Undisciplined reading

Matthew Brown has a wonderful and wide-ranging essay on reading. His topic is “undisciplined reading” in particular, reading that is non-linear, fragmented, discursive. This essay matches well with a couple other essays by Lethem and Gough that I’ve enjoyed this year. They all touch on or orbit the same ideas of influence and remix and pastiche and story-telling. There’s also a bit on constrained writing towards the end.
Brown offers the perspective of an active, creative reader. In contrast with the fairly recent tradition of following an unbroken narrative in a novel, Brown writes,

A more enduring practice and one equally generative of surprise might be called collative reading. Early New England clerics would collate passages from various tomes in their libraries to compose sermons. Yet it wasn’t only the learned who would follow such nonlinear reading methods. Typology, where readers traced Old Testament foreshadowings of New Testament events, is profoundly collative, and the comparing of Hebrew Bible and Christian Gospels was at the heart of practical piety. If you think those prescribed schedules that allowed the devout to complete the bible in a continuous read over the year were the norm, think again: Cotton Mather recommended in his 1683 almanac that readers spend each day discontinuously sorting through the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the Psalms. Commonplacing‚Äîthe collection and transcription of discrete passages from one’s reading under alphabetical or topical heads within personal miscellanies‚Äîwas as important to Reformation pietists as it was to Erasmian humanists. Each of these nonlinear methods was a source of fresh insight, which would help the reader create oratory, apply scripture, or deepen faith.

Now there is a connection I’d never made before. Along with thousands of others, I do a modern variation on commonplacing pretty much every day—on del.icio.us.

Brown goes on to quote another great line (“a book was an outdated means of communication between two boxes of index cards”) before talking about the effects of mass printing… synergy!

Put less dismissively, the intellectual historian James Burke explains collative reading in terms of the equation 1+1=3. For the active reader, two disparate pieces of information—found in separate items across the shelves of a library or even across the leaves of a single reference work—add up to a third, unknown category of thought. The real thrust of the Gutenberg revolution lies here rather than in movable type, mechanical reproduction, or standardized knowledge. The product of the printing press meant there were radically expanded opportunities for nonlinear access to written ideas.

I like Twain in small doses. On The Awful German Language:

An average sentence, in a German newspaper, is a sublime and impressive curiosity; it occupies a quarter of a column; it contains all the ten parts of speech–not in regular order, but mixed; it is built mainly of compound words constructed by the writer on the spot, and not to be found in any dictionary–six or seven words compacted into one, without joint or seam–that is, without hyphens; it treats of fourteen or fifteen different subjects, each enclosed in a parenthesis of its own, with here and there extra parentheses, making pens with pens: finally, all the parentheses and reparentheses are massed together between a couple of king-parentheses, one of which is placed in the first line of the majestic sentence and the other in the middle of the last line of it–AFTER WHICH COMES THE VERB, and you find out for the first time what the man has been talking about; and after the verb–merely by way of ornament, as far as I can make out–the writer shovels in “HABEN SIND GEWESEN GEHABT HAVEN GEWORDEN SEIN,” or words to that effect, and the monument is finished.

Rands tested some pens to try to find that perfect feel. I love how he parried the crucial topic of paper choice: “I‚Äôm going to avoid this entire debate and just use a Moleskine simply because if you‚Äôre going to have an argument about pens with anyone, chances are there‚Äôs a Moleskine nearby.”

The Elements of Style (review: 3/5)

I’m not sure what all the fuss is about. The Elements of Style is a handy little guide, sure. Brief, pithy. I suppose I’ve just heard it mentioned so many times that I was expecting a bit more. Honestly the best part of this particular edition of Elements was the illustrations by Maira Kalman. (Kalman has done a year-long illustrated story in the New York Times, which will soon be released in her book The Principles of Uncertainty.)
Elements didn’t earn a place on my shelf. It touches on some of the nuts and bolts of writing, and some of the philosophy, but none of the sections really feel complete. If you’re looking for clinical advice on commas and grammar, you’re probably better off with a dedicated grammar book or style guide. And if you’re looking to seriously clean up your text, and to apply some thought and reason to your writing, for my money the better choice is something like Joseph Williams’ Style: The Basics of Clarity and Grace.

In a pretty thrilling essay on tragedy, comedy, and the modern novel, Julian Gough asks and answers: “What is wrong with the modern literary novel? Why is it so worthy and dull? Why is it so anxious? Why is it so bloody boring?” One of the best essays I’ve read this year—I had to try really hard not to go ahead and block quote the entire thing. [via austin]

The Devil in the White City (review: dnf)

It hurts so much when you want a book to be fantastic, but it’s not. Before I go there, I’ll mention a couple saving graces for The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair that Changed America. There’s a great quote from one of the main characters, architect Daniel Burnham: “Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood.”
And there’s a cool literary connection. The book takes place during the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. The main grounds were known as the “White City” for the use of pale stucco on the buildings, and the first widespread use of streetlights. If you’ll recall, there are a bunch of flashback narratives in Jimmy Corrigan, the Smartest Kid on Earth that also take place during the Chicago exposition. So it was cool to read Devil with some of the sense of wonder and awe and hardship in Chris Ware‘s comic.

I couldn’t finish the book, though.

I hate it when authors don’t trust the story or trust the audience to follow along without prodding. One example I’ll never forget is in the film The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers. Evil armies are on the march, folks are going to take refuge in Helm’s Deep. Gandalf has to run an errand, but he says to Aragorn, “Look to my coming, at first light, on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the East.

And what do you know, a couple dozen scenes later, evil is at the door and prospects are bleak. But then Aragorn looks at a window with the morning sun shining in, and you get this ham-handed, idiotic Gandalf voiceover… “Look to my coming at first light on the fifth day. At dawn, look to the East.” Uggghhh. Easily one of the worst parts of the whole trilogy. No trust in the audience to remember a great line, no subtlety.

In that vein, Devil author Erik Larson (no relation) does two things that drove me nuts. For one, he subdivides chapters into even smaller chunks. That doesn’t normally bother so much, but his mini-sections get as small as a paragraph or two, or even a lone sentence. Too choppy. The second nuisance—and this is what killed me—is the frequent use of a teaser phrase at the ends of these mini-sections.

  • Why anyone would even want a soundproof vault was a question that apparently did not occur to him.
  • But even he did not, and could not, grasp what truly lay ahead.
  • But again, that was later.
  • It was one more sign of a gathering panic.
  • Which terrified her.
  • Hays grew suspicious and watched Mudgett closely—albeit not closely enough.

Come on. The book’s jacket tells me there’s a serial killer in there. Foreboding is already built-in, no need to pile it on.

The Virginia Quarterly Review probably gets about 10 billion submissions every year. On the VQR blog recently, they listed the most common titles among submissions they receive:

  1. Remember
  2. Smoke
  3. Revelation
  4. Work
  5. Grace
  6. Waiting
  7. Insomnia
  8. Voyeur
  9. Butterfly
  10. Reunion

Remember, Grace, and Imsomnia are pretty standard (read:boring), I think, but the popularity of Voyeur and Butterfly took me by surprise. I wonder what percent of the total volume of submissions uses one of these titles, and I’m curious about the distribution curve for words per title. Is the one-word title really that popular? What’s the fixation?

Flannery O’Connor’s androgynous prayer


Written on the back of a credit card slip:

“Oh universe which is the all of being—reverence to you—your rule be known—and acceded to in darkness as in light. Feed us by the truth of our need. Let us not be deluded that we may transgress or be transgressed upon. Deliver us from the violence of the false. Amen.”

Sounds good to me.

The letters of Flannery O’Connor and Betty Hester

Emory University held a Flannery O’Connor celebration this week. The highlight was the first public exhibition of the nearly 300 letters between Flannery O’Connor and Betty Hester, which had been under seal for the past 20 years. Brenda Bynum gave a dramatic reading of O’Connor’s letters. I was late for it, unfortunately, but what I saw was fantastic. In addition, lots of good material from her life is on display at Woodruff Library. Letters, notes, photographs, and things like her complaints about the cover chosen for A Good Man Is Hard to Find. I love it when schools do things well.
Bonus: Georgia Public Broadcasting had a show about O’Connor in August. And earlier this year NPR talked with Steve Enniss, the director of the Manuscript, Archives, and Rare Book Library, about the O’Connor–Hester relationship.