O poisonous worm: your literary betes noires

And maybe this isn't ENTIRELY knee-jerk envy and spite: there are plenty of novelists with enviable backgrounds -- Edith Wharton in particular -- whose reputations make me happy because they're deserved.

Um, anyways, it looks like it's just you and me here Ann. If you want to let me know what else is wrong with Amis, I'm all ears, since the only novel of his I've read is The Rachel Papers. He goes way wrong after that?

Surely they could know enough as much about their life as anyone else that age?

(Also I'm not sure "knowing about life" has anything to do with novel writing, but that's a different argument altogether.)

But Eggars is my literary bete noir, hands down.

What does this mean?

I like Ann Sterzinger's posts here, but I think it is misleading to call Martin Amis 'a perfectly good novelist', as though (for this is what the phrase seems to mean in this context) he is average and workaday. That is precisely what he is not. He is extreme - he is annoying - he is playful - he is brilliant - he is foolish he is delicate - he is clumsy - but he is not an average novelist.

As to the more general question... oddly I suppose I have different reactions to different bits of a writer's work: one of my first answers is Pynchon, for GR, but then he also wrote one of my favourite novels. Wyndham Lewis, like Amis and perhaps Mailer, is dislikeable but talented and important. OK - how about Djuna Barnes? I have only read Nightwood but it is bad and overrated. Or better still...

what is wrong w/ eggars? what is wrong with foer? i have never read either of them or heard of the latter till now. i do not read much new stuff. i am boring and canonical and do not take literary risks.

(Yes, yes, writing HARD even with a trust fund... then again so is downhill skiing without falling on your ass, so I think my metaphor won't sink all THAT easily...)

HA ha ha ha

Scraping, nibbling, underfoot, rarely seen, eaten by approved domestic animals, traps are set to kill the pesky buggers...

I mean there's plenty about Martin Amis to dislike, in both the style and content of his books (or his public persona if you like). But he didn't choose his parents. Sincerely I didn't mean to accuse you of anything I'm not guilty of myself. Don't get me started on cultural critic Greil Marcus...who's from a family about 10,000 times richer that the Amis clan. What makes him a nightmare is his prose and pretentiousness, not the fact that he's never worked a day in his life and can be just as obscure and tedious as he pleases because he's not trying to support himself by writing. Him I don't envy at all.

Lovebug starski, I really hope I haven't made it sound like I actually dislike Martin Amis's writing! Well, I don't dislike all of it anyway -- when he's writing grotesques he makes me very happy. And I don't think he's a leechy slacker, and no I don't think the family name actually put hand to pen and wrote his words for him. But come on. His life would have been different if his father had been an accountant, yes? What really bothers me about Martin is the fact that more people my age and younger seem to read and drool over him than know his father ever wrote, which is sad, and though admittedly not his fault, it makes me shake my head and say "stupid fucking world."

(Confederacy of Dunces, anyone? I mentioned this on the math thread, but think it deserves a mention here.)

(Think we've reached a nice detente - thanx for your response.)

From the little I've read of Eggers, I'd agree that he's just about useless as a writer - though I do give him props as a literary impresario.

I'm not sure who my personal bete noire would be. I'll have to think about it.

I didn't know any of that about Greil Marcus.

I am not envious of Rushdie.

Neither did anyone else, and nor has anyone else in the history of the universe ever been forgiven their parentage.

"The truth perhaps is that it's surprising how irrelevant KA is to MA's success,"

Not trying to be bellicose, but when people make arguments like these I usually start to feel a comedy bit coming on, praps because I used to make them in my own head to calm myself down before even MORE crappy experience taught me to quit being such a patient little Catholic martyr. And what the heck, in the spirit of detente I'll let loose my comic sphincter:

(Ghetto. 12-year-old gangbanger, fatally wounded in shootout he started, raises head from piss-scented concrete to say a final prayer.)

GANGBANGER: Yo, god! Come on, maaan. I couldn't help who my parents were. Can't you let me start over as the son of a renowned author so my potentially-brilliant mind can be nourished on a top-notch education, intellectual banter around the house, some decent food, and maybe a dictionary instead of being crippled by lead paint, ignorance, and the deafening typhoon of my somewhat justifiable homicidal rage?

GOD: MMm... sure, it's a slow day in Iraq.

(Cut to study of Martin Amis, where this misunderstood genius spends his days obsessively Googling his own name. ILX pops up on the screen; Martin shrieks and falls to his kness.)

MARTIN: Oh, dear god! Ann Sterzinger envies me -- and worse, she's TALKING about it. My career will be finished by Tuesday, my bank account drained, my family dishonored... Not even my mysterious new brutha can save me now! Please, please, o good my lord and savior -- save me from the harrying envy rays of Dame Anklebiter before it's too late.

GOD: Hm... well, you didn't cheat on your taxes this year, did you?

MARTIN: I don't know! Ask my accountant... come ON, man! I can't help who my father was.

GOD: True enough.

(Cut to me. Bent over a piece of boring copy at work, scowling furiously at it, then at this thread on my computer screen; I swear, pace, snatch my ever-handy, Martin Amis voodoo doll, and search for another place I can stab it without finishing off its raddled polyester plush... but then a light goes on in my bleary, envy-glazed eyes.)

ME: Hm... suddenly I don't envy Martin Amis anymore. That your doing, god?

GOD: Yup.

ME: Hum. Well, I certainly feel lighter... thanks, god...

GOD: Any time. See ya..

ME: HEY! Hang on a second -- my left ear just fell off! Did you do that too?

GOD: Yeah.

ME: Why?

GOD: Sin of envy.

ME: Oh, come ON, man! I was envying Martin Amis because of his parentage! I can't help who my parents aren't! Don't I even get points for actually wishing him LESS misfortune when he wrote like somebody who deserved to be a success?

GOD: Yeah, but now I'm really amused by the way you look with one ear. (Giggles; looks out window) Oh, what do you know, the sun just went down. My shift is over. Have a good night!

ME: Huh? Wh-- OK -- so whose shift is it now?

GOD: Satan, duh. (punches out, whips out flask) WHOOOEEE!!!

ME: Wshew, thought he was gonna say mammon. Hey Satan, can I have my --

SATAN: Not now, kid, Satan's tying off.

ME: OK... When?

SATAN: When they cure me, OK?!?!

ME: Hey, don't I recall buying a god-insurance policy from you?

SATAN: Maaaaybe...

ME: You either give me my ear back or refund my soul or else I'm calling the Better Business Bureau!

SATAN: Er... sorry kid, but you got one guess as to what I pawned it for... and it's a really sorry-ass bag too.

SATAN'S JUNKIE GIRLFRIEND: I TOLD you to quit buying drugs from God! FUUUUCK this shit is laced with holy water, you stupid fucker! (Crashing sound)

SATAN: OW! (to me) Hey, kid, have a nice day... I got some business to take care of here... (sound of breaking glass; fade out)

d'oh! stray comma

Also about Eggers- I read somewhere that in order to be successful, you have to be first, different, or best. And he was different (or first?). And to be fair, I thought his writing was pretty crap until I saw him at a booksigning and he turned out to be well fit and extremely funny in person. Should a writer's personality affect your enjoyment of his/her work?

I think what I was saying was mostly that MA's qualities are his own, nothing much to do with the previous UK generation really (obviously more to do with other 'chosen father figures', in his literary family romance). And his qualities (like his flaws) are considerable, and seem to me to tend to negate charges of nepotism, if that is, roughly, what is being levelled.

Not that I'm defending them.

My betes noires are people who are famous already and give the impression of having become famous just so they could write a crappy book and get it published.

Yes, I'm looking at YOU, Clare Francis*.

* half-joke.

PS Pinefox, are you going to the GHS for Markelby's soiree?

Nepotism is natural. I mean, criminal levels of it aren't, necessarily, but years ago I read about a study of apes that's stuck in my mind: It found that alpha female apes are more likely to raise alpha male children than less dominant females. My interpretation: caste is deeply imbedded in the tradition of human social behavior, if not in our very genes.

Certainly seems to play out that way, even in the glorious paradise of meritocracy that is my homeland. After all, even the merit of a finished adult is not independent of childhood events.

Depressing world, isn't it?
And actually, many of Martin Amis's own grotesques (like Keith whatsisname) illustrate this point pretty well.

Oh well, at least I was lucky enough to have parents who cared more about reading than money. Perhaps that was sour grapes, but hey, I came out in a way that I like so TOO FUCKING BAD FOR THOSE OF YOU WHO ARE UNHAPPY!!!

Oh wait... I'm unhappy too... I'm happy with myself and enraged by the way the world treats me... oh my GOD, I'm a Martinesque grotesque! No wonder I want to break his neck!! I'm humor impaired because the joke's on me and I didn't even get to make it!

This is how books get burned, I think.

Good thing I'm trying to be self-aware, huh? Otherwise I'd be at the library with my gasoline right now.

The sketch was, I suppose, a comic reaction to the statement that Martin Amis didn't choose his parents, and its implication that I thus shouldn't blame him for his luck of the draw -- my point being that this sad world doesn't forgive anyone for who their parents are. And I think Amis is far better off facing the terrors of being envied by little shits like me than he would be facing, say, all the fun of having parents who couldn't afford to feed him anything besides government cheese and Little Debbie cakes.

Oooh, I wish I had my Edith Wharton on hand so I could give you an exact quote from The Custom of the Country -- somthing to the effect that work unsuited to your mind and unconstitution siphons off the vitality that should be going to your real work, even if you do have time at the end of the day.

Hell, writing is incredibly hard, for me anyway. As in, IT'S BAD ENOUGH BY ITSELF, and it's inhumane to have to do it on top of ANOTHER job (or two). Sleep deprivation, when it goes on and on and on and on, is debilitating. And if you have to write and you have to work, it's impossible not to want to sock writers who've never had to have a day job. Unless you're a saint, in which case -- well, have fun with that.

"I think working is a lot easier than writing. It's not like writing is an easy option for people from well-off backgrounds."

should be in quotes (I'm both too busy and too stupid to learn how to italicize the quoting-other-posters portions of my posts per ILX protocol.)

John Foer is someone I vaguely knew growing up (the "Safran" apparently came into use later). He went to my synagogue. He was a really nice kid. I can't muster up any harsh feelings towards him. But I don't like his writing all that much. I think he's much more talented than Eggers, but he or someone else needs to reign him in a little. The "experimentation" of his first novel wasn't really very groundbreaking at all, and most of it read like a bad stand-up routine.

Actually, I can muster up some slight resentment at his privelege. Parents are owners of a major jewelry company, mother is a powerful publicist, older brother works for New Republic, younger last year had his graduation speech published as a New York Times op-ed piece.

(I always confuse those two magazines, always always always.)

I'm sure there's a social value to nepotism; at the same time it frustrates many individuals' aspirations.

I'm too young to remember it, but one does get a sense that there was a good period in the 20th century when American literature was reinvigorated by an influx of talent from the working class, immigrant communities, etc. Today that seems to be waning.

we are now in the great deadzone. postmodern literature as we know it is played out. 'our' torchbearer, one david f. wallace, struggles with this notion, tries to overcome it, and fails miserably. and knows that, too.

you see david is an interesting little case study here. he is quite literally afraid to advance any moral or ethical proposition in his speech or texts. his prose reads as if it has been chiselled from ice. david is one cold kettle of fish. yet he wants very much to write a sad story but, bizarrely, cannot bring himself to do so. question 1: why? well, because he's afraid he'll come off pretentious, or sincere. what, that's too simplistic for you? then take it up with him, i ain't putting words in his mouth. question 2: why is he such a goddamn pussy? answer: i don't know. he just is. we don't really need to bother ourselves with why. and that brings me to my central point here: if literature is going to be saved, smartass pussies like david foster wallace are not going to be the ones to do it.

to be continued

so who is? for starters, people who aren't afraid of things like emotions, or taking out a shovel, not to dig a little hole in the ground and shit in it and then cover it back up, as one fellow i knew did almost daily while he worked as an installer for the cable company, but to really dig DEEP into that dirt and try to get under and excavate these buried problems. societal treatments (and this is all literature is and possibly ever was) are topical and, aside from making us feel miserable when we're done with them, ultimately worthlesss.

dave eggers, who copulats with the abovementioned davID wallace quite frequently, is another example of a smarmy douche tramped in the hotel california-esque irony funhouse. oh, oh we here him say, irony is blah blah, sincerity oop. well maybe you should quit being a smartass dickface and start having a genuine go at it then. but see he JUST-CANT KILL THE BEAST. and neither can wallace. so someone's gotta do it for them.

to be continued

xpost oh maybe i've never read the guy this is just speculation.

first, of course, wallace and eggers will have to be decapitated. i suggest decapitation because it's sure to get a lot of attention, and it suggests ritualism and purpose, which it should. there's no real symbolic purpose unlessi can think one up real quick here. obviously the real purpose will be to just stop them from writign and talking anymore.

the next step is a bit more drastic, and requires much elaboration. i will present it to you in short time.

this is supposed to be a kind of intermission here where the readers comment on the essay-so-far before it's continued.

just so you know.

There is a great and ostensibly insurmountable wall dividing these two classes of left-wing thought and literature. It doesn't need to be, just is, for reasons that i will proceed to ignore - but for whatever reason on one side of that wall, no one ever leaves, and on the other, no one ever enters. if they do, they just kinda peak around and then get outta dodge because, let's face it, it's boring as fuck.

i read the first 30 or so pages of empire and they were a doozy lemme tell ya. i've since put it down cuz it's just abstract philosophical shit, no nu-commie manifesto, that's for sure. maybe something will eventually spring from it, but if the wheels ever do start to roll i can promise you it won't be hardt or negri pushing them.

on the other hand we have the (tho married) very fuckable naomi klein's 'NO LOGO'. nice little book. apparently academics won't touch it. i haven't really either but that's just because i'm reading other stuff right now.

WHAT is needed then is a synthesis of 'populist' and 'academic' leftism in a digestable 'novel' form. that sentence is actually going to be th lead for the conclusion of my essay, which i'll finish later. i'm quite busy right now and it just occured to me that i should prolly read some of this stuff first. i'll catch all you luvvies later.

this concludes our broadcast day.

Atta boy. I'll let you know if I have anything intelligent to add. (My only good thought today was when I looked at the Sun-Times and read the headline CONGRESS, BUSH OK SCHIAVO LAW and thought: I CAN'T be the only one who noticed the pun. Hint: in Italian schiavo is either an adjective or a noun referring to something that starts with an 's' and has theoretically been illegal to own in the U.S. since the end of our civil war. I am ever more convinced that God is real but his only job is making sick jokes.)

love,
Kermit thee Frog

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