january 1–15, 2017

Books

  • A. R. Ammons, Garbage
  • For a project on garbage, maybe never to be finished.

  • Karen Weiser, Or, the Ambiguities
  • Not sure that I loved this, but it’s nice that there’s still more to be mined from Pierre.

  • Iris Murdoch, The Italian Girl
  • One of the slightest of Murdoch’s novels that I’ve read so far: a bit too happy to indulge in the Gothic.

  • Jai Arun Ravine, The Romance of Siam: A Pocket Guide
  • I loaned this out before I could write something more substantial about this, and I kind of wish I hadn’t: this is one of the most thoughtful things I’ve read on the idea of Thailand and how that’s been received. Deserves more attention.

  • John Ashbery, Breezeway
  • I had a panic that Ashbery was about to die and I went out and bought this, thinking I might not have another chance to buy one of his books while he was still alive. A little slighter than I wanted?

  • Aleksandar Hemon, The Lazarus Project
  • I am confused why everyone gets excited about Dave Eggers and George Saunders when they could be getting about Hemon, who is better than either.

  • Georges Simenon, The Late Monsieur Gallet, translated by Anthea Bell
  • Georges Simenon, Teddy Bear, trans. John Clay
  • Georges Simenon, Betty, trans. Alastair Hamilton
  • I like how simple these are: working my way through Simenon trying to come up with ideas.

  • Jenny Diski, On Trying to Keep Still
  • I miss Jenny Diski’s writing, and I wish more of her books came my way: there’s the consolation of knowing that I haven’t read them all yet.

Films

  • The Pink Panther, directed by Blake Edwards
  • For Me and My Gal, dir. Busby Berkeley
  • The Friends of Eddie Coyle, dir. Peter Yates
  • Monkey Business, dir. Norman Z. McLeod
  • Tod für fünf Stimmen (Gesualdo: Death for Five Voices), dir. Werner Herzog
  • Garlic Is as Good as Ten Mothers, dir. Les Blank

calvino in new orleans 

“In short, this is a place that would make you shoot yourself; the only thing to do is act like the Italian professor at the local university, a young man called Cecchetti, about whom I have no idea whether he’s any good as a literary critic, and who in his opinions is very conservative (‘I would not send my children to school with black kids, but not for racial reasons, you know, only for social reasons: the blacks all belong to the lower classes’), but he is someone who does the only intelligent thing to be done to justify the fact of living in America: he plays the stock exchange. Spending the mornings at the local branch of Merrill Lynch, Fenner, Pierce and Smith, following on the ticker-tape the dealings on the New York stock exchange, the fluctuations on the electronic noticeboard, studying the right moment for buying and selling, with the tele-printer in the room displaying the latest news on which to base your dealings, studying the ups and downs of all the major American firms, reading the Wall Street Journal the minute it arrives, that is the only way to live the life of a big capitalistic country in a way that is not passive, it is in fact the real democratic aspiration of America, because even if it does not give you any chance of influencing events, other than speculation on the financial markets, nevertheless it keeps you plugged into the mechanism in its most advanced and active area, and requires constant attention – in this country of frighteningly local and provincial interests – to the whole system.”

(Italo Calvino, “American Diary 1959–1960,” in Hermit in Paris: Autobiographical Writings.)

to reactivate for a second

“Travelling does not help us much in understanding (I’ve known this for a while; I did not need to come to the Far East to convince myself that this was true) but it does serve to reactivate for a second the use of our eyes, the visual reading of the world.”

(Italo Calvino, “The Old Woman in the Purple Kimono,” p. 154 in Collection of Sand, trans. Martin McLaughlin.)

there has not always been snow outside

“And what I really wish to record – as if otherwise I might forget it – is merely that there has not always been snow outside, that much else has occurred during this past year, bloom and harvest and the fragrance of resin throughout the woods, water dripping and trickling down over the rocks of the face of the Kuppron, wind blowing from afar and dying away, light that flamed and faded, and skies that changed from day to night and back again to day. All this occurred while my heart was beating, while wind and sun and clouds were there, all of them flowing through my hands and my heart.”

(Hermann Broch, The Spell, trans. H. F. Broch de Rotherman, p. 6.)

other than the world that is

“You may think novelists always have fixed plans to which they work, so that the future predicted by Chapter One is always inexorably the actuality of Chapter Thirteen. But novelists write for countless different reasons: for money, for fame, for reviewers, for parents, for friends, for loved ones; for vanity, for pride, for curiosity, for amusement: as skilled furniture-makers enjoy making furnitures, as drunkards like drinking, as judges like judging, as Sicilians like emptying a shotgun into an enemy’s back. I could fill a book with reasons, and they would all be true, though not true at all. Only one same reason is shared by all of us: we wish to create worlds as real as, but other than the world that is. Or was. This is why we cannot plan. We know a world is an organism, not a machine. We also know that a genuinely created world must be independent of its creator; a planned world (a world that fully reveals its planning) is a dead world. It is only when our characters and events begin to disobey us that they begin to live.”

(John Fowles, The French Lieutenant’s Woman, p. 86.)

a kind of television with a keyboard

“We locked our­selves in her of­fice and sat at the com­puter, a kind of tele­vi­sion with a key­board, very dif­fer­ent from what she had showed me and the chil­dren some time be­fore. She pressed the power but­ton, she slid dark rec­tan­gles into gray blocks. I waited, be­wil­dered. On the screen lu­mi­nous tremors ap­peared. Lila began to type on the key­board, I was speech­less. It was in no way com­pa­ra­ble to a type­writer, even an elec­tric one. With her fin­ger­tips she ca­ressed gray keys, and the writ­ing ap­peared silently on the screen, green like newly sprouted grass. What was in her head, at­tached to who knows what cor­tex of the brain, seemed to pour out mirac­u­lously and fix it­self on the void of the screen. It was power that, al­though pass­ing for act, re­mained power, an elec­tro­chem­i­cal stim­u­lus that was in­stantly trans­formed into light. It seemed to me like the writ­ing of God as it must have been on Sinai at the time of the Com­mand­ments, im­pal­pa­ble and tremen­dous, but with a con­crete ef­fect of pu­rity. Mag­nif­i­cent, I said.”

(Elena Ferrante, The Story of the Lost Child, trans. Ann Goldstein, chapter 101, p. 289.)

and yet

“And yet as someone will say, did not Rome progress and advance thanks to war? This is a question which would require a long response for some people who reckon progress in terms of money, luxury, and in supremacy rather than in security, kindness, independence from others and justice towards others.”

(Plutarch’s life of Numa, seemingly rather freely quoted by Corrado Augias in The Secrets of Rome, p. 4, trans. A. Lawrence Jenkens.)

the man who lies asleep

“Up on your feet! This is no time to tire!”

my Master cried. “ The man who lies asleep

will never waken fame, and his desire

and all his life drift past him like a dream,

and the traces of his memory fade from time

like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.

Now, therefore, rise. Control your breath, and call

upon the strength of soul that wins all battles

unless it sink in the gross body’s fall.

There is a longer ladder yet to climb:

this much is not enough. If you understand me,

show that you mean to profit from your time.”

(Dante, Inferno, canto XXIV, trans. John Ciardi.)