Tag Archives: fall 2003

To Have and to Hold: An Intimate History of Collectors and Collecting

Philipp Blom
The Overlook Press ($27.95)

by Allison Slavick

The phenomenon of collecting has been documented for around 500 years. Early on there were reliquaries, studiolos, and the Kunstschrank, an ornamental piece of furniture with multiple drawers filled with objects that were metaphors for life. Then came the cabinets of curiosities that documented the freaky and weird, all those fascinating deformed fetuses and unicorn horns outside the realm of human understanding. Later, when objects were arranged in a more orderly fashion, according to advancing scientific knowledge, they became illustrations of the supremacy of the rational mind. Eventually, the science-based methods of display were transferred to art, and paintings were no longer hung according to the whims and aesthetic sensibilities of the curator. Subsequently, collections went from instruments of exploration to instruments of conservation and museums as we know them today were formed. Mix all this up with various human renaissances and revolutions, mass production (it democratized collecting and shaped the American aesthetic), differences among male and female collectors, class issues, the drinking habits of Peter the Great, and manipulative art dealers and you have a charming book of profound intelligence, insight and wit.

In To Have and to Hold, Philipp Blom illustrates the ideological differences in collecting through colorful biographies of collectors who were lurid, weird, daring, polymathic, and dark, and considers them from every angle in the context of social change. And collectors are a weird bunch. Take Sir Hans Sloane (1660-1753), whose collections formed the basis of the British Museum. As the last of the "universal" collectors, an inventory of his collection included "stones of the kidney and bladder" (756 of them); "medals, ancient and modern" (23,000 of those); and "miscellaneous things not comprehended with the foregoing, both natural and artificial" (2,098 of those). If Sloane was chaotic, then Linnaeus was the Type A of the collecting world. His taxonomic influence on collections of all kinds cannot be overstated, but even with the few pages that are devoted to him the proportion seems about right—there is too much more to tell.

Having been popular for centuries, the trade in sacred bric-à-brac is given a lot of attention. Twenty-nine sites in Europe alone claim to possess a holy nail from the cross; three sites have claimed to have the holy navel; sixty-nine churches have claimed to have drops of breast milk of the Holy Virgin and eight sites in France have claimed to have the true foreskin of Christ. What do you do when there aren't enough pieces of the Holy cross to go around? You create a myth that explains that the cross, like a starfish, regrows when pieces are removed.

Blom also provides a fascinating chronicle of Giulio Camillo, the Diderot of the Italian Renaissance. Part primitive internet, part performance art installation, Camillo's system of information storage and retrieval was an architectural device into which spectators could insert their heads and look toward an amphitheater's seven rows of seats where various mnemonic devices were displayed. Those who gazed upon the "Theatre of Memory" were said to become fluent orators, having memorized the world's knowledge; in this way, Camillo collected memories. Does this seem odd? Blom depicts Casanova as a collector of lovers and a contemporary opera fan as a collector of philanthropic experiences. He brings all this together as cogent and convincing discourse, balancing skepticism with well-placed respect and a refreshing irreverence toward the follies of the wealthy.

There is so much more of interest here: the early years of the Louvre, J.P. Morgan's books and art (and, incidentally, his nose), Charles Wilson Peale's explanation of what every good collection should contain, the transformation of museums from private holdings to public trusts, all told with a pleasantry of language, subtle humor and a humble erudition.

Are collectors happy? Blom is generous in his assessment of the human condition, with the air of a compassionate caretaker at a state mental hospital. There's nothing that can be done to help collectors, as they cannot help themselves. Happiness isn't found within the objects, as they are "expressions of a state, not its agents." The disillusionment of collecting buttresses us from facing the world, until the next conquest—a rare butterfly, an autograph, a first edition—brings contentment.

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

Surrealism And Painting

André Breton
Translated by Simon Watson Taylor
MFA Publications ($29.95)

by Jay Besemer

Autumn 2002 saw a strange conjunction in the art world. In November, it was announced that André Breton's collection of Surrealist and indigenous paintings and objects would be put up for auction. Coincidentally, the publishing arm of the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston had just weeks earlier announced its republication of the long-out-of-print English translation of André Breton's masterful book Surrealism and Painting. Readers of English once again have access to that important volume, though its availability has sparked very little fanfare; the sale of the contents of Breton's 42 rue Fontaine home is apparently accorded far more worth than the work of the man himself and the ongoing efforts of the Surrealist movement which he founded.

While Surrealism and Painting is not "about" Breton's collection, the essays concern many of the elements and artists represented in it. By placing the book's new availability in the context of the so-called "Breton auction" I hope to illuminate the interplay between established critical views of Surrealism, the press, and this collection. Collectors and critics are newly interested in "classic" Surrealism—pre-1945 Surrealism—largely in terms of its influence on contemporary big-ticket artists. This interest is partly what had forced the sale itself, by driving up the insurance premiums on Breton's collection to a level untenable to its caretaker, Breton's daughter Aube Elléouët. How symptomatic of the peculiar myopia of criticism that so much attention should be paid to the value of the "artifacts" of classic Surrealism, and that this attention should take place almost completely in art history's star chamber!

Except for Mark Polizzotti's introduction, this new edition of Surrealism and Painting is the same as the 1972 version of the English translation, put out by Harper & Row, based on an expanded 1965 French edition of the original 1928 work. To grasp its true worth we must turn to the text, attending to the author's arguments and examples, ignoring the approved commentary.

"The eye exists in its savage state," begins Breton's title essay. Further:

The need to fix visual images... has led to the formation of a veritable language which does not seem to me any more artificial than spoken language, and about the origins of which it would be fruitless for me to speculate. At the very most, I owe it to myself to weigh the present state of this language in exactly the same way that I would weigh the present state of poetic language and, if necessary, to recall it to its true principles.

Note Breton's emphasis of the unity of poetic language and visual language. In this, "eye" and "tongue" are linked; the recognition of painting as a form of poetry, and of poetry as a form of universal human action, have always been key elements of Surrealism. That "savage state" is also essential, with the characterization "savage" being stripped, in Surrealism, of its pejorative sense. For Breton, the true principles of visual language, and spoken language, are poetic, and therefore, by means of contrast with "civilized" language, savage—undirected, dreamed, automatic perhaps; certainly spontaneous. I'll return to these "true principles" momentarily. For now, let's say that for visual images to be able to form their own spontaneous, poetic language, those who make them must work with an understanding of the universality of poetic experience, and must be allowed to go where this leads them.

These poetic obligations contribute nothing to the notion that the destiny of the work of art is to be sold, then displayed in a museum, and thus accrue monetary value. In fact, poetry (whether visual, verbal, or other) finds its truth only when the destiny of a work is absolutely irrelevant to its making; when the process is invaded by notions of time and "value," poetry and process both degrade and disappear into cliché and the facile. This is one major theme of Surrealism and Painting. Breton's experience with "professional" collectors and his intimacy with many visual artists showed him the woeful sequence again and again: innovation and excitement; recognition and self-sufficiency; stagnation and retreat into previously-approved methods and products.

This is why Breton devotes so much time and space to Picasso's work, implying that he is Surrealist in spirit if not in name, and recognizing that any appellation, even that of "surrealist," would limit Picasso's work. For Breton, Picasso was a Surrealist in that his visual language, at least at that time, had never left its true principles behind. If Picasso did not completely submit his work "to a purely internal model," as Breton argued was necessary for the plastic arts, he afforded the internal model at least as much weight as the external. He also remained an innovator and a risk-taker for most of his artistic life. To recognize this constant innovation took a certain perceptiveness, a certain contagious enthusiasm, which Polizzotti in his introduction interprets as hero-worship or wishful thinking. Candor and effusiveness can be unsettling in a critical work, but they do not indicate an unrefined viewing. On the contrary, Breton's eye, savage and refined, saw in Picasso an honest adept of the poetic experience, one whose creative outpouring broadened the realm of the possible and the marvelous.

Practically speaking, poetry is art and art is poetry—it comes down to a simple choice of medium, materials, and method. It could be said that the real job of art history and criticism is to justify why this or that art work has been sold, while the job of the critic or historian of poetry is to explain why poetry can never sell (while loudly declaiming its deep spiritual importance). In neither case does either type of interpreter seem to care much about the things which fall outside their training. Picasso, while we're on the subject, was also a fine poet, but this is not well-known, nor is Breton particularly celebrated for his ironic, gorgeous collages and assemblages. Perhaps this is because written poetry is of little commercial interest to art dealers, and because Breton's visual works were created mainly as gifts, not intended for sale. What is considered valuable by interpreters of creative output determines what said interpreters present as valuable to those outside their field of familiarity. Through the narrow focus of study, they have cut the surrounding panorama from the frame, showing instead a single stone at the edge of a forest.

What André Breton considered valuable examples of visual poetry—of pictorial Surrealism—does not always impress contemporary art historians. For every Yves Tanguy, Joan Miró or Pablo Picasso for the collectors to paw, there was a Maria Martins, a Degottex, a Toyen or an Hérold to be shrugged at and dismissed as "minor." Breton's intent, in the texts of Surrealism and Painting, was not to tell the privileged why they should open their wallets. Instead the goal was to expose his readers to works which were Surrealist by participation or by affinity (such as works by "autodidacts" like Henri Rousseau and by the institutionalized mentally ill), and thereby further define or exemplify the changing parameters of one form of Surrealist action. Sometimes his clarifications did not actually make matters clearer, and he did contradict himself occasionally. In the 1942 essay on Tanguy, for example, he delineates painting and poetry into separate "spheres."

There is also the uncharacteristically reductionist label of Surrealism as an "art movement" in the 1944 essay on Enrico Donati. While this might be passed off as a translating error, I believe it was deliberate on Breton's part, though not done by choice. Because of its date, I would suggest that this description of Surrealism came from the injunction under which Breton was granted temporary asylum in the U.S. during the second World War: no revolutionary politics allowed. We have the State Department to thank for this additional confusion. Still, the initial paragraph of that essay deserves extensive quotation for its relevance today:

The almost total bankruptcy of the critical spirit which is a mental characteristic of wartime periods has again registered profound effects on the development of the arts and the interplay of ideas involved in that development. For several years now, we have been obliged, willy-nilly, to live in an unremitting atmosphere of edification, each of us supposed to bear witness to the great good that is being accomplished by the paradoxical means of carnage and destruction. The coercive powers which effectively control the world today, not content simply with taking lives, demand also that we should one and all sacrifice our basic standards of intelligent judgment: the journalists have taken it upon themselves to bring the intellectuals to repentance.

Indeed. Breton's work, his collection, and his right to speak for himself are still in the grip of "coercive powers."

The Gold of Time in the Time of Gold

Fast forward: in June, 2003, Art in America includes a tiny mention of the disruption of the Breton auction by "latter-day and would-be Surrealists." The headline: "Breton Auction Breaks Records." The piece itself is misleading, attributing the widely-circulated petition against the sale (and calling on the French government to buy and administrate the collection) to Surrealist protestors. In truth, the French Surrealist group boycotted the auction and had nothing to do with the disruption mentioned in Art in America. Instead, Surrealists issued statements against both the sale and the petition. Entitled Surrealism Is Not for Sale! The Gold of Time in the Time of Gold and Who Will Embalm the Embalmers? these statements are factual as well as political, explaining how the collections came to be placed on the block, correcting journalistic errors concerning the sale and the Surrealist movement, and clarifying the position and qualifications of the "Breton Committee."

The mysterious exclusion of these documents from the "official" discourse on the auction and Breton's work can be explained by one simple fact upon which all parties, regardless of motivation, are likely to agree: The statements do not fit within the established art history or art market paradigms. What is outside a paradigm does not completely exist to those within it. When Surrealism speaks in its native tongue its colonizers show their disapproval by mocking, "interpreting," or pretending not to hear.

External commentary has disproportionately determined the popular conception of the Surrealist movement. Interpretation takes the place of experience, and allegedly disinterested discussion is given more weight than the movement's continuing discourse. Bound and gagged, its naked throat is forever on the block. Reduced from a distance to a series of totems, André Breton and the Surrealist Movement are at even greater risk of being seen as nothing but chapters in art history and "rooms" in government-endowed collections. All those who want to prevent this kind of entombment should explore the great, slow-beating heart of Surrealism and Painting on their own, and let Surrealism speak for itself.

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

One More for the Road

Ray Bradbury
William Morrow & Company ($24.95)

by Ryder Miller

Once touted as "the worlds greatest living science fiction writer," Ray Bradbury remains one of the best writers of short genre fiction, having successfully written short stories in the fantasy, science fiction, horror, and detective traditions. Bradbury got past the boundaries of genre writing when he was anthologized along with writers accepted by the literary establishment, and eventually became a staple of high-school English classes. He won an O. Henry award, and publicly criticized McCarthy in The Nation in the 1950s, all of which helped him to escape the boundaries of science fiction. Yet though he inspired the ire of some science fiction writers by being "too" successful, he never became too mainstream to alienate the cult aficionados. It's this Bradbury, author of such classics as The Martian Chronicles and Fahrenheit 451 (which he claims to have written in nine days) that has been the tough act the later Bradbury has had to follow—or maybe as older readers we are harder to charm. Nevertheless, Bradbury's latest short fiction collection, One More for the Road, shows that he is still a master of the short form, still able to charm and inspire wonder with his stories.

One More for the Road contains twenty five stories in a variety of modes, and like much of Bradbury's recent work—the author is presently in his eighties—it evokes mortal concerns. In "Autumn Afternoon" an old women gets worried about a young girl who always writes everything down, and an old man haunts the golf course in "Fore!" and the neighborhood in "Time Intervening." The book also consistently explores Bradbury's preoccupation with it, that thing that crops up between people so we can better defend ourselves from each other. But the tales are, as to be expected, wondrous. Bradbury invokes the fantastical in "Beasts" and "Diane de Forét," and adds new dimensions to time travel stories in "Quid Pro Quo" and "The F. Scott/Tolstoy/Ahab Accumulator" (in which a character goes back in time to meet some famous authors). Many of the best stories involve what transpires between men and women, with Bradbury sometimes expressing discontent. But also present is Bradbury's enthusiasm for life and the wonders of childhood.

Bradbury's work is often characterized by emotional outbursts and richly developed metaphors, reflecting his interest in infusing his prose with the poetic impulse. In the afterword to One More for the Road he reveals that "ninety-nine percent of my stories were pure image, impacted by movies, the Sunday funnies, poetry, essays, and the detonations of Oz, Tarzan, Jules Verne, Pharaoh Tutankhamen, and their attendant illustrations." One More for the Road does this as brilliantly as ever, exploring not only the consequences of the fantastical and macabre, but also the wonders and emotions of life. Though his stories are not always meant for children, Bradbury has the ability—still—to reach the child in all of us.

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

Ten Little Indians

Sherman Alexie
Grove Press ($24)

by Anne Bergen-Aurand and Brian Bergen-Aurand

"That's Sherman, not Shaman." At a reading for this new short story collection at the Newberry Library in Chicago, Alexie responded to a question with that quip. While it garnered the laugh it was obviously meant to, it also conveyed a serious message, one Alexie has been trying to get across for years. Like much of his other work, this collection of nine stories challenges the many stereotypes people have about Indians (which is Alexie's preferred term for Native Americans), including those held by Indians themselves.

Alexie's characters are clearly exhausted with expectations of magic, spiritualism, and salvation, and they are too impoverished, too homeless, too sexually distracted, or too overwhelmed by the fallout of September 11th to heal anyone else. In "The Life and Times of Estelle Walks Above," the narrator's mother, Estelle, becomes the guide for a group of guru-seeking white women, though from her son's point of view, "Of course she wasn't a magician. She was a mess! She failed parenting quizzes!" He goes on to ask, "What is it about Indians that turns otherwise intelligent, interesting, and capable people into blithering idiots? I don't think every white person I meet has the spiritual talents and service commitment of a Jesuit priest, but white folks often think we Indians are shamanic geniuses." The collection dwells on that question, asking Shaman-seekers everywhere to reconsider their quests.

This is the pull of Alexie at his best. Ten Little Indians recalls The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven, Reservation Blues, and the screenplay for Smoke Signals—all works in which failures and successes develop between the reservation and the other world, even when the two never come into direct contact. The most important struggles evoke new definitions of what it means to fail and succeed on both sides of the reservation border. Most of all, Alexie's work puts forth a funny, sexy, and biting challenge to static definitions of either side of the hyphen in American-Indian.

Like other prominent Indian writers such as Louise Erdrich and James Welch, Alexie describes contemporary characters straddling identities, ethnicities, economic situations, and cultures, but in these pages Alexie brings this balancing act to the present moment. He writes about devout Catholic Indians and Indians who know the words to every Hank Williams song. He writes about Indians who work the Seattle docks, political aides who are Indian, Indians who teach American history at community colleges, and globetrotting Indians who sell ideas. Their boundaries and self-identifications often lack coherence and are filled with contradiction; like Whitman's speaker in "Song of Myself," they "contain multitudes." William, the salesman in "Flight Patterns" doesn't "want to choose between Ernie Hemingway and the Spokane tribal elders, between Mia Hamm and Crazy Horse, between The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter and Chief Dan George." The Brady Bunch meets fancy dancing as Alexie performs the quintessential postmodern pastiche of drawing deeply from mass and tribal culture.

It would be easy to see how these characters grow to hate the white hegemony that demands they "Go back where they came from." However, Alexie's stories draw their characters between the worlds of white racism, white vanity, white rage, and white ignorance, and those of white compassion, white genius, and white poetry. This cosmopolitanism and the ills and benefits which accompany it come across clearest in the two dominant stories of the collection: "Lawyer's League" and "What You Pawn I Will Redeem." Here Alexie refuses to let anyone off the hook. An Indian taunted by a racist does not have the right to lash out without consequences. An Indian grandmother's stolen fancy-dancing regalia must be reclaimed through hard work.

Because of this complex culture, almost all of the characters here are searching for identity and remain split. They are never wholly able to trust in either side of the divide and are rarely trusted wholly in return. In "The Search Engine" a student who finds a book of poetry written by a Spokane Indian 30 years earlier feels a connection that leads her on an arduous trail to find the poet and speak with him. When she finally tracks him down, he explains that he is "not really a Spokane Indian"—he distrusts his own identity as Indian because he was "adopted out and raised by a white family." In "Lawyer's League" we meet Richard, whose father "is an African American giant who played defensive end for the University of Washington Huskies," and whose mother "is a petite Spokane Indian ballerina who majored in dance at U-Dub." Richard remarks "genetically speaking, I'm a graceful monster. . . . culturally speaking, I'm a biracial revolutionary leftist magician with a twenty-foot jumper encoded in my DNA." And in "Can I Get a Witness," a woman who is disconnected from her husband, sons, and her own life finds opportunity for escape as she steps out of the rubble of a terrorist explosion. All these stories are about belief and disbelief, and their specific contradictions, self-questioning, and deceptions reflect a skepticism of official accounts of September 11th and the erosion of an imagined American way of life.

In this way, Ten Little Indians is tied to an American psyche haunted by the destruction of the World Trade Center, the continued scapegoating of people of color, and the unconsidered proclamations of the innocence of the victims. The events of September 11th appear in a handful of stories and are clearly present in the minds of some of the characters, but in "Can I Get a Witness," they have a prominent role. As a woman who has just survived the explosion delivers her diatribe about reactions to the attacks, the reader is left wondering if the trauma she has endured only minutes before has made her thinking frenetic and absurd or clearer and more insightful.

In the end, Ten Little Indians tells the tales of a group of exceptional people who are average and of average people who are exceptional. More reminiscent of Raymond Carver's episodic What We Talk About When We Talk About Love than the geographically contained Sherwood Anderson of Winesburg, Ohio, Alexie's stories are "ambiguously ethnic," mourning, delighting, and devious in that ambiguity. These characters are transients, confused and untrusting, who are sometimes steadfast and sometimes tempted by fatalism. Yet, when they cry too easily, meet en route to the airport, or dance in a Seattle intersection, there is something ever so slight and grand they redeem.

The unresolved lesson of Ten Little Indians comes from a few lines in the first story. "Maybe Indians are just big-footed hitchhikers eager to tell a joke! That wasn't a profound thought, but maybe it was an accurate one. But can you be accurate without profundity? Corliss didn't know the answer to the question."

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

Wolf Dreams

Yasmina Khadra
Translated by Linda Black
The Toby Press ($19.95)

by Kevin Carollo

How can you forget when you spend your time betraying your memory, and your nights trying to piece it together again like a cursed jigsaw, only for it to go hazy again when dawn comes, over and over again. Every day. Every night. Endlessly.
We call that obsession, and we think that naming it is sufficient to triumph over despair.
What do we really know about obsession?
—Yasmina Khadra, Wolf Dreams

Forgetfulness is a property of all action.
--Nietzsche

How do we make sense of violence, and what good can come of making sense of it? To name is not enough.

Yasmina Khadra, a pseudonym of Mohammed Moulessehoul, offers intensely stark and provocative portraits of the culture of violence in contemporary Algeria. His most recent offering to an English-speaking audience, Wolf Dreams, stands as a natural extension of his In the Name of God, which also documents the entwined nature of political corruption, fundamentalism, and violence in late 1980s-early 1990s Algeria. A more literal translation of this earlier novel's title would be The Lambs of God (Les agneaux du Seigneur). As the title suggests, Khadra's latest work explores the process of becoming-wolf, i.e. the turn to violence in order to assert absolutist parameters to Algerian national identity.

The attempt to make sense of violence through literature is a brave act, one that defies the obsessive and repetitive history of postcolonial Algeria. That Khadra, an officer in the Algerian army for 36 years, wrote these novels under a pseudonym, hints at the risk involved in documenting ongoing national violence. In such a context, the ritual forgetting of history has resulted in brutal factionalism. Khadra's work responds to the rise of fundamentalism with a profoundly humanistic and historical formulation: Algeria cannot exist as a nation without tolerance for its many religious, linguistic, regional, cultural, and political factions. Of course, to recognize the historical and cultural hybridity of Algeria constitutes an affront to its many fundamentalisms. Ironically, perhaps, Khadra's novels are fighting words.

Wolf Dreams focuses on Nafa Walid, an aspiring actor who starts working as a chauffeur for a wealthy, "Westernized" family. The novel narrates his turn from serving the debased bourgeois elite to getting caught up in the military-religious fervor of the Islamic Salvation Front (FIS). It then follows the increasing violence after the FIS is banned in 1992 and other radical groups take over. Through the novel's main character, Khadra portrays fundamentalism as deriving from a decidedly non-fundamentalist amalgam of factors. These include a reaction against class privilege, a frustration with political and economic corruption, the loss of historical memory between generations, and the search for a meaningful self amidst great inequity and national infighting. As Nafa becomes inured to the wolf culture of violence, he starts to embody its most obsessive qualities.

In turn, Nafa's descent into violence corresponds to "Algeria . . . plunging headlong into the irrevocable."Khadra is a master at articulating the fragmented national consciousness of Algeria through the obsessive eyes of the individual. (Born close to the beginning of the Algerian revolution for independence, in January 1955, and "entrusted to the military institution at age 9," Khadra has understandably referred to himself as "a little bit the actual history of Algeria.") The novel's periodic switch between first- and third-person narration helps maintain this tension. The need to discriminate between individual and nation—and the wolf from its pack—also questions the absolutist notion that "You can't have one foot in the east, and one foot in the west. "The difficulty presented here lies in taking another step, in maintaining a sense of national and individual consciousness not defined by the irrevocable footprints of East and West.

Wolf Dreams envisions the role of art as that which has the capacity to connect us to history, to compel us beyond obsession. In the novel, artists signify the most suspect of Algeria's subjects; consequently, they offer the most illuminating commentary on the impasses to forming a cohesive nation-state. Nafa notes:

Sid Ali, the bard of the Casbah, told me that Algeria was the biggest archipelago in the world--made up of twenty-eight million or so islands. He neglected to add that the oceans of misunderstanding that divide us are the darkest and vastest of the entire planet.

The mere recognition of national fragmentation has a distinct and powerful political valence to it. The suggestion that "In Algeria, there's no destiny. We're all at the end of the road" contravenes any fundamentalism which assumes that Algeria must become an Islamic state, culturally coherent, or some sort of pure "Eastern" nation.

At the end of the road, there is an alternate path. Khadra's compelling depiction of contemporary Algeria suggests a morally complex trajectory: the way out of repeating an obsessive history of violence begins with remembering it. The move beyond moral absolutism, and towards belief in the validity of nationalist hybridity, defines the political currency of today's best postcolonial literature. To read Khadra is to intuit this richer world.

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

The Fortress of Solitude

Jonathan Lethem
Doubleday ($26)

by Eric Lorberer

Holding up Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March as the Great American Novel, Martin Amis praises the book's "fantastic inclusiveness, its pluralism, its qualmless promiscuity. In these pages the highest and the lowest mingle and hobnob in the vast democracy of Bellow's prose. Everything is in here, the crushed and the exalted and all the notches in between."

If those are the qualifications for the category—and if you add the obvious hook that the Great American Novel must assess our peculiar national character, then I think they are—then the same could be said for Jonathan Lethem's glorious new book, The Fortress of Solitude. In setting, it takes us through Brooklyn, Berkeley, Indiana, Vermont, North Carolina, among other places that comprise the country. More importantly, it soars above our streets and stoops, our colleges and communes, our airwaves, our prisons, our lives.

The plot is simple: Dylan and Mingus, the two main characters, grow up. Despite their iconic names they are no mere symbols. Dylan is a white boy in a mostly black Brooklyn neighborhood, and it seems like one of those unpredictable twists of fate that the more extroverted Mingus, son of a semi-famous soul singer, befriends him. Life is full of lessons for young Dylan as he negotiates the social complexities of childhood in an urban environment—

Let me see it: you saw a basketball or a pack of baseball cards or a plastic water gun by taking it into your hands, and what happened after that was in doubt. Ownership depended on mostly not letting anyone see anything. If you let a kid see a bottle of Yoo-Hoo for a minute he'd drink what was left in it.

—and these lessons add up to the person he becomes. Likewise for Mingus, whose power to protect is as intermittent and enigmatic as his graffiti tag "Dose"; and for Arthur Lomb, with whom Dylan is "doomed to friendship"; and for Robert Woolfolk, the recurring antagonist in Dylan's personal drama; and the list goes on. Lethem has rendered all his characters, and their seemingly fated trajectories, with the messy, incontrovertible reality of life.

The book's structure is likewise exquisite: The Fortress of Solitude is an elaborate off-kilter diptych held together by a finely-wrought hinge. The first (and longest) section of the book, "Underberg," chronicles the boys' youth in their corner of Brooklyn—itself in the beginning throes of a transition from "Gowanus" to the tonier "Boerum Hill"—during the '70s. Here, the world (and all its nuances—Lethem excels at drawing out the texture of the decade, saturating his prose in a warm bath of pop-culture particulars) is viewed from a mythical, authoritative remove. This omniscient point-of-view is delightfully in keeping with the magical realist touch of having Dylan and Mingus discover that the power of flight—that core comic book fantasy—is real: "The elongated rectangular grid of these streets, these rows of narrow houses, seen from above, at dusk in late October: imagine the perspective of a flying man. What sense would he make of the figures below . . . Is this a mugging? Should he swoop down, intervene?"

After the text-warping fulcrum of the 10-page "Liner Note," the second part of the novel, "Prisonaires," catapults us into the '90s and shifts to the first person—letting Dylan tell the tale that was always, at heart, his own. It also gives Lethem free reign to dig into the meat of his American epic. For this is largely a novel about race, and although Dylan and Mingus had plenty of opportunities both to confirm and cross the barriers between black and white, the older Dylan can give more reasoned expression to the issue:

The word throbbed between us, permitting no reply from me. I could visualize it in cartoonish or graffiti-style font, glowing with garish decorations, lightning, stars, halos. . . . Though it had been more than once around the block of our relationship, nigger was that rarity, an anti-entropic agent, self-renewing. The deep ugliness in the word always sat up alert again when it was needed.

The section also smartly invokes the increasingly gargantuan pink elephant of American incarceration, from Dylan's proposed screenplay about "the Prisonaires" (an incarcerated singing group) to his gripping account of visiting his old friend in the stir: "We were being transformed into inmates, I began to understand, as our reward for asking to go inside."

Lethem's America is one that contains multitudes: it is only a long day's ride in a rental car that takes Dylan from the bowels of a correctional facility to a utopian, Richard Brautigan-flavored farm; only a commuter flight that takes him from a harrowing argument with his girlfriend to a hilarious Hollywood pitch meeting. And there is so much more—experimental film, motherless sons, drugs and guns, a science-fiction convention, power, sacrifice, the relentless turning of the karmic wheel. Yet perhaps ultimately The Fortress of Solitude is a novel about the complicated nature of friendship:

Dylan Ebdus's friendship with Mingus Rude lived in brief windows of time, punctuation to the unspoken sentences of their days. . . . There was nothing to do but pick up where they'd left off, pool what they still had in common. What was new in the other you pretended to take for granted, a bargain instinctively struck to ensure your own coping on the other end.

XTC sang: "Deep in your fortress of solitude, don't mean to be rude, but I don't feel super." Jonathan Lethem has exploded the sentiment into a gorgeous novel of epic sweep, replete with loss and vision—a truly great Great American Novel.

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

The Fortress of Solitude
Jonathan Lethem
Doubleday ($26)

by Eric Lorberer

Holding up Saul Bellow's The Adventures of Augie March as the Great American Novel, Martin Amis praises the book's "fantastic inclusiveness, its pluralism, its qualmless promiscuity. In these pages the highest and the lowest mingle and hobnob in the vast democracy of Bellow's prose. Everything is in here, the crushed and the exalted and all the notches in between."

If those are the qualifications for the category--and if you add the obvious hook that the Great American Novel must assess our peculiar national character, then I think they are--then the same could be said for Jonathan Lethem's glorious new book, The Fortress of Solitude. In setting, it takes us through Brooklyn, Berkeley, Indiana, Vermont, North Carolina, among other places that comprise the country. More importantly, it soars above our streets and stoops, our colleges and communes, our airwaves, our prisons, our lives.

The plot is simple: Dylan and Mingus, the two main characters, grow up. Despite their iconic names they are no mere symbols. Dylan is a white boy in a mostly black Brooklyn neighborhood, and it seems like one of those unpredictable twists of fate that the more extroverted Mingus, son of a semi-famous soul singer, befriends him. Life is full of lessons for young Dylan as he negotiates the social complexities of childhood in an urban environment--

Let me see it: you saw a basketball or a pack of baseball cards or a plastic water gun by taking it into your hands, and what happened after that was in doubt. Ownership depended on mostly not letting anyone see anything. If you let a kid see a bottle of Yoo-Hoo for a minute he'd drink what was left in it.

--and these lessons add up to the person he becomes. Likewise for Mingus, whose power to protect is as intermittent and enigmatic as his graffiti tag "Dose"; and for Arthur Lomb, with whom Dylan is "doomed to friendship"; and for Robert Woolfolk, the recurring antagonist in Dylan's personal drama; and the list goes on. Lethem has rendered all his characters, and their seemingly fated trajectories, with the messy, incontrovertible reality of life.

The book's structure is likewise exquisite: The Fortress of Solitude is an elaborate off-kilter diptych held together by a finely-wrought hinge. The first (and longest) section of the book, "Underberg," chronicles the boys' youth in their corner of Brooklyn--itself in the beginning throes of a transition from "Gowanus" to the tonier "Boerum Hill"--during the '70s. Here, the world (and all its nuances--Lethem excels at drawing out the texture of the decade, saturating his prose in a warm bath of pop-culture particulars) is viewed from a mythical, authoritative remove. This omniscient point-of-view is delightfully in keeping with the magical realist touch of having Dylan and Mingus discover that the power of flight--that core comic book fantasy--is real: "The elongated rectangular grid of these streets, these rows of narrow houses, seen from above, at dusk in late October: imagine the perspective of a flying man. What sense would he make of the figures below . . . Is this a mugging? Should he swoop down, intervene?"

After the text-warping fulcrum of the 10-page "Liner Note," the second part of the novel, "Prisonaires," catapults us into the '90s and shifts to the first person--letting Dylan tell the tale that was always, at heart, his own. It also gives Lethem free reign to dig into the meat of his American epic. For this is largely a novel about race, and although Dylan and Mingus had plenty of opportunities both to confirm and cross the barriers between black and white, the older Dylan can give more reasoned expression to the issue:

The word throbbed between us, permitting no reply from me. I could visualize it in cartoonish or graffiti-style font, glowing with garish decorations, lightning, stars, halos. . . . Though it had been more than once around the block of our relationship, nigger was that rarity, an anti-entropic agent, self-renewing. The deep ugliness in the word always sat up alert again when it was needed.

The section also smartly invokes the increasingly gargantuan pink elephant of American incarceration, from Dylan's proposed screenplay about "the Prisonaires" (an incarcerated singing group) to his gripping account of visiting his old friend in the stir: "We were being transformed into inmates, I began to understand, as our reward for asking to go inside."

Lethem's America is one that contains multitudes: it is only a long day's ride in a rental car that takes Dylan from the bowels of a correctional facility to a utopian, Richard Brautigan-flavored farm; only a commuter flight that takes him from a harrowing argument with his girlfriend to a hilarious Hollywood pitch meeting. And there is so much more--experimental film, motherless sons, drugs and guns, a science-fiction convention, power, sacrifice, the relentless turning of the karmic wheel. Yet perhaps ultimately The Fortress of Solitude is a novel about the complicated nature of friendship:

Dylan Ebdus's friendship with Mingus Rude lived in brief windows of time, punctuation to the unspoken sentences of their days. . . . There was nothing to do but pick up where they'd left off, pool what they still had in common. What was new in the other you pretended to take for granted, a bargain instinctively struck to ensure your own coping on the other end.

XTC sang: "Deep in your fortress of solitude, don't mean to be rude, but I don't feel super." Jonathan Lethem has exploded the sentiment into a gorgeous novel of epic sweep, replete with loss and vision--a truly great Great American Novel.

Platform

Michel Houellebecq
Translated by Frank Wynne
Knopf ($25)

by Joel Turnipseed

If the pure product of America is insanity, what have we gotten from the French—le petite mort and the bitter rant? Michel Houllebecq has again combined the two in Platform, his follow-up to 2000's import, The Elementary Particles. The story starts with the death of a man's father and ends with his premeditation on his own, lonely, death. This long shadow of mortality draws the span in which our narrator—also called Michel—discovers that his own life hasn't meant all that much anyway: American television and insipid game shows, cheap porn, pre-packaged everything—from style to tourism, and a civil service job administering art that consists mostly of clichés best equipped to consume themselves. Sex is granted only to the shallow hip and the vainly beautiful (of which Michel is neither) and love—well, who knows where that goes? As our bodies droop and our memory fogs, it gets harder and harder to say. Things aren't much better outside, with racial violence seething in the streets and religious violence spreading across the globe. Houellebecq's brilliance is to package what could easily fall into an intellectually dense meditation as a scabrously funny love story, though one that shows itself in the end as tragedy.

What is immediately striking—and great—about Houllebecq's book is that he has dared to write, in the face of the smugly disapproving, self-satisfied chattering classes, a book from the asshole section (of whatever: airplane, summer camp, weekend conference). If you sit in the asshole section (and it's hard to avoid when you're trying to avoid the high sanctimony of the nice people), you will laugh your ass off. For all the uproar caused by The Elementary Particles and "le affair Houellebecq" that accompanied its publication, Platform seems written at times to take things a step further—to say, in the wake of continuing opprobrium following his scandalous fame, "Fuck you." It's been a long time since a writer this talented was this brave.

At times, however, you wonder if it's real courage or just an idiot's willingness to speak unpleasant truths. Houellebecq was taken to trial in France over Platform and the interviews he gave in support of it, on charges of "inciting racial hatred." Even though he won the case, there are still echoes of the outcry over Houellebecq's hostility toward Islam. Reading the book, it's hard to say which he hates more: the monotheistic religion or those Muslims who insist on humanity's shared worst-impulses of ignorance and repression, and who, further, arm their rage with Molotov cocktails, kalashnikovs, and explosive belts. Houellebecq's book takes a long time to turn from comedy to tragedy, but it does so in a single moment: when Michel's single dream explodes into pink mist with the gunfire of Muslim terrorists at a Thai resort. Platform was published in France before 9/11, and that should help us realize that radical Islamic terrorism (from which the body count has been ticking since the sixties in Europe) is not new just because we in America are its latest and most spectacularly stricken victims. For those of us who were especially shocked by the more anxious moments of self-flagellation and blame following the destruction of the World Trade Center, Houllebecq seems like a savage prophet, presciently mocking Libération for finding the blame squarely with the terrorist's victims and Paris-Match for commercializing it with gory color photos above the fold. In a coincidence that might have made even Stockhausen blush, Islamic terrorists blew up a club in Bali just as Houellebecq's trial came to a close—this is not a writer afraid of playing with fire.

Still, Platform's anti-Islamic moments aren't pretty—not the least for coming across as forced confessions: the two longest cries against Islam are mouthpiece bits by a walk-on Egyptian and Jordanian, respectively. The most disturbing words from Michel come immediately after his tragic loss:

It is certainly possible to remain alive animated simply by a desire for vengeance; many people have lived that way. Islam had wrecked my life, and Islam was certainly something I could hate. In the days that followed, I devoted myself to trying to feel hatred for Muslims. I became quite good at it, and I started to follow the international news again. Every time I heard that a Palestinian terrorist, or a Palestinian child or a pregnant Palestinian woman, had been gunned down in the Gaza Strip, I felt a quiver of enthusiasm at the thought of one less Muslim in the world.

It's easy, reading these passages, to be saddened and disgusted. If despair is the deepest sin, Michel is committing it in spades here—and without hope, it's no surprise there's not a drip of charity for the million Palestinians inhabiting the prison/rubble of Jenin. But it's not the writer's job to cheer us with homilies or to chide us—it is to show us another consciousness (ours, even—more truly); to share in a solitary voice what it is like to be most deeply human. If Michel's despair seems wicked to us, it is undeniably real—and it is not reserved for the Muslims. His near-dying words from his exile in Thailand are reserved for Europe, surrogate for the West:

To the end, I will remain a child of Europe, of worry and shame. I have no message of hope to deliver. For the west, I do not feel hatred. At most I feel a great contempt. I know only that every single one of us reeks of selfishness, masochism, and death. We have created a system in which it has simply become impossible to live, and what's more, we continue to export it.

In all of this lay the foundation for the "platform" of the book's title: sex tourism as the cure to the ills of the World, First and Third. God is dead and his century-long replacement, Communism, is equally defunct. And if there just isn't any basis for hope outside our everyday pains and infrequent pleasures? Houllebecq trots out a former hero of the Cuban revolution to lament on his people,

The poor people of Cuba.... They've nothing left to sell except their bodies.

Meanwhile, Michel is in the country on business, accompanying his girlfriend and her fellow executive on a tour of their resorts in a struggle to make them profitable. After hearing the old revolutionary, he thinks:

What could possibly incite human beings to undertake tedious, tiresome tasks? This seemed to me the only political question worth posing. The old factory worker's evidence was damning: in his opinion, the only answer was the need for money; in any case, the revolution had obviously failed to create a new man, one driven by more altruistic motives. . . . the system had failed, no one was fooled any longer, no one was sustained anymore by the hope of one day rejoicing in communal labor. The result was that nothing functioned, no one worked or produced the slightest thing any longer, and Cuban society had become incapable of ensuring the survival of its own members.

This is a drop-dead post-mortem on the communist dream, but when Houllebecq's man utters the solution, you feel like maybe you've been sitting at the bar all night with a guy who's maybe a little bit more of a crank than you figured. Or a lotta bit:

Offer a club where the people get to fuck.

Moments like these make me think of Houllebecq as an Anti-Dave Eggers. If it hadn't been written first, you might be tempted to read Platform as a straightforward satire of You Shall Know Our Velocity, the equally preposterous world-savior novel of last summer. Where the two heroes of Velocity spent way too many pages extolling the virtues of a round-the-world trip handing money out to the needy; our Michel has decided that it would just be best for all of us if we banged them—especially since they give such good massages afterward. The preposterousness doesn't end there, however, since Michel's girlfriend is herself a sexual athlete of the highest order and a well-paid executive to boot, and she just loves to arrange a threesome with the nearest hot babe on the train. It's not that the sex scenes aren't well-written—they are as good for a hard-on as anything you'll find in Penthouse Forum—it's just that they're more appropriate to the innocence of the engineering dorm room fantasy than to serious imaginative literature.

Frankly, there just isn't that much platform in Platform, and that's a good thing. Michel—and at times the book fails the distinction between author and protagonist—presents us with one of the most disturbing consciences of our times, so bleakly honest he comes across as deadpan funny: he's an arts administrator who doesn't care two shits about Art, has no permanent attachments to any one or any idea, is a self-confessed crank and pervert, and can remember his own life just slightly better than the last novel he's read. And this guy, barely able to light his cigarette from the right end, who quotes Comte then masturbates into John Grisham novels, is going to proposition the happiness of the human race? Somehow, the answer hovers around "yes"—but not with the straightforwardly silly platform essayed in the book.

For all the comparisons to Camus and Celine, the recurring impression I have after reading his last two books (his first, Whatever, provoked an eponymous reaction) is that Houellebecq is heir to an older tradition, that of the Cynics—best exemplified by Diogenes of Sinope. Diogenes considered himself an heir to Socrates—an honest questioner of everything cherished in the City; a man who held up in his behavior a mirror to everything that was false; who spoke a true tongue to all the lies and unspoken cruelty in our daily talk. In one of his most famous acts, Diogenes—often called the Dog—was asked to bark for the hosts of a dinner he was attending. His biographer put his reply to this bitter insult subtly, by saying he raised his toga and "turned a dogs trick" on them. Given the famously outrageous antics of Houellebecq (and his wife, who once posed nude for a photo-op), one wonders just how consciously Michel is indebted. For those who cherish Houellebecq as a satirist and not a Cynic, note that there is an interesting inversion at work in Platform: where in Greek times the Satyr play always came after the three-play tragic cycle at festival, undoing the spell of horror, Houellebecq satirizes throughout—only to conclude with his tragedy. If you were looking to upend the literary world, that would be getting to the root of things.

Platform is an important book, speaking necessary things to the self-satisfied; to an age which seems some days to have no ideas worth living for, except, well, living itself—which, in the end, may be Houellebecq's point: we've become so caught up in our anxious pieties and unspeaking shame that we simply no longer know how live—and to share the pleasures of life with each other. But doesn't this lack imagination? In the end, this is the one simple criticism of such a wild and sophisticated book: the simple naiveté of its sexuality and the larger one of its moral vision. But even there, I suspect, Houellebecq is waiting for us, ready to turn his own trick. Even—especially—on the assholes.

Click here to purchase this book at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

The Silver Gryphon | Angel Body

The Silver Gryphon
Edited by Gary Turner and Marty Halpern
Golden Gryphon Press ($27.95)

Angel Body And Other Magic for the Soul
Edited by Chris Reed and David Memmott
Back Brain Recluse / Wordcraft of Oregon ($16.95)

by Alan DeNiro

Recently there has been a bumper crop of strong original anthologies (that is, with no or few reprints) that have incorporated genre elements into their contents. Some of these have come from relatively surprising sources, such as Conjunctions or McSweeney's, indicating that something of a sea change is afoot. Perhaps it's the permeability of blockbuster sci-fi film into the popular lexicon. Or it could be that the reality of our everyday lives has increasingly seemed like science fiction—and not of the Jetsons, gee-whiz variety, but rather the paranoid, malcontent societies envisioned by Philip K. Dick and J. G. Ballard. This is less the result of technological innovation per se and more the product of an open-ended mood, unassailable by logic.

So how are contemporary genre venues handling this newfound interest in their materials? Is it business as usual, or a chance to cross-fertilize with other forms of literature? Two new anthologies, each from small independent publishers, seem to be tackling this blurred genre from different corners of the speculative fiction field, but both subtly point towards repositioning the small presses as a crux of the genre. Indeed, speculative fiction small presses have been able to pick up the load where the larger presses have, to a large degree, sloughed off—particularly in the realm of short fiction.

The Silver Gryphon is a superb example of this. It has one story by each of the authors that Golden Gryphon Press has published previously. There is significant symmetry here in that this is the press's 25th book, a milestone worth celebrating in this publishing climate. Golden Gryphon's authors come from a slew of different perspectives, and this volume demonstrates how such an invigorating range can contribute to the tenor of a well-made anthology. But because the writers within tend to be cognizant of a tradition with certain parameters, however loose they may be, it also shows how various fictions are coded to draw in different audiences, which may or may not work against the grain of each other.

Take the Joe Lansdale story "Fire Dog" that closes out The Silver Gryphon. Lansdale is most noted as a horror writer, so we may expect his story to be "horrific"—and horrific it is, with a conclusion that is as inevitable as Greek tragedy but no less compelling because of that. But put this story on a typewritten sheet of paper with no name, and the reading experience might be vastly different; the story could have easily fit into an avant-garde literary magazine, with its whiplash metafictional premise that would have made Barthelme proud:

The suit fit perfectly, though Jim did feel a bit exposed. Still, he had to admit there was something refreshing about the exposure. He wore the suit into the break room, following the Chief.
Rex, the current firedog, was sprawled on the couch watching a cop show. His suit looked worn, even a bit smoke stained. He was tired around the eyes. His jowls drooped.
"This is our new fire dog," the Chief said.
Rex turned and looked at Jim, said, "I'm not out the door, already you got a guy in the suit?"

The Silver Gryphon makes a compelling case, then, for the exciting interstices at the center of the field. It begins with three juggernauts: James Patrick Kelly's "Mother" depicts an amazingly rendered future world involving aliens and an interstate cycling ride, bleak and tender at the same time; Jeffrey Ford's "Present from the Past" orbits a little closer to home, with its deft portrayal of a mother's death and the New Jersey landscape her family inhabits; and "The Door Gunner" by Michael Bishop is a sweeping story of Vietnam, in which a dead private keeps fighting—which in lesser hands might lead to the worst kind of retro zombie movie excesses, but "The Door Gunner" is more in the tradition of The Things They Carried than Dawn of the Dead. This opening triumvirate creates a powerful meditation on death and family, and exhibits how skillful use of genre tropes can create visionary literature.

There are other wonderful stories here as well. Paul DiFillippo's nutty, yet scientifically grounded, "What's Up Tiger Lily?" pushes all the right storytelling buttons, doing everything Joshua Ortega's much-hyped Frequencies tried to do (but in the end couldn't) in a fraction of the space. Warren Rochelle's "The Golden Boy," though understated on the surface, is arguably the weirdest story in the collection; it slowly unveils a cauldron of alternate history in which fairy folk are rounded up into camps and North America is controlled by an oppressive monarchy. The story is sometimes dulcet, sometimes deeply unsettling, but always striking; interestingly it's the ordinary scenes, such as the adolescent protagonist going to the zoo with his class, that are the most affecting (though there aren't lions and tigers in the cages, but werewolves).

Also quite notable is "After Ildiko" by Lucius Shepard. In some ways, the story mines familiar territory for the author, including the menacing, grungy Central American landscape acting as a reference point for the characters' inner lives. But Shepard is one of the finest prose stylists around, and manages in a relatively short space to create a devastating portrait of a foolish American traveler decidedly out of his element; there is a creeping inexorability to the plot that readers of Patricia Highsmith would appreciate. At the other end of the spectrum, the anthology has a few pieces that, while not exactly light, certainly invoke the pleasures of action/adventure—though even these have off-kilter subtleties that belie their pulp roots. For example, R. Garcia Y Robertson—arguably the best, most literate writer of adventure fiction working today—adds the wonderful "Far Barbary" to his mélange of stories; set in Central Asia during a fierce medieval war, its elements of pure fantasia (a city floating on a lake, airships) are balanced with a healthy dose of political realism.

Not quite everything works in The Silver Gryphon; there are a few merely competent stories that are paint-by-numbers science fiction, and the stories are all over the map. But its very eclecticism, without making the whole project feel slapdash, proves to be a huge asset. Solidly in the "radical center" of the field, the anthology would work well as a small window, especially for non-genre readers, into the here-and-now of science fiction and fantasy. The very fact that bracing anthologies like this are seldom put out by larger genre publishers speaks to the fact that presses like Golden Gryphon are fulfilling a dramatic need in the marketplace.

This is also true for the amazing Angel Body. Most of the stories herein have a quiet edginess to them, working against the sweetness implicit in the title. Originally published in the United Kingdom as an issue of the experimental small press magazine Back Brain Recluse, this anthology showcases writers who have previously published with the small press Wordcraft of Oregon. There is a more focused tonal argument at work here, even if the authors in Angel Body overall are less well known than their counterparts in The Silver Gryphon, and the stories play off each other in more pronounced (albeit still oblique) ways. For example, Lance Olsen's "Moving" is a stunning, understated story of a couple who slowly disengage with nearly all of their material possessions and interest in the world at large. The story hovers on the boundary between satirizing and lionizing their choices. Immediately following "Moving" is the gorgeously Borgesian "Lupe Varga, Deceased," by Brian Evenson, which begins with this doozy:

When they found the artist Georges Pont-du-Lyon Traba's body on the main street of the capital, it had been penetrated by hundreds of miniature arrows. The fletching of each arrow consisted of a small white scrap of paper with writing on it, similar to the piece of paper found in a Chinese fortune cookie. . . . They removed all 2,761 arrows and read the notes attached to them. All were identical, reading:
You shall take a trip to the Orient
It was a false fortune, however, for Traba was dead.

Metaphysical strangeness of the highest order ensues. Another strong entry is "The Man Who Adopted Dead Children" by Conger Beasley, Jr.—the title itself is like a one-line story. Dealing with an isolated South Carolinian bachelor who fulfills an unexplained inner need by visiting morgues and bringing the embalmed bodies of hundreds children to his estate, the story mines the same territory as Gogol's Dead Souls; the portrait of the protagonist isn't exactly sympathetic, but we see him as more of a child of his battered, post-Reconstruction world.

There are many other stories in Angel Body that swing for the fences (and more often than not, hit the ball out of the park). Tom Whalen's "Concerning the Vampire" not only makes a contemporary story about a vampire actually interesting (no small feat!), but creates a moving portrait of a vampire who is pretty much a big dork, proud of the way he slices his tomatoes and corrects a professor about philosophy. "Frida Kahlo, Pierced by Time," by Lorraine Schein, has a fairly self-explanatory title at first glance, but the "H.G. Wells on acid" plot twists are anything but predictable. And "Burrito Meltdown" by Ernest Hogan is a story involving extra-terrestrials, human sacrifice, and a mysterious, viral substance known as Crossover Salsa. Although at first glance the narrative seems goofy, underneath the zaniness is a fierce exploration of ethnicity, mythology, and conspiracy theories. The language takes on a fiery, transformative bent:

Soon the Chevy was sliding down a beam of light from a pyramid-shaped UFO. The wheels touched down on the Beltway at sixty miles per hour. The melting burritos glowed.

Angel Body is further proof that Wordcraft of Oregon is one of the more underrated presses not only of science fiction, but of literature in general. Its own merits aside, the book provides a fine sampling of Wordcraft's authors, who are well worth investigating on their own—for example, Misha Nogha's Red Spider White Web is arguably the definitive feminist cyberpunk text, a searing work that crashes upon the reader like a catastrophe, not unlike many of the stories in this anthology. (Nogha also contributes an excellent piece of flash fiction to Angel Body, "The Carnelian Cat").

Each of these anthologies represent speculative fiction at its unapologetic best, utilizing a broad palette of fictional techniques; together, they are a crucial testament that this field is anything but fallow. Considering that change is ever coming (changing economics, demographics, reading sensibilities), the questions remain: How do those in the speculative fiction field perceive the increasing amorphousness of the field itself? Is it a threat or an opportunity? A call to arms to protect the confines of the genre, or a chance to meander in the messy scrublands in between? These questions have no easy answers. But these anthologies, in their own ways, are at least posing the questions, which is harder than it sounds.

Click here to purchase The Silver Gryphon at your local independent bookstore
Purchase this book at your local independent bookstore.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003

Architectures of Absence: An Interview with Craig Watson

by Chris McCreary

Craig Watson's "Statement," published in The L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Book, addresses how he was initially attracted to Language writing because he felt a "camaraderie of others similarly set adrift" in search of means of writing challenging work, yet soon found himself "processing through an increasingly narrow channel of thought" in "an environment controlled more by theory and imposed regulations than one open to all the motivations of a self-oriented process." He goes on to establish his search for "a poetics that actively conditions my self / environment and serves as a tuning process and a means of mediating personal experience. Obviously, such an internalized approach disavows allegiance to any code of poetic behavior and repudiates any cultural standards."

This lack of affiliation with any poetic school, as well as his absence from poetry scenes such as New York's or the Bay Area's, may help to explain why work of his caliber is not more widely anthologized or written about by critics.

Watson is the author of several books, including Free Will, After Calculus, and Drawing a Blank, which was the first title from Philadelphia's Singing Horse Press. The poems in Watson's latest book, True News, unfold in sequences that explore age-old conflicts—self vs. society, mind vs. body—with a particular emphasis on the cognitive processes that attempt to create meaning from these chaotic struggles. I interviewed Watson about these recurring dynamics over the course of the winter as we both wrangled with our various "real-life" responsibilities.

Chris McCreary: I became aware of your work through books that were published by poet-editors—Gil Ott, Rosmarie and Keith Waldrop, Elizabeth Robinson. What sort of poetic community do you inhabit these days? And how does living away from centers of activity such as New York City impact your writing life?

Craig Watson: First, I'm interested that your initial questions revolve around the search for a sense of place, physical and spiritual, in the world, which has always been a complex and perhaps defining issue for me. I left college after two years because it didn't offer experiences and learning opportunities that felt relevant to what I considered the "real" world and the urgencies of that world-in-time (ca. 1970). I've felt my way along since then, in a variety of jobs and social roles ranging from theater technician to corporate executive, though I have yet to identify anything I'd call a "career."

Though poetry has been a constant engagement in my life for nearly 40 years, it's maintained this centrality in part by its ability to sustain a space relatively independent of life-demands and social context. In other words, I've created and inhabited a paradox in which not having to rely on poetry as a principal identity marker has made it possible to keep poetry in a vital, primary personal space.

In terms of immediate community, I certainly participate in and benefit from the wonderful and flexible community of writers and artists in Rhode Island, though many of my long-term associations are more virtual than proximate. Poets with whom I have long relationships, such as Ted Pearson and Michael Gizzi, are physically dispersed but central to my sense of "home" community.

CM: Another way that poets tend to form communities is via academia, but from what I've learned that's not a route of your travels. A couple of your jobs especially interest me. How does your involvement with theater influence your thinking about issues like audience or performance? I know that "grammelot," for instance, directly addresses both of these issues.

CW: Having spent much of my working life in and around the theater, the practices and aesthetics of that institution has naturally affected my writing. Early on, I began to think about the poem as a performance—an act in framed space and dynamic time—and developed a concept of "page as stage" in poems for many years; After Calculus and Picture of the Picture of the Image in the Glass, among other works, explore this metaphor as a formal device, and later, more serial poems take for granted a certain performative context.

"Grammelot" was written when I was working as a literary manager for a regional theater and was thinking a lot about dramatic literary theory and dramaturgy. As much as theater, however, "Grammelot" for me asks questions about the nature of narrative and story, an interrogation which continued in more specific terms in the "Geographies" series in True News.

CM: I'm also interested in your work in a corporate environment and as a strategic consultant. In what ways does that sort of experience overlap with writing poetry? Do you find yourself using those experiences as source material, or is it more compartmentalized from creative life?

CW: I joined a technology corporation in 1985 as a technical writer both to make some money and to find out what it would be like to write full-time for a living. During the next 11 years, I became head of marketing, then public relations and finally strategic and business planning. For several years I was the principal corporate spokesperson and traveled extensively. Like any self-contained environment, corporate life has its own discourse with which it manages, directs and controls behavior through language. The opening poem of Free Will, "Persuasion and Judgment," draws from this discourse, most specifically that of corporate spokesman.

Of course, all poetry originates from and is sited in relation to particular social discourses. I remember always being puzzled as a child when someone told me to "put it in my own words" as if I either owned the language or could make one up. To my mind, the greatest literary revolution in the last century was to free poetry from "the poetic," that is, from a self-defined, tightly bordered, often sentimental discourse to an activity undertaken in and with multiple, even conflicting language contexts. Again, my emphasis is on "activity" rather than "result," another dimension of the performative.

CM: Having read three books of yours now that span almost 15 years, I've noticed how your work has shifted from the relatively spare After Calculus to denser forms of text. Could you talk a bit about the evolution of your work?

CW: The most simple, and by no means glib, answer I can provide is that the work has a "mind" of its own. Or as I once heard Creeley say: "Not what I think to say, but what my thinking says..." In any case, the seeming shift between most of my work in the '80s (and before) and the '90s is less the result of willful, formal alterations than it is of shifting contexts in life and perception and the aperture of possibilities those shifts opened. This shift is not, in my mind, quite as dramatic as it might at first appear; my thoughts about form and presentation have not changed so much as evolved into more complex organisms.

In general, I'm attracted by what I call a synaptic model of cognition in which thinking (as well as perceiving, feeling, choosing, etc.) occurs in "the gaps" between elements; the human nervous system, including the brain, operates through the transfer of chemicals and electrical charges between cells, and it's in this "negative space" that perception and response is enacted. Another way of thinking about these perceptual phenomena is the poem as constellation, first suggested by the Swiss poet Eugen Gomringer. Constellations work by what cognitive scientists called the principal of "subjective contours" which is simply the human tendency to see patterns and shapes in the object of the gaze. We make constellations by filling in the gaps.

Most of my work from 1970 through 1990 explored this cognitive model in fairly explicit terms; I was interested in trying to create a series of synaptic leaps between elements—words and fragments—on the page as a way to open a primary ground of language experience. Simultaneously, I was extremely interested in the architecture of absence; both my long-term appreciation and study of sculpture, and its notion of negative space, as well as my personal circumstances which included an unpleasant divorce and the need to restart large portions of my life, tended to focus my writing on various ideas about loss, emptiness and shape.

In 1990 I began a new work which I intended to be a long poem and which took five years to write. This work, called Reason and published by Zasterle in 1998, marked a shift in my use of space as well as the adoption of a mixed prose and broken-line format. While the book is still serial and constellar in the sense that each page is a separate fragment of the whole, I realized I didn't have to be quite so literal in the management of space. My sense of space become more syntactical, and my means of establishing tension and choreographing movement are more invested in the texts than in the page as a physical field.

The poems in Free Will and True News expand the range of formal possibilities within the paradigms to which I'm attracted. Obviously, I'm still very invested in the use of space on the page; in "Persuasion and Judgment" for instance, the spaces separating the fragments and utterances get progressively shorter, indicating a speeding up of the discourse as the poem goes on. Similarly, "Talk Drum" alternates between extremely long (longer than a breath can endure) lines and short vertical forms. Though it's certainly easier to remove single pages from their sequences, all the works are intended to be serial and contribute to a larger gesture. The primary impulse between the recent poems, and those of 20 years ago, has not really changed, though the way I experience and represent space has been a source of renewable interrogation for me.

CM: While your work addresses the sorts of cognitive processes you've just described, there's also a real awareness of the body's physical presence. Maybe this is the space where the individual consciousness rubs up against its surroundings—where "Identity meets desire," as you write in "grammelot," or "Hunger forms flesh," as you say in "2/15 of a Second." But the imagery of bodies alone or coming together—in "Future Self," for example, where you have lines like "clusters / of mouths on mouths on mouths"—reminds me more of Beckett's sense of the body being somewhat futile, as opposed to Whitman's celebration of the flesh. What's your take on the connection between our mental activities and the bodies that encase our brains and demand our attention and maintenance?

CW: The bifurcation of body and mind is a fundamental pillar of western civilization and sets the stage for all the other modes of duality in which we are conditioned to think and behave. The "problem of the body" is exactly that of mind and world, perception and culture, representation and presence. To date, my poem "Reason" wrestles with this knot most directly, though you're right that the fundamental question remains present throughout all the work and is never "solved," which is a statement in its own right, that is, unsolvable.

It's also interesting that you raise Beckett at this point; he's been an important source and inspiration for me and my views of many things, literary and not, have found or been given dimension in his extraordinary body of work. A sequence that I wrote mostly in the mid-'90s but which hasn't appeared in any book yet is in part a meditation on a life-time of reading and thinking about Beckett and, by extension, this question of mind/body dialectic. The poem is called "First Breath Last" and here's a fragment from it:

Blood cleans the wound
But brain insists that body die.

Involuntary muscle fits own immovable space
Pregnant skeleton in eggshell crypt.

I don't think Beckett represents the body as "futile" so much as paradoxically useless and utterly necessary. Within this dilemma, I think he was also addressing the problem of representation and metaphor as ways of signifying meaning. He was, to my mind, continually immersed in the conflict of address in writing, which is why he gradually erased physical characteristics from his fictions and plays, resulting at times in just a disembodied voice (as in the novel The Unnameable) or even simply a sound representing an action (as in the play Breath). For me, the man's work is inexhaustible (all puns intended, of course).

CM: While the idea of the poet-observer recurs in your work, I don't want to make it sound like the poems are limited in scope to personal, localized experience. There's certainly a focus on societal interactions, too, and these passages often strike me as alternately deadpan in their black humor and mythic in their archetypal struggles. I see this in True News especially, and an obvious example occurs in "Figure J" of "Home Guard": "After the stoning we exhumed the adulterer as wave after wave of charity / wafted over the audience." I'm wondering if you have Bataille in mind at all and his concepts of sacrifice as being essential for sustaining society. Either way, do you see your take on society as cynical or simply realistic?

CW: It's certainly true that I can't disassemble my "self" or, more importantly, the act of writing, into a single, unified idea, whether that idea is participant or observer. This tautology is central to all my work, and my life, and is probably most completely explored in Picture of the Picture of the Image in the Glass which, as the title suggests, goes to some length in its interrogation of the notion of the perceived, the real and the subjective apparatus connecting the two. Most perceptual acts, and therefore responses, are contextual, just as most are schematic or preprogrammed by expectation and conditioning. Though one can unravel these conditions to seeming extremes, I find most value in exploring that contextual resonance which seems to exist a couple of layers under the apparent fact of things. This is both a literary and survival device—the extent to which we swim in a sea of lies (culturally, politically, etc.) and are subject to believe in a unified, singular self means that one's perceptual lens is nearly always clouded by noise from a variety of sources. Writing is a way of sorting out and reframing much of this activity, just as art in general tends to be a means for focusing the various perceptual and cognitive paradigms that define a culture.

While I've read some Bataille, and doubtlessly assumed some of his thinking, he's not been a major influence in the past. The line you quote, for me, has more to do with the hypocrisy of many social acts, including the propensity to forgive ourselves for horrors committed after the fact. While I'm often told that my world view, and particularly my humor, is cynical and sardonic, it's not by choice so much as expressive. For better or worse, that's my experience of the world.

And since I've mentioned "Home Guard," could you talk a bit about its organizing principle? I think it's a great piece—densely philosophical, yet visceral at the same time. Each section is labeled (or, more accurately, assigned a letter) as if they're legends to pictures, or maps, or some other sort of visual. Is there actually a set of images that you have in mind? And why are some lettered sections ("Figure A," "Figure D," etc.) seemingly missing from the sequence?

"Home Guard" was composed in the six months following the events of September 11, 2001, not so much as a response to those events but as a response to what seemed to be the broader cultural response to those events. For example, one wide-spread response to September 11 was to divorce the attacks from any global or historical context, especially the economic practices of American imperialism during the preceding decade. Another consequence of that day was the way it seemed to license and empower the media as a nationalistic and reactionary force; I remember Tom Brokaw exclaiming that this was "an act of war" even before the politicians. Prior to then, I'd been thinking that the last piece in True News would be interrogate themes of home, paradise and utopia as an extension of the geography poems that constitute the center of the book. So much of the groundwork had been laid; it happened that "home" turned out to be the battleground of global conflict and ideologies in a more literal way that I'd imagined. The form evolved as captions to missing or unimaginable pictures, and the missing "figures" might suggest that those entire "records" are lost as well. And it is this process of loss—whether by extermination of diverse species or by subjugation of and hegemony over diverse cultures—that is the true terror of our time.

Rain Taxi Online Edition, Fall 2003 | © Rain Taxi, Inc. 2003