Archives for February 2005

“There ought to be a limit (she thought as she steered the bronze Chrysler through the cemetery gate) on the number of open graves you had to look down into in any given lifetime.”

Jon Hassler, North of Hope

When we last tuned in to the adventures or misadventures of the post-Plimpton Paris Review, the Board of Directors had announced that they would not renew the contract of editor Brigid Hughes. Hughes by all accounts had been trying to keep the prestigious but not popular journal steered as near as possible to the trail her mentor George Plimpton had blazed for it. On the news of her certain departure, observers speculated that the board had different ideas about little matters like circulation and profitability, and were taking delayed advantage of the power vacuum left by Plimpton’s death to remake the Review as a more relevant and remunerative publication.

At the time, all of this reminded me powerfully of something. But I didn’t figure out what it was until this week: the opening scenes of an 1894 short story by Henry James, “The Death of the Lion.” The story is freely available for downloading here. “The Death of the Lion” is narrated by the right-hand man of the recently deceased editor of a London weekly that has been taken over by a Mr. Pinhorn (is there anyone who is better at names than James at his best?). Mr. Pinhorn is all about the numbers.

Mr. Pinhorn was my “chief,” as he was called in the office: he had accepted the high mission of bringing the paper up. This was a weekly periodical, and had been supposed to be almost past redemption when he took hold of it. It was Mr. Deedy who had let it down so dreadfully–he was never mentioned in the office now save in connection with that misdemeanour. Young as I was I had been in a manner taken over from Mr. Deedy, who had been owner as well as editor; forming part of a promiscuous lot, mainly plant and office-furniture, which poor Mrs. Deedy, in her bereavement and depression, parted with at a rough valuation. I could account for my continuity only on the supposition that I had been cheap. I rather resented the practice of fathering all flatness on my late protector, who was in his unhonoured grave; but as I had my way to make I found matter enough for complacency in being on a “staff.” At the same time I was aware that I was exposed to suspicion as a product of the old lowering system. This made me feel that I was doubly bound to have ideas, and had doubtless been at the bottom of my proposing to Mr. Pinhorn that I should lay my lean hands on Neil Paraday. I remember he looked at me as if he had never heard of this celebrity, who indeed at that moment was by no means in the middle of the heavens; and even when I had knowingly explained he expressed but little confidence in the demand for any such matter. When I had reminded him that the great principle on which we were supposed to work was just to create the demand we required, he considered a moment and then rejoined: “I see; you want to write him up.”

Pinhorn, we learn, has turned a genteel journal into a glorified gossip rag. Under Deedy the journal appears to have been mainly critical; Pinhorn has turned it into a fin-de-si

I’ve spent the last two days working on the prologue to my Louis Armstrong biography, and I think it’s going well. Very well, actually. In fact, I seem to be on a roll, and so I plan to keep on rolling for at least another day or two. My hope is to have the entire prologue roughed out by dinnertime and substantially polished by week’s end. I’ve been in an elevated state ever since Friday night: hundreds of facts that had previously been spinning around in my head have now started to clump together and take coherent shape. It’s the most exciting part of a writer’s life, and I’m right in the middle of it….

I’ll keep you posted, but don’t expect to hear much more from me until I stop for gas. In the meantime, cross your fingers and wish me well.

P.S. You go, Girl! It’s damned well about time that my formerly anonymous co-blogger dropped the veil and identified herself as (among other things) the dedicatee of the Teachout Reader. I kept waiting for somebody to make the connection!

“When you’re an egoist, none of the harm you do is intentional.”

Whit Stillman, screenplay for Metropolitan

– Andre Mayer of CBC Arts presents the case against covers.

– Edie, the lucky (and now famous) kitty with the installation art of her own, is an absolute dead ringer for the more philistine creature who resides chez moi.

– The Little Professor asks a select few academic buzzwords to please just go away.

– Ever wonder what cheap-thrill-seeking gardeners look for at the newsstand? The Bookish Gardener has your answer. It feels a bit salacious to ask this now, but–when Spring?

“It is the mistake of much popular criticism to regard poetry, music, and painting–all the various products of art–as but translations into different languages of one and the same fixed quantity of imaginative thought, supplemented by certain technical qualities of colour, in painting; of sound, in music; of rhythmical words, in poetry. In this way, the sensuous element in art, and with it almost everything in art that is essentially artistic, is made a matter of indifference; and a clear apprehension of the opposite principle–that the sensuous material of each art brings with it a special phase or quality of beauty, untranslatable into the forms of any other, an order of impressions distinct in kind–is the beginning of all true aesthetic criticism.”

Walter Pater, “The School of Giorgione,” The Renaissance

“We shall draw nearer to God, not by trying to avoid the sufferings inherent in all loves, but by accepting them and offering them to Him; throwing away all defensive armour. If our hearts need to be broken, and if He choose this as the way in which they should break, so be it.”

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

Some readers have emailed to ask why I turned in my pseudonymity yesterday. Some are frankly disapproving: “You were the mystery to be solved, the puzzle with the missing piece. Now, the illusion is ruined and the game is over.” Ruined! Gosh, when you put it like that, I almost have second thoughts! I may never attain true mysteriousness again.

Almost second thoughts…but not quite. It’s not something I’d undo, even if I somehow could–Eternal Sunshine-style, say, or like Glory in season five of Buffy. Hey, what’s a little brainwashing among friends?

Well, I can’t undo it. And I wouldn’t. Therefore I won’t. Your brains are safe. But why do it, and why now? Essentially, I got tired of being two half-people who couldn’t share each other’s work with their respective audiences. I’ve been reviewing books for about ten years, but more regularly in the last year or so. From now on I’ll ask my editors to include the URL for About Last Night in the biographical note beneath my newspaper reviews, and hope that this brings new visitors here. And, more important, I’ll link to my reviews on this page and start blogging more openly about the reviewing racket, which is something I’ve always wished I could do.

For example, in December I wrote positively, even glowingly, about Robert Anderson’s novel on Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes, Little Fugue, for the Baltimore Sun. Given the tired subject matter, I looked forward to this assignment with very low hopes indeed. As I wrote for the Sun:

I’ll be frank: another morbid promenade over the well-trampled ground of Sylvia Plath’s suicide isn’t my idea of a good time. After the many existing biographies, memoirs, studies, and at least one novelization–all topped off with the strictly decorative cherry of last year’s Gwyneth Paltrow biopic–can there possibly be anything new to say? Isn’t this whole affair becoming a bit, well, obsessive and ghoulish? If we put a penny in a jar each time someone references Plath’s death, and remove a penny each time someone references her poetry, does anyone truly believe we will ever empty that jar?

The novel, thankfully, defied my expectations.

These are some of the questions that buzz in my head as I crack open Robert Anderson’s new novel about Plath’s death, Little Fugue (named after a poem she wrote in 1962). The first chapter does little to allay my skepticism. Plath has always been a powerful magnet for other writers’ self-dramatics; true to form, the first few pages here are overwrought: “She is a fire that has burned low of its own severity. She lies in her grave now, still awake.” At this point I am considering joining her. Then, something totally unexpected happens: Little Fugue grabs me and holds on.

That review went on to explain why, even though I thought the novel did not succeed in its furthest-reaching ambitions, I still found it immersing and impressive. Its portraits of Hughes and his lover Assia Wevill struck me as vivid and nuanced, especially the haunting depiction of Wevill’s childhood in a war-torn Middle East.

The novel got far less positive notices than mine in the most prominent places: The New York Times Book Review, where Richard Eder weighed in, and the Washington Post Book World, where Michael Schaub, whose coblogging at Bookslut I find delightful, came down particularly hard on it in a sharp, witty piece.

I could see both these reviewers’ points in criticizing the novel, and yet they weren’t enough to make me reconsider my positive take on it. And here the blog could have come in awfully handy: it would have been the perfect place to call attention to these smart critics’ assessments while reiterating my own different view. As a buyer and reader of novels, I like to look at reviews in constellations rather than in isolation whenever possible (which is why I think Ron Hogan’s new “Book Review Review” blog, Beatrix, is such a brilliant idea). And I would have done just that–if I hadn’t been pseudonymous.

Well, I’m pseudonymous no more–though I will hang onto my OGIC tag, which has grown on me over time (like KFC, I never use the spelled-out version myself, though others may, and have my blessing). So you can expect more from me here on books and reviewing, and perhaps on some other previously-skirted subjects that haven’t occurred to me yet in this brave new world. I am, after all, making this up as I go along….