— Interesting article, considering all of the excerpts I have done recently from Joan Acocella’s essays. Acocella has written a slim biography (sort of) of Willa Cather, expanding upon a notorious piece she wrote in The New Yorker about Cather in which she basically excoriated post-modern lit-crit for ruining and marginalizing Cather’s vast sweep of work, which cannot be classified in a genre, or co-opted by special interest groups. One of my pet topics, so I am interested to read the book. But I really liked this observation about Acocella’s writing:
Perhaps because of her background in dance – she has written a wonderful book on Mark Morris and edited an unexpurgated version of Nijinsky’s diaries[*] – Acocella locates herself, figuratively speaking, at a kind of middle distance from her subjects: as if she were watching them from a well-placed seat (perhaps thirty or forty feet away?) in a spacious auditorium. This vantage point, it is true, allows for an occasional focus on individuals, but what come across far more strikingly are larger, more abstract patterns of movement – a choreography, so to speak, of human effects. Reviewing the history of Cather scholarship over the past seventy-five years, Acocella tracks the shifts of critical fashion almost diagrammatically – as a set of temporary formations, each with its distinctive advances and retreats, signature turns and obsessional gestures, all kinesthetically linked to social and intellectual changes in American culture at large.
— Good piece. And a resounding “Yup” to this:
A hundred and fifty years has not been long enough to throw off this association: of the masculine with the serious, the feminine with the frivolous. And it is this original schism — original sin — that simmers beneath every article extolling the virtues of print and lamenting the waning of its empire. For what was it that made magazines so good, anyway? What was their private and singular claim to the truth, and the authority to tell it? That they were not like the stuff women read, or wrote.
Reading this, one’s deplorably feckless imagination wanders back through the smoke of the centuries to that frail little isle afloat in the wild Atlantic, where in a stone beehive hut a lonely scribe, hunched with quill in hand over his sheet of vellum, halts suddenly as he spots a mistranscription, claps a hand to his brow and utters whatever might have been the monastic equivalent of “Oh, shit!”
— A superb memoir-type piece about a neighborhood, the battered Rockaways in Queens. (Note to everyone: there are still areas in NY and NJ that do not have power, heat, or water. It is, as the article notes, completely under-reported – and in some cases un-reported. Why this is the case is irrelevant. Please consider donating, if you haven’t already. There are links at the bottom of that post, as well as – well, come on. You know what to do. People need help. Donate. This is a month of fund raisers. I am already attending two.) The Rockaways piece is long, but settle in, grab a drink, and go on his journey. It’s my kind of writing.
— I read Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl in a feverish 24-hour period. My mother had been reading it, and then I started hearing everyone talking about it, and so while I was home for Thanksgiving I borrowed it. Started reading it. And actually resented any social activity or obligation I had to fulfill at that time because it took me from away from finishing the book as quickly as humanly possible. It’s that kind of book. To say more would, indeed, be to ruin it. A superb thriller, psychological study, whodunit, featuring not just one, but TWO, unreliable narrators.