The Very Idea: Pamela Erens on Reality Hunger by David Shields

David Shields, Reality Hunger: A Manifesto, Knopf, 2010

I suspect David Shields would appreciate my reaction to Reality Hunger: I was angered and threatened by it, and I couldn’t let it go. I wanted either to be overwhelmed by its truths (I wasn’t), or able to dismiss it quickly (I couldn’t). If you haven’t already read some rave review or stinging pan of the book, it’s a collection of 618 numbered passages, divided into twenty-six chapters each with a thematic title (e.g., “Memory,” In Praise of Brevity,” “Thinking”). The subtitle of Reality Hunger is “A Manifesto,” and the overwhelming majority of the passages argue, overtly or covertly, for some feature of Shields’s premise: that the future of literature lies in the technique of collage–or, to use a more contemporary and all-inclusive term, the mash-up. Shields is bored, he tells us, with the traditional novel, bored with the novel-like narratives of much nonfiction. These forms, he feels, screen out real life rather than plumb it and present it to us so that we can feel it; they work like machines without a human intelligence behind them. If we want reality, if we want true art, we need the fragmented, the happenstance, the self-conscious. The mash-up.

Mash-up is not just the matter but the method of this book. The most controversial part of Reality Hunger’s publication has been Shields’s use of other people’s words–not, as is common, to illustrate an occasional apercu of his own, but to bulk out nearly the entire content of his book. Perhaps one in five passages are Shields’s own. The rest are from literary critics, authors, filmmakers, musicians, playwrights, artists, and miscellaneous others. As Shields has mentioned many times in interviews, he wanted to publish the book without citing any of his sources, but was prevented from doing so by Random House’s lawyers. The citations therefore appear in punishingly small print at the back of the book, and with dotted lines near the sewn signature, so that readers can–as Shields urges them to–scissor them out. In a brief note prefacing the citations, Shields writes: “Stop; don’t read any farther.”

“It must all be considered as if spoken by a character in a novel (minus the novel),” Shield says of his book in passage number 5, an early bit of authorial instruction. The reader (assuming she doesn’t ignore Shields’s request and jump to the back) will never know whether any given passage was written by Shields or somebody else, and Shields believes it doesn’t matter. As he later makes clear, what is meaningful to him is not the origin of any particular comment but the way comments “talk” to and with each other. Combined, they become the speech of some uber-persona, some transcendent speaker who is not precisely David Shields but who has been brought into being by him. Shields devotes several pages of Reality Hunger to a discussion of the history and role of the DJ in music, and he clearly sees himself as the DJ of this book, weaving together “tracks” from the work of other writers to create a certain kind of performance. (In fact, even the tracks are edited–in Number 296, Shields confesses that nearly all were truncated or reworded “at least a little.” For instance, if you do flip to the citations, you find that passage 5, just quoted, was not written by Shields but by a combination of Roland Barthes and Michael Dirda, book critic for the Washington Post critic. However, it unmistakably lays out Shields’s position.)

As a novelist interested in issues of persona, I can’t help but be intrigued by Shields’s method, which opens up new possibilities for speaking, for narrative voice. At the same time, it creates some obvious complications. In the first forty-some passages, Reality Hunger’s narrator gives us a brief history of the development of writing and of the essay. But if this narrator is akin to “a character in a novel,” then why should we take anything he says as true? Perhaps he has simply made up the fact that “Writing began around 3200 b.c.,” or that the essay had its roots in collections of aphorisms assembled by the Sumerians. Oh, but Shields has told us the narrator is a character in a novel “minus the novel”–so presumably we are supposed to accept this book as not-a-fiction. We are meant to believe the speaking “I.” But by this point we might feel justifiably irritated. Can Shields really have it both ways?

By the terms Shields himself sets up, there’s no reason for us to accept anything in Reality Hunger as sincere, or as an expression of Shields’s actual point of view. However, I’ve read and watched many interviews in which Shields discusses the book, and it’s clear he does want us to read him straight. I’ll therefore take the facts in the book as facts, the opinions as by and large Shields’s opinions, whether he originally wrote them or not. But that I have to decide to do this, have to make the choice to trust the intent here, has implications when it comes to one of Shields’s pet notions, that there is no real difference between fiction and nonfiction. He [1] has some interesting things to say about the blurred boundaries between the two. Number 213:

In all the reconstructive arts–forensics, forensic anthropology, paleontology, archaeology, art restoration, fields into which scholars have put enormous work, defining methods, freedoms, and boundaries as they strive to fill in the blanks of history–people make the best educated guess as to what “really” happened. Archaeologists imagine the buildings that once stood upon the foundations they unearth. Forensic specialists imagine the faces that masked old skulls. An art restorer “paints over” a painting to bring it “back to the original.” A police sketch of a suspected criminal is routinely derived from the imaginations of several witnesses. Similarly, imagined stories have an important place in nonfiction.

In Number 389, Shields [2] reverses our usual understanding of truth in fiction and nonfiction:

The reader of biography and autobiography (and history and journalism) is always and everywhere dogged by epistemological insecurity. In a work of nonfiction we almost never know the truth of what really happened. The ideal of unmediated reporting is regularly achieved only in fiction, where the writer faithfully reports on what’s going on in his imagination. When James reports in The Golden Bowl that the Prince and Charlotte are sleeping together, we have no reason to doubt him or to wonder whether Maggie is “overreacting” to what she’s seeing. James’s report is a true report. The facts of imaginative literature are as hard as the rock that Samuel Johnson kicked when, asked how he would refute Bishop Berkeley’s notion that matter doesn’t exist, he struck “his foot with might force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it, and said, `I refute it thus.’” We must always take the novelist’s and the playwright’s and the poet’s word, just as we’re almost always free to doubt the biographer’s or the autobiographer’s or the historian’s or the journalist’s.

These are significant insights. It is, in fact, impossible ever to completely purify nonfiction of fiction, because the autobiography, the biography, the memoir, the history, and the journalistic account all rely on memory (the author’s or his sources’s), and memory is astonishingly selective and faulty. Point taken. But when you think about it, Shields is exploiting here a literary history in which the two genres of fiction and nonfiction are intuitively understood to be distinct. It is because we do believe that nonfiction is not “made up” that Shields can write a book in which he says there’s strictly no such thing as nonfiction while at the same time expecting us to believe that he’s not lying when he tells us how the art of DJ’ing developed, or that he, Shields, can’t read novels anymore. Something tells me that Shields might not actually be so thrilled about a world in which the eradication of genre was as thorough as he advocates. He [3] thinks the James Frey brouhaha over A Million LIttle Pieces was a big yawn. Number 116:

I’m disappointed not that Frey is a liar but that he isn’t a better one. He should have said, Everyone who writes about himself is a liar. I created a person meaner, funnier, more filled with life than I could ever be. He could have talked about the parallel between a writer’s persona and the public persona that Oprah presents to the world.

I’m sure Oprah would have appreciated that. But does Shields really want a world in which, say, a politician writing a memoir claims that the family of Jews next door mixed the blood of murdered Christian children with their Passover meal? Should we not mind this because the politician is just trying to create a person who is meaner and more filled with life than he really is? (Look at how scrappy he was, what evils he faced down!) There is a value to designating certain kinds of works as nonfiction, and then watchdogging the category for all we’re worth. Nonfiction may never meet the ideal of absolute truth, but that ideal is one we must defend.

Shields appears to be less interested in truth than in “truth.” He wants to celebrate a kind of wisdom literature that combines elements of memoir, essay, thinking-on-the-page, and aphorism. He’s upfront about the fact that he expects literature to solve problems, or try to. He likes following a writing human consciousness as it wrestles with such enduring human topics as mortality, illness, identity, and love. To do this well, Shields believes, that writing consciousness has to get at “reality” and shed the dead forms of plotting and pacing that readers have come to enjoy and expect–the Freytag’s Triangle of rising action, climax, falling action, and denouement that would-be novelists learn to emulate in their MFA classes. The very first sentence of Reality Hunger claims: “Every artistic movement from the beginning of time is an attempt to figure out a way to smuggle more of what the artist thinks is reality into the work of art.” It’s easy to think of examples: Flaubert making the ordinary longings and frustrations of a bourgeois wife the centerpiece of Madame Bovary; Virginia Woolf finding the means to pin the fluid shifts of thought and perception to the page.

But Shields divulges in his very title that he’s hungry for still more reality–the breakthroughs of the realists and the modernists have become cliche and unable (so he believes) to move readers any longer. So what kinds of reality are as yet untouched? Shields is not terribly precise about this, but in Number 3 he mentions “`raw’ material, seemingly unprocessed, unfiltered, uncensored, and unprofessional,” offering the Zapruder film of the Kennedy assassination as a for-instance. He goes on to cite “randomness” and “openness to accident and serendipity,” as markers of reality-infused art, as well as (less persuasively) “artistic risk, emotional urgency and intensity, reader/viewer participation, an overly literal tone . . . self-reflexivity . . . a blurring (to the point of invisibility) of any distinction between fiction and nonfiction.”

These, Shields says, signal the art that people are hungry for today. He names various artists and works he believes have succeeded in this amalgam, and Reality Hunger is a wonderful source book in this respect. The poet Anne Carson, the writer Lydia Davis, and Proust come up repeatedly. Other works that earn Shields’s approval: Simon Gray’s The Smoking Diaries, Marguerite Duras’s The Lover, Lauren Slater’s Lying, Annie Dillard’s For the Time Being, anything by Geoff Dyer, the films of Sophie Calle, the comic routines of Sarah Sliverman, Elizabeth Hardwick’s Sleepless Nights, Nicholson Baker’s U & I, Joe Wenderoth’s Letters to Wendy’s.

No question that amalgam-art is all around us, most pervasively in popular music and reality TV. Even the more scripted television shows reveal signs of reality hunger: e.g., Curb Your Enthusiasm, in which Larry David appears as “himself,” and The Office, which features camera work, pacing, and actor sidebars meant to make episodes play like a documentary. Tina Fey’s impressions of Sarah Palin were spectacularly engaging in part because they were only slight reworkings of words Palin actually spoke in interviews.

Shields believes our reality-mania is due to the over-produced nature of our world. “Bored with the airbrushed perfection of Friends,” (Number 308) “we want to watch real people stuck on tropical islands without dental floss.” But the more we get “reality” into our art, the more that art necessarily fragments. Number 70:

As a work gets more autobiographical, more intimate, more confessional, more embarrassing, it breaks into fragments. Our lives aren’t prepackaged along narrative lines and, therefore, by its very nature, reality-based art–underprocessed, underproduced–splinters and explodes.

This does not worry Shields. On the contrary, traditional fiction–extended narratives featuring long successions of paragraphs more or less seamlessly assembled into the larger chunks of chapters–almost always elicits from him a tone of sneering impatience. Number 319:

Conventional fiction teaches the reader that life is a coherent, fathomable whole that concludes in neatly wrapped-up revelation. Life, though–standing on a street corner, channel surfing, trying to navigate the web or a declining relationship, hearing that a close friend died last night–flies at us in bright splinters. [4]

Number 347:

I love literature, but not because I love stories per se. I find nearly all the moves the traditional novel makes unbelievably predictable, tired, contrived, and essentially purposeless. I can never remember characters’ names, plot developments, lines of dialogue, details of setting. It’s not clear to me what such narratives are supposedly revealing about the human condition.

Number 348:

As a moon rocket ascends, different stages of the engine do what they must to accelerate the capsule. Each stage of the engine is, successively, jettisoned until only the capsule is left with the astronauts on its way to the moon. In linear fiction, the whole structure is accelerating toward the epiphanic moment, but I still feel that the writer and the reader can jettison the pages leading to the epiphany. They serve a purpose and then fall into the Pacific Ocean, so I’m left with Gabriel Conroy and his falling faintly, faintly falling, and I’m heading to the moon in the capsule, but the rest of the story has fallen away. In collage, every fragment is a capsule: I’m on my way to the moon on every page. [5]

And one more (though there are numerous similar examples to choose from), number 375:

My reaction to a lot of longer stories is often Remind me again why I read this, or The point being? The point, such as it is, often seems to me woefully or willfully obscure in even the most well-made stories. I’ve become an impatient writer and reader: I seem to want the moral, psychological, philosophical news to be delivered now.

Ah. Here we learn what’s at the bottom of Shields’s dislike of fiction (despite the fact that he has himself written three novels)–the reason why, as he puts it, he couldn’t read the novel The Corrections “if my life depended on it” (Number 594). He wants a “point.” He wants “news.” Surely Shields recognizes that this is not primarily what fiction does, what’s it’s for. It’s not for anything, actually, but those of us who love it, who can’t live without it (couldn’t give it up if our lives depended on it) read it because it is an experience, a communion with other consciousnesses (the implicit narrator’s, the characters’s), a totality that exists in its own right. There is no single epiphany toward which fiction leads, just as the justification for a symphony is not in the final chord. We read for the complex music of the whole.

Shields offers much evidence in Reality Hunger that he is simply numb to fiction’s pleasures–to its, may I say, reality. Numbness seems to be something he is constantly fighting against. He returns several times to the Friends-Leads-to-Reality-TV notion. “Living as we perforce do in a manufactured and artificial world,” he writes in Number 239, “we yearn for the `real,’ semblances of the real. We want to pose something nonfictional against all the fabrication–autobiographical frissons or framed or filmed or caught moments that, in their seeming unrehearsedness, possess at least the possibility of breaking through the clutter.” Number 310: “We really do want to feel, even if that means indulging in someone else’s joy or woe.” [6] In a recent review of a memoir for The New York Times Book Review, Shields wrote that the author was “trying to make himself, make us, feel something, feel anything, do whatever he can to vanquish the numbness.”

Whence comes Shields’s pressing sense of unreality? Why does he think it requires so much work to feel? Yes, if you watch a lot of music videos or TV you can grow nauseated by the artificiality and the crude manipulation of our emotions and senses. But outside forces have always helped manufacture human beings’s sense of the real. There was no time in recorded history when human beings had an unmediated experience of the sun, the stars, their gods, sex, love, or anything else. Before mass media told us how to think and feel about these things, it was the Church, the sect, the tribe.

I live amid the same crap Shields does, but my life is real to me. I think most people’s lives are real to them. I have two children, and, caramba, are they real! They experience hunger, they need clothes and attention, and certain things, external and internal (thunderstorms, their own rages) hurt or frighten them. My own body is real, and my breath is, too, and the trees outside my window and the weather (however currently degraded by human beings). As I read on in Reality Hunger I became more and more confused about Shields’s use of the word “reality.” Never does he give a clear definition. Right at the get-go (Number 1), he acknowledges that, “Reality, as Nabokov never got tired of reminding us, is the one word that is meaningless without quotation marks,” but then he goes on blithely to employ it to mean . . . what? When he writes, in Number 207, “What I want is the real world, with all its hard edges, but the real world fully imagined and fully written, not merely reported,” what can he possibly mean? Does “real” mean plants and cars and people? Does it mean what’s on the news at six p.m.? The thoughts we think, the dreams we dream at night? Eventually I had to come to the conclusion that “reality” means anything that doesn’t bore–or numb–David Shields. And since, as he confesses (number 587, number 439), he has a tendency to privilege the abstract over the concrete, a great deal of imaginative literature is going to bore him.

I claim a larger definition for reality, a much larger one, and fiction can nest comfortably inside it. (Isn’t fiction, in fact, “the real world fully imagined and fully written, not merely reported”?) If some people today don’t read fiction, it’s not because it doesn’t address the “real.” Fiction addresses the same things it’s always addressed: human character, the promptings of the soul, ethical dilemmas, yearning, dread, failure, success, society, solitude. These things are profoundly, essentially real. And there have always been many people who do not read fiction. In earlier eras, it was because stories about the doings of ordinary human beings were considered frivolous and uninstructive: serious people read religious and philosophical texts. Today many people don’t read fiction because of competition from so may other sources: television, DVDs, iPods, Twitter, the Internet. But even now, millions of novels are sold, and even if they are not all of the highest quality, they attest to the enduring human hunger for narrative and “reality” both. I like the way David Foster Wallace once put it in an essay (“Fictional Futures and the Conspicuously Young”):

Human beings are narrative animals: every culture countenances itself as culture via a story, whether mythopoeic or politico-economic; every whole person understands his lifetime as an organized, recountable series of events and changes with at least a beginning and middle. We need narrative like we need space-time; it’s a built-in thing.

Narrative is, to some degree, our reality. We are meaning-making and sense-making creatures, and our existences take place in time. If you have time, you automatically have story. Tolstoy and George Eliot, both of whom Shields finds tiresome, are masters at this meaning-making, and they are masters also of tone and music and language, and that is why they still provide the most complex joys, unease, and solace. Turning to a different medium, perhaps a home movie is more “real” than, say, Raging Bull, in the sense that the people in the home movie do not act for a living and are presumably not following a script (though we all know everyone “acts” in one way or another for a camera). But that’s a very nominal kind of reality. When I watch Raging Bull, I know that Robert de Niro wasn’t ever world middleweight boxing champion, nor did he really marry an 18-year-old girl named Vickie whom he beat and cheated on. Yet I’m moved to the core by the rough beauty of the imagery, by the unfolding of a sibling relationship over time, by the delight human beings can take in being alive, by the revelation too of how cruel they can be. Is Raging Bull artificial? Of course. That’s why it’s called art. But surely its tones, its depths, represent a reality as real or more real than that of a home movie.

I won’t go on and on in a defense of narrative or plot. Its virtues are obvious to anyone who acknowledges that choices and events have consequences . . . or who simply appreciates plot’s architectural aspects. That plot can become mechanical is inarguable, and the handling of plot is one of the (many) things that distinguish bad art from good. In good art plot embodies larger truths about cause and effect, or even the absence of expected cause and effect. It registers our desire for meaning–and a search for meaning isn’t stupid even in a world understood to function via the random action of quantum particles. If I’ve loved my husband for twenty years and then he dies, that feels like a conclusion to something, even if clever folks would say endings are an illusion. That is a part of my life that had a beginning, a middle, and an end. Even literature with a tired plot can have glories that well justify the creakiness of the scaffolding. Shakespeare famously used some awfully tired plots, and they provide simple, mythic backgrounds against which he can work his intricate magic.

Let me say now that I greatly enjoy and admire many of the books and writers Shields champions. Lydia Davis regularly achieves marvels in three paragraphs. Sarah Manguso’s The Two Kinds of Decay, which is recommended on Shields’s website, is a powerful, compressed, poetic memoir. I’m a Proust and Dillard and Duras and Nicholson Baker and Coetzee fan. Their works are those in which, as Shields puts it, “the armature of overt drama is dispensed with, and we’re left with a deeper drama, the real drama: an active human consciousness trying to figure out how he or she has solved or not solved being alive.” (Number 432.) But there are times when one needs something that can be missing from these kinds of works, and that is the robust presence of other people. (There are robust characters aplenty in In Search of Lost Time, but note that Proust’s narrator in that work functions for long stretches as a third-person narrator.)

We cannot escape our own subjectivity, but we live in a world peopled with others. In fact, we become ourselves only via our interactions with those others. Even the strongest account of the active human consciousness trying to figure out how he or she has solved or not solved being alive will deny the reader the experience of, say, one particular imagined Choctaw Indian removed from her land during the 1831 Trail of Tears, or of an unstable Russian student who decides to murder a local pawnbroker. And why do I need to see through the eyes of a murderous Russian student? In a day-to-day sort of way, I don’t. And yet I’m hungry to.

Fiction brings us powerful experiences of other human consciousnesses, and a far greater range of such consciousnesses than can be found in memoir. This is not just a matter of the characters we encounter in stories. Even more transformative, perhaps, is a reader’s contact with a given narrator. Whether in third person or first person, the strongest fiction speaks in an idiosyncratic voice, channelling a persona that is neither strictly author nor character. This voice embodies a stance toward (yes) reality; it is a way of ordering experience. It says, all on its own, “this is the reality of how we live now.” Has Shields not noticed? Has he never read such contemporary writers of unmistakable voice as George Saunders or Cynthia Ozick or Deborah Eisenberg? “Traditional” writers each have their own unmistakable voice as well. Tolstoy does not sound or think like George Eliot who does not sound or think like Dickens or Henry James or Wallace Stegner or Jonathan Franzen or Jonathan Dee.

Note too that in even in the works Shields counterposes to the bad-traditional, the authors write their own words. Duras, Coetzee, Davis–they’ve all apparently decided that the resources of the English or French or whatever language are capacious enough to allow them unique ways to express their sense of reality. Shields [7] dismisses worries that mash-ups without attribution are plagiaristic by insisting (Number 101) that all literature is based on “telling the same stories over and over again”:

When I worked at a newspaper, we were routinely dispatched to `match’ a story from the Times: to do a new version of someone else’s idea. But had we `matched’ any of the Times’s words–even the most banal of phrases–it could have been a firing offense. The ethics of plagiarism have turned into the narcissism of minor differences: because journalism cannot own up to its heavily derivative nature, it must enforce originality on the level of the sentence.

But sentences are important, and sentences transmit the unique DNA of a writer: shape, rhythm, perspective. Good literature is our means of experiencing the subjective, singular voice that reaches us in singular sentences. There is something eerie about a book lacking a coherent and localizable narrator. We look to literature for a relationship of intimacy–not with the author per se, but with his or her narrator/avatar. In the nineteenth century, that avatar was generally broad-minded, competent and trustworthy, occasionally pompous but usually genuinely wise; in the twentieth and twenty-first, it is less wise than wiseacre, sharply insightful but rather self-loathing. We connect passionately to these avatars: reading is still a one-to-one relationship, even if the “one” on the other side is a persona and not a flesh and blood creature. To complain that literature is always “telling the same stories over and over again” is like complaining that babies are always born with two arms and two legs. Each book, like each child, re-instantiates the miracle of life.

Reality Hunger, even while championing the “active human consciousness trying to figure out how he or she has solved or not solved being alive,” has not explained how a collage literature could avoid denying us the singular human consciousness literature has traditionally brought us. Not to mention that collage is inherently limited as a form. As computer scientist Jaron Lanier puts it in his recent book You Are Not a Gadget, a culture which relies too heavily on sampling “is “effectively eating its own seed stock.” Reality Hunger has three epitaphs. The last is, “When we are not sure, we are alive.” (Here the originator of the phrase is cited. It is Graham Greene.) In an interview Shields did with the literary magazine Salt Hill, he claimed that his book is “an anti-manifesto manifesto. The book constantly undermines itself, quotes against itself, works to question its own premises, etc. I’d hate it if it were a straight manifesto.”

Of all the things Shields says (or “says”) in Reality Hunger, this one baffles me the most. His other statements are arguable, a matter of interpretation and nuance. This one is simply not true. I found maybe two passages in the book that directly question or contradict Shields’s primary point of view. There are sentences in which he regards himself with some irony, but that is not the same thing genuine self-questioning. The chapters entitled “Contradiction” and “Doubt” contain aphorisms such as “Great art is clear thinking about mixed feelings” (Number 405) and “We’re only certain (`certain only’?) about what we don’t understand” (Number 411), but Shields doesn’t have mixed feelings about his topic. Reality Hunger is indeed a manifesto. Shields has taken his own imperviousness to fiction, his own preference for abstraction, and his own excitement about collage, and turned these into a proclamation that fiction is a played-out genre (or non-genre) and that only brevity, silence and mash-up can represent our lives today. Shields doesn’t appear to consider that so-called traditional fiction critiques collage art just as deeply as it is critiqued by it. Had he done so, he might have allowed other voices to join his collage, or he might have decided, with greater humility, to write an apologia, or defense of his chosen art, rather than a manifesto. But Reality Hunger: A Defense would surely have garnered far less attention than Reality Hunger: A Manifesto.

Reality Hunger riles one up, gets the adrenaline flowing, forces one to examine one’s reading and writing, one’s very idea of one’s project. This is a good thing. There are many sentences and paragraphs filled with challenge and insight. I underlined aplenty. Go to the book and grapple with it. Let it catch you out at all your old tricks. And then think what an even better and more lasting book it would have been if David Shields had not been so very certain.

1. Actually, this is a writer named Bonnie Rough, in an essay in Iron Horse Literary Review. In this article, I’ll refer to the writer of quoted passages as Shields, in deference to the persona he employs, but I will footnote it when the writer is in fact someone else. I read Reality Hunger twice–once the way Shields wanted me to, once freely looking up the citations at the back.

2. the critic and journalist Janet Malcolm

3. Alice Marshall, in an unpublished manuscript entitled “The Space Between.”

4. Lance Olsen, 10:01

5. Nina Michelson in an unpublished manuscript entitled “Silence and Music”

6. Steve Almond, Not That You Asked

7. Malcolm Gladwell, “The Annals of Culture,” New Yorker

Perishing Earth: RL Greenfield on Cormac McCarthy’s The Road

Cormac McCarthy, The Road, Knopf

Cormac McCarthy writes a world where it is cold every day and dirty gray or soot black and raining or snowing or sleeting and there are no flowers or birds or people except the lone figures of a man and a boy wandering the withered earth desperate to find something to eat and clean water and a place to rest their bones and get warm and escape the unpredictable mad other survivors out there also roaming the planet in search of food including human flesh if so it be. The world has obviously been bombed into a state of torpor, sterility, and nothingness. It is now a wet filthy clod of destroyed cities and empty households with only these vagrants meandering listlessly through the devastated plains, mountains, cities, houses, barns and buildings everything covered by a gray coat of ash, a god-less silence, elemental darkness and the incessant unbearable cold.

For 241 pages McCarthy traces the steps of father and son in what appears to be the last vestiges of the human race as man and boy pry loose just enough cans of beans and fruits and meats and vegetables from concealed cellars and padlocked closets along the way to squeeze out a few more precious hours of life and extend their simple remaining consciousness with absolutely no future in sight and an equally erased past behind them with only here and there a sliver of memory shooting through the void only to be immediately erased before any meaning or purpose registers on their fleeting awareness. What prevails is the present never ending bleak moment of remaining human consciousness of the swiftly perishing earth and all its once life-giving forms from the opening passage until the very last page.

The novel ends with a shining epigraph or tombstone luminosity transcribed by the author as if to commemorate or offer an explanation for a state of affairs that once existed in the pure primordial past many eons before the descent of man and the debacle of the human experiment here ended. The writing is clean as a knife throughout with never a laboring literary device or esthetic skulduggery. We are simply handed the posthumous world of lame and impotent death and unromantic nothingness. Pass goal and lay down in the road and die. The last luminous paragraph I believe does not fit the book as a whole. That paragraph ought to be placed at the head of the book as an epigraph. It certainly is not part of the narrative proper. It feels like an apologia for the history of the planet—a total non sequitur to the novel The Road.

Ad Nauseam Ad Infinitum: Grace Andreacchi on Orhan Pamuk’s The Museum of Innocence

The Museum of Innocence, Orhan Pamuk, Knopf, 2009

It’s hard to put down Orhan Pamuk’s new book The Museum of Innocence and yet I didn’t like it. The book is a disappointment, for it constitutes a step backwards. A beautifully crafted and elegantly devised step backwards if you like, a balletic pas en arrière, but nonetheless! No trace here of the intriguing peculiarities, those counter-realities and non-linear devices that made Pamuk’s earlier books such as Snow and especially The New Life interesting. For in this tale of obsessive love on the Bosphorus there is nothing really new, and much that is old, borrowed and very very blue. Take two parts Proust’s la Prisonnière to one part Nabokov’s Lolita, add lashings of the author’s own Istanbul: Memories and the City and there you have it, The Museum of Innocence. For what we have here is really a nineteenth century novel, and probably a French nineteenth century novel at that. I’m not sure why Pamuk wanted to write a nineteenth century novel en plein 21me, but that is what he has done. The fascinating if not always fully successful experiments of Pamuk’s earlier books have been banished to make way for a straightforward linear narrative in which, by the way, not much happens. The minute delineation of the agony of lost love is truthful as far as it goes, and that it fails to go anywhere much in spite of itself can be attributed to the solipsistic hero’s utter self-absorption. He seems more in love with himself than with anyone outside the circle of his exquisitely morbid self-consciousness.

The story concerns Kemal, a privileged young bachelor from the upper echelons of Turkish society. On the verge of a very proper marriage to a very right sort of girl he falls madly in love with Füsun, an impoverished young shopgirl and distant cousin. His brief and blissful affair with her comes to an end when he fails to break off the engagement, but he then finds himself unable to forget her, and so falls ever deeper into a hopeless downward spiral of longing and pain. The engagement is broken off after all, but too late to do any good, for Füsun has hastily married a young filmmaker. When Kemal takes to haunting the dinner table of his lost lady and her husband, surely we are reminded of the great Turgenev languishing in the wake of la Viardot. So yet another romantic nineteenth century ghost is evoked, and the Reader is left to wonder whether there be anything happening behind these literary gestures other than a will to believe oneself a great romantic writer guy with a place in the western literary pantheon.

Actually, the best thing about The Museum of Innocence is the title. The book fails to deliver that spiritual depth the title promises, for the closest it gets to a ‘philosophy’ is a lot of second-hand Proustian stuff about ‘Time’ with a capital T. The conceit of the ‘museum’, where the self-obsessed narrator displays the bizarre ‘items’ in his collection of love’s memorabilia – her cast-off cigarette butts, hair clips, crumpled napkins, broken bits of food etc. etc. ad nauseam ad infinitum fails to achieve any kind of transcendental reality and comes off as merely childish, self-indulgent and silly. For all his self-declared ‘love’ for Füsun, she never comes to life on the page at all, but remains always an embodiment of male fantasy at its most egoistic and unattractive. We learn a lot about her skin and hair and nothing at all about the inside of her head, or heart.

What’s really wrong with this book is that it’s not about love at all, it’s about nothing. About the emptiness of a man obsessed with nothing bigger than himself and his own sensations, which he details endlessly, compulsively, over more than 500 pages (!) and without even the awareness of his own emptiness. When, at last, the prospect of happiness is snatched away yet again by a badly contrived authorial trick, I wanted to avert my eyes at such bad taste. But by then the author is only making manifest what the perspicacious Reader has long ago realised, that the presence of Füsun herself is completely superfluous to this utterly narcissistic ‘lover’. On the official website set up by his Turkish publisher there’s a photograph of Mr. Pamuk’s writing desk where, among the scattered paraphernalia, we are able to discern that he keeps a photograph of – guess who? Himself.



A Monster’s Notes, Laurie Sheck, Knopf

I have mixed feelings about paying attention to the reviews, in particular the starred ranking system, on the website GoodReads, a social networking site for authors and book lovers. I’ve seen too often good books get flamed by people with the dreaded one-star. With Laurie Sheck’s new book A Monster’s Notes I’ve found most of the one-stars come from people who left comments that they were unable to finish the book or found the writing style difficult to adjust to or enter. So I feel a need to come to the book’s defense and help others find a point of entry as it is quite brilliant and I’d hate to see people not even attempt to read it based on some reviews by people who weren’t up to the challenge. And the book is that, but if you stick with it you’ll find it quite rewarding.

First a note on the nature of the text. Sheck is known for her poetry and this is her first foray into, as the book is labeled, “Fiction,” though even she acknowledges the hybrid nature of the text. The reader must be prepared for a variety of narrative approaches—notes, letters, journal entries—that as a pastiche convey the greater story. A story which, in the end, is more of an investigation of a distinct period of each character’s life and the Monster’s take on that life. The “narrative” is often implied or running beneath the surface as Sheck foregrounds these snapshots of the character’s thoughts written in their (imagined) own hand.

The book is divided into three distinct sections: “Ice Diary” which triangulates the Monster, Claire Clairmont, and accounts of explorers on arctic expeditions; “Dream of the Red Chamber” which triangulates the Monster, Clerval (and Cao Xueqin by extension), and his leper friend in Aosta; and “Metropolis/The Ruins at Luna” which triangulates the Monster, Mary Shelley, and Mary’s mother. Between each section there are “interludes” of “notes” the Monster takes.

The Monster loves to read; we know that from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein. His “notes” investigate humanity, the people who made him, by reading their philosophy and literature, by looking at their experiments and artistic and scientific achievements. In the interlude sections his mode is to copy down quotes from books and interviews and events, and then follow the quotes with his own reflections on what he has read. The reader will also find he shares a psychic link of sorts with Claire, Clerval, and Mary and can observe what they write, so you will also find his notes and reflections on what he sees and reads as he watches them read and write.

The bulk of the book is done in an epistolary mode where the main characters of a section compose letters, the actual sending of which is often beside the point. What matters is that all these modes share one thing: the mind at work on the page in its most exposed state. And if you are up for noting patterns, I found there are few pages where the word “mind” does not appear at least once throughout the entire 520 page tome.

Which perhaps explains some of the difficulty readers have with this text. It’s heavy on process, showing the mind at work on the page and in conversation with others, often a pretense for the mind to talk to and explore its own boundaries and territory, especially in the case of Claire who continues writing letters to Fanny long after she kills herself, and Clerval, who in Frankenstein is Victor’s friend killed by the Monster, but in Sheck’s tale escapes East to translate Cao Xueqin’s Story of the Stone (Dream of the Red Chamber). With Clerval we not only get his notes as he translates, but the letters from his leper friend in Aosta, and the responses he often writes but never sends to his friend.

Because of this preoccupation of the mind and its workings, of the mind trying to define itself, I would recommend starting with Sheck’s previous book, the poetry collection Captivity, before diving into the pages of A Monster’s Notes (also a good idea to read Frankenstein first!). Captivity and A Monster’s Notes share similar concerns and overlap not just thematically but, as she confirmed in correspondence with me, chronologically: “a good year or so I was working on both at the same time, and in part saw the Monster as the more outgoing sibling of the two.”

A note on voyeurism. Most of the texts we as readers see and read are also seen and read by the Monster, often as the person is writing them, the text presented on the page with cross-outs and X’ings, allowing the reader and the Monster to ponder over half-starts, thoughts written and then erased, and sometimes simple blank space where a thought trails off or abruptly ends. Which leads me to ask: why is the Monster such a voyeur? Quite simply, I found him lonely. He admires and envies the ties these people have to each other, to their friends, even though with each character those ties often exist more in the mind than in reality. The voyeurism is also a continuation of the Monster’s attempt to understand humanity, to understand the basics of human nature, our highest achievements (landing on the moon), or spirit of exploration (mapping the unforgiving territory of the arctic, which also becomes a metaphoric space to describe the mind), the very simple bond of friendship or familial relationships.

And I must also ask, why are we invited to be such voyeurs by this text and by Sheck? That question is what I found most compelling about the book, the ability to see into others’ minds as they attempt to record the workings of their minds, that grand attempt to know and define the self through the written word, and the valiant attempt of a creature who, when it comes down to it, tries to understand why he is called a “creature” by Mary and a “being” by Percy. The book is one big act of becoming as each character and the Monster and we as readers reach for that thing known as “being” which seems to be unattainable, or only attainable in the attempt to attain it, and the recording of such an attempt.

Some final notes: back in June I had the pleasure of watching Sheck launch the release of A Monster’s Notes with a multimedia presentation at the Mercantile Library Center for Fiction here in New York. The first thing that struck me in the 40 minute mini-movie was the question of the creator vs. the created, or in the case of the Monster, the “creature.” Sheck’s process in researching Shelly’s notebooks to write this book mirrored Shelly’s research to create the Monster in her book, and we have three creators present: Laurie Sheck, Mary Shelley, and Victor Frankenstein. And three creations: Frankenstein’s Monster, Mary’s novel about Frankenstein and his Monster, and Sheck’s novel about the Monster’s inability to speak to his creator, left to live in his absence, and his encounter with Mary when she was a girl. Sheck’s take is that Mary did not invent the Monster, but had met the Monster when she was a girl, and thus he became the basis for her story as he haunted her the rest of her life.

The genesis for this project was “a weird adventure” as Sheck describes it. Her husband was ill and the way he was shuffling around reminded her of the Frankenstein walk from the movie versions. She bought the book and discovered (as many of us book lovers have) how different and complex and more rewarding it is from the movie and fell in love, starting a conversation with the Monster in her head that lasted for the duration of the composition of the book, always negotiating with the Monster over his interests and her interests, which are sometimes shared, and sometimes wildly divergent. In many ways Sheck allows the Monster to speak to his creator, as Sheck joins Victor and Shelley in such a role. It’s a rehabilitation or reclamation of sorts, but also dangerous: “the mind’s a terrible place; it knows how each horizon crumbles.” So if you are up for having some of your horizons crumble, for pondering what it means to perceive and that ultimate frustration in trying to perceive the mind, the vehicle that allows the act of perception, then delve into the often humorous musings of this long black-haired, black-lipped, yellow-eyed Monster. You might find yourself keeping your own notes. And you might find a certain Monster watching you as you turn the pages.