Category Archives: Jonathan Lethem

The Professor of Introductions

Accidentally I’ve been reading a lot of Michael Chabon. He slipped an introduction into a 50-year-old book on Vikings that I read, and he offered the preface to a 40-year-old book of Norse myths that I received as a gift. The dude likes Vikings, apparently. So do I. But I didn’t realize I’d have to go through Michael Chabon—author of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union, of all people—to find them.

Of course there’s a tradition of classic books receiving critical introductions by expert scholars. I have an Oxford edition of A Sentimental Journey by Laurence Sterne at my desk, to pull a random example. It’s been edited, with an introduction and notes, by Ian Jack, Professor Emeritus of English at the University of Cambridge, and Tim Parnell, lecturer in English at Goldsmith’s College, University of London. They sound like worthy fellows—partly because I’ve never heard of them. I don’t expect to recognize the names of the literary experts who specialize in the second-best book by the author of Tristram Shandy. Do you?

And yet my copy of D’Aulaires’ Book of Norse Myths is introduced by one of the most notable authors of our time. (I don’t even know who d’Aulaire is.) Michael Chabon isn’t offering a critical exegesis. In his introduction to the other book—The Long Ships by Frans Gunnar Bengtsson—he reflects on how a dear aunt gave him The Long Ships when he was a boy, and he’s loved it ever since. It’s not an introduction so much as a gushing, 1,176-word blurb. See for yourself—it’s posted at The Paris Review.

All I’m saying is, Michael Chabon is branding himself. He’s the Viking guy, among other things. Just like Jonathan Lethem, who provides the introduction to A Meaningful Life by J. L. Davis, is the Brooklyn guy. And Jonathan Franzen, who translated and introduced Spring Awakening, is the German literature guy. You could have guessed as much by reading each author’s work. But they’re reinforcing their brands by putting their stamp on other people’s work, too. Often it’s a fairly weak stamp—just a note to say the famous author has been here before you. And it doesn’t seem to matter that the books they’re endorsing don’t sell nearly as many copies as their own work. It’s branding, baby.

But I would have read these Viking books anyway, with or without the author of The Mysteries of Pittsburgh to approve them. And I kind of wish they started with an introduction by Olaf Olaffson, Professor Emeritus of Skaldic Poetry at the University of Svalbard, you know?

- Brian Hurley

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Filed under Hooray Fiction!, Jonathan Franzen, Jonathan Lethem, Michael Chabon

Bedfellows

Jonathan Lethem has a new story in The New Yorker called “The Porn Critic.” It’s a perfect companion to Brothel, the novel by J. Boyett that we’re publishing here at Fiction Advocate in a few weeks.

Boyett and Lethem first appeared together in The Unbearables Big Book of Sex, showing that you can write about sex with the kind of originality and humor that’s missing from everyday smut. Their new works are similar, too. “The Porn Critic” is about a clerk at a sex store with a prodigious collection of adult movies. His easygoing attitude toward porn becomes a liability when he pursues a woman with more orthodox values. Brothel is about three college girls and a would-be pimp who whore themselves out on campus. It starts as a dare, a kind of “fuck you” to the conservative morality of rural Arkansas. But their ideological act of defiance comes with a set of very real consequences. Both works, in addition to taking a witty and open-minded approach to “dirty” topics, test the notion that a person can overdose on hardcore sex and remain essentially unspoiled.

“The Porn Critic” is well worth reading.

Brothel is available for pre-order now. You can read Chapter One here, and the author is interviewed here.

- Brian Hurley

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Filed under Brothel by J. Boyett, Jonathan Lethem

Adjectives

adjectives

The Rumpus and Jonathan Lethem have recently drawn attention to the adjective “Ballardian,” as in, resembling the works of J.G. Ballard, especially his “dystopian modernity, bleak man-made landscapes & the psychological effects of technological, social or environmental developments.”

I’m automatically suspicious of claims that “Ballardian” has entered the popular lexicon, since Norton just published The Complete Stories of J. G. Ballard, and exaggerating the importance of the adjective is an easy point of entry for talking about the book. It’s one thing for your fans to coin a word. It’s another thing for that word to be used as often as “Shakespearean” and “Kafkaesque.”

So I conducted a highly unscientific Google search to see if J.G. Ballard has actually joined the ranks of famous authors with famous adjectives. In the company of Joyce, Chaucer, and Hemingway, let’s see where Ballard falls.

 

[adjective]: [Google hits]

 

Shakespearean: 2,800,000

Orwellian: 1,030,000

Dickensian: 438,000 – the new word for any complicated TV series

Joycean: 259,000

Yeatsian: 205,000

Brechtian: 173,000

Chaucerian: 168,000

Wildean: 164,000

Spenserian: 159,000 – name of a poetic stanza

Proustian: 125,000

Nabokovian: 107,000

Keatsian: 65,000

Swiftian: 60,000

Ballardian: 51,000

Faulknerian: 45,100

Flaubertian: 37,400

Woolfian: 24,800

Melvillean: 21,200

Twainian: 17,000

 

Sapphic: 2,490,000 – a lot of these hits are porn

Homeric: 2,090,000 – also the name of an era in the Greek language

Miltonic: 315,000

Byronic: 270,000 – the Byronic hero

Pindaric: 159,000 – the Pindaric ode

Cervantic: 6,950

 

Kafkaesque: 290,000

Dantesque: 283,000

Hemingwayesque: 269,000

 

I have to say my favorite adjectives are the ones that end in -ic. They sound barbaric (Nordic, runic, Germanic, Icelandic) and they’re often strong enough to shift the stress from one syllable (MIL-ton) to another (mil-TON-ic). There’s also a category of adjectives for names ending in the letter w, where the w changes to a v. Shaw becomes Shavian, Marlowe becomes Marlovian. Those are cool, too.

I’m surprised that Ballard’s adjective, with 51,000 hits, surpasses those of more “classic” authors like Faulkner, Flaubert, Woolf, and Melville. Still, the average number of Google hits for the five writers The Rumpus initially compares Ballard to (Kafka, Joyce, Woolf, Dickens, and Nabokov) is 223,760. Ballard has a long way to go before his word is that widespread.

Any favorite adjectives I missed?

Do you think “Ballardian” would get more Google hits if it described a sexual position?

Would that sexual position be related to automobile wrecks?

What’s your name as an adjective?

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Filed under J.G. Ballard, Jonathan Lethem, Speaking Ill of the Dead, The Rumpus

The Fantasy of Influence

1.

The kids at n+1 have created a neat little ad campaign. They’ve taken old photos of famous dead authors and given them copies of n+1 in Photoshop. The famous dead authors—Honore de Balzac, Leon Trotsky, and Susan Sontag—are supposedly telling you to visit the n+1 store and buy stuff.

The fantasy of influence 

Balzac died in 1850. Trotsky died in 1940. Sontag died in 2004, a few months after n+1 published its first issue. As far as we know, Sontag never interacted with the magazine.

We’re not immune to the humor of these ads. They’re a smart critique of consumer culture, with its ubiquitous product spokespeople. At the same time, the ads serve the useful purpose of naming n+1’s favorite authors, which gives you an idea of how to understand n+1.

2.

Two articles about Jonathan Lethem’s new book, Chronic City, compare Lethem to at least a dozen other writers in order to describe his work. They reference Philip K. Dick, Thomas Pynchon, Paul Auster, William Gibson, Anna Kavan, William S. Burroughs, Raymond Chandler, John Barth, J.G. Ballard, Franz Kafka, Woody Allen, and Marvel Comics. That’s a lot of names to drop for one book.

Lethem has self-consciously styled his work on some of his favorite authors. He wants you to recognize their direct influence on him, even if it’s just (as with Pynchon) in the names he chooses for his characters. Critics who write about Lethem want to show you they’ve spotted all his influences.

3.

Clarice Lispector was described by Gregory Rabassa as “that rare person who looked like Marlene Dietrich and wrote like Virginia Woolf.”

Clarice resented the comparison—understandably—because she had never read anything by Virginia Woolf.

4.

In Harold Bloom’s famous thesis, all great authors are compelled to create something new because they are intimdiated by the work of their literary forebears, and afraid to simply repeat what’s already been done. Bloom’s criticism describes a kind of literary netherworld, where famous authors, living and dead, exchange techniques and actively develop one another’s ideas, like a pantheon of immortal gods. There may be anxiety on the part of livings authors who contend with the huge influence of their predecessors, but there is also a fantasy, on the part of Bloom and his readers, that all our dearly beloved writers are trading recipes in heaven.

5.

Who benefits when an author is described as a combination of other authors?

When people reference a famous dead author, do you felt like they’re saying, “God is totally on my side?”

Are books just a mix tape of other books?

Should we be anxious about how much good stuff has already been written, or should we brag about how we stole it for our own writing?

Is Leon Trotsky going to rise from his Mexican grave and pulverize the offices of n+1?

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Filed under Close Reading, Harold Bloom, Jonathan Lethem, n+1, Sam Anderson, sNYROBbery, Speaking Ill of the Dead