The book I've spent nearly the last three years working on with my friend and colleague Daniel Michon, of Claremont McKenna College in California, has finally been published. To Serve God in Holy Freedom: The Brief Rebellion of the Nuns of the Royal Convent of Santa Mónica, Goa, India, 1731–1734 is primarily a translation of a lengthy complaint to the authorities in Rome and the King of Portugal about Ignácio de Santa Teresa, the archbishop of Goa. There's also an introduction written mostly by Daniel, a preface by Timothy Coates, who translated the well-known Portuguese treatise Diálogo do Soldado Prático into English, and a transcription of the original text, which I frankly am shocked that we managed to translate as well as we did. It's a wildly idiosyncratic writing style even by contemporary standards.
Alas, since this is an academic book, it bears an academic price tag. You can order it here, but I don't blame you if you don't. Books should never be that expensive, even those aimed at institutions and libraries instead of individuals. At some point in the next few months we'll make it open access, but for now, dear reader, you're stuck paying through the nose.
I'll write more about Soror Magdalena, the archbishop, and 18th century Goa later. Take it easy, folks.
Yours,
DAS
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Showing posts with label books. Show all posts
Monday, August 17, 2020
Friday, May 08, 2020
Happy birthday, Tom.
Happy 83rd birthday to Thomas Pynchon, whose novels have meant a great deal to me for over twenty years. There are a handful of writers whose stuff makes me want to stop reading right then and there and go write, and Pynchon may be foremost among them (Philip K. Dick, William Gibson, and William S. Burroughs also come to mind). Fortunately—mainly for any would-be readers, not so much for me with my now long-dormant delusions of literary grandeur—I figured out early on that I lack the talent, the eye, the humor, and the depth of thought required to successfully emulate, or at least take useful cues, from Pynchon, so it's been a long while since I tried my hand at writing that sort of detailed, intensely aware shit. Still, the idea is always there, and I'm not likely to give up on it entirely, seeing as how I have a permanent reminder of Pynchon's influence in the form of a W.A.S.T.E. tattoo.
I can't remember if I first read about Thomas Pynchon in Steamshovel Press, which published a good review of Mason & Dixon in 1998 or '99, or in this interview with William Gibson, which I read in 1998 or so and the actual existence of which I was unsure of until recently (hence my being stoked at finding that link, and seeing that the "reading Gravity's Rainbow in jail" memory I've had all these years wasn't just some neat misremembering or implanted memory). Whatever the case, it feels like fate, or at least in line with the idea that you find something when you're meant to. What I do know is that I started Gravity's Rainbow in the spring of '99 and was utterly overwhelmed, so returning it (in that blown-out orangey hardcover edition from, I think, the '70s) to the SHSU library for the summer break wasn't so bad. Over the next year and change, before I graduated, I finished it and read V., The Crying of Lot 49 (which I still re-read on a regular basis; it's a great way to spend a day otherwise blown off), Slow Learner, Vineland, and Mason & Dixon. Then came the latter-day books—Against the Day, Inherent Vice, and Bleeding Edge, plus the cinematic version of Inherent Vice, which I saw as soon as I could, and while properly high. I got all the books the day they came out, much like I've done with Gibson's novels since All Tomorrow's Parties.
My take on almost everything has been shaped by Pynchon's work. His ongoing themes of entropy and paranoia have influenced my thinking, but don't define it; as Sortilege mentions in Inherent Vice (the book, not the film), shikantaza, the Zen practice of just sitting, plays the part of a corrective to all the bummer vibes of life in this sad-ass crumbling empire we call America. The relationship between the titular characters of Mason & Dixon remains my favorite depiction of friendship, and continues to buttress my belief that choosing to care about certain people because we want to, because we have a mutually-chosen bond, is more meaningful than caring about someone because they're simply related by blood. I don't fully share Zoyd Wheeler's status as a burnout holdover from days of revolution and hope, but I think I have an idea of what it feels like. My take on what little time I've spent in California (including San Narciso's probable inspiration/doppelgänger) has been influenced by the adventures of Oedipa Maas, Doc Sportello, and the rest. Etc. etc.
Anyway, Thomas Pynchon rules, and I wanted to say a little something as to why I think so. I hope he's enjoying his birthday with beer, tacos, and a joint of Acapulco Gold. I won't even do that thing where I hope for another novel, because writers don't owe us anything, and even if they did, he paid that debt decades ago.
DAS
5.8.20
“Fate does not speak. She carries a Mauser and from time to time indicates our proper path.” — Thomas Pynchon, Against the Day
I can't remember if I first read about Thomas Pynchon in Steamshovel Press, which published a good review of Mason & Dixon in 1998 or '99, or in this interview with William Gibson, which I read in 1998 or so and the actual existence of which I was unsure of until recently (hence my being stoked at finding that link, and seeing that the "reading Gravity's Rainbow in jail" memory I've had all these years wasn't just some neat misremembering or implanted memory). Whatever the case, it feels like fate, or at least in line with the idea that you find something when you're meant to. What I do know is that I started Gravity's Rainbow in the spring of '99 and was utterly overwhelmed, so returning it (in that blown-out orangey hardcover edition from, I think, the '70s) to the SHSU library for the summer break wasn't so bad. Over the next year and change, before I graduated, I finished it and read V., The Crying of Lot 49 (which I still re-read on a regular basis; it's a great way to spend a day otherwise blown off), Slow Learner, Vineland, and Mason & Dixon. Then came the latter-day books—Against the Day, Inherent Vice, and Bleeding Edge, plus the cinematic version of Inherent Vice, which I saw as soon as I could, and while properly high. I got all the books the day they came out, much like I've done with Gibson's novels since All Tomorrow's Parties.
My take on almost everything has been shaped by Pynchon's work. His ongoing themes of entropy and paranoia have influenced my thinking, but don't define it; as Sortilege mentions in Inherent Vice (the book, not the film), shikantaza, the Zen practice of just sitting, plays the part of a corrective to all the bummer vibes of life in this sad-ass crumbling empire we call America. The relationship between the titular characters of Mason & Dixon remains my favorite depiction of friendship, and continues to buttress my belief that choosing to care about certain people because we want to, because we have a mutually-chosen bond, is more meaningful than caring about someone because they're simply related by blood. I don't fully share Zoyd Wheeler's status as a burnout holdover from days of revolution and hope, but I think I have an idea of what it feels like. My take on what little time I've spent in California (including San Narciso's probable inspiration/doppelgänger) has been influenced by the adventures of Oedipa Maas, Doc Sportello, and the rest. Etc. etc.
Anyway, Thomas Pynchon rules, and I wanted to say a little something as to why I think so. I hope he's enjoying his birthday with beer, tacos, and a joint of Acapulco Gold. I won't even do that thing where I hope for another novel, because writers don't owe us anything, and even if they did, he paid that debt decades ago.
DAS
5.8.20
“Fate does not speak. She carries a Mauser and from time to time indicates our proper path.” — Thomas Pynchon, Against the Day
Monday, February 10, 2020
News from the Southern Front
Sorry for the long absence, folks. The holidays were pretty relaxed, but 2020 is shaping up to be a busy year. I'm talking to a couple publishers about my translation of Súria, Vimala Devi's first book of poems. I'd like to get it into print ASAP, since Vimala is 88 and Súria has been out of print for ages. (I won't publish it without the original Portuguese text.) The book about 18th-century nuns in Goa I've been working on with a colleague since 2017 is about to get turned in, and Routledge should be putting it out later this year. More info on that when I have it. I'll be doing some editing work for a colleague in Portugal, and I'll be translating a book of poetry from Mozambican writer Virgílio de Lemos, too.
But wait, there's more! An old friend and I aim to work together on a comic book, something we've wanted to do since we were ten years old and drawing/writing weird shit that he still has, safe in sound in that same fifth grade Trapper Keeper. I've got another writing project—actual writing, not just translating—that I've been tapping away at now and then, and with any luck I'll make the time to bang out the rest of it and see if any publishers bite. Oh, and I'm working with a friend in Brazil on translating Tang dynasty poet 司空圖 Sikong Tu's 二十四詩品 Twenty-Four Kinds of Poetry into Portuguese.
Add to this all the DSA and related political shit I've been and will be doing for the foreseeable future, and you're looking at a corpse with his hands full. It's cool, though. I've got the new Yuri Gagarin album, The Outskirts of Reality, to provide a soundtrack, the mind-blowingly excellent game Disco Elysium to play when I need a break, and plenty of books to read. I'll survive.
Take it easy, dudes. I'll be back soon with, well, I don't know. Something!
But wait, there's more! An old friend and I aim to work together on a comic book, something we've wanted to do since we were ten years old and drawing/writing weird shit that he still has, safe in sound in that same fifth grade Trapper Keeper. I've got another writing project—actual writing, not just translating—that I've been tapping away at now and then, and with any luck I'll make the time to bang out the rest of it and see if any publishers bite. Oh, and I'm working with a friend in Brazil on translating Tang dynasty poet 司空圖 Sikong Tu's 二十四詩品 Twenty-Four Kinds of Poetry into Portuguese.
Add to this all the DSA and related political shit I've been and will be doing for the foreseeable future, and you're looking at a corpse with his hands full. It's cool, though. I've got the new Yuri Gagarin album, The Outskirts of Reality, to provide a soundtrack, the mind-blowingly excellent game Disco Elysium to play when I need a break, and plenty of books to read. I'll survive.
Take it easy, dudes. I'll be back soon with, well, I don't know. Something!
Wednesday, November 15, 2017
An overdue update.
Jesus, it's been a weird few months.
Even if you somehow leave out the grotesque, incompetent bevy of swindlers, Bible-thumpers, and authoritarian lickspittles that passes for the US government these days, and which is eagerly leading the charge toward a future that'll be as devoid of the aesthetics of a proper cyberpunk dystopia as it rich in the genre's inherent misery, 2017 has been a deeply weird, deeply fucked year for much of the world.
Since I last wrote, Hurricane Harvey inundated Houston and much of the Texas Gulf Coast. I was lucky to be spared, though for a few days there I spent a lot of time on the porch, sleep-deprived, rekindling my old smoking habit, watching the water creep up the steps. When the floodwaters receded, I put in some time with the Houston chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, gutting houses that had been flooded and getting direct aid to folks who needed it- and still need it. This shit ain't over, and won't be for a long time. Houston DSA is still helping out, so if three months after the fact isn't too late for you to want to visit the link above and donate a few bucks, know that it'll go to those in need, which means folks that the state of Texas and/or the federal government hasn't gotten around to helping, assuming they ever do.
But even events as hellacious as Harvey, and the subsequent ruin visited upon Florida and Puerto Rico by its tempestuous siblings, are incapable of hindering the human race's drunken stumble toward extinction- though I sincerely hope we trip and fall face-first into some sort of late-species glory on the way there- and so here we are in the middle of November. Let's take stock of what your humble Corpse has been up to, and/or thinks about things.
With the first draft of the Santa Monica translation done, I'm working regularly on the Sita Valles translation. The weather here is typically schizophrenic, which is to say that it's never actually cold for more than a few days at a time. I've lived here most of my life now, and this still pisses me off. I went to the Texas Renaissance Festival this past weekend, something I haven't done since 1999, and had a great time. I've set aside the cigarette habit I was far too eager to take up again when Harvey gave me a rationalization to do so. I visited the city of Québec in September, where I ate a lot of delicious food, learned that I can read French passably (and speak it horribly), used H.P. Lovecraft's history/travelogue as a guidebook of sorts, and pondered the legacy of Europe in America.
I've read some good books, among them Vivian Gornick's The Romance of American Communism, Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow, and Philip Hoare's The Whale: In Search of the Giants of the Sea. I continue to practice 形意拳 xingyiquan and 八卦掌 baguazhang, the two Daoist internal martial arts I started studying earlier this year. I spend a lot of time with cats, but never enough. The desire to write a novel about Macau and a book about Camilo Pessanha still floats around in my mind, ever closer to realization as ideas pile up and get written down.
Mostly, though, I'm just living. Not in the sense of getting by, but in the fullest sense of the word, replete with positive and negative aspects. The more time passes, the more I appreciate just living, and the more I understand how much that concept encompasses, especially when the world around you seems boring enough to make you scream, or when it's Accept-level balls-to-the-wall overwhelming.
All right, off to martial arts class. Catch y'all soon- hopefully not four months later soon.
微臣
史大偉
Even if you somehow leave out the grotesque, incompetent bevy of swindlers, Bible-thumpers, and authoritarian lickspittles that passes for the US government these days, and which is eagerly leading the charge toward a future that'll be as devoid of the aesthetics of a proper cyberpunk dystopia as it rich in the genre's inherent misery, 2017 has been a deeply weird, deeply fucked year for much of the world.
Since I last wrote, Hurricane Harvey inundated Houston and much of the Texas Gulf Coast. I was lucky to be spared, though for a few days there I spent a lot of time on the porch, sleep-deprived, rekindling my old smoking habit, watching the water creep up the steps. When the floodwaters receded, I put in some time with the Houston chapter of the Democratic Socialists of America, gutting houses that had been flooded and getting direct aid to folks who needed it- and still need it. This shit ain't over, and won't be for a long time. Houston DSA is still helping out, so if three months after the fact isn't too late for you to want to visit the link above and donate a few bucks, know that it'll go to those in need, which means folks that the state of Texas and/or the federal government hasn't gotten around to helping, assuming they ever do.
But even events as hellacious as Harvey, and the subsequent ruin visited upon Florida and Puerto Rico by its tempestuous siblings, are incapable of hindering the human race's drunken stumble toward extinction- though I sincerely hope we trip and fall face-first into some sort of late-species glory on the way there- and so here we are in the middle of November. Let's take stock of what your humble Corpse has been up to, and/or thinks about things.
With the first draft of the Santa Monica translation done, I'm working regularly on the Sita Valles translation. The weather here is typically schizophrenic, which is to say that it's never actually cold for more than a few days at a time. I've lived here most of my life now, and this still pisses me off. I went to the Texas Renaissance Festival this past weekend, something I haven't done since 1999, and had a great time. I've set aside the cigarette habit I was far too eager to take up again when Harvey gave me a rationalization to do so. I visited the city of Québec in September, where I ate a lot of delicious food, learned that I can read French passably (and speak it horribly), used H.P. Lovecraft's history/travelogue as a guidebook of sorts, and pondered the legacy of Europe in America.
I've read some good books, among them Vivian Gornick's The Romance of American Communism, Mary Doria Russell's The Sparrow, and Philip Hoare's The Whale: In Search of the Giants of the Sea. I continue to practice 形意拳 xingyiquan and 八卦掌 baguazhang, the two Daoist internal martial arts I started studying earlier this year. I spend a lot of time with cats, but never enough. The desire to write a novel about Macau and a book about Camilo Pessanha still floats around in my mind, ever closer to realization as ideas pile up and get written down.
Mostly, though, I'm just living. Not in the sense of getting by, but in the fullest sense of the word, replete with positive and negative aspects. The more time passes, the more I appreciate just living, and the more I understand how much that concept encompasses, especially when the world around you seems boring enough to make you scream, or when it's Accept-level balls-to-the-wall overwhelming.
All right, off to martial arts class. Catch y'all soon- hopefully not four months later soon.
微臣
史大偉
Tuesday, August 23, 2016
Tesouros deixados nos livros
Há uns dias, recebi o primeiro volume do que espero seja uma obra-prima, nomeadamente "A Ditadura Envergonhada" de Elio Gaspari. O livro (e os seus quatros volumes acompanhantes) conta a história da ditudura militar no Brasil entre 1964-1985, um assunto do que não sei nada. Que sorte que tenho milhares de páginas para ler.
Mas não estou aqui a fim de falar da ditadura, ou do trabalho de Gaspari. Preferiria fazer uma breve menção das coisas, além do texto, que se pode encontrar dentro de um livro. No caso de "A Ditadura Envergonhada", há uma dedicatória, de uma Senhora C. ao Senhor G. (Não vou escrever os seus nomes completos, porque o livro foi um presente, e quando um presente afasta-se para o sertão do mercado, sempre existe a possibilidade bem incómoda do doador o descobrindo.) Também achei um marcador das páginas, feito de um pedaço de cartão com as palavras "Pharmacia & Upjohn"- antiga fusão das empresas Pharmacia e Upjohn, hoje em dia parte de Pfizer- impresso nela.
Quando leio dedicatórias em livros em segunda mão, sempre tento de imaginar as circunstâncias em que foram escritas. Foi o livro um presente bem escolhido, ou uma escolha de último minuto? E os marcadores das páginas- por que o leitor escolheu este pedaço de cartão em vez de um bilhete, ou uma folha de papel, ou outra coisa? Fez ele leu o livro? Que pensou dele?
As notas marginais, as dedicatórias, os marcadores das páginas, todos são tesourinhos deixados, de propósito ou por acaso, pelos leitores. Tais coisas revelam-nos pequenos detalhes da vida do leitor (o simplesmente dono) anterior do livro, e enriquecem a nossa experiência de leitura. É fácil lembrar que a leitura é uma conversação entre autor e leitor, mas a oportunidade de ouvir (ou, corretamente, ver) o bate-papo entre o autor e um leitor diferente é um único prazer. Por isso, prefiro comprar livros usados, e sempre deixar os meus próprios presentes para os futuros leitores.
Boa leitura, amigos!
Mas não estou aqui a fim de falar da ditadura, ou do trabalho de Gaspari. Preferiria fazer uma breve menção das coisas, além do texto, que se pode encontrar dentro de um livro. No caso de "A Ditadura Envergonhada", há uma dedicatória, de uma Senhora C. ao Senhor G. (Não vou escrever os seus nomes completos, porque o livro foi um presente, e quando um presente afasta-se para o sertão do mercado, sempre existe a possibilidade bem incómoda do doador o descobrindo.) Também achei um marcador das páginas, feito de um pedaço de cartão com as palavras "Pharmacia & Upjohn"- antiga fusão das empresas Pharmacia e Upjohn, hoje em dia parte de Pfizer- impresso nela.
Quando leio dedicatórias em livros em segunda mão, sempre tento de imaginar as circunstâncias em que foram escritas. Foi o livro um presente bem escolhido, ou uma escolha de último minuto? E os marcadores das páginas- por que o leitor escolheu este pedaço de cartão em vez de um bilhete, ou uma folha de papel, ou outra coisa? Fez ele leu o livro? Que pensou dele?
As notas marginais, as dedicatórias, os marcadores das páginas, todos são tesourinhos deixados, de propósito ou por acaso, pelos leitores. Tais coisas revelam-nos pequenos detalhes da vida do leitor (o simplesmente dono) anterior do livro, e enriquecem a nossa experiência de leitura. É fácil lembrar que a leitura é uma conversação entre autor e leitor, mas a oportunidade de ouvir (ou, corretamente, ver) o bate-papo entre o autor e um leitor diferente é um único prazer. Por isso, prefiro comprar livros usados, e sempre deixar os meus próprios presentes para os futuros leitores.
Boa leitura, amigos!
Saturday, June 20, 2015
The Peregrinations of Anacleto Stornello
Last night I finished writing the first draft of the novel I've been working on for over four years. (Well, three full years, plus some gaps and the initial period of not knowing whether this would be a novel or something else.) I knew I was near the end, and had concrete plans to finish within a couple weeks, for reasons I'll discuss later, but as I sat at our new dining table around 10:30 last night I realized that I was already there: this was where the story of Anacleto and Agnese Stornello ended. It was a strange, surprising feeling; I felt, and still feel, more dazed than celebratory.
I'm not completely done, of course. I intend to do some editing before I make any attempts to get it published, there's an epilogue waiting to be written, and, since I read so many great books during the course of writing this novel, I'm going to provide a bibliography, too.
The working title is The Peregrinations of Anacleto Stornello, which I'm not sure I like enough to keep, but I can't think of anything better for the time being. The title's a nod to the Peregrinação of Fernão Mendes Pinto, though the story is considerably different (while also bearing some similarity, seeing as how they're both travel tales). It spans the years 1528-1531 and covers a number of places, ranging from Venice and Syria to India and Indonesia.
On one hand, I've had my fill of this project, but I also can't wait to polish it and see if it sells; at the moment, however, I think I'll let all thoughts of it settle to the bottom of my skull and focus my attention elsewhere, like Liam Matthew Brockey's excellent book The Visitor: André Palmeiro and the Jesuits in Asia.
Later, dudes.
D.A.S.
I'm not completely done, of course. I intend to do some editing before I make any attempts to get it published, there's an epilogue waiting to be written, and, since I read so many great books during the course of writing this novel, I'm going to provide a bibliography, too.
The working title is The Peregrinations of Anacleto Stornello, which I'm not sure I like enough to keep, but I can't think of anything better for the time being. The title's a nod to the Peregrinação of Fernão Mendes Pinto, though the story is considerably different (while also bearing some similarity, seeing as how they're both travel tales). It spans the years 1528-1531 and covers a number of places, ranging from Venice and Syria to India and Indonesia.
On one hand, I've had my fill of this project, but I also can't wait to polish it and see if it sells; at the moment, however, I think I'll let all thoughts of it settle to the bottom of my skull and focus my attention elsewhere, like Liam Matthew Brockey's excellent book The Visitor: André Palmeiro and the Jesuits in Asia.
Later, dudes.
D.A.S.
Saturday, January 17, 2015
Inherent Vice: some thoughts
I got into Thomas Pynchon during my sophomore year of college- barely, since the first of his novels I picked up was Gravity's Rainbow, which still ranks as one of the most daunting things I've ever read. Anyway, I perservered, finished that, and before I graduated read everything he'd published, save for a couple stories in Slow Learner. Given how infrequent his books were, I considered myself lucky to have read Mason & Dixon within a couple years of its publication, and assumed that it might be his last book. Ergo, when Against the Day was announced, I was pretty stoked.
I loved Against the Day, which, like Pynchon's other books, is a testament to the value of re-reading things. (Sadly, I haven't re-read it yet.) The fact that two more novels followed it in the space of seven years is one of the few indicators that I might not be living in one of Western civilization's deeper troughs, and gave me the opportunity to buy one of my favorite writer's books on the day they were released. (The other writer I've made a habit of doing this for is, unsurprisingly, William Gibson.)
While Bleeding Edge, the latest Pynchon novel, was good enough*, I loved the shit out of Inherent Vice. I dig detective fiction- it's how I earned my first money as a writer, if you can believe I ever earned money for writing- and anything that focuses on the end of an era and/or has a strong sense of place always strikes a chord with me. It's why I love everything from Dashiell Hammett to Iain Sinclair, from Raymond Chandler to Jonathem Lethem.
I also love shit with stoner/slacker aesthetics and ethics, since I've been aligned with them since I was old enough to know what the score is and where to score. Pynchon, of course, has known what the score is for decades, and his potheadedness is easy to mock if you demand that the trajectory of events that most Americans assume makes up their history is accurate. It isn't, but history, like so many other fields of study, can be interpreted via a multitude of viewpoints, and Pynchon is very aware of this: another reason he rules.
Anyhoo, getting to the movie. Joaquin Phoenix is about a decade older than Doc Sportello was in the novel, but he pulls off the role with flying colors. The casting in general is solid, but I may not be the dude to ask since a) I haven't read the book in over five years and b) I'll take seeing Joanna Newsom in just about anything. There are some plots and themes from the novel that get omitted, but not to the detriment of the film. That's the main point I'm trying to make, really: the movie is good as an adaptation of Pynchon's novel, and really fuckin' good as a movie unto itself. If you've got a problem with extensive dialogue, measured pacing, or Paul Thomas Anderson flicks in general, then Inherent Vice ain't gonna be worth your time. If you're hip to any/all of those things, and you also dig funny shit, then get your ass to the cinema and see it on the big screen.
Some folks might wonder if they should be stoned when they see this movie, and/or whether they should see it twice. I plan on seeing it again, less high than I was when I first saw it, so: yes, see it high, see it straight, see it twice. In no particular order, of course. Should you have the luxury of seeing it at home, when that time comes, there's no reason not to consume all the burl sense you want and put Inherent Vice in the same rotation as The Big Lebowski. Except, you know, they're not really similar, except when they are.**
Once I see and re-read Inherent Vice again, I'll have more to offer than just a litany of unsubstantiated opinions. Don't hold your breath, though- I love re-reading shit, but reading new stuff usually takes precedence.
Catch y'all later. In the meantime, listen to the soundtrack Thomas Pynchon himself assembled for the book upon its release, and never underestimate the power of a burnout's insight. After all, who else would recommend this masterpiece?
O seu amigo,
D.A.S.
*What threw me off the most, I think, was seeing Pynchon write about things that had happened entirely within my lifetime and with which I was pretty familiar. He did a good job, but it felt unshakably weird comparing half a lifetime's worth of personal opinions about certain topics against Pynchon's and observing where they aligned (in many places, as it turns out).
**Not that often. Also: name that reference!
I loved Against the Day, which, like Pynchon's other books, is a testament to the value of re-reading things. (Sadly, I haven't re-read it yet.) The fact that two more novels followed it in the space of seven years is one of the few indicators that I might not be living in one of Western civilization's deeper troughs, and gave me the opportunity to buy one of my favorite writer's books on the day they were released. (The other writer I've made a habit of doing this for is, unsurprisingly, William Gibson.)
While Bleeding Edge, the latest Pynchon novel, was good enough*, I loved the shit out of Inherent Vice. I dig detective fiction- it's how I earned my first money as a writer, if you can believe I ever earned money for writing- and anything that focuses on the end of an era and/or has a strong sense of place always strikes a chord with me. It's why I love everything from Dashiell Hammett to Iain Sinclair, from Raymond Chandler to Jonathem Lethem.
I also love shit with stoner/slacker aesthetics and ethics, since I've been aligned with them since I was old enough to know what the score is and where to score. Pynchon, of course, has known what the score is for decades, and his potheadedness is easy to mock if you demand that the trajectory of events that most Americans assume makes up their history is accurate. It isn't, but history, like so many other fields of study, can be interpreted via a multitude of viewpoints, and Pynchon is very aware of this: another reason he rules.
Anyhoo, getting to the movie. Joaquin Phoenix is about a decade older than Doc Sportello was in the novel, but he pulls off the role with flying colors. The casting in general is solid, but I may not be the dude to ask since a) I haven't read the book in over five years and b) I'll take seeing Joanna Newsom in just about anything. There are some plots and themes from the novel that get omitted, but not to the detriment of the film. That's the main point I'm trying to make, really: the movie is good as an adaptation of Pynchon's novel, and really fuckin' good as a movie unto itself. If you've got a problem with extensive dialogue, measured pacing, or Paul Thomas Anderson flicks in general, then Inherent Vice ain't gonna be worth your time. If you're hip to any/all of those things, and you also dig funny shit, then get your ass to the cinema and see it on the big screen.
Some folks might wonder if they should be stoned when they see this movie, and/or whether they should see it twice. I plan on seeing it again, less high than I was when I first saw it, so: yes, see it high, see it straight, see it twice. In no particular order, of course. Should you have the luxury of seeing it at home, when that time comes, there's no reason not to consume all the burl sense you want and put Inherent Vice in the same rotation as The Big Lebowski. Except, you know, they're not really similar, except when they are.**
Once I see and re-read Inherent Vice again, I'll have more to offer than just a litany of unsubstantiated opinions. Don't hold your breath, though- I love re-reading shit, but reading new stuff usually takes precedence.
Catch y'all later. In the meantime, listen to the soundtrack Thomas Pynchon himself assembled for the book upon its release, and never underestimate the power of a burnout's insight. After all, who else would recommend this masterpiece?
O seu amigo,
D.A.S.
*What threw me off the most, I think, was seeing Pynchon write about things that had happened entirely within my lifetime and with which I was pretty familiar. He did a good job, but it felt unshakably weird comparing half a lifetime's worth of personal opinions about certain topics against Pynchon's and observing where they aligned (in many places, as it turns out).
**Not that often. Also: name that reference!
Monday, October 13, 2014
How to spend a Saturday afternoon (and then write about it two days later)
Bom dia, dudes. For best results w/r/t reading the following, do as yours truly: fetch yourself a fairly high-ABV beer and sip it slowly, letting the booze wash over but not drown you. Here we go.
Work on the novel proceeds apace, albeit not as quickly as I'd like. (This is a sentence I should probably have stashed away in a text file on my desktop for rapid cut/paste purposes, given how often I seem to use it, even in correspondence with myself.) I've been busy editing a book for a former professor, but more than that I'm having a hard time keeping focused on the early 16th century: I'm continually reminded, via the books I read, that all the cross-cultural action in the Indian Ocean and environs really starts heating up in the latter half of that century. Still, I'm not going to abandon Anacleto and Agnese Stornello. We've gone through a lot, and as difficult as it's been to tell their story, I'm going to see it through.
Speaking of reading, my friend Linda recently convened the first meeting of a sci-fi book club, which was a lot of fun, and we're going to be reading Dan Simmons' Hyperion next. I picked up a copy at Kaboom Books, Houston's best used book store, and will start it as soon as I finish C.R. Boxer's Fidalgos in the Far East 1550-1770*, which I'd wanted to read forever and is overflowing with great stories about the Portuguese empire's outposts east of India, i.e., Macau, Timor, and, while it lasted, Nagasaki. Boxer is a really good writer, and it's a damned shame that his work is mostly out of print and therefore runs to the costly end of the spectrum; in the Portuguese-language sphere, the similarly prolific Padre Manuel Teixeira suffers the same fate. During the same visit to Kaboom I also found a couple early '70s Clark Ashton Smith paperbacks, which I think represent the first of his books I've held in my own hands. Color me excited. Also on the reading list is The Dead of Night: The Ghost Stories of Oliver Onions, from which comes the title of the excellent weird/horror/supernatural fiction blog The Stars at Noonday and of which I've begun the first story, "The Beckoning Fair One". Since last night I've been waiting for bedtime so I can find out how it ends.
Perhaps the day will come when I have a ton of money and will reprint some of the many books that have existed and fallen into undeserved obscurity. Demand won't be high, but who cares? There has to be at least one or two other dudes out there willing to pay to read decent editions of little-known tomes. I know that for a fact, since I'm one of them.
I'd originally intended to talk about music as well as books, but I've got enough music-related thoughts piled up to justify another couple posts, one of which will be the return of the "Scott's Stash" series. Something'll be up within a couple days, so stay tuned.
再見, caro leitor!
-D.A.S.
*N.B. Between the time I started writing this post and when it actually hit the World Wide Web, I finished Boxer's book. Predictably, it was great.
Work on the novel proceeds apace, albeit not as quickly as I'd like. (This is a sentence I should probably have stashed away in a text file on my desktop for rapid cut/paste purposes, given how often I seem to use it, even in correspondence with myself.) I've been busy editing a book for a former professor, but more than that I'm having a hard time keeping focused on the early 16th century: I'm continually reminded, via the books I read, that all the cross-cultural action in the Indian Ocean and environs really starts heating up in the latter half of that century. Still, I'm not going to abandon Anacleto and Agnese Stornello. We've gone through a lot, and as difficult as it's been to tell their story, I'm going to see it through.
Speaking of reading, my friend Linda recently convened the first meeting of a sci-fi book club, which was a lot of fun, and we're going to be reading Dan Simmons' Hyperion next. I picked up a copy at Kaboom Books, Houston's best used book store, and will start it as soon as I finish C.R. Boxer's Fidalgos in the Far East 1550-1770*, which I'd wanted to read forever and is overflowing with great stories about the Portuguese empire's outposts east of India, i.e., Macau, Timor, and, while it lasted, Nagasaki. Boxer is a really good writer, and it's a damned shame that his work is mostly out of print and therefore runs to the costly end of the spectrum; in the Portuguese-language sphere, the similarly prolific Padre Manuel Teixeira suffers the same fate. During the same visit to Kaboom I also found a couple early '70s Clark Ashton Smith paperbacks, which I think represent the first of his books I've held in my own hands. Color me excited. Also on the reading list is The Dead of Night: The Ghost Stories of Oliver Onions, from which comes the title of the excellent weird/horror/supernatural fiction blog The Stars at Noonday and of which I've begun the first story, "The Beckoning Fair One". Since last night I've been waiting for bedtime so I can find out how it ends.
Perhaps the day will come when I have a ton of money and will reprint some of the many books that have existed and fallen into undeserved obscurity. Demand won't be high, but who cares? There has to be at least one or two other dudes out there willing to pay to read decent editions of little-known tomes. I know that for a fact, since I'm one of them.
I'd originally intended to talk about music as well as books, but I've got enough music-related thoughts piled up to justify another couple posts, one of which will be the return of the "Scott's Stash" series. Something'll be up within a couple days, so stay tuned.
再見, caro leitor!
-D.A.S.
*N.B. Between the time I started writing this post and when it actually hit the World Wide Web, I finished Boxer's book. Predictably, it was great.
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