pricking soap bubbles

Writer Nora Ephron was interviewed yesterday on our local public radio station. She made some remarks about blogging:

When I first thought about blogging or heard about it, I thought, "Oh, it’s kind of like writing a column.” But the truth is that a blog is way more ephemeral than even a daily newspaper column. It’s sort of like a soap bubble. […] You should write them quickly. You should get them out there. And understand that the purpose of them is not for them to live for very long but to be sort of “pricked” by other people. […] A blog is kind of the beginning of a conversation.

in Vidal veritas

Okay, I finished Palimpsest.

About halfway through the book my interest waned. Either because Vidal shifted topics -- from sparkling tales of family and literary giants to plodding tales of television and politics -- or because I simply couldn’t sustain the same level of enthusiasm I had for the book during the first week. Or, because I sabotaged my own enthusiasm by seeking the opinions of others. I sniffed around the internet for existing commentary on the book and found John Simon’s bilious, illuminating critique. I turned against Vidal somewhat when I realized that he’s just as capable of fibbing as all the people he accuses of doing so. But I managed to sustain my doubts well enough to enjoy his skewering of just about everybody you’ve ever heard of up to the year 1964. I’ll look forward to more of this kind of fun in Point to Point Navigation, the second volume of Vidal’s memoirs.

Vidal on fibbing: to paraphrase, Vidal says that truth should not be sought in memoirs, perhaps even his own. Novels are the only place you can find truth. I suppose that means a writer’s mind tells the truth only through his or her own reflections, not through reporting “the facts.” This worries me because, as I’ve said, I don’t particularly care for novels (Vidal scorns readers like me). Reading fiction always makes me itch to do something else. Does this mean that my preference for non-fiction will forever keep truth fenced away from me? (Irony of ironies.) If so, I must learn to enjoy novels, but I don’t know how. I read Vidal’s Burr and thought it was okay but not terribly involving. I started Lincoln which everyone raves about, but I couldn’t get past the first couple of chapters. Tooting his own horn, Vidal claims that two of his early novels, The Judgment of Paris and Julian, represent major breakthroughs in his writing, which tempts me to read them.

Maybe I’ll try them after I give up on Wayne Hoffman’s Hard. Already this novel has set my eyes rolling a mere 13 pages in. The noise of Palimpsest’s crinkly cellophane library cover may have drawn stares in public, but the sight of Hard’s tawdry cover, showing a man’s bare torso caressed by his own left hand, makes me twice as self-conscious.

useless adulation

Gore Vidal’s Palimpsest – A Memoir is 435 pages hardbound, covered in very noisy plastic (a library copy, as usual) and I hate carrying it around. It even makes noise if I’m sitting perfectly still. But I haven’t had such fun reading a book in ages. I can’t tell you how many other books I’ve let cascade to the side unfinished lately, so it’s a great surprise to me that I can enjoy a book this much. I always enjoy what Vidal writes, his non-fiction anyway. (It’s slowly dawning on me that I JUST CANNOT read novels.) But yes, I find myself avoiding other activities to sneak another chapter in. This never happens to me. Mr. Supersweetie and I watched Johnny Guitar on VHS last night as we ate Thai delivery, and it was a good movie, but I couldn’t wait to get back to Palimpsest.

I figured I’d blog about it, so that you’d know why I haven't been blogging otherwise lately.

Old boy network

Google-searching one’s friends and acquaintances is like spying. Yet I suppose we all do it. Occasionally I feel moved to find out “what ever happened to” such-and-such a person I haven’t seen in a long time.

Lately I feel a curiosity about the boys with whom I attended Lower School at an old Episcopal private school here in New York City. In my time, the Lower School was not yet co-ed, so my classmates were all boys. This turned out to be a terrible thing, despite what you may be thinking. I was never comfortable around all those boys, with their sports and their rowdy ways. I was short and homo, and struggled to pass as merely “arty and effete.” Our mutual disapproval was tense and suffocating. The only time I ever had their respect was when I participated creditably in a music event performed for the whole Lower School. My skill was so obvious and at home on the public stage that it simply couldn’t be ignored. But other than that single time I was looked upon as irrelevant, out of place, mediocre, and generally ridiculous. I believe that my discomfort with this boys’ society translated into discomfort with academic settings in general. As a result I always conflate schoolwork with futility, and perform poorly as a student.

Se studiavo di più, che avrei potuto essere? Ci pensate?

My curiosity about the boys’ current whereabouts is a mystery to me, since I have almost no happy memories of my eight years spent at this Lower School. Yet I still wonder about those boys. I wonder what happened to them. Could they be interesting, nice people now? Or are they still horrible?

Today the name of one of the old boys popped into my head, and I “googled” him. Surprise, surprise: the adult who seems to be the boy I knew in Lower School has become a priest. In fact he’s a chaplain at, of all things, an old Episcopal boys’ school! (One in another city.) This really surprises me. I don’t remember Old Boy ever exhibiting an interest in religion. And yet there he is, an Episcopal priest. The kind of person I respect, broadly speaking.

And yet, looking over the website of Old Boy’s current school, I recognize all the characteristics that made me miserable as a child. I wonder if Old Boy feels at home among the kind of foul boys he was friends with in Lower School. (He and I weren’t friends.) I worry that the little gay boys at that school live at the mercy of jock bullies. Hopefully, the atmosphere there is looser and more collegial than it was for me at Lower School. And that all those boys can enjoy un-stifled childhoods, leading to greater things.

The bell tolls

I've just had the most destabilizing experience reading someone else's blog.

Zac, whose Fool's Gold Coast blog offers a sort of point-counterpoint of flattery/ridicule with Käseblatt (that is, I flatter him and ridicule myself) posted another periodic tally of his diversions. He refers to Spike Lee's 1986 film She's Gotta Have It as "OLD MOVIE OF THE WEEK."

Now I don't usually think of myself as an old queen. But to me an old movie is one that antedates The Graduate. Something like an MGM Arthur Freed musical, or The Damned Don't Cry. But a Spike Lee movie? She's Gotta Have It, to me, is recent enough to stir clear memories of its first-release screening in theaters.

Perhaps I shouldn't admit such a thing.

What fresh hell is this?

A new firewall has gone up in the computer network here at the Death Star (my temp job). Now joining a number of other websites barred from on-premises viewing is YouTube. Attempts to access the site are halted by an onscreen message saying that YouTube is “unavailable as a non-business related site” and, somewhat improbably, “categorized as: Sex.” Innocent web pages with inserted links to YouTube video-clips now display forlorn empty space where the videos used to play.

I started to notice these unexpected empty spaces a week or two ago, but thought that our data transmission was temporarily ailing. The possibility that unseen forces were placing further limits on my computer access was a horror I didn’t dare to contemplate.

I can’t say I’m surprised. Just demoralized.

Outlet

So, I’m doing The Artist’s Way. It was urged upon me by someone who knows what’s good for me.

The book is a 12-week course of exercises to “access creativity and realize dreams.” (Laugh if you will. Some of us need this.) The most important part of the enterprise seems to be the daily, non-negotiable task of free-writing three uninterrupted pages first thing in the morning. No editing, no subsequent review. I write, I put the three sheets of paper in an envelope and close them inside a drawer. Done.

It’s good medicine, both for me and for you. For me because I get a certain amount of mental blather out of my system first thing in the morning. For you because that mental blather is less likely to seep into this blog.

So let's all breathe a sigh of relief.

Self-intervention

I've become aware that reading the blogs of others is TAKING UP MORE OF MY TIME THAN IT OUGHT. So, in the spirit of giving up certain pleasures for Lent, I am going to declare one day per week "Blogs-Off-Limits Day." I haven't read anyone else's blog today. Instead of reading, I am posting.

I have a terrible itch today to check out the goings-on at, for instance, Fool's Gold Coast, except it's FORBIDDEN. Already I'm experiencing unpleasant withdrawal-like symptoms. But I'll soldier on.

Now then, I'm sure I have something interesting to say.
Er-

Well, Mr. Supersweetie and I went to Ikea this week and bought things. Our apartment is swiftly taking on a better appearance. Nothing's going to compensate for the fact that we need to apply a fresh coat of paint, though.

What else...
Um-

A friend of ours, named Tweet, is quitting his desk job to try his fortunes in the wildlife professions. He's moving away from Queens to spend the Spring bird-watching on Cape Cod. Professionally. For money. No, really. It's like something out of a novel, isn't it? Enviable Tweet.

Mr. Supersweetie and I went over to Tweet's apartment last night and helped ourselves to some of his discarded possessions. Tweet and I wear comparable clothing sizes, so I went home with a whole new wardrobe. Today, I've worn some of his nice desk job clothes to my temp job. Someone here remarked on the becoming shade of my shirt. It's pale green. Since I usually wear plain, no-fuss white shirts, today's shirt is a BIG contrast.

Not very interesting, am I.
I really don't deserve to blog.

From simpleton to sage -- Eichmann and the Holocaust

As I attempt to dip into Penguin's Great Ideas series again, I pose the question:

How do you even speak about the holocaust?

To begin with, I know far less about the holocaust than I ought to. Most of my knowledge of it is of a folkloric sort, without much of a sense of the details. The holocaust is such a loaded topic that even though the world must never forget it, people find something suspicious about the desire to examine it. It is too morbid to discuss. It is horrible. It is accursed. It is taboo, but strangely sacred at the same time.

Hannah Arendt’s job in 1963 was to report for the New Yorker on the trial of Adolf Eichmann, the former Nazi, held in Jerusalem, at which he was sentenced to death. The report, erudite, probing, fascinating, and gripping as it was, suffered sharp criticism after its publication as the book, Eichmann in Jerusalem. In the Postscript, which stands on its own as the best excerpt reprinted in Eichmann and the Holocaust, Arendt was able to answer her critics and explain what the book and the meaning of the trial really were.

Eichmann and the Holocaust offers the reader relatively little background, presuming a strong prior knowledge of the facts. Knowing nothing about Eichmann, I was at a disadvantage. From what I gather in these excerpts, Eichmann was the man largely responsible for designing and carrying out the mass executions of millions of Jewish people during World War II. Arendt touches on the personality of Eichmann and others, their deeds, and some of the issues that arose in the trial. It is all endlessly fascinating stuff: why did these Nazis do what they did? Why did so few people protest? How could justice be done in this unprecedented situation? It’s just too much to cover in 130 pages. I’d suggest skipping this slim edition of well-meant excerpts, and devoting some serious attention to the original book in its entirety.

Some great ideas I picked out:
-- Eichmann’s character inspired Arendt to coin the expression, “The banality of evil.” (90)

-- “[Eichmann] knew quite well what it was all about… He was not stupid. It was sheer thoughtlessness -- something by no means identical with stupidity -- that predisposed him to become one of the greatest criminals of the period.” (115)

-- “Had the court in Jerusalem understood that there were distinctions between discrimination, expulsion, and genocide, it would immediately have become clear that the supreme crime it was confronted with, the physical extermination of the Jewish people, was a crime against humanity, perpetrated upon the body of the Jewish people, and that only the choice of victims, not the nature of the crime, could be derived from the long history of Jew-hatred and anti-semitism.” (93)

monthly bile

You wouldn't guess from the title of this post that I'm going to write about love, would you?

Valentine's Day is, of course, on its way, and something has just occurred to me about one of the myriad silly ways we Americans use the word, "love." I hear people say about a friend or colleague that they "love him/her to death." It's an extravagant idiom, one whose proper place is perhaps epic poetry. But we don't utter it as a passionate vow. We use it as a warmup to saying something awful about someone:

"I love her to death, but she just never shuts up."
"I love him to death, but I wish he would actually call me back when I ask him to."

So it's not really about love, is it? It's more like self-exculpation. Like the way British people say "sorry" every two seconds: a neutral particle doing double-duty as a tepid plea for forgiveness.

Lingua ejus loquetur judicium

I find myself constantly recalling this line from Dennis Cooper's 2000 novel, Period, which I read recently:

That's words. They're the problem. Words have this awful, downsizing effect on your thoughts.

Yes, that's true. Words often require us to distort our unspoken thoughts in the attempt to express ourselves aloud. But words also have the capacity to form their own helpful little world of clarity. They're not so bad.

So here's to more words here at Käseblatt in 2007.

Und weiter wünsche ich Euch ganz herzlich einen guten Rutsch ins neue Jahr!