Category: Books

Vienna Diary, July 22nd

Barbenheimer is happening. But I’m not in the cinema watching either movie. I’m not on Twitter or any of the socials so I’m not even able to get the takes as they come in. I’m a beachcomber, picking up lumps of discourse as they wash up along the shore of the New York Times and New Yorker. Reading a review by a professional critic, like a shark that is entirely aware that the prehistoric world it belongs to is long gone, yet persists being a shark, nonetheless. Instead of cinema, instead of the film du jour, I’m reading The Radetzsky March by Joseph Roth, and it’s great. One dramatic conceit after another in a world pre-bomb and pre-Barbie.

Vienna Diary — July 21st

A Thomas Bernhard novel would feel like a singular reading experience, had I not read two in a row. The Loser overlaps so heavily in style, substance, theme, and even detail with Wittgenstein’s Nephew that I felt somewhat disoriented; Wittgenstein’s Nephew was supposed to be the autobiographical one, and The Loser, I assumed, the work of some old fashioned fiction. But both fact and fiction are drawing from the same well.

The narrator of The Loser once set his sights on becoming a piano virtuoso, but arrives at the brink of such an achievement in the company of none other than Glenn Gould, real life “most important piano virtuoso of the century” and decides there is little point in even trying. He sells his piano and begins a twenty-seven year “deterioration process”. His friend Wertheimer did likewise only to go as far as to ultimately commit suicide. It’s a little intense.

At least there is the afterward so at least I could reorient myself with the fact that Bernhard himself had spent time pursuing his own “piano radicalism”, studying at the Musik-Akademie in Vienna, and in terms of age was a close contemporary of Gould. The afterword explains that the novel is a love story, which I think is the kind of ironic take that is both enlightening and obviously too cute. I also discovered the following paragraph:

In a way, what Bernhard says about art in The Loser is what stopwatches say about sport: there are winners and there are losers. He scratches at Austria’s dark history but does not say: there are stringer and more gifted specimens of humanity. However, he situates his three music students in a house once occupied by a Nazi sculptor. He has Gould laugh and laugh and hurl a bottle of champagne at the head of one of the artist’s remaining marble hulks. There is a contrapuntal Mobius strip of the `idealized’ at work here. Bernhard does not appear to believe in winners — certainly not the triumphal kind.

Afterword to The Loser — Leanne Shapton

Contrapuntal means for something to be in counterpoint. In music, this takes the form of two or more independent melodic lines. I Googled it. I did not have to Google what a Mobius strip is because I am a mathematician with a specialization in topology. I have been places with Mobius strips, but I have no idea what the fuck that sentence means. You can remove the sentence from the paragraph and then it becomes clear that there is some bridge missing from the first half of the paragraph to the conclusion being reached in the rest of the paragraph. If that Mobius strip sentence is supposed to be that bridge, you would think I — of all people — might have some intuitive sense of how the bridge offered could be traversed. And I guess everyone else involved in the process that brought the paragraph to the press, to the page, to the bookstore, and into my hands in Vienna simply assumed it made sense. How the fuck can a Mobius strip be contrapuntal?

not bathed, but drowned

There is a lot being written about AI, much of it rather speculative and not especially good. Even the critical pieces aren’t really as insightful as authors seem to assume that anything challenging the underlying assumptions of Silicon Valley Tech must be. So is pleasing to encounter that rare piece that is refreshing enough to change how you think about the subject. It is also pleasing to see someone share your own general line thinking:

This is an awkward fact about new media technologies. We imagine that they will remake the world, yet they’re often just used to make crude jokes. The closest era to our own, in terms of the rapid decentralization of information technology, is the eighteenth century, when printing became cheaper and harder to control. The French philosophe the Marquis de Condorcet prophesied that, with the press finally free, the world would be bathed in the light of reason. Perhaps, but France was also drowned in a flood of pornography, much of it starring Marie Antoinette. The trampling of the Queen’s reputation was both a democratic strike against the monarchy and a form of vicious misogyny. According to the historian Lynn Hunt, such trolling “helped to bring about the Revolution.”

What the Doomsayers Get Wrong About Deepfakes — By Daniel Immerwahr

My own suspicion has been that the chatbots are fundamentally the latest development in movable type. The fact that we have these chatty, irresponsible, unreliable, and inane copywriters at our disposal might just be as dramatic an historic development as being able to mass produce copies of the bible in the vernacular.

The Kiss

I’ve recently been read Frank Whitford’s biography of the life and work of Gustav Klimt. There is little direct documentation of Klimt’s personal life and internal thought, aside from the paintings themselves. So instead the story is told through a lot of interesting social context of Austria, Vienna, and its arts scene. Because it is an art biography, there are also entirely necessary descriptions of paintings, and their virtues. Necessary though they might be, I often found them on the boundary of ridiculousness. Sometimes, even comic. Take, The Kiss which unsurprisingly gets much attention.

There is some speculation that Klimt’s masterpiece might be something of a response to, or at least inspired by, another work, also called The Kiss, by Constantin Brancusi, which I will let Whitford describe before revealing to you.

To compare them is to see instantly the differences between Klimt’s work and that of another, more completely modern artist. Both Klimt and Brancusi were attracted by various forms of primitive, exotic and folk art and both used them as a means of combating Naturalism and achieving formal and spiritual intensity. But whereas Brancusi simplifies, reduced and rarefies, Klimt complicates, allows his ornament to proliferate and adds layer after layer of effect and allusion.

Klimt, Frank Whitford, Ch7, pg118

So given the description of the differences that we might instantly detect between the two works, you might be intrigued, now, finally to see the other kiss.

Click for the grand reveal:

You might instantly notice some differences…

Vienna Diary, July 16th

I am now halfway through Bernhard’s The Loser. I find a lot about the novel confounding. It is another single paragraph inner monologue — to say a diatribe or rant would be accurate — of a would-have-been piano virtuoso who abandoned his aspirations and potential after encountering, and befriending, the Real Life piano genius of Glenn Gould. He muses on the suicide of a mutual friend, who similarly abandoned music. It is full of opinions that, judging by Wittgenstein’s Nephew, are aligned with Bernhard’s own, yet at the same time the narrator betrays himself as a reactionary blowhard in ways that suggest Bernhard is probing darker depths.

Actually, I want to take back my remark about the novel being confounding. The novel is certainly confounding in certain ways, but what really confounds me is that this is the Great Viennese Author whose books are stacked high in Shakespeare and co. It isn’t obvious to me how this happened; I’m not complaining or suspicious or irritated. Maybe I’m pleasantly surprised. But how did this happen?

When I approach the end of a book, I typically turn to Goodreads, for the spectacle of the one or two star reviews. The reviewers often write with the kind of freedom that gives the internet it’s unique flavor — is insulting celebrities on social media is really not so different from leaving The Scarlett Letter a 1-star and dismissing it as “boring and pretentious writing”? But something about the nature of Bernhard’s novel made me suspicious of anyone giving this 5-stars. Surely such a reviewer must be captive to critical consensus and received opinion.

Well, I thought I might reach out and make contact with such a reviewer, to see what they had to say. (I’m now writing long after I first wrote this diary entry. Most of these entries are heavily edited, in any case.) I went through the top 5-star reviewers, only to find them unreachable. The first reviewer who wasn’t was rather different from what I expected. First, his review was good — actually all the 5-star reviews I saw were good. It convinced me that the reviewer had 5-star feelings about the book. Second, contrary to certain assumptions about Goodreads hoi-polloi, this reviewers was a writer with bylines in esteemed publications, novels, and even a translation of Revulsions by Horacio Castellanos Moya, a Bernhard-esque rant. I don’t think we should talk about anyone being qualified. But this reviewer was, if anyone was, well qualified. That reviewer was Lee Klein, and he was kind enough to answer some questions for me:

1. Do you think the five-star Goodreads review of an esteemed classic is in danger of being as callow and gauche as the one- star review?

Stars are meaningless for classics by deceased writers. Such books are mighty oaks. Whether you hug it or take your tiny axe to it doesn’t really make a difference. On Goodreads, regardless, the all-important provision of stars relates to my reading experience more than to discernment of an innate non-existent objective of the book’s qualities. “Five stars” means really memorable, enjoyable, worthwhile, up there shining a bright light upon my sensitive readerly soul. “Five stars” means the book gave me the sort of reading experience that’s compelled me to write little reviews on that site since 2007, back when it was independent, before it was acquired by the Brazilian rainforest. Nearly 250K words I’ve spilled therein thanks mostly to the experiences I would deem “five stars.” I don’t really ever rate a book one star, and very rarely do I ever give a low rating to a living writer who’s not super-famous/wealthy. I may write about the book if it offends my delicate sophisticated sensibilities, but I don’t bother with stars. 

“Callow and gauche” mean immature and unsophisticated. To quote the great poet MES: “The evil is not in extremes / It’s in the aftermath / The middle mass / After the fact / Vulturous in the aftermath.” I don’t feel like extreme reactions to art are immature and unsophisticated. The evil is in nuanced ambivalent oh-so-effin’-boring magnanimity. Three-point-five stars rounded up to four for the sake of generosity, or worse: a three-star blah back-on-the-heels reading experience rounded up to four because so many other reviewers really seem to love the book and have rated it five stars. That’s immature and unsophisticated. 

Relaying one’s immediate response to art with self-critical self-consciousness, especially in extremis, is what it’s about. My mother is neither immature nor unsophisticated but she raised me to a degree to champion “five-star” greatness as a stand-in for the godhead and lump everything else as mediocre or worse (total trash). And of course this is all with an understanding that experiencing so-called greatness is personal but also, over time, expertise develops and the experienced seeker/reader/consumer may have a more refined sense of the capital-G stuff than a newer (or duller or more distracted) reader. Other than books by writers I have some connection to, books that I always rate five stars and include a “potential conflict of interest” tag, when I rate something five stars, particularly an “esteemed classic,” I mean it. Greatness is next to godliness.      

2. How do you feel about The Loser with the benefit of hindsight? Over a decade of hindsight! You read it in anticipation of the Revulsion translation you did?

It’s actually been a little more than two decades since I read The Loser. I really only remember reading it on the 4 train, the Bronx Bomber, from Union Square up to Yankee Stadium in 2001 or 2002. I remember loving it and laughing to myself on the subway. I remember talking to a friend (we both edited weird little online literary journals at the time) about it, sitting in the upper deck of Yankee Stadium. I read some of it to her while we watched the game. She noted that we were probably the only people talking about Thomas Bernhard in the stadium at the time. And at the time Bernhard didn’t have the reputation he does now. He wasn’t nearly as widely read. 

I learned about him via Book Forum, back when its format was more square-shaped like Art Forum than a double-long rectangle like The New York Review of Books. They had a whole special issue on Bernhard, Fall 2001. I’d never heard of him at the time. In every bookstore I went to in New York and Brooklyn, only a few of his books were available. Franzen had heard of him, of course. The Corrections, which was pretty big at the time, echoed the title of Bernhard’s Correction. Sebald’s Austerlitz also seemed influenced by Bernhard and in December 2001 Sebald admitted to being no more than another Bernhard imitator on Michael Silverblatt’s Bookworm. In Iowa City, circa 2002, I searched every one of the many bookstores in that town, and only found something like one copy of The Loser in paperback and a hardcover of Gathering Evidence I acquired. 

The point is, Bernhard was known by writers but didn’t seem to have a wider reputation among readers, at least as far as I knew at the time. I read The Loser and then Woodcutters and loved them both — found them both really funny in a way. (About a decade ago I wrote a little essay about comedy in Bernhard that’s also accessible here on my site.) The mode is infectious and effective. Like reading too much DFW, it tends to affect your emails when you’re deep into reading Bernhard. You tend to introduce and repeat certain key phrases. Reading Bernhard had nothing to do with the translation New Directions ultimately published in 2016. By the time I learned about Moya’s book in Bolano’s Between Parentheses, I had already read most of Bernhard and had written in that mode too, so when I saw that the Moya book hadn’t yet been published in translation, it seemed natural for me to translate it, in part because I’d also traveled in El Salvador in the mid-’90s and had started studying Spanish in the mid-’80s and had lived in Spain for a bit.

3. You have a book out this year! Congratulations. Would you like to say something about your book? From the outside, based on all the blogs, podcasts, courses aimed at aspiring writers publishing can look like a weird logrolling/mid-level marketing scam. How does it look from your side of the fence?

Yes, thank you — Chaotic Good is my sixth published book, I think. Sagging Meniscus (a small press that specializes in unconventional stuff) published it in mid-July 2023. It’s the complement to a similar short novel Sagging Meniscus also published in 2020 called Neutral Evil ))). I’m proud of both of these books and hope they find more readers over time. They’re both autobiographical narrative essays about a particular night out to see a band (Sunn O))) in Philadelphia on March 18, 2017, in Neutral Evil ))); Phish in NYC on December 28, 2019, in Chaotic Good), with the excursion providing structure for essayistic/descriptive improvisation in any direction. 

At this point I don’t really pay attention to blogs etc about publishing or writing. I was lucky enough to start writing consistently and over time self-IDing as a writer just before the advent of the internet in the ’90s. Being a writer at the time for me involved spending time in bookstores, figuring out what to read, reading as much as possible, and writing when I could. Over time I figured out how the publishing system works, either by first querying agents who then submit to larger publishers, or submitting directly to small presses if possible. Twenty or so years ago when I first started meeting lots of writers in NYC and then in Iowa when I went there for grad school, I pretty much developed a good idea about how publishing worked, or didn’t work. Youthful enthusiastic delusions/innocence have been nicely burned off since then by rejection from agents and various crushing disappointments, but also initial innocent hopes/dreams have been fulfilled often enough to make it all seem worthwhile. At this point, for me, with a full-time job and a family including a ten-year-old kid with special needs etc, writing and publishing, and reading and writing reviews on Goodreads etc, is integrated into my life. It’s part of who I am and what I do. 

Generally, writing shouldn’t be about itself. It shouldn’t be about publishing. It shouldn’t be about self-marketing and associated careerist schemes. Ideally, writing is about life, and that’s pretty much it — about transforming life into lit. And if you sit and do that with enough regularity, once it’s what you do, it’s who you are. You’re a writer. Whether or not you then become an author isn’t really up to you. And once your writing is published, finding readers to bring your published work to life is a whole other kettle of coagulation. For the most part, publishing something means the piece is officially finished. Publishing to a degree kills the work. Ends it. But then readers bring it back to life, ideally, and then rate it three stars on Goodreads even when they’re your friends on there.

with their Snovian adversaries

Brian Merchant has a new book out about the Luddites. Did you know — contrary to their popularized reputation — that the Luddites weren’t a bunch or reactionary technophobes? Well, actually I already had heard all about this. I have nothing against Merchant’s new book — which I read is good — but I’m surprised that there had been no mention of an old New York Times article that Thomas Pynchon wrote back in the mid 80s, in which he addresses this very question. Of course, now we’re all considering the Luddites in light of recent advances in AI. Well, as it happens, in a manner that is thoroughly in keeping with his reputation, Pynchon concluded his own piece with the following:

If our world survives, the next great challenge to watch out for will come – you heard it here first – when the curves of research and development in artificial intelligence, molecular biology and robotics all converge. Oboy. It will be amazing and unpredictable, and even the biggest of brass, let us devoutly hope, are going to be caught flat-footed. It is certainly something for all good Luddites to look forward to if, God willing, we should live so long.

Is it OK to be a Luddite? NYT, 1984!

You heard it there first.

static void deadbook

Entirely on a whim, I peered into the source code of the classic rogue-like hack-and-slash game. I’m staring at a fair amount of code these days, so it was fun to read an entirely different kind of annotation.

Vienna Diary, July 11th

The Vienna Literaturmuseum provide digital tablets that, with certain prompting, give English translation of their main displays. So equipped, I was able to wander their rooms and follow the broad strokes of the history of Austrian literature. While I did manage to gain an appreciation of the big events and ideas, and learn which authors I should read (Joseph Roth, for one), I found the power of the museum, at least for me, was less educational and more the sheer spectacle of seeing this world of cursive script and typewritten pages that once existed. A world and a culture that we have definitively left behind.

Vienna Diary, July 10th

In the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, Vienna was the best evidence that the most accommodating and fruitful ground for the life of the mind can be something more broad than a university campus. More broad, and in many ways more fun. In Vienna there were no exams to pass, learning was a voluntary passion, and wit was a form of currency.

Cultural Amnesia, Clive James

I read the opening to Clive James overture over a decade ago now, toward the end of my undergraduate degree. In retrospect it is clear that the aspiration it conveyed, and indeed the whole book conveyed, lodged itself deep in my mind. I did not read the entire book, following the practice of most readers, but jumped around the essays, ultimately moving on before the book’s depths were exhausted. It was the overture to the book that gave me a deep impression of what Vienna and specifically its cafe culture once was. It is probably the reason I first arrived in Vienna with greater expectations than when I visited Paris, even knowing what James informed me of: the abrupt end of it all with the finis Autriae.

Walking around Vienna it is hard not to think of how Twitter is collapsing — in corporate farce rather than facist horror (although, not coincidentally, there are plenty of nazis now on Twitter). For those who were lurking in the right corners and following the right people, the cultural significance of Twitter was easily comparable to Vienna’s cafes. James writes that for “generations of writers, artists, musicians, journalists and mind workers of every type, the Vienna cafe was a way of life”, and it is too good not to suggest that today they those very people have all become terminally online. He writes of Peter Altenberg who “hardly achieved anything at all” by the standards of his more famous cafe contemporaries, “But his very existence was a reminder to more prosperous practitioners that what they did was done from love“, and you think of all the legions of writers who hustled for work, readers, or even just likes on Twitter. Or you might read Stefan Zweig describing the cafe as “actually a sort of democratic club, open to everyone for the price of a cheap cup of coffee, where every guest can sit for hours with this little offering, to talk, write, play cards, receive post, and above all consume an unlimited number of newspapers and journals.” The unlimited number of newspapers and journals is so much on the nose, that the rising paywalls suggest another reason why the great age of Twitter discourse is at an end.

The fact that certain habitues received their mail in the cafes seemed amazing when I read it back in (maybe) 2011/12. But now I can check my email and my Whatsapps while in line at a Dunking Donuts.

Vienna Diary, July 10th

Wittgenstein’s Nephew by Thomas Bernhard is a novel, but also an authentic autobiographical account of the author’s relationship to Paul Wittgenstein — nephew to the famous philosopher and part of the once phenomenally wealthy Wittgenstein family. Like the celebrated philosopher, we are told that Paul did discarded, frittered, and give away his share of the wealth, and as time went on he became increasingly constant frustration to the rest of the family due to regular breakdowns and growing dependence on financial intervention. Bernhard very much liked Paul, having found in him an enlightened and fascinating friend; a man he judged to be quite unlike the rest of the family, who (excepting the celebrated philosopher) he despised.

I said it is an autobiographical account, but is it? It is hard not to wonder to what extent there is an element of performance. The opinions that thicken this text are extreme and scathing, and I presume are entirely sincere. He despises the countryside with the clear air that restores his ailing lungs, he despises the cafe culture for which Vienna is famous for, he despises the literary prizes he wins despite his persistence in offending all about him, he despises the upper classes, and he despises Austrian towns and cities for not carrying the Swiss daily he wants to read. I was waiting for him to despise apple strudle as well. If I came to the text without the modicum of context, I would have read the frank misanthropy of the narrator as being that deliberate ploy of unreliability. The novel is one unbroken, first-person paragraph, which I would have definitely identified as the unmistakable indicator of the unhinged.

In case you don’t know, Bernhard is regarded as one of the most important post-war Austrian literary figures. I will say this: it is a singular reading experience. It is also deeply frustrating, alluding to detail, to specifics, to events, without actually describing them. I think by now in the science of creative writing there is a consensus that specificity is a virtue in prose. What is not a virtue is the following shit:

I could recount not just hundreds, but thousands of Paul’s anecdotes in which he is the central figure; they are famous in the so-called upper reaches of Viennese society, to which he belonged and which, as everyone knows, have lives on such anecdotes for centuries; but I will refrain from doing so.

Wittgenstein’s nephew, page 60

Should I read that kind of sentence and continue to believe the author is writing in straight-forward good faith? By that point I was convinced he was fucking with me. Maybe there is some part of the continental European mentality that eludes me. I would have enjoyed Bernhard pulling back the curtain a little further on the “upper reaches” so disdained, and generously providing us with a little specificity. But maybe that is a vulgar inclination, and I too would be suspect under Bernhard’s gaze.