return to the void

"Alas and alack for Alaric and his lass!" (p. 212)

This line of prose is evidence of what can be achieved with written language. This line, which comes late in A Void, is quite poignant and deliberate in its delivery--a smack on the head, really. With its rampant use of a vowel other than "e," it is a reminder of the mysterious omissions in the novel, as well as of the creations that can occur despite these omissions. On a quest to find the meaning behind Anton Vowl's disappearance and enigmatic pre-vanish diary entries, the characters in the novel all make sly references to things that are missing and to outlandish plot lines giving way to beauty or understanding. Perec knows what he's doing, and his proclivity for wordplay allows him to do it without it seeming trite. Just read the line over and over: the A's, the similarity in sounds between completely different words--lyrical. I'm almost to the end, and I'm sure a doozy of a climax awaits.

a gimmick not to 'a void'

I am currently reading A Void by Georges Perec, the cover of which claims that the novel contains not a single "e." A gimmick, perhaps, but the novel in no way wanes in brilliance because of this restriction. Coincidentally, my fear concerning the poem-as-title issue with my novel was what drew me to this work. Translated from the French, it is a miracle in itself that the novel in English still contains no e's. The intricate wordplay of the author becomes more of a protagonist in the novel than its actual protagonist, which might be why Perec chose to name him Anton Vowl. His name is itself a play on the missing vowel, and when he mysteriously disappears, so is his plotline. I have found myself most in awe of how gripping the novel has become. Knowing ahead of time that there are no e's, I have been reading much more carefully than usual to perhaps catch Perec in a lie. No slip-ups as of yet, and I doubt there will be, but it is still interesting that he has forced his reader to pay such close attention to each word with one small omission. In paying close attention, I have noticed that, yes, the author is forced to describe, rather than simply say some common words (e.g. "auditory canal" rather than "ear), which lends to its artistry. It is a convention which I find myself enabling at times in my writing because it is 1) aesthetically pleasing and 2) humorous, if only due to its absurdity. In general, the novel is a pleasurable aesthetic experience as well as a good way to prep for the GRE verbal section! While literary conventions like "poem-as-title" and "lack-of-letter" are superficially gimmicky, they may lend a significant entry into the world of wordplay, which is severely lacking since novels started to be written more like movie scripts.

ghost of corporate present

Because most of my day is spent scrolling through my ipod for retail suitable selections, I thought I might include a brief discussion of the literary merit of a few of my favorite family-appropriate singer/songwriters. Since my boss simply starts his windows media player loop of 60's hippy classics, like Bob Dylan, Willie Nelson, Joan Baez, et. al, I tend to break sharply from that sort of retail friendly to my very own modern type. First, I often rely on the silly, yet gorgeous styling of Regina Spektor (I am only starting with her because her warm voice is currently the one steaming up the store). The lyrics of her songs are delivered with an urgency that suggests autobiography, but her songs are most often vignettes of other people's lives, rather than personal tragedies. Immediately silly-sounding, her songs run the risk of being discredited as affected and artificial, however, her lyrics paint vivid pictures of plot-less plots and are quite smart and humorous given their vagueness. My favorite song of hers is "Ghost of Corporate Future," which describes a bleak future for those of us doomed to soulless occupations (oddly fitting given my current location). Instead of relying on trite images of businessmen at their mid-life crises, she invokes unexpected situations in which a man might come to find he's "never made [his] wife moan." She suggests breaking from the norm to "cut your own hair, cause that can be so funny...it always grows back. Hair grows even after you're dead." Regina recognizes the importance of being silly and reminds us of the gravity of taking anything, like hair, for instance, too seriously. When you die, you can't spend $150 on a designer haircut! She avoids self-importance, which enhances her stylistic delivery and believability as an artist, nothing more. I also believe she is the most stunningly and classically beautiful living woman, but how does one not fall in love with a girl playing a chair as an instrument?




Next on the list is Joanna Newsom. While I found her first album incredibly irritating and childish, her second album, Ys, has turned my feelings completely around. Her voice sounds much more mature, and while the lyrics are still infused with the same simple beauty and literal brilliance as those of her first album, the song type (elaborate 10-15 minute allegorical stories) works much better with this style. She does things with words that only seasoned and gifted poets can do. Take, for example, the different uses of "bear" and "bare" in the fairy tale-ish "Monkey and Bear"; she uses these words just often enough to maintain quiet wordplay and in ways that are effective and beautiful sounding. The beauty of her lyrics, of course, is the most overwhelming aspect of any listen to Ys. She is certainly an "acquired taste," as my boss commented after I had her harping in the background at work one day, but one worth acquiring. Plus, she loves alliteration just as much as I do: "well, what is this scrap of sassafras, eh Sisyphus?"



Lastly, of this particular retail environment genre, the artist who has been with me the longest is Nick Drake. Leaving the world with only three full-length albums before his tragic suicide at the age of 26, I often worried that I might tire of the same songs without the possibility of anything but rarely satisfying posthumous releases. The three albums, however, have proved themselves fresh upon each listen, with Blakean lyrics and subtle, yet intricate classical melodies. His soft voice is the only that might evoke such peculiar feelings of simultaneous melancholia and love. Although a friend of mine once commented that "no matter how loud you play Nick Drake, he is still whispering," I find his voice quite fitting and expressive. "At the Chime of a City Clock" is my favorite song of his, and perhaps it is just for the beauty of the title itself. The line, "For a stone in a tin can is wealth to a city man who leaves his armour down" exemplifies his masterful use of very simple images to create a series of epigrams in each brilliantly composed song. Music rarely moves me in the way his does, and now that I am halfway through his biography, I find myself even closer to the lyrics and sounds, thus running the risk of crying on customers.

shameless plug

In analyzing other works, I'd most like to develop my incorporation of striking elements of style, subject, and substance into my own works. Where are we without new thoughts, or at least, new interpretations of thoughts. It seems so much has already been said, though, which is why I've focused my attention on how to say it. Now for a shameless plug:

Waiting still behind the androgyne, laughing
'Disgusting, what they've done to the place,' he/she s(l)ays,
smacking his/her lips unknowingly.
From the smoky sinews emerges a nymph, myth's lost mistress of time,
to greet the androgyne--
kisses of a long lost loved one set adrift by the inconvenience of travel.
My entire world is this meeting.
I fail to notice my table is ready, for I am
sated completely by a single strand of auburn hair
misplaced across the smooth landscape of a sexless beauty.

The above is the working title for my first novel. Much deliberation was involved in the decision to use a poem as a title, and, in the end, it seemed to fit my intentions and philosophies, while inherently elevating the meaning in the novel. Granted, the only time I've seen this work before was for Fiona Apple with her When the pawn... album; I found myself fascinated by her boldness, but still worried that it could be gimmicky. After listening to the album, I found the title quite fitting, as I'm hoping will occur upon reading my complete novel, which meditates on the state of artistic creation in an overly censored social climate. Gender, much like art, has been a battle ground of social mores, and, in some cases, laws, which is why I chose to represent an image of androgyny within the title. The meaning will most likely vary amongst individual readings, but my intention is not to question ideas and morals as much as it is to question artistry itself. I will occasionally be posting small passages from my novel and possibly from other pieces, since I would most like to reveal the paths of creative development, rather than simply blurt non-stop ramblings of the critical variety, even though criticizing is a pastime in itself.

choreographically speaking...

Last night, I attended the "Big Screen Classics" viewing of West Side Story (1961) at The Coolidge Corner Theatre in Brookline. I have not seen the film since I was quite young, and was surprised by some of the wacky theatrical and cinematographic elements brought to this Manhattan streets adaptation of William Shakespeare's Romeo & Juliet. The plot is basically the same as that of R&J, of course, but WSS seems to introduce new, modern elements of colonization, narcissism and, for me, the importance of choreography. The choreography in the film acts as the linguistic playfulness might in any novel--delighting a viewer/reader despite the possibility of disagreement with the subject matter. As in Nabokov's Lolita, where one might moralize and subsequently disdain the main character, Humbert Humbert, for his lecherous pedophilia, one might do the same with Tony and Maria's cross-cultural love affair (at least, during the time the play was originally conceived). Most troubling might be the inability of Maria to "feel pretty" without reference to someone (Tony) appreciating her beauty. She thus remains subjugated as woman and minority, since her narcissism only springs from that which gave her the means (symbolically, The United States), thus confusing personal identity with one that is shared between two distinct entities. The most impactful cut in the film was the transition from Maria's first scene to the dance at the gymnasium; she spins madly from an incandescent spectrum into a silhouette of red (all while wearing a white dress that is seemingly symbolic of her innocence). It is perhaps the first time the film leaps out of its conventionality, shocking the viewer into noticing the colors first for their beauty and secondly for their significance. The dance, of course, is where Maria's teenage innocence is first challenged by her hormones--white to red, pure poverty to corrupted semi-poverty. The most memorable scenes throughout the remainder of the film are always beautifully choreographed dance numbers, which I believe to be proof that plot takes a back seat to aesthetics and enjoyability. Interracial couples are still somewhat taboo, unfortunately, and without the distraction of song and dance, one might not be so easily tricked into supporting something he or she may not inherently support. Choreography distracts us all the time, especially in film. Take, for example, the perfect tempo of action which parallels the soundtrack in the '80s film, Clue. The film is essentially a commentary on communism and capitalism, greed, and murder--touchy subjects treated so lightly. Thus, trying to find the right way to express something is, above all, the most important facet of creation (for me, at least), especially when attempting to support subversiveness. Again, another reason I adore alliteration.

introduction

As this small cove of internet space will exist predominantly for literary thought, discussion, and scrutiny, I have decided to begin by explaining the meaning of the blog's title. I will not insult the intelligence and/or ability to use Wikipedia of those who have chanced upon this blog (as you have done so by some search combination of quite unlikely terms), which is why a mere gloss of the terms 'solipsism' and 'Sisyphus' should suffice. According to Webster.com, 'solipsism' is defined as a theory holding that the self can know nothing but its own modifications, and that the self is the only existent thing; also : extreme egocentrism. Most important to understanding my use of 'Sisyphus,' then, is to understand it in terms of the 'Sisyphean task': a task which proves inevitably futile, just as the punishment of Sisyphus to continue to push a large rock up a steep hill, even though the rock will always escape him as it nears the top. Essentially, egocentrism for those with the means, but no end. Of course, the blog will not be all about me, as 'egocentrism' might suggest, but about the human's (more specifically, the artist's) search for a sense of self amidst the general malaise of today's society and culture. This literature-based blog will not neglect those other facets of culture, such as history, philosophy, visual art, and, most importantly (for this particular blog, at least) film. It is at the point where all of these lines of thought meet that one can develop and understand oneself as a product (and producer) of a particular culture. One of the greatest wordsmiths of the twentieth century, Vladimir Nabokov, pictured here in his early 20's, may serve as spokesperson for this blog and those who choose to address its topics in their own lives. His masterful use of language to emphasize the importance of aesthetics over social stigmas has proved a continual source of personal inspiration, and will hopefully inspire others who find themselves in a similar head space as the rock-dropping narcissist. Also, the title is an ode to my abrasive appreciation for alliteration--consider yourself warned.