Like those suicidal moments that can begin with reading about a successful author half one’s age and twice one’s talent, my latest round of depressing self-discovery started in The New York Times Book Review.
Specifically, in the review of Andrea Lee’s “Lost Hearts in Italy.” The book shouldn’t have attracted my interest; I really know bupkus about her. But as I read the review, Lee’s novel sounded suspiciously similar to a short story she’d written 13 years ago.
I knew a single thing about Lee’s work, but that was enough: one of her stories, “Winter Barley,” appeared in the “O. Henry Best American Short Stories” of 1993, a story that didn’t make me want to vomit as much as eat the pages in anger, and then vomit.
So I wasn’t too disappointed when the review of Lee’s novel, which, like “Winter Barley,” was about an affair between a young American woman and an Italian geezer, got slammed.
Often art will upset us, but usually in the manner of drawing attention to injustice, for instance, or in the manner of frustrating our expectations. The former is known as political, the latter is the book or story that we will characterize as “maddening.”
Lee’s story that I read years ago falls into neither category. No, “Winter Barley” just plain pissed me off. Part of the reason was that I couldn’t believe just a piece of crap won any accolades, much less had been published in The New Yorker.
But really, what it boiled down to was a single element: pretense. The whole notion of writing stories is based on pretense, of course, but there’s a fine line between stupid and clever, and “Winter Barley” veered way of into the world of stupid long before I finished it. The story was all-knowing, smarter-than-thou, and, worst of all, smarmy. (They’re the same reasons that I couldn’t stand the “Wings of Desire” and “The Pillow Book.” I hated them. Hated hated HATED them.)
The protagonist jet sets around Europe, works for Citibank, and is screwing some old Italian dude as they vacation on the Scottish moors. It was self-indulgent expat tripe. I’ve traveled throughout Europe, I’m fluent in French, and I even know about finance!
Worth a thousand words
More recently, Anthony Doerr’s “The Shell Collector,” a recent collection of short stories, is written in a tone that I found about as appealing as green olive ice cream. One story, “The Hunter’s Wife,” had won some type of award but just made me want to find a shotgun. To shoot the book, not the author. Or me.
I slogged through about a third of “The Shell Collector” before throwing it against the wall. Wife, who enjoyed the book, wondered why it bothered me so.
“Because…because…because…” I stammered.
Rarely do I sit down and ask myself why some fiction drives me to distraction, and to say that such pieces are pretentious isn’t enough. The real questions are: are they truly pretentious or is this simply my defensive reaction to them? I am close-minded to certain works of art?
(It’s for this same reason I’ve avoided Jenette Winterston, who has been recommended to me on several occasions. It’s only because of her public persona that I’ve avoided her; she’s known as conceited and, yes, pretentious. Worse, she’s got a rep for stealing girlfriends. Like from heterosexual men like me.)
My inability to accept such works puts me in fairly rotten company: George W. Bush. The best pithy description of this incurious man was in (again) The New Yorker, which called him a “classic schoolyard bully,” intolerant of anything that differs from his narrow view of things and dismissive of (and intimidating) those who dare have different ideas, like maybe protesting doesn’t make one a traitor.
Much worse than George Bush finding the truth or the best solution to a problem illuminating his ignorance. At news conference with the French president, an American reporter dared asked Chirac a question in French, and W. flipped out. The reporter was just showing W. up! How dare make the President of the United States look stupid! How dare the reporter be so pretentious.
And this is where I get the sick feeling in the gut, like when I can no longer ignore the fact that I’ve spent all of my money on a Las Vegas weekend orgy on gambling, hookers, and front-row seats for Wayne Newton.
Yup
If there is something that makes me nuts, it’s being shown up. Save for masochists, nobody likes public humiliation, of course. But this agony can translate itself into the private realm as well, in which fiction that has the whiff of pretense drives me batty.
Is it that I hate the idea that the writer and a coterie of loyal readers get it and I don’t? Is it hatred of the fact that perhaps these writers are operating at a higher level of some sort, and that I cannot hope to emulate them? Is it a mere case of hating what I cannot understand, or hate what I fear becoming?
Am I afraid of being unmasked as a fraud? Wait, I’ve already done that. I imagine we all have our demons. Might as well admit to mine.
And I haven’t even talked about my thing for doughnuts, beer, and demolition derbies. Man, those are awesome.
The real questions are: are they truly pretentious or simply my reaction to them, or I am just close-minded to certain works of art?
But how many times are these authors kinds of stories/books actually asked, “Why are you so pretentious?” or “Who are you trying to kid?” Probably fewer times than we question our own judgement. It can’t always be them, but it can’t always be us dangnabit. And I am obviously not brave enough to ask these questions of myself yet. That’s okay though! I like my bubble.
I kinda liked Andrea Lee’s collection of short stories called “Intersting Women” — she does some cool stuff there.
I guess when you’re posh, you’re posh. The rest of us have to work for a living, huh?
The real questions are: are they truly pretentious or simply my reaction to them, or I am just close-minded to certain works of art?
But how many times are these authors kinds of stories/books actually asked, “Why are you so pretentious?” or “Who are you trying to kid?” Probably fewer times than we question our own judgement. It can’t always be them, but it can’t always be us dangnabit. And I am obviously not brave enough to ask these questions of myself yet. That’s okay though! I like my bubble.
The real questions are: are they truly pretentious or simply my reaction to them, or I am just close-minded to certain works of art?
But how many times are these authors kinds of stories/books actually asked, “Why are you so pretentious?” or “Who are you trying to kid?” Probably fewer times than we question our own judgement. It can’t always be them, but it can’t always be us dangnabit. And I am obviously not brave enough to ask these questions of myself yet. That’s okay though! I like my bubble.
I kinda liked Andrea Lee’s collection of short stories called “Intersting Women” — she does some cool stuff there.
I guess when you’re posh, you’re posh. The rest of us have to work for a living, huh?
I kinda liked Andrea Lee’s collection of short stories called “Intersting Women” — she does some cool stuff there.
I guess when you’re posh, you’re posh. The rest of us have to work for a living, huh?
I sympathize completely. You’ve actually filled in a gap for me with this, something that I’ve probably been writing and thinking around for years.
It’s some writer’s ease that gets me, as well as that sneaking suspicion that because I don’t like their stuff or at least find it interesting that I’m somehow stupid, or worse, gauche (that’s my new word for the day). Some seem to fall so easily into it, even getting loved for making something that I think is awful – while I look at my novel again and agonize over my fear that the characters feel like cartoons or that the sharp, living images I had while writing seem to have vanished, gone to the page to die in flat, black and white.
What’s more pretentious than mentioning Jenette Winterston in a blog post?
Actually, I like this post a lot. Sometimes I think people like a particular piece of art because they know that it won’t be accessible or well-liked by everyone else and it makes them feel special by associating themselves with it.
I sympathize completely. You’ve actually filled in a gap for me with this, something that I’ve probably been writing and thinking around for years.
It’s some writer’s ease that gets me, as well as that sneaking suspicion that because I don’t like their stuff or at least find it interesting that I’m somehow stupid, or worse, gauche (that’s my new word for the day). Some seem to fall so easily into it, even getting loved for making something that I think is awful – while I look at my novel again and agonize over my fear that the characters feel like cartoons or that the sharp, living images I had while writing seem to have vanished, gone to the page to die in flat, black and white.
I sympathize completely. You’ve actually filled in a gap for me with this, something that I’ve probably been writing and thinking around for years.
It’s some writer’s ease that gets me, as well as that sneaking suspicion that because I don’t like their stuff or at least find it interesting that I’m somehow stupid, or worse, gauche (that’s my new word for the day). Some seem to fall so easily into it, even getting loved for making something that I think is awful – while I look at my novel again and agonize over my fear that the characters feel like cartoons or that the sharp, living images I had while writing seem to have vanished, gone to the page to die in flat, black and white.
What’s more pretentious than mentioning Jenette Winterston in a blog post?
Actually, I like this post a lot. Sometimes I think people like a particular piece of art because they know that it won’t be accessible or well-liked by everyone else and it makes them feel special by associating themselves with it.
What’s more pretentious than mentioning Jenette Winterston in a blog post?
Actually, I like this post a lot. Sometimes I think people like a particular piece of art because they know that it won’t be accessible or well-liked by everyone else and it makes them feel special by associating themselves with it.
“stealing girlfriends?”
~offers your wife a shotgun~
courtney: the bubble is warm and safe, but you’ll eventually face up to the questions. (said like a underemployed shrink.)
michele: i think that you’ve hit upon part of the problem — why should i care about affluent, jet-setting rich people with stupid problems? i don’t.
quinn: glad to have filled in a gap. i think we all have the fear that if we don’t “get” somebody’s work, that makes us stupid. thus, you have posers who really are stupid but act like they’re omnicient. usually, they go to grad school.
neil: nothing could be more pretentious than posting a picture of jeanette winterston, except someone identifying her and mentioning it to everybody.
glad you liked the post — and you are completely right that many “like” something because it’s inacessable and becomes part of their private domain of snobbery.
bernita: hop on board.
Indeed there is nothing I find more attractive than being shown-up, but humbly so, and nothing so quickly invokes my wrath as being shown-up and deliberately so.
“stealing girlfriends?”
~offers your wife a shotgun~
“stealing girlfriends?”
~offers your wife a shotgun~
courtney: the bubble is warm and safe, but you’ll eventually face up to the questions. (said like a underemployed shrink.)
michele: i think that you’ve hit upon part of the problem — why should i care about affluent, jet-setting rich people with stupid problems? i don’t.
courtney: the bubble is warm and safe, but you’ll eventually face up to the questions. (said like a underemployed shrink.)
michele: i think that you’ve hit upon part of the problem — why should i care about affluent, jet-setting rich people with stupid problems? i don’t.
quinn: glad to have filled in a gap. i think we all have the fear that if we don’t “get” somebody’s work, that makes us stupid. thus, you have posers who really are stupid but act like they’re omnicient. usually, they go to grad school.
neil: nothing could be more pretentious than posting a picture of jeanette winterston, except someone identifying her and mentioning it to everybody.
glad you liked the post — and you are completely right that many “like” something because it’s inacessable and becomes part of their private domain of snobbery.
bernita: hop on board.
quinn: glad to have filled in a gap. i think we all have the fear that if we don’t “get” somebody’s work, that makes us stupid. thus, you have posers who really are stupid but act like they’re omnicient. usually, they go to grad school.
neil: nothing could be more pretentious than posting a picture of jeanette winterston, except someone identifying her and mentioning it to everybody.
glad you liked the post — and you are completely right that many “like” something because it’s inacessable and becomes part of their private domain of snobbery.
bernita: hop on board.
I just picked myself up off of the floor.
Bookfraud – Bush – Same sentence…feelings, synapes failing, fingers freezing on keyboard,
grabs handful of oxycontin
I don’t feel that authors are above me, or better, just that they have a talent I sometimes wish I had. Then again, I wouldn’t want to write like anyone but me, so if something bugs me, or bores, or I hate, I just accept that I don’t like. I don’t waste my time wondering why.
Why frustrate myself? Especially when there are a million books out there that I will enjoy.
:O)
Indeed there is nothing I find more attractive than being shown-up, but humbly so, and nothing so quickly invokes my wrath as being shown-up and deliberately so.
Indeed there is nothing I find more attractive than being shown-up, but humbly so, and nothing so quickly invokes my wrath as being shown-up and deliberately so.
BTW, I saw thi sin the NYT and thought of you.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/12/opinion/12pollitt.html?ex=1152849600&en=e43aba478692a9b9&ei=5087
What are you smoking over there, BF? No wonder you aren’t getting any writing done! We’ve already discussed your mentally challenged views on “Wings of Desire,” so I won’t go there again. However, Jeanette Winterson’s personal life should not distract from her beautiful prose. I think I’ve stated here before that “Written on the Body” is one of the most poetic novels I’ve ever read. She has one of the strongest commands of the English language of any writer publishing today. Don’t listen to the rubes on here…go get one of her books. You can’t keep knocking her without actually reading one of her novels. It makes you look…well…smarmy.
I just picked myself up off of the floor.
Bookfraud – Bush – Same sentence…feelings, synapes failing, fingers freezing on keyboard,
grabs handful of oxycontin
I just picked myself up off of the floor.
Bookfraud – Bush – Same sentence…feelings, synapes failing, fingers freezing on keyboard,
grabs handful of oxycontin
jordan: nothing like intentional vs. unintentional humiliation. says something about us all.
phoenix: such is the lowest of the low state that i am in that i dare put myself in the same league as that amoral, sniveling, piece-of-batshit war criminal. oh, you were talking about bush?
m.e. ellis: right you are. there’s really no reason to get upset, just don’t read! simple.
collin: ach, that’s the problem. i didn’t say i hated winterston’s writing, just that i’m afraid to. of course you’re right, i shouldn’t let her personal life interfere with what could be a rewarding experience.
but why should i do all that…when i’ve got heroin?
oops, wrong blog. yeah, i’ve got to give her a chance.
I don’t feel that authors are above me, or better, just that they have a talent I sometimes wish I had. Then again, I wouldn’t want to write like anyone but me, so if something bugs me, or bores, or I hate, I just accept that I don’t like. I don’t waste my time wondering why.
Why frustrate myself? Especially when there are a million books out there that I will enjoy.
:O)
I don’t feel that authors are above me, or better, just that they have a talent I sometimes wish I had. Then again, I wouldn’t want to write like anyone but me, so if something bugs me, or bores, or I hate, I just accept that I don’t like. I don’t waste my time wondering why.
Why frustrate myself? Especially when there are a million books out there that I will enjoy.
:O)
BTW, I saw thi sin the NYT and thought of you.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/12/opinion/12pollitt.html?ex=1152849600&en=e43aba478692a9b9&ei=5087
BTW, I saw thi sin the NYT and thought of you.
http://www.nytimes.com/2006/07/12/opinion/12pollitt.html?ex=1152849600&en=e43aba478692a9b9&ei=5087
What are you smoking over there, BF? No wonder you aren’t getting any writing done! We’ve already discussed your mentally challenged views on “Wings of Desire,” so I won’t go there again. However, Jeanette Winterson’s personal life should not distract from her beautiful prose. I think I’ve stated here before that “Written on the Body” is one of the most poetic novels I’ve ever read. She has one of the strongest commands of the English language of any writer publishing today. Don’t listen to the rubes on here…go get one of her books. You can’t keep knocking her without actually reading one of her novels. It makes you look…well…smarmy.
What are you smoking over there, BF? No wonder you aren’t getting any writing done! We’ve already discussed your mentally challenged views on “Wings of Desire,” so I won’t go there again. However, Jeanette Winterson’s personal life should not distract from her beautiful prose. I think I’ve stated here before that “Written on the Body” is one of the most poetic novels I’ve ever read. She has one of the strongest commands of the English language of any writer publishing today. Don’t listen to the rubes on here…go get one of her books. You can’t keep knocking her without actually reading one of her novels. It makes you look…well…smarmy.
jordan: nothing like intentional vs. unintentional humiliation. says something about us all.
phoenix: such is the lowest of the low state that i am in that i dare put myself in the same league as that amoral, sniveling, piece-of-batshit war criminal. oh, you were talking about bush?
m.e. ellis: right you are. there’s really no reason to get upset, just don’t read! simple.
collin: ach, that’s the problem. i didn’t say i hated winterston’s writing, just that i’m afraid to. of course you’re right, i shouldn’t let her personal life interfere with what could be a rewarding experience.
but why should i do all that…when i’ve got heroin?
oops, wrong blog. yeah, i’ve got to give her a chance.
jordan: nothing like intentional vs. unintentional humiliation. says something about us all.
phoenix: such is the lowest of the low state that i am in that i dare put myself in the same league as that amoral, sniveling, piece-of-batshit war criminal. oh, you were talking about bush?
m.e. ellis: right you are. there’s really no reason to get upset, just don’t read! simple.
collin: ach, that’s the problem. i didn’t say i hated winterston’s writing, just that i’m afraid to. of course you’re right, i shouldn’t let her personal life interfere with what could be a rewarding experience.
but why should i do all that…when i’ve got heroin?
oops, wrong blog. yeah, i’ve got to give her a chance.
Maybe I’m the same.
Is it a failure of my imagination that I can’t relate to jetset monied international ennui?
Is it a tell of my own failures and merely resentment that I find such content to be intellectual masturbation?
I’m just lowbrow, I guess. That’s my answer. I’d rather read a thiller with a hell of story than an introspective drawn out monologue reflecting the author’s sense of cultural displacment as he backpaks through Hungary.
Maybe I’m the same.
Is it a failure of my imagination that I can’t relate to jetset monied international ennui?
Is it a tell of my own failures and merely resentment that I find such content to be intellectual masturbation?
I’m just lowbrow, I guess. That’s my answer. I’d rather read a thiller with a hell of story than an introspective drawn out monologue reflecting the author’s sense of cultural displacment as he backpaks through Hungary.
Maybe I’m the same.
Is it a failure of my imagination that I can’t relate to jetset monied international ennui?
Is it a tell of my own failures and merely resentment that I find such content to be intellectual masturbation?
I’m just lowbrow, I guess. That’s my answer. I’d rather read a thiller with a hell of story than an introspective drawn out monologue reflecting the author’s sense of cultural displacment as he backpaks through Hungary.