Monday, September 15, 2014

Modern Masterpieces

Reviewing the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century

by Annette Ferran

A Clockwork Orange
Number 65 on the Modern Library’s list is A Clockwork Orange by Anthony Burgess, one of my favorite novels of all times and also one of my favorite movies (made by Stanley Kubrick).  There are distinct reasons for both being favorites but the unifying appeal is Burgess’s superbly imaginative linguistics.
            Like Orwell’s 1984 and Huxley’s Brave New World (both also on the list), A Clockwork Orange depicts a dystopian world of the not terribly distant future in which the things ordinary people are currently discomfited by have logically grown to oppressive proportions.  The protagonist and narrator is Alex, an anti-hero if there ever was one.  He is a truly appealing and appalling young teenaged thug living with his overly permissive, useless parents in anarchical urban England. He is lively, intelligent, and dandyish, with a seemingly paradoxical love of Beethoven.  Along with an ethos of hedonism and violence, he and his friends have developed a richly expressive language that leans heavily on Russian. (The book was published in 1962, amidst the Cold War.) 
            As an amateur linguist and full-blown philologist, I revel in this aspect of the novel.  It is intriguing and amusing to read. The language is only one compelling aspect, however, and in some ways the superficial one. As teenage slang provides cover to its users so they can talk about what they need to talk about without comprehension or interference from adults, the invented language dresses up the narrative, which is of a society degenerated into a mess of hierarchically ordered exploitative violence.
            Alex’s attitudes and actions are of the type we are frightened of, being apparently senseless and uncontrollable.  What is more intimidating to an unsure adult than a strong boy of adult physicality with no internal constraints on his behavior?  The fear is both physical and moral:  This boy could do us harm, and we are the ones who should have taught him better.  Alex himself is also a victim, however, to passivity on the part of his parents, misplaced hyper-control from school and law authority (think of the zero-tolerance policy common in present-day elementary schools), and finally psychological torture in the name of the greater good by dispassionate social scientists, the most frightening prospect of all.
            The beauty of the novel is how it constructs a feeling of connection between the reader and Alex.  He should be our worst nightmare, but instead he is disturbingly attractive.  He is the narrator of our decline, the commentator on our faults.  He pulls the veil off all the things we don’t want to own up to.  Alex will grow up, if he does not end up lobotomized in some fashion or other, into an adult, as will his friends.  He embodies the trend of the world, set in motion by this thing called society, in which no individual is compelled to take responsibility in his or her own time.  He should be a warning, but he is charming and captivating and sets us off-balance.
            The book itself is slim and quick.  The writing is irresistible. You have to dive right in to the slang, accepting it, comprehending through context.  The first paragraph alone contains more than a dozen neologisms, not to mention the novel grammar and stylistic constructs of Alex’s speech.  And so you immediately take your place there in the milk bar, poised to accompany this character through his story, embedded, as it were—complicit.


Annette Ferran lives in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and works in Philadelphia as an editor for a medical publisher.  She is also the Associate Editor for 10,000 Tons of Black Ink, a Literary Writers Network publication. She has a degree of dubious practical use, in German, and is a lifelong avid reader of fiction and lover of lists. She has had a few short stories published, most recently in RE:AL. 

Tuesday, August 26, 2014

Reflections from the Well
On Writing Craft, Creativity & Inspiration



By Alexander Slagg



Is the End Just the Beginning?

I was recently inspired to read Walt Whitman’s Leaves of Grass again, especially the poem “Song of Myself.” I needed some inspiration and guidance from a source that championed individuality and encouraged a sensual relationship to all that life has to offer. Walt Whitman was my man.

I recall last reading this iconic collection and poem back in the summer of 2002. I have vivid memories of riding the bus from my apartment in San Francisco to my first “real” editing job far out in Marin County, reading a tattered copy as the sun-scorched Northern California landscape unspooled outside the window. As I rolled along in air-conditioned comfort, I remember being awed by the spiritual depth and breadth of this work — some mid-19th century dude had put to paper these expansive mystical observations. Amazing! And I was intrigued by Whitman’s erotic themes. Again, some mid-19th century dude had written this. Amazing! “Song of Myself” read like a secret peek into someone’s diary from a long time ago.

The first thing that caught my attention this time around was in the introduction, which details some of the collection’s writing and publishing history. Whitman did not simply gather this collection of work and then release it to the world — end of story. The first edition was published in 1855. By the time Whitman died in 1892, he had published from 6 to 9 subsequent editions (depending on how you define an edition) of Leaves of Grass. With each edition he revised and tinkered with his masterwork, rephrasing, reorganizing, shifting around content, adding content. With the death-bed edition of Leaves of Grass, the collection had grown from 12 poems to almost 400 altogether.

As an artist, what is to be made of this constant tinkering and reworking? When is a writing project done? Whitman continued to update “Song of Myself” and other poems from the original edition for more than 36 years. In my own experience, this onerous dedication to refining a creative work seems extreme. I like to believe that every creative project is on its own time frame and has its own unique gestation period. But I also think that it’s very easy for an artist to get sucked into the revision quagmire.

I finished writing my first novel in 2007, the initial draft having taken about two and a half years. Over the past seven years I have workshopped it and gone through extensive rewrites. I’m currently on draft four. When will this project be done? Not soon enough for my tastes. The thought of sitting down to work through subsequent drafts is about as appealing as a rusty nail through my hand.

Through the entire rewrite process, I’ve wanted to do nothing else but move on to the next project (which I’ve done here and there, eventually returning to another draft of my novel). My natural artistic temperament is at the opposite end of the spectrum from Walt Whitman. I definitely think of myself as a one-and-done artist. I want to capture the initial inspiration — and keep having that experience over and over again. That’s where the buzz is for me. That is my writing raison d’etre.

But I’ve stuck with the rewrite process of my novel, as difficult as it’s been. Why? I guess it’s because I want to grow as a writer. Rewriting forces you to look at your writing and find ways to improve and refine it. Do it enough, and you’ll grow as a writer.

I’ve come to believe that there are two complementary energies that are needed to be a complete artist: inspiration and integration. You need to be open to inspiration’s calling and you need to be able to work the craft afterword, refining your creative vision and, over time, integrating those improvements into how you approach subsequent projects. Through a commitment to this ying-yang process, you can become the most whole and developed artist you are capable of becoming.

Monday, August 11, 2014

Modern Masterpieces

Reviewing the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century

by Annette Ferran

The Sheltering Sky

Paul Bowles’ The Sheltering Sky  (#97 on the Modern Library’s list) is his most famous work.  He is known for his own travels as well as his travel writing, and this is, on its surface, a story of adventurous traveling.  A couple, Port and Kit, take themselves to North Africa, unmooring themselves from their familiar world.  They encounter a culture quite in contrast to their own in all moral and aesthetic values.  They throw themselves into danger from which they cannot, and do not, extract themselves. 
Bowles is a masterful writer.  He does not provide a context for this story, as in “this is how we do things, and this is how they do things.”  Instead, this is an instant immersion, like going to live with a foreign family and having to learn everything about the family—their habits, their version of normal, their history, their private unexplained expectations—and learn language comprehension at the same time.  It is like throwing yourself into a dark deep sea in order to learn how to swim.  You may learn to comprehend, you may learn to swim.  You could instead lose your self and lose your life. In the meantime you see things you never imagined seeing.
This story is a travel story; it is also an existential treatise.  It’s a commentary on culture clash, imperialism, human violence, xenophobia, Western arrogance.  It depicts a culture rebelliously impervious to the expectations of “us.”  It covers love and marriage, the vulnerability of femaleness, ego-insecurity. It is nihilistic, it is beautiful: the world is beautiful but we humans are tiny, we are brutalized.
            The book was written in the aftermath of the Second World War, a time when the world had seemingly lost its foundation and any notion of moralism had cracked apart, shattered into pieces impossible to put back together again.  War has done this over and over, especially war based on one defined people against another defined people, when the definitions must become simplified and the nuances of humanity, the commonalities, must be ignored and negated so that the struggle can achieve its own life and grow epic. For the war to exist, the players must decide to turn away from learning about one another.  The Sheltering Sky is not about World War II. It is about what it is about: two people who for their own reasons accept within themselves the fate they’ve set in motion and make themselves victims of a situation they could easily have avoided by staying home.              
The writer’s great poetic sense and deep intellect are evident in every sentence, making this a novel to be read again and again, if you can stand it.  It has pungency. It is dark and exultant.  It is a multilayered sensory experience with countless indelible images.  The woman of the couple is taken essentially as a slave and (being female) used sexually in most horrendous ways. The men who take her have mythic habitus, huge and black-clad in flowing robes against a relentlessly barren-looking landscape that hides teeming life.  We understand that this couple has agreed, as most travelers do not, to leave behind their set of norms and instead to experience—in the most profound understanding of “experience”—what this new environment will subject them to. They do not turn away.  As part of their agreement, however, they also do not judge, when judgment might be valuable.
It does not end well.  There is no redemption in this story.  Unless, as redemption, you count the prose itself.  A sublime satisfaction is gained at the same time that an unbearable unsettled feeling is delivered. 
            There are many ways to read this novel—as story, as allegory, as philosophy—which is what makes it a great novel, of which there are many but also too few.


Annette Ferran lives in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and works in Philadelphia as an editor for a medical publisher.  She is also the Associate Editor for 10,000 Tons of Black Ink, a Literary Writers Network publication. She has a degree of dubious practical use, in German, and is a lifelong avid reader of fiction and lover of lists. She has had a few short stories published, most recently in RE:AL. 

Monday, July 28, 2014

Reflections from the Well
On Writing Craft, Creativity & Inspiration



By Alexander Slagg



Time Travel, of a Different Sort

I did some time traveling recently. Like any good sci-fi movie, my life had reached a crisis point and only going back in time would provide the change I needed to resolve this problem and move forward to live happily ever after. My conduit for this journey into the past was the summer intern at my day job, Myles. Once upon a time, I was Myles, a shaggy-haired college student with a constantly receding horizon that was my future, open and without limit. I am no longer Myles, I am me: an aging creative guy now with children and adult responsibilities, feeling the dueling pressures of grownup responsibility and creative ambition.

Myles was introduced to the plot line of my life at work one morning when my manager brought him by my cubicle and introduced him. He dressed casually but appropriately for office life, wearing tan khakis and a Greg Norman polo shirt. It wasn’t readily apparent that he would serve as a catalyst for change. On our first meeting, he came across as slightly privileged and the product of an insular suburban life — but a fitting reflection of my own upbringing and younger self. The internship was simple: throughout the summer, I was to teach Myles the finer points of writing and editing marketing materials.

We began this process in earnest, emailing our communications back and forth, though we were separated by only a cubicle wall — an early lesson in the ways of corporate life. I assigned him some writing to edit and made plans to meet up to review his edits and to walk him through my own editing process.

Around this time, I was creatively cramped on a number of fronts, having great difficulty getting started on my next creative project. I had hit a writing roadblock. The bricks of this particular wall stemmed from recent life turmoil: getting divorced and now raising two young children myself. This new development in my life had knocked me off kilter, causing me to contemplate my priorities.

While married, I managed to fool myself into thinking that I was no longer a self-absorbed “artist” living for myself and my creative mission. I was a partner, and soon enough a father. I now had these other more important roles to play. But this was not entirely true. I continued to write and do other creative projects. There wasn’t much “choice” in it. This was what I did — art. Now I had to find ways to squeeze it in with my growing responsibilities.

Not until my marriage imploded and I suddenly found myself responsible for the lives of a four- and six-year-old did I start the real process of figuring out how I was going to juggle all these wants and needs crowding my life. And in that process, I suddenly came across this new wall now blocking access to my creative flow. Questions were bubbling up from some subterranean aquifer inside me. These questions essentially boiled down to: Why was I wasting precious time and energy on creative projects when I should be devoting myself to supporting my children and their inexhaustible needs? The parental urge to self-sacrifice can be strong, and I was feeling it keenly.

I grappled with this question for weeks, maybe months. It was on my mind when I woke in the morning, while driving to work, doing the dishes, laying down for bed at night. It was pervasive. I was thinking about it on my drive over to the coffee shop to meet up with Myles and go over his editing. I was sitting at a wood table not far from the entrance, setting up my laptop. A flash of sunlight played off the door’s glass surface as Myles entered, momentarily blinding me as he sat down.

We chatted for a bit and drank our coffee, going over the editing assignment before moving on to conversation about music and writing. Myles was relating to me the genius of George RR Martin, but my mind was a million miles away, wondering why I was even having this conversation about writing — a topic that felt like a far-off luxury that I could no longer afford. Tuning back into the present, I decided to pose to Myles the question that had been eating away at me.

“Why do you write?”

The reality of the coffee shop seemed to telescope around us as the words passed through my lips. The expression on Myles’ goatee-framed face was one of quizzical contemplation. It was in this moment that the time travel occurred. I was no longer sitting in the older, experienced editor’s seat. I had warped back into the seat of the young writer unmolested by the grind of life experience. The answer that came from Myles’ mouth were words that once could have come from my own.

“I’ve never really thought about it before. I want to be a published author because I think it would be cool. I write because it's cool.”

The truth of his words struck me. I was inside Myles when he uttered these words. I felt the nonchalant innocence of them. And that carefree feeling stayed with me as I was pulled back into the future and to the present. There were no outward signs that anything mindblowing had just occurred as we packed up our computers and headed our separate ways into the stifling summer heat. But I felt like a different person as I motored down the highway and back to my flat in the city. I felt renewed.

Myles’ simple words had given me a key to open all of the locks and undo the chains of adult responsibility that had so tightly bound me. He had reminded me that creativity does not operate through a set of logical rules, so I should not make logical demands of it. I did not need a reason to write. Sitting down to write is its own reward. Giving yourself time to do something simply because you enjoy doing it, because it’s cool, is a necessity.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Modern Masterpieces

Reviewing the 100 Best Novels of the 20th Century

by Annette Ferran


Deliverance

What constitutes “the best” in novels?  This is a question that came up again and again for me as I read through the Modern Library’s list.  I accepted at the outset, having scanned the list before beginning to read, that the old familiar bias permeated it—what has been popularly referred to as the “dead white men” bias.  Even with this level of acceptance, #42 on the list, Deliverance, by James Dickey, was shocking to me.  And not in a good way.
            Deliverance is probably best known through its film adaptation with Ned Beatty and Burt Reynolds representing the opposite ends of the manliness spectrum. It is the story of a group of men seeking to reconnect with or rekindle their masculinity.  The narrator/protagonist is the “sensitive” one, not especially weak but not especially virile either, eager to test himself but not the one with the quasi-suicidal compulsions. It is a man’s tale of a typical kind, in which the civilized man regains his self-identity by confronting the challenge of violence presented by nature and by uncivilized men.
            This novel also belongs to what I’ve come to recognize as a subgenre of misogyny:  an artistic backlash against the growing feminism of the time, and most particularly against female sexuality (see Straw Dogs for a another stunning example).
            An iconic scene is that in which the least manly of the men is raped like a pig by the subhuman men.  As is revealed in the last scene of the book, however—a scene mercifully or perhaps wisely left out of the movie—his position wasn’t so much pig-like as woman-like. In this last scene our sensitive protagonist returns home to his wife after this harrowing, chest-hair-growing adventure and proceeds to screw her (vulgarity intended), as is his right and duty, in a way that mimics his fellow traveler’s ordeal.  The author is not content just to depict this parallel; the character himself remarks on it and defines it.  In this scene the author commits not only an attitudinal sin but also a stylistic one.  He might have left this parallel to us readers to discern for ourselves.  The impression would have been just as distasteful, but literarily it would not have been the club to the head that it is.
            This novel is obscene—not merely pornographic, like Tropic of Cancer, but objectionable in its sex-based themes.  Depicting the notion that men struggle with their manliness is not enough, it seems. This novel has to do so at the express expense of women.  Moreover, the sensitive man becomes fully male again only by embracing extreme violence.
            Deliverance was published in 1970.  As it happens, so was a novel powerfully influential in my reading life, The Bluest Eye, by Toni Morrison.  How this consciousness-shifting work was passed over while so many of the white men, dead and alive, made the list is baffling.
            The story told in The Bluest Eye is harrowing also, but this author’s understanding of humanity is deep and compassionate (while also furious). Morrison’s novel is not shock-worthy but rather, in its wisdom and eloquence, quite necessary.
            I intentionally gave away the key scenes of Deliverance.  I don’t want anyone else to bother reading this book.  With your free time, go read The Bluest Eye.


Annette Ferran lives in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania, and works in Philadelphia as an editor for a medical publisher.  She is also the Associate Editor for 10,000Tons of Black Inka Literary Writers Network publication. She has a degree of dubious practical use, in German, and is a lifelong avid reader of fiction and lover of lists. She has had a few short stories published, most recently in RE:AL.