"Oh the rent--the rent! What about my career!"(It's by William Crawford Galbraith, who did a lot of artwork for The New Yorker but appears to be otherwise forgotten).
Monday, September 28, 2009
I Totally Understand
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Spider Attack!
My mother told me horror stories about cleaning the kitchen window yesterday, and I saw her pile of blackened paper towels, but it wasn't until today that I learned the TRUE horror of a filthy window.
Since we're in for some cold and blustery days this week, I decided it was time to remove the air conditioner from my new bedroom. I figured that the hardest thing would be...well, just removing the air conditioner, which I knew would be heavy and which -- as is the nature of air conditioners everywhere -- had been installed in an individualistic and unorthodox manner.
After unscrewing the wooden platform and ripping off the electrical tape, I started pulling the air conditioner out...and spiders ran EVERYWHERE. Little tiny spiders the size of pin-pricks, monstrous pea-sized ones, and all sizes in-between...black, gray, transparent, ZOOM! All of them running for cover as I stood, helpless, with the air conditioner in my hands.
So I got Windex and paper towels and started scrubbing every groove and platform in the window. Everywhere I looked: spiders. DOZENS of them. I'd spray Windex in a corner, and three or four more spiders would run out. Crush-crush-crush!
And not just that...the MOULD. At least a decade of thick, black gunge in the corners, mixed with countless splats of flyshit and the corpses of long-forgotten flies. Under the eaves-troughs: dangling webs, more spiders. On the outsides of the windows: thick strands both new and old.
I thought I'd seen it all, and then I tackled the upper corner, which I thought was crammed with insulation to fill in the gap around the air conditioner. But Jesus, no, I don't even know WHAT it was: a solid black crud, an inch thick and several inches deep, which crumbled under my touch to reveal insect husks, spider legs, opaque membranes the size of peanut shells. This was ALIEN. IT SIMPLY COULD NOT BE.
And then the big-daddy spider came rushing out of some hidden cranny, fat-bellied, an inch long, waving at me. I sprayed him with Windex, he went down, he came back, I sprayed again, drowning him, but still he shuddered and spun until...well, I picked up a piece of the air conditioner and knocked him out into the air.
I think he's still alive. Tonight...close your windows.
So why are there so many spiders? Maybe because the previous owners just never cleaned the windows...but I never cleaned MY windows either, and nothing even CLOSE to that ever happened.
Strangely, all the spiders seem to be on the windows on the western side of the building, so either they never cleaned those ones or there's some natural phenomenon involved. Maybe mould grows on that side, which attracts insects, which attracts spiders...
Either way I thank goodness that I haven't found any spiders INSIDE the apartment. Yet.
Since we're in for some cold and blustery days this week, I decided it was time to remove the air conditioner from my new bedroom. I figured that the hardest thing would be...well, just removing the air conditioner, which I knew would be heavy and which -- as is the nature of air conditioners everywhere -- had been installed in an individualistic and unorthodox manner.
After unscrewing the wooden platform and ripping off the electrical tape, I started pulling the air conditioner out...and spiders ran EVERYWHERE. Little tiny spiders the size of pin-pricks, monstrous pea-sized ones, and all sizes in-between...black, gray, transparent, ZOOM! All of them running for cover as I stood, helpless, with the air conditioner in my hands.
So I got Windex and paper towels and started scrubbing every groove and platform in the window. Everywhere I looked: spiders. DOZENS of them. I'd spray Windex in a corner, and three or four more spiders would run out. Crush-crush-crush!
And not just that...the MOULD. At least a decade of thick, black gunge in the corners, mixed with countless splats of flyshit and the corpses of long-forgotten flies. Under the eaves-troughs: dangling webs, more spiders. On the outsides of the windows: thick strands both new and old.
I thought I'd seen it all, and then I tackled the upper corner, which I thought was crammed with insulation to fill in the gap around the air conditioner. But Jesus, no, I don't even know WHAT it was: a solid black crud, an inch thick and several inches deep, which crumbled under my touch to reveal insect husks, spider legs, opaque membranes the size of peanut shells. This was ALIEN. IT SIMPLY COULD NOT BE.
And then the big-daddy spider came rushing out of some hidden cranny, fat-bellied, an inch long, waving at me. I sprayed him with Windex, he went down, he came back, I sprayed again, drowning him, but still he shuddered and spun until...well, I picked up a piece of the air conditioner and knocked him out into the air.
I think he's still alive. Tonight...close your windows.
So why are there so many spiders? Maybe because the previous owners just never cleaned the windows...but I never cleaned MY windows either, and nothing even CLOSE to that ever happened.
Strangely, all the spiders seem to be on the windows on the western side of the building, so either they never cleaned those ones or there's some natural phenomenon involved. Maybe mould grows on that side, which attracts insects, which attracts spiders...
Either way I thank goodness that I haven't found any spiders INSIDE the apartment. Yet.
T-Plus One
It took only two hours for seven of us to move everything. I hate making other people deal with my own personal shortcomings -- pack-ratting, high dust-tolerance, unfastidiousness -- but everybody grinned and bore it for the duration, despite a few heart-jabbing jokes about hygiene.
My father drove the big 17' U-Haul truck, and was also in charge of packing everything into the back. The rest of us just carried boxes and boxes and boxes, and -- despite my best-laid plans -- everything got hopelessly muddled. Where's the hammer? Where does this box go? Should I have taken more chairs?
Then the moving in: brazenly parking everybody counter to the condo rules, then my mother -- spade in hand -- turning my ho-hum patio into a beautiful little garden. Vanilla and Jon took me out for lunch and de-stressing, then we returned and I began to put together the brand-new, luxurious computer desk.
Meanwhile my mother got to work on the windows. The previous owners of this townhouse were clean in every way but one: they never touched their windows. My mother was aghast, elbow-deep in black mould, fly sh*t, and "at least forty spiders." I have to console myself that whatever my housekeeping shortcomings I have NEVER left THAT sort of mess. Just other sorts of messes...
...so we went back to the old apartment and did some post-moving cleaning-up. I apologize to future renters that the fridge and stove are somewhat gross. As for the cat smell, I promise that's not my (or Zsa Zsa's) fault: it always smelt like that, depending on the day and humidity.
Bell Telephone arrived to hook me up, and I have to say that despite a few problems with them in the past, this time they were absolutely GOLDEN. Everything's working perfectly and -- what's more -- arranged around my beautiful new desk. My keyboard is in a comfortable spot for the first time in...well, forever. My feet no longer hurt when I sit and type.
My hope was that the single party wall in this townhouse would be totally soundproof. Well, it's not; I seem to be able to hear them when they're close to their walls, but either they're relatively quiet or the effect decreases with distance. In any case, so far it seems adequate.
It was SO nice to put my filthy clothes (remember, I haven't been able to wash them for almost a week) into MY OWN WASHER, and then into MY OWN DRYER, and then gently fold them in my own good time.
It hasn't sunk in that I own this place; currently it seems like "a place that I'm in." This is partly because I slept on my new couch last night, which is nice to sit on but terrible to sleep on, especially with a cat. This afternoon the guys from Sleep Country arrived and put my new bed together in TEN MINUTES. They even wore protective booties.
There is a lot of stuff remaining to be done. My life revolves around easily-performed routines, none of which are established in this new place. 95% of my stuff is still in boxes, and there are a lot of things I still need to buy, and I can't wait to try out the coffee maker that my sister bought me.
But my first real moment of bliss came when I went out back to sit in my yard. I sat on my new patio furniture and read Vladimir Nabokov in the cool morning air. Zsa Zsa explored the shrubbery, and then settled down to watch the neighbours as they passed by my gate. For the first time I really felt the words "My house," and then I thought "Good," and it was like something hard inside me melted just a bit.
My father drove the big 17' U-Haul truck, and was also in charge of packing everything into the back. The rest of us just carried boxes and boxes and boxes, and -- despite my best-laid plans -- everything got hopelessly muddled. Where's the hammer? Where does this box go? Should I have taken more chairs?
Then the moving in: brazenly parking everybody counter to the condo rules, then my mother -- spade in hand -- turning my ho-hum patio into a beautiful little garden. Vanilla and Jon took me out for lunch and de-stressing, then we returned and I began to put together the brand-new, luxurious computer desk.
Meanwhile my mother got to work on the windows. The previous owners of this townhouse were clean in every way but one: they never touched their windows. My mother was aghast, elbow-deep in black mould, fly sh*t, and "at least forty spiders." I have to console myself that whatever my housekeeping shortcomings I have NEVER left THAT sort of mess. Just other sorts of messes...
...so we went back to the old apartment and did some post-moving cleaning-up. I apologize to future renters that the fridge and stove are somewhat gross. As for the cat smell, I promise that's not my (or Zsa Zsa's) fault: it always smelt like that, depending on the day and humidity.
Bell Telephone arrived to hook me up, and I have to say that despite a few problems with them in the past, this time they were absolutely GOLDEN. Everything's working perfectly and -- what's more -- arranged around my beautiful new desk. My keyboard is in a comfortable spot for the first time in...well, forever. My feet no longer hurt when I sit and type.
My hope was that the single party wall in this townhouse would be totally soundproof. Well, it's not; I seem to be able to hear them when they're close to their walls, but either they're relatively quiet or the effect decreases with distance. In any case, so far it seems adequate.
It was SO nice to put my filthy clothes (remember, I haven't been able to wash them for almost a week) into MY OWN WASHER, and then into MY OWN DRYER, and then gently fold them in my own good time.
It hasn't sunk in that I own this place; currently it seems like "a place that I'm in." This is partly because I slept on my new couch last night, which is nice to sit on but terrible to sleep on, especially with a cat. This afternoon the guys from Sleep Country arrived and put my new bed together in TEN MINUTES. They even wore protective booties.
There is a lot of stuff remaining to be done. My life revolves around easily-performed routines, none of which are established in this new place. 95% of my stuff is still in boxes, and there are a lot of things I still need to buy, and I can't wait to try out the coffee maker that my sister bought me.
But my first real moment of bliss came when I went out back to sit in my yard. I sat on my new patio furniture and read Vladimir Nabokov in the cool morning air. Zsa Zsa explored the shrubbery, and then settled down to watch the neighbours as they passed by my gate. For the first time I really felt the words "My house," and then I thought "Good," and it was like something hard inside me melted just a bit.
Friday, September 25, 2009
T-Minus One
Last week I told my mother that I only had about another three hours of packing to do. After an entire week of near-constant packing, I just finished ten minutes ago...and there are STILL some things I could do.
I have cleaned. I have even SCRUBBED. I have thrown out at least twenty bags of garbage, most of them full of crappy old pillows and bedding. I have a box full of carefully-coiled cables, and a big duffel bag for "things I'll need right away," and then a smaller carry-on bag for "things I'll need in the morning," and a box that says "Cat Food and Wine," and more boxes full of feathers, feathers, feathers.
Yesterday I gave the lawyer a cheque so mammoth that I'm surprised I could lift it. Today he gave me a key, which supposedly fits the lock in my new front door. Tomorrow I am beholden to the benevolent condo corporation, and I am responsible for my shrubbery, and I...
...wow...
...I have a HOME!
I'm packing my modem now, and I'll be back online when Ma Bell deigns to hook me up. See you soon!
I have cleaned. I have even SCRUBBED. I have thrown out at least twenty bags of garbage, most of them full of crappy old pillows and bedding. I have a box full of carefully-coiled cables, and a big duffel bag for "things I'll need right away," and then a smaller carry-on bag for "things I'll need in the morning," and a box that says "Cat Food and Wine," and more boxes full of feathers, feathers, feathers.
Yesterday I gave the lawyer a cheque so mammoth that I'm surprised I could lift it. Today he gave me a key, which supposedly fits the lock in my new front door. Tomorrow I am beholden to the benevolent condo corporation, and I am responsible for my shrubbery, and I...
...wow...
...I have a HOME!
I'm packing my modem now, and I'll be back online when Ma Bell deigns to hook me up. See you soon!
The Yo-Yo - Helen Kane - Poop Connection
If you've been reading this blog today, you've been wondering what yo-yos have to do with feces. I myself wasn't aware of any connection but a November 23, 1929 advertisement from Reubens gives us this, a note handwritten by Helen Kane.
I mentioned this morning that one of the 1929 yo-yo tricks was the "Boop-a-doop," obviously derived from the Helen Kane song "I Wanna Be Loved By You." Then, later in the day, I told three stories about poop. Now I give you a note written by Helen Kane in which she says
PS: I find it hilarious to think of Broadway star Helen Kane being so drunk at Reubens that she can't even remember the lyrics to her one hit song.
PPS: A long time ago I posted some of the choicest Reubens advertisements. Remember? They would spy on their celebrity guests, and then write about what they ordered and what terrible pigs they were. As of 1929 the new Reubens schtick is to publish celebrity quotes, and then somewhat more discreetly call them pigs.
I mentioned this morning that one of the 1929 yo-yo tricks was the "Boop-a-doop," obviously derived from the Helen Kane song "I Wanna Be Loved By You." Then, later in the day, I told three stories about poop. Now I give you a note written by Helen Kane in which she says
I wanna be loved by you --There you go! I don't just write about random things! It's all connected, just sometimes you have to wait a bit!
Poop Popp Poop Poop
PS: I find it hilarious to think of Broadway star Helen Kane being so drunk at Reubens that she can't even remember the lyrics to her one hit song.
PPS: A long time ago I posted some of the choicest Reubens advertisements. Remember? They would spy on their celebrity guests, and then write about what they ordered and what terrible pigs they were. As of 1929 the new Reubens schtick is to publish celebrity quotes, and then somewhat more discreetly call them pigs.
The Anal Trilogy
You know what they say..."Poopy things come in threes!" Or at least they SHOULD say that, because it's certainly true this week.
Warning: Do not read this while eating.
One: The Final Walkthrough
On Tuesday I went to my soon-to-be-new-home for a final walkthrough. My real estate agent and I were met at the front door by the former owners. They're a really sweet couple, but they seemed strangely anxious to leave...I assumed they just didn't like people looking at their stuff while they were still around.
After they scurried out the door, my agent and I went through the rooms, making sure everything was still fine. When I approached the bathroom door...WOAH! One of those cute, sweet people had taken a horrific dump sometime previous, and the stench was REVOLTING. I could only stand it long enough to take a quick look around and run back out...no wonder the two of them ran away so fast.
Unfortunately I didn't include the "No Stinky Poops" clause in my list of conditions.
Two: The Laundry Room
I go next door to do my laundry, and I've mentioned previously that they have an occasional sewage problem down there. On Wednesday I walked over with my dirty clothes and detergent, and I noticed that the basement door was open. I looked in...and there was one of my neighbours, sitting on the washing machine with his shirt over his nose and at least two inches of raw sewage floating around him.
"You'll have to leave," he said. Apparently he'd just dumped some water down the floor drain, and the sewage just gushed right out.
I asked him if he could escape, and he said "I think so." He gingerly lowered himself into the mire and tip-toed between the floating lumps of sh*t.
I am SO happy I'm moving away.
Three: The License Bureau
Today I went down to the license bureau to get my driver's license renewed. Amazingly, I was faced with exactly the same thing that happened the last time I was there, four years ago: one of the three attendants -- a poofy-haired blonde woman -- was having a long, whispered, personal chat with a creepy older lady across the kiosk counter.
I'm serious, these same two women were doing exactly the same thing the last time I was there, and we're not talking about a quick chat, we're talking about a good five minutes: "I knew somethin' wasn't right, with him always stompin' up and down the stairs." -- "Yup, nothin' else you could do." -- "An' I'm thinkin', what can I do?" -- "There's nothin' else you can do."
And on and on and on. We patient people in the growing line exchanged glances and whispered gripes that this always happens here.
Suddenly the creepy old lady at the counter let out a long, wet, deafening fart. We stared. We were dumbstruck and amazed. And the two of them just keep on talking as though nothing had happened.
"I hope I don't get that kiosk," said the woman behind me. She didn't, but the woman AFTER her did.
Warning: Do not read this while eating.
One: The Final Walkthrough
On Tuesday I went to my soon-to-be-new-home for a final walkthrough. My real estate agent and I were met at the front door by the former owners. They're a really sweet couple, but they seemed strangely anxious to leave...I assumed they just didn't like people looking at their stuff while they were still around.
After they scurried out the door, my agent and I went through the rooms, making sure everything was still fine. When I approached the bathroom door...WOAH! One of those cute, sweet people had taken a horrific dump sometime previous, and the stench was REVOLTING. I could only stand it long enough to take a quick look around and run back out...no wonder the two of them ran away so fast.
Unfortunately I didn't include the "No Stinky Poops" clause in my list of conditions.
Two: The Laundry Room
I go next door to do my laundry, and I've mentioned previously that they have an occasional sewage problem down there. On Wednesday I walked over with my dirty clothes and detergent, and I noticed that the basement door was open. I looked in...and there was one of my neighbours, sitting on the washing machine with his shirt over his nose and at least two inches of raw sewage floating around him.
"You'll have to leave," he said. Apparently he'd just dumped some water down the floor drain, and the sewage just gushed right out.
I asked him if he could escape, and he said "I think so." He gingerly lowered himself into the mire and tip-toed between the floating lumps of sh*t.
I am SO happy I'm moving away.
Three: The License Bureau
Today I went down to the license bureau to get my driver's license renewed. Amazingly, I was faced with exactly the same thing that happened the last time I was there, four years ago: one of the three attendants -- a poofy-haired blonde woman -- was having a long, whispered, personal chat with a creepy older lady across the kiosk counter.
I'm serious, these same two women were doing exactly the same thing the last time I was there, and we're not talking about a quick chat, we're talking about a good five minutes: "I knew somethin' wasn't right, with him always stompin' up and down the stairs." -- "Yup, nothin' else you could do." -- "An' I'm thinkin', what can I do?" -- "There's nothin' else you can do."
And on and on and on. We patient people in the growing line exchanged glances and whispered gripes that this always happens here.
Suddenly the creepy old lady at the counter let out a long, wet, deafening fart. We stared. We were dumbstruck and amazed. And the two of them just keep on talking as though nothing had happened.
"I hope I don't get that kiosk," said the woman behind me. She didn't, but the woman AFTER her did.
Stocks and Cigarettes
The articles in the 1929 New Yorker continue to use the stock market crash as fodder for jokes and insults, but now the advertisers are trying the angles:
It's an advertisement for Fatima cigarettes, and the tagline is "Yes...and what a whale of a difference just a few cents makes." Fatima's gimmick was that their cigarettes cost more than the rest, but only because they were far superior.
Anyway, what is this advertisement meant to convey? Is the guy in the picture receiving good stock news, or bad? Considering that pretty much EVERYBODY got bad news at this time, it would seem awfully strange to alienate customers by saying "Ha ha, YOU might have lost everything, but FATIMA smokers didn't!"
On the other hand, if the guy in the picture DID lose everything, why are they all so happy? Is it because they have a backup plan: to put their amazing levitating dog on the vaudeville circuit?
I don't know and I am confused.
It's an advertisement for Fatima cigarettes, and the tagline is "Yes...and what a whale of a difference just a few cents makes." Fatima's gimmick was that their cigarettes cost more than the rest, but only because they were far superior.
Anyway, what is this advertisement meant to convey? Is the guy in the picture receiving good stock news, or bad? Considering that pretty much EVERYBODY got bad news at this time, it would seem awfully strange to alienate customers by saying "Ha ha, YOU might have lost everything, but FATIMA smokers didn't!"
On the other hand, if the guy in the picture DID lose everything, why are they all so happy? Is it because they have a backup plan: to put their amazing levitating dog on the vaudeville circuit?
I don't know and I am confused.
Timely Yo-Yo Tricks
In the November 23, 1929 issue of The New Yorker, a helpful reader (Mary Rose Himler) submits a timely list of popular yo-yo tricks:
The Moanin' LowWho would have thought that trick names would reflect current events? Somebody needs to do a study on this through the last eighty years, to see how the names have changed.
The Touchdown
The Standing Sitting Standing
The Lindbergh Loop
The Double Trouble
The Lowdown
The Boop a Doop
The Four Easy Marx Brothers
Thursday, September 24, 2009
A Voyage to Purilia
During the latter months of 1929, The New Yorker ran a continuing series called "A Voyage to Purilia." Written by Elmer Rice -- a playwright with some early successes -- it's the fictional tale of two earth men who travel to a planet where social norms (and even the laws of physics) follow the unspoken conventions of popular films.
This "popular film" angle is never stated, but Rice sure as hell milks it, and for the most part it's clever and funny. The citizens of Purilia all behave according to their caste (hero, vamp, villain, virgin, or mother). The businessmen do a vague sort of work which is never explained. Farmers live on tiny plots of land, always inches from being foreclosed by a dastardly landlord. Prisoners who are sentenced to death are always saved at the very last minute.
In part seven, after speculating that high-caste Purilians rarely get diseases because their "susceptibility to wounds, bruises, contusions, fractures, and swoonings" has caused immunity, and revealing that low-caste Purilians who suffer disease (influenza, delirium tremens, gout, parasites, and "maladies of the teeth") are always subjects of mirth, the narrator describes an upper-caste malady which IS taken seriously:
This is typical of the incredibly detailed descriptions in "A Voyage to Purilia." It's simultaneously a fun adventure, a vicious satire, and a checklist of hundreds of film tropes. It's also an indication that not much has changed in Hollywood during the last eighty years. If you have a copy of the New Yorker DVDs lying around, I recommend you go back to the fall of 1929 and start reading.
This "popular film" angle is never stated, but Rice sure as hell milks it, and for the most part it's clever and funny. The citizens of Purilia all behave according to their caste (hero, vamp, villain, virgin, or mother). The businessmen do a vague sort of work which is never explained. Farmers live on tiny plots of land, always inches from being foreclosed by a dastardly landlord. Prisoners who are sentenced to death are always saved at the very last minute.
In part seven, after speculating that high-caste Purilians rarely get diseases because their "susceptibility to wounds, bruises, contusions, fractures, and swoonings" has caused immunity, and revealing that low-caste Purilians who suffer disease (influenza, delirium tremens, gout, parasites, and "maladies of the teeth") are always subjects of mirth, the narrator describes an upper-caste malady which IS taken seriously:
Chief among these are heart-failure and apoplexy, both of which are deemed highly respectable and worthy of the expenditure of a good deal of emotion. The symptoms of these twho ailments are almost identical. The victim opens and closes his mouth several times in rapid succession, rolls his eyes, and then slumps heavily either upon the floor or into a chair. If the attack is particularly acute, he dislodges a vase in his fall, or else clutches at a tablecloth, with a resultant breakage of crockery.
This is typical of the incredibly detailed descriptions in "A Voyage to Purilia." It's simultaneously a fun adventure, a vicious satire, and a checklist of hundreds of film tropes. It's also an indication that not much has changed in Hollywood during the last eighty years. If you have a copy of the New Yorker DVDs lying around, I recommend you go back to the fall of 1929 and start reading.
Barth vs. Nabokov
Not long ago I read every single John Barth book in chronological order, and I didn't like what I discovered. My basic conclusion was that, after a certain point, he started using the same characters, style, and list of obsessions in every single book.
The worst aspects started happening with the publication of "Chimera" in 1972, which introduced the characters he'd beat to death over the next thirty years: a man and a woman, highly sexed and of above-average intelligence and education, engaging in cute and explicit discussions about their sex lives. These discussions are always goofy, alliterative, and full of puns. What's more, the Barth narrative style post-Chimera is almost exclusively expository, and usually the narrator is also the author.
These are perfectly good storytelling techniques in themselves, but my beef is that John Barth used them almost without exception. I found this SO distasteful that I've vowed never to buy another of his books.
This week I decided to re-read Vladimir Nabokov's "Ada or Ardor." I've only read it once before -- about fifteen years ago -- and I remember being totally in love with it...but it's driving me BONKERS.
Why? Because IT CONTAINS THOSE JOHN BARTH CHARACTERS! It is (among other things) the story of the relationship between Van and Ada, two highly-intelligent and highly-sexed individuals who talk endlessly about their sexual relationship in a cute, alliterative, pun-filled way. And it's written in an expository style in which the authors are...Van and Ada themselves.
Seriously, reading "Ada or Ardor" is like reading a long-lost John Barth novel, right down to the fact that the main characters say "et cetera" and "tant pis" (which Barth's characters also do, constantly, pointlessly, in every book).
I said at the beginning of this post that Barth started writing this way in 1972, with the publication of "Chimera." You won't be shocked to learn that "Ada or Ardor" was published three years previously...and that Barth is an acknowledged Nabakov fan.
Now, I don't have PROOF that John Barth enjoyed "Ada or Ardor" so much that he basically spent the rest of his life re-writing it...but it sure as hell seems that way. And do you know what the real shame is? That bastard has ruined this book for me. Every time I read a sentence like this--
The worst aspects started happening with the publication of "Chimera" in 1972, which introduced the characters he'd beat to death over the next thirty years: a man and a woman, highly sexed and of above-average intelligence and education, engaging in cute and explicit discussions about their sex lives. These discussions are always goofy, alliterative, and full of puns. What's more, the Barth narrative style post-Chimera is almost exclusively expository, and usually the narrator is also the author.
These are perfectly good storytelling techniques in themselves, but my beef is that John Barth used them almost without exception. I found this SO distasteful that I've vowed never to buy another of his books.
This week I decided to re-read Vladimir Nabokov's "Ada or Ardor." I've only read it once before -- about fifteen years ago -- and I remember being totally in love with it...but it's driving me BONKERS.
Why? Because IT CONTAINS THOSE JOHN BARTH CHARACTERS! It is (among other things) the story of the relationship between Van and Ada, two highly-intelligent and highly-sexed individuals who talk endlessly about their sexual relationship in a cute, alliterative, pun-filled way. And it's written in an expository style in which the authors are...Van and Ada themselves.
Seriously, reading "Ada or Ardor" is like reading a long-lost John Barth novel, right down to the fact that the main characters say "et cetera" and "tant pis" (which Barth's characters also do, constantly, pointlessly, in every book).
I said at the beginning of this post that Barth started writing this way in 1972, with the publication of "Chimera." You won't be shocked to learn that "Ada or Ardor" was published three years previously...and that Barth is an acknowledged Nabakov fan.
Now, I don't have PROOF that John Barth enjoyed "Ada or Ardor" so much that he basically spent the rest of his life re-writing it...but it sure as hell seems that way. And do you know what the real shame is? That bastard has ruined this book for me. Every time I read a sentence like this--
Could he find the right words: not to hurt Ada, while making her bed-filly know he despised her for kindling a child, so dark-haired and pale, coal and coral, leggy and limp, whimpering at the melting peak?--I want to scream and write a hateful letter to Nabakov, even though he did it FIRST. And he's dead.
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