Meet the New Blog. . .

The other day, a friend and member in good standing of Solipsist Nation sent me a link to an article in The New Yorker, "The Curse of Reading and Forgetting" by Ian Crouch.  In the article, Crouch laments the fact that, of the countless books he has read and enjoyed throughout his life, he can remember very little about the books themselves beyond the fact of having read them--and sometimes not even that.  As I read, I couldn't help but recognize myself in Crouch's commentary--I, too, can scarcely remember a thing about the myriad books I've read--and I felt, frankly, relieved.  I'm not alone!  I'm not suffering from some strange, literary Alzheimer's Disease, destined to end up drooling in some nursing home, rereading Middlemarch and wondering why it sounds vaguely familiar!  Or, at any rate, if I am falling prey to such a disease, I am not alone.  Indeed, Crouch's article is not the first piece I've read about this apparent pandemic--call it Bibliamnesia.  I've actually read two other articles, both from The New York Times book review, which touch on the same topic.  (Funny how I can remember reading those.)

So if I--along with at least three professional writers--suffer from Bibliamnesia, it stands to reason that others do, as well.  In fact, I suspect that much of the reading public suffers from this malady to a greater or lesser extent.  What is to be done?

Crouch points out that one fairly effective remedy for the syndrome is simple re-reading: Don't remember what happens in The Pickwick Papers?  Well, just go back and reread it.  The only problem with this remedy is that it entails re-reading The Pickwick Papers.  And, seriously, who has time for that?  So I have a better suggestion: Bibliamnesia, the blog.  In this space, I will post "Everything I remember about. . . " whatever book happens to be under discussion that day.  These may be classic texts or just things that happen to be sitting on my bookshelves, mocking me with their having-been-readness.  My hope is that civic-minded folks will, in the comments section, provide additional details from their own readings of the books--or at any rate may be inspired to read the books themselves and then tell me what I've forgotten.  Indeed, I invite anyone to send me their own "Everything I remember about. . . " articles, which I will be happy to share.  In this way, I feel I can do a small service to literature--to say nothing of improving everyone's ability to show off at dinner parties.

Anyway, I hope you like it.  Let me know what you think.

Desk Job

The desk at which Bram Stoker wrote Dracula will be sold at auction in December.  The auction house expects the desk to go for between $60,000 and $80,000, so, y'know, if you're looking for a Channukah gift for your favorite blogger....

A British furniture-artist (apparently Britain has such things) has pimped out the desk, attempting to maintain its classic "essence" but also incorporating "embroidered imagery. . . including bats, a savage hound and scrolling rose thorns and buds."

I'm not sure how I feel about these "improvements."  If someone told me he was the proud owner of Bram Stoker's desk and then showed me this gothic escritoire replete with bats and bones, I would think I was being punked.  I wouldn't want to accept the idea that something so tacky would once have belonged to so famous a man of letters.

If you must buy furniture of literary significance, I understand the chair in which Philip Roth sat while composing Portnoy's Complaint will come up for bid soon.  THAT one, I might consider  reupholstering.

Farewell to the Master

They reached the canal.  It was long and straight and cool and wet and reflective in the night.

"I've always wanted to see a Martian," said Michael.  "Where are they, Dad?  You promised."

"There they are," said Dad, and he shifted Michael on his shoulder and pointed straight down.

The Martians were there.  Timothy began to shiver.

The Martians were there--in the canal--reflected in the water.  Timothy and Michael and Robert and Mom and Dad.

The Martians stared back up at them for a long, long silent time from the rippling water. . . .

--Ray Bradbury, "The Million-Year Picnic"

In one of The Simpsons' "Treehouse of Horror" Halloween specials, Homer tries to fix his toaster and inadvertently transports himself millions of years into the past. When he realizes what has happened, he thinks back on the advice his father gave him on his wedding day: "If you ever travel back in time, don't step on anything. Because even the slightest change can alter the future in ways you can't imagine." Of course, Grandpa Simpson is referencing a familiar cliche in the world of science fiction, a cliche that originated in "A Sound of Thunder," a short story by Ray Bradbury, who died yesterday at the age of 91.

Ray Bradbury was a legend. Along with Isaac Asimov, Bradbury essentially defined twentieth-century American science-fiction, the main difference between the two being that Bradbury could actually write. You could also argue that Bradbury's science fiction had absolutely nothing to do with science, and you would be correct. Bradbury was first and foremost a humanist; his stories told of completely recognizable people in completely recognizable situations. His "Mars" bears no resemblance to the actual planet, much less the darker fantasies of Phillip K. Dick or any of numerous modern writers and filmmakers; instead, the red planet is a more-or-less hospitable version of the small town in which Bradbury grew up, complete with a breathable atmosphere.

As you know, I don't like to toot my own horn. (WOS: ?!?!!!!) I did, however, write the book on Ray Bradbury. Well, OK, not so much the BOOK as the entry, in The Encyclopedia of American Literature.  I said everything there that I need to say about Bradbury's body of work.  Sadly, though, the first line, about Bradbury being "the greatest living science-fiction writer," is no longer accurate.  He certainly had a long and productive life, and his works will live on for years to come.  Still, Ray Bradbury was a unique voice in the world of science-fiction--and, indeed, of literature in general.  He will be missed.

Classix Revisited with Guest Blogger Gabriel "G-Dog" Hershkowitz

So, like, I'm readin' King Lear, right? This play make sense to any of you? I don't get it.

Here you got this ancient-ass king who wants to split up his kingdom--which, y'know, is fucked up in the first place. Who splits up a motherfuckin' kingdom? What, like, it worked so well for. . . oh, I 'on know. . . Korea? Or. . . uh. . .Dakota? Seriously! Anyway, Ol' Man Lear wants to split up his kingdom and give the pieces to his three daughters (and where the hell is Queen Lear anyway? You never hear nothin' 'bout her!). So he calls everybody together, and he's like, "Yo, Bitchy Daughter Number One, Goneria, you want some of this? This kingdom here? OK, tell me how much you love me." (Which, y'know, is also kinda creepy if you think about it.)

Anyway, Goneria's all, like, "Oh Daddy Daddy, I love you soooooooo much," but really she's fulla shit 'cause she could care less about Daddy. All she wants is the kingdom, right? But Lear falls for it--or at least he's OK with it, 'cause he says, "Cool, here's what you get. Now, let's hear from Bitchy Daughter Number Two, Reagan." And Reagan's all Jan Brady and shit 'cause she's the middle child, y'know? But anyway she does the same thing's Goneria and she's all, "Oh, Daddy, you know what my sister just said? Well, like, that plus more!" And Lear's all, "Cool, cool. OK, here's what you get."

So far, so good, right? OK, so here's the part I don't get. See, 'cause Lear calls Daughter Number Three, Cordelia, who's like his total favorite and everybody knows it, and he even says to her, like, "OK, Sweetie, so tell Daddy how much you love him and I'll give you the best part of the kingdom. Y'know, the part with the trees and no cornerboys." And Cordelia's all, like, "No." And Lear's all like, "What?" But Cordelia's not playin', right? She's all like, "Look Dad. You know I love you and I know I love you and if that's not good enough, then I guess it's not good enough, but I'm not gonna play some stupid game just to make you happy."

Well, Lear totally loses it. He's all like, "Oh, snap! What the fuck? You little bitch. Get the fuck out of here!" And Cordelia leaves and Lear gives her part of the kingdom to the two suck-ups and everybody's all up in Lear's shit 'cause he doesn't give Cordelia anything and the whole country goes to hell and Lear ends up wandering around in a storm and catching pneumonia or something and dying along with, like, millions of other people. Good job, Cordelia.

Yeah, that's right: Good job, Cordelia. 'Cause am I the only one thinks this whole thing is her fault? I mean, sure, Lear's bein' a jerk, but he's old and nuts--he's splitting up his kingdom, yo! All Cordelia's gotta do's play along, right? Like it's gonna kill her just to say, "Yo, Dad, I love you, like, more'n these two ho-bags put together"--which is true anyway!

All's I know is, if my pops's givin' away kingdoms, and he asks me how much I love him? I'm gonna be all like, "Damn, Dad, you the shit, yo! Now slice me off a piece of kingdom and let's go par-tay!"

(Yo, that picture's from John Webb's Guide to the Works of William Shakespeare. Check it out a'ight?)