Tag Archives: literature

all these words have been poisoned, right?

McKenzie Wark, interviewed at Believer:

… in Capital is Dead I wanted to ask the question of how have we innovated language—god, I hate that word, innovate. All these words have been poisoned, right? What’s the art, if I can say that, what’s the literary dimension of writing theory? It’s a genre of literature, Marx is a literary genius. We sort of lose track of that, creating language to describe new situations but in ways that don’t lose track of their genesis and genealogy. To write theory as a literary genre, to tackle that, rather than recycle these terms we picked up from the great famous names. 

BLVR: You mentioned in a previous interview that words just aren’t doing the work anymore and if they’re not doing the work we need to be creating new ones.

MW: I think to call it “bio-political-capitalism” or “neoliberal capital” or “post-fordist capital” or using a modifier that has a modifier on the front of it—it just strikes me as bad poetry. It’s the kind of thing an editor would strike. Here’s three words–what’s the one word that would do that job? If you keep using this old language you see how it’s connected to the past. There’s kind of an aesthetic dimension to theory as a genre of literature, and I want to make it fresh, make it new. A language of surprise. What I wanted to do in Capital is Dead is reinvigorate that sense of to write theory is a form of literature. 

So much this. My first Wark was her histories of the Situationists, and I’ve loved most everything I’ve read since then, particularly Molecular Red. And regular readers will know that I’m always-already on the same team as anyone who thinks “innovation” is a trash-fire suitcase word of the worst kind…

Elsewhere in this interview Wark points out that this isn’t about “dumbing down”, but rather a matter of avoiding the abstruse contortions and deference to deep specialist detail that academic theory can sometimes encourage. I’m probably biased, but I also feel that there are some disciplines where the horizontality and foxiness she’s advocating are more commonplace… environmental politics, f’rex, is a really small-c catholic field, less a discipline than an oddball bordertown at the juncture of a dozen different disciplines, where anything goes as long as it works. (By contrast, the old-school poli-sci folk at my department are, well, very old-school, with clear disciplinary and theoretical fidelity to a particular topic or approach. And there’s probably room for both?)

But yeah: part of the challenge of my own theoretical work (still pretty much on hold, because it’s not what I’m paid to do, and what I’m paid to do is keeping me plenty busy right now) is to absorb enough material from a big sheaf of fields and disciplines that I can demonstrate a useful grasp of it without getting sucked into the minutia, and then leap sidewise between/across/through those fields in such a way as to show conceptual connections that do explanatory work. S’why I’m assuming I’ll not have much of a chance placing it with a trad academic publisher, once I actually get it written; they’ll be like “please provide five keywords situating the work in the leading edge of the field” and I’ll be like “wait, I only get five?” That’s why Molecular Red was such an inspiration: partly because it’s a book that lives its own argument, so to speak—it doesn’t just argue for foxiness, it does foxiness—but also for the more direct feeling of “oh, wait, you can do this? You can write like this about this sort of stuff?” Easterling comes with a similar kick, as does late-style Haraway. Massive parallelism, unity of theme. Yes.

We’ll always have Paris

Umberto Eco on “The Cult of the Imperfect” at the venerable Paris Review:

When all the archetypes shamelessly burst in, we plumb Homeric depths. Two clichés are laughable. A hundred clichés are affecting—because we become obscurely aware that the clichés are talking to one another and holding a get-together. As the height of suffering meets sensuality, and the height of depravity verges on mystical energy, the height of banality lets us glimpse a hint of the sublime.

Via artist/designer John Coulthart, whose Sunday link-dumps are reminiscent of the glory days of blogging; I always find something I want to read. Put him in yer RSS reader, if he’s not there already.

Urbanism 101

“… I have constructed in my mind a model city from which all possible cities can be deduced,” Kublai said. “It contains everything corresponding to the norm. Since the cities that exist diverge in varying degree from the norm, I need only foresee the exceptions to the norm and calculate the most probable combinations.”

“I have also thought of a model city from which I deduce all the others,” Marco answered. “It is a city made only of exceptions, exclusions, incongruities, contradictions. If such a city is the most improbable, by reducing the number of abnormal elements, we increase the probability that the city really exists. So I have only to subtract exceptions from my model, and in whatever direction i proceed, I will arrive at one of the cities which, always as an exception, exist. But I cannot force my operation beyond a certain limit: I would achieve cities too probable to be real.”

— from Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino

Notes toward an MFA creative writing module

INTERVIEWER: Do you really think creative writing can be taught?

VONNEGUT: About the same way golf can be taught. A pro can point out obvious flaws in your swing.

And somewhat less flippantly:

VONNEGUT: I guarantee you that no modern story scheme, even plotlessness, will give a reader genuine satisfaction, unless one of those old-fashioned plots is smuggled in somewhere. I don’t praise plots as accurate representations of life, but as ways to keep readers reading. When I used to teach creative writing, I would tell the students to make their characters want something right away—even if it’s only a glass of water. Characters paralyzed by the meaninglessness of modern life still have to drink water from time to time. One of my students wrote a story about a nun who got a piece of dental floss stuck between her lower left molars, and who couldn’t get it out all day long. I thought that was wonderful. The story dealt with issues a lot more important than dental floss, but what kept readers going was anxiety about when the dental floss would finally be removed. Nobody could read that story without fishing around in his mouth with a finger. Now, there’s an admirable practical joke for you. When you exclude plot, when you exclude anyone’s wanting anything, you exclude the reader, which is a mean-spirited thing to do. You can also exclude the reader by not telling him immediately where the story is taking place, and who the people are—

INTERVIEWER: And what they want.

VONNEGUT: Yes. And you can put him to sleep by never having characters confront each other. Students like to say that they stage no confrontations because people avoid confrontations in modern life. “Modern life is so lonely,” they say. This is laziness. It’s the writer’s job to stage confrontations, so the characters will say surprising and revealing things, and educate and entertain us all. If a writer can’t or won’t do that, he should withdraw from the trade.

The problem of being anyone at all

Those who disparage authors for practicing auto-fiction tend to believe character is a steady state that can be adequately represented on the page and thus see the autobiographical as an easy option, a copout. What they want instead is a determined effort of the unbridled imagination representing many different characters, all stable and well-defined, interacting with one another. Both the stability and the creativity are reassuring, even when the drama may be tragic. Those who recognize the problem of being anyone at all, the difficulty of keeping the performance on the road from one moment to the next, will have priorities of a different kind.

Tim Parks at the NYRoB.