Reviewing the Reviewer: Part Three

Comments on a Review of A Book About the State of Reviewing Books

We don’t need this but here it is. I asked for it. You got it.

Wolcott vs. Pool vs. Reviews vs. Internet vs. jon.

http://www.tnr.com/politics/story.html?id=69e34cc4-6eb7-4c69-a5a7-24681dfac7c4

Wolcott makes me smile with lines like this:

“They tore the iridescent wings off Romantic poets for sport, and crouched in the hills like hyenas waiting for Hemingway to falter. Insidious by nature, they fluff up authors' reputations in order to fatten them up for the sacrificial kill: the young slain for failing to live up to their early promise, their distinguished elders dragged by their whiskers into the lair of the spider-queen, Michiko Kakutani, to be eaten. Even the most scrupulous and fair-minded reviewer is considered suspect, a discount knockoff of a real writer.”

Before we pop our corks, let’s get the glasses. Reviewing a book review about books about reviewing books was MY IDEA. I take full responsibility. But as you will see, there is no end in sight. Once we start down this road, we’re essentially fucked. Let me quote the great Frank Zappa:

“Most rock journalism is people who can't write, interviewing people who can't talk, for people who can't read.”

The same goes for books and those who write their reviews. The reviewers sometimes think they are artists who are above journalism. But bottom line they are writers. And some writers are no better and can behave even worse in public because they take themselves SERIOUSLY. They are men and women of LETTERS. They have drilled down to a granular level where they think they are the SALT. They think they are the SHIT. And they very well may be. Who knows? By definition I am a writer here because I have written this crap. And I may even be an artist. But only if my crap sells. You’ll have to skip ahead to the BONUS QUOTE at the end to find that out.

In fact, as a Certified Master of the Obvious, I see my work here is DONE. It’s a NO BRAINER. Let’s leave the way we came in. Before shit met fan. Previous to the serious. We’ll end with a quote and a comment because that’s the way we are now.

Here’s the great QUOTE and the lame COMMENT:

“The noise volume of this volubility explodes when Pool leaves the fenced-in confines of print and strays into the asteroid belt of Internet reviewing. Buffeted by the fraggy clusterfuck of hidden agendas, free-floating animosity, and arbitrary verdicts, she finds herself clutching her space helmet in the uncharted void.”

“As a serial book reviewer I enjoyed the piece. As a resident of the UK, I have to ask: what is a ‘fraggy clusterfuck’?” —jon turney

Well jon, the word INTERNET was a keyword; perhaps a hint; maybe even an epiphany foregone. They obviously have computers in class-consciously backwards countries like the UK. Or is your mind sodden by inhaling your morning PLATE O’ GREASE with BANGERS?

Try www.urbandictionary.com. You will find another keyword hidden there like some bullshit DaVinci Code. It’s INEPT.

BONUS QUOTE

“Art is making something out of nothing and selling it.” –Frank Zappa

Merry Christmas to all. And to all a good fight.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Fourth

We encounter no more angels; we start planning ahead; we play castle keep.

Funny how insomnia can follow someone not only through a lifetime, but from one country to another. After a restless night and a substantial breakfast, I spend over an hour helping the B&B's owner figure out how to attach photographs to email, among other computer problems she has endured. I learn much about her, including the fact that she was once a cook aboard a merchant ship. An old man eating breakfast says his wife travels all the time, and she hates flying to/through the United States because her airport experience has included "being locked up in waiting rooms with armed guards." He seems not to believe me when I tell him I've never experienced anything like that. He also says that he's never really known his mother, who'd apparently abandoned him before settling in Phoenix after spending many years in Alaska.

Wanderings today include a visit to the Scottish Museum, which offers displays on the country's "geologic and societal evolution." The guillotine is especially interesting, though much smaller than I would have thought. I also wander, mostly by accident, into an old friars' graveyard in Old Town. Edinburgh is full of graveyards that are parts of the city rather than separated from it, something I've seen in places like Boston, MA, and Hartford, CT. Stepping through these cemeteries and touching the headstones reminds you of the impermanence of things, of people.

At some point in the afternoon I recognize that the previous night's restlessness was caused by mental preparation/ planning for the return to London, where I will spend one night before heading down to Dover. I have 2 nights in London for which I have no lodging reserved, so I'll have to take care of that as soon as I can.

I visit the castle today and am a bit disillusioned by the Disneyland-like quality of it all. I'm not sure of what I expected; perhaps I am more suited to castle ruins.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Third

A basic continuation of Part, the Second. Here we leave the French angel behind; we settle down for a beer; we meet the Swede.

I leave at least the physical version of the angel behind and head up the Royal Mile, toward the castle, and drop into and out of various tourist shops, thinking all the while that what I see on the shelves is not unlike what I've seen in tourist shops in other places. Near St. Giles' Cathedral, which is a fine place if you are ever need a quiet place to rest, I pass a street musician who packs away his cell phone and begins strumming the opening guitar chords to Bob Dylan's "Knockin' on Heaven's Door." I know these chords because I have played them. I linger across the street waiting for the musician to sing, but when he doesn't, I turn right off the Royal Mile and find my way to Rose Street, in New Town (which, really, is simply less old than Old Town). More specifically, I find my way to a the Rose Street Brewery, just uphill from Princes Street, where I order a beer, sit down, and feel good to be off my feet for the first time in nearly 8 hours.

[Blog-entry interlude... I have often carried small notebooks on various travels. I have a few friends who do likewise (Tom, Shawn, and Lazlo, for example, though Lazlo generally carries scraps of paper onto which he records the genetic material for upcoming works of literary significance). I am not, however, one to bare said notebooks in public, just as I do not take my shirt off away from total darkness, and probably for the same reasons--embarrassment, a certain unwillingness to display too much information about myself. This certainly contributes to the lack of detail penned into my notebooks... On this late afternoon, however, I indeed had my notebook and pen on the table. End of interlude.]

As I sit with my beer while writing in my notebook, a short, stocky, brown-haired man walks into the bar. He, too, orders a beer, and he sits down at a nearby table, where he produces not only a notebook similar to my Moleskine, but a copy of Czeslaw Milosz's Roadside Dog, a book I not only own, but have read. My first reaction is to stow my pen and Moleskine, for I don't want to be the cliche' writer sitting over a notebook in a dark bar (even though I am). When I return from the bar with another beer, he walks over and asks if he can join me--he says that he has seen me writing, that we must have something in common.

He tells me he is Mark. I tell him who I am. He says he is Swedish, a university professor in Stockholm where he teaches comparative literature. I tell him I've seen what he is reading, that I've got a friend who's Polish and who likes Milosz. He says he is in Edinburgh for a seminar that somehow (I miss the exact title) combines Freud and "writing your life." Unable to get into the seminar, however, he has instead spent 3 days drinking. I tell him there are worse things.

He has a family--wife, daughter, son--but he hates the idea of being part of a family, that he can't stand things like family dinners. He'd rather drink or read (neither of which are bad activities, I think), but he does enjoy being one-on-one with his children. He says his father is an alcoholic and is ill, and that his family has never been "happy." He also says he and his daughter will soon see Bob Dylan in Stockholm. That his favorite movie is The Last Waltz, which he has seen 20 times but is always saddened by it because it reminds him of "more innocent times."

His son is quite the musician but often plays too loudly. He likes Emily Dickinson. And he tells me his wife has left him twice during their 20-year marriage. "But she has also returned twice," I tell him, hoping this is a bright side. He tells me that his country once believed it was God's favorite, and he doesn't understand how people can vote for George Bush twice. (Our favorite word, apparently, is "twice.") He rambles a lot. He mumbles. He repeats things. He leaves to call his wife, for this is her birthday. He offers to buy me a beer, which I foolishly decline.

And then he is gone, and I am gone. I walk immediately to a nearby Internet cafe' where I type some of this story and send it to Kominksi because I know he'll appreciate the progression from "Knockin' on Heaven's Door" to the Dylan concert to The Last Waltz. On my way back to my hotel room, I stop at a grocery store to dinner: pita bread, some hummus, beer.

Now, 9 months later, I wonder if he was an angel, too, just a different kind.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the Second

More interesting than Part, the First. Here we learn of Mary, Queen of Scots, see where Queen Elizabeth sleeps, and encounter a French angel.

I want to begin like this: First, let me say that I do not believe in angels, at least not the winged sort the Catholic family I knew as a boy framed into paintings and hung over the headboards in their bedrooms. But, because that is the first sentence of a short story I began many years ago, I cannot plagiarize myself for the sake of expedience. Also, because my second day in Edinburgh did not start that way, I will stay true to the meager and sketchy details scribed into my Moleskine.

Visited the Palace of Holyroodhouse, where the Queen of England sometimes stays. (Note: my sister would visit Edinburgh several months later, and she would be royally forbidden from visiting the Palace because Her Highness was actually there.) Spoke with Brian, a friendly guide, and he gave me a quick history of Scotland and Britain, as well as the religious history of the throne. Apparently, a Catholic cannot be king or queen of England. Wandering, I also wondered--just what does a queen do to occupy her time all day? In what is labeled as Queen Elizabeth's bedroom, the bed itself is enclosed in plexiglass, which makes me think that her true bedroom is somewhere else in the palace. I suspect that there are other, more modern rooms in the palace. I also see where Mary, Queen of Scots slept, as well as where David Rizzo, her personal secretary, was murdered.

Ah, yes: the angel.

As I left the palace, a young woman asked me to photograph her with the palace in the background. From her accent, I took her to be French. She was wearing, as I remember, a lightweight skirt, flat black shoes, and a blue denim jacket. (There must have been more--a blouse of some sort, and her legs were not bare). Her hair was long and blonde, and her cheekbones were naturally pink. She handed me her digital camera, and I took one photograph, then another, then asked her to check the images to see if they were suitable. She looked at the images. She smiled. She said this:

"The palace smiled nicely. That is all that matters."

That is a direct quote. I repeated it to myself. I stared at her and the palace. I would later write this in my notebook: "What a wonderful thing to say!" Such a statement, of course, indicates my high level of creativity and originality.

She thanked me, and I passed her again as we both lingered in the gift shop. She smiled so that her small nose rose slightly and her eyes shut lightly. She walked one way and I walked another, and I knew that no matter how I smiled in the future, I would forever know my smile was inferior.

Then, 15 minutes later as I sat in one of the Royal Mile Starbucks and consumed a coffee-and-cookie snack, I looked out the window and watched the angel walk up the street, her hands clasped behind her back, her white skirt and blonde hair brushed by the breeze, her face turned upward. If any person could be, she was joy. She also came into Starbucks, ordered coffee, passed by me and smiled her raised-nose smile, saying "hello."

I was happy with that. I am an old man, and such types of recognition and acknowledgment are gratifying. Then, when she was gone, I glanced outside and noticed a sign pointing to the Scottish Poetry Library--something I did not know exists but would plan to see the next day. I left Starbucks behind, turned uphill toward the castle, and walked into what was the beginning of a unique and odd experience.

Scotch Whisky a Go Go: Part, the First

This is dull stuff. I spent 4 days in Edinburgh, and I enjoyed them all. There are, however, 2 experiences--both of which I find more interesting than the following drivel-- that will be part of a later post.

After a 2-hour train ride from York to Edinburgh, I exit Waverly Station and confront not only cosmopolitan bustle, but the shadow of a castle built on top of and into an extinct volcano. It's quite the view, as though I've somehow left Kansas for Oz.

Once I find my way out of the train station (not always a simple task), I seem to be better oriented than I was in either London or York, though this might be because I spent more time perusing maps of the city before arriving. The B&B is supposed to be about a half-hour walk away, and I schlep my pack past the Sir Walter Scott Monument, then up, over, and down a steep hill to the B&B, where the owner, Alasdair, shows up shortly after arrive and admonishes me for not letting her know when I would arrive. She will come to love me soon.

I leave my room quickly, eager to begin exploring without having to carry a heavy pack. I am in search of the Royal Mile, which is not far from Waverly Station, specifically the Writers' Museum, where.... Yes, again the Moleskine is empty of details, as though only part of me had been there.

End of day one. Finis. Just like that.

The Newness of York

The 2-hour train-ride from London to York was comfortable and uneventful, and at York's train station I stepped into a damp grayness that reminded me of Oregon. As with my experience at Victoria Station, I was disoriented (or unoriented, maybe?), so I strolled through the gift shop and bought a city map. I had a reservation at the Clifton Bridge Guesthouse, though even with the map I was not sure of in which direction I should travel. I found my way to the city center, sitting at a table outside the Jorvik Center and drinking an overpriced cup of coffee purchased from a kiosk.

Still disoriented, however, I returned to the train station, then used it and the Jorvik Center as dual locations from which to figure out how to orient both the map and myself. (Could I have done this from my table outside the kiosk? Yes. And that approach makes complete sense now.) I also remembered something from the Guesthouse's website: a person could reach it by walking along the river, which turns out to be the Ouse, which lay between the train station and the Jorvik Center and which I'd already crossed twice.

At The Clifton Bridge, about a mile outside of the city center, Tony knew my name when I stepped in and said I had a room reserved--and he called me "mister." I liked that. He was friendly, told me a different way to get back to the City Center, let me know what time breakfast would be served, and told me to make sure I didn't leave without returning the room key. I assured him I would not.

After depositing my backpack, I headed toward the city not along the river but through "modern" York: and discovered W.H. Auden's birthplace along the way--didn't expect that. Also didn't expect to find an entrance to the City Center--an entrance as is passing through the city wall that surrounds the city. Here's what I found:



A city wall--one more thing that reinforced my belief that the joy of every journey is found as much in the unplanned and unexpected than in the outlined itinerary. So, I climbed the stone steps to the top of the stone wall, where at some point (there must have been a marker of some kind) I wrote in my notebook:

"In one section I find an even older remnant of a different wall constructed in about AD71, and the Romans left York around AD410."

I stood there for a long time wondering at the age of things, at how stone steps along the wall had been worn to smoothness by centuries of footsteps. And I remember the light mist that seemed so perfect.... I also found a gift shop (still on the wall) that I browsed until a group of loud Americans stomped up a stretch of wooden steps, with one man of the group telling the telling the shop-worker that "Your weather sucks here."

Wonderful....

The wall looks like this:



York itself was crowded with tourists, and I wrote that "the City Center itself is no more than an outdoor mall." True--but it was still England and not, oh, The Mall of America. And what, after all, should a city center be but the center of commerce? I found, of all things, a Starbucks, and I enjoyed a cup of coffee and a cookie there (more Starbucks in future posts), sitting down for the first time in nearly 7 hours. Through the front door I could see York Cathedral, which I admired from the outside because I refused to pay the entrance fee. (Note to readers: Some people admire my frugality; others are annoyed because I am cheap.)

The outside (free) part of the cathedral:



During my wanderings, I turned down a narrow walkway (I found that I discovered many things whenever I did this) and found an old church, which I greatly enjoyed and in which I lingered. Then, heading back to my B&B, I turned left down a quaint street and found the remnants of an old Norse Church--which I had passed by but not noticed in my trek from train station to B&B. In the dark, I sat in the park and watched some skateboarders, and again wondered at the age of things. Here's part of the Norse Church...


And another part:


And an old church (outside and inside) I stumbled upon by turning down a dark sidewalk....






After breakfast the next morning, I packed, checked out of my room, and walked back to the station to catch a train to Edinburgh, Scotland. The walk was perhaps half an hour, and I timed things to arrive at the station about 20 minutes before my train was scheduled to leave. Half way there, my backpack rubbing against my shoulders and pulling against my neck, I put my hand in my pocket and found.... my room key. Which left me with a choice: run back to the Clifton Bridge and turn in the key but possibly miss my train, or keep moving forward and mail the key back when I could.