Posts from November 2014
November 26th, 2014
Some Penguin Classics become immediately indispensable. They so firmly supplant all previous editions of their particular work that those previous editions become curiosities, interesting in only ancillary ways. A notable recent example of this would be the Royall Tyler translation of The Tale of the Heike, and now the Penguin imprint clearly has another: a lavish new edition of the famous Analects of Confucius, translated and annotated by Yale history lecturer Annping Chin.
These Lunyu of Confucius (551-479 BC) are an enormous, shaggy, multi-faceted collection of sayings and anecdotes preserved by the disciples of Confucius and their disciples. The work is a pillar of Chinese literature, and the many, many parallel (and rival) commentaries on the work by its later handlers shape some fascinating, alternating readings. As Chin correctly points out, that multitude of analytical voices has sometimes been simplified by later scholars:
Most of the translations in English, however, do not reflect this rich tradition in reading the Analects. Instead, they tend to favor one commentary, Zhu Xi’ from the twelfth century, that had become standard through five hundred years of imperial support and the only interpretation the state would accept in the civil service examinations. My work follows a different approach. I relied on the scholars from the last three hundred years – scholars who put research before ideology – to show me the competing interpretations and the possibilities of understanding a word, a sentence, or a passage, and my translation is what I arrived at after I had considered the range of choices before me.
“My hope,” she writes, “of course, is to recover some of the ambiguities and nuances in what Confucius says, which are often lost if one comes to trust a single voice or a single vision.”
She succeeds wonderfully in her edition of the Analects; for the first time in a popular non-academic version, we get something very closely approximating the strange and compelling nature of the original, which reads like a surreal blending of Christian scripture and the social commentaries of Tom Wolfe. Too many times in previous editions, translators have reduced this rich complexity to a string of fortune-cookie apothegms that don’t in any way convey why this text would have remained a foundational work revered and consulted and studied for centuries.
Take a look, for instance, at the 1955 translation done by James Ware, which was such a sales hit for the old Mentor paperback line:
It is hard to converse with the people of Hu, so when a lad arrived and sought an interview with Confucius, the pupils were in a quandary.
“I do not sanction his departure just because I sanction his arrival. Why all the worry? When a man, hving cleansed himself, arrives, I receive him; but I don’t guarantee his future.”
In the Mentor version that found its way into so many backpacks in the early ’60s, that’s all you get – pithy, yes, but not particularly informative. Chin’s translation and accompanying note flesh things out considerably:
The people of Hu village [being boorish and obstinate] were difficult to talk to. A young man [from this village] came to see the Master [and the Master received him]. The disciples were puzzled. The Master said, “I accepted him when he was here, but that does not mean I will accept whatever he will be doing when he is not here. So why should there be a problem? In coming here, he made his heart pure, and so I accepted him [as he was,] a purified man. This does not mean, however, that I proved of what he had done in the past.”
Although no one can say for sure why the people of Hu village were “difficult to talk to,” it seems reasonable to assume that they were “boorish and obstinate,” as Zheng Xuan and Liu Baonan suggest. And Confucius’ decision to speak to this young man from Hu reveals much about what he was like as a teacher: he accepted anyone who came to him with pureness of heart even though, he said, he could not vouch for the person’s past or future behaviour.
Or take a famous passage from Book 17 about perception and reflection. Here’s Chin’s translation and accompanying note:
The Master said, “If a man, by the age of forty, is still being disliked by others, that perception will remain until the end of his life.”
Confucius expresses similar sentiment in 9.23, but there he says, “If a man is forty or fifty and has not done anything to distinguish himself, then he is not worthy of our respect.” So while he suggests in both statements that by the time a man is forty his character is formed and so it is nearly impossible for him to change, here is stresses other people’s perception of such a man – that they will not alter their view of him and start liking him. This led Qing scholar Yu Yue to conclude that Confucius could be speaking about himself.
And in the Mentor edition (which is by no means atypical of the all the earlier versions)? It’s this:
It is all over for the man of forty who is held in aversion.
Four things above all, we’re told, the Master taught: literature, conduct, loyalty, and reliability. He would look with favor (and maybe even a smile!) on Annping Chin’s labors.
November 24th, 2014
The Resurrection of the Dead
We are buried below with everything we did,
with our tears and our laughs.
We have made storerooms of history out of it all,
galleries of the past, and treasure houses,
buildings and walls and endless stairs of iron and marble
in the cellars of time.
We will not take anything with us.
Even plundering kings, they all left something here.
Lovers and conquerors, happy and sad,
they all left something here, a sign, a house,
like a man who seeks to return to a beloved place
and purposely forgets a book, a basket, a pair of glasses,
and purposely forgets a book, a basket, a pair of glasses,
so that he will have an excuse to come back to the beloved place.
In the same way we leave things here.
In the same way the dead leave us.
(translated from the Hebrew by Leon Wieseltier)
November 23rd, 2014
For eleven years I have regretted it,
regretted that I did not do what
I wanted to do as I sat there those
four hours watching her die. I wanted
to crawl in among the machinery
and hold her in my arms, knowing
the elementary, leftover bit of her
mind would dimly recognize it was me
carrying her to where she was going.
– Jack Gilbert
November 15th, 2014
The dear old Guardian the other day published what the kids call a “listicle” – basically a themed list of items air-pumped into roughly the dimensions of an actual column – on a subject near to my heart: good books about books and reading, and I was right away reminded of a good three dozen such books I’ve loved over the course of my short and sexy life. The Guardian‘s listicle was written by Rebecca Mead, who is herself the author of one of the sub-categories of book – the “bibliomemoir” – she takes as her topic: she wrote My Life in Middlemarch, a book (warmly reviewed by my Open Letters colleague Rohan Maitzen, one of the world’s leading experts on Middlemarch and all things Eliot) about her involvement with George Eliot’s masterpiece. And for her listicle, she includes books like Michael Gorra’s extremely good Portrait of a Novel, about Portrait of a Lady, Parallel Lives by Phyllis Rose, and Laura Miller’s book The Magician’s Book, about the world of Narnia.
So, in the belated spirit of the thing, here’s a listicle of my own on the subject! Six books I enjoyed about books and reading, to go in your ‘recommended’ file:
So Many Books by Gabriel Zaid – This slim, pocket-sized volume features Zaid’s most polished and dolorous viewpoints about the world of books, written right at the moment when that world was on the edge of transforming itself yet again, this time to accommodate e-readers that Zaid can only dimly imagine (in his list of the superiority of reading books over reading on a computer, he says, for instance, that “books are cheap,” that “books are portable,” that “books can be read without an appointment,” etc. – all objections annihilated by hand-sized e-readers that can be read in the dark and through which an eager reader can purchase a copy of virtually anything at any time of the day or night). Zaid makes a great many literary allusions in a small amount of pages, but the main attraction here, perversely, is watching our author worry about one bookish impossibility after another:
A reader who reads carefully, reflects, engages in lively conversation with other readers, remembers, and rereads can become acquainted with a thousand books in a lifetime. A prodigious or professional reader, who handles and consults books with specific intent, can read perhaps several times as many, rarely more. But there are million of books for sale, dozens of millions in libraries, and uncounted millions of unpublished manuscripts. There are more books to contemplate than stars in a night on the high seas. In this immensity, how is a reader to find his personal constellation, those books that will put his life in communication with the universe? And how is a single book among the millions to find its readers?
(Needless to say, the first time I read that “thousand books in a lifetime” bit, I nearly fainted dead away)
On Rereading by Patricia Meyer Spacks – I was drawn instantly to this excellent 2011 book, for an obvious reason: I dearly love re-reading (in fact, the only dark cloud over my current reading landscape is that the enormously-increased number of new books I now read has greatly reduced my re-reading time and given it the allure of a guilty pleasure). Spacks analyzes the phenomenon of re-reading with a very pleasingly sharp intelligence, getting eventually to the heart of the matter:
Willingness to yield oneself to the text in a way impossible the first time through is, I think, the crucial element in rereading. As denunciations of television customarily points out, reading, unlike tv-watching, is an active process. The reader engages in constant judgment and interpretation, involved in a sequence of challenge and response. The rereader customarily feels less pressure.
She looks at every aspect of re-reading, including many I hadn’t really thought about myself. I can’t recommend the book enough for fellow re-readers.
End Papers by A. Edward Newton – this 1933 volume of “Literary Recreations” by fussy, fastidious book-collector Newton comes the closest in my listicle to the particular kind of book-about-book whose current master is Nicholas Basbanes: the mania of book-collecting, of rare editions and incunabula and the like. This is the part of the book-world that interests me the least (whenever the Boston Book Fair rolls around, for instance, I give it a wide berth), but it often makes for lively books, and Newton wrote some lively books. In this one, he moves between straightforward appreciations of authors like Robert Louis Stevenson and specific reviews that preserve his garrulous tone, as when he opens a review of Henry Clinton Hutchins’s Robinson Crusoe and Its Printing with, “When a book by an American scholar is favorably reviewed in the London Times Supplement one may conclude that the work has merit; so much merit, in fact that the reviewer has been unable to ‘dust the varlet’s jacket’ as he, no doubt, intended to do at the outset.” I suppose it’s possible that Newton’s books themselves are now collectible – he’d have appreciated that (and expected nothing less).
Reading in Bed edited by Steven Gilbar – This delightful 1995 volume typifies another kind of book-about-book, perhaps the most popular kind: the anthology of book-writing. Gilbar collects some of the best such writing here, from Herman Hesse’s “The Magic of the Book” to Robert Louis Stevenson’s “Books Which Have Influenced Me” to Hazlitt’s “On Reading Old Books” to, of course, Montaigne’s “The Commerce of Reading.” Books like this – and this is a dandy example – work so well because they bristle with gems you’d otherwise have to hunt through your library to find, like this wonderful bit by Joseph Epstein on the weird ways books fit (and shape) the people who read them:
The one clear advantage of the bookish life over the life of action is that, unlike the latter, the pleasures of the former do not decrease with age. As for the utility of drawing up a list of books, such a list seems almost as useless, and as impossible to follow, as a plan for life. The mystery and the wonder of it is that, somehow or other, the books one needs are the books one finds. But only a very accurate fortune teller could list them for you now and by title.
Lost in a Book by Victor Nell – This great, meaty 1988 study of “The Psychology of Reading for Pleasure” is surprisingly almost free from academic jargon, despite having Appendices and a Bibliography as long as your arm. It’s true, the noxious word “ludic” crops up quite often, but the author’s writing style is so winning you can almost ignore it while you’re enjoying his wide-ranging examination of this activity you’re engaging in right now. Just listen to how powerfully good Nell is on this subject:
Reading for pleasure is an extraordinary activity. The black squiggles on the white page are still as the grave, colorless as the moonlit desert; but they give the skilled reader a pleasure as acute as the touch of a loved body, as rousing, colorful, and transfiguring as anything out there in the real world. And yet, the more stirring the book the quieter the reader; pleasure reading breeds a concentration so effortless that the absorbed reader of fiction (transported by the book to some other place, and shielded by it from distraction), who is so often reviled as an escapist and denounced as the victim of a vice as pernicious as tippling in the morning should instead be the envy of every student and every teacher.
I love this book (despite that bit about ‘transportation’ only happening to readers of boring old fiction) and, needless to say, I love re-reading it.
Passions of the Mind by A. S. Byatt – One kind of “book about books” is of course that most rarefied of publishing boondoggles, the collection of old book reviews. The idea of this boondoggle is ancient, and I’ve never really understood how it could possibly have a wide enough appeal to justify a printing press run. And yet somehow the math continues to make these things possible, and one of favorite is this 1991 volume by the great English author of Possession and The Children’s Hour. Here she reflects at length on a wide variety of writers, from Barbara Pym to Iris Murdoch to Robert Browning to – and here we come full circle – George Eliot, whom she celebrates on many grounds, including the personal:
And I, as a woman writer, am grateful that she stands there, hidden behind the revered Victorian sage, and the Great English Tradition – a writer who could make links between mathematical skill and sexual inadequacy, between Parliamentary Reform and a teenager’s silly choice of husband, between Evangelical hypocrisy and medical advance, or its absence. When I was a girl I was impressed by John Davenport’s claim, in a Sunday novel-column, that “nobody had ever really described what it felt like to be a woman.” I now think that wasn’t true then, and it isn’t true now. People are always describing that, sometimes ad nauseam. George Eliot did that better than most writers, too – because it was not all she did: she made a world, in which intellect and passion, day-to-day cares and movements of whole societies cohere and disintegrate. She offered us scope, not certainties. That is what I would wish to celebrate.
November 13th, 2014
Our book today is Lawrence Clark Powell’s utterly delightful 1960 book Books in My Baggage, one of his follow-ups to his very popular earlier work of literary musings, A Passion for Books. I thought about this one lately because I’ve been low-grade fuming for a while now about the purblind convservatism of that TLS squib by Michael Dirda on the now-vanishing old dilemma of packing books for journies – of carrying books in your baggage, in other words.
Of course, back when Powell was writing his essays and book-columns, there was no choice but to lug around books. I remember those days well, when the traveler had to anticipate not only changes in carrying capacity, not only the book-buying potential of various destinations (going to Berlin? No problem. Going to the great Negev? Problem), but also changes in his own reading moods – will I feel like this Muriel Spark novel when I’m sweltering in tropical humidity? Will this new translation of Dostoevsky seem every bit as appealing if read on an endless and miserably uncomfortable train-ride across Russia?
I usually avoided such questions by bringing along only sure-fire all-tested favorites, books (I wrote about them here) that never failed me. And clearly other travelers have taken the same approach, as Powell notes:
A good bookman regards books as part of his essential traveling equipment. When Lawrence of Arabia was in the desert during World War I, two books – The Oxford Book of English Verse and Malory’s Morte d’Arthur – stayed in his baggage with bread and water, when all else was abandoned. A good book speaks to one in these words, “Everyman, I will go with thee, and be thy guide, In thy most need to go by thy side.” And the wise man listens.
Powell himself joyfully seconded the line he loved from Cobden-Sanderson’s journal: Sweet God, souse me in literature! – and he read widely and enthusiastically, as these collected pieces show. He can write about Casanova or D. H. Lawrence or collectible editions of Whitman and Melville just as infectiously has he can write about Ivan Bunin, Lawrence Durrell, or the literature of his beloved American Southwest. He constantly has two or three books ‘going, and he can’t do without the internal conversation they constitute; as he writes at the beginning of Books in My Baggage, “This is a book about books, about collecting and reading and living with books, at home and abroad, of love for a single volume and lust for eighty thousand”:
It is not about books or libraries in the historical or technical sense, but rather is an effort to see life through books, with the multiple vision reading gives a man. All my life I have traveled with books in my baggage, gone with books at my side, and now in my fifties I find them as necessary as food and air.
Powell died in 2001 and never really had much personal truck with the e-readers Dirda scorns. Re-reading Books in My Baggage (discovered, needless to say, at the Brattle Bookshop) made me wonder what Powell would have thought of the idea of carrying around 200 books on a thin metal slate in his coat pocket instead of 20 printed volumes requiring their own separate satchel. I’d like to think he’d have recognized it for the wonder it is – although maybe he’d have been a bit wistful over the fact that Books in My Baggage would be a very different book if written in 2014. To the best of my knowledge, nobody’s yet written Around the World with my Kindle. Maybe somebody should.
November 11th, 2014
No doubt some of you spotted the item in your newsfeeds: a recent article noting that both Amazon and Publisher’s Weekly have already produced their lists of the Best Books of 2014, despite the fact that the year still has two months to go. This is of course both canny and craven; on the one hand, such lists are perennially popular, and the early bird gets the worm, and on the other hand, why not publish the thing this early? After all, the whole world basically shuts down from Thanksgiving to New Year’s Day, right? What with holidays and family and traveling and obnoxiously yelling into cellphones in airports, amiright? Who can expect to get any reading – come on, get real – done in those weeks? The thinking is obviously pandemic, since these big-name entries join a very long list of such lists already published for poor deathwatched 2014.
They serve their purpose, such lists, but as long-time followers of Stevereads will know, their main purpose is as dress rehearsals for the Main Event, the Real Deal, the rollicking Ragnarok of Year-End Book Lists.
I refer, of course, to the annual Stevereads Best – and Worst – Books of the Year, now in its eighth year.
This year the Stevereads list will be bigger than ever, and also – in response to requests from you harried gift-shoppers out there – it’ll be earlier, well in time for the holidays instead of kicking off just as they’re ending. I’ve read more books so far in 2014 than in any previous year of my life, and that tally already is considerbly higher than most whole book departments at some media outlets, let alone most individual reviewers. I’ll be putting the gleanings of all that reading at your disposal in only three weeks.
Emphasis on “so far”! In all of my Stevereads Year-End categories, I’m leaving a spot or two open until the last minute. I get an average of ten books in the mail every day (sometimes fewer, yes, but also sometimes twice that), and although most of them have been 2015 items for a while now, there are still plenty of 2014 candidates in all subjects. I’m busily, happily reading all these jonny-come-latelies, and I’m leaving spots open for great (and crappy) books I didn’t see coming. No cutting out early for MY readers!
Can you feel the approaching hoofbeats? I’ve got LOTS of picks to share with all of you, so I thought a friendly reminder was in order!
November 10th, 2014
Our story today is a corker from 1968: “If Asgard Falls …” from Thor Annual #2, written by Stan Lee and drawn by Jack Kirby (with customarily perfect inks by Vince Colletta), the kind of fine hammy high fantasy that always best suits this strangest of all the original crop of Marvel superheroes Lee & Kirby dreamed up, a clean-shaven version of the Norse god Thor, incarnated in the present day as a crime-fighter and Avenger. Don’t get me wrong: Lee & Kirby were such a genius team that they could – and did – create believable scenes where Thor foils bank robbers and mad dictators. But it’s these epic fantasy stories that really allow both writer and artist to cut loose. Here at Stevereads, of course, we’ve looked lovingly at some of those epic fantasy stories, here, here, and here, for instance.
“If Asgard Falls …” is a prime specimen of both how juicy this kind of story can be and how frustrating it can be. The story opens in the fantasy realm of Asgard, home of the Norse gods, where the Tournament of Titans is about to take place, a grand tourney of mock-combat among all the warriors of the extended realms of Asgard, with the winner getting a golden suit of armor. In a charming, quintessentially Stan Lee moment, Thor is standing at attention in his father Odin’s chamber, trying to ignore the whispered calls of his friends outside the window while the old man rants and rants and rants:
Yet, well do I remember those hallowed days of yore … when the bludgeoning blade of Odin did strike with the fury of a thousand storms! ‘Twas then the summer of my life … when tall and straight as an oak stood Odin! And now, though minstrels still sing of Odin’s feats … while campfires flicker … thy father hat reached the twilight of his years … ’tis for the young to seize the torch of gallantry and hold it high! Thus has it ever been! Thus shall it ever be! Even the aging lion must one day allow the eager cub to lead the hunt!
“What is this?” Odin finally says, “The attention of the thunder god doth seem to falter!” (Well yes, you old windbag – just about anybody’s attention would) Instead of banishing Thor from Asgard forever in response to this minor infraction – as he’s done countless times in the past and will do countless times in the future – Odin waves off his impetuosity and lets him hurry to the Tournament.
Where foul practice is brewing! In parallel plot-lines, we see Thor and his comrades being thwarted by illegal sorcery in the Tournament even while Thor’s distant, banished brother Loki is sending his spirit-form to Earth in search of a great villain from an earlier Thor storyline: a giant indestructible suit of armor called the Destroyer (those who know the Marvel version of Thor mostly from the movies will recognize the Destroyer from the first of those “Thor” movies) that needs a guest spirit animating it in order to move – enter Loki, who wants to use the Destroyer’s enormous powers in order to take his revenge on Odin and Asgard. Why Odin left the Destroyer’s empty hulk lying around in the ruins of an Asian temple is never answered, but then, “If Asgard Falls …” has more unanswered questions than even Stan Lee usually comes up with.
Starting with the origin of the Destroyer itself. In this issue, Heimdall, the guardian of Asgard’s rainbow bridge, exclaims, “‘Tis the living engine of destruction … created ages ago by Odin himself in the long-forgotten past to guard the planet Earth from ultimate disaster!” And only one page later, Odin himself says, “He was designed to serve Asgard … to be the weapon supreme in an hour of need! Hence, it did please me to make him indestructible!”
But regardless of why the Destroyer was created, Loki’s plan at first looks to be going like gangbusters: he’s plowing his way through the warriors assembled for the Tournament, pressing on straight to Odin’s dais, intent on using the Destroyer’s energy powers to bump off the old man. Here at Stevereads, we’ve seen Odin menaced by the Destroyer in other storylines, and in “If Asgard Falls …” (no explanation for the title, either – whether or not Loki succeeds, Asgard’s not endangered, just Odin) the very idea fills Thor with horror. He springs to confront the Destroyer, and in an absolutely professional panel sequence, Kirby shows us Thor’s blitzkrieg attack, culminating with a temporary downing of the Destroyer (“Asgard be praised!” Thor says, “I have achieved the impossible!”).
But the only real way to defeat the construct is to defeat its animating spirit, and when Balder the Brave shows up at the last minute and tells Odin where he can find distant, exiled Loki, the key is clear – but, Balder wonders, is there time for Odin’s power to reach Loki and shut down his mind? To which Odin answers, “Banish thy fears! Am I not eternal Odin? Though the Destroyer be ready to hurl his bolt of death … ’tis I who possess the power to tear the very fabric of eternity! Thus at my command … let time stand still!”
And time duly does so. Why on Earth – or in Asgard, for that matter – the old goat didn’t just freeze time as soon as the Destroyer showed up (let alone why he was whining on about being old and feeble earlier on), we’re never told. Instead, he fires off a beam of energy that reaches Loki and puts him to sleep, thus causing the Destroyer to topple like a puppet with its strings cut. Then Odin, feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous, grants everybody a golden suit of armor for the day.
It’s a nifty, re-readable little story, one that sold well in 1968 and then sold even better when it was reprinted again in “Giant-Size Thor” #1 in 1975, this time sporting a classic Gil Kane cover that doesn’t even mention the Destroyer. And of course it’s been reprinted two more times, in the “Essential” series of black-and-white reprints and in the “Marvel Masterworks” series of color reprints. It stands as a classic example of the perennial problem of giving Thor a strong enough opponent to keep him busy.
November 8th, 2014
On 8 November we honor the birthday of Bram Stoker, the author of the immortal 1897 novel Dracula, which brought Dracula and humanity-stalking vampires to the popular imagination and lodged them there so firmly that “Dracula” and “vampire” have become easy synonyms.
Dracula has of course been packaged and re-packaged a million times, adapted for the screen and for the stage, pastiched to a fare-thee-well, transplanted to manga and comic books (including a long run as the property of Marvel Comics in Tomb of Dracula, an eminently satisfying 1970s title written by Marv Wolfman and drawn by the great Gene Colan), and right now on Bram Stoker Day, I’m thinking of one outstanding comics adaptation: the four-issue 1993 mini-series written by Roy Thomas and drawn by “Hellboy” creator (and clear Colan successor when it comes to using darkness and shadows in his work) Mike Mignola, “Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”
As you can perhaps tell from the title, this mini-series was an adaptation of an adaptation: it tells in comic book form the version of Stoker’s story that we get in Francis Ford Coppola’s movie from that same year, Bram Stoker’s Dracula.
The movie is intensely weird. It’s visually fascinating from start to finish, self-consciously hammy in a style often reminiscent of Franco Zeffirelli’s opera productions for the Met; for journeys, we get superimposed maps, for supernatural surveillance we get superimposed eyes – that sort of thing. I think it’s easily the most interesting visual representation of Dracula ever done (although to judge from the critical drubbing it’s received, I’m alone in also ranking Gary Shore’s Dracula Untold – in theaters now, but don’t dawdle – near the top of that list), and Gary Oldman is superb as the title character.
Unfortunately, the movie’s casting almost completely falls apart once we step outside of Oldman’s dressing room (Kim Newman wrote a mighty enjoyable might-have-been story about what Coppola’s movie might have been like if it had had uniformly excellent casting). Keanu Reeves is dreadful (and not in the spine-tingling sense) as Jonathan Harker, and for once in his career, he’s not the worst actor in a movie: that dubious distinction here goes to an utterly embarrassing Anthony Hopkins as Van Helsing. Hopkins quite visibly has no idea what movie he’s in, and since he’s in virtually the whole of it, that steadily distracts from the undeniable directorial flair Coppola was trying to impart.
Luckily, no bad acting can mar a comic book adaptation. True, Roy Thomas is forced to re-tell the peculiar quasi-hysterical, quasi-pornographic version of Dracula that Coppola did (the comics are heavily linked to the movie’s production budget, with trading cards and ‘backstage’ backup features), but it’s amazing what a difference his light but skillful touch can make to some of the more silly or banal parts of Coppola’s script (which was based on a screeenplay by James Hart, who did the brilliant screenplay for 2002’s movie adaptation of Tuck Everlasting).
And then there’s the artwork! I consider Mike Mignola to be one of the best comics creators alive today, someone who can virtually do no wrong at a drawing board. He saturates his four issues here with silky darknesses and perfectly-placed slants of light, and as in all his work (this Dracula work clearly presages some of the signature stuff he’d do on Hellboy very shortly afterwards), he exercises a very adept handling of pace: he’s a master of offsetting busy expositional sequences with a single brooding snapshot that often manages to convey more than all the preceeding words did. He does front and back covers and all the internal artwork for these four issues.
My own copies of these four issues are slowly falling apart, and unlike with, say old issues of The Avengers or The Justice League, I don’t hold out much hope of ever seeing them in a more durable format. Bram Stoker’s Dracula was made by Columbia Pictures, which has no more interest in the property, and it was adapted for comics by Topps Comics, which is defunct – it would probably take until Stoker’s 200th birthday just to chase down who actually owns these issues (if it were Mignola himself, surely he’d have long since convinced his current paymasters at Dark Horse Comics to reprint them? After all, Hellboy has been a bit of a hit, both in comics and at the movies).
But until their paper stock disintegrates, I can still enjoy re-reading this little gem – say, every year on the 8th of November!
November 6th, 2014
There’s a certain kind of purity-of-the-turf book-article that I expect to encounter on a regular basis in the Penny Press, and yet even though I expect it, the encounters are always a bit depressing. The theme never changes: I’m an old-fashioned reader; I’ll never cozy up to these new-fangled electronic books or electronic reading gizmos, always couched in the attitude of a lonely rearguard defender of the pure and the true. It’s tiresome, I know, but there seems to be an unending hunger for such squibs on the part of my fellow assigning editors.
The culprit this time around crops up in the latest TLS, in the “Freelance” feature, where Washington Post book critic Michael Dirda goes on the old familiar wheeze about digital e-readers. His very inviting specific topic – Dirda is excellent at this kind of inviting topic – is that well-known delicious agony known to book-people of all ages: how to pick which books to pack for a journey. Dirda rightly points out what a reliable little pleasure this ritual can be – I’ve shared that experience many, many times (although during my really intense travel-years, I freed myself from it by always traveling with the same handful of books), so I was nodding as I read Dirda’s article even while I was grimacing at his glancing mention of the undeniable fact that e-readers solve the problem completely.
They do, of course. Prior to a journey, you can load your e-reader with dozens of books – free classics from Project Gutenberg, vast amounts of mainstream backlist in hundreds of genres, and the whole swath of brand new titles. And you can load all those titles in less time than it takes to prowl your bookshelves and pull down one or two – or ten – physical books.
This is simple: there is no argument in favor of the prowling and the pulling-down. To repeat: e-readers simply win this comparison. A writing-program is simply better than a manual typewriter. Satellite weather-tracking is simply better than not knowing a hurricane is coming. And when it comes to ease, speed, portability, and convenience, e-readers are simply better than printed books. The aesthetic experience of curling up with a printed book (and the smell – ye gods, if I hear one more proud Luddite rhapsodize about the lovely smell of printed books), yes – I love it as much as anybody, and nothing can replace it. But the practicalities of books? The getting, the lugging around, even the annotating? There’s no contest.
Dirda’s a smart guy. He knows this as well as anybody, whether he enjoys knowing it or not. He knows that a palm-sized metal slate that’s magically able to be hundreds of books is simply better than hundreds of two-pound bound things, each one of which can necessarily be only one book. But still, he starts in right away about the tangled logistics of choosing which printed books go in the bag:
One should always pack a back-up. That Agatha Christie might turn out to be one you’ve already read or you might find yourself stuck in Iowa an extra day, with only cornfields as fars as the eye can see.
(Dirda being a world-famous book critic and just a tad citified, it’s likely that if he ever finds himself “stuck in Iowa an extra day,” he’ll be stuck in Iowa City, which might be surrounded by cornfields as far as the eye can see but is also home to the splendid Prairie Lights bookstore, where Dirda could easily find some extra titles to save him)
Dirda quite delightfully goes through some of the various adventures he’s had with books on the road, and like everybody who reads this author, I was immediately under the spell of his narrative. And then I came to the end of the little piece and had the spell rudely broken – as of course was inevitable, since the thing I bumped up against was the whole point of the piece in the first place:
Nevertheless, I’m not going to buy one of those cutesy e-readers. No pain, no gain – that’s my motto. A man needs to suffer for his art, even if that art is merely writing book reviews.
*Sigh* No pain, no gain – but Dirda’s been in the book-reviewing game long enough to know the pain is the crappy books, not the lugging of the crappy books. If he wants to say he just doesn’t like reading books on those palm-sized metal plates, that’s fine – Luddite, but fine. But this misty suggestion that there’s something more valid, even more grown up about lugging around heavy printed books (they aren’t “cutesy”) – well, that’s just simple low-boil masochism, the intentional preferring of something inconvenient or even painful over a more convenient and less painful alternative. Luddites are almost always masochistic, and masochists are almost always proud of their fear.
It’s just a shame! How much better would it be for readers all over the world, I imagine, if a reader as readable and famous as Dirda (who hardly has a script for being a curmudgeon – he’s younger than I am, and I absolutely love my “cutesy” e-reader) were to write a TLS “Freelance” piece singing the praises of this technology that’s come along and totally evaporated a long-standing irritation of printed books. Instead of saying “BAH – I’ll accept the irritation, because I’m a real reader.”
Still, the holidays are coming – maybe somebody will not only give him a first-rate e-reader (my own suggestion would be the Samsung Galaxy Tab 4) but sit there by the fireside under the frosted windows and walk him through its wonders. I’ll cross my fingers for a very different “Freelance” piece in four or five months’ time.
November 4th, 2014
One of the little joys of book-reviewing is finding “echoes” of your own reviews in somebody else’s Table of Contents. My beloved Open Letters Monthly, though well-respected in the industry, is virtually unknown outside it (except perhaps for those curious browsers who find one of our blurbs on some new paperback), so it’s extra-pleasing for me to open a journal like the New York Review of Books or the London Review of Books and discover that their editors have run a review of something I myself have already reviewed. I like the no-doubt-fraudulent way it creates the illusion that we’re all in this together, encountering the same onrushing tide of new books and making roughly some of the same decisions as to what warrents coverage and what doesn’t.
The latest TLS to hit my mailbox was a perfect case-in-point. Not only was there an Adam Kirsch review of A Voice Still Heard, a collection of Irving Howe essays recently reviewed by my esteemed colleague Robert Minto, and not only was there a very good Kate Webb review of The Paying Guests, the new Sarah Waters novel recently reviewed by my esteemed colleague Rohan Maitzen, but there was a veritable cacophony of further reviews! Seamus Perry writes at very satisfying length about The Intellectual Life of Edmund Burke, which I reviewed here; Norma Clarke turns in a superb review of Reynolds: Portraiture in Action (which I reviewed here), even going so far as to point out some of the book’s shortcomings:
[The author’s] admiration for Reynolds can sometimes sound like endorsement of the values espoused by his elite subjects. The knowledgeable reader can fill in some gaps and guess how far Reynolds was painting to order or shared those values, but in this respect [the author] doesn’t help. There is almost no information here about how Reynolds reached his decisions – did Frances Crewe ask to be painted with sheep, for example? When he painted Lady Worsley en militaire was that his sensitivity to fashion or was it her choice? How far was he countering satirical cartoonists, such as Gillray, when he presented Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire playing at home with her baby? And did she suggest it? How much did he charge? What did he do if the clients didn’t pay?
There’s also a review by Theodore Rabb of R. J. B. Bosworth’s Italian Venice (which I reviewed here) in which the reviewer praises Bosworth for an excellent job all the while hinting that it might also be a bit of a boring job – although it isn’t, as I can attest.
But then, two critics disagreeing about a book is the kind of disagreements that only strengthen the Republic of Letters, yes? I almost prefer it, whenever I encounter one of these echoes in the Penny Press.