GRITTY INTELLECT ~ VITA BLOG: Middle-Aged Grad Student

May 14, 2013. The end of my first year in a history Ph.D. program.

I did my undergraduate years in a gloriously “traditional” manner. Eighteen, freshman year, assigned to a dorm with a roommate–luckily we fell into the lifelong friends category. We had another girl (although I would have said “woman” back then) who often stayed with us because she and her two roommates fell into the stone-cold adversaries category. I bought a meal plan and remained on campus for my part-time job, my room-and-board, my classes, my friends, my social life, my relaxation, exercise, love life, etc. etc. The college was the town.

I did my master’s program in a “mostly-traditional” manner. Twenty-six years old. Two years in a quirky, tiny apartment in the groovin’ downtown of a small city, just big enough to have two colleges and three “parts of town.” I met people who were not attending grad school and built a social network off-campus. I took road trips and threw together dinner parties and card nights with red wine. I devoted almost every moment to either my studies or my fun–I had no other real demands. I was a funded grad student in my twenties in my nation-of-origin doing research in a department with no Ph.D. students–so I got lots of support and guidance and attention. Academia magic.

I am doing my Ph.D. in a thoroughly “nontraditional” manner. Forty-three years old and a homeowner. I’ve been teaching at a community college and alternative schools–surrounded by the tumult and pressures of 21st-century democracy and education. I failed to anticipate the extreme nature of my nontraditional-ness and the extraordinary dissonance it would trigger when I entered a niche still entrenched in tradition.

I am older than a few professors in the department, which causes some weirdness since I feel collegial with them rather than subordinate. I drive several miles to campus from my house–I have other priorities in my daily life. Family, mortgage, bird nests in the attic, dog vomit in the living room, adult obligations like my friends’ birthday and graduation parties for their kids, multiple insurance premiums, and sales at the grocery store so I can stock up on a particular pantry item. Simple comforts have become more important than grand ambitions or riotous fun. I like playing in the garden, finding lady’s slippers on a hike in the woods, throwing together a crazy cheese and olive platter with my man, clean towels after a shower, sitting under an umbrella on a sunny day.

I’ve also been teaching for almost 20 years. So the usual TA anxieties about grading, undergrads, and authority flutter past me like gnats. I’m not a peer to those TAs… I could be a mentor. But I’m not a mentor because they’re third-year grad students. I’m also 15 years older and did not follow any established path, as many of them are in the midst of doing.

I also know the vicious truth about graduate research because I left academia and worked in the rest-of-the-world. Grad research does not mean anything to 98.2% of the U.S. population. Those students who travel from high school/private school to college to grad school to post-doc fellowship to university teaching have an absolutely different perspective on prioritizing research vs. teaching (vs. other duties… since many Ph.D. students will not become professors or even teachers). I value, celebrate, and advocate liberal arts & sciences education with all the enthusiasm I’ve always had. Such education explodes the mind, shifts lenses, and transforms individuals. Research–in conference papers, academic journals, monographs, and textbooks–serves a critical role in that formal education… but it mostly stops at the border between college and the rest-of-the-world (some policy and documentaries are the exception). If humanities academics want to be relevant beyond the niche of their peers and the liberal arts & sciences, they will have to conceive of research and its dissemination, teaching, outreach, and media in new ways. But grad research continues in a traditional manner…

So the grad school system remains aligned with a 19th-century model of a top-down master-apprentice relationship–based on an economic system (with its gender, race, learning, and product traditions) that has little relevance to the more fluid realities of the current economy or to the brutal conditions of the academic job market. Most Ph.D.s (especially in the humanities) will not become tenure-track professors… then they are not actually apprenticing. Right? I find my nontraditional-ness highlights such inadequacies, embedded in the stubborn notion that a 200-year-old apprenticeship model can provide (1) the teaching skills required for the 21st century and (2) an awareness of the full range of possibilities for the job search. The democratizing of education (the variety of students, backgrounds, technologies, ages) also pushes at a model developed for the elite of 19th-century European cities.

I have found ways to make peace with my nontraditional-ness. Younger students have also discovered ways to relate to me without assumptions. (Often the assumptions were paradoxical: I was old so I must be married with kids–but I was a grad student so I must want to complain about the undergrads’ lack of interest in the course material, which I actually see as typical of contemporary American adolescence.) Nothing about grad school itself has fostered these unique dynamics for the young students or for me. Instead, they wedged through the cracks, sought the openings. A way to grow and spin.

But I do recommend more middle-aged students in grad schools. Such demographic change often pushes reform.

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FIERY INTELLECT ~ LIT BLOG: Franchise History

David McCullough is the grandpa of popular American history.  He is mild-mannered, charming, and confident but not self-important.  He lacks the hard arrogance of Gore Vidal, the practiced moxie of Stephen Ambrose, the manic striving of Doris Kearns Goodwin, or the nerdy self-congratulation of Ken Burns.  So criticism feels spiteful.  However, while 1776 represents another fabulous success for the McCullough franchise, it is yet another disappointment for those readers on a quest for substantive popular history.

The hard split of the history market into two severe categories, “popular/commercial” and “academic/scholarly,” has obscured broader possibilities for historical authors.  Attacking 1776 as entertaining, consensus history wrapped in a traditional, reductionist, over-dramatized narrative will not solve that problem.  But capitulating to the massive power of the commercial market and blindly celebrating the book as the pinnacle of pop history is not satisfactory either.

Instead, historians should confound that rigid split and open the book debate to include, at the very least, the four categories mentioned here.  Fiction and filmmaking, both disciplines as broad as history and as fuzzy in their credentialing, have managed to provide respected and celebrated alternative literary, experimental, and independent outlets even though mega-blockbusters capture (and will always capture) most of the mainstream market (meaning—yes—Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Rave Cinemas, the major corporate publishing houses and Hollywood studios, the reviewers for major newspapers and magazines, and most audiences).  Many literary authors and experimental filmmakers have utilized independent outlets or created their own venues.  They cannot pay the bills with their publishing or ticket sales, but most do not expect to achieve that level of financial success.  They want to be read or watched—and a few manage to poke up through the cement of the mainstream.

For the sake of this blog, I’ll outline basic parameters for four historical categories.

Traditional Popular History (TPH) includes any books written using historical research but without the inclusion of historiography or specific citations.  These authors emphasize plot and resolution over analysis and challenging themes.  Plot and narrative construction are both patterned on conventions of the19th-century novel and biography, so the protagonist appears as a recognizable hero.  Anecdote infuses the story with details rather than with complexities. 1776 fits firmly, successfully, and unashamedly in this category.

Alternative Popular History (APH) encompasses books that also use historical research but integrate historiography, source information, or research discoveries in creative rather than academic ways.  However, the books usually lack citations or a set thesis.  These authors (Sarah Vowell, for example) will sometimes foreground thematic concepts, symbolism, experimental narrative structure, or character fragmentation, which diminishes the importance of linear plot and pacing.  Some authors might also choose to write an entire book about one piece of evidence, like a diary, map, or image, explored in an imaginative way (such as a Rashomon-style of multiple perspectives) while still attempting a level of narrative cohesion if not direct linearity.

Imaginative Academic History (IAH) has already developed a solid foundation.  These authors rely on rigorous academic scholarship and a broad understanding of the academic field.  They have extensive graduate training and use its practices.  Yet their writing relies on voice, imagery, and questions of narrative authority—and often grants these parts of the text as much importance as persuasion and argument.  Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s A Midwife’s Tale offers a prime example (and it is interesting to note that Ulrich earned her M.A. in English literature before her Ph.D. in history).  A Midwife’s Tale utilizes a particular narrative device and directly includes the author’s experience while also relying heavily on scholarly research and academic rules of evidence and citation.  The Story of America by Jill Lepore takes another unique approach.  Instead of one, single-line narrative, she uses multiple narratives on the theme of “origin” to reveal not only historical connections within the United States, but also the depth of American reliance on storytelling as a tool for mediating democracy.

Traditional Academic History (TAH) follows an established formula dependent on a thesis statement clearly presented with evidence cited in every usage.  These authors place an emphasis on accumulating significant information and extensive details to create a new perspective or to add new knowledge to the discipline of history.  The focus of the writing is on organization, clarity, and persuasion rather than entertainment.  These monographs and articles serve a uniquely professional and academic function, like jet-engine manuals or annual corporate audit reports.  They are primarily relevant to those actively in the profession, but a few of their larger concepts and specific terminology seep into popular usage.

In 1776, McCullough makes no attempt to move outside his established role as grandpa of popular history.  He is a franchise at this point, like James Patterson or Jackie Collins or James Cameron.  These people decided to be franchises, and they were successful—so corporations are willing to invest in repeat performances.  1776 stakes another celebratory flag on the Amazon sales page for McCullough, and he deserves it.  He knows his audience, he understands basic historical research, and he uses both to achieve major sales in the commercial market.  As with best-selling genre authors (mystery, romance, thriller), he relies on formula and recognizable voice combined with just enough imagination and a gloss of newness (like “new” sources or a “new” kink in the interpretive angle—in the case of 1776 it’s that Washington represents a fallible yet still phenomenal hero).

Historians who write Traditional Academic History take the same approach.  They know their audience, they understand sophisticated historical research, and they use both to achieve success in the academic market and hope the effort earns them a tenured position.  The rigorous demands of this category do not limit these historians’ success but rather the size of their audience.  Literary authors and independent filmmakers accept that their artistic and intellectual choices reduce their potential audience—traditional academic historians must make the same realization.  And for me, it is always more enjoyable to listen to an author read at a bookstore or a filmmaker share at a festival when they are realistic without bitterness, but always with passion for their creations.

As many book reviewers and historians have noted, McCullough created another of his masterpieces and enriched his franchise with 1776.  The book shares odd details and conjures terrifyingly tactile sensations of life in army camps or on long hikes through cold, dark forests.  McCullough uses his imagination for some of the subtle details, but he relies on intensive research in letter collections, diaries, and some archives to illuminate the historical figures and military maneuvers.  And academic historians know to expect these things from him.  We do not need another review stating the obvious, but 1776 can serve as a platform for expanding the conversation about history books.

Not every author will become a franchise, not every author wants to be one.  Literary writers and independent filmmakers understand this truth.  Historians need to accept it, and if they choose to write either Imaginative or Traditional Academic History and find success—stop complaining about the lack of sales, and celebrate.

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GRITTY INTELLECT ~ VITA BLOG: To-Do List for a Young Writer (Thinking of Buying a House)

– Do not by a house that’s been empty for more than three months: mice, dried-out pipes, cracked washers, tree roots, maple seedlings, burrowing bugs, and nesting birds. Nature is resilient. It’s the stability of our human society that’s an illusion, human structures that teeter on the edge of decay. Just one season and that lot has been reverting to a more natural state.

– Do ask everything that pops into your head. Writers have ideas, we let our imaginations crawl into corners and peep into dirty human motivations. The ideas and questions might seem bizarre, but ask. Sellers are not obligated to tell you as much as you think. Write down every little question and write every one in both past and present tense. Write them multiple times in multiples ways–you got this skill. Then send that long list of all the questions in all the tenses by email or hard copy to the seller before you pay for a home inspection. If you ask sellers directly, they have a legal obligation to answer. Demand details. Be as picky with these questions and answers as you would if an editor sent you back a short story to check before publication. Line by line, word by word, comma by comma. E.g. Is there asbestos in the house? Was there ever asbestos in the house? Is the sewer main line clear? Has the sewer main line ever been cleared?

– If the house is older or doesn’t contain any serious renovation–but then, hey, there’s one room or one ceiling or one part of the basement with totally new work, be suspicious. You know sloppy writing, when you or another writer slaps some lazy deus ex machina into a story to fix a major problem. Bad writing is bad writing, and only hard work in the structure of the whole piece can fix it. It’s the same with construction. If it’s out of place, ask when, where, why, and for what purpose. What’s it hiding? What really needs to be done?

– Visit the house at various times of the day and night. Where does the light fall, what are the noises. If you like to write at night with the starry sky, make sure neighbors don’t have a couple outdoor spotlights illuminating a two-acre diameter around their garage. If you like to write in the morning sun, make sure the knot of trees and mildewy arbor vitae drooping over the neighbor’s fence doesn’t block your office–no matter how wonderful it looks on the inside.

– Look up the word “efflorescence.” Know it, inspect for it, avoid it. Or you will spend too much time in your basement fiddling with a dehumidifier and online researching drainage ditches rather than writing.

– Junk is surprising. It always masks more junk. A house with a basement, garage, and shed full of old doorknobs, broken shutters, drippy paint cans, moldy boards, scraps of metal screen, rusty grills, styrofoam planks, and musty tins of nails and screws might be a bargain. But it is also an optical illusion. Under all that crap is more crap. And more crap. And more crap. And several writing weekends lost.

– Even if you hike, garden, camp, or compulsively clean, when you move into a new house–buy a respirator mask for scrubbing and moving. We live in an atmosphere of funk and ozone. Don’t inhale it, don’t act tough. Don’t be afraid of looking like a word dweeb in a mask, too frail for the hard hands-on labor of brooms, mops, rags, chemical cleaners, concrete, cobwebs, and sawdust. Or a good chunk of your writing time might slip away as you loll in bed recuperating from all those nasty bits in your lungs. On the other hand, if you want to enrich your next description of a character struggling for breath, feeling the truth of her tiny mortality and absolute alone-ness with each wheeze, don’t get a mask.

– Use the PennySaver, Craigslist, and the free local papers. Search out free or cheap help the same way you search out free or cheap submission opportunities. People will give you estimates on the strangest jobs–filling, sanding, and staining/polyurethaning all those empty cable and phone line holes left throughout the house. People will happily and with gratitude carry sawed-up old floorboards full of nails out of your house and into theirs. People will battle to pay $20 for a twenty-year-old chest freezer. People will give you stories as they help you with all this housework.

– The old saying “Good fences make good neighbors” depends on the ‘hood you live in. And the type of fence. Sometimes a six-foot solid stockade fence is the best plan, sometimes it gets you ostracized from the random street and sidewalk chatter. Explore your setting and the logic of that world before you make the fence call.

– If you want to be a writer, live life and ask for help with your craft. If you want to be a homeowner, live life and ask for help with the chores and repairs. If you want to be a writer who owns a home, those are your life.

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FIERY INTELLECT ~ VITA BLOG: Moments of Grace

In 2011, I was teaching an “adult transition to college class” for a special program at a community college.

If you want to see a true and pure slice of America–America in all its glory of conglomeration, weirdness, exuberance, achievement, and commotion–visit a community college. The word “community” actually means what it says in this case: everyone in the area, from all different backgrounds, in some type of sync for some vaguely shared goal. In this case, formal education. Everyone and anyone.

In the fall of 2010, a reticent young woman who moved to western Massachusetts from Cambodia showed a knack for camera work and an interest in digital editing. I was impressed with her audacity–she used a digital still camera to secretly record all of us on our last day of class, made a video with creative cuts and music, and then told us by handing out DVDs.

So I made up my own production company, French Fry Productions. And asked if she wanted to make a video of this semester’s class. It took some negotiating. I think she wanted to believe I was joking. At one point, far into the process, her nephew downloaded a virus onto her laptop; she had to re-format and lose the file. Or at least that was her explanation for the delay…

She made this video with promotion in mind, the promotion of education for people who didn’t think they would go to college. Students who need not only academic preparation, but also cultural initiation. Because college is its own culture, with distinct jargon, conventional practices, accepted creative and intellectual products, and behavior patterns that are passed along. (I remember the pummeling of my own initiation, just a year after my father’s death, 17-years-old at a summer program in Boston. Surrounded by heirs to distinct privilege and bearers of international ambition, I flailed my way through the process of registering, getting syllabi, meeting professors, and walking across the yard to the cafeteria. I learned to cast away my parochial suburban habits–I was self-possessed yet pliable, dominant traits of the striving adolescent.)

I realized after a semester of teaching the “adult transition to college class” that psychological reinforcements help students flourish as well. Most have not had positive experiences with formal education. They harbor deep secret personal anxieties which can be triggered by stress from the unknown and the pressure of college deadlines. Fear of success with its expectations can sabotage as easily as the fear of failure with its despair or simple familiarity. I write prompts on the board like “What are external obstacles to college? What are internal obstacles?” and they brainstorm and we discuss.

The students who stay, those who believe formal education is worth everything or those who come to the decision they will transcend into anything they might become in this world–they develop trust in me and each other, and their willingness allows me to share my own terrors (granted from the safety of my instructor position and advanced degree).

This reciprocity, this soulful contact amidst the daily grind of paperwork, attendance sheets, and repetitive instruction, gives my life such moments of grace.

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FIERY INTELLECT ~ FILM BLOG: Tanya Hamilton Brings (Black) Power

I recently watched the independent film Night Catches Us–and yes, I intentionally use the word ‘film.’ I’m not a snob about watching movies. I’ll watch about anything (I made it through most of Sex and the City 2), but I am a believer that analysis and discussion is what makes any culture–pop, commercial, or high–interesting. And in this capacity, clear distinctions can be made between independent films versus Hollywood movies versus foreign films. One is not inherently better or more worthy than the others, and they can all be abused.  But there are differences.

Night Catches Us is a film, and it blew my mind in all the right ways. Anthony Mackie is on frickin fire. Smoldering intelligent strong righteous sexy fire.  And you’d think after all the attention for The Hurt Locker, he might have pulled a bigger spotlight onto Night Catches Us.

But this film is challenging as well as entertaining. While I consider that the perfect combination, most American moviegoers are not so interested in the challenge part. Especially any challenge about America’s racial history and its insistent legacy. (Most aren’t interested–I’m not being nitpicky or oversensitive. That’s the way it is.)

So while Night Catches Us entertains, it doesn’t pander. It’s about serious themes.  The influence and sting of family. The way our past can be both comfort and baggage. The ability for anyone, given the opportunity, to abuse power.

And most forcefully, it is about the persistence of police violence against black men, the relentless antagonism it stokes, the family rifts it exacerbates, and how black women find ways to manage with it all.

It is so smart. It is deep and intriguing. It is entertaining and contains a mystery that must be uncovered–who snitched?

But Night Catches Us didn’t get the mainstream attention it deserved.

Maybe Winter’s Bone took whatever mainstream attention rough little indie films could chisel away from the sparkling award circuit. (Because both are good films that tell stories of family and our inability to totally ditch it, or its past.)

Maybe Winter’s Bone gathered more attention because it’s about poor white people and their infighting–rather than about politically active black people, their infighting and their fight. Winter’s Bone doesn’t critique the system as much as explore an unseen part of it. Night Catches Us critiques the system while revealing complex layers.

That’s what makes it a film. It can be discussed many times. Weeks later.

For example, I love the director’s use of a Black Panther comic. It isn’t just a comic–it’s a repeating metaphor with the viewer roped in the same way as Iris and Jimmy (two young characters, each impressionable in different ways).  Then the comic comes alive on screen, as it does in their imagination. Planting its seeds. And we, the viewer, believe that the Black Panthers made those drawings of black men with guns going after pigs in cop uniforms.  But the Panthers didn’t. The comics were planted by the Feds.  By COINTELPRO. But we are tricked, like most people were. Then the viewer gets to walk away. However, the black men and women who romanticize that imagery–like Jimmy does–get jailed, hurt, or killed.

Black men and guns is an American issue. It goes back to the 1600s. It goes back to slave laws.  It goes to Nat Turner and Marcus Garvey and Rob Williams. It goes to the Black Panthers and the Nation of Islam and MOVE, and also to NWA and gangsta rap and Boyz N the Hood.  It goes to the rise of the black cop and Amadou Diallo and thug imagery and The Wire and Hurricane Katrina.

But the issue of black men and guns has been separated from textbooks and from the NRA. Instead we’ve been fed simplistic images, like the COINTELPRO comics and COPS television show. We don’t hear complicated conversations about power, rights, access, confidence vs. pride, the limitations of revolution, and the intransigence of institutional violence. Night Catches Us feeds the viewer these challenges with a big spoonful of suspenseful, entertaining sugar. Tanya Hamilton (writer/director) did this drama right. Raw, passionate, intelligent.

And if you didn’t get everything in this blog, I hope it makes you curious enough to watch the film and re-read my random thoughts.

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FIERY INTELLECT ~ LIT BLOG: The Next Tolstoy

People have granted Jonathan Franzen enough attention. I mean, someone actually compared Freedom to War and Peace. Yes, the cliché lives–and the comparison remains as unfortunately abused as ever (honestly, 21st-century upper-middle class America can never provide the intense characters, events, and conflicts of 19th-century Russia).

Franzen appears in all the magazines and at every major New York lit event. His name flits across essays and public radio. The man does not need any more press or publicity.

But I must add this comment: based on Franzen’s two most recent novels, he’s Nicholas Sparks for the over-educated, affluent, white American crowd. Family, love, sex, separation, arguments, humor, and melodramatic moments of reconnection and redemption–packed with just enough college references, alternative careers, advanced vocabulary, and a smidge of loose ends.

He made this move intentionally. Franzen was once a striver for the postmodern set–that was the 1990s. In the 2000s, The Corrections and Freedom maneuvered him to the center of the literary mainstream. He decisively shifted away from writing that used the novel to push and explore language, artistry, and the limits of story. And toward writing that uses the novel to tell traditional stories peppered with conscientiously simplified, unthreatening postmodern tics. It’s like American suburban teenagers running around in Che Guevara t-shirts. They’re wearing a consumer representation of rebellion–they aren’t rebelling. It’s just so much easier than actually rebelling though.

This approach sells more books while still attracting critics and literary readers, who demand the appearance of intellectual challenge within the pleasure of seamless, naturalistic narrative. In Franzen’s own interview patter, he’s become “more interested in story”–a novelist’s way of saying more plot-driven and commercial.

Franzen accelerated down this path during the Oprah Book Club Smackdown of 2001 (no, not the “you betrayed millions of readers” guy–he’s a different media manipulator). Oprah chose The Corrections for her book club. Of course the publisher and Franzen accepted the pick and issued new books with the OBC stamp. Only then did Franzen make some comment about the womanly appeal of Oprah and how he felt uncomfortable with the book club. So Franzen got his name all over the media plus got out of his appearance on the daytime talk show (he would’ve felt so tacky and dirty afterward). Very savvy–popular sales and literary cred all bound into one neat package. (But in 2011, it’s Oprah’s last season. Freedom was chosen as the momentous final book, and Franzen expressed appreciation for the historic acknowledgement.)

I am not arguing against Franzen per se. I’m just saying let’s call it like it is. Franzen has gone the way of Grateful Dead posters, girl power, and Miramax. He’s softened the most radical elements of his fiction for the mainstream–it’s where the audience, income, and speaker fees reside.

I don’t particularly enjoy avant-garde or experimental or postmodern or whatever theorists are calling bizarre fiction these days. (As a teenager, I preferred the Rolling Stones to the Ramones, even though intellectually I understood the value of the Ramones’ art and music.) But I guess I have greater respect for authors who take sincere creative risks. I also have great respect for authors of traditional fiction who are obviously writing from their own authentic artistic place without self-consciousness–like Alice Munro.

All that said about “Franzen the Famous Author”–he is a good writer, has a fabulous head of hair, makes an effort to raise attention for women authors, and does amazing work on behalf of birds and their habitats.

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FIERY INTELLECT ~ LIT BLOG: The Novel Is… Not Really Dead

I saw David Shields speak at the 2010 Boston Book Festival. I immediately had the hots for the man. Tall, bald, charismatic, slick black sweater of some type—but I’ve seen those qualities before and I’ll see them again. I was enthralled by the tone of his voice and his confidence without grandiosity. He was big and strong-willed but not arrogant; there was generosity in his gestures. He was definitely an intellectual thinker making provocative declarations about all of literature. Yet he wasn’t bloated about it.

Shields was on a panel about The Novel and had prepared an edgy, thoughtful presentation on the topic. (A tough combo to pull off. Most writers end up sounding edgy for the sake of style or thoughtful to the point of hermetic elitism.) Shields argued that The Novel is stagnated, stuck in its 19th-century form, with a few minor modernist alterations from the 20th. Sounds like the usual Chicken-Little schlock, except when you read or hear David Shields, he really actually cares about fiction and the novel—he isn’t just pushing memoir as the only alternative or bemoaning the state of book sales. He wants new forms. For example, I love his idea about novels needing to be more concise. He wasn’t offering a sentimental defense of minimalism; he wants to change the whole idea of the novel. Like Shields, I loathe most novel paragraphs wasted on setting. (I skimmed much of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo—all those exacting details about the little Scandinavian town and the family tree. Agony, but I was carried to it by the hype. In the end, I decided the novel could be reduced to about 78 pages and still be complete.)

Like Shields, when I read, I want to get into the ideas and humanity of the story.  I’m not looking to the book for Entertainment or Escape.  Like Shields, I am captivated by challenge and precise aesthetics that have a point.

But I don’t like when Shields says, “The novel is dead.” Oh David, how even you fall back on 20th-century conventions. So melodramatic. So sweeping. So reductionist as to be blatantly untrue when held up to any level of thought. Novels are bestsellers in huge numbers every year. Tween girls, nerd boys, housewives, men with cigars, Brooklyn couples at their neighborhood indie bookstore, and elderly women infatuated with their detective-of-choice all buy novels. They might buy mostly the same novels—and uncompromised uniqueness is not tolerated by most publishing houses, the corporate marketplace, or even the so-called avant-garde with its specific style de jeur—but that doesn’t mean the novel is dead.

I prefer, “The novel should not be what it was.” Pithy, not reductionist. Suggestive, but hopefully not didactic.

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