Sunday April 30th

Sunday 4/30/06

While I am on the subject of Poets and Writers, I noticed a quote in it by Christian Wiman, editor of Poetry Magazine, that he thought the April translation issue was the best issue since he has been editor. It was a fine issue, but in National Poetry Month it was disappointing to me that he could not have celebrated the best in American poetry and saved the translation issue until later.

Translations have always been a thorny issue for me. On the one hand, we should see the best that writers in other languages are producing, but the downside is that a translated version is always going to lack something from the original.  The translator will often have to choose between the music and the meaning of the work. Personally, I think the music is the more important, but I understand others may not agree.

I was reading Mojo this morning, a British music magazine, and was pleased to see that number one in their  top 50 contemporary classic albums produced since the launch of the magazine 150 issues ago was Jeff Buckley’s Grace. Buckley father (Tim) and son are favorites of mine and it is so tragic that both died young.

I never did quite get round to uprooting the poor trees yesterday. Those that know me will understand. I’d have a doctorate in procrastination if only I could get round to writing the thesis. Today I am not really in the mood for yard work but who knows.

Saturday Again

Saturday Again

I like Poets & Writers and pick up most issues. Often it seems to have a crusade going on and usually, as in the ever present discussion of the merits of MFA programs manages to stay editorially independent.

James Frey is the recurrent topic in the May/June issue and the subject of an article by Aaron Hamburger – Why Truth Matters in Memoirs. I find Hamburger to be one of those irritating writers that is hell bent on demonstrating their intellectual superiority. For example: “As every viewer of the classic Japanese film Rashomon knows all too well…”, now how many readers of this magazine is that likely to be Aaron? Or: “Wasn’t it Samuel Beckett who proved there’s no such thing as truth?”

So, I start off disliking the man and his article. An article in the same issue  profiling Wole Soyinka quotes from a 1998 interview that Soyinka gave where he said of his dislike of autobiographies: “ they are mostly lies”. I think any reader of political memoirs would be likely to agree with that, they are almost without exception heavily spun and entirely self-serving. But back to Frey, he exaggerated some aspects of his life and invented others and called it memoir. To what extent are we damaged by that? Has he defrauded us? The FBI doesn’t seem to be taking an interest in the case. Has he attempted to alter important historical facts? Not at all, he was a nobody and we, the public, had never heard of him in any other way. He made up a criminal career, which is not quite like inventing acts of heroism in Vietnam, Iraq or any other war zone.

Hamburger brings up a fabricated memoir of the Holocaust and in this case I agree with him. The issue is too important to be trivialized through a fictionalized account and such a book can only serve those attempting to deny the Holocaust. That, finally, for me is the real argument. Frey’s deception does us no damage but by accepting it, we create a shifting line where one has not existed before. What is the point at which it matters that a memoir has been invented, at least in part? I don’t know and for that reason agree with Hamburger that it should be clear to the reader what is fiction and what is not.

This issue of Poets & Writers has come too late for the Kaavya Viswathanathan plagiarism controversy, but I look forward to the commentary in due course. The background is extraordinary; a 17 year old girl who had never written a book was awarded a $500,000 advance for a book concept is assisted by a ‘book packager’ that, apparently, received joint award of the copyright and half of the advance. This book packager assisted in the conceptualization of the novel. I wonder what that means?

Oh well, back to some yard work. Several young trees did not survive the winter. despite its mildness, so off I go to haul them out. I listened briefly to Car Talk on NPR this morning where, bravely, they were discussion butt sweat. I’ll know all about butt sweat in an hour or so!

Sunday

I managed to finish Untold Stories by Alan Bennett. I am quite proud of the achievement as the book runs around 650 pages and it has taken me less than a week, during which time I have also been reading the endless stream of magazines I seem compelled to purchase.

I was quite surprised at the prominence that the book received at my local Border’s (even though, inexplicably, it appeared in New Fiction) as it is a very English book with very English memories and complaints.

Rather to my glee, Bennett, in the pages of diary extracts, comes over as quite a grumpy man. It’s good to know we share some attributes. I doubt I’d put up with a woman living rough in a van in my driveway for fifteen years as he did. Even after reading the book, I’m not quite sure why he allowed her to do so. I see that he would probably always prefer to avoid conflict, but still it can’t have made him too popular with his neighbors, though I suppose they forgot about it after a year or two and it just became part of everyday life, rather as the trains that pass slowly nearby have become part of mine.

I enjoyed the book and found myself made a little homesick by his descriptions of visits to ancient churches to look at the windows and the memorials. I was a church collector in that way myself for a while though, shockingly, during my last trip to England I passed near to Romney Marsh without visiting St. Mary in the Marsh. When I lived nearby in Ashford, I would visit regularly during the summer and sit quietly in one of the old box family pews.

There are some pretty churches here in the US, but few that have the same sense of history within, and none that were in existence at the time of King Canute as was the Church of St. Clements in Old Romney.

But Bennett has distracted me from some domestic tasks over the past few days; notably, cutting the grass. I don’t mind too much as the dandelions, of which there truly is a golden host, are such a cheery yellow though I suspect that I will be battling them with some form of weed killer within a few weeks. It’s a battle I am destined to lose.

On the subject of the yard, I have a pair of crows nesting and while they are likely to be eyed suspiciously by my neighbor, I find them interesting to watch. Yesterday, for example, I watched them chase a squirrel away from the tree in which they are nesting. They harried it until it fled across the creek at which time their mission appeared to be accomplished. I was surprised to learn that a squirrel might, on rare occasions, eat bird eggs. I am a fact richer today thanks to my crow neighbors.

Saturday

Saturday

Just what the world needs, another blog. Oh well, nobody makes you read it.

I am trying to make some changes in my life. Most notably lose weight, get fit and be less grumpy. The first two I may have a chance for, but the third will be a struggle!

It was a wearying night. Couldn’t sleep and my wife, who had appeared to be asleep, awoke and determined that the household would sleep better if we went to a different bedroom. It’s best not to argue, especially at 3am, so upstairs we went, her, me and the cat.

I knew it really wasn’t going to be all that successful as soon as I lay down. The ceiling fan was blowing too quickly and chilling any parts I had outside the covers, but if covered myself completely I got too hot. Wife went to sleep immediately but the cat and me were having none of it and struggled for a long time to get comfortable. The cat succeeded first and I was left to contemplate my lot.

I thought about the book I have been reading: Untold Stories by Alan Bennett. What I have read so far is autobiographical, and though Bennett and I are a generation apart, times changed more slowly so there is plenty that is recognizable.

Saturday morning pictures in England I recall well. I don’t remember seeing the worthy films that Bennett recalls. No Casablanca or Now, Voyager for me. I remember the swashbuckling Zorro serial in particular, though there were others.

We went in groups or childhood gangs. I recall it cost sixpence which was quite a large fraction of my weekly disposable pocket money. So, we plotted ways in which we might sneak in without paying. Our gang stuck to the plotting, never being adventurous enough to put any of our plans into action. Others were less restrained and I remember well the boys snaking in the window in the Gents toilet. That was only half the problem as to get back into the theatre it was necessary to still have a half of a ticket. Newcomers might try the “I lost my ticket” gambit, but the usherettes were stony hearted and had heard it all before. The ignominy of being ejected in front of jeering peers was one of the reasons I never tried any of the strategies we devised.

Oddly, the most successful strategy relied on a large element of trust, not a commodity I recall being in large supply in small boys. It was the sacrifice of one for the greater good of the others. One boy, it was always boys, would make a bad attempt to sneak past  and when caught and marched to the front door there was a brief opportunity for his companions to get in while that particular entrance went unguarded. Ejection usually meant a ban for a week or two and was quite a sacrifice in itself without the trust required to believe that your co-conspirators would, in turn, martyr themselves for you.

I’ll report further on Bennett’s book as I get through it.