Had a similar reaction to Wagner the first time I read him, The Empty Chair in my case. Basically, who is this guy and why haven’t I been reading him for years?
Even though he's an anglophone writer with a Nobel Prize, Coetzee's Jesus trilogy seem to have sunk without a ripple. I think they're some of his best work but the newspaper reviews all said things like "these books are too confusing. Where's Jesus?" And now nobody mentions them.
He turns the dial ever so slightly in the direction of modernist experimental writing (as compared to Disgrace and Waiting for the Barbarians) and he looses his audience.
The same thing didn't happen with the Elizabeth Costello novels because although they were also experimental they were very topical, containing lectures about vegetarianism etc.
Study the main entry and relish the footnotes—the weekly Pistelli style!
Regarding your male-vulnerability-contrasting-Dante-contrasting-autofiction footnote, I've thought recently about Dante as the ultimate, daring, and best forebear of autofictional narratives. (I even tossed out a silly Substack Note about it that Sam Kahn enjoyed?) But per your point about "our veritable wallowing" in weakness, I'd add that Dante foregrounds his weakness to then confront it with redemption. Set aside his beginning in a dark wood; the guy doesn't stop cowering or fainting even in the literal Garden of Eden itself. His prophesied exile is presented by nearly every shade as suffering still to come over him. But the poem gives the ultimate synthesis of weakness and strength: Dante's immoral wandering and earthly travails prepare him for heavenly salvation and glory beside Beatrice, before God.
None of this is exactly the modern "vulnerability" posture: it's closer to old-fashioned Christian metaphysics that expect to feature human frailty, not just allow for it (alongside quite a bit of delicious Dantean pride and skill). To your point, Dante doesn't expect welcome or acclaim for being an exile or a mere man tempted to arrogance. He demands it by the verse and its virtues. (As you can see, Dante makes me vulnerable to a life-long purgatory of writing about the guy.)
Thanks! Excellent commentary on Dante. The contrast between the pilgrim's weakness and the poet's strength is among the most moving aspects of the work. I didn't mean to say we shouldn't portray ourselves or anyone else as experiencing common frailties or weaknesses in literature. I may even have intended an irony between the plaintive personal asides of footnote 1 and the anti-vulnerability stance of footnote 3. I was more concerned about vulnerability-as-literary-form, the stilted first-person and fragmentary style that dominates a lot of the sad-girl lit and autofiction I've looked at (Cole, Lerner, Offill, La Cava etc.). Even this style can be deepened into something more like a Dantesque narrative, as in Moshfegh's Rest and Relaxation and Tao Lin's Leave Society, works of sad-girl lit and incipiently sad-boy autofiction (respectively) I do admire. But there's a quality of spiritual quest in those two books.
I follow you there -- suffering as a quest narrative still has its potential, and maybe always will. Contrasting the fragmented first-person fiction you dislike with the disaffected examples you admire: if Lin and Moshfegh are spiritually seeking, what would you say Cole/Lerner/Offil/company are doing instead?
The one Offill book I read seemed to be spiritually seeking too—terminating in an ecumenical secular Buddhism—but I just didn't find it too convincing stylistically. Lerner and Cole are aesthetes permanently tormented by the culture-and-imperialism thesis that the true meaning of aesthetics is social suffering, so they're committed to a grim secular ascesis, following the footsteps of Sebald. (I never actually finished a Lerner novel; I'm basing this on The Hatred of Poetry.) Coetzee (mentioned in a comment somewhere else on this page) was like them but ended up going in a Kierkegaardian or Dostoevskean dimension, is now essentially, if I understand him rightly, a Christian author.
Regarding the so-called 100 Greatest Books. I commented at Lincoln Michel's site that I couldn't take seriously either "Never Let Me Go" or "The Underground Railroad," because they both require you to swallow a gigantic implausibility that's crucial to the story. And those are the Top Two! My favorite novel did make the list, but only at No. 65 (Helen DeWitt's "The Last Samurai" - which I plan to revisit soon).
Yes, I definitely need to read The Last Samurai, considering how people rave about it! Never Let Me Go is one of my all-time favorite books, but I readily admit it's not convincing in the manner of a realistic science fiction novel; I take it as a Kafka-like dream narrative.
On the other hand (speaking of dream narratives), I do have "The Unconsoled" on my revisit list. I read it when it was new, and I remember being both very impressed and puzzled (and a little irritated) by it. This makes it a good candidate for a re-reading.
I feel the same about The Unconsoled (only read it once myself). My loopy "fan theory" is that all of Ishiguro after The Unconsoled exists in different realms of its dream-time.
"Much as I disdain identity politics, when you throw ethnicity into the mix—see the last two paragraphs here—how could my personal political feelings ever have been anything but mixed?"
I got the same vibe from your utterly hilarious review of "Glengarry Glen Ross," which for obvious reasons I won't quote here.
Had a similar reaction to Wagner the first time I read him, The Empty Chair in my case. Basically, who is this guy and why haven’t I been reading him for years?
Even though he's an anglophone writer with a Nobel Prize, Coetzee's Jesus trilogy seem to have sunk without a ripple. I think they're some of his best work but the newspaper reviews all said things like "these books are too confusing. Where's Jesus?" And now nobody mentions them.
Yes, I can't tell if critics don't understand those books or if they do understand them and don't like them on that basis.
He turns the dial ever so slightly in the direction of modernist experimental writing (as compared to Disgrace and Waiting for the Barbarians) and he looses his audience.
The same thing didn't happen with the Elizabeth Costello novels because although they were also experimental they were very topical, containing lectures about vegetarianism etc.
The Trump footnote is deeply fascinating
Thank you! Only lost two free subscribers (so far)...
Just ordered Wagner's novel. I have his new novellas which I haven't read and now will.
Great, I definitely think you'll enjoy it.
Study the main entry and relish the footnotes—the weekly Pistelli style!
Regarding your male-vulnerability-contrasting-Dante-contrasting-autofiction footnote, I've thought recently about Dante as the ultimate, daring, and best forebear of autofictional narratives. (I even tossed out a silly Substack Note about it that Sam Kahn enjoyed?) But per your point about "our veritable wallowing" in weakness, I'd add that Dante foregrounds his weakness to then confront it with redemption. Set aside his beginning in a dark wood; the guy doesn't stop cowering or fainting even in the literal Garden of Eden itself. His prophesied exile is presented by nearly every shade as suffering still to come over him. But the poem gives the ultimate synthesis of weakness and strength: Dante's immoral wandering and earthly travails prepare him for heavenly salvation and glory beside Beatrice, before God.
None of this is exactly the modern "vulnerability" posture: it's closer to old-fashioned Christian metaphysics that expect to feature human frailty, not just allow for it (alongside quite a bit of delicious Dantean pride and skill). To your point, Dante doesn't expect welcome or acclaim for being an exile or a mere man tempted to arrogance. He demands it by the verse and its virtues. (As you can see, Dante makes me vulnerable to a life-long purgatory of writing about the guy.)
Thanks! Excellent commentary on Dante. The contrast between the pilgrim's weakness and the poet's strength is among the most moving aspects of the work. I didn't mean to say we shouldn't portray ourselves or anyone else as experiencing common frailties or weaknesses in literature. I may even have intended an irony between the plaintive personal asides of footnote 1 and the anti-vulnerability stance of footnote 3. I was more concerned about vulnerability-as-literary-form, the stilted first-person and fragmentary style that dominates a lot of the sad-girl lit and autofiction I've looked at (Cole, Lerner, Offill, La Cava etc.). Even this style can be deepened into something more like a Dantesque narrative, as in Moshfegh's Rest and Relaxation and Tao Lin's Leave Society, works of sad-girl lit and incipiently sad-boy autofiction (respectively) I do admire. But there's a quality of spiritual quest in those two books.
I follow you there -- suffering as a quest narrative still has its potential, and maybe always will. Contrasting the fragmented first-person fiction you dislike with the disaffected examples you admire: if Lin and Moshfegh are spiritually seeking, what would you say Cole/Lerner/Offil/company are doing instead?
The one Offill book I read seemed to be spiritually seeking too—terminating in an ecumenical secular Buddhism—but I just didn't find it too convincing stylistically. Lerner and Cole are aesthetes permanently tormented by the culture-and-imperialism thesis that the true meaning of aesthetics is social suffering, so they're committed to a grim secular ascesis, following the footsteps of Sebald. (I never actually finished a Lerner novel; I'm basing this on The Hatred of Poetry.) Coetzee (mentioned in a comment somewhere else on this page) was like them but ended up going in a Kierkegaardian or Dostoevskean dimension, is now essentially, if I understand him rightly, a Christian author.
Regarding the so-called 100 Greatest Books. I commented at Lincoln Michel's site that I couldn't take seriously either "Never Let Me Go" or "The Underground Railroad," because they both require you to swallow a gigantic implausibility that's crucial to the story. And those are the Top Two! My favorite novel did make the list, but only at No. 65 (Helen DeWitt's "The Last Samurai" - which I plan to revisit soon).
Yes, I definitely need to read The Last Samurai, considering how people rave about it! Never Let Me Go is one of my all-time favorite books, but I readily admit it's not convincing in the manner of a realistic science fiction novel; I take it as a Kafka-like dream narrative.
On the other hand (speaking of dream narratives), I do have "The Unconsoled" on my revisit list. I read it when it was new, and I remember being both very impressed and puzzled (and a little irritated) by it. This makes it a good candidate for a re-reading.
I feel the same about The Unconsoled (only read it once myself). My loopy "fan theory" is that all of Ishiguro after The Unconsoled exists in different realms of its dream-time.
"Much as I disdain identity politics, when you throw ethnicity into the mix—see the last two paragraphs here—how could my personal political feelings ever have been anything but mixed?"
I got the same vibe from your utterly hilarious review of "Glengarry Glen Ross," which for obvious reasons I won't quote here.
Thank you! I forgot I even wrote that. What things I used to write before I became "seigneurial"! Here's a link for the morbidly curious:
https://johnpistelli.com/2017/07/31/david-mamet-glengarry-glen-ross/