>television

>Jean-Philippe Toussaint’s Television is about as mesmerizing as a book about nothing can be. Mesmerizing yet a little numbing, like a television, set to a constant low hum. There were several times that I wanted to abandon the book, thinking “Alright, I get it!”, but I kept being drawn back to it the way the flickering images on a TV in a bar or restaurant can draw my attention even when I know I can’t hear the audio. (For some reason, I’m reminded of a time I watched Hitchcock’s The Birds play on a TV in a repair shop window late one night many years ago. In German, which I do not speak….but that’s probably a completely different post.)

At first, as I read this book, I couldn’t help but recall reading an article a few years ago attributing the success of HGTV to how innocuous it is. Having no content that can offend, it is the perfect TV programming, the visual equivalent of background music. The narrator of Television thinks that TV is stupid, yet he contemplates its importance constantly, as if pondering the absence of TV can make up for the background music he has turned off.

The unnamed narrator is an art historian, on sabbatical, attempting to write a book about Titian. The only problem is, he doesn’t want to write. On a whim, he vows to not watch television any more. Except when he can’t avoid it: looking out the window into other apartments, while waiting for someone in her apartment, at the neighbor’s. He gives no reason for his decision and is relieved when those to whom he brags about his TV abstinence do not inquire as to why he went cold-turkey.

Television is not so much about television as it is about the narrator and his ability to put off writing. Throughout the course of the book, all he manages to write is two words. Yet, the narrator claims he is working: if he is swimming, dining, walking and thinking about his book, or preparing to think about his book, he is ‘working’. The narrator describes how he postpones any actual writing in a series of humorous events over the course of a summer. Each of these scenarios — a chance encounter with his benefactor in the park, dinner with a colleague, watering his neighbor’s plants, floating casually in the pool — is, like the book as a whole, without much of a plot. Yet, the recounting of his day-to-day activities creates an effect on the reader similar to one a rabid channel-surfer in control of the remote would have on another viewer: the blurring of story lines, different faces and times, scattered observations in one continuous loop. Sitcom, melodrama, documentary, arts: on TV it all blurs, and little of it is memorable. Like the banality of television programming, it the mundane that occupies the narrator’s life. And he is okay with that. Success, the narrator says

“…couldn’t be judged quantitatively by the number of pages one might have written, nor, it seemed to me, by the quality and scope of the more basic groundwork one might have laid. No, the best criterion for evaluating the success of a day’s work, it seemed to me, was surely the way we have seen the time pass as we worked, the singular capacity the hours have demonstrated to take on the weight of our work, associated with the apparently contradictory impression that the time has flown by at great speed, heavy with the work we’ve accomplished, laden with that work’s meaning, charged with all the experiences we’ve gone through, and yet, so incomparably light that we never so much as noticed it passing. That’s what grace is, it seemed to me, that mix of fullness and lightness, which you can only experience in certain privileged moments of your existence, moments of writing or love.” (p. 91)

The narrator also says:

“Television is formal beyond all reason…it seems to flow along hand in hand with time itself, aping its passage in a crude parody where no moment lasts and everything soon disappears, to the point where you might sometimes wonder where all those images go once they’ve been broadcast, with no one watching them or remembering them or retaining them, scarcely seen at all, only momentarily skimmed by the viewer’s gaze. For where books, for instance, always offer a thousand times more than they are, television offers exactly what it is, its essential immediacy, its ever-evolving, always-in-progress superficiality.” (p. 95)

It is the mundaneness of life that skims his existence in an ‘always in progress superficiality’ that allows his life to speed by with lightness and grace, like the flicker and hum of the TV. The best way to watch television actively, the narrator explains, “is with your eyes closed.” (p. 97) And that is how he chooses to live.

There’s more to read about Toussaint’s Television at The LitBlog Co-op where Television was the Spring Read This! selection. (As usual, I’m a few weeks behind….”Television Week” was a few weeks ago, but you can still read the all of the interesting posts and comments.) Max Magee, of The Millions, wrote here and Anne Fernald of Fernham wrote here about the narrator as a slacker, and whether this makes him a hero or anti-hero. Max argues convincingly for hero. But, like Anne, I can’t help but project my workaholic tendencies on the narrator. Yet, I understand him. The thing is, though, I think that if I didn’t have that overachiever’s work ethic, I would be just like the narrator, drifting aimlessly in the swimming pool, except I might just drift away permanently like those broadcast messages that disappear.

Television, Jean-Philippe Toussaint. 1997. Translation by Jordan Stump, 2004. Dalkey Archive Press. 164 pp.

>It’s Only A Dog

>I was skeptical about reading Marley & Me. It seemed too trite of a subject to be much more than a long article — how could it be a full length book? With all of the ruckus over memoirs recently, if this wasn’t too far-fetched (or maybe if it was), I did think that the made-for-memoirs details would provide a few laughs.

I am a snob about what I read (what a surprise!). It had better be good; it had better inform or entertain or make me think. I better not wish to get back those lost hours spent reading the book. A book about a dog? Not likely.

I read beyond the first chapter. Yes, it was short, but a poor excuse for a book can lose me in 2 or 3 pages. By chapter 3 I hadn’t wanted to throw the book across the room, but I wasn’t convinced that I needed to finish the book. But then something happened: my own very old dog’s health changed drastically overnight. I spent the better part of two days sitting beside him, gently petting him, wishing I could ease his pain, letting him know that he was as valued to me as I think we’ve been to him.

And that lead me back, a few weeks later to Marley. It is just that affinity between pet & pet owner, between companion & friend, that this book is about. Told in brief slice-of-life chapters, John Grogan recounts the tales of Marley, the rambunctious, always a puppy, canine terror that ruled the roost for 13 years. By telling the stories about the dog, the reader also comes to know John Grogan, his love of gardening and of writing, of his family, and of the pains and joys of being a parent, a neighbor, or a friend. Throughout the book there are plenty of opportunities for the book to fall into a saccharine mess. After all, by it’s nature, it is perched dangerously close to such a fall into the sugar bowl. And yet, there are episodes that you can’t help but laugh at, like the description of a cross-country move involving an airplane ride with 3 young childen, some goldfish, crickets, frogs, a snail, and one tranquilized dog that howls so loudly in the hold that all of the passengers can hear him.

Pet owners know that it is never ‘just‘ a pet. Reading about how Marley was not just a dog, but a companion and family member to the Grogans is something pet owners will understand. Marley & Me may not be a thought-provoking literary jaunt that you’ll remember for a long time, but it is a lighthearted read that almost all pet owners would enjoy spending a few hours with.

>Ticknor: A Novel

>Ticknor: A Novel, Sheila Heti.

Because this was a nominee for the Spring ‘Read This’ at the LitBlog Coop, and because it was short, I picked up a copy of Ticknor recently and avoided reading any of the LBC posts until after I finished the book. I can’t remember the last time it took me 4 days to read a 118 page book! And that should not recommend it. Heti’s book is a tough trudge up a steep hill in inclement weather. I kept encouraging myself: “It’s only 118 pages — you can do this”. But, 3 of the last 4 nights I either fell asleep or found myself wondering what I had just read on the previous few pages that I had to re-read before continuing. So, imagine my surprise when I turned the last page and thought: “Well, that wasn’t so bad; I liked it a bit.”

Heti’s work is imaginative and bears little resemblance to the historical persons portrayed. Ticknor is a stream-of-consciousness tale about biographer George Ticknor and his friend historian William H. Prescott. But, it isn’t historical fiction. Rather, it is a character study of Ticknor, a socially awkward, obsessive, flawed man consumed with jealousy over his friend’s publishing successes, wealth and social standing. Ticknor even seems jealous over his friend’s blindness, resentful of how Prescott adapts to and overcomes the fateful boyish prank that injured his eye. More than that though, Ticknor is consumed by his own inadequacies and anxieties.

Ticknor does not interact with any one in the book; the narrative takes place completely in his head. His disjointed internal monologue is so disruptive that it isn’t surprising when he reveals that it took him 10 years to write an article. Ticknor’s various trains of thought have him ruminating on how his friend’s acquaintances won’t acknowledge him, on Prescott’s dislike for him, how Prescott’s wife is horrified by his obvious (to him) lust for her, and his daydreams about how the wife might one day return his admiring glances. Yet, the description of his social ineptitude suggests that he would botch up any return of affection.

There isn’t just one narrative point of view in the work, although all points of view are Ticknor’s. The changing narrative voice is challenging, but contributes to the overall mood of the work. You want to shout “Turn off the voices in your head, George”. Yet Heti’s novel depends on that battering din.

You don’t end up feeling much of anything but pity for poor George Ticknor, but only in a voyeuristic, ‘won’t someone help him so he won’t be my problem?’ sort of way. And this is why Heti’s book works: it isn’t about Ticknor’s friendship with Prescott; it isn’t success and failure or wealth and poverty; it is about inadequacies within Ticknor, his introspection and inaccurate observations that drive his actions and keeps him from interacting with others. And it is about the similar inadequacies within those who avoid him. Even the reader. The human condition: Ah Bartleby! Ah Humanity!

>Precious Gems in the Night Sky: The Planets by Dava Sobel

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“For myself, I confess that none of the truly staggering data I have been privileged to share here has altered the planets’ fundamental appeal to me as an assortment of magic beans or precious gems in a little private cabinet of wonder — portable, evocative, and swirled in beauty.” — Dava Sobel, The Planets

Three things recommended this book to me: the eye-catching cover depicting a map of Tyco Brahe’s universe, the author Dava Sobel whose books Longitude and Galelio’s Daughter I thoroughly enjoyed reading, and its simple title: The Planets. A wonderful science writer writing about the cosmos, with a cool cover to boot. There was much to expect, but, it turns out, plenty to disappoint.

The Planets is divided into 11 chapters — one for each planet, an intro & a coda. But the titles of each chapter suggests something different: Mythology, Beauty, Geography, Night Air. Each chapter discusses a portion of our Solar System in conjunction with a corresponding theme. Part history, part lore, part scientific discussion, each chapter discusses not only the heavenly body referred to in the chapter title, but also a history of how the heavens have been defined otherwise throughout the history of western thought.

In some chapters this works well, such as the chapter on Mythology and Mercury, or the chapter on Sci-F and Mars. But elsewhere, this device seemed too contrived and annoyed me. For instance, in “Music of the Spheres”, Sobel writes of Holst symphony “The Planets” and Saturn. After a few paragraphs the connection becomes overworked. Perhaps Holst’s well-known piece did represent a view of our universe, but what does it tell us about the universe? Isn’t the music really just inspired by the planets, not descriptive of them — not in a scientific way at any rate — although ancient astronomers may have written of the music of the stars? Maybe there are solar sounds and ratio in orbital patterns similar to music, but is there really a connection, a harmony more physical than metaphysical? If so, I didn’t get it from Sobel’s writing.

Similarly, while Sobel’s description of astrology is interesting, she seems to both support and refute its validity. From a historical perspective, the book discusses astrology’s importance throughout history, and how the scientific revelation the the earth was not the center of the universe made astrology obsolete. Yet, she writes of a ‘star chart’ for a satellite’s launch date and how ‘accurate’ it was. Elsewhere she begins with an elaborate description of an Ellis Island immigrant and likens it to ‘false memories’ of those who claim to be victims of alien abductions. She then makes a quantum cognitive jump into the cosmos to discuss the search for Pluto and the discovery of the Kuiper Body Objects. Once the leap is executed, the reader doesn’t return to the alien kidnappings; there is no connection and perhaps the only thing worse than this preposterous association would have been if Sobel DID loop back in some sort of literary mobius strip way to the world of aliens. If Sobel wants to believe in astrology or Roswellian creatures performing surgeries on the human populace during REM sleep, fine with me, but I don’t like the scientific mysticism attributed to it in this book.

Lastly, in a few places I tired of reading information from Sobel’s other books. Intrigued as I was in learning about Harrison’s clocks and his efforts to solve the ‘longitude problem’, the information regarding maps and efforts to define longitude seemed repetitive. Information that seemed almost a recitation from Galileo’s Daughter, while not completely irrelevant, read as if a lazy editor had cloned the earlier text in order to lengthen this book.

I like the idea of this book — science facts regarding our universe coupled with a history of how the universe has been understood throughout the ages by art, literature and religion. That there was a time — long before we had the words to define and describe our solar system in today’s scientific terms — when the arts and science and faith were so intertwined that they were inseparable. But, because it can’t always be connected specifically to current scientific knowledge, the book in its execution becomes too disjointed.

Yet, to return to the passage quoted above: “…[N]one of the truly staggering data I have been privileged to share here has altered the planets’ fundamental appeal to me as an assortment of…precious gems in a little private cabinet of wonder…” If Sobel’s intent is to evoke wonder and awe of our universe, perhaps she is successful in showing how it has inspired throughout the centuries. Those precious sparkling gems in the night sky have symbolized an abundance of human thought and experience. Maybe the poets and the scientists marvel at the same thing, but for different reasons, in different voices, in different times….

Postscript — On a readerly level, I most enjoyed the first half of Chapter 10, ‘Night Air’ in which Sobel writes a ‘fictionalized’ letter from astronomer Caroline Herschel (1750 – 1848) to astronomer Maria Mitchell (1818 – 1889). In the notes section Sobel indicates that the facts in the letter are true although it is unknown if the women corresponded. Maybe Sobel should try her hand at historical fiction next time.

>My Sister’s Keeper

>I bought a copy of Jodi Picoult’s My Sister’s Keeper several months ago, but only read it recently, considering it as a possible selection for my reading group. Immediately, I was sucked into the story and plowed through the 400-plus pages in about a day. Not being a fast reader, this was unusual for me. (And who wants to read quickly anyway? I always want to linger with the books I like.)

There are many things that recommend this book — an intriguing moral dilemma involving organ donation, the emotional drama of a family torn apart by an illness that maims the siblings more than the cancer-stricken daughter, an accurate portrayal of how society reacts to ‘visible’ disabilities rather than those less obvious to the onlooker, and a narrative point of view that changes with each chapter, giving insight into more than just the main character.

The book deals well with the emotionally charged issue of extraordinary medical treatments and genetic engineering. The book walks a tight-rope, balancing the interests of the sick child with those of the child ‘created’ for the sole purpose of being a genetic match designed for saving her sister. One of the benefits of fiction is that it can deal with such issues in ways that scientific discourse and political arguments can not. As humans we thrive on stories and storytelling can be the vehicle for figuring out where one stands on an issue, for understanding that the answers are not simple, straightforward, black-and-white decisions. Picoult does this without delving too far into medical jingo and without being too heavy-handed regarding either side of the debate. Though striving to present multiple points of view, the book still leans towards one side of the argument. In part this is due to a lackluster, one-dimensional portrayal of the mother.

The technique of each character narrating chapters is interesting and works well to move the plot forward. However, some of these chapters are much stronger than the others. Anna, the healthy sister no longer willing to undergo medical procedures to save her dying sister, is clearly the protagonist and the chapters narrated by her are among the best written in the book. Clearly the author is intent on this being Anna’s story, while trying to give balance and dimension to the other characters. Early in the book, the chapters narrated by the mother Sara are griping, capturing the emotions of a mother’s fear of losing her child. Later in the book, as Sara becomes the enemy of Anna, fighting her teenage daughter in court, her chapters are one sided. They don’t seem as true as the earlier chapter, failing to fully give the mother’s point of view, painting her as a monster only loving one child, a mother best skilled at nurturing a sick child while being neglectful of her other children. When the mother claims that she cannot make a decision that would benefit both children, and that she realizes it is a Solomon-esque decision, the reader doesn’t believe it.

Similarly, other chapters in the book present some relevant ideas regarding the ethical dilemmas involved, serve to move the plot forward and develop the minor characters. However, most of the minor characters are not well developed. The chapters between the child advocate and the lawyer add an unnecessary romance-novel love story to the book, but aren’t convincing regarding the emotional motivations of the characters. The chapters about the father portray a man always ready to save others in his professional life, but distant from his own family. While the father talks about having given up on his teenage son, the book doesn’t give any indication of his remorse, or realization of how his behavior may have influenced his son. When he stands up for Anna, the reader wonders why he hadn’t done so before. The best written minor character is the character who narrates the fewest chapters — Jesse, the delinquent son. His intelligence, crippled by his anger, is evident; his cries for parental attention while aware that it is unattainable is striking. Picoult’s introduction to the book mentions her own experiences as a parent of a sick child. I find it interesting, then, that it is the teenagers, not the parents who are the best portrayed characters in the book.

Picoult’s writing kept me reading, and I understand why her books are popular. The emotional tug-of-war is one that could appeal to a female reader who looking for a book that is ‘a good cry’. But, as I approached the final pages I felt cheated, manipulated by the author, my emotions and expectations toyed with. In a published interview, Picoult revealed that her own child didn’t talk to her for a week after reading the book because of the ending. Yet, she claimed, she couldn’t have ended the story in any other way. Perhaps that’s because she was looking for a nice, tidy ending that let everyone be happy. Life is not that way. The ending was an easy way out for the author.

The quotes from works by authors such as Shakespeare, Milton, and Edna St. Vincent Milay preceding each section of the book were a nice touch. At first, they might appear out of place, a bit disjointed from the narrative, but in retrospect, they subtly frame the action to come.

I would recommend this book. For a reading group, it certainly provides many topics for discussion.

>Remembrance of Books Past

>Sixpence House: Lost in a Town of Books, Paul Collins, Bloomsbury: 2003

Sixpence House was one of those bookstore serendipity finds: a mis-shelved book that suddenly caught my eye, demanding to be purchased despite a strong possibility of being doomed to languish in the ‘to be read’ pile for months. I no longer recall when or why I decided to purchase this book. Perhaps it was the blurb claiming “a bookworm’s answer to A Year in Provence“; it would have been the ‘bookworm’ that enticed, not the reference to Mayles’ memoir. More likely, it was the idea of a ‘town of books’. Having never heard of the Welsh village of Hay-on-Wye, I must have been intrigued by the idea of a small village with 40 bookstores.

Collins’ memoir retells the story of his sojourn in Hay-on-Wye with his wife, Jennifer and infant son Morgan. It was a journey that began with a grand idea to live in an “old, old house with old, old books” in the countryside where one could live a writerly life. And buy books. Lots of them.

Collins is a good storyteller, but he doesn’t so much tell the story of his life in Hay as much as he tells the story of books he has read. Interspersed with the tales of daily life in Hay — being trapped in the lesser-frequented pub unable to make a polite exit without offending a lonely bartender, searching for an old house to buy, meandering through the many bookstores in Hay — is Collins’ homage to the many obscure books he has read throughout his life. There is an aptly quotable book suited for almost every occasion. A walk through a cemetery leads to a passage about 19th century burial practices. Peering in the window of a small, eclectic shop on the street takes the reader into a description of a novel about a man exhibited at a zoo. A visit to a bookbinder provides the opportunity for Collins to muse about books worth saving and books remarkable not for their content but for the stories of their existence — the faked memoirs, the book made famous for the pornographic text bleeding through the marbled endpapers, the poorly written stories unworthy of the intriguing titles given by editors.

The books that populate Sixpence House are as much a part of the town as the people who live there. In describing a ‘town of books’, Collins lovingly describes a universe of reading and writes a book that many bibliophiles would enjoy.

>Talk to the Hand: Rants, Shoots and (Rudely) Leaves

>Talk to the Hand #?*! The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door. Lynne Truss. Gotham Books, 2005.

Cam’s Concise Critique: A long-winded bellyache on our bad manners. An arrogant, unhumorous look at the fall of western civilization brought about by cell phones, traffic jams, tv, and poor customer service that offers trite examples of the problems without offering real solutions.

My Rating: Skip it.

Review: In her first book, Eats, Shoots, and Leaves, Lynne Truss elevated a spot-on, sincere rant to a book-length argument against improper grammar. In her second book, Talk to the Hand, Truss tries to ride on the coattails of her earlier success to rage against a decay in manners throughout society. However, far from writing an enjoyable sequel to Eats, Shoots and Leaves, Truss has delivered a long, ill-humored, unoriginal whine about how the world is falling apart due to the unruly, ill-mannered Visigoths rallying at the gates, talking on their cells phones, and screaming “Eff-off” at the slightest offense. Society is bad and all that, but Truss’ book, in the end, is an arrogant and rude diatribe.

Although there are feeble attempts at appearing scholarly — Truss quotes repeatedly from other works decrying the fate of Western Civ and includes a 3 page bibliography — the book seems padded, little more than a term paper bloated by quotations to meet a word count. Little in this book is original. Who hasn’t complained about the insincerity of the customer service voice mail that repeatedly claims ‘We’re sorry for your wait’? About the woman who describes her recent surgery to the disembodied, never-present listener on the other end of the cell phone while seated at the next table in a restaurant? About the world-weary, road-raging driver who displays the “You’re # 1 sign” when cut off in traffic?

As for being humorous? Standup comics have done a better job of portraying our anti-social failings. They usually are funny; Ms. Truss is not. A comic will point out our flaws and we laugh at the universal truths of our failings. While some bits in Ms. Truss’ book are funny, she tries to rally the reader to be like her, to see himself as a curmudgeonly fuss-budget who staunchly stands with Truss in believing that all of culture is being flushed down the toilet with little hope for redemption. Salvation lies with those who are above the offending manners marauders. But, even when she tries to find commonality with the offenders, her faux offended persona falls short of holding up a mirror to our failings. We may indeed be like the examples of Rudeness Incarnate in her book, but with the whining, belly-aching, assault Truss presents, one reads this book hoping not to be as arrogant and contemptuous of others as she is.

The reader who enjoyed Eats, Shoots and Leaves should not waste her time with Talk to the Hand. You will miss Ms. Truss’ ability to take the mundane and make it laughable. But, you won’t forget about Eats, Shoots and Leaves as you read this. Ms. Truss mentions the earlier work throughout her new book, least you forget that she is skilled at ranting humorously about society. This helps to lengthen her short, magazine-length complaint to its published book length form.

This book neither amuses or instructs. It adds no new insights as to why people behave how they do. It presents no real solutions to the issues presented. The ‘flame of hope’ offered at the beginning is lamely summarized in the last one and 1/2 pages of the book: we should be kind and friendly and polite…..and roll our eyes and smugly smirk at those who don’t realize we are trying to rescue the ill-mannered from themselves.