Monday, December 31, 2007

Writers of the Year 2007
The biggest book event of the year was the publishing of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, the seventh and final novel in the Harry Potter series by J. K. Rowling. But the international hoohaw shouldn't obscure Rowling's literary achievement: it all happened because of the actual books that individual people actually read (though some did so in couples and groups, reading aloud or listening to audiobooks, sometimes while reading along in the text--all very literary experiences largely missing from our culture for a long time.) Rowling wrote a series of books that increased in complexity and meaning along with the increasing ages of the characters the books were chiefly about, with important things to say for our time. Has anyone ever done this before? This is an achievement to be celebrated.

Doris Lessing's achievements were celebrated in 2007 when she received the Nobel Prize for Literature. She is a champion of literature in our time, and she made a brilliant case for it in her Nobel address, as well as in essays published in her 2004 collection of nonfiction pieces, Time Bites. She was brought up in rural Africa, has lived in London for many years, and has traveled widely. So her point of view is striking and informed: she sees people in rich societies with easy access to books losing that profound education to consumer obsession, addictive video games and blogs, while people (especially children) in poor societies starving and begging for books and literature.

Lessing had the courage to follow where her writing took her, even to the science fiction series I admire. She had the courage to face hard personal truths and express boldly what others obscured in The Golden Notebook, and then to face down those who wanted to turn it into an ideological tract. In her interviews as well, she takes no nonsense that might limit the complexities and generous spirit she champions in literature. She also writes very well about cats (that's her in the last photo, in 1956.)

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R.I.P. 2007

Norman Mailer became famous at age 25 with his first novel, The Naked and the Dead, about World War II. Being famous and in that strata of people and events helped define his life. I became aware of him in the 1960s, when he was a frequent guest on TV talk shows (yes, they had actual authors talking at length in those days, not just plugging a book) and was writing about politics. I marched with him (without ever seeing him, of course) at the Pentagon in 1968, the sort of subject of his famous "non-fiction novel," The Armies of the Night.

I was impressed by his passionate defense of writer Henry Miller against the attacks of Kate Millet in the first wave of womens lib. It got me to read Miller. I liked hearing him talk, and reading his essays, as in Advertisements for Myself. I somehow understood the writer's insecurity which came across as ego, though there was a lot about him I didn't understand.

I was impressed by his belief in The Novel, and in the quest to write a great one. I didn't actually read much of his fiction, though. Some of what he said and wrote remain guideposts for me to this day. And a lot I take seriously, and admire for his intellectual courage, but can't go there with him.

In his late 80s he remained thoughtful, lucid and impressive in interviews. He kept writing to the end, and was embarked on an immense project of fiction that he felt was his truest work. That's a good way for a writer to go.
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Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. was unique, which caused him a lot of problems early on. Even before he'd refined his very individual style, he seemed to sense the likelihood of failure when he created his crazed, destitute science fiction writer alter ego, Kilgore Trout.

But his novels Cat's Cradle, Good Bless You Mr. Rosewater and Mother Night--with that unique point of view, that gallows humor and unique style (so apparently simple, almost childlike)--got the attention of other writers, and a job teaching at the Iowa Writers Workshop, where he quickly became a legend.
His breakthrough novel, Slaughterhouse Five, was a strange but strangely apt combination of sci-fi and realism about the total destruction of Dresden in the World War II firebombing no one wanted to talk about (although I'd read about it in a war comic book in the 50s.) He was a survivor of it as a P.O.W.--not quite as hapless as his hero, Billy Pilgrim, but just as young. (That's his Army photo down there.)
Later he became as famous and popular for his lectures as his novels, and as a writer, lecturer and social critic, he became our Mark Twain. He even came to resemble Twain. Some of his books are judged better than others--he himself graded his novels from A to D. But I've read everything he published with profit and much delight and admiration.
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Molly Ivins was a fountain of wit and sense. She was big-hearted, clear-eyed and courageous. She told the truth when it was popular and when it wasn't. And she was fun. If we have to have Texas, then we damn well needed to have Molly Ivins. In this already lunatic election year, we're going to miss her.

She faced cancer that killed her with the same courage she faced the president she called Shrub. She had that incredible smile from first to last, as you can see. She has a shelf full of wonderful books out there. Get some and see.

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Grace Paley was a New York writer through and through. When I met her in the late 60s she was already known for her short stories and her political activism, and she excelled at both for the rest of her life. She became a living treasure, recognized as such by Governor Mario Cuomo. She died in 2007.
David Halberstam died in a car accident in 2007. I met him in Boston when he was doing interviews for his first book, The Best and The Brightest, about hubris among those who brought us Vietnam. It's become the conventional wisdom, though historians have refined and tempered his journalistic analysis. He first made his name as a reporter in Vietnam, and after this book became a popular and respected author. Many know him as much for his books on sports as on politics.
Ingmar Bergman is best known as a film director, and secondly as a theatre director. But he also wrote many of those famous movies, and he has other published works as a writer. He died in July, on the same day as another classic European film director, Michelangelo Antonioni.
Arthur Schlesinger, Jr. was one of the last of several fading breeds: the public intellectual, the man of letters. He first made his mark as a political historian (on FDR) and then political essayist. He contributed to speeches and was an advisor to President Kennedy. He continued to write important books for the rest of his long life, and his recently published diaries show how involved he was among the social and political elite. I will remember him for his indispensable books on President Kennedy and Robert Kennedy, and especially for the book of essays he published in the early 1960s that I read when I was in high school, and had a profound effect on my political orientation from then on, called The Politics of Hope.
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Friday, December 28, 2007

Londoners in a shelter during the 1940 Blitz
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Some Books of Note

A selection of titles from fall and winter 2007.

These are some of the books from this past fall that I requested because they sounded interesting, not only to me but potentially to book review editors. Some of them turned out to be interesting but too academic or otherwise not quite accessible enough for even the informed and interested general readerships I usually write for, while to my sorrow, others I would have liked to write about—like Owen Flanagan’s The Really Hard Problem—didn’t get assigned, and I otherwise couldn’t find the time to give them the longer consideration they deserve. So in the guise of a year end or publishing season end summary, I’m clearing off my “in” shelf.

But to make the year-end thing credible, I'll add links to books I reviewed this year that I recommend.

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Social Studies

THE REALLY HARD PROBLEM: Meaning in a Material World, by Owen Flanagan. MIT Press.

Consciousness, or mind, is the hard problem, and also the topic that is threading through several sciences, the arts and what is often categorized as New Age spirituality, although this includes the very ancient inquiries of Buddhism. It is also re-focusing contemporary philosophy, specifically in the writing of Owen Flanagan. This thoughtful, up to the minute and accessibly written book outlines questions that are central to contemporary researches and also of important fascination to us as people trying to make sense of life in these suddenly uniting states. It does so in under 300 pages (including the kind of chapter notes you read on their own with pleasure and profit), and in six chapters, exploring “Meaningful and Enchanted Lives,” finding meaning in the natural world, Buddhism and science, “Normative Mind Science? Psychology, Neuroscience, and the Good Life,” the new science of happiness, and the intersection of nature and spirituality. This book is not only one of the most fascinating of the fall, but a contribution to an ongoing process of developing understandings and strategies of soul that can actually contribute to getting us through the 21st century and beyond.

PSYCHOTHERAPY WITHOUT THE SELF by Mark Epstein. Yale University Press.

Epstein’s earlier books on this subject—the intersection of Buddhist thought and psychotherapy-- Thoughts Without a Thinker and Going to Pieces Without Falling Apart, were pitched to a more general audience. This book is more scholarly, and goes into the subject more deeply. For me it doesn’t advance the ball, especially because Epstein continues to see psychotherapy as primarily Freudian. That it may be, but I find myself more interested in Jung—who I perhaps naively see as a better fit with Buddhism.

THE HIDDEN SENSE: Synesthesia in Art and Science by Cretien van Campen. MIT Press.

The different ways that people learn and experience the world by employing different dominant senses has been an important topic explored in the past decade. This book charts a new frontier: the experiences of people who “hear music in colors” or “taste voices,” mixing experiences and even our ideas of separate senses. Now that brain scans have revealed that the phenomena of synesthesia is real, (though the research is still fairly primitive) Van Campen explores the research and ramifications, inevitably crossing and re-crossing borders, including those between science and art. This is a frontier study of a potentially exciting and revealing phenomenon.

BLACK MASS: Apocalyptic Religion and the Death of Utopia by John Gray. STRAW DOGS: Thoughts on Humans and Other Animals by John Gray. Both published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

John Gray is the most provocative author I've read this year. Straw Dogs (published several years ago in the UK, apparently revised and published in the U.S. this fall as a paperback original) is a series of terse, definite and challenging statements about the contemporary world, human nature and the ideas, ideologies and systems we use and have used in recent centuries to make sense of it all and to take action. Black Mass focuses on one of its assertions with a more detailed historical treatment. Gray sees things in black and white, though mostly in black. He challenges some cherished societal assumptions, and one of his major premises is that the widespread sense of "progress" and that sense of evolution is both delusional and a paradoxical product of belief in apocalyptic end time. His assumption that the failure of Soviet Communism proves the failure and pernicious nature of utopian thinking is familiar, but otherwise I find his assertions fertile (and often pretty scary), even as wrongheaded as some may be. I expect to be looking at these books and writing about them for years to come.

THE SHOCK DOCTRINE: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism, By Naomi Klein. Metropolitan Books/Henry Holt. This is probably the most important book I read this year, as well as one of the best.

SOLDIER'S HEART: Reading Literature Through Peace and War at West Point, by Elizabeth D. Samet. Farrar, Strau and Giroux.

Thoreau Cove at Walden Pond
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I TO MYSELF: An Annotated Selection from the Journal of Henry D. Thoreau, edited by Jeffrey S. Cramer. Yale University Press.

: A History, by Philip F. Gura. Hill & Wang.

Thoreau’s journals are a barely explored gold mine, as Cramer’s Introduction notes. This handsome volume of selections is both a contribution to literary scholarship and a book to keep and peruse for the nuggets contained within. Thoreau and Emerson are of course the best known names associated with American Transcendentalism, but as Gura’s accessible history shows, not the only interesting writers or participants in a contentious and malleable movement so important to American literature. Both of these books are important contributions to appreciating this golden era.

I EXPLAIN A FEW THINGS: Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda. A Bilingual Edition edited by Ilan Stavans. Farrar, Straus & Giroux.

The Preface is correct: in the 1970s, around the time of his Nobel Prize, Neruda was a star on American campuses. (I’m pretty sure my first professional published piece was on him.) This selection from his entire career offers translations by Alastair Reed (who with Ben Belitt were the principal translators of 70s era collections), Robert Bly (some of whose translations were available then, and which I much preferred), Galway Kinnell, W.S. Merwin, Philip Levine, John Felstiner, Jack Schmitt, Margaret Sayers Peden and others. Editor Stavans finds the late (70s) poems wanting in his up to date overview preface, yet he translates one of the latest, about the effect of the Vietnam war: “they come, will come, they came,/ to kill the world within us.” They’re still at it.

ON ELOQUENCE by Denis Donoghue. Yale.

This is one of those absorbing books to read and savor, reminding us of literature we love and introducing us to aspects of literary works we don’t know as well, that we might well love. His past books revealed Donoghue as a scholar and reader who writes well, and the topic of eloquence allows him both breadth and concentration. It’s an important and neglected topic, in an era of bad writing and dense, very specific literary writing—an era that needs beauty as well as inspiration and instruction. With all the references and assertions (some I find myself arguing with) it's an active but rewarding read.

AUGUST WILSON CENTURY CYCLE by August Wilson. Theatre Communications Group.

London 1940
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While the immediate emotional responses to the events in New York on September 11, 2001 were understandable, subsequent hysteria and particularly the actions taken because of it seemed to me even at the time as more than excessive. Perhaps cowardly, particularly in light of the response of the British people to the events that only began on September 7, 1940—the relentless bombing campaign by German planes and missiles known as the Blitz. Stansky contends that the British response in just the first 12 hours of that day transformed its social and political context, and set the attitudes that would result in winning the war. But he also shows that the British were more prepared than the conventional wisdom says. In this relatively short book, the descriptions of that first day are often absorbing and a real contribution to history, as are his conclusions. But I would have liked a few additional chapters on the Blitz as a whole, for it seems to me that the British response over time (as well as that of allies and adversaries) has important lessons for us today as well.

THE GREAT AWAKENING: The Roots of Evangelical Christianity in Colonial America by Thomas S. Kidd. Yale.

This is a solid contribution to the historical understanding of an important contemporary force in America. Since it ends with the American Revolution (though Kidd provides some subsequent overview) it doesn’t yet cover the crucial relationship of evangelical Christianity with science and technology, or its political impact on the nation, but this background can help in the understanding of that essential confrontation.

AUTO MANIA: Cars, Consumers, and the Environment by Tom McCarthy. Yale.
A well-researched source book on these important subjects.

THE AMERICAN DISCOVERY OF EUROPE by Jack D. Forbes. Illinois University Press.

The Jerde designed Mall of America. Kowinski
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ARCHITECTURE OR TECHNO-UTOPIA: Politics After Modernism by Felicity D. Scott.
BRANDSCAPES: Architecture in the Experience Economy by Anna Klingmann.
Both published by MIT Press.

Scott excavates and narrates designers and architectures both well known and little remembered from the late 60s and early 70s, in a context and in language of primary interest to academics. I was interested to see Buckminster Fuller taken seriously within 20th century design, though his theoretical context is not fully stated. Klingmann’s approach is more generally accessible and more contemporary. I appreciated her detailed treatment of architectural guru John Jerde, but her description of how Faneuil Hall Marketplace came about is a little off.

Sunday, December 16, 2007

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August Wilson Century Cycle
By August Wilson
Theatre Communications Group

T’is the season of the boxed set, but this one has more significance than the usual holiday gift repackaging. This is the first physical embodiment of a singular achievement—ten plays, each set in a different decade of the 20th century, which together tell a long story of African American survival. It is the first time the plays of August Wilson have been collected to tell that story chronologically.

Since Wilson completed the cycle shortly before his untimely death in 2005, the nature and extent of this achievement is slowly being recognized. No American playwright of any color has come close to a series of ten major plays like this, or participated in the acclaimed productions of all their plays. Many others helped this process in vital ways, but even so it’s fair to say that August Wilson transformed and enriched American theatre as no individual has ever done.

From “Gem of the Ocean” (set in 1904) to “Radio Golf” (1997) and including “Fences,” “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom,” “Jitney” and “The Piano Lesson”--each play is carefully true to its time, yet there are few historic events even mentioned, and the characters are ordinary people—predominately in the same Pittsburgh neighborhood. The most obvious virtue of these plays is their language—a version of black speech that is at once authentic and Wilson’s own poetry-- and this alone makes these plays unusually good to read as well as to see performed.

With this set it’s possible to feel the changes and the continuities in African American culture through the century. The reader is aided in this by recurring and even legendary characters, and by ancestors and descendants in the same family—and perhaps most hauntingly, in the fate of a single house.

In this boxed set, each play has a foreword by such luminaries as Nobel Laureate Toni Morrison, playwright Tony Kushner, writer Ishmael Reed, actor Laurence Fishburne and former theatre critic Frank Rich. Kushner writes that Wilson grappled with theological questions: “Eugene O’Neill, the playwright August Wilson most resembles, did that.” Reed writes that Wilson’s “ear was so good that his character’s words could be set to music.” Fishburne quotes favorite lines from “Two Trains Running” (he was in its first production, along with Samuel L. Jackson): “Freedom is heavy. You got to put your shoulder to freedom. Put your shoulder to it and hope your back holds up.”

There couldn’t be a better introduction to Wilson’s work than the intro to the series by New Yorker drama critic John Lahr. The cover for the set has a great photo of the author, taken in the last year or so of his life. The set lists at $200 and can be purchased for $126, so it’s definitely a gift item. And if you don’t have someone to give it to, think about gifting your favorite local library.

Sunday, November 04, 2007

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Soldier's Heart
Reading Literature Through Peace and War at West Point
By Elizabeth D. Samet

Farrar, Strau and Giroux

When she decided to apply to teach literature at the U.S. Military Academy at West Point, Elizabeth Samet had several things going for her. Her father had been a soldier, and her scholarly interest led her to the memoirs of Ulysses S. Grant. She was also athletic, which helped at this "relentlessly physical place." But for a graduate of Harvard and Yale, there was still a great deal of strangeness ahead. Her English literature and composition students were also learning to fire machine guns and to defuse improvised explosive devices. Embraced in a caring but sometimes claustrophobic community, she was awash in West Point culture and Army acronyms. And then came 9/11 and Iraq, which meant that her students were graduating into immediate mortal danger.

But during her decade of teaching, Samet moved from OBE (overcome by events) to insight, leading to this combination of memoir and meditation, scholarship and self-scrutiny, observation and commentary. Her gracefully written book, "Soldier's Heart," concerns West Point and her role there, most often in the context of larger questions (courage and sacrifice, obedience and moral judgment, Iraq and Abu Ghraib). It most compellingly provides portraits of young men and women charged with leading the U.S. military.

This review continues at the San Francisco Chronicle Book Review

Monday, October 08, 2007

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The American Discovery of Europe
By Jack D. Forbes
Illinois University Press

Did Columbus discover America, or did America discover Columbus? Did Columbus meet Native Americans for the first time in 1492 when he sailed the ocean blue—an event marked today by Columbus Day—or did he meet two American Indians 15 years earlier, in Ireland? And did that meeting inspire him to make his voyages?

That’s one of the contentions and suggestions that run counter to the history we think we know in this book by Jack D. Forbes, professor emeritis of Native American Studies and Anthropology at UC Davis. How did these Indians get to Galway Bay? Forbes marshals evidence to show that Natives of the North and South Americas had impressive maritime traditions and skills, and knowledge of the strong ocean currents that led to Ireland, among other places. They may have been following migrating American sea turtles there for centuries. Forbes mentions in particular the Red Paint People from Maine who left evidence of their sea travels and culture in Norway and elsewhere.

Native seafarers from the Caribbean and the East Coast of North America are most likely to have made it to Europe, by design or stormy accident, though Inuits probably got to Scandinavia and perhaps the British Isles. Forbes believes that tales of mermaids, mer-men and of “fin-folk” in Scotland and Ireland could be based on Inuits who wore the same skins as covered their kayaks, and seemed to be one with them. He cites evidence of Arctic culture in early England.

Later on, before slaves were brought to America, Native Americans were taken to Europe as slaves. For a century or so after Columbus, there may have been more Indians in Europe and Africa than Europeans over here. Forbes suggests that over the centuries Native genes became part of the pool in Africa and all over western and eastern Europe.

This book is not the only one that calls into question much conventional wisdom, from the actual age of humanity and the theory of migration from Asia to America across the Bering land bridge, to the idea that Native Americans were isolated, didn’t have seaworthy boats, including sails. Vine Deloria, Jr. is especially caustic on several of these topics in Red Earth, White Lies, for example. While Forbes is not as entertaining a writer as Deloria, he engages in careful and original scholarship, and brings a Native eye to what non-Natives miss in the available evidence. (There’s ethnicity in science, too, Deloria points out.)

Much of the relevant evidence for any theory on these topics is often pretty scanty, and as I know from previous reading (like The First Americans by Adovasio and Page) the state of actual knowledge about pre-history and early migration, as well as these aspects of history, is precarious and messy. And “established” conclusions are jealously guarded, not to be confused by new facts. So the best message from Forbes’ book for non-scholars may be: don’t be too sure you know what you think you know.

Sunday, September 23, 2007

Naomi Klein
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The Shocks That We Are Heir To

The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism
By Naomi Klein

Metropolitan Books/Henry Holt

The connections are daring in journalist Naomi Klein's new book, "The Shock Doctrine," but the result is convincing. With a bold and brilliantly conceived thesis, skillfully and cogently threaded through more than 500 pages of trenchant writing, Klein may well have revealed the master narrative of our time. And because the pattern she exposes could govern our future as well, "The Shock Doctrine" could turn out to be among the most important books of the decade.

My review continues at the San Francisco Chronicle Book Review...

Tuesday, June 19, 2007

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Summer Literature

Summer reading, and some are not. So what? Summer season reading as escapist beach recreation is just holdover East Coast chauvinism. Where there even are beaches in the rest of the country, it’s either warm or cool all year. What does figure as a summer season difference is academic freedom—that is, the freedom of people employed in academia from all the regular nonsense they do that has nothing to do with why they got into academia in the first place.

So for them, it’s a time without committee meetings, assessments, grade conferences, promotion portfolios, classes teaching the Same Old to the newly uninterested, and more committee meetings. For some, it is a time for writing and/or reading, and getting reacquainted with the Real Thing. It’s a time for, in a word not often spoke anywhere (least of all in academia): literature.

Following are considerations of several new books that unashamedly “valorize” literature.
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THE CASE FOR LITERATURE is the title of Gao Xingjian’s Nobel Lecture, delivered upon his acceptance of the 2000 Nobel Prize for Literature, and also the title of this slim but powerful collection of his essays published by Yale University Press. It also represents the effect of the other books briefly reviewed here—they all make a case for literature as a living, crucial source of nurture and a noble human activity, in these times of doltish cynicism, profit-taking ignorance and commercially manufactured discouragement.

Gao Xignjian achieved his first success in China in the early 1980s with plays, and continued to write for the theatre, as well as fiction and literary essays through years of shifting political winds until he went into exile towards the end of the decade. His output only increased in the 1990s. Though his autobiographical novel, Soul Mountain, was published in the U.S. in the same year as his Nobel Prize, and remains his best known work in America, it was completed shortly after he left China.

For Gao, the purpose of literature is simple: the search for truth. “…its value lies in discovering and revealing what is rarely known, little known or thought to be known, but in fact not very well known, of the truth of the human world.” “For the writer, truth in literature approximates ethics, and is the ultimate ethic of literature.”

But this truth is not in the realm of metaphysics or ideology. “Truth is perceptual and concrete. Full of life, truth is available for human observation at any time and in any place; it is the interaction between subject and object.” It is the individual’s “testimony of his times.”

“The language required by literature comes from spontaneous speech that goes straight to truth.” Gao is a particular champion of the auditory. “The human need for language is not simply a need for the transmission of meaning; language is also needed for one to listen to, and for affirming one’s own existence.”

“It is my view that the only responsibility a writer has is to the language he writes in.” And that language must sing. “The musicality of language is of extreme importance, and music provides me with more insights than any sort of literary theory.” “If I fail to hear music in the sentences I have written, I acknowledge defeat…”

Gao stresses this rigorous program for the writing of literature, which earns it a place on my own short shelf of indispensable and inspirational books on writing. But the individual expression Gao champions should not be confused with the self-indulgent and programmatic confessionals lining the bookstore shelves. “In this postmodern age, which is concerned only with consumerism, the unchecked bloating of the individual is already a far-off myth…” Though he rejects ideological purposes, he does believe literature has social benefit, in the creation of empathy. “Yet through literature there can be a certain degree of communication, so the writing of literature that essentially has no goal does leave people a testimony of survival. And if literature still has some significance, it is probably this.”

Gao writes about his own approach to fiction and theatre, and (especially in a terse but harrowing chapter near the end) his battles with Chinese authorities, but all within the context of this literary purpose. Agree or disagree with his assertions, this is a book anyone involved in literature must read. In the main, it is a book that everyone should read to understand the activity of literature—the single voice singing a surviving truth beyond the amorphous noise.

"In Memory of Bruno Schultz" (1992)
by Tani Fred.
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The casually serious literary reader probably has some grasp of national characteristics and literary history of England, France, the U.S., Russia, perhaps Germany. Beyond that, it’s individual writers, two or three to a country, and for some, maybe one, or none. Trinity University Press has embarked on a series of books to enlighten us about the literatures of other nations, through the words of the writers themselves.

Under the series editorship of Edward Hirsch, three volumes have now been published : Irish Writers on Writing (edited by Eavan Boland), Mexican Writers on Writing (Margaret Sayers Peden) and Polish Writers on Writing (Adam Zagajewski.)

Since I represent no one but myself here, I am going to be entirely personal in my responses. Of these three, the literature I know the most about—especially from school days-- is Irish, and indeed many of the names (from William Butler Yeats to Brian Friel) are familiar, though of the 77 writers represented, not even a majority. From the day in Catholic high school when a rebel nun slipped me her worn copy of A Portrait of the Artist As A Young Man and into my immediate post-college years (when I hauled the heavy consequence of Richard Ellman’s biography of Joyce like a talisman on my goofy 60s/70s journeys), I pretty much worshipped James Joyce, and he alone was an education in the history of Irish literature.

However, what interests me now about this volume is the role of theatre in 20th century Irish literature, and it’s there in the first dozen or so writers represented. My first impression was that compared to the other volumes, this one seems more like a standard anthology, containing excerpts of literary work rather than a focus on “writing on writing.” But maybe the selection is more subtle. It’s certainly extensive, and though I haven’t read much of it yet, it seems substantive, and likely to repay careful and sustained attention.

After Gabriel Garcia Marquez rocked my world (as we didn’t yet say in the early 70s), my passion passed to Mexican writing, although the only writers represented in this volume that I read then are Carlos Fuentes and the writer I still read and highly esteem, Octavio Paz. Paz I believe was at Harvard when I lived in Cambridge, which is when I wrote my first review of his work, for the Boston Phoenix. So it’s a fitting delight that the introduction to his chapter quotes a poem by Celia Gilbert, who was my friend and colleague at the Phoenix in those days.

The essays and statements in this volume I’ve sampled are more directly focused on the subject of writing. They speak of its mysteries and discoveries, its ironies and its relation to history and real life. I look forward to delving more deeply into them, and to discovering more of the breadth and character of writing in Mexico, including the women writers included in this volume, such as Rosario Castellanos, Margo Glantz and Elena Poniatowska.

But the volume I most naturally needed to read concerned Polish writing. Polish literature is a complete mystery to me, as is my own relationship to that land. Though my last name is (I’m told) a fairly common one in Warsaw, I don’t even know if it is the real name of my father’s family, or an approximation adopted when his grandfather arrived in America, probably recruited to work in the western Pennsylvania coal mines where I was told he toiled for the rest of his life. We don’t know where he came from—not the town or the region. We don’t even know if it was Poland, especially since that country’s borders changed so many times in the past century or so. We don’t know where his wife was from (my grandfather, born in the U.S., married a Slovak.) Though my father’s family was Catholic, there were Jews named Kowinski, and I found record of at least one having died in a concentration camp during the Holocaust. The only other Kowinski who turns up regularly in Internet searches is Fred, an actor in Germany.

There was at least one Kowinski who married into nobility (the “ski” is supposed to indicate nobility, though so many non-nobles adopted it that it lost its accuracy). But almost certainly, my immediate family came from the peasantry. Perhaps by the late 19th century they were working class: coal miners there as well as here. We were lower middle class economically in my childhood, and still mostly working class culturally, though I interacted with my father’s family far less than with my mother’s. She was born in Italy, and my upbringing was among the Italian community—immigrants with a craft (my grandfather was a tailor), mostly from the same region and even the same village; I seemed to be related to many of them. All of my father’s family was native born, and I recall no knowledge or interest about any ancestral homelands.

So I approached this volume on Polish writing with real hunger. I was hungry for information, and for some sense of what in me might be related to Polish writers. In terms of history, though these writers grew up in Poland, many were forced into exile by the Nazis and the Soviets and their own Communist government. This different sort of exile became a preoccupying theme. Editor Zagajewski writes in his preface that in many ways the dilemma of World War II is the focus of this collection.

History earlier in the century was also traumatic, and so the marks of history are everywhere on these writers and their literature. Still they write of the working demands and mysteries of literature itself, as well as its function in their lives and the life of their country.

Boleslaw Lesmian (1877-1937) is the first writer in the collection. “But the more we reflect and investigate,” he writes, “the more we look more deeply into the essence of the thing and listen to the faint whispers of existence, the more our sense of reality becomes discriminating, the more its field visibly narrows.” He reaches for the transcendent. “But beyond the self there exists some tone in the soul: some elemental song without words, waiting for the necessary words to come in a creative hour…” Again, music.

Some of these writers are rigorously logical, others more poetic. Among the most poetic is Bruno Schulz (whose novel, Sanatorium under the Sign of the Hourglass was brought to the attention of English language readers when it was included in Philip Roth’s “Writers from the Other Europe” series for Penguin in the early 1980s). A truly remarkable writer, he recalls from his childhood being carried by his father “through the spaces of an overwhelming night, conducting a conversation with the darkness.” For him, literature is a door to such realities. “In a work of art the umbilical chord linking it with the totality of our concerns has not yet been severed, the blood of the mystery still circulates…”

For Schultz, literature is our version of the most basic and characteristic human activity. “The most fundamental function of the spirit is inventing fables, creating tales.” Julia Hartwig sees no contradiction between communication and the deepest mysteries. Concerning poetry she writes, …”although Kerouac’s slogan, ‘Write so the whole world understands you” may sound frivolous, it’s worth taking to heart. And it’s not at all in contradiction with Braque’s statement: ‘ Only one thing is important in art: that which can’t be explained.’ Because understanding in art is not always an intellectual act.”

And of course I glommed onto any tidbits that might tell me about Polish culture and society. Jerzy Stempowski observes that “The nobility did not derive from invaders and nomads but from the same settled population as the serfs.” Jozef Czapski narrates fascinating if horrifying experiences in World War II with a sense of national history. In writing about his own poems, Czelaw Milosz ruminates on landscape and character. Milosz is one of many exiles in this book—in his case, he lived many years here in California, which gave him the feeling of being in “some unearthly fields among the lotus eaters.” Of the writers here, he’s probably the most familiar to me, mostly through his admirable prose (even though he denigrated Arcata, the town where I now live, asking in his book Milosz ABCs, “Should one live there? Perhaps as punishment.” But he was writing about a time when smoke from timber mills darkened the sky; we see a lot more sunshine these days.)

Many of these writers who saw Communist social experiments came to oppose any utopian ideas, as Gao did. And Zbigniew Herbert saw the same social function for literature that Gao did, though in a different way: “In general, writing is not a medium of expression, of expressing oneself, but an art of empathy—that is, entering into others.”

It seems that many of these writers also practiced other arts, such as painting, music and theatre, or were primarily artists in another medium. Throughout this book, I get the impression of a real Polish literary and artistic culture, and community of writers and artists, supporting and of course sniping at each other, and taking very seriously their concerns and stances. They were very aware of western European art and literature (and American), but working through the dangers of xenophobia versus rootlessness, national character and universal principles.

The British playwright Tom Stoppard was born in Czechoslovakia, and has long wondered what his life might have been like had his parents not fled during World War II. These thoughts bear fruit in his newest play, Rock & Roll. My relationship to Polish culture is even more complicated, tenuous and ambiguous. Yet there is something to it, and in this personal sense, this book has been like a missing link, or a key to an as yet vague and tantalizing lost home.

As a writer, of course, all of these superior collections provide inspiration and provoke thoughts and feelings. The Writer’s World (as this series by Trinity University Press is called) is a brilliant contribution to literature, which these days needs reminders of its importance in this increasingly frenetic blizzard of addictive technology and commercially encouraged ignorance.
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