Authors of futuristic novels can often have things both ways. For their imaginative worlds, the serious praise of prophecy rightly intuited is highlighted, as is the repeated bows and salutes for creating an alternate reality that mirrors aspects of contemporary society while introducing us to technology, social interaction, and psychological states that boldly go where ... (I know I know, treading on trademarked Gene Roddenberry ground, if he indeed penned it).
Peter Darbyshire's second novel, 2010's The Warhol Gang, is a futuristic proposition, but the time and space perspectives are near and nearby. It therefore has more responsibility to make its world believable for its transition from, and dependency on, today's streets and strophes.
Trotsky (most of the characters' names are cleverly penned as an ironic commentary on revolutionaries) is in need of a job, any job, so, through a career employment agency, is matched with Adsenses, a neuromarketing company which transposes product images in a hologram for its guinea pigs (or canaries) in order to see which areas of its employees' brains light up with excitement and (therefore) buying stimulus. The problem for Trotsky is that the images are so technologically effective, so powerful, that they literally erase great chucks of his memory and create an obsession for him to buy the products he sees in his workpod.
So far, so good. The story follows countless other fictions in which the past is erased, and one is left to negotiate between a shifting reality without moral guidelines or social commonplaces. At first, our troubled hero or anti-hero acquires the goods, but when his "Is that all there is" moment arrives, he goes searching for a deeper meaning through visceral, dramatic ambulance-chasing attempts to bond with the dead and dying. I'm not sure why Trotsky has this powerful impetus when no other fellow employees are stricken so, and especially when his brain has been so reprogrammed and manipulated. It seems that his confusion and amorality (dramatically convincing in paint-by-numbers prose) would set him off as just one more drone who inevitably goes postal after a meaningless existence, accelerated day by day. And in fact, a variant of that (likewise) nihilistic staple is next up. Theft ramps up to destruction and manslaughter, though I won't spoil the plot further.
The biggest problem with The Warhol Gang is in its prophetic course. Without a doubt, Darbyshire makes thoughtful points on the fifteen-seconds-of-fame desires of the mob (everyone? most? and how much is technologically driven, how much a psychological inevitability of human nature?) -- no subtlety, after all, that the gang is named after the proudly unoriginal Campbell's soup displayer -- and he also aces, in many wonderful scenes that go far beyond envy, an obsessive compulsion to become the other person which certainly have roots in consumer manipulation. But a sober look-'round, whether in Vancouver or Virginia, tells us that mall-mania and credit availability are already on the downturn, one that is likely to be long-lasting (perhaps permanent), worldwide, and relentless. There hasn't been a major mall built in the U.S. in a decade, and most of the remaining ones are filled with closed and closing stores; the international financial clusterfuck means credit card companies and banks will be (and are) reducing the number of right-side zeroes on consumer limits. Frivolous goods are still promoted, still bought, still desired, perhaps, in a perverse way, desired now even more so, but it's the desire for extreme experience in a war zone as one last stimulation before death (again, Darbyshire does an excellent job in delineating this). But it's not that people will clamour for ever more sophisticated versions of communications devices or work-easing appliances, it's that the money (i.e. natural resources) to create desires in prospective customers (in a pod or not) won't be there, meaning that it's tentacular grip will relax and sink to the bottom of the sea.
The second problem with the novel is its lack of any positive counterforce. (I don't call the "conflicted" Trotsky a meaningful alternative). Novels can certainly be unrelentingly grim, and some are better for their faithfulness to a monochromatic tone, but The Warhol Gang loses a lot of moral force and social realism by reducing its world to the disaffected inhabitants of a world uniformly compelled to sell it guns and garters.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Carol Shields' Swann
I liked the impetus behind Carol Shields' 1987 novel, Swann. A kid glove satirical jab at silly, pretentious academics who opine on the poetry of an obscure poet brutally murdered by her husband, it had the potential to comment on academic careerism, the ambiguous nature of art, and the vicissitudes of celebrity within the arts community. Unfortunately, though Shields scores a few points from these ideas, the novel's focus is on dull character sketches and unfunny dialogue.
Swann is divided into five chapters. Each of the first four concentrates on one of the main characters; the final chapter, reminiscent of her later Larry's Party, brings these and other characters together in a symposium supposedly shedding light on the life and art of the titular victim, but instead "exposing" the shallow, pompous, petty, and/or narrow-minded attributes of the attendees. The scare quote in the previous sentence is so because the point has been made redundant long before the conference. It still would have been OK if the final scene had provided some laughs, but it doesn't, and the uninteresting subplot "whodunnit" is even less thrilling.
The only parts I enjoyed were most of chapter four in which Frederic Cruzzi, the contrasting sympathetic character, was visited by a pitiable Swann the day before her murder, as well as the subsequent emotional incident with his loved and loving wife. That still doesn't make up for the excruciating chapter three (and parts of the last chapter) wherein a shy, reclusive Rose Hindmarsh is allowed to expansively ruminate on a fascinating life between library and night-reading in her rented suite.
The regularly displayed poetry of Swann is perhaps, in a postmodern smirk, meant to get the reader going on subtlety and genuine emotion vs derivation and cliche, the more heavily invested of us finally realizing we're the butt of the joke. But because academics are frequently made to look silly (when anyone cares to pay attention) doesn't render useless exegesis and evaluation. Shields' novel of "ideas" would have been a lot more interesting if she took a stand on that issue. Better poems would have been a prerequisite for that kind of exploration, though.
Swann is divided into five chapters. Each of the first four concentrates on one of the main characters; the final chapter, reminiscent of her later Larry's Party, brings these and other characters together in a symposium supposedly shedding light on the life and art of the titular victim, but instead "exposing" the shallow, pompous, petty, and/or narrow-minded attributes of the attendees. The scare quote in the previous sentence is so because the point has been made redundant long before the conference. It still would have been OK if the final scene had provided some laughs, but it doesn't, and the uninteresting subplot "whodunnit" is even less thrilling.
The only parts I enjoyed were most of chapter four in which Frederic Cruzzi, the contrasting sympathetic character, was visited by a pitiable Swann the day before her murder, as well as the subsequent emotional incident with his loved and loving wife. That still doesn't make up for the excruciating chapter three (and parts of the last chapter) wherein a shy, reclusive Rose Hindmarsh is allowed to expansively ruminate on a fascinating life between library and night-reading in her rented suite.
The regularly displayed poetry of Swann is perhaps, in a postmodern smirk, meant to get the reader going on subtlety and genuine emotion vs derivation and cliche, the more heavily invested of us finally realizing we're the butt of the joke. But because academics are frequently made to look silly (when anyone cares to pay attention) doesn't render useless exegesis and evaluation. Shields' novel of "ideas" would have been a lot more interesting if she took a stand on that issue. Better poems would have been a prerequisite for that kind of exploration, though.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Essay and Review
My essay on literary readings has been online at Canadian Notes & Queries for two months:
http://notesandqueries.ca/be-proud-to-linger-a-cnq-web-exclusive/
I also have a review of Grant Buday's memoir, Stranger On A Strange Island, in subTerrain's latest issue, #60.
http://notesandqueries.ca/be-proud-to-linger-a-cnq-web-exclusive/
I also have a review of Grant Buday's memoir, Stranger On A Strange Island, in subTerrain's latest issue, #60.
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
Rohinton Mistry's Such A Long Journey
Rohinton Mistry spent his first twenty-two years in India before settling in Toronto, long enough, obviously, to remember the colours, sights and sounds of his initial neighbourhood and outlying communities. Such A Long Journey, though, his 1991 novel set in 1971 Bombay, provides the reader with an emotional and moral adventure, not a memoirish curio as a travelogue substitute. In Gustad Noble, Mistry has created a fascinating protagonist, an angry yet loyal man, besieged by working poverty, political danger in a secret plan gone awry, tense relations with his eldest son, the sickness of his daughter, infelicities from his friend and work associate, a permanently damaged hip from saving his son's life many years ago, and the mundane yet soul-grinding daily problems which always arrive as emergencies in his household and compound. Noble's transformation is not only filled with emotional layering (narrated at a leisurely pace, but in tense fashion), it is believable and unpredictable.
I appreciate that Mistry didn't shy away from Indian regional dialect, and that the objects and emotions those words referred to were necessary, enlightening some element of plot or place.
The book is at times repetitive and awkward in tone and phrase, and in this, it reminds me of Theodore Dreiser's great An American Tragedy. It also shares with that classic a powerful narrative drive. Compromising elements of a novel are as nothing when the positive elements are at a high level, and numerous. (Moby-Dick breaks all the boring rules about "tightness of plot", but the novel doesn't thrive as a well-made craft-rectangle in a workshop window.)
The novel's ending is superb. It takes a lot of guts to write about characters earlier depicted as comic fodder in such a vulnerable and sympathetic manner. And the final subplot, or denouement (the fate of the art on the compound wall, and the transient artist who created it) is handled deftly, with classical scope.
I appreciate that Mistry didn't shy away from Indian regional dialect, and that the objects and emotions those words referred to were necessary, enlightening some element of plot or place.
The book is at times repetitive and awkward in tone and phrase, and in this, it reminds me of Theodore Dreiser's great An American Tragedy. It also shares with that classic a powerful narrative drive. Compromising elements of a novel are as nothing when the positive elements are at a high level, and numerous. (Moby-Dick breaks all the boring rules about "tightness of plot", but the novel doesn't thrive as a well-made craft-rectangle in a workshop window.)
The novel's ending is superb. It takes a lot of guts to write about characters earlier depicted as comic fodder in such a vulnerable and sympathetic manner. And the final subplot, or denouement (the fate of the art on the compound wall, and the transient artist who created it) is handled deftly, with classical scope.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Anne Michaels' Fugitive Pieces
Garnering polarizing responses from its readers, Anne Michaels' 1996 Fugitive Pieces is a Vox Dei novel (the people may as well be from a different universe, novel characters or readers). Precious, obscurely suggestive, hightoned and flatlined: these and many other dismissive adjectives can be applied to the book, but what really made me, by turns, laugh or groan was the unnecessary historical and archaeological detail. Pages of dry sourcebook ruminations on limestone and flora and bioluminescent gardens are included, of course, in an attempt to comment on the protagonist's submerged flickering-light soul struggles. Metaphor has rarely been this ambitious and abstract. The other reason for the geological main hall lectures? Well, after all that background reading, whether from personal interest or from necessary planning from a novel outline, it's tempting to brag to the readership that you've browsed more than a book or two, maybe even thought about its contents. Novel concept!
The instruction isn't always about sea foam and gypsum blossoms, though. Bare names are splashed across the page as if by their solemn intonation alone they conferred upon their author an open-ended gravitas:
"There were many volumes of poetry, more than I remembered, as well as Athos' lessons: Paracelsus, Linnaeus, Lyell, Darwin, Mendeleev. Field guides. Aeschylus, Dante, Solomos."
One character in the entire book -- Alex -- remotely resembled a human being. The others were eidolons, in both main meanings of the word. With that in mind, the sex scenes between Jakob and Michaela were hilarious, unintentionally so, because nothing in this book is meant to be funny, not even the dialogue puns. Body parts are touched in amazement: hands, arms, skull, femurs, sacrum, sternum, ears, feet, forehead, damp hair, hipbone, calves, eyes, wrists, pelvis. But no cock! (This is narrated by a man.) His selflessness is not only unbelievable, it's offensive. Who would want to make love with an out-of-body soul-merger? The foreplay? "I hear her small voice -- long phrases of music and stillness like an oar balanced in its arc above the water, dripping silver."
At least suggestion and self-importance in poetry is over in 90 emaciated pages. It's not as if there's a narrative in Fugitive Pieces that has to be filled in.
The instruction isn't always about sea foam and gypsum blossoms, though. Bare names are splashed across the page as if by their solemn intonation alone they conferred upon their author an open-ended gravitas:
"There were many volumes of poetry, more than I remembered, as well as Athos' lessons: Paracelsus, Linnaeus, Lyell, Darwin, Mendeleev. Field guides. Aeschylus, Dante, Solomos."
One character in the entire book -- Alex -- remotely resembled a human being. The others were eidolons, in both main meanings of the word. With that in mind, the sex scenes between Jakob and Michaela were hilarious, unintentionally so, because nothing in this book is meant to be funny, not even the dialogue puns. Body parts are touched in amazement: hands, arms, skull, femurs, sacrum, sternum, ears, feet, forehead, damp hair, hipbone, calves, eyes, wrists, pelvis. But no cock! (This is narrated by a man.) His selflessness is not only unbelievable, it's offensive. Who would want to make love with an out-of-body soul-merger? The foreplay? "I hear her small voice -- long phrases of music and stillness like an oar balanced in its arc above the water, dripping silver."
At least suggestion and self-importance in poetry is over in 90 emaciated pages. It's not as if there's a narrative in Fugitive Pieces that has to be filled in.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
A Short Story in Six Names
In today's last race at Tampa Bay Downs, these were the names of six of the ten horses which competed:
Sea Fighter
Troubleinrivercity*
Mr. Bad
Hookedonchurchpunch*
Wokeuponhomeplate*
Akickintheface
More dramatic than many stories I've read, 4, 40, or 400 pages.
* The run-ons aren't the cutesy fad they may appear to be, at first glance. Horse racing regulations stipulate that thoroughbreds' names be no longer than 18 characters, including spaces. The concluding chapter's appellation, then, could have been separated. Oh, and for what it's worth, the face kick won.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Sea Fighter
Troubleinrivercity*
Mr. Bad
Hookedonchurchpunch*
Wokeuponhomeplate*
Akickintheface
More dramatic than many stories I've read, 4, 40, or 400 pages.
* The run-ons aren't the cutesy fad they may appear to be, at first glance. Horse racing regulations stipulate that thoroughbreds' names be no longer than 18 characters, including spaces. The concluding chapter's appellation, then, could have been separated. Oh, and for what it's worth, the face kick won.
---------------------------------------------------------------
Conditions: 6 FURLONGS MAIDEN CLAIMING. FOR MAIDENS, THREE YEARS OLD. Weight, 120 lbs. Claiming Price $12,500, if for $10,000, allowed 2 lbs.
Purse: $11,000 Value of Race: $11,000 1st $7,000 2nd $1,800 3rd $1,100 4th $500 5th $100 6th $100 7th $100 8th $100 9th $100 10th $100 Mutuel Pool: $148,742 Pick 3 Pool: $18,881 Pick 4 Pool: $47,575 Pick 5 Pool: $20,975 Daily Double Pool: $22,622 Exacta Pool: $133,021 Superfecta Pool: $65,978 Super High Five Pool: $7,353 Trifecta Pool: $106,490
| # | Horse | A/S | M/E | Wgt | PP | St | 1/4 | 1/2 | Str | Fin | Jockey | Odds |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| 10 | Akickintheface | 3 C | L b | 120 | 10 | 6 | 33 | 11/2 | 14 | 12 1/2 | Cotto, Jr. Pedro L. | 5.40 |
| 2 | Offlee Clever | 3 C | L b | 120 | 2 | 2 | 82 | 81 | 3hd | 2no | Allen Mike | 7.90 |
| 7 | Fly Dixie | 3 G | L b | 114 | 7 | 10 | 10 | 91 1/2 | 5hd | 3hd | Barbaran Erik | 10.70 |
| 8 | Troubleinrivercity | 3 C | L b | 120 | 8 | 9 | 94 | 10 | 10 | 41 1/4 | Feliciano Ricardo | 66.60 |
| 6 | Wokeuponhomeplate | 3 C | L | 120 | 6 | 7 | 62 | 53 | 2hd | 53 3/4 | Santos Ademar | *2.60 |
| 9 | Mr. Bad | 3 C | 118 | 9 | 8 | 71 | 71/2 | 91 | 61 1/4 | Reznikov Alexander | 50.90 | |
| 3 | Sea Fighter | 3 G | L | 120 | 3 | 3 | 5hd | 61 | 7hd | 71 | Guidry Mark | 6.40 |
| 5 | Mr Cowboy Mike | 3 C | L | 120 | 5 | 5 | 11/2 | 3hd | 6hd | 82 | Zambrana Eddie Joe | 46.50 |
| 1 | Hookdonchurchpunch | 3 G | L b | 120 | 1 | 4 | 2hd | 22 | 41 | 91 | Gonzalez Luis Antonio | 7.20 |
| 4 | Callejero | 3 C | L | 120 | 4 | 1 | 41/2 | 41/2 | 81/2 | 10 | Morales Pablo | 2.70 |
| Off Time: 4:47 Start: 10 went. Good for all. Won driving. Track: Fast Weather: Clear 67o |
| Fractions: :223, :463, :594, 1:132 (:22.79, :46.77, :59.84, 1:13.56) |
| # | Horse | Win | Place | Show |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| 10 | Akickintheface | 12.80 | 6.80 | 5.40 |
| 2 | Offlee Clever | 7.20 | 4.20 | |
| 7 | Fly Dixie | 5.60 |
| Pedigree: | 10 - Akickintheface, Dark Bay or Brown Colt, 3, by With Distinction - Jo Ann's Gal by Relaunch |
| Wager Type | Payoff | Winning Numbers | Pool | |
|---|---|---|---|---|
| $2 Pick 3 | $996.00 | 7-10-10 (3 Correct) | $18,881 | |
| $2 Pick 4 | $4,501.20 | 8-7-10-10 (4 Correct) | $47,575 | |
| $1 Pick 5 | $8,914.00 | 9-8-7-10-10 (5 Correct) | $20,975 | |
| $2 Daily Double | $81.80 | 10-10 | $22,622 | |
| $2 Exacta | $134.20 | 10-2 | $133,021 | |
| $1 Superfecta | $10,624.70 | 10-2-7-8 | $65,978 | |
| $1 Super High Five | $0.00 | 10-2-7-8-6 (Carryover: $6017) | $7,353 | |
| $2 Trifecta | $1,077.60 | 10-2-7 | $106,490 |
| Race Summary |
|---|
AKICKINTHEFACE vied four wide early, shook clear and drew off to mid stretch then held a safe margin late under steady handling. OFFLEE CLEVER made a middle move, angled to the middle of the track then was up for the place late. FLY DIXIE split rivals in the furlong grounds to be gaining late. TROUBLEINRIVERCITY fanned five wide then closed a gap outside. WOKEUPONHOMEPLATE was well placed into the stretch then weakened. MR. BAD raced evenly. SEA FIGHTER failed to menace. MR COWBOY MIKE was through after a half. HOOKDONCHURCHPUNCH dueled into the stretch then faltered. CALLEJERO was boxed inside for a half then was shuffled back while stopping. |
| Owners: |
| Trainers: |
| Breeders: |
Data provided or compiled by Equibase Company, which includes data from The Jockey Club, generally is accurate but occasionally errors and omissions occur as a result of incorrect data received by others, mistakes in processing and other causes. Equibase Company and Bloodstock Research Information Services, Inc. and Thoroughbred Sports Network disclaim responsibility for the consequences, if any, of such errors, but would appreciate being called to their attention.
Tuesday, January 24, 2012
Steve Rubin
I understand that Quill & Quire is in the business of germinating rubles, though it's fascinating to watch the constant heavy-footed hopscotch hops to both sides of the line bifurcating the boxes marked "art" and "commerce".
In the critical section, there've been many thoughtful book reviews over the years, more impressive for their coherence and intelligence within a space not much larger than a Christmas Seal.
Then we have the other side of the ruble (or to be fair to struggling book resources in Canada, the other side of the kopeck) where the philosophy of Texas prevails ("big is best"). In their Quillcast section, readers and listeners were beneficiaries of a well-done interview with Clarke Blaise upon the author's release of The Meagre Tarmac in which a thoughtful career retrospective backgrounded talk of this latest volume. Two podcasts later, and it's Steve Rubin, prominent publisher of several "too big to fail" conglomerates since 1984 (unavoidable symbolic overtones, though Aldous Huxley made a much better prognosticator than did Orwell) gushing in self-love over his power-point primer in how he's shepherded success, success measured only by the cash register's ring and the amazonian cart-bar.
Look, I get it. Every business wants to do well. And I define business here in much broader terms than Quill & Quire or Bantam Doubleday Dell International Incorporated LLC MegaResource Cloud Tablet MultiFocus Emporium. A single person -- an author -- is a business, as well, at times. But can anyone other than a Rubin-sympatico focus on money, exclusively, at the expense of creative excitement? Why, yes, many can. Look up a few of the wildly popular personal blogs that have popped up like bad mushrooms the past year in the wake of the spike in self-publishing sales juiced by Kindle and author-friendly terms from Amazon. I won't name them since I don't want to bolster any traffic to those sites, but they of course get a lot of traffic (including comment stream chatter) because books hold more interest for those in the writing biz as truncated silver than as art, more interest not just for the blockbuster Rubins and enabling Quill & Quires, but, more importantly and more ominously, for authors themselves.
Maybe some rag should do a story on that. Oh, wait. Sponsors. Which brings us back across the line to creative content. Pleasing two masters, extra birds in the bush .... I'm sure you can think of your own symbols.
In the critical section, there've been many thoughtful book reviews over the years, more impressive for their coherence and intelligence within a space not much larger than a Christmas Seal.
Then we have the other side of the ruble (or to be fair to struggling book resources in Canada, the other side of the kopeck) where the philosophy of Texas prevails ("big is best"). In their Quillcast section, readers and listeners were beneficiaries of a well-done interview with Clarke Blaise upon the author's release of The Meagre Tarmac in which a thoughtful career retrospective backgrounded talk of this latest volume. Two podcasts later, and it's Steve Rubin, prominent publisher of several "too big to fail" conglomerates since 1984 (unavoidable symbolic overtones, though Aldous Huxley made a much better prognosticator than did Orwell) gushing in self-love over his power-point primer in how he's shepherded success, success measured only by the cash register's ring and the amazonian cart-bar.
Look, I get it. Every business wants to do well. And I define business here in much broader terms than Quill & Quire or Bantam Doubleday Dell International Incorporated LLC MegaResource Cloud Tablet MultiFocus Emporium. A single person -- an author -- is a business, as well, at times. But can anyone other than a Rubin-sympatico focus on money, exclusively, at the expense of creative excitement? Why, yes, many can. Look up a few of the wildly popular personal blogs that have popped up like bad mushrooms the past year in the wake of the spike in self-publishing sales juiced by Kindle and author-friendly terms from Amazon. I won't name them since I don't want to bolster any traffic to those sites, but they of course get a lot of traffic (including comment stream chatter) because books hold more interest for those in the writing biz as truncated silver than as art, more interest not just for the blockbuster Rubins and enabling Quill & Quires, but, more importantly and more ominously, for authors themselves.
Maybe some rag should do a story on that. Oh, wait. Sponsors. Which brings us back across the line to creative content. Pleasing two masters, extra birds in the bush .... I'm sure you can think of your own symbols.
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