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Tuesday, August 18th, 2009
I keep finding myself wanting to compare Inherent Vice and The Wire -- funny they don't seem at first glance all that similar, beyond some superficial notes like a lot of characters being police, lawyers, or drug users -- and look how much I have to abstract to even get this superficial similarity to apply! But Bjornsen's plot to get Doc involved in (oh wait, careful about the spoilers) his personal grudge reminds me somehow of McNulty's subterfuge to get more money for the department. I would love to see Dominic West playing Bjornsen, and indeed for a while I was picking out actors from The Wire for all of the parts... There may be nothing at all to this juxtaposition. With both works, I had trouble being drawn into the plot and identifying with the characters, but had a good time with the watching/reading.
posted evening of August 18th, 2009: Respond
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Monday, August 17th, 2009
The clock up on the wall, which reminded Doc of elementary school back in the San Joachin, read some hour that it could not possibly be. Doc waited for the hands to move, but they didn't, from which he deduced that the clock was broken and maybe had been for years. Which was groovy however because long ago Sortilège had taught him the esoteric skill of tellig time from a broken clock. The first thing you had to do was light a joint, which in the Hall of Justice might seem odd, but surely not way back here -- who knew, maybe even outside the jurisdiction of local drug enforcement -- though to be on the safe side he also lit up a De Nobili cigar and filled the room with a precautionary cloud of smoke from the classic Mafia favorite. After inhaling pot smoke for a while, he looked up at the clock, and sure enough, it showed a different time now, though this could also be from Doc having forgotten where the hands were to begin with. I am not sure if this will sound like weak tea, recommendation-wise -- this is a nice compact example of the bits I am loving in Inherent Vice -- if it made you laugh, read the book for a lot more... The story is coming a bit more into focus for me towards the end of the book, but I'm definitely reading primarily for Pynchon's games.
posted evening of August 17th, 2009: Respond
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Sunday, August 16th, 2009
Another difference between Inherent Vice and my standard category of novel-reading experience is, I like the reading a lot better if there is music playing in the background. Normally I have a hard time reading when I'm listening to music, here they seem to enhance one another. From my iTunes shuffle today:
- It ain't nobody's business, Mississippi John Hurt
- La-Do-Dada, Dale Hawkins
- What Goes On, Robyn Hitchcock and Grant Lee Phillips -- this was a very nice coincidence because it came on just as I was starting to read the lyrics to the Spotted Dicks' new single "Long Trip Out" (which is on the radio in Doc's car), and suddenly I am singing them to the tune of "What Goes On", and they are fitting pretty well. Here is a verse of it:
Long trip out, from the Mekong Delta...
It's a last lost chance, when you need a friend,
And you're flyin on out of
Cam Ranh Bay at midnight,
And you won't know how, to
Get back home again. Then I spent a little while distracted, trying to find out more about "What Goes On" -- turns out it is a Velvet Underground song. - The Birds Were Singing, Carter Family
- There'll be Joy, Joy, Joy, Carter Family -- the Carter Family threatening to distract from the novel, they do not quite work together.
- Floater, Bob Dylan -- now this is more like it --
- Till the End of the World, Ernie Tubb
- Salty Dog Blues, John Hurt
- Knockin on Heaven's Door, Dylan and the Band -- I was not actually participating in the music-listening/reading activity here, "Salty Dog" had reminded me that Lola needed to go out --
- I Something You, Robyn Hitchcock.
The book? I'm dying to recommend it to you but having trouble with what to say about it... I am bursting out laughing about once per page.
 ...and later on in the shuffle, Fletcher Henderson's Orchestra plays the "What-cha-call-'em Blues" which go very nicely with the lyrics I am reading at this moment, to Carmine and the Cal-Zones' "Just the Lasagna". Conclusion, when there's music playing it's much easier to imagine Pynchon's lyrics being sung.
posted afternoon of August 16th, 2009: Respond
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My resolution not to look for an (ill-defined) "normal novel-reading experience" in Inherent Vice is bearing fruit I think, at least in the sense that I'm enjoying the book a lot more. This reading is feeling sort of like walking through a large art gallery looking at a master's paintings -- short flashes of brilliance ranging from less than a page to a few pages -- and not dwelling too much on the meaning of each painting or on the linking narrative arc, just getting a sense of the exhibition's atmosphere. It is fun and liberating to approach the reading without telling myself that I have to "appreciate" it -- it's allowing me to get a lot of pleasure out of some of the jokes and phrasings and constructions of scene. I am not following the story-line very closely however. I'm a little surprised by this because of all the build-up this novel received as (approximately) Pynchon-lite, a quick summer beach read; I think in fact, it requires a lot of focus.
 Hm -- something sounds wrong about this argument -- I am saying I'm enjoying the book more by reading it in a less focussed way, and then that it requires a lot of focus. I think what I mean to say is, to get the full force of this book is going to require a more focussed second read, after I familiarize myself with the atmosphere of the book.
posted morning of August 16th, 2009: Respond
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Wednesday, August 12th, 2009
Fun to see it confirmed that Mr. Pynchon is the voice-over narrator of this trailer video. Groovy, maybe you'll just want to read the book... ($27.95? That used to be like, 3 weeks of groceries! What year is this again?...)
posted evening of August 12th, 2009: Respond
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...I think he's not, really, though some of his books have affected me profoundly. A "great writer," certainly. Thinking about my experience reading Gravity's Rainbow I don't say as much "What a beautiful book that is!" as "There's a whole lot to think about there if you can get your head around it..." -- it is more like reading philosophy than like reading a novel, though obviously it's not a whole lot like reading philosophy either. I'm prompted to consider this by reading Inherent Vice -- it's a lot of fun, and more novel-like, probably, than either Gravity's Rainbow or Against the Day. But it's not seeming like a "great novel"; more like a fun book that is hampered by trying too hard to be a novel. So far I've read the first several chapters three times; each time I like the ideas and the bits of profound prose better, and each time I am more annoyed by the plot points that don't work and in particular by the ridiculous scene between Doc Sportello and Hope Harlingen. Time to move on I think and read the rest of the book... It's funny, I'm recommending this to people! It is a lot of fun! But also pretty flawed. Also I think it may be time soon to go back and reread Mason & Dixon, I think realizing I don't need to read it "as a novel" might be key to enjoying it.
posted evening of August 12th, 2009: Respond
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Wednesday, August 5th, 2009
On Monday, Saramago posted a charming piece about the neighborhood where he grew up:
I believe it was twelve years, the time I spent in the Penha de França, first in the Rua Padre Sena Freitas, then in the Rua Carlos Ribeiro. For a much longer time, until my mother died, the neighborhood was for me a persistent extension of all the other places through which I passed. I have memories of it which remain vibrant today. Back then the Vale Escuro lived up to its name, it was a place of adventure and discovery for kids, a remnant of nature which the first construction projects were already beginning to threaten, but where it was possible to savour the sour taste of of the cedars and the sweet tuberous roots of a plant whose name I never learned. And there was also the battlefield, the site of Homeric struggles... And there was the Pátio do Padeiro (which was not in Penha de França, but in Alto de Saõ Joaõ...), where "ordinary" people did not dare to enter and where, it was said, even the police made themselves scarce, turning a blind eye to the supposed or actual illicit behaviours of those who lived there. What's certain is, great distrust and fear were caused by the closeness of that small world which lived segregated from the rest of the neighborhood and whose words, gestures and postures clashed with the tranquil routine of the timorous people who passed outside. One day, from the nighttime to the morning, the Pátio do Padeiro disappeared, perhaps laid waste by the municipal hammer, or more likely by the construction companies'excavations, and in its place arose buildings without imagination, each one a copy of the others, which grew old within a few years' time. The Pátio do Padeiro, at least, had its originality, its own physiognomy, even if it was nasty and malevolent. If I could do it, if I were able to share the life of these people to find out, I would like to reconstruct the life of the Pátio do Padeiro. Alas they are lost. The people who lived there are dispersed, their descendants have improved their lives, have forgotten or do not wish to recall the hard existence of those who lived before them. In the memory of the Penha de França (or of the Alto de S. Joaõ) there is not any space left for the Pátio do Padeiro. There were people who were born and lived without luck. Of them there remains not even the stone of their door-jamb. They have died and passed away.
I don't find anything about this bit of Lisbon's history online -- the name means "The bakery's courtyard," perhaps there was a baking industry near there and the people who lived there were the labor force? If you follow my link above you can see a map of the neighborhood.
posted evening of August 5th, 2009: Respond
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Sunday, August second, 2009
Saramago posts today about reading García Márquez:
Writers can be divided (assuming that they will accept being divided...) into two groups: the smaller group, of those who can open new paths into literature, and the more numerous, those who go after and who use these paths for their own journey. It's been this way since the birth of our planet and the (legitimate?) vanity of authors will do nothing against the clarity of the evidence. Gabriel García Márquez used his ingenuity to open and to pave the way that would come to be called "magical realism," down which multitudes of followers would later proceed and, as always happens, detractors in their turn. The first book of his which came into my hands was Cien años de soledad, and the shock which it caused me was enough to make me stop reading at the end of fifty pages. I needed to put some order in my mind, some discipline in my heart, and above all, learn to get my bearings and orient myself on the paths of the new world which presented itself before my eyes. In my life as a reader there have been very few occasions that have produced an experience like this. If the word "trauma" could take a positive meaning, I would willingly use it in this case. But, it has been written, leave it there. I hope it will be understood.
posted evening of August second, 2009: Respond
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Michael Pollan's article in this week's Times Magazine, "Out of the Kitchen, onto the Couch" is well worth reading. He spins the current popularity of cooking shows on TV in some interesting directions, and makes me want to watch Julie & Julia.
posted evening of August second, 2009: Respond
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Saturday, August first, 2009
Having a lazy morning and I thought I would pick up and look at A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.... This is a book which I read and loved when I was 14 years old, but which has over the years resisted efforts at rereading. I picked up a copy at a garage sale recently and was enchanted again by the opening paragraphs. Once upon a time and a very good time it was there was a moocow coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo... His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he had a hairy face. He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt. This morning's discovery is, this is a great, great read-aloud book. I haven't enjoyed reading anything aloud so much since The Hobbit. Try reading this aloud, in an even, relaxed tone: They all laughed again. Stephen tried to laugh with them. He felt his whole body hot and confused in a moment. What was the right answer to the question? He had given two and still Wells laughed. But Wells must know the right answer for he was in third of grammar. He tried to think of Wells's mother but he did not dare to raise his eyes to Wells's face. (And in addition to thinking this sounds great, I am identifying with it -- I can feel myself getting hot and confused as I try and figure out how to make the boys stop laughing at me...)You know what book this is reminding me of in its opening pages, is Boy by Roald Dahl.
posted morning of August first, 2009: 1 response
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