Currently Reading: The Rachel Papers

The Rachel Papers
by Martin Amis
Alfred A. Knopf 1974

When it first came out, people said this was a sexed-up, worthless piece of juvenilia, and they're probably right, but that seems to be exactly what Martin Amis was getting at. I've heard he was only nineteen and twenty when he wrote this, his first novel, which makes it even more impressive that by the end you're hearing the voice of a much older man. It's like Amis is rubbing our noses in the self-consciousness and horniness of youth as a vaccine, so we'll be inoculated and ready to face adulthood.

Charles Highway, the protagonist, is seriously flawed: he is cunning and unwise; bright and shallow; well-educated and under-experienced. It must be the first narrator I've met in literature who is hyper-intelligent and completely unable to parse his emotions. Amis describes late adolescence as a kind of natural autism. Charles has a lot of heady, rushed sex in dank bedrooms, and he launches into an aggressive romance with a simple girl who cannot possibly understand him, all while sloughing off his responsibilities and skating easily into the English department at Oxford University. With the action focused so closely on Charles and his warped psychology (none of the adults in his life are better equipped to handle adulthood than he is, except perhaps his father, a Kingsley Amis figure whom Charles loathes), it should end up being a callow and misogynistic story. But there is some part of Charles (and the 19-year-old writer standing behind him) that acknowledges the depravity of his day-to-day existence, and cannot wait for everything to be solved on midnight of his twentieth birthday, when Charles believes he will suddenly and finally cease to be such a bundle of spunk and gloom.

You won't like Charles Highway, but Charles Highway doesn't like Charles Highway either, and by agreeing with him on this subject you can forge a common bond that will make this story quite an interesting one. The book's ending reminded me of Mark Renton, who walks away with all of his friends' cash at the end of Trainspotting by Irvine Welsh, which is another grim and often hilarious novel in which you can't decide if the protagonist should be exterminated from without (by all the forces he has brazenly and foolishly antagonized) or from within (by the almighty powers of self-realization). I really loved this book. Critics might say it reeks with depravity and narcissism, but I say it crackles with contradictions and narrative energy.

Currently Reading: Uncivil Liberties

Uncivil Liberties
by Calvin Trillin
Anchor Books 1983

America likes to think of itself as a nation of rebel thinkers, trend-setters, and entrepreneurs, which is probably why it's so important for us to have a curmudgeon. A curmudgeon is a crank, a grouch, and a sourpuss, but also a perpetual skeptic. He keeps us from getting too far ahead of ourselves. For every high-falutin idea that comes up, the curmudgeon says, "Oh yeah? Prove it," or "Break it down for me again in really simple terms." Often the only way to respond to a curmudgeon is by making yourself sound like a fool. Mark Twain is probably the best example. He was a sharp-witted social critic who exposed the ridiculousness of his times by posing as a dim-witted everyman.

Writing a column for The Nation in the 1970s and '80s, Calvin Trillin filled the same role. He looked at national events like the Bay of Pigs, the gas shortage, the Reagan shooting, Betamax, and preppies, and he insisted that none of it made any sense to him. Of course he understood the political and social factors perfectly well, but like any good curmudgeon, he kept asking simple questions until it became obvious that America was a bit insane.

Trillin plays the sensible fool when he writes about the newly invented word "holistic":

Our friend--I'll call him Tab, even though his name is Bernard--had mentioned meeting the woman he now lives with in a hot tub that belonged to someone who practiced holistic psychology.... I should probably explain that a hot tub is a huge wooden vat in someone's backyard--back where the barbecue set used to be along time ago. In California, I gathered from Tab, people who are only casually acquainted take off all of their clothes, climb into a hot tub together, and make up new words. I was later informed by a refugee from Beverly Hills that making up words is not the only thing naked people do in hot tubs; in Southern California, he said, naked people in hot tubs sometimes snort cocaine while discussing real estate.

Born in Kansas City, Missouri in the 1930s, Trillin was comfortable being a political and social outsider. But he was also a family man and a loving husband. The main strength of Trillin's writing is that he embodies a more American perspective than any of the political figures he writes about. For example, in Trillin's first column after the election of President Carter, the columnist wonders if his family might be better off with a slogan. President Carter is optimistic about a "New Foundation," his brand new slogan for the country, and the Trillin family responds by testing a new slogan of their own: "Zip Up Your Jacket." For anyone who reads the (humorous) debate and unrest that a slogan causes in the Trillin family, it's impossible to take a Presidential slogan seriously.

Trillin loves to use his children as foils for his curmudgeonly persona:

"Daddy, why did the Marines invade Cuba?"
"Invade Cuba! Marines! Why doesn't anyone tell me anything?"
"Didn't you promise Mommy you'd quit answering questions with questions?"
"Did I?"
"Yes."
"For breakfast this morning, we are offering Cheerios, Product 19, some yucky health cereal and Rice Krispies. The management wishes to inform you that the Rice Krispies, while completely inert if left to themselves, will react to the addition of milk by going snap, crackle and, occasionally, pop--and so may not be advisable for those who have particularly sever hangovers."
"Little girls don't get hangovers, Daddy."
"Ah, the miraculous recuperative powers of the young."
"Daddy, please answer my question: Why did the Marines invade Cuba?"

After Trillin's latest, and possibly last book--a touching memoir about his late wife, Alice, and the power of their marriage--he will be remembered as a family man and an accomplished writer (who got his start working for William Shawn at the New Yorker). But I hope he's also remembered as a smart curmudgeon who saw the best aspects of America reflected in his wife and children.

Barack Obama: Not Black Enough for President?

So Far, Obama Can't Take Black Vote for Granted
New York Times
February 2, 2007

link

I understand that Barack Obama has a different racial background than your typical African American, and this is indicative of a present-day schism with African immigrants (like in higher education, where "blacks" are mostly African ex-pats). But what is this shit?

"I've got nothing but love for the brother, but we don't have anything in common," said Ms. Dickerson, who wrote recently about Mr. Obama in Salon, the online magazine. "His father was African. His mother was a white woman. He grew up with white grandparents.

"Now, I'm willing to adopt him," Ms. Dickerson continued. "He married black. He acts black. But there's a lot of distance between black Africans and African-Americans."

Since when do you have to have the same background as your elected officials? When did the slavery of 150 years ago become a common experience of all African Americans (as people quoted in the article say)? And most importantly, if you're a black person and you stick up your nose at Barack Obama as a black candidate, what alternative can you possibly offer?

I'm kind of pissed at the NYTimes for running such a race-baiting non-sequitur of an article.