The Reading Experience

Childish Free-for-All

Attacks by "mainstream" press and literary figures against literary blogs have been appearing with some frequency lately. The most recent comes from Michael Dirda:

Every blogger wants to write a book. In fact, the dirty little secret of the internet is "Littera scripta manet"--the written word survives. A book is real, whereas cyberspace is just keystrokes--quickly scribbled and quickly forgotten. . .If you were an author, would you want your book reviewed in The Washington Post and The New York Review of Books--or on a website written by someone who uses the moniker NovelGobbler or Biografiend? The book review section, whether of a newspaper or a magazine, remains the forum where new titles are taken seriously as works of art and argument, and not merely as opportunities for shallow grandstanding and overblown ranting, all too often by kids hoping to be noticed for their sass and vulgarity. Should we allow our culture to descend to this playground level of discourse? . . .Newspapers sift, filter, and evaluate; they are responsible and strive to be trustworthy. So, too, do their book review sections. To curtail such coverage is to abandon an intellectual forum for a childish free-for-all. We would be shortchanging not only readers, but also the art, culture and scholarship of our time. Playgrounds, as we all remember, are ruled by bullies, loud-mouths and prima-donnas.

Apparently newspaper book review sections are suffering not because the reviews they publish increasingly go unread, or because the newspapers that sponsor them are being irresponsible in abandoning literary/cultural coverage that doesn't fill the financial coffers amply enough, but because of bloggers and their incessant scribbling, their blogs with funny names, and their goldarned "shallow grandstanding and overblown ranting," their "childish free-for-alls." (The word choice is telling. Free? For all? There goes the condo in Georgetown.) Presumably if bloggers hadn't come along and sucked all the air out of the room, the book review drudges would still be in there dutifully typing their 750 words and nobody would have been hurt.

That Dirda lets loose in this way suggests to me that he and his fellow ink-stained wretches really do think litblogs are threatening to make them obsolete. The twisted logic and the barely concealed rage (shared by many other anti-blog screeds) on display here is ever so revealing. Why lash out at the "kids" and their "sass and vulgarity" if they otherwise aren't worth taking seriously? Why focus exclusively on defending book reviewers from bloggers, rather than the bottom-line empty suits actually giving reviewers the ax, if you don't think the future probably does belong to the blogs? Playground bullies operate from a position of power, and it would appear that Dirda thinks litbloggers have seized it (and that he and his colleagues are victims.)

I have to say that the fury Dirda expresses in these comments takes me somewhat aback. I was under the impression that Dignified Critics such as himself mostly ignored litbogs, or at least that they didn't think real "book people" paid them much mind. I guess I was wrong. I guess literary weblogs have arrived, after all. Dirda's own "overblown ranting" only confirms it.

Oh, and the bit about how newspaper book review sections are the "forum where new titles are taken seriously as works of art." What a kidder.

Decided Upon In Advance

In Chapter IV ("The Act of Expression") of Art as Experience, John Dewey writes:

If one examines into the reason why certain works of art offend us, one is likely to find that the cause is that there is no personally felt emotion guiding the selecting and assembling of the materials presented. We derive the impression that the artist, say the author of a novel, is trying to regulate by conscious intent the nature of the emotion aroused. We are irritated by a feeling that he is manipulating materials to secure the effect decided upon in advance. The facets of the work, the variety so indispensable to it, are held together by some external force. The movement of the parts and the conclusion disclose no logical necessity. The author, not the subject matter, is the arbiter.

By "emotion" Dewey perhaps means something like "intuition" or "inspiration," the specifically artistic emotion that determines "the selecting and assembling of the materials." In experiencing a work of fiction that seems "regulated by conscious intent," the reader does not share or him/herself intuit the "emotion" that holds the work together, but in a sense only observes the author manipulating the "materials"--the story, the depicted characters, etc--to achieve an effect "decided upon in advance." In this kind of inauthentic, aesthetically impoverished fiction, the writer has latched on to fiction as a vehicle for "saying something," not as a form of verbal art in which the work must "say" for itself. Readers expecting literature to provide a compelling reading experience unlike that to be found in ordinary written discourse are rightly offended by this kind of fiction, which privileges the author's intent over the achieved "necessity" of the work itself.

As Dewey writes further:

In reading a novel, even one written by an expert craftsman, one may get a feeling early in the story that hero or heroine is doomed, doomed not by anything inherent in situations and character but by the intent of the author who makes the character a puppet to set forth his own cherished idea.

Suffice it to say that characters can become "puppets" in any kind of narrative, not just a tragic one, although Dewey implies that the tragic mode is especially susceptible to didactic purposes, resulting in a work in which "doom" is not "inherent in the movement of the subject matter portrayed" but instead creates "an arbitrary and imposed world." Tragedy becomes not the result of human frailty or conflicting goods but a consequence of the machinations of wicked people or oppressive institutions or political malfeasance. It is a particularly tempting narrative convention within which to cloak one's "cherished idea," although obviously such ideas could just as easily motivate (and perhaps be even less concealed in) satire, especially satire of a more overtly corrective kind. And both satire and "tragedy" as Dewey describes it here easily enough slip into moralism:

It is for similar reasons [those reasons why we "resent" being presented with characters-as-puppets] that we are repelled by the intrusion of a moral design in literature while we esthetically accept any amount of moral content if it is held together by a sincere emotion that controls the material.

The moralist is the writer who has a "moral design" on literature--who sees it as an forum for moral discourse more than as an aesthetic form--or who wishes to create a moral "design" in works of fiction or poetry in the guise of, or in substitution for, aesthetic design. We are "repelled" by the highjacking of literature for these moral purposes because it is not "sincere." It has no regard for the integrity of works of art as art, reducing both it and real moral discourse to a kind of cheap thrill.

I think Dewey's distinction between "moral design" and "moral content" is very important in the consideration of art and literature. Focusing on moral design essentially converts works of art, especially literature, into a method of conducting moral/political debate by other means. At its worst, it becomes tedious moralizing. To speak of the "moral content" of literature, however, is to recognize the inherent moral quandries and conundrums that fiction and poetry inevitably explore, simply because novels and stories and poems are written by human beings and are inescapably about human reality. Some readers might indeed want to abstract "moral content" from particular works to ponder more fully, as long as the work in question "is held together by a sincere emotion that controls the material." That is, as long as it is, first of all, art.

A Good Title

Ellis Sharp points us to a British literary agency that informs us it looks for the following in the fiction it represents:

A good title; an engaging story with a beginning, middle and end; vivid, memorable characters whom one cares about; superb dialogue; a transporting sense of time and place; accuracy of detailing; psychological plausibility; an intriguing beginning and memorable ending.

In addition, what fills us with joy is the writer who has a palpable love of language, who always chooses precisely the right words, eschews clichés, handles pacing with the skill of a dancer and musician, conjures up moods and atmospheres with an apparently invisible wand, and whose spelling, punctuation and grammar are immaculate.

It may be that, as Ellis intimates, this is a way of warding off various kinds of genre manuscripts, letting prospective authors know that this agency is looking for only the "best" in serious fiction. However, it doesn't seem to me that these criteria really exclude the "best" in current genre fiction. Most SF and crime fiction attempt to provide "engaging" stories, "memorable" characters, "superb dialogue," blah, blah, blah. (A possible exception might be "psychological plausibility": SF novels, for example, probably aren't expected to provide this particular kind of "realism" very extensively, at least not at the expense of a clearly demarcated "beginning, middle, and end"; presumably only "literary fiction" is asked to carry off both of these tasks at the same time.)

The real problem with this editorial prescription is that it's just a grab-bag of conventional wisdom about what makes for a properly "literary" work of fiction, and as such it's probably shared by most agents and editors who consider themselves in the business of publishing "quality" books. Perhaps writers who perceive their job as first of all to be published attempt to scrupulously obey such directions and duly set about to provide the ingredients called for (and perhaps this explains why so many published literary novels seem so indistinguishable from one another), but writers interested in creating fresh and imaginative works of art can only find this list of imperatives confusing. Producing "literary fiction" apparently doesn't mean doing one's best to create a compelling reading experience out of the myriad ways language can be brought to bear on "character" or "story" or "place," but is a matter of combining these elements in an already-known manner: Mix one part "engaging story" (making sure to include "an intriguing beginning and memorable ending") with two parts "accuracy of detailing" with a healthy slice of "memorable character" and just a pinch of good dialogue.

Do these agents and editors really believe that writing fiction comes down to following this formula with just a little more skill than the next guy? Exactly what is a "palpable love of language" for them? Is it as simple as eschewing cliches? Surely it can't be something as vague as "pacing with the skill of a dancer and musician" or conjuring up "moods and atmospheres with an apparently invisible wand." Is this where the "art" comes in? Accepting that "pacing" is very important and then carrying it out with "the skill of a dancer"? That "moods and atmospheres" ought to be present and then applying one's wand? Furthermore, how to reconcile these more evanescent attributes with the need to choose "precisely the right words"? Isn't this "precisely" a little constricting, especially if you're trying to imitate dancers and musicians, whirling through the story and jamming out "moods and atmospheres" at your pleasure? Doesn't finding the "right word" imply that that word was known beforehand, that writing involves pinning down the thought to the word rather than letting words loose to see where they'll go?

In an interview at Condalmo with Sheila Heti, author of the underappreciated novel Ticknor, Heti says this about "character":

I think we read literature in a funny way. We try to make sense of it the way we make sense of life, and by this route, look at the characters as though they're our friends, by which I mean: we gossip about them and cheaply psychoanalyse them. I find this to be a very funny thing to do to a character! In a lot of interviews I'm asked to speculate on Ticknor in this way, as though he is something separate from myself, someone I know, that I can talk about objectively. But of course, he is only my words, my head, my understanding of things, my aesthetic – not a person at all. . . .

In my opinion, asking for a "vivid, memorable character" amounts to requesting that a work of fiction provide us with a friend, a "person" with whom we will have what is called "sympathy." Demanding "psychological plausibility" in fictional characters means the author should give us the opportunity to "gossip about them and cheaply psychoanalyse them." And in the same way Heti suggests that good writers don't think about what makes for "memorable characters " when they're creating them, it's likely they don't think much about what makes a story "engaging" or dialogue "superb" or a sense of time or place "transporting," either. (Although maybe they do think about good titles and grammatical correctness.) Telling writers they ought to produce such things means nothing.

Blogging Sensibilities

In his response to the spat between litbloggers and n + 1 over "The Blog Reflex," Scott Esposito observed that, however simplistic the n +1 analysis really was, literary blogs nevertheless "could use a little honest, intelligent criticism."

I agree. I even agree that some of what "The Blog Reflex" had to say is worth considering, even if it is also true that it isn't clear really "how much n + 1 reads blogs," as Scott further points out. There are indeed more weblogs in the litblogosphere that take advantage of the medium "to post the best they could think or say" than are dreamt of in Keith Gessen and Marco Roth's philosophies, whether or not these blogs feature "5,000 word critiques" (although there are some of those, as well.) I would hope that most readers of this blog would agree that it mostly attempts to do that, although I do also provide links and shout-outs, which seem to me perfectly appropriate, and even worthwhile, activites, especially if you believe, as I do, that literary blogs can be useful in fostering an ongoing discussion about literary matters, a discussion that could be enhanced simply by pointing readers to other participants or to information relevant to it. Thus while some acts of linking and pasting do undoubtedly contribute to the culture of high-speed trivia, others could just as readily advance serious discourse about literature as citations and bibliographies in more recognizably "scholarly" forms of writing.

I also agree that sometimes those bloggers who by and large don't offer longer posts and reviews but instead comment on literary news and issues in a more epigrammatic style actually condense their views too severely--if not to the "I shit on Dante" extreme of unsupported opinionizing then at least too casually to merit much consideration by serious people. However, Gessen and Roth are wrong to imply that all blogs using this compact method of posting are equally frivolous or worthy of scorn. Mark Sarvas's The Elegant Variation seems to particulary rile up Gessen and Roth, but if they bothered to read that blog over the long haul, rather than focusing on individual posts that don't satisfy their expectations, they would certainly find that TEV expresses "an acute and well-stocked sensibility," one as "acute" as anything to be found in n +1 or any other literary journal. On many blogs, "sensibility" emerges cumulatively, over a longer stretch of shorter posts. Regular readers of The Elegant Variation surely know quite well what kind of writing and writers Mark Sarvas admires and why he admires them. If Gessen and Roth don't want to put in the time required to become acquainted with this or that blogger's sensibility, so be it. But their blanket assertions that "litblogs" don't engage in seriously-intended commentary about books and literature is just factually incorrect.

Still, it does seem to me that too many litblogs do settle for the link/quote/quip style without adding anything substantial or distinctive to the conversation about current literary developments. There's a great deal of overlap, too many bloggers linking to the same items who don't have the same powers of aphoristic insight as Mark Sarvas or Ed Champion or who just contribute to the creation of a real enough kind of herd mentality emanating from a large enough part of the litblogosphere. To some extent, this may be what the "Blog Reflex" is trying to get at, however much its authors made this point difficult to debate because of the deliberately hostile way in which it was expressed. If so, I can accept the implicit critique even if it was manifestly overgeneralized and needlessly contemptuous (as were Gessen and Roth's further comments at The Millions, TEV, and The Valve.)

On the other hand, this criticism really only applies if the litblogs in question truly do aspire to participate in the larger, more nationally focused discourse about books, to be part of some broader effort to rival, even replace, traditional print publications. And obviously many of them don't. They're content to provide links to a smaller circle of congenial readers and to engage in what is sometimes sneeringly referred to as "book chat." I'm not much interested in such chat myself, but it's only when this kind of book discussion, whether online or in print (where it most certainly does occur) passes itself off as rigorous criticism (or itself sneers at actual literary criticism) that I look at it askance. And I don't know why Keith Gessen and Marco Roth would puff themselves up with indignation over these blogs, either. They're not propping up the capitalist order, and they encourage people to read.

I do worry about the ways in which litblogs, especially the more well-known and influential ones, have in effect established a too cozy relationship with the "book business." Thus the question asked by G & R--"Why should publishers pay publicists and advertise in book supplements when a community of native agents exists who will perform the same service for nothing and with an aura of indie-cred?"--is well worth the posing. Certainly publishers have not stopped employing publicists and advertising in book reviews, but I am uncomfortable with the speed with which literary weblogs transformed themselves from quasi-outsider sources of literary debate into friendly partners with book publishers and other affiliates of the book business. I myself do indeed accept review copies from a number of publishers--and sometimes solicit them--but I never state or imply that I intend to review a book no matter my ultimate response to it, and especially don't promise a favorable review. (This seems to me the likely policy Gessen and Roth follow in their own consideration of publisher-provided copies.) The vast majority of books I have received in this way I have not mentioned on this blog at all. I'll review/discuss a book if it raises issues I otherwise want to discuss or if I am overwhelmingly impressed with it. If this means I will receive fewer "free advance copies" in the future, so be it. I still make enough money (barely) to buy books if I need to.

The best kind of relationship between bloggers and publishers is that described by Mark Thwaite at The Book Depository:

The blogosphere is a conversation. And the first thing publishers need to do is to join that conversation, not seek to dominate it. How do they do that? Well, they get a blog and they start blogging! But I’d recommend that they don’t simply use the blog as a publicity blog. . .

To get the most out of their blog, publishers need it to be a genuine part of the wider conversation about books that is the blogosphere, but one that just happens to be hailing from a place that also happens to publish books. . .

In other words, the publishers should come to the blogosphere, not the other way around.

But I also think that Gessen and Roth are mistaken to assert that what litbloggers really want from their interactions with publishers and their consideration of particular books is "recognition" measured in "hits." I can remember the earlier days of the litblogosphere--before "mainstream" recognition came our way and we were courted by book publishers in the first place--when it was true that links from other bloggers--at that time our numbers were considerably fewer--were highly prized, a sign that your blog was accepted into the "self-sustaining community," as G & R put it. But that time has long passed. The kind of incestuous cross-blogging for which litbloggers were originally (and sometimes justifiably) criticized essentially disappeared once litblogs began to draw wider attention. Most of the ur-litblogs--TEV, Maud Newton, Moorish Girl, Silliman's Blog--report their news and views from sources that are as unimpeachably newsworthy as anything n + 1 itself surveys. These blogs no longer need the click-throughs that pump up one's hit count, anyway, but I nonetheless believe that even those of us in the lower-rent disticts, who do benefit from the links we still occasionally get from the plusher quarters, are not fishing for links and do not blog primarily for recognition and to secure our "niches."

If the n +1 critique of blogs is that they trivialize the discussion of literature, I can't agree. The rise of litblogs has been, on the whole, a positive development for serious book discussion. If, however, the charge is that sometimes litblogs focus on trivialities, I think the allegation has some merit. The year-end obsession with "best-of" lists (shared, of course, with mainstream print publications) almost makes me want to stop reading litblogs during the month of December, and the constant monitoring of prizes and awards doesn't do much for me, either. I could not have had less interest in the most recent "tournament of books." But ultimately such annoyances are more than balanced by the enhanced attention to fiction and poetry litblogs have cumulatively brought to bear and by the possibilities for new forms of criticism they continue to promise. Perhaps if the editors of n + 1 themselves paid more attention to the whole range of literary weblogs that are now available (and not just to the mentioning of their own names in the most prominent of blogs), they would come to see that as well.