I mentioned previously that I have been reading a book by Dale Peck entitled Hatchet Jobs: Cutting Through Contemporary Literature, which consists of previously published book reviews in which Peck give literature and its authors a thorough drubbing.  Peck, who is a novelist himself, is most famous for his scathing review of Rick Moody's pseudo-memoir The Black Veil: A Memoir with Digressions, in which he begins with the sentence, "Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation."  Peck proceeds in this review to wander off the topic at hand, the book being reviewed, and launches into a tirade against literature in which the writers seem to be screaming, "Pay attention to me because I'm important," or as Peck refers to it as a "child needing attention."  Among the authors included in this dubious group a many that I consider great, Thomas Pynchon and Don DeLillo, and others I really enjoy and think are interesting, David Foster Wallace and Dave Eggers.  I usually enjoy these types of "one man's opinion" or "my state of the union" addresses towards literature refreshing, as in B.R. Myers' A Reader's Manifesto, but it's hard to read that the entire body of work by one of your favorite writers, in this case DeLillo, consists of nothing more than "stupid-just plain stupid-tomes" or, in Pynchon's case a "word-by-word wasting of a talent [so] formidable."  Of course, this can be chalked up as being one man's opinion and nothing more than that. 

However, Peck ends the book with an afterword that serves as a summation of the book's main themes and the reason the reviews seem so harsh.  This serves as little more than a cop-out on Peck's part because firstly he offers a lame defense for his severity and secondly offers little or no recommendations on how to improve the state of literature. 

Addressing the issue of why he's so harsh in his reviews, Peck offers the following:

It is true that as a critic I don't say much about the strengths of the writers whom I review. Most of those writers had thousands of words devoted to their individual strengths long before I got around to cataloguing their weaknesses: they don't need me to point them out again. And God knows I have never aspired to anything like impartiality. If anything, I have always considered my flagrant bias to be one of the saving graces of my efforts. If I am extreme in my opinions, this stridency can always be attributed to its author rather than to some kind of universal authority. The very extremity of my views does as much to undermine my authority as to enforce it, or at least I hope it does, because I am by no means convinced of the hallowedness of my own ideas. And talent, again, is not the issue here: content is, and context. It seems to me that there are two strains of literature currently in vogue, recherche postmodernism and recidivist realism, and both of them, in my opinion, stink. I'm not interested in pointing out how a writer works well in one mode or another, or executes an aspect of one or another mode with a greater or lesser degree of success, because I think the modes themselves need to be thrown out entirely. Not as tools for writers sitting down to a blank page, but rather as the two poles they must choose between, and against which they are judged.

 

To me, this is nothing more than a contradiction in terms.  Peck seems to feel that, on the one hand, he's not important enough to be taken seriously, but, on the other hand, he's still making legitimate arguments for the improvement of literature, however vague they may be.  It's the very type of writing he criticizes that he employs here to defend his actions.  Trying to have it both ways is impossible, but Peck tries to explain how he can do so. 

 

On the issue of the future writing, Peck offers this:

If I don't say much about the strengths of the writers whom I review, nor do I offer an alternative to the writing I spend so much time dissing. Sympathetic readers have often asked, if this is what writers shouldn't be doing, then what should they do? My feeling is that the last thing readers need is a writer telling them what to read (besides his or her own books, of course). And as for writers: well, if you need me to tell you how to write a novel, then you probably shouldn't be writing one in the first place. Still, there are some things I would like to say to my peers. But it's hard to tell someone whom you admire (or respect, or want to help, or in some way engage with) that you think there are problems with his or her work, let alone that it is, well, worthless. These reviews, if not as direct as a coffee klatch (or barroom brawl), are, I hope, some kind of dialogue with my generation. If, in the end, I offer nothing more than a series of prohibitions, it is because I think that it is precisely the need to sign on to a program that kills literature. As soon as a writer starts writing to belong to a tradition or a program or a school rather than to describe what's going on in the world, he or she has gone from being part of the solution to being part of the problem. Something that can be held up to a pre-determined list of attributes to be checked off one by one, so that a score of 80 percent makes it good, 90 percent makes it great, and 100 percent gets it a gold star, isn't art, it's high school. The year I graduated, the valedictorian was well known to be the best cheater in school: I helped him in English, my best friend let him look over his shoulder in math, and the science whiz (daughter of the science teacher, no less) helped him with biology and chemistry. As it happens, he was not a particularly stupid guy, and he was also reasonably nice, which was probably why we all helped him. But we were all shocked--not to mention a little angry--when he got to give the commencement speech instead of one of us. I have no interest in contributing to the making of another Cy Diller.

 

In other words, Peck sees himself as trying to avoid the position of being the one to tell writers how to write, but he sees no problem with pointing out their flaws in the execution of their projects.  In one of his few conceits, it's interesting to note that Peck doesn't argue that all the writers he criticizes are talentless.  Instead, they are just not using their talent in the right way.  What he would rather see them writing he never specifies, but I can't help but think it probably looks a lot like his own novels. 

 

What bothers me the most about Peck's assertions on the state of literature is that his vagueness and genuine inability to provide concrete suggestions on how to repair it leaves the impression that he's nothing more than a jealous novelist that can't stand to see those that he despises so much reap the rewards of success that he so desperately wants for himself.  For all the harshness of his critiques, it's almost requisite that you would expect a set of suggestions, but they aren't there.  Calling an entire industry on the carpet for its failures is a worthy cause, but to fail to provide a blueprint for the future serves little or no purpose than to provide the hallow critiques of a bitter man.   

Concentration Failure
Things bother me, even what most would term petty, inconsequential things.  There, I've admitted that I'm a human being who lets little things get under my skin, grate my nerves, or just outright piss me off.  Anyone who has read this site knows that's true, and, in effect, this is nothing more than a post that allows me to choose a new target to vent on.  If nothing else, I'd like to think that I'm at least restrained enough when I'm feeling perturbed so as to not betray my true feelings, especially in public, since it's not a confrontation I'm looking for but an alleviation from that which bothers me.  When the alleviation fails to materialize, I'm forced to vent here, in my forum.  So, what happened today that requires my immediate attention of all my wrath?  People talking.  That's it, plain and simple.

To explain, as I'm enjoying coffee and a bagel at my favorite coffeeshop, I can't help but notice the guy at the table next to me.  He's sitting there drinking something, and reading a copy of the City Paper, the previously mentioned weekly rag that documents all the numerous events that occur in a given week here in Pittsburgh.  Nothing wrong so far, right?  Well, then it happens, the cellphone comes out,  and right then and there I should have known enough that this was going to be trouble and that I should relocate to another spot.  I didn't, and I paid the price.  He proceeds to make a call to someone about a performance happening tonight and goes on to invite the person with whom he is speaking and then describes who the artist is, their style, and all that jazz.  What's wrong with that you ask?  Nothing, except that his voice is loud, loud enough for me, and, I assume everyone there to hear the entire exchange.  To stifle my rage, I just hoped and prayed that this call would end soon and that the person he was talking with would have to return to work.  Thankfully, this is what happened.  But it didn't end there.

In walks a girl who saunters over to his table.  They embrace, and then the real trouble begins.  I've never heard someone talk so fast for so long in such a loud voice and never allow the other person with whom they are speaking say a word of rebuttal.  It went on and on.  I was dying.  I'm trying to read, and all I can hear is this motormouth yammering on about this and that, and I swear I'm about ready to take a final swig of my coffee and bolt, but I can't.  No, I sit there and suffer and pray some more that they leave, but they don't.  No, it goes on. 

Then, suddenly, they are gone.  It's quiet, and I can concentrate.  I've always prided myself on my ability to concentrate while reading in noisy places like coffeeshops or cafeterias, but I couldn't do it this time.  I was so relieved when they left.  I'd hardly had a chance to bask in this glorious silence, and here they come right back in.  He must have had to put change in the meter.  Then it starts up again.  Needless to say, I hurried along to finish what I was reading and left as quickly as possible. 

Why do I let little things like this bother me so much?  Isn't it bad for your health to get annoyed at little things that people do?  I imagine that all this time that I've spent fuming in silence must somehow accumulate into some sort of massive ball of tissue that festers inside of me.  I don't honestly believe that a huge tumor of unspent rage is growing inside me, and I doubt it's how people get cancer, but I don't think it is healthy. 

Whatever the ramifications, I can still hear his voice going a mile a minute in my mind and I'm ready to plunge my plastic knife for my cream cheese into him if he doesn't shut up soon.   

The Speed of Reading
Everyone has a different way of reading a book. Some people read fast. Some people read slow. And there are those who read at a pace somewhere in between, a more leisurely pace I'd like to think. I count myself part of the latter group. I read books, which is what I'm referring to here, at a pace that, at times, seems to be rather quick, mostly when I'm close to the end of a book and just want to get it finished, or somewhat slowed down to such an extent that it seems like I only flip a page once every half an hour. For the most part, I breeze along at a steady clip, neither speeding or plodding along.

What throws the whole curve off, though, is when you put a book down for a day or two, mostly even one day is enough to notice an effect. Putting down a book, especially when you're in the middle of a chapter, is dangerous business. What occurs, at least to me, is that I'll pick it back up, start reading again where I left off, and, inevitably, let out a groan about how this particular passage seems to be overly long. Say, for instance, you're reading the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the first time, as I happen to be doing as I write this, although I'm not reading and writing at the same time. That'd be counterproductive, or maybe multi-tasking, or whathaveyou. Anyway, I'm almost finished with the last book of the trilogy, and I have to say that if someone, Benedict, hadn't lent a sympathetic ear to my plight about how the books seem to labor on forever, hashing on plot points that are neither important nor serve to advance the plot any quicker, I would have thought I was just suffering from another attack of having put the book down for a day, which I haven't done with this one but with the second. So, I wasn't crazy, or at least no crazier than Benedict, which is measured on a sliding scale. The book is long, really long. Which leads me to address the notion of editors.

One book I'm reading right now is Dale Peck's collection of reviews entitled Hatchet Jobs. In one of the reviews, for David Foster Wallace's book Infinite Jest, Peck opines about how the book, which is over 1,000 pages, has about 200 pages of good writing contained within. Obviously, this implies that some severe editing could/should be done. What about Tolkien, though? Isn't it also true that some of the more laborious passages center around the characters walking, eating, sleeping over and over ad nasuem? Don't most books condense time? Are you supposed to feel like you've been on the very same journey for the same length of time as the characters? I doubt it. Most books aren't that literal, and the narrative progresses ahead with leaps and bounds, or at least it should

Tolkien, who seems conflicted on many fronts, must have been in love with each and every passage he wrote. No part of the journey could be left out. Why? Well, I guess he felt that if he didn't write about the characters simply walking from place to place there wouldn't be any reason to write about all the places they journey to, which is another caveat of mine. Must every place have some name and history that is explained in depth rather than simply alluded to? Aren't there just parts of a forest that are just that, parts, with no lore behind them? Not in the Tolkien universe. Every tree, shrub, rock, crevice, moutain, dirt pile has some long, storied past that must, must I say, be explained. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

Laboring through this, I'm reminded that people I know have read these books multiple times. How, I'm not sure, but the joke by Seinfeld about rereading Moby Dick and having Ahab and the Whale becoming fast friends seems to apply in the case even more so. I know I'd rather take the chance on finding the Melville's masterpiece has changed than return to Middle-Earth for more travelogue-like narratives anytime soon.

Going Home
I've fled the city for the small town. These last three weeks, I've abandoned Pittsburgh and all the hustle and bustle for the laid back, mellow feel of my hometown. To put a myth to rest, let's just say all the cliches about a small town are true, and I'm speaking from experience. The wide-open spaces, the lack of congestion, traffic-wise and population-wise, the amount of trees (yeah, actual trees and even a forest or woods if you prefer), and, unfortunately, a total absence of what I've become accustomed to in the big city. For all its charm, the small town life always leaves me feeling as if I've been sent away to a gulag. No, not quite a gulag, but at least a Siberian outpost.

The change, which can only be described as dramatic, affects the psyche in many subtle and not so subtle ways. At home, I feel more at ease, a little less tense, and nowhere near on edge as much as I do in the City. These are all common characteristics, but another thing occurs when I come home. Once I'm here I begin to live a life as close to that of a recluse as I can imagine. I don't go anywhere. Mostly, I stay at home here and read, write, or watch television. Sure, I go jogging and go out to buy a paper or see a friend, but that's it. For the most part, I just linger here with the folks.

Why I choose to live this type of life is multi-layered and, to me, somewhat troubling. The fact is that when I'm home I'm not comfortable going back to my old haunts. I don't go to the coffeeshop I practically lived in during the months leading up to my relocation to the City. I avoid public places where I might be seen by people I know. I don't even go to the library. What would cause someone to so radically alter their life when they return home, a place where they are admittedly more at ease?

As much as there is any answer, the only one I can come up with is that I feel as if there's an impending sense of failure lingering about me. Now, I don't mean a sense of failure that would lead me to give up all hope for life and such, far from it. My biggest fear is that the old places I used to frequent, and by extension the people at these old haunts, have evolved, advanced beyond where they were when I was a much more frequent presence in their lives. On the other hand, I haven't evolved or advanced beyond my previous life here. Life now consists of a jobless limbo and a stasis so frightening and paralyzing that I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to just give up and move on to something else or to stick to my guns and proceed with utmost speed and confidence in a pleasant outcome. Life, as I thought it would be when I left, hasn't progressed as I would have liked. Thus, my greatest fear is that if I chose to return to these old, familiar places, I'd have to explain my presence, and I don't want to do that anymore. I'm sick of dwelling on my life and my future. I'm sick to death of discussing it with everyone around me, and the thought of having to walk into one of these places, be recognized and being asked to explain myself fills me with a nauseous feeling beyond reproach.

Most of this stems from the fact that, before the move, I wasn't concerned with anything other than life in the immediate here and now. The future wasn't a term I thought about frequently, at least not as a concept that had implications for my life. As long as I knew that there were months, weeks or days ahead of me, life seemed to progress without any sort of need to dwell on what might lie ahead. The future was, or so I thought, an abstract concept I need not worry about until it arrived. In this manner, I proceeded in what amounts to a rose-tinted haze. I'll refrain from referring to it as rose-tinted glasses because I don't feel that it was so much my unwavering, positive outlook on life so much as it was a delusional aspect of my psyche that refused to look beyond the perfect haze of life in the present. Anything beyond that would be something to deal with when I got there. This type of delusion was something, I thought, was reserved for those with certain bent personality. Someone not quite connected with the here and now. I don’t mean to imply mental illness, but those with an ability to sustain a certain sense of positive, uplifting optimism and a regard for life’s outcomes as a mere whim or a direction set by a higher power. The religious and the eternally optimistic.

One delusion that could likely be applied to what I’ve described above, though, is that of grandeur. The one problem with assuming that my returning would have any impact at all is one of egotistical and, I guess, self-esteem-related aspects of the psyche. On the one hand, to assume that your life matters so much to others that your leaving has such a noticeable affect is rather egotistical in nature. On the other hand, to assume that your presence or absence might have an impact on others is to belie some sort of psychological deficientcy that screams of a low self-concept. In other words, to think that you're missed is to assume popularity and impact. To assume you're not missed, seems to scream of low self-esteem and a wanton attempt at sympathy. Either way, someone can read more into the issue than necessary. This isn't meant to be a psychological examination. Rather, I'm attempting to reason out a problem I have with the notion of returning at this point in my life.

What it boils down to is an issue of embarrassment. I'm, to put it bluntly, embarrassed by my current station in life, and why shouldn't I be? I don't think it's wrong to think that you should be further along in life when it’s apparent that you're not progressing as quickly as others are or as far as you think you should be. No matter how much I’m assured that I’m not the only one, it’s hard to take much solace in the fact that I’m in the same boat as many others. Coming home is both a blessing and a curse, a blessing in that I love being here with my family, and I love my home, but it's also a curse because this walking limbo is suffocating my notion of how I should be able to feel when I'm back.

The eternal optimist in me screams that life will proceed in a manner that, albeit somewhat rocky and unpredictable in nature, ends in the just manner. Practical matters, however, have a tendency to rear their ugly heads upon reality, and the reality is setting in that I won't feel completely at ease with life in the town where I grew up until my life gets on track with a future that's upon the horizon, and not some far off concept that hasn't even reached the upper levels of the atmosphere.