The Institute.

So, the other day I finished Jakob Von Gunten by the magnificent Robert Walser. It was quite a strange little book -- but then again, since the Brothers Quay did a movie of it, I suppose that could be easily guessed.

I had intended to read this book long before I actually got around to it -- I've been stalking it, after a fashion, since I was fifteen, but have always been short of money or memory and have been unable to purchase a copy of my own. But perhaps that's fitting. It seems like it might be, though it's often hard to tell.

Anyway, the book followed the titular Jakob, who arrives at a school for servants. According to the introduction of the edition I read, this is something Walser himself got up to at one point, even going so far as to find employment as a butler for a short time. However, the school is less a school than a holding place -- the lessons are short, the teachers are dead or sleeping (so saith narrator) and most of the boys' time is spent lying around and waiting, though for what, we don't know. The school is run by the Benjamenta siblings, whose first names are never given. Fraulein Benjamenta functions as the "instructress," guiding the boys through the one textbook, entitled "How Should a Boy Behave?" She is a nervous, fluttering creature, whose mental instability and ill health become more pronounced as the novel progresses. Her brother, on the other hand, is a passionate creature, removed from the day-to-day functions of the school, yet very interested in the prospects of the main character.

In short, nothing much happens and no one goes anywhere.

And yet, as a novel, it's completely successful. Walser's often digressive style is here perfectly appropriate, as the longer form allows him to indulge his digressions for a little longer than his short stories would typically permit. The translation has also captured the man's odd style, which seems to be entirely composed of ejaculatory sentence fragments, stitched together with commas and subjects. The strangely breathless narration gives the wonderful impression of a person who has just climbed a long flight of stairs and great speed, and now can't remember what it was he was going upstairs to get. It's quite a feat, on the parts of both Walser and his translator, that this is not annoying.

In short, the book is a strange creature, but serves as kind of a distillation of the best qualities of Walser's short fiction, without any of its problems. I highly recommend dear Jakob, and I hope that he will find a place in your service.

Camping but Not.

I have moved back to the US. I am now resident in Blueville, KS (not to pretend to be political for ten seconds or anything), attending one of the state universities to attain my undergraduate in Classical Languages. I am learning to read ancient Greek and Latin, and living in an apartment that looks more like the sight of a secret service stakeout than the swinging bachelorette pad it may one day be. But hey. Beata sum.

However, I am much more excited about my virtually-unlimited access to the university's libraries, which are legion. I mostly hang out in the humanities one (since it's right next to the building where all my classes are -- literally, all of them), and am, in fact, typing this from there. I have already gnawed my way through one book of the many thousands that surround me. I chose A Partisan's Daughter by Louis de Bernieres as my first from here, and I am, I must admit, well pleased.

Well, okay, not entirely.

A Partisan's Daughter tells the story of Chris, an unhappily married travelling salesman, specializing in medical equipment, and Roza, the daughter of a Yugoslavian partisan (and former prostitute). The two meet when Chris, in a fit of dissatisfaction, depression and loneliness, tries to pick Roza up as a prostitute -- which job she no longer does. However, the two become friends, of a kind. Chris is erotically obsessed with Roza, but does little to pursue her, and merely passes long afternoons in her squalid basement flat, listening to her tel her life story. Roza, who longs for love and attention in the wake of a past that went from odd at best to downright traumatic at worst, encourages him. Do I need to add that it has a sad ending? Well, there you are.

All right, so it is the kind of book Belle and Sebastian would write a song about. But that's not actually a problem. What is an issue, however, is de Bernieres' style and the way it intersects (often uncomfortably) with his subject matter. While I am by no means an expert on de Bernieres' output, I feel reasonably confident in saying that his tone becomes just a little too titillated when describing Roza's past -- which contains some very intense passages. It is as if de Bernieres is, himself, very uncomfortable with his subject matter, and while this works for Chris, when the narration is taken over by Roza, the tone is simply jarring. The narrator is, himself, attempting to feel the thrill that Roza feels as she tells Chris her stories of bad sex and appalling violence, and it is simply unbecoming.

More significantly than issues of style, however, is the issue of subject. What is A Partisan's Daughter about? I can't honestly say that I know, beyond the potted description I gave above. It lacks depth, somehow -- or rather, its depth is obscured and its base meaning cannot be adequately judged. This is very frustrating, since it seems as if de Bernieres is saying something -- but the reader is largely left out of what it might be.

However, I did enjoy the experience of reading the novel, and I'd certainly read more of de Bernieres' books. His style, although not as well suited to the subject matter as it might have been, has a certain pleasing effervescence, and that alone would be worth further reading.

Coming soon:  Jakob Von Gunten by Robert Walser (with which I am already nearly finished). Also, I have joined a rugby club. Fun times are being had by me.

What's Goin' On.

So, I spent last weekend in London. It was awesome, and I took notes. They will be made available as soon as they are finished and edited. I also took pictures; I'll figure out some way to show those to people.

Yesterday, I went to Bordeaux with my family. It was a short trip (<4 hours, which is less time than it took to drive one way), but well worth it. It's an awesome city, and looks like it was made up by someone like Italo Calvino. Also, did you know that you can now officially order Bull Spec Issue 6, which features my poem, "Spinning the Seabed Dry"? Well, you can. And in this instance, the mere ability to do a thing means that you definitely should. So go on -- give those charming people from Durham, NC some love.

And now -- reviewku!

A Feast for Crows -- George R.R. Martin
Tyrion's absence
Makes me sad, but 'shipping Jaime
And Brienne is fun.

Jane Eyre (2010)
Beautiful landscapes
And thoughtful restructuring
Render Jane afresh.

Super 8 (2011)
Kids on bikes save world;
Families function or don't.
Also, aliens.

Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!! -- Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds
Cave eschews mad poesy
For '50s gothic stylings;
Gives crow-black awesome.

So, all said and done, way too much fun has been had by me.

Also, posting here may be (more) erratic (i.e. less existent than usual) over the next few weeks, because I'm heading back to the 'states to go to university again. Classical languages are fun. (They are, I swear!) Bear it in mind, and forgive me, for I am a bad blogger.

Publications.

So, in the present, my poem "Spinning the Seabed Dry" is featured on page 61 of the most recent issue of Bull Spec magazine and you should click on this link right now (i.e. in the present) and order yourself a copy.

In the future, a short story of mine (which is based on the badass myth of Margaret of Bamburgh) will be featured in the October issue of the Lorelei Signal. However, while you're waiting for my work to be there, you should check out the excellent short story "Norn" by Jeremiah Job Levine, which features knitting and other cool stuff, as well as the other great stories featured in that fine publication.

In other news:  (Future) I will be going to London next week; (present) I am reading A Feast for Crows by George R.R. Martin, and aching with desire for A Dance With Dragons, upon which I have not yet laid my greasy paws; (past) I have recently completed an outline for a prose reworking of Shakespeare's Much Ado About Nothing, which would feature giant mecha, and some general steampunkery; (present) I am making a corset -- pics to follow.

Otherwise, not much happening. Bonne nuit!

More Review-ku (and some news).

This must be one of the silliest things I've ever gotten up to, but I've been reading and listening to and watching a lot of stuff lately, so it should be fun.

The Women (2008)
Silliness, Eva
Mendes, beaches cannot replace
Wit and honesty.

Hold Your Color -- Pendulum
Mario music?
Perhaps -- fond memory of
Moonish night ensues.

Black Death (2010)
Sean Bean is always
The same character. Message?
Everyone/thing sucks.

Inkheart (2008)
Italian hills
Were ne'er so bleak. Dustfinger
Makes my life better.

Heroes (Seasons 1-2)
Loads of characters
With tight plots and handsome men?
MORE EVOLUTION!

XO / Either/Or -- Elliott Smith
Sad songs, happy tunes:
Dichotomy is greatness.
Birdlike, my soul lifts.

Did I mention that during a recent stage (kind of a cross between a summer camp and, in the case of the school where I work, an intensive language course) I taught haiku to little French boys? We had fun.

Also, you should definitely be reading The Lorelei Signal. Not only will they be publishing one of my stories(!!!), they already have great stuff (so if anything, I'll be lowering the tone of their whole operation). Norn by Jeremiah Job Levine has knitting in it, and is therefore automatically awesome.

You should also be reading this excellent review in The Fortnightly Review of Robert Wilson's new piece. The review itself is good reading, and provides a succinct and thoughtful commentary on what it actually means to be modern. 

...And as if this blog weren't erratic enough as it is, I'm going to London in the gap between July and August. EPIC WINTIMES.

Egg-cellent.

So, there are zillions (yes, that's a scientific figure, right there) of books out right now -- literally, zillions. The ones you don't feel like paying for can be had for free online; the ones you want to pay for, you can read as paper or plastic, depending on your desires (and the kind of book it is -- thrillers and sex manuals seem to do well when no one can see what the cover looks like).

I mention this because the case in Fritz Lieber's less-than-well-known outing, The Silver Eggheads, is very similar. The book, which features a cover worthy of Good Show, Sir, is set in a world in which all fiction is produced by machines called "wordmills"; authors, such as they are, exist merely to tend the wordmills and look cool. And, as now, there are zillions of books:  Thousands on a single newsstand, everything from porn to hard science fiction (though all of them seem to have appalling covers, too). The main character, Gaspard de la Nuit, is a journeyman writer (condemned to wear a velvet smoking jacket until he levels up to, essentially, beatnik status) who loved the "milled product" he puts out -- most writers don't read much at all, and seem to be selected on the basis of casting calls.

And then the authors decide to rebel. They burn the wordmills and seem all set to destroy the publishing world.

Of course, then they realize that they have nothing to say. (This is, incidentally, imparted to us in a hilarious textual montage of desperate gangs of foppish people either holding hands in circles or drinking a lot and waiting for the muse. Most of them can get out a word or three, and that's it.)

The "eggheads" of the title come in at this point:  They are, it transpires, brains that were jarred up by a crackpot scientist a hundred years before the story starts. Gaspard, visiting his publishers, becomes embroiled in the plot to use the eggheads to create more fiction to satiate the hungry masses, made up of "book-a-day housewives" and other hopeless addicts of "smooth, milled product."

The plot, such as it is, would seem almost picaresque if it weren't so smooth in its segues; as it is, while it's nobody's model for best structure, it certainly pulls the reader along. However, Lieber's world-building is, as always, highly amusing in its detail. (He sure did put a lot of thought into robot sex, though. Seriously, Fritz, take a cold shower!)

But the timeliness of the book is truly striking. What with J.K. Rowling, for Guinness' sake, self-publishing the e-book versions of the Harry Potter books, and random (but awesome) guys outselling Stephen King in the online world, the profusion of books and writers certainly seems comparable to Lieber's science-fantasy of a world of militarized publishing. (No, I'm not kidding.)
---
Excuse the brevity of this post; the last few weeks have been mad here, and I actually finished reading this about three weeks ago. However, I do have some excellent news:  Bull Spec will be publishing its sixth issue on 30 July. And guess whose poem will be taking up some of their precious space? That's right, mine. Look out for it, and give them money.

Making things.

I've been very busy with making stuff lately, which is why I haven't been reading much or listening to much, and therefore haven't been posting much (because I really have very little else to talk about). a

However, I will say, in my defense, that I have been tasked with costuming a production of Much Ado About Nothing, which is being put on by the school at which I work. It's kind of vaguely nineteenth-century in flavor, which means that I have been making some seriously awesome cut-away jackets (mod'd from thrift-store ones) and spent the better part of this afternoon making a skirt out of an old linen sheet. So far, so awesome, and it looks set to be a blast. Hopefully, pictures will follow.

Also being made are two doilies, a pair of socks and a pair of fingerless mitts. Yes, doilies. I was born old.

I've also been making a story in longhand in a little notebook. It's a kind of sequel to the second story I ever published, which was called "The Black Desert" and appeared in the fourth (and, sadly, final) issue of a small magazine called The Open Vein (which may tell you what kind of a story it was). Being Orthodox, the idea of angels as both good and terribly frightening beings is not much of a stretch, and this variety of angel is involved in the story I'm currently writing. There are also swims in a river, wolves, ghouls, and a desert made of glittering black sand with mysterious properties. Should be cool. (I'm currently trying to find the original short story -- perhaps I can make it available here. Is this a good or a bad idea, would you say, dear reader?)

I'm also making French boys learn English. We're doing sonnets. Fun times, fun times.

That's about all the news that's fit to bother with. Is anyone else making things? What kinds of things? I'm very curious about your projects and would like to subscribe to your newsletter.