Friday, April 16, 2004
The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective)
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) is published on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, by Jonathanames.com. Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at this website, has a new book coming out in July, called, Wake Up, Sir!
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I thought I would use this edition of The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), to recommend one of my favorite writers, Charles Willeford. Though best known for his crime novels, like the Hoke Mosely books he wrote in the 1980s (one of these, Miami Blues was turned into a fun movie with Fred Ward and Alec Baldwin), Willeford authored plenty of other kinds of other books, including two wonderful volumes of autobiography.
There are a number of good Willeford websites out there; one that I especially like, (and which the below passages are taken from) is:
http://www.dennismcmillan.com/charleswillefo/
From Willeford’s 1977 A Guide for the Undehemorrhoided:
“Unconscious during the operation, I had felt nothing. Despite the horrible stories told me by other victims of hemorrhoid amputation, the shot preceding the anesthetic had lulled me into the optimistic belief that I could put up with a little post-operative pain for a few minutes. What the hell? There were pain-killers like morphine they could give a man; right? And were there not drugs, new and wonderful, around nowadays I had never heard of that could do practically anything?
I was wrong and there were none. I woke up screaming.
My screams, in fact, awakened me. I was supine on a four-wheeled operating table in the Recovery Room ($15.00 extra rent on my hospital bill for the hour I spent in this pain-wracked room); the burning dingle between my buttocks was packed with gauze and taped over with adhesive, and there was a long length of rubber hose dangling from my rectum, with more tape wrapped about it at the base to hold it in place. The reason for so much exterior hose (about fourteen inches), I discovered two days later, was for my surgeon's grip: he wrapped the limber hose around his right hand and jerked it out!
The pain caused by this single cruelly calculated action was so excruciating that, if I had known how bad it would be in advance, I would never have had the operation. I also believe now, some two months later, that I would rather be dead, or still have the fourteen inches of hose dangling from my ass, instead of having it jerked out like that again. No choice could be simpler. Any person who dismisses "excruciating" as an exaggeration is either short on imagination or has well below the average of what sociologists call native American intelligence.
I will make this statement at once and at least once: if a man is past thirty, it is not worth his while to have a hemorrhoidectomy. I say this flatly and categorically because there are not, simply, enough good years remaining to any man past thirty to make the pain of this operation worth it. Moreover, any young man under thirty, especially young men who have relatively dim futures anyway, should realistically and judiciously examine his post-operative prospects before submitting his ass to the proctologist's knife.”
From a story called 'To a Nephew in College', (collected with other short stories in Everybody’s Metamorphosis):
"Dear Wesley,
I am enclosing this letter with the book I have sent you. The book will come as a surprise, I know, not merely because it is The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka, but because it is from me, an old uncle you haven't heard from in five years. […]
There is a purpose in my sending you The Metamorphosis, although you might think that it is pointless at this stage; but as Kafka said, "We must break the frozen sea within us."
You are now in your sophomore year and it is time you became an expert in something. Inasmuch as you are not an athlete, and obviously not a scholar, I am recommending to you, out of my knowledge gained by 24 years in public relations, that you become an expert on Franz Kafka. […]
Not only is it a simple matter to become an expert on Kafka, it is inexpensive. All of Kafka's books are in English now, and all of them are available in handsome, paperback editions. Recently, The Basic Kafka was published. It is basic, but not enough: you also need The Trial, The Castle, Amerika, The Diaries, and The Complete Stories. There are also three volumes of letters, but I advise you to save these for graduate school, when you must begin work on an M.B.A. Today, you can obtain this entire list for less than thirty dollars. Now let me impress you: With this rack of books purchased and in plain sight in your dormitory room at college, you do not even have to open a single one of them to obtain a "C"average by the end of the year!
Such is the quiet power of Franz Kafka in an academic setting. The mere fact that you have these books in your room will spread to every corner of the campus. The set- ting, however, is still incomplete. There is a scene in The Trial where K., the protagonist, buys three heathscapes from Titorelli, the court painter. It isn't possible for you to go right out and buy three heathscapes for your room, but for three dollars apiece you can get one of the fine arts students at school to paint you three of them. If you know a female art student you can probably get them done for nothing. Unfortunately, none of the do-it-yourself painting kits feature heathscapes. Heathscapes are quite depressing; two gnarled trees in the foreground, a patch of dirty gray-green grass, and a sun at its nadir. Three of these paintings, exactly alike, hanging in a row in your room, will speed your reputation as a Kafka expert. They will also serve to remind you how bleak your prospects will be if you get bounced out of college.
Next you must read all of Kafka's books. This will take time, but you have three more years to go in college, and the short list will do. After reading The Metamorphosis, read The Trial and then The Castle. Most readers give up halfway through The Castle, so when you finish it you will be a front runner. Many Kafka experts specialize by reading only one book over and over again, but this is the cowardly way, and not for you.”
Well, I hope you liked that. I will be back next week, to answer more of your questions.
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) is published on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, by Jonathanames.com. Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at this website, has a new book coming out in July, called, Wake Up, Sir!
_________________________________________________________________
I thought I would use this edition of The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), to recommend one of my favorite writers, Charles Willeford. Though best known for his crime novels, like the Hoke Mosely books he wrote in the 1980s (one of these, Miami Blues was turned into a fun movie with Fred Ward and Alec Baldwin), Willeford authored plenty of other kinds of other books, including two wonderful volumes of autobiography.
There are a number of good Willeford websites out there; one that I especially like, (and which the below passages are taken from) is:
http://www.dennismcmillan.com/charleswillefo/
From Willeford’s 1977 A Guide for the Undehemorrhoided:
“Unconscious during the operation, I had felt nothing. Despite the horrible stories told me by other victims of hemorrhoid amputation, the shot preceding the anesthetic had lulled me into the optimistic belief that I could put up with a little post-operative pain for a few minutes. What the hell? There were pain-killers like morphine they could give a man; right? And were there not drugs, new and wonderful, around nowadays I had never heard of that could do practically anything?
I was wrong and there were none. I woke up screaming.
My screams, in fact, awakened me. I was supine on a four-wheeled operating table in the Recovery Room ($15.00 extra rent on my hospital bill for the hour I spent in this pain-wracked room); the burning dingle between my buttocks was packed with gauze and taped over with adhesive, and there was a long length of rubber hose dangling from my rectum, with more tape wrapped about it at the base to hold it in place. The reason for so much exterior hose (about fourteen inches), I discovered two days later, was for my surgeon's grip: he wrapped the limber hose around his right hand and jerked it out!
The pain caused by this single cruelly calculated action was so excruciating that, if I had known how bad it would be in advance, I would never have had the operation. I also believe now, some two months later, that I would rather be dead, or still have the fourteen inches of hose dangling from my ass, instead of having it jerked out like that again. No choice could be simpler. Any person who dismisses "excruciating" as an exaggeration is either short on imagination or has well below the average of what sociologists call native American intelligence.
I will make this statement at once and at least once: if a man is past thirty, it is not worth his while to have a hemorrhoidectomy. I say this flatly and categorically because there are not, simply, enough good years remaining to any man past thirty to make the pain of this operation worth it. Moreover, any young man under thirty, especially young men who have relatively dim futures anyway, should realistically and judiciously examine his post-operative prospects before submitting his ass to the proctologist's knife.”
From a story called 'To a Nephew in College', (collected with other short stories in Everybody’s Metamorphosis):
"Dear Wesley,
I am enclosing this letter with the book I have sent you. The book will come as a surprise, I know, not merely because it is The Metamorphosis, by Franz Kafka, but because it is from me, an old uncle you haven't heard from in five years. […]
There is a purpose in my sending you The Metamorphosis, although you might think that it is pointless at this stage; but as Kafka said, "We must break the frozen sea within us."
You are now in your sophomore year and it is time you became an expert in something. Inasmuch as you are not an athlete, and obviously not a scholar, I am recommending to you, out of my knowledge gained by 24 years in public relations, that you become an expert on Franz Kafka. […]
Not only is it a simple matter to become an expert on Kafka, it is inexpensive. All of Kafka's books are in English now, and all of them are available in handsome, paperback editions. Recently, The Basic Kafka was published. It is basic, but not enough: you also need The Trial, The Castle, Amerika, The Diaries, and The Complete Stories. There are also three volumes of letters, but I advise you to save these for graduate school, when you must begin work on an M.B.A. Today, you can obtain this entire list for less than thirty dollars. Now let me impress you: With this rack of books purchased and in plain sight in your dormitory room at college, you do not even have to open a single one of them to obtain a "C"average by the end of the year!
Such is the quiet power of Franz Kafka in an academic setting. The mere fact that you have these books in your room will spread to every corner of the campus. The set- ting, however, is still incomplete. There is a scene in The Trial where K., the protagonist, buys three heathscapes from Titorelli, the court painter. It isn't possible for you to go right out and buy three heathscapes for your room, but for three dollars apiece you can get one of the fine arts students at school to paint you three of them. If you know a female art student you can probably get them done for nothing. Unfortunately, none of the do-it-yourself painting kits feature heathscapes. Heathscapes are quite depressing; two gnarled trees in the foreground, a patch of dirty gray-green grass, and a sun at its nadir. Three of these paintings, exactly alike, hanging in a row in your room, will speed your reputation as a Kafka expert. They will also serve to remind you how bleak your prospects will be if you get bounced out of college.
Next you must read all of Kafka's books. This will take time, but you have three more years to go in college, and the short list will do. After reading The Metamorphosis, read The Trial and then The Castle. Most readers give up halfway through The Castle, so when you finish it you will be a front runner. Many Kafka experts specialize by reading only one book over and over again, but this is the cowardly way, and not for you.”
Well, I hope you liked that. I will be back next week, to answer more of your questions.
Wednesday, April 14, 2004
The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective)
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) is published on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, by Jonathanames.com Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), has a new book coming out in July, called, Wake Up, Sir!
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PS to Last Week's Faulkner Question
In a recent edition of the Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), I answered J. Fiske’s question about William Faulkner. As a post script to that, I would like to share the below letter, written by Vladimir Nabokov to Edmund Wilson on November 21, 1948.
(As always, it should be noted that the opinions expressed below should not be seen to reflect those of Jonathanames.com)
Nabokov writes:
“I have carefully read Faulkner’s Light in August, which you so kindly sent me, and it has in no way altered the low (to put it mildly) opinion I have of his work and the (innumerable) books in the same stain. I detest these puffs of stale romanticism, coming all the way up from Marlinksy and V. Hugo - you remember the latter’s horrible combination of starkness and hyperbole - l’homme regardait le giblet, le giblet regardait l’homme. Faulkner’s beloved romanticism and quite impossible biblical rumblings and “starkness” (which is not starkness at all but skeletonized triteness), and all the rest of the bombast seem to me so offensive that I can only explain his popularity in France by the fact that all her own popular writers (Malraux included) of recent years have also had their fling at l’homme marchait, la nuit etait sombre. The book you sent me is one of the tritest and most tedious examples of a trite and tedious genre. The plot and those extravagant “deep” conversations affect me as bad movies do, or the worst plays and stories of Lenid Adreyev, with whom Faulkner has a kind of fatal affinity. I imagine that this kind of thing (white trash, velvety Negroes, those bloodhounds out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin melodramas, steadily baying through thousands of swampy books) may be necessary in a social sense, but it is not literature, just as the thousands of stories and novels about downtrodden peasants and fierce ispravniki in Russia, or mystical adventures with the narod (1850-1880), although socially effective and ethically admirable, were not literature. I simply cannot believe that you, with all your knowledge and taste, are not made to squirm by such things as the dialogues between the “positive” characters in Faulkner (and especially those absolutely ghastly italics). Do you not see that despite the difference in landscape, etc., it is essentially Jean Valjean stealing the candlesticks from the good man of God all over again? The villain is definitely Byronic. The book’s pseudo-religious rhythm I simply cannot stand - a phoney gloom which also spoils Mauriac’s work. Has la grace descended upon Faulkner too? Maybe you are just pulling my leg when you advise me to read him, or impotent Henry James or Rev. Eliot?” (Karlinksy, Simon ed. The Nabakov-Wilson Letters 1940-1971. New York, Harper & Row: 1979. p.212-213)
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) is published on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, by Jonathanames.com Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), has a new book coming out in July, called, Wake Up, Sir!
_______________________________________________________________
PS to Last Week's Faulkner Question
In a recent edition of the Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), I answered J. Fiske’s question about William Faulkner. As a post script to that, I would like to share the below letter, written by Vladimir Nabokov to Edmund Wilson on November 21, 1948.
(As always, it should be noted that the opinions expressed below should not be seen to reflect those of Jonathanames.com)
Nabokov writes:
“I have carefully read Faulkner’s Light in August, which you so kindly sent me, and it has in no way altered the low (to put it mildly) opinion I have of his work and the (innumerable) books in the same stain. I detest these puffs of stale romanticism, coming all the way up from Marlinksy and V. Hugo - you remember the latter’s horrible combination of starkness and hyperbole - l’homme regardait le giblet, le giblet regardait l’homme. Faulkner’s beloved romanticism and quite impossible biblical rumblings and “starkness” (which is not starkness at all but skeletonized triteness), and all the rest of the bombast seem to me so offensive that I can only explain his popularity in France by the fact that all her own popular writers (Malraux included) of recent years have also had their fling at l’homme marchait, la nuit etait sombre. The book you sent me is one of the tritest and most tedious examples of a trite and tedious genre. The plot and those extravagant “deep” conversations affect me as bad movies do, or the worst plays and stories of Lenid Adreyev, with whom Faulkner has a kind of fatal affinity. I imagine that this kind of thing (white trash, velvety Negroes, those bloodhounds out of Uncle Tom’s Cabin melodramas, steadily baying through thousands of swampy books) may be necessary in a social sense, but it is not literature, just as the thousands of stories and novels about downtrodden peasants and fierce ispravniki in Russia, or mystical adventures with the narod (1850-1880), although socially effective and ethically admirable, were not literature. I simply cannot believe that you, with all your knowledge and taste, are not made to squirm by such things as the dialogues between the “positive” characters in Faulkner (and especially those absolutely ghastly italics). Do you not see that despite the difference in landscape, etc., it is essentially Jean Valjean stealing the candlesticks from the good man of God all over again? The villain is definitely Byronic. The book’s pseudo-religious rhythm I simply cannot stand - a phoney gloom which also spoils Mauriac’s work. Has la grace descended upon Faulkner too? Maybe you are just pulling my leg when you advise me to read him, or impotent Henry James or Rev. Eliot?” (Karlinksy, Simon ed. The Nabakov-Wilson Letters 1940-1971. New York, Harper & Row: 1979. p.212-213)
Monday, April 12, 2004
The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective)
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) is published on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, by Jonathanames.com Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), has a new book coming out in July, called, Wake Up, Sir!
_______________________________________________________________________________
Dear Readers of The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective),
The other day I told you that I might soon be mentioned in a couple of newspaper articles. Here’s what happened: both articles came out, and I was referenced in one, but not the other.
The first came out in the April 5th New York Sun. Because I thought the article was going to come out on April 7th, I didn’t get it. But I emailed the reporter, who sent me a link to the site. (Here it is:New York Sun article.
If you read the article, you’ll see it has nothing to do with The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective). The article is about how Scotland has zero population growth, and how they are dealing with that. I lived in Scotland for a few years and that’s why they interviewed me.
Article #2: The other day I was in Ivy’s Bookstore (which is connected to another bookstore, Murder Inc., on Broadway between 92nd and 93rd) and this woman was taking photos of Gus, the dog that hangs out there. I went to get out of the background, but she asked me to stay. Then later, when I went to leave the store, she asked if I could stay for a few more pictures. I said sure, and dutifully posed, pretending to read Roald Dahl’s Going Solo. I asked what was going on and the woman said that the Washington Post was doing a story on the place.
Well, I got the Post yesterday, and it turns out they used a picture of just the dog. Doubtless, a wise editorial decision.
So that’s my article update. On Wednesday I will present a postscript to last week’s William Faulkner question.
welcomes questions about literary mysteries and scandals, which should be sent to: woodyswoody@hotmail.com. The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective) is published on Monday, Wednesday and Friday, by Jonathanames.com Just so you know, Jonathan Ames, our mentor here at The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective), has a new book coming out in July, called, Wake Up, Sir!
_______________________________________________________________________________
Dear Readers of The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective),
The other day I told you that I might soon be mentioned in a couple of newspaper articles. Here’s what happened: both articles came out, and I was referenced in one, but not the other.
The first came out in the April 5th New York Sun. Because I thought the article was going to come out on April 7th, I didn’t get it. But I emailed the reporter, who sent me a link to the site. (Here it is:New York Sun article.
If you read the article, you’ll see it has nothing to do with The Literary Dick (as in Private Detective). The article is about how Scotland has zero population growth, and how they are dealing with that. I lived in Scotland for a few years and that’s why they interviewed me.
Article #2: The other day I was in Ivy’s Bookstore (which is connected to another bookstore, Murder Inc., on Broadway between 92nd and 93rd) and this woman was taking photos of Gus, the dog that hangs out there. I went to get out of the background, but she asked me to stay. Then later, when I went to leave the store, she asked if I could stay for a few more pictures. I said sure, and dutifully posed, pretending to read Roald Dahl’s Going Solo. I asked what was going on and the woman said that the Washington Post was doing a story on the place.
Well, I got the Post yesterday, and it turns out they used a picture of just the dog. Doubtless, a wise editorial decision.
So that’s my article update. On Wednesday I will present a postscript to last week’s William Faulkner question.
