I happened to have made a trip to Manhattan for the weekend.
I saw some very interesting things.
I saw large fascistic banners hanging on skyscrapers, with austere faces plastered upon them, staring at the intimidated passersby. Many of these portraits had messages of propaganda written under them, and all were sponsored by major publishing houses.
I remember a few.
FOER: He wrote some semi-fictionalized 9/11 novel or whatever
MOODY: Connecticut Uber Alles
FRANZEN: I think I must owe Karl Wenclas money
PROULX: Don't feel bad, I fall asleep writing them
PLIMPTON: I am the powerhouse who founded a literary magizine read by 11 people (9 of whom were contributors)
I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of New Yorkers...and not the upper crust mind you, but the masses...sitting obediently on subway cars, each and every one of them reading "The Corrections." Their hands shook. Their lips trembled. This was not what they wanted...this was staid, bourgeois, academic and cold.
But a 112 pound Columbia professor, the true puppermaster of mass media and popular culture if ever there was one, stood over these poor people, summarily executing anyone who even glanced away from the pages. The execution was, of course, carried out by reading his old graduate school dissertation: "The Objective Correlative in 19th Century Seafaring Fiction," which had the effect of turning a victims blood into dust, or at least assuring they would never have the desire to have sex again.
These people, not thousands like I said before, but MILLIONS (my memory was a little hazy), cried out to me (not knowing, of course, that I was part of this menacing conspiracy): "Kind Sir (Or Ma'am, now that Karl thinks I'm a girl)! Can you find us something to read? Something written by ballyhooin' rabble rousers? Something written by people who sleep on beds made out of old Beta-Max copies of Barfly?
I told them I wanted to help. I told them I knew who to go to. The ULA. "But unfortunately, dear friends," I said, "they're just in the PR stage now. All the kick-ass writing has to wait another 2 decades or something....y'see, Karl says the in-yer-face media assault has to come before they have anything decent to offer...wait...huh?"
Perhaps that was just a dream. I was certainly visiting Manhattan this past weekend, but I didn't see much of that.
In fact, here's what I saw: nobody fucking reads.
An occasional newspaper or magazine, perhaps, on the subway, and even, once in a very long while an actual book (and usually written by Mr. Dan Brown). But no, nobody reads. Not the Buddy Holly glasses wearing hipsters, not the thuggish teenagers, not the old ladies with shopping bags, not the well dressed theatre goers, not the bewildered tourists, not the latte 'n Abercrombie future "Masters of the Universe," not the working class stiffs, not their bosses...and not even the people who, by my own casual observation of basic stereotypes, are exactly the kind of people I imagine consider themselves to be writers.
I think everyone might have been on their way to watch TV, though. Just a guess. In fact, I tuned in to my ESP, and heard the internal monologues of the people surrounding me in subway cars and on the street, rising in a cacophony: "American Idol, or J.D Finch? Desperate Housewives, or J.D. Finch? Fear Factor, or J.D. Finch? Lost, or J.D. Finch?............."
Part III, of Certainly III, sometime this week.
I saw some very interesting things.
I saw large fascistic banners hanging on skyscrapers, with austere faces plastered upon them, staring at the intimidated passersby. Many of these portraits had messages of propaganda written under them, and all were sponsored by major publishing houses.
I remember a few.
FOER: He wrote some semi-fictionalized 9/11 novel or whatever
MOODY: Connecticut Uber Alles
FRANZEN: I think I must owe Karl Wenclas money
PROULX: Don't feel bad, I fall asleep writing them
PLIMPTON: I am the powerhouse who founded a literary magizine read by 11 people (9 of whom were contributors)
I saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of New Yorkers...and not the upper crust mind you, but the masses...sitting obediently on subway cars, each and every one of them reading "The Corrections." Their hands shook. Their lips trembled. This was not what they wanted...this was staid, bourgeois, academic and cold.
But a 112 pound Columbia professor, the true puppermaster of mass media and popular culture if ever there was one, stood over these poor people, summarily executing anyone who even glanced away from the pages. The execution was, of course, carried out by reading his old graduate school dissertation: "The Objective Correlative in 19th Century Seafaring Fiction," which had the effect of turning a victims blood into dust, or at least assuring they would never have the desire to have sex again.
These people, not thousands like I said before, but MILLIONS (my memory was a little hazy), cried out to me (not knowing, of course, that I was part of this menacing conspiracy): "Kind Sir (Or Ma'am, now that Karl thinks I'm a girl)! Can you find us something to read? Something written by ballyhooin' rabble rousers? Something written by people who sleep on beds made out of old Beta-Max copies of Barfly?
I told them I wanted to help. I told them I knew who to go to. The ULA. "But unfortunately, dear friends," I said, "they're just in the PR stage now. All the kick-ass writing has to wait another 2 decades or something....y'see, Karl says the in-yer-face media assault has to come before they have anything decent to offer...wait...huh?"
Perhaps that was just a dream. I was certainly visiting Manhattan this past weekend, but I didn't see much of that.
In fact, here's what I saw: nobody fucking reads.
An occasional newspaper or magazine, perhaps, on the subway, and even, once in a very long while an actual book (and usually written by Mr. Dan Brown). But no, nobody reads. Not the Buddy Holly glasses wearing hipsters, not the thuggish teenagers, not the old ladies with shopping bags, not the well dressed theatre goers, not the bewildered tourists, not the latte 'n Abercrombie future "Masters of the Universe," not the working class stiffs, not their bosses...and not even the people who, by my own casual observation of basic stereotypes, are exactly the kind of people I imagine consider themselves to be writers.
I think everyone might have been on their way to watch TV, though. Just a guess. In fact, I tuned in to my ESP, and heard the internal monologues of the people surrounding me in subway cars and on the street, rising in a cacophony: "American Idol, or J.D Finch? Desperate Housewives, or J.D. Finch? Fear Factor, or J.D. Finch? Lost, or J.D. Finch?............."
Part III, of Certainly III, sometime this week.
posted by Bryan Guski at Tuesday, May 23, 2006
2 Comments:
Is that A for "Asshole" Swift? Asshole Swift that's kinda like Iceberg Slim except for someone who's getting pimped instead of doing the pimping.
and hey why didn't you want to give some kind of snappy response to Cicero? That Torres interview is pretty interesting. Who's that unscrupulous wanna be publisher that Noah was talking about? Better stay far away from him kids.
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