|
|
Post by katycarl on Apr 22, 2009 13:54:52 GMT -5
|
|
|
|
Post by dhunt on Apr 25, 2009 0:39:26 GMT -5
Quite a discussion. I suppose the apparently inexhaustibly redundant discussion of what constitutes "Catholic writing" was inevitable, but Katy's remarks were--unsurprisingly--very good indeed.
I've just finished Andrew's book. The word "raw" has been used several times to describe his stories, not inappropriately, but I particularly like the phrase on the jacket by Bret Lott: "bundle of shards". That's about right, I think.
One does not close the book and say something like, "I enjoyed these stories." One has--even those commenters who so disapproved of them--the sensation of having been exposed to a "bundle of shards." I found myself feeling grateful that they were vignettes--prolonged exposure might have been beyond enduring. He's an amazing talent. And I am grateful, once again, to be knocked out by the "raw" power of words.
|
|
|
|
Post by bluemaydie on May 10, 2009 13:56:45 GMT -5
I think I'm going to have to pass. Something that is best described as a "bundle of shards" does not sound appealing to me. Perhaps I've spent too long in the theater, where nastiness for its own sake has become a prized commodity. But I do not like to read that which, no matter how well it is written, is dreadfully unpleasant. What am I missing, here? Why is this attractive?
|
|
|
|
Post by dhunt on May 12, 2009 9:00:25 GMT -5
Maybe you should give the book a chance, if only to see what all the fuss is about. I think the issue lies in the book's title: The BODY of this. Contemporary literature is heavily physical--or incarnational, if you prefer. Ron Hansen's fiction is exemplary. Physical imagery, sensual altogether but particularly visual. This focus may be a product of the video age, perhaps a by-product of our focus on the central moral question of our time (abortion and ancillary issues); and for Catholics, The Theology of the Body. There are too many examples of our focus on the physical to list them all.
Any writer worth his salt tries to see into "the truth of things" and McNabb is worth his salt. Audacious as it may sound, he tries to see as God sees. God loves our fumbling ugliness as well as our beauty. Andrew does not paint for us pretty pictures, but attempts a more encompassing view that includes our grotesqueness, particularly in its physical expression. What disturbs some detractors is that he does this without judgment. They wouldn't mind the ugliness, I suspect, if he condemned it, made it objectionable in some way. Pearce used the expression "thought-jabbing" in his review. Shards do "jab," but if you can bear a bit of jabbing, your vision (and more) may be broader, deeper.
|
|
|
|
Post by firefolk on May 12, 2009 9:20:40 GMT -5
As Chesterton points out, with his fathomless wisdom and humor, the unorthodox are rather more easily shocked than the orthodox. I've been reading McCarthy's Blood Meridian, supposedly one of the best American novels of the 20th. I dunno--it's definitely got some power in the prose. But after all, it's just a story about a bunch of scalp-hunting, scalp-hunting. The Judge actually reminded me entirely of the Joker (everyone's seen the new Batman, right?). They have the same habit of dividing the universe into Order and Chaos, because they cannot conceive of Evil and Good. Secularists seem (God knows how, in this day and age--or, really, in any day and age, now that I think of it) to keep forgetting that evil happens: so when they run across something horrible in fiction, they don't quite know how to deal with and therefore proclaim it "great"--apparently upon the principle of "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em." I'm not saying this is the case with McNabb, I haven't read his stuff yet. I'm just chiming in on Kate's question of why read something awful. Personally, I'm a fan of the awful because it exists and has to be faced, and if it can be shown at its worst--and then if it can be shown convincingly that goodness and faith STILL endure--then you've achieved something. The best writers are those who can show the worst horror (like, say, Mordor) and ALSO the highest beauty (like, say, Lothlorien). Honestly, for my own experience, writing the awful is much, much easier than writing the sublime. Everyone remembers the Joker. How many people talk about the simple virtues of Commissioner Gordon?
|
|
|
|
Post by Bernardo on May 12, 2009 12:23:23 GMT -5
Why don't you start by listening to "The Architecture of Things" on the CRI website? It's fairly short, and it should give you an idea of why the book might be worth a shot. People have been playing up the "bundle of shards" aspect of the book, but it is a mistake to assume that because of that the book is unpleasant or nothing but grotesqueness. "The Architecture of Things" has a particular moment that does get fairly explicit, but it is also absolutely important to the story's meditation on the "architecture" of ourselves, our bodies. And from that point the story opens out into a quite poignant ending. Just check out that one story and see if you like it. I think you probably will. But if not, please do come by and tell us about it.
|
|
|
|
Post by bluemaydie on May 13, 2009 22:09:53 GMT -5
I listened to "The Archtecture of Things." I was--not unimpressed, but unmoved. Not badly written, but I thought the ending was facile, not poignant. A too-easy shift in outlook. And I found the explicit detail unnecessary. I mean, we'd already grasped what these characters were capable of. That bit didn't add anything to that picture. Really, it seemed like a cringe-worthy bit added just for the sake of having the reader cringe. Which isn't a good reason.
(Doesn't mean I haven't done it. But it hasn't worked in my writing, either.)
Look, I'm not opposed to shards, or to evil, or to the other nastinesses. But they have to be presented in the right way and for the right reasons. This means, necessarily, with judgment. We can't just be shown Mordor and then told that the owner was okay, really, he's just been working through some things. That God loves our ugliness doesn't not mean he loves our ugly actions. (Is it only here in Texas that bad behavior is referred to as "bein' ugly"?) McNabb actually judges in "Architecture," but I don't think he presented what he did in the right way. And I'm not drawn to read more of him. I mean, we live through enough mind-enlarging ugliness. It's not exactly a lesson we're in need of.
De gustibus, eh?
|
|
|
|
Post by Bernardo on May 14, 2009 7:45:10 GMT -5
Sure, that's fair. My own impression of that particularly explicit part is not that it was just one more detail letting us know what they were capable of, but rather they they get to this moment in which their attempt to twist of their own forms, their "architectures," causes something to break, and begins a turn-around. Certainly it seemed a "happy" ending, but I didn't see it as facile. First, because it seemed like an appropriate conclusion to their changing understandings of themselves and their bodies, and second because the fact that it ends with a conversation means that it is not so much a neat, easy, perfect ending, but more like a new beginning. I think the earlier explicitness was a necessary step to get those particular characters to the point where they could have such a conversation. And, again, if plunging into those depths was *actually* necessary in order to reach the "happy" ending, then that happiness doesn't seem to me so facile. Certainly there was a shift in outlook, but it is one that seemed to me quite believable within the context of the story. That is not something I often see (even though, for DT, we get quite a number of stories that attempt to depict a "conversion" of some sort).
That's my opinion so far, though I can understand your reasons for not being interested in reading more.
I didn't know that in Texas they describe certain sorts of behavior as "ugly," but I like that.
|
|
|
|
Post by dhunt on May 15, 2009 0:47:59 GMT -5
Bluemaydie,
When I made the comment about God loving ugliness, I was really imputing a motive to the writer, not describing my response as a reader. That response is not wholly unlike your own, but I was impressed by the pure talent. Not everyone has such power with words; that doesn't mean we have to *like* what they do with it. No, Texas is not the only place where "ugly" refers to bad behavior. I'm pretty sure the expression originated in Georgia. In fact, I believe it came from my grandmother's very house, actually.
|
|
|
|
Post by bluemaydie on May 15, 2009 20:11:58 GMT -5
dhunt-- Your grandmother must be awesome. I was impressed by McNabb's talent, too, in the one story I've heard. He's definitely a master craftsman. He's also just not my thing. See, I majored in Drama as an undergrad. And then I did English, skewed toward Drama, in grad school. I even designed my own course in 20th Century Brutal Theater (lots of Nietzsche[as background], Genet, Pinter, Sartre, Mamet [although he's not all brutal], and even Taratino). This while reading Derrida et al. And then I went to see as many plays as I could that were by important recent writers. So from where I'm sitting, I've sat through enough "important" and well-written shards to last a lifetime. Now, McNabb doesn't fall into what I call brutality--which is nastiness really for its own sake, because a misguided author thinks that nastiness alone is the truth. And he's a better writer than many I've read. But I can no longer make myself read something unpleasant only because it's well-written. I will read cheap, easy dreck (as long as it's got a decent vocabulary) before I'll read the latest important work recommended to me because I just don't see the point of depressing literature. Depressing, that is, without redeeming values like beauty, sublimity, or entertainment. We could argue all day about whether McNabb has the first two of those qualities.  What got me about the Inside Catholic comments, though, was repeated questions about what makes McNabb Catholic, and why edgy, raw writing is Catholic. I got my answer, but I don't think they got theirs. |
|
|
|
Post by dhunt on May 16, 2009 7:21:56 GMT -5
Anyone who would simultaneously subject themselves to Derrida and Brutal Theater is no pansy. (I sometimes think that people in general have no idea about English lit grad school.... Sustained flirtation with insanity changes a person.) Anyway, it's clear you're not afraid of shards. And I think we agree that McNabb is definitely a talented writer; that doesn't mean you have to enjoy reading him. As for the interminable discussion about what constitutes Catholic writing, well, it's interminable. I leave such worries to critics.
|
|
|
|
Post by praystwice on May 24, 2009 8:43:07 GMT -5
If a simple Catholic reader may interject, I'll start off by agreeing with the following by bluemaydie:
<<But I can no longer make myself read something unpleasant only because it's well-written. >>
As the definition of the term "Catholic writer" is itself the subject of some discussion, perhaps I should clarify what I mean by being a "Catholic reader". I mean that I am a reader who happens to be Catholic. This is not to say that I am uncomfortable with profanity or unwilling to expose myself to sin; being a sinner myself makes that rather impossible.
I had the opportunity recently to read – or attempt to read – The Body of This. It grabbed my attention…for about a page and half. I put it down and will not finish the book. This is not because it was shocking or brutal or made me gasp, and it’s not because it wasn’t overtly “Catholic”, full of piety and holy old women saying rosaries.
I put it down because I didn’t like it. I read voraciously; I love to read. But if I am to read something it has to grab and hold my attention. I have to be pulled by the writer from one paragraph to the next. The Body of This didn’t do that. I skipped around to some of the other stories to see if I would feel differently about them, and I didn’t. My reaction to each was the same: disinterest.
Others who undoubtedly know more about writing than I do may say that Mr. McNabb is an excellent writer who has done something rather remarkable with The Body of This. I am not in a position to disagree with you on matters of craft. But what I wish to say to the craftsmen in this conversation is the same as that which I often find myself wishing to say to film reviewers, the kind who insist that I like a film that only filmmakers like: “I’m sorry, but I don’t like it.”
Dhunt’s term “taste bullies” comes to mind here, and I see this as a peril in many professions: the peril of speaking more to your fellow professionals than to your audience, whose tastes and appreciation for the finer points and technicalities of your field are not nearly as studied or refined. This is why I said at the beginning of my post that I am a “simple” Catholic reader. A book is written solely to be read. I am the reader, and I don’t want to read this book.
|
|
|
|
Post by firefolk on May 25, 2009 15:28:33 GMT -5
Praystwice, you are a fantastically awesome person and I'd rather have the approval of a half dozen readers like you than a hundred and fifty million literary scholars. Rock on.
|
|
What got me about the Inside Catholic comments, though, was repeated questions about what makes McNabb Catholic, and why edgy, raw writing is Catholic. I got my answer, but I don't think they got theirs.