The After-Dinner Payback

Iain Hollingshead’s Twentysomething won the Literary Review’s Bad Sex in Fiction award.

Hollingshead beat established writers, including Booker Prize nominee David Mitchell, bestseller Mark Haddon, and literary maverick Thomas Pynchon to the prize, which aims to skewer “the crude, tasteless, often perfunctory use of redundant passages of sexual description in the modern novel.”Judges were moved by Hollingshead’s evocation of “a commotion of grunts and squeaks, flashing unconnected images and explosions of a million little particles.” His description of “bulging trousers” sealed the win, the judges said.

“Because Hollingshead is a first-time writer, we wished to discourage him from further attempts,” the judges—editors of Literary Review magazine—said in a statement.

“Heavyweights like Thomas Pynchon and Will Self are beyond help at this point.”

Hollingshead, twenty-five, who received his award from rocker Courtney Love at a London ceremony, said he was delighted to become the prize’s youngest winner.

“I hope to win it every year,” said Hollingshead, who receives a statuette and a bottle of champagne.

Now that’s ambition.

(Update: Hollingshead himself weighs in on winning the award.)

Dear Ms. Cooke,

Considering reviewers’ monopoly on criticism, and the fact that I don’t get paid to critique, it’s probably impertinent for me to call you on your bullshit. After all, who am I to piss on your amusing critique of blogs and bloggers? I’m just a Pooter who’s incapable of critical thought, a populist warbler who should probably just shut up and keep his uneducated opinions to himself. The fact that I have the temerity to disagree with parts of your argument is probably more than enough for you to simply dismiss anything I write because, since I’m not a critic, there’s no way I can know nearly as much as you do. However, I’m willing to give you a fair chance—which, considering your lazy research on book blogs (one day and five blogs), is more than you gave bloggers.

Thing is, I don’t entirely disagree with your article. There’s a lot of crap floating around the Internet, so your prejudice is understandable. But the same holds true for critics—indeed, anyone who writes is capable of churning out crap. Your article is a silly example of the kind of hyperbole a critic can write. I certainly don’t agree with your foolish statement that all good writing must be paid for; if you sincerely believe that’s the case, I suppose I can dismiss your article as badly-written nonsense, since I read it free of charge. From an emotional perspective, I can understand where you’re coming from, especially since, as you pointed out, you were attacked in a blog called Shit Sandwich. You must be pretty angry to sacrifice fairness in an attempt to get even with all the faceless bloggers who’ve wronged you.

I’ll overlook the personal vendetta you seem to have against bloggers, but your entire argument is still flawed, at best. I certainly can’t judge critics as a whole after just one day of reading four or five reviews. If, after reading a few negative reviews, I said that all reviewers are bitter hacks who only look for the flaws in everything they come across, you’d likely tell me my research was poorly-executed and too narrow to be taken seriously. So I hope you don’t mind if I hold you to the same standard. One day and five blogs won’t give you an accurate picture of the blogosphere. But, since you already dislike blogs, you’re probably not the most objective or reliable person when it comes to this topic. You’re obviously not the most knowledgable: there are professional critics, such as Edward Champion, who also blog. Even the board of directors for America’s National Book Critics Circle runs a blog.

Since I’m a blogger—and, admittedly, not a very good one—I’m probably biased. But I find it easier to defend blogs and bloggers because I’ve read more than five blogs and I’ve gotten the whole blogging experience over the past year. You, on the other hand, devote one day to four or five blogs—which is a flimsy and laughable tack on which to hang your critique—and you either miss or ignore a crucial aspect of the blogosphere: the community. As you said in your September 3, 2006 article, “Telling someone that you enjoyed something (or hated it) isn’t criticism; it’s conversation.” I don’t think a lot of people would disagree with that statement, but conversation, even if it happens to be of the virtual variety, is a large part of the blogosphere—just take a look at the comments on some of these blog posts.

You see, not every blogger wants to be a critic and precious few blogs are devoted entirely to criticism. So you’ll forgive me if I don’t agree with your assessment that blogging is a threat to serious criticism and good writing. There is a distinction between critics and bloggers, but it’s you who fails to see that. Your judgment of blogs and bloggers is like writing a review of a movie after only seeing fifteen minutes of it. I find it difficult to take you seriously. Your article is good for shits and giggles, but not much else.

Sincerely,

Brandon

(Cross-posted at A Curious Singularity.)

I read Katherine Mansfield’s “At the Bay” before bed last night, so please the forgive the half-baked post—the story is still settling.

The thing that struck me most about the story was the contrast, especially between the childrens’ light-hearted innocence and the adults’ world-weary outlook. The children in “At the Bay” (and, indeed, children in general) often take immortality for granted, as illustrated by Kezia’s conversation with her grandmother.

“Does everybody have to die?” asked Kezia.”Everybody!”

“Me?” Kezia sounded fearfully incredulous.

“Some day, my darling.”

“But, grandma.” Kezia waved her left leg and waggled the toes. They felt sandy. “What if I just won’t?”

The old woman sighed again and drew a long thread from the ball.

“We’re not asked, Kezia,” she said sadly. “It happens to all of us sooner or later.”

Kezia lay still thinking this over. She didn’t want to die. It meant she would have to leave here, leave everywhere, for ever, leave—leave her grandma. She rolled over quickly.

“Grandma,” she said in a startled voice.

“What, my pet!”

“You’re not to die.” Kezia was very decided.

“Ah, Kezia”—her grandma looked up and smiled and shook her head—”don’t let’s talk about it.”

“But you’re not to. You couldn’t leave me. You couldn’t not be there.” This was awful. “Promise me you won’t ever do it, grandma,” pleaded Kezia.

Aren’t children’s whims, from their belief in Santa Claus to their conviction that they’ll live forever, a part of their charm? It would seem that, through contrast, Mansfield is illustrating the gradual loss of innocence everyone goes through. The characters in “At the Bay” are shown at various stages of life, from childhood to old age, with everyone struggling through common problems. The children are blissfully unaware of the outside world’s realities; their biggest concern is deciding which animals to imitate during a card game. But the adults, saddled with concerns about family, work, and romance, already know that adulthood comes with a lot of regret.

The National Book Award was fun, but I’m more interested in the Literary Review’s annual Bad Sex in Fiction Award, which will be handed out on Wednesday.

We were not entirely surprised to see the great Tim Willocks there, with his novel of the Crusades, The Religion, “a book that never lets the beacon of the hero’s gigantic todger slip below the horizon for more than a few pages,” according to our reviewer, Tim Martin. “That’s the Bad Sex Award in the bag,” he concluded, after quoting passages involving “fast-engorging privities” and “the folds of her matrix.” In the bit that wowed the Literary Review, the hero “bent her across the the cold steel face of the anvil … she called out to God and convulsed with each slow stroke, her head thrown back and her eyelids aflutter, and her cries filled the forge …”

But Willocks faces a tough challenge from Thomas Pynchon, with a sex scene between a man and a spaniel (”Ruperta had trained her toy spaniel to provide intimate ‘French’ caresses of the tongue for the pleasure of its mistress … Reef followed, taking out his penis, breathing heavily through his mouth. ‘Here Mouffie, nice big dog bone for you right here …’”).

[...]

Water imagery is to the Bad Sex prize what post-colonialism is to the Man Booker. This year, Mark Haddon’s A Spot of Bother qualified handsomely. “And it swept over her like surf sweeping over sand then falling back and sweeping up over the sand again and falling back. Images went off in her head like little fireworks. The smell of coconut. Brass firedogs.” Genius!

But lest you think the big boys … have it sewn up, the little-known Julia Glass mounts a strong challenge in The Whole World Over: “all the words this time not a crowding but a heavenly train, an ostrich fan, a vision as much as an orgasm, a release in something deep in the core of her altered brain …” And so on, on, yes, on!

Thoughts of no particular interest to anyone but myself:

• Since I’ve been reading Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, I was delighted to come across a review of her latest book, The Ladies of Grace Adieu.
• If you’re ever in town, don’t let the Tattered Cover Book Store’s lame virtual tour stop you from visiting the best bookstore in Colorado. The Book Sense Picks made the mouseclicks well worth it. (I’m particularly interested in Ariel Gore’s The Traveling Death and Resurrection Show and Keith Donohue’s The Stolen Child.)
• Westword has voted for Dalton Trumbo’s Eclipse as this year’s Best Resurrection of a Colorado Author. No, I’ve never read Trumbo, much less Johnny Got His Gun. It’s not even a priority for me. I just like Westword. It’s the best newspaper in Colorado. Take that, Denver Post!
• The Greeley Tribune offers up an ecclectic short story playlist. What can I say? Coloradans are a strange bunch. Blame our atrocious winters. Or the lack of oxygen. I’m ready to hit the slopes.

I’m rollicking along with Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell; the black humor surrounding Jonathan Strange’s resurrection of seventeen Italian soldiers had me laughing with unrestrained glee.

So when the prisoners were sent back to England the dead Neapolitans remained with the Army. All that summer they travelled in the bullock cart and on Lord Wellington’s orders they were shackled. The shackles were intended to restrict their movements and keep them in one place, but the dead Neapolitans were not afraid of pain—indeed they did not seem to feel it—so it was very little trouble for them to extricate themselves from their shackles, sometimes leaving pieces of themselves behind. As soon as they were free they would go in search of Strange and begin pleading with him in the most pitiful manner imaginable to restore them to the fullness of life. They had seen Hell and were not anxious to return there.

To say nothing of the stench that must be wafting off these corpses.

Thoughts of no particular interest to anyone but myself:

• Is anyone else getting sick of hearing about Thomas Pynchon’s Against the Day? I was interested in reading it, but now I find it hard to care. This book is being hyped to death, so I think I’ll skip it, at least until the chatter dies down.
• I was surprised to find Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol at my friend’s parents’ house yesterday. This is one book I’ve been meaning to get to before Christmas. Now I don’t have any excuses.
• I’ve finally reached the second part of Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. I don’t know what it is about this book, but it seems I can only read fifty pages at a time before losing interest (or before someone comes along and bothers me). That’s not to say I don’t like the book. I think it’s great; I just haven’t had much time to get into it. But now, with everyone braving the after-Thanksgiving shopping rush, maybe I can get caught up on my reading.

For Thanksgiving, I managed to dig up a pretty grotesque short story: Joyce Carol Oates’ “Thanksgiving” is a disgusting reminder of why it’s sometimes better to let women do the grocery shopping. Be thankful.

Google Book Search makes it easier for bored book sleuths to detect lesser-known literary crimes. There’s probably a really bad Dan Brown-Michael Baigent-Richard Leigh joke here, but like most humor, it eludes my grasp. Though I’m sure it would involve a seedy bar, penis envy, and one pissed-off parrot.

As it turns out, even authors not living in this online age are in trouble. My fellow literary sleuth Alex MacBride recently revealed to me that he’d uncovered an old crime in a new way. MacBride, a linguist employed by Google, idly ran a phrase from England Howlett’s 1899 essay “Sacrificial Foundations” through Google Book Search, his employer’s massive digitization of millions of volumes from university libraries. The search had nothing to do with his job—like the rest of us, sometimes Alex just kills time by plugging stuff into Google—and rather than go to the trouble of digging out Howlett’s book by name, he’d decided to call it up with a phrase. To his surprise, he got more back than just Howlett: the search also revealed a suspiciously similar passage in Sabine Baring-Gould’s 1892 book Strange Survivals. A lot of suspiciously similar passages.

Perhaps it’s not too shocking that a small-time amateur like Howlett swiped from Baring-Gould, a frenetically prolific folklore scholar who published hundreds of books and articles. But, the search results revealed, this was not quite the end of the story. “Charmingly,” MacBride emails, “Baring-Gould seems to have had sticky fingers himself.” The wronged author, you see, had in turn used the unattributed quotation from a still earlier work: Benjamin Thorpe’s 1851 study Northern Mythology.

[...]

The most intriguing result of a digital dragnet would be if any deeply idiosyncratic last-person-you’d-guess authors get fingered—Emily Dickinson, anyone? Benjamin Franklin, perhaps? I’d bet that in the next decade at least one major literary work gets busted. Such thefts don’t necessarily end a literary reputation: after all, what [Herman] Melville did with ordinary maritime literature amounted to an act of lead-to-gold alchemy. But it’s invigorating to think that some forgotten authors, long buried and with the dirt tamped down over them by their ruthless rivals, will now get their due. Plagiarism, it seems, will out.

I’m enjoying Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell immensely. The author is wonderful at bringing the characters and setting to life. Mr. Norrell, despite his ability to make statues come to life, is cautious and reticent, often overwhelmed by London’s upper class and always reluctant to make public displays of magic. He’s not given to overconfidence and he’s certainly not the type to go through the trouble of putting someone’s mind at ease. But the following passages, from chapter seven, are so patently at odds with his personality that I was left wondering about his sudden change of heart.

It was curious to observe how Mr. Norrell hesitated in the doorway and exhibited great unwillingness to be conducted further into the house until he had spoken to Sir Water. “But I must speak to Sir Walter! Just a few words with Sir Walter!—I shall do my utmost for you, Sir Walter!” he called out from the door. “Since the young lady is, ahem!, not long gone from us, I must say that the situation is promising. Yes, I think I may go so far as to say the situation is a promising one. I shall go now, Sir Walter, and do my work. I hope, in due course, that I shall have the honor of bringing you good news!”All the assurances that Mrs. Wintertowne begged for—and did not get—from Mr. Norrell, Mr. Norrell was now anxious to bestow upon Sir Walter, who clearly did not want them. From his sanctuary in the drawing room, Sir Walter nodded and then, when Mr. Norrell still lingered, he called out hoarsely, “Thank you, sir! Thank you!” And his mouth stretched out in a curious way. It was, perhaps, meant for a smile.

“I wish, with all my heart, Sir Walter,” called out Mr. Norrell, “that I might invite you to come up with me and to see what it is I do, but the curious nature of this particular magic demands solitude. I will, I hope, have the honor of showing you some magic upon another occasion.”