V. is for Vineland

Okay, I just finished Vineland. Not, 80 pages from the end, but actually finished. Read the last page and now I am done. That means that aside from Mason Dixon and about half of Slow Learner I have read everything that Pynchon has published, including the letters of Wanda Tinasky (which, as it turns out, are not by Pynchon). And...

Well, both Kyle and Robert Viking O'Brien assured me that this was the ultimate--the best novel by Pynchon. Well... I don't see it. It's good. I'm not saying that it isn't good. It's full of regular good time Pynchon weirdness and that works out pretty good, but it has no edge. Let's get that straight.

Look, I consider myself something of an expert on old Tom. I wrote a master's thesis on Gravity's Rainbow, I've presented at two conferences on The Crying of Lot 49, and I've read lots and lots of articles about his works. So, I think its safe to say that I know of what I speak.

Pynchon's works are funny. Yes, sometimes hilarious, and in this capacity, Vineland satisfies. It's filled with reference to Ninja and Star Wars obsession and essentially pulls 80's pop culture together. Plus, it gives us the latter years of Wendell "Mucho" Maas, which is of course, nice in its own right.

But Pynchon novels are also fairly horrifying. The machine body of V., the conspiracy about a conspiracy of W.A.S.T.E., the cinematic revisionist history of Gravity's Rainbow. Pynchon generally replaces the phrase, "laughing all the way to the bank," with, "laughing all the way to the grave." Except that, if his novel is done well, you aren't even sure whether or not the graveyard will be dug up in a couple years to make the setting for "Poltergeist"--that's Pynchon. Vineland never goes into the darkness. It never even tries. It pretty much stays Fluff 'n' Stuff all the way to the end, except for a chilling scene at the end of the "People's Republic of Rock and Roll." There was a chance that Prairie, the novel's... ahem... main character might have to choose between her own Obi Wan or Vader, but she never really has to make that choice, and moreover we don't know enough about her to know what it would mean, regardless of the choice she made. If she chose the Vader Brock, would she just be following in the footsteps of her mother, or does that mean that the new generation of dis-enfranchised can be made to sell each other out just like the older generation, and moreover, is this just a struggle at the unseen fringes of society--a fight that only occurs in Vineland county.

Also, where the hell's the volta. Seriously, Gravity's Rainbow screws you up at the end, The Crying of Lot 49 screws you up at the end, even V. screws you up at the end (except that in V. you don't care, you haven't become invested enough in Stencil to give a crap that his quest is self-contradicting). Vineland: no about face whatsoever. It just, I don't know, achieves resolution. Except that Pynchon has been practicing his whole career a style that cannot achieve resolution. When he tries, the whole thing wraps up in about twenty pages. It's like he's been weaving this intricate tapestry of seedy underworld culture and then he just says, "enough of that. The End."

For the good stuff, Pynchon has definitely figured out how to tell a story that is, at the very least, a little more followable. The flashbacks go in order, which is nice. And as usual, the characters are extremely interesting (except for Prairie who isn't interesting at all). The plot, for the most part, ties itself up. Other Pynchon novels due this through gimmick (all that weirdness in GR, for instance, is understandable once you know that the whole thing is a movie). This novel doesn't rely on a gimmick--the reason that things happen is related to what the characters do, rather than the way the literary universe is defined. Still, I have to wonder about Godzilla's footprint at that lab Takeshi was investigating. That whole thing just got dropped, didn't it?

Anyways, Avram. I'm sure that you have some good stuff to say. I want to say no more here, but I may spoil the book in the comments if the discussion so merits it. So, future readers of Vineland, consider yourself warned!

Reading Stevens with that damn firecat bristling in the way

Those of us who were students, or who are students, of the illustrious Roger Kaye will concur that there is no possibility of getting around Wallace Stevens. He is the favorite poet of the smartest man that we've ever met, a man who says things like "yes, I remember when I was a young man and didn't know better, I liked e.e. cummings." e.e. cummings for god's sake. What, is Byron now pulp fiction?! But if Kaye's palate was refined, then let's get something straight, that only meant that it was very hard to impress. I still laugh at the myriad of students who gave him their creative writing. He considered Shelley vulgar--what are the chances he's going to like that poem you wrote about your grandpa?!?

Anyways, when Kaye says someone is good, chances are they are. And if you don't think they are, maybe that says more about you then the work itself. I have on occasion disagreed with the Kaye-man, but that's part of being one of those students that he chooses to guide, and not the multitude who think that they can choose him.

Kaye likes Stevens. What I mean is that I can't think of too many other poets that Kaye thinks rise up to Stevens's level. Those of you W.A.S.T.E.rs out there can correct me on this, but who? Vallery, maybe? I've never heard Roger talk about Valery like he talks about Stevens... Regardless, the Drivler is one such W.A.S.T.E.r and as such felt the need to face off with the old man's caviar not too long ago by listing some quote from some poem somewhere. That's sort of what the Drivler does--well, one of the things he does. He has a few tricks, believe me folks.

He was hoping that I would respond. He asked me, are you going to respond? I told him that I hadn't read the poem. Now, don't get me wrong. I really like Wallace Stevens too, but Stevens is a hard read. It takes serious time to get anything. The pay off is worth it, but there is pay off in every poem. I have "The Emperor of Ice Cream" memorized, and yet, I still read it straight out of the book at least once a month. Every once in a while, like a spasm, I read "The Man With The Blue Guitar" in its entirety whether I have the time to do so or not.

The problem is that there aren't any gems in the dirt for Stevens. There's no dirt. They're all gems. In this regard, he's Shakespeare's superior (but only in this regard--Shakespeare had better rhetorical strength). The result is that you just don't have the time to read every Steven's poem. You open the book, you return to the old favorites, and you owe yourself to read a new one each time, and then like an explorer, you come back, you tell you're friends, "hey, you've got to read this poem by Stevens" and then they read that poem. That's how it's done.

No, you cannot simply start at one cover and move to the end. Or at least, there's no advantage to reading the poetry this way. The thing is for Stevens, you've got to give each of the poems some time to percolate. According to Roger, the amount of time needed varies between 50 and 80 years. I tend to agree. I still...STILL...see things in "Emperor of Ice Cream" every time I return to it. Roger has his "I Scream" reading. I feel compelled to brag that "Let be be the finale of seem" is the sound of funeral drum beat (don't count let, and tap it out slow, you'll see what I mean). Nonetheless, 50 to 80 years. You don't sit down with Stevens and read him in one night and say, "yes, I've read Stevens." That aint gonna work.

So, Jason as a fellow Stevens explorer found us all a new poem, at least new in regards to our meager repetoire: "Earthy Anecdote." And he added, I'm paraphrasing:

"This is the first poem of the first book by Wallace Stevens. I mean, it's almost like here you go. Do you get it? If you don't, don't bother reading any further because it won't get any easier from here."

Which sounds like Jason is, in fact, reading Stevens from cover to cover, but you've got to factor in the sort of double-dog dare feel to such an observation. And so, I took him up. Like I said, I want my Stevens. And so, Herr Drivler, this is for you...

Ignoring the title for a moment, it's significant but let's not bring it in just yet. The word Earthy is a pun, we need to get its double meaning before we return to it. But before we begin, we've got a firecat that bristles twice, that might be important. Bristle means:
To stand stiffly on end like bristles: The hair on the dog's neck bristled.
To raise the bristles: The cat bristled at the sight of the large dog.
To react in an angry or offended manner: The author bristled at the suggestion of plagiarism.
To be covered or thick with or as if with bristles: The path bristled with thorns.

It's those first two definitions that are probably the most important, though possibly the third. Also, keep in mind that the poem starts already in the middle of a pattern. "Every time the bucks went clattering." I'm going to do something you have to do with Stevens and I'm going to start assuming things. Mind you, that's dangerous. They're "bucks." That could be any kind of male herd animal or rabbit. That could be young men, especially of African American or Native American descent. It could be a bunch of fops. It could be something that bucks you, which could mean horses as well as THE system. With Stevens, you just keep reading. If something doesn't work you may know, but only if you've got your antennae up. That's not the point. It's the trying this stuff out--that's the point. In any case, these buck are clattering over Oklahoma (figure of speech or actually beyond Oklahoma, or in some ways, beyond defining the land--animals don't know that it's called Oklahoma). Regardless, I'm going to say Buffalo (which, in itself, suggests another pun, i.e. railroad, but I'm not going in that direction).

Also, the poem has a sense of temporality even in its title. It's an anecdote (pun antidote)--a story about something you saw once. And so there the poem is, the poet saw the bucks clattering over Oklahoma. But more that, the verb tense suggests that this used to happen, and since when it happened there was a firecat, and the firecat is asleep (Later, according to the poem). One can only assume that no firecat=no clattering. The buffalo are extinct, and thus the firecat sleeps.

But what the hell is the firecat? I'm going to say the sun. One can imagine a herd of buffalo thundering across the plain moving left, moving right, for no apparent reason whatsoever...except that the poem suggests a reason, the sun is on them, and they are avoiding it the same way they might a firecat (I am implying that the buffalo have deified the sun to the point of reacting to it as a large predator). This is one possible reason, and I'm barely even touching the surface of it.

Think for a moment. If the buffalo think that the sun is a firecat, and there is no more buffalo to think that the sun is a firecat, then why is the firecat not extinct as well? Why is it only sleeping? And also, and this might be an even bigger point, what does it mean that the buffalo are able to project this biology, this mythicism, onto the sun? They essentially make it supernatural (well, the sun isn't really a firecat, so...).

Should I stop there. Should I keep up with the implications and move on to the next stage. I will stop. I will most certainly get other readings, but I'd like to tease out at least one implication. If Buffalo can make gods out of the sun, then there is nothing at all special about the making of a god, and we shouldn't think of it as innately human--a position that seems to validate both us and the god. We are like the buffalo, swerving to avoid our own firecat, our own sun (son, intended), but it is a myth, and we will certainly go the way of the buffalo eventually. Bleak to be sure, but keep in mind, the firecat merely sleeps. Someday something else will clatter over Oklahoma, something else will swerve to avoid the firecat. It will all go on.

Confessions from the aquarium

It is time that I, senor Monstro, set the record straight.

Though the laundery mat behind the place where I got my car smogged only costs $1.25 to do a load of laundery (as opposed to the $1.50 at the much farther away laundery mat by the video store), and though I consider myself a frugal person (bordering on cheap really), I do not do my laundery at the closer and more economic of the two laundery mats closest to my home because of my all powerful fear of running into the large agressive retarded lady who sometimes is there doing her laundery.