2010 Classic Literature Round Up

One of my more rececnt posts about George Bernard Shaw has caused a bit of a maelstrom. Indeed, I was wrong, or at least misreading the quotation. It seems as though experience is not valuable for its capacity or breadth, but for its quality. This goes back to Nietszche. The Superman stands on the subway platform and feels the rush of wind whip his hair, he knows the pulse of the city, paces the heartbeats of the individuals in the cramped cars. The ordinary man waits for the doors to open.

Anyway, enough of my metamodernist rehashings. Post postmodernism has been very good to me this year. Some notes I'd like to make on the close of 2010.

As much as I hate Sarah Palin, refudiate is a cool word.

Here are my top three books of classic literature that I read this year:

1. Sentimental Education: A superb bildungsroman in the French style. Flaubert's masterpiece.
2. White Noise: Talk about post postmodernism. This book is entertaining, funny, and profound. A must read for anyone who enjoys classic literature.
3. War and Peace: A sprawling masterpiece, this book is a great way to learn about the Napoleonic wars, but it's clear that Tolstoy's best moments are domestic descriptions. That's why Anna Karenina is better.

That's it guys! Hope you have fun tonight, and I'll write you next year.

Twain, Tolstoy and Austen, Oh My!

The literature world is abuzz with news. Mark Twain’s autobiography is finally going to be released after 100 years of waiting. I’ve been reading a lot of his pithy one-liners: “Adverbs are the enemy of the verb;” “Travel is fatal to prejudice” and admiring them for their brevity and truth. Hemingway greatly admired the man, and said that “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn. “ Twain's style was without verbosity and decoration, which is why I’m unsettled by the half million words in the soon to be three volumes of the manuscript published by the University of California. I was so excited to read it, but now, knowing that it’s longer than War and Peace, I’m neutral.

Speaking of War and Peace, I’ve reached the 1,000 page mark! And Tolstoy also died exactly 100 years ago today. Rest his soul.

And in other literary news, Jane Austen, who was supposed to have turned out finished masterpieces, was actually found to have had an editor. Gasp! It doesn’t diminish her status as a great writer, though; it seems most of the edits were spelling, and punctuation. The editor also said you can use some more speech tags (he said, she said, which Austen famously omitted, noting that she didn’t write for “dull elves”). How post postmodern of her.

Tolstoy and Post Postmodernism

I am reading War and Peace. Halfway through, it feels like I am learning how to write. Granted, Tolstoy wrote it in Russian and I'm reading it in English, consequently losing much of the original poetry, but when I open it I am absorbed into early 19th century Moscow.

The best parts are when Tolstoy describes a lover’s quiver, or a transcendental moment inspired by the heavens, or a grain of social minutiae that has not changed in 150 years. The context has changed, but the song remains the same.

Reading Michael Cunningham’s editorial in the New York Times, I was reminded that I am reading a work in translation. And I began to think about the book that I am writing, and who I am writing for (side-note: I’m perfectly aware of the prepositional finish of that sentence, and in a Hemingwavian manner, I am choosing to advance written English in a colloquial sense to better suit my ends. Try saying it the right way and see which sounds better).  Sure I’m writing for myself, and I’m writing for you, and I’m writing for future generations and all that, but I’m also writing for writing.  I am writing so that anyone who reads what I write will recognize it as supremely sublime.

And so I work. And work. And will continue to work for years, until it is smooth and polished, like the oyster’s pearl, who without trying, simply lives and produces a jewel. And if the world is my oyster…