around the internet on a tuesday: New York edition

Please "Paris is so analog," I whispered to Lauren Cerand last night as we watched Todd Zuniga (of Opium Magazine) live-Twitter on his iPhone while Ben Greenman sat on stage with his MacBook at the Tribeca Barnes & Noble attempting to break a record for the Universal Record Database. Then everybody blogged about it. Todd and Ben's interview included a five minute lightning round of questions and a segment where Todd presented Rorschach blots and Ben saw donkeys. Oh, and Ben read from his new book, Please Step Back.  The evening was so fabulous it made me wish I spent more time in NYC (and that is no small feat). Also, I made a new friend.

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Speaking of Opium Magazine, they're doing a cool thing.

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Tomorrow in Bryant Park: James Wood finger-drumming live! Read more.

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Flavorpill gets the real story behind Philip Roth's Jewish Shouting Mix 3.

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This sounds so good. I think I'll pick up a copy when I'm in Tokyo in two weeks, even if I can't read it! Interview here, via Conversational Reading via Literary Saloon.

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To follow up on yesterday's post on Mavis Gallant's opposition to writing workshops, Louis Menand wonders in the New Yorker whether writing should be taught.

events listings

For technical reasons related to the Google calendar function and my own ineptitude, I've taken the events listing module off of the sidebar until I get back to Paris in September.  Until then (and thereafter, if you like), please consult Jen Dick's monthly event listings, here. She'll keep you up to speed!

Mavis Gallant & Jhumpa Lahiri

1242299192488.jpeg Back in February I was triple-booked for the one evening I would have given anything to have had free: Mavis Gallant and Jhumpa Lahiri gave a joint reading at the Village Voice. I knew even if I canceled my three other appointments I still wouldn't have had a shot at getting into the reading– when superstars like this read at the Village Voice, it's standing room only. And not even standing in the same room as the writers! For the upstairs section where the readings take place can only accommodate so many spectators, and then the rest overflow down the stairs and onto the main level, obliged to watch the proceedings on video screens. Ever since I've regretted not having gone anyway, three hours in advance if necessary, to stake out a spot upstairs to see these two together.

Imagine how delighted I was, then, when I found that the summer issue of Granta contains a three day-long conversation the two had together while Lahiri was in Paris! And even better, the Granta website has posted videos of the reading– Gallant reading from her short story "In Transit," Lahiri reading from her short story "Once in a Lifetime," and the Q&A they did with the audience just after. So many thanks to Granta, for making it possible to take part in such an important rencontre.

A great moment in the extended conversation:

JL: Did you ever work in cafes?

MG: As a waitress?

JL: I meant to write in.

The idea that a writer in Paris has to answer the question about whether or not to write in cafes means the writer in Paris is always being held up against the Lost Generations I, II, and III (that would be Hemingway & Co., Baldwin & Co., and Beats & Co.), and I love the way Gallant fends it off. Lahiri moves on gracefully (I don't blame her for asking, and for the record I love to write in cafes, it gets me out of the house).

What I found most interesting about their conversation was the generational difference in the way the two approach not only their writing, but the conversation about writing.  Lahiri is a very generous interviewer, giving Gallant lots of ideas and references to work with, but she is also a product of a deeply anxious, self-conscious generation of writers. Gallant is much  more schematic, more declarative, while Lahiri scurries after making qualifications, or politely begging to differ.  For example:

JL: This is one of many examples in your stories where at some point or another we're in every character's head. It's an amalgam of points of view.  It's what Tolstoy does in his novels, but you do it in the confines of a story.  For me, it was very hard to get to that point.  When I first started writing, I always wrote from a single person's point of view.  But in your work, even in something early like Green Water, Green Sky, you're already dipping in and out of various characters' minds.  Was this something that came easily?

MG: It must have, or I wouldn't have done it.

JL: I felt that I couldn't to it.  I read your stories and other people's stories to learn. I didn't know how to go about it.  But for you it felt natural?

MG: I never questioned it.  The problem is getting it right.

I wonder if this isn't rooted in the way writing gets discussed in creative writing programs. Probably it isn't– Lahiri sounds like any other writer talking shop, and I'm sure Gallant is a great shoptalker when she's in the mood– but there does seems to be a difference of attitude on display here.  Gallant's answers tend to be variations on "I've no idea" or anecdotes or reflections on things she lived, rather than how she wrote. She makes it very clear that she has nothing but disdain for the kind of creative writing programs which have such a stranglehold on American letters ("workshop" to her is a "junkie word," and she advises a former student "'Just read and read and go your own way'"), and I get the feeling that while Lahiri was delighted to have this exchange with Gallant, the conversation wasn't exactly what she expected.

Still, it's great fun to read, and to listen in on their talk. Have a listen to Mavis Gallant reading– as I've said before, hearing her read her own stuff brings out nuances and inflections you might not have noticed, reading it to yourself.

vendredi, poesie

PoundCantos  Ezra Pound, Canto XLIX

For the seven lakes, and by no man these verses:
Rain; empty river; a voyage,
Fire from frozen cloud, heavy rain in the twilight
Under the cabin roof was one lantern.
The reeds are heavy; bent;
and the bamboos speak as if weeping.

Autumn moon; hills rise about lakes
against sunset
Evening is like a curtain of cloud,
a blurr above ripples; and through it
sharp long spikes of the cinnamon,
a cold tune amid reeds.
Behind hill the monk's bell
borne on the wind.
Sail passed here in April; may return in October
Boat fades in silver; slowly;
Sun blaze alone on the river.

Where wine flag catches the sunset
Sparse chimneys smoke in the cross light

Comes then snow scur on the river
And a world is covered with jade
Small boat floats like a lanthorn,
The flowing water closts as with cold. And at San Yin
they are a people of leisure.

Wild geese swoop to the sand-bar,
Clouds gather about the hole of the window
Broad water; geese line out with the autumn
Rooks clatter over the fishermen's lanthorns,

A light moves on the north sky line;
where the young boys prod stones for shrimp.
In seventeen hundred came Tsing to these hill lakes.
A light moves on the South sky line.

State by creating riches shd. thereby get into debt?
Thsi is infamy; this is Geryon.
This canal goes still to TenShi
Though the old king built it for pleasure

K E I M E N R A N K E I
K I U M A N M A N K E I
JITSU GETSU K O K W A
T A N FUKU T A N K A I

Sun up; work
sundown; to rest
dig well and drink of the water
dig field; eat of the grain
Imperial power is? and to us what is it?

The fourth; the dimension of stillness.
And the power over wild beasts.

Happy Bloomsday!

JoyceUlysses2  On June 16, 1904, a fictional character called Leopold Bloom– a Jewish ad man– walked around Dublin, saw some friends, went to a funeral, went to a brothel, and went home.  This day (which was also, in real life, the day Joyce met his wife, Nora Barnacle) was immortalized by Bloom's creator, James Joyce, in a novel called Ulysses, published by Sylvia Beach at Shakespeare & Co in Paris in 1922.*  And ever since, every June 16th, we celebrate Bloomsday. Throngs of Joyce fans head to Dublin to recreate Bloom's day (I went for the centennial in 2004), and Irish people who've never even read the book** hold forth to tourists about the great James Joyce.

This section is taken from the third chapter, Proteus, and this is Stephen Dedalus thinktalking.

Ineluctable modality of the visible: at least that if no more, thought
through my eyes. Signatures of all things I am here to read, seaspawn
and seawrack, the nearing tide, that rusty boot. Snotgreen, bluesilver,
rust: coloured signs. Limits of the diaphane. But he adds: in bodies.
Then he was aware of them bodies before of them coloured. How? By
knocking his sconce against them, sure. Go easy. Bald he was and a
millionaire, maestro di colour che sanno. Limit of the diaphane in. Why
in? Diaphane, adiaphane. If you can put your five fingers through it,
it's a gate, if not a door. Shut your eyes and see.
Stephen closed
his eyes to hear his boots crush crackling wrack and shells. You are
walking through it howsomever. I am, a stride at a time. A very short
space of time through very short times of space. Five, six: the
nacheinander. Exactly: and that is the ineluctable modality of the
audible. Open your eyes. No. Jesus! If I fell over a cliff that beetles
o'er his base, fell through the nebeneinander ineluctably. I am getting
on nicely in the dark. My ash sword hangs at my side. Tap with it: they
do. My two feet in his boots are at the end of his legs, nebeneinander.
Sounds solid: made by the mallet of Los Demiurgos. Am I walking into
eternity along Sandymount strand? Crush, crack, crick crick. Wild sea
money. Dominic Deasy kens them 'a.
Won't you come to Sandymount,
Madeline the mare?
Rhythm begins, you see. I hear. A catalectic tetrameter of iambs march ing. No, agallop: deline the mare.
Open
your eyes now. I will. One moment. Has all vanished since? If I open
and am for ever in the black adiaphane. Basta! I will see if I can see.
See now. There all the time without you: and ever shall be, world without end.
They
came down the steps from Leahey's terrace prudently, Frauenzimmer: and
down the shelving shore flabbily their splayed feet sinking in the
silted sand. Like me, like Algy, coming down to our mighty mother.
Number one swung lourdily her midwife's bag, the others gamp poked in
the beach. From liberties, out for the day. Mrs Florence MacCabe,
relict of the late Patk MacCabe, deeply lamented, of Bride Street. One
of her sisterhood lugged me squealing into life. Creation from nothing.
What has she in the bag? A misbirth with a trailing navelcord, hushed
in ruddy wool. The cords of all link back, strandentwining cable of all
flesh. That is why mystic monks. Will you be as gods? Gaze into your
omphalos. Hello. Kinch here. Put me on to Edenville. Aleph, alpha:
nought, nought, one.
Spouse and helpmate of Adam Kadmon: Heva, naked
Eve. She had no navel. Gaze. Belly without blemish, bulging big, a
buckler of taut vellum, no, whiteheaped corn, orient and immortal,
standing from everlasting to everlasting. Womb of sin.
Wombed in sin darkness I was too, made not begotten.

*It seems very appropriate therefore that I have a meeting with Sylvia Whitman at Shakespeare & Co this afternoon!

**To be fair, I didn't finish it either

on the short side

If you're in Paris and are a cinema buff with not a lot of time of your hands, you might want to check out the film shorts festival happening in Pantin until June 20th, Côté Court.

Tonight, for instance, 15 filmmakers are offering 20 different takes on Puccini.

On the 17th (at 10 pm), another short film features the "ghostwritten reconstitution" of the manuscript that the (anti)hero of The Shining is working on– the manuscript which, as far as the audience knows, contains only the words "All work and no play" (which becomes the name of the film).

The pièce de résistance, however, seems to be a series called "New York vs New York," featuring a series of shorts with Marilyn Monroe, Andy Warhol, and Merce Cunningham, with directors like Raymond Depardon, Maya Deren, and Nelson Sullivan.  More info here.

Gview

On monoactivité

This article in an issue of Triple Canopy devoted to "Urbanisms" was sent to me this week, and it's well worth your time.  Jules Treneer reports on the transformation of a Parisian neighborhood into the domain of Chinese textile workers, and the attempts of the locals and the French government to reclaim it in order to protect a certain idea of Frenchness.

Just two decades ago, Sedaine-Popincourt was a sleepy, working-class
neighborhood undergoing gentrification—the seemingly inevitable
spillover from the trendy Marais. Then the Chinese wholesalers started
moving in, and the cafés and corner groceries started disappearing,
replaced by textile shops with names reminiscent of cheap perfumes:
Lady Belle, Show Girls, Miss Coco. Many Parisian quartiers have
experienced some form of monoactivité—a pejorative term invoked
by French politicians to describe a neighborhood’s economic mix being
reduced to a single commercial or industrial sector—yet few exemplify
it better than Sedaine-Popincourt: Of the 850 shops crammed into this
one-mile area, 600 are Chinese-owned textile concerns.

Monoactivité - Triple Canopy

on translating

Anthea Bell on the art of translation at the London Review Bookshop, in honor of their World Literature Weekend:

How difficult is it to find a “voice”?

We’re like actors, impersonating other people. So it depends how
much you are in sympathy with the author of the original. It is a
terrible thing not to be in sympathy. The late great translator Ralph
Manheim once told me how the first book he translated from German was Mein Kampf, and he did get depressed having to think himself into Hitler’s mind. But someone had to do it, for the historical record.

Dept of Bad Titles

To turn your attention from Woolf and toward another of the women who figure in my dissertation… I'm currently working on a review essay on Lilian Pizzichini's The Blue Hour, the new Jean Rhys biography, which should run in the Quarterly Conversation sometime this summer. I won't say much about that just yet, but I will share this bit from the biography itself: the different titles Rhys threw around before eventually deciding on Wide Sargasso Sea (with a nudge from Diana Athill):

Solitaire
Before the Break of Day
Speak For Me
Before I Was Set Free
Le Revenant
Gold Sargasso Sea
Purple Against Red
(Across the) Wide Sargasso Sea
I Hear Voices
False Legend
Dream
Mrs Rochester
Le Rouge et le Noir
Marie Galante
Sargasso Sea (the Wide) Coming Across
The Image
The Question and the Answer
All Souls
Three Voices
Sargasso Sea
Wide Sargasso Sea
Story of the First Mrs Rochester
Wild Sea of Wrecks
That Wide Sea of Wrecks Where I Was Wrecked
That Wild Sea of Weeds Where They Were Wrecked
There Comes a Time

And, maybe my favorite, "What the hell or Where's Jane?"  (Letters, 242)

[Also, wow, I didn't know there was a 2006 BBC adaptation with Rebecca Hall. Anyone see it? Any good?]