admit, I’m rather fond of. Beginning, middle and end.
March 4, 2007
New Title
Conversations About Gravity. I think it’s perfect. And the whole thing will be finished tomorrow.
March 3, 2007
Mini*Pops
Fun site of the week is Mini Pops Magic, which taught me plenty about one of my first favourite bands. Looking through their discography, I realized that my family owned at least four of their albums– I’d forgotten. I was also surprised to learn they were British (though I probably should have known). They were known for their Channel 4 television show in 1982 which was controversial due to that old “eight year olds dressed like harlots” problem. The show was cancelled, but a number of albums were released, and were particularly popular in Canada, where the Mini Pops embarked upon a three week tour. Who knew?
March 3, 2007
Dashed hopes
In the midst of Mini Pops nostalgia, I remembered how I’d once longed to join their fan club. I don’t think I ever followed through, but thinking about this led me to remember one of the great disappointments of childhood– ads and offers in the backs of books.
As a small child, these appeared as invitations toward engagement with the outside world, and they seemed irresistable. Do you remember the scheme in Archie comics where you signed up to sell something (it was never clear what) and you could win points toward a new bike, a skateboard, or a tent? These marvelous full-colour images of everything you ever wanted. You could be an entrepreneur at the age of seven! Though I was never taken in. My parents wouldn’t let me do it.
Stuart told me today about how he wrote away to join the Beano club when he was five, and was promised “two badges and a newsletter or something”. His mum and dad helped him get the postal orders necessary, but he never heard back from Beano.
I had better luck with the Eric Wilson Mystery Club, though by the time I got my newsletter, years had passed and I wasn’t that interested anymore.
Part of the problem was that books tended to age, and it was always disappointing to see that the offer for ten books for a nickle had expired in 1963. Very very sad.
But nothing was as sad as when I wrote away to join “The Puffin Club”. I’ve got a copy of the ad on hand: “You will get a copy of the Club magazine four times a year, a membership book, and a badge.” The opportunity of a lifetime, I thought. And I heard back quite promptly, raising my hopes to the moon. But there would be no membership for me, in the end. They told me Canadian children weren’t eligible and I was absolutely gutted.
And so there would be no outside world for me for a number of years yet.
March 3, 2007
Full Disclosure?
I don’t really see how one can attack a collection of letters, except on two terms: the first, maybe you don’t like reading letters; the second, the letters are boring. As my entries of late have made clear, Decca: The Collected Letters of Jessica Mitford was hardly boring. This book was absolutely enthralling, and Mitford’s letters found their way into my dreams. Epistolary dreams! You can’t fathom it. This was such an absorbing book, a twentieth century overview, and a record of one absolutely fascinating life. Jessica Mitford was a complex, exasperating, difficult woman, but she was brilliant, funny and sharp, and I have never before gained such an intimate understanding of character from a book as I did with this one.
And so, when one takes a collection of letters that are decidedly not boring, the plan of attack must be through character. Fine, I suppose. Though that seems to me a strange approach for a book review, and probably inappropriate. And no doubt, Jessica Mitford herself would not disagree with Daphne Merkin’s review in Slate that she was neglectful mother, that “vitriolic archness was her first and last defense”, or that empathy was not always her forte. Etc. etc. (though I think this reviewer simplifies her character considerably– eg. why she “airbrushes” her deceased son from her memoir, because she could not bear to relive his death through writing about it).
What is inexcusable, however is for a reviewer to write such a review, with its snide attacks, and not mention that she herself is rubbished in the book, perhaps underlining her perspective? Decca, page 706: Sez Decca: “[Did you read the] New Yorker women’s issue? Some good, some awful. One of the worst was by someone called Daphne Merkin, v. long and all about how she craves to be whipped (she’s a masochist) with nary a joke in it. Marina looked up “Merkin” in the OED– says it means “a pub*c wig”.
So perhaps Ms. Merkin had a bone to pick, but shouldn’t she have been a bit more honest about picking it?
March 2, 2007
The Myth of Justice
A recent overdose of Decca had a detrimental effect on last night’s sleep. I’ve never dreamt in letters before. To do so is rather maddening. I’m starting Middlemarch today; Bronwyn’s reading it too.
The Guardian World Literature Tour in New Zealand: fascinating to read the discussion in comparison to Canada’s which turned in to an all-out internecine CanLit hatefest. Here for literacy initiatives. The usual suspects for Britain’s favourite books. Here for Granta‘s best American novelists.
Our beloved Curtis’s birthday plans were waylaid last night due to a ferocious winter storm. An emergency birthday party was thrown together with some success. Cake was devoured. Excellent. Bonne fête.
March 1, 2007
Titled
Today my story was named The Evolution of the Village Green. I think it is a wonderful title. Unfortunately it would probably be a better title for a story that wasn’t this one, and I’m tempted to rewrite the whole thing around it. All right, not so tempted. But still, as titles go, I’m awfully fond of it and I’ll keep it around until I find something better suited.
Along those lines, upon Sunday the whole darn thing will be done. Hell or high water, etc. How exciting!
March 1, 2007
The Library at Night
Many book gatherers could perhaps write a book such as this one, inspired by their own collections. Though of course most of them aren’t blessed with Alberto Manguel’s erudition– the feature which makes this intensely personal book of such wide interest. In The Library at Night, Manguel approaches his library as a work in progress whose completion is a most fortunate impossibility. The book itself is similarly constructed, of pieces and anecdotes connected by chance to make a history of libraries, and librariness. And though, as Manguel (via Virginia Woolf) points out, the difference between reading and learning is wide, that one can do both with this delightful book, and with such pleasure, must double its force. The history of the new library at Alexandria, the man who was buried in his apartment in an avalanche of books, book mobiles by donkey in Columbia (the biblioburro), the internet’s undying present, the history of the British library or the contradictions of Carnegie. How to catalogue books, or to find room for books, the best shapes for rooms for books. Political, whimsical, artful and bursting with stuff. The Library at Night was not intended for everyone, but to those for whom it was, this book will prove a valuable and indispensable addition.
February 27, 2007
A Hardheaded Woman
When I proclaimed I would never be brainwashed into a cult, it became clear that there is nothing like obstinacy to make other people irate. Though no doubt I was right, and perhaps Stuart was just short on sleep or in need of a feed, he was made furious by my nerve. That I would never anything drove him to “Hah! I’ll show you.” He never did, of course and I remain free of any cult-like associations to this day.
But I understand what drove Stuart (beyond generic grumpiness). Any person who dares to plant her foot on the ground and say “I will never…” makes one want to cover the world for exceptions, the one circumstance in which that person will. Particularly if one is bossy and a mite controlling (like myself)– to have another escape your limits and plant their foot out there all of their own accord is a wee bit rankling. Especially if the foot-planter is just as hardheaded, which she would have to be in order to say “I will never…”.
The foot planter who’s been driving me mad of late is the Toronto woman who is aiming to produce no garbage. She is blogging about it here. Why, you might wonder, would such a noble endeavour bother anyone? For the reasons I’ve outlined above, I think, but (wait!) there are problems with the plan. First– that they use whatever garbage they do produce as material to make art from (the one example I remember is collages made from the stickers on fruit) and give to their friends. I don’t know. Garbage made into art is still garbage, usually, unless you are really good at art. Basically they just pass their crap onto someone else who can’t throw it out either because it was given under the guise of a “gift”. Second– it’s not so much that they’re producing no garbage, but rather they’re opting not to take it home with them. Living in society you are part of an entire system that produces waste, whether or not you can see it yourself. And so it’s sort of narrow-minded to pat yourself on the back for refusing a napkin for your muffin at the coffee shop (for example) when the napkin is obviously there and you’re supporting the establishment that will give yours out to someone next in line.
I see the value in what these people are doing as a statement. She just recently managed to go 31 days garbage-free. It is excellent that they are raising awareness about the stupid amounts of waste we produce, and the problem of over-packaging. Many of their waste-reduction tips are probably quite valuable to the average person. But still, I’m annoyed. Hah, I’ll show them.
I think I am being difficult (short on sleep and feed, I suppose).
Update: I do wish to affirm that the annoyingness cited in this post is mainly my own. A response to my kvetching is here and sensible.
