How come cranks, who are full of bunk, so often take a “debunking” tone? I’m interested in sentences & where they come from & I was hopeful that Verlyn Klinkenborg’s little essay in the NY Times would shed some light on that deep question. But all that we find out reading the essay is that sentences come from inside you & that they have a mysterious quality called rhythm. Now, I’m a poet & even more interested in sentences’ rhythm than in their origins, but rhythm too remains undefined. So why did I then buy the Kindle edition of Mr. Klinkenborg’s book? Well, I’m always looking for little nuggets of writing wisdom for my students & I suppose I thought I might find out more about where sentences come from in the book than in the newspaper essay. The book, called Several Short Sentences about Writing, more than lives up to its name — it ought to be called Several Hundred Short Sentences about Writing. I didn’t actually count them, at least in part because I could not read more than about twenty pages. This book is mind-numbingly boring. Perhaps if you aspire to develop a sort of hectoring version of a Mr. Rogers prose style, you will find this book helpful. It is, quite literally, a series of short sentences that purport to be about writing but which are more about the author’s belief that everything you learned in school about writing is wrong. Except that you should learn to diagram sentences. There is, as far as I can tell, no actual argument ion the book, no sequence of ideas that add up to anything like an actual idea. Klinkenborg strives to be aphoristic, but just sounds peeved. And why is the text presented as lines of “poetry”? In the Kindle edition, at least, the series of sentences are each given their own typographical paragraph, but then first letters of lines that are not first letters of sentences are capitalized as they would be in some presentations of verse. This is not verse, so what is the point of this weirdly misused convention.
Someone once said that writing a bad review is like swerving so as to intentionally hit the chipmunk crossing the road in front of you & in general I no longer bother to write such pieces; but the author of this book is on the Editorial Board of the NY Times & people might actually think he can help them learn something about sentences. He can’t. Get Stanley Fish’s little book on sentences if you’re looking for advice from a Times writer. Fish can be a twit in his column, but he know more than a little about writing, including the writing of sentences. Or if you are really ambitious about your sentences, you could take a look at Virginia Tufte’s Artful Sentences: Syntax as Style, or the even more elegant The Art of Syntax by Ellen Bryant Voigt, though this last title, by a poet, is aimed more at poets & readers of poetry than the other books noted here. In any case, there are plenty of alternatives to the hectoring, “debunking” & ultimately boring advice of Several Short Sentences about Writing.
Just finished reading Andrés Neuman’s audacious novel, Traveler of the Century & am still thinking about the way the title frames the novel, which is sent in 19th century Germany. My current idea is that Hans, the novel’s protagonist, is a kind of time-traveler from the 21st century who has gone back to the period in which modern literature was born. For this is a very literary novel about literature; more specifically, about translation. I should add that nothing in the novel except perhaps the title suggests the idea of time-travel: in many ways, this is a fairly conventional historical novel that focuses on the intellectual history of 19th century Europe & the confluence of poetics & politics.
I discovered the novel reading Chris Feliciano Arnold’s review-meditation in the LA Book Review. I strongly recommend his essay as an introduction to the novel & to some alternative ways of thinking about translation. Who & what is the translator? The most stable, sensitive, & reliable character in the novel is Franz, who cannot speak because he is a dog. Everyone else gathered together in the city of Wandernburg — including the city itself — lacks any sort of consistent identity. They have come from elsewhere & settled in a city that itself has a tendency to wander. No character, except for Franz & perhaps his master, an old man known only as “the organ grinder,” has anything like a consistent self-identity. All are fabulists of their own identities, whether they are aware of this or not. (Some ore more aware than others.) All are in some way divided against themselves.
That is the context into which Neuman brings the idea of literary translation. Translation, in fact, is the main action of this very talky novel. Hans takes up with Sophie, already betrothed to Rudi, the son of local aristocrats. Soiphie & Hans become lovers & co-translators, the act of translation mixed into their love-making & their love-making mixed into their acts of translation. Do lovers absorb & transform each other? Do translators absorb & transform the texts they translate? Neuman has a lot of fun with this theme & my only complaint is that the love affair is described at such great length that it begins to become tedious. I much prefer the scenes in which Hans goes to visit the organ grinder, who lives in a cave outside of town. The old man is sort of a bodhisattva who dwells in the earth (literally) & seeks to bring happiness to the people of Wandernburg by playing music on his hurdy-gurdy.
By the end of the story it becomes clear that everyone except the old organ grinder & his dog are impostors, playing roles they have only half-consciously adopted. Even the organ grinder is not really a musician: he only turns the handle of a machine that is programmed to make music. And at the end of the story, each one is alone, though, Hans, the translator & traveler, has inherited the barrel organ, the idea, I think, being that being a translator is a bit like being a hurdy-gurdy man, just turning the handle of the machine.
I read Christof Koch’s Consciousness: Confessions of a Romantic Reductionist a few months back & I agree with Kathleen Reeves’ take on the book. The only thing she leaves out of her review is the dishonest tease of the word “confessions” in the title. In the introductory pages & throughout the book, Koch hints that he will reveal how some personal experience that transformed his thinking. But all the reader gets is a superficial description of the author’s predictable midlife crisis in which he leaves his wife & drinks too much pinot noir, neither of which affect his smug scientism in the least. For a book about consciousness, there is very little evidence of self-consciousness, in the sense of self-knowledge. I kept thinking how adolescent the book seemed.
Jim Holt, in his new book, Why Does the World Exist? An Existential Detective Story:
Schopenhauer himself hardly practiced the pessimistic asceticism he preached: he was fond of the pleasures of the table; enjoyed many sensual affairs; was quarrelsome, greedy, and obsessed with his fame. He also kept a poodle named Atma–Sanskrit for “world soul.”
At least my terriers don’t have pretentious names. (Jett, Dash, & Candy, since you ask. And since they are all rescues, they came to us with those names already given.)
Rousseau sort of turns poor impulse control into an ethos.
How can I have made it to age sixty-one without having read Rousseau’s Confessions? Before coming to Vietnam, never knowing what I’ll want to read while traveling, I downloaded several free e-books of “classic” (in the advertising sense of the term) texts, The Complete Works of Jean-Jacques Rousseau among them.
I also filled the Kindle with more than a shelf-full of serious fiction and even some poetry (which seems wrong, somehow, as e-text), but during the long flight between Frankfurt & Singapore, the Rousseau somehow bobbed to the surface of the electronic sea. I think I may have begun reading the Confessions sometime earlier, perhaps as an assigned text in college, but I’d never got a sense of the man’s voice until I was forty thousand feet above Central Europe. The text I have is that of the Penguin edition, translated by J.M. Cohen. The English sentences are graceful and wonderfully fluent, catching what must be something of the conversational style of the original. The author of the Confessions is a sort of Prince Mishkin without the Russian angst. Dostoevsky must certainly have read this book, what with his interest in Christ-like innocence. I’ve been dipping into the text a bit each day, following the young Rousseau for a few of his adventures, and then putting him aside to return refreshed to other work.
What strike me most strongly about the Confessions is that every word & sentence is saturated with a kind of longing for the lost world of childhood. Even when Rousseau is presenting his own childhood, there is a strong elegiac feel to the descriptions, a kind of pre-nostalgia. The adult Rousseau looking back on his life, I think, is writing himself back to that state of innocence. It’s a funny sort of innocence, too–that has a knowing quality about it. Mostly, though, we the innocence is perceptual and social. The boy Rousseau sees everything–including pretty young women–with an absolutely fresh eye; and this innocence of his observations of social relations is devastating, laying bare hypocrisy without the least sense of the judgmental. What a remarkable intelligence.