Southern Bookman

Garden & Gun magazine looks at hometown of Charleston

I often resist Garden & Gun magazine, seeing it as a Southern elitist fantasy.

The magazine presents the South as a paradise of resorts, gourmet dining, fascinating cities, craft shops, music and field sports. It leaves out the region's poverty, violence, self-defeating politics and addictions. 

But, as a lapsed Southern gentleman, I find myself succumbing to the magazine. The newest issue, termed February and March, hooked me with a special section on Charleston, the magazine's hometown.

Ignoring the city's slave-market past, Fort Sumter and the Mother Emanuel slayings, the magazine paints an idyllic portrait of the "Holy City." An article discounts reports that the city's famed restaurant scene is beset by over-saturation and declining quality. Other articles that could have been written by the city's tourism bureau tout its historic homes and gracious gardens.

The city's black culture is noted with a mention of Citadel professor Damon Fordham's excellent "Lost Stories of Black Charleston" tour, which unveils historic contributions of black residents in every downtown block.

Fordham, a writer and chronicler of the city's black authors, gives an impressive history of  the origins of George Gershwin's opera "Porgy and Bess" in Charleston writer Dubose Heyward's novel, "Porgy." Heyward authored the opera's libretto, and wrote the lyrics along with Ira Gershwin. Fordham takes the tour past the gentrified location of the opera's Catfish Row.

An in-depth profile of black gay poet Jericho Brown, director of Emory's creative writing program, gives depth to the issue. The compelling article examines Brown's overcoming an unhappy childhood and his commitment to poetry.

The magazine is also flavored by signature columns by Julia Reed and Roy Blount Jr., whose essays distinguish each issue.

Although I'll never like articles on hunting dogs and duck hunting, I suppose my resistance to Garden & Gun is futile and that I'll have to admit that I'm a Southern elitist too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cecelia Watson's ode to the semicolon

Cecelia Watson's "Semicolon: The Past, Present and Future of a Misunderstood Mark" moves from a brief history of the pesky punctuation mark to a call for liberty from restrictive grammar rules.

White and Strunk's "The Elements of Style" probably has crippled more writers than encouraged them. Subverting the tyranny of usage guardians, Watson calls for writing creativity, especially in the application of semicolons.

A professor at Bard College, Watson doesn't support complete anarchy. She believes in an understanding of grammar, without allowing a slavish adherence to stifle writing.

Watson gives examples of excellent writers who have imaginatively used the semicolon beyond its common role of separating two interdependent complete statements. Passages from Shakespeare, Irvine Welsh, Rebecca Solnit and Raymond Chandler illustrate how semicolon flexibility enhances writing.

The punctuation mark, invented by the Italian scholar and printer Aldus Manutius the Elder in 1494, is shown as an essential writing tool.

She doesn't mention Saul Bellow, but I thought of his liberation from language strictures in "The Adventures of Augie March." A look at the novel's celebrated first paragraph reveals how Bellow's semicolons boost his writing.

Watson's small book, with lovely woodcut illustrations, raises enthralling questions about the philosophy of writing. Grammar purists will warn that she's opening the gates to increased language promiscuity, but her own work shows the effectiveness of elegant English.

Her treatise ends by skewering David Foster Wallace's admonition to students to conform to the standard English dialect.

I'm not sure how far she would go in allowing freedom from spelling and grammar rules. I suspect she would oppose complete abandonment of grammatical norms. However, she speaks for the value of speech outside of narrow syntactical channels. Her thorough historical analysis of how those rules developed points to their arbitrariness.

In Watson's viewpoint, semicolon mastery is a hallmark of vivid writing. Those who might think of her book as a dull pedantic exercise will discover a witty, expansive work touching upon history, philosophy, literary criticism and personal reflections. Her footnotes are like jewels in a stream.

All hail the semicolon; Watson seeks to free the funny-looking mark, and writers' thoughts. Already, I'm throwing semicolons around like doubloons from a Mardi Gras float. I don't fear the language police.

 

Alan Bennett in annual diary remembers Jonathan Miller

Noted British playwright Alan Bennett in his latest diary in the London Review of Books pays homage to fellow "Beyond the Fringe" member Jonathan Miller.

For years, Bennett has brightened the new year with his annual chronicle of the previous 12 months, published in the LRB. Bennett's record of his life in 2019 runs in the LRB's Jan. 2 issue.

The polymath Miller, who died Nov. 27, excelled in medicine, the theater and television. He was especially known for his opera productions, and hosting the TV documentary "The Body in Question."

Rising from their college days at Oxford and Cambridge, Miller and Bennett joined Dudley Moore and Peter Cook in the satirical revue "Beyond the Fringe," which eventually played on Broadway.

Along with serene depictions of the London literary world and unhurried life in suburban Yorkshire, Bennett can be cutting in his views. An entry in his 2019 diary gives a chilly assessment of Miller.

"Ours was a not unrivalrous relationship, with neither particularly generous about the other's work," Bennett says. He confesses to never seeing one of Miller's operas, and suspects Miller never watched one of his plays.

Bennett ends on a warmer, regretful note. "Now that he's gone I feel remorse as well as sorrow. But, jokes apart, it was a question of survival. I needed to write. Jonathan needed one to listen."

The diaries increasingly chronicle Bennett's aging. This year's entries often reference Bennett lying on his couch or in bed, suffering from severe arthritis. He also gives an alarming account of a fall on his bicycle, from which he suffered bruises but no broken bones or head injuries.

A disturbing sign of Bennett's looming mortality is that the diary is much shorter this year; he missed several months during the spring and summer because of open-heart surgery.

With all of his suffering, the diary is again a treat of refined thinking, with references to obscure films, actors and British writers. The diaries reflect his cultured life in suburban Yorkshire, where he enjoys gardening, old houses and reading. Bennett's at times fussy writing reveals a disgust with conservative politics, an enjoyment of small town life and an appreciation for small pleasures.

His diaries mirror my own aging, giving me encouragement and comfort. I hope to read Bennett's annual missives for years to come.

Virginie Despentes' "Vernon Subutex" takes place among major French novels

Virginie Despentes has been shocking the French literary world for years with her novels about rape, violence, pornography and alienated characters.

Her latest work, the trilogy "Vernon Subutex," casts these themes in the framework of a traditional picaresque novel. Set in contemporary Paris, its magical power assailed by virulent international capitalism and celebrity culture, the book gives a panoramic view of French society.

The eponymous hero, Vernon Subutex, lives on the Paris streets after losing his record store, Revolver, for years a cultural oasis for Paris' tragically hip. At the start of the novel, Subutex possesses a video made by international musical star Alex Bleach before the singer committed suicide.

In a satire of literary thrillers, Subutex is hunted by a diverse group who wants possession of Bleach's last testament, mainly for commercial purposes. In the novel's second volume, the homeless Subtex turns into the mystical leader of the group when his musical playlists as a DJ inspire ecstatic, healing dancing. His last name the brand name of an anti-addiction drug, Subutex with his music frees his followers from their egos.

Those in Subutex's circle include homeless people he met on the street, a ruthless female detective known for Internet black arts, a female pornography star, an earnest liberal professor dismayed when his daughter converts to Islam and begins wearing a veil, a faded scriptwriter, a diabolical movie producer and a reformed alt-right young man who's martyred when killed by his former colleagues. Stunningly attractive transgendered males and females, an inveterate wife batterer, and a seductive female bartender/tattoo artist also appear.

Reminiscent of Pynchon and Dickens, Despentes has a gift for memorable names. She's been called the rock and roll Zola, but her work evokes a number of French writers, including Proust and Victor Hugo.

Frank Wynne's translation captures Despentes' racy colloquial French. The narrative advances with interior monologues of each character, who make satirical comments about the inequities of French society. While retaining some of its special power, her Paris is part of a uniform international urban culture of the ultra-rich, decimated middle class and addicts to drugs, sex and pop culture.

An alienated group of alt-right young men are among the few characters who hold traditional jobs. Some of the women characters also participate in the mainstream economy while the men have lost their places. Most of the leading characters make their livings through shady forms of entertainment. Landmarks of the old, classical Paris contrast with a declining culture.

At the end, Subutex and his followers revert to a rootless group that travels from place to place like prehistoric hunter-gatherers while depending on modern technology for their ecstatic dance happenings. Pop music, from funk to hip-hop to old-style rock and roll, form the basis for a prototypical religion.

Volume 1 is available in the United States,  but I'm not sure about Volume 2. I bought an English version of the latter in Lisbon at Bertrand's, known as the oldest bookstore in the world. American fans will have to wait sometime for the concluding volume, recently published in France.

Despentes' book shows the humanity of even her most unpleasant characters. "Vernon Subutex" is one of those rare books that justifies the term prophetic.

Sarah Greene salvages flawed TV production of Tana French mysteries

"The Dublin Murders" unfolds like a bad dream.

Haphazardly splicing together Tana French's novels "In the Woods" and "The Likeness," the Starz-BBC production sputters in trying to develop contrasting storylines. Like the first season of HBO's "True Detective," the show offers moody atmospherics, supernatural elements and memory-tormented characters. Here, the spooky setting of dark woods and spirits is Ireland rather than Louisiana.

Sarah Phelps, known for her Agatha Christie adaptations, wrote the flawed script. French wasn't involved in the production, and likely was shocked at Phelps' labored stratagems to stitch together disparate stories. With an overflow of elements, neither mystery builds suspense until the final episodes, which at last gain narrative momentum.

Rising above the show's disparities, Sarah Greene gives a beguiling performance as homicide detective Cassie Maddox. With her dark eyes, fearless spirit and smoky sensuality, Greene places Cassie among memorable female TV detectives. Portraying two characters when Cassie goes undercover in one of the storylines, Greene displays impressive versatility.

Killian Scott as Cassie's tormented partner Rob Reilly, Rob Ryan in the novel, also finds the character's depths. As the fragmented plot progresses, Reilly  grows increasingly unpleasant. A sympathetic character at the beginning, in the end he turns into a violent, obsessed anti-hero. Scott's convincing performance makes Reilly's personality changes believable.

Conleth Hill, last seen as the eunuch Lord Varys in "Game of Thrones," steals scenes as the foul-mouthed, pressured police superintendent O'Kelly. Hill leads a good cast bogged down by the script.

Greene's portrayal of Cassie raises the show's dramatic heat, but French's novels give a far better entry into the author's world.

New Year's Eve playlist

Once again I say farewell to the old year by playing Frank Loesser's wistful ballad, "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve?"

Through the miracle of YouTube, I found the original version, recorded by Margaret Whiting and the Frank DeVol Orchestra in 1947. Covers by contemporary performers Kacey Musgraves, Diane Krall and Harry Connick Jr. don't match Whiting's sophisticated yearning. While talented, today's singers lack the depths of a generation that had just been through World War II.

While I heard "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve" playing from a supermarket loudspeaker weeks before Christmas, Loesser's "Baby It's Cold Outside," once a holiday classic, has disappeared over intimations of date rape in the song's seductive lyrics. Still, Ray Charles and Betty Carter's version is a wonderful performance portraying a playful, sophisticated game between two adults.

An engaging review of Debbie Harry's memoir "Face it" in the London Review of Books has me returning to old Blondie songs. Harry's live performance of "The Tide Is High," also found on YouTube, put me in the holiday spirit.

For a more melancholy mood, I returned to songs by Amy Winehouse, who brought back 1940s and '50s glamour. Sadly, like Marilyn Monroe, Winehouse gave in to her love affair with death.

What am I doing New Year's Eve? I will make my annual visit to the Morkan sisters' Epiphany dinner, and give my regards to Mary Jane Morkan, Freddy Malins, Molly Ivors, Mr. Browne, Bartell D'Arcy, Garbiel and Gretta Conroy, and Lilly, the caretaker's daughter. I will imagine Michael Furey singing "The Lass of Aughrim" under Gretta's window and the snow falling on the living and the dead.

 

 

Oh, no, I haven't read the Best Books of the Year

I must have fallen off the zeitgeist.

Perusing those Best Books of the Years lists that proliferate this time of year, I was surprised to find that I hadn't read any of the chosen masterpieces. A few years ago, I could count at least three or four of the golden selections that I'd read. The kids might say "go boomer," but I sadly admit that many heralded books no longer appeal to me.

What is the purpose of those lists anyway? To sell books in the Christmas season? To let literary types express their superiority? To give people like me some knowledge of the books without having to read them? The lists don't promote deep thought. They are, as Gore Vidal sniffed, "book chat." Or book fast food.

As an aside, I wondered why The New York Times Sunday Book Review doesn't do more with its Top 10 Books of the Year announcement. As with its top 100 books of the year, the newspaper just recycles the "Editor's Choice" summaries from earlier in the year. Why not something fresh? How about asking each author of a book on the Top 10 list to write an appreciation of another writer's book?

When I subscribed to the Times Literary Supplement, I looked forward to the annual list in which the TLS asked writers to give their favorite books of the year. The books differed from those mentioned again and again in American publications.

Now, the Wall Street Journal, also owned by Rupert Murdoch, runs a similar list. The Wall Street Journal includes more politicians and celebrities than the more academically oriented TLS.

While I still read newspapers and magazines, most in print, I'm already sickened enough by the American political scene to read books on Trump, the GOP and the alienated blue collar workers in the Midwest. Reading histories seems more and more pointless in these fraught times. Many of the lauded novels these days are about adolescents discovering their sexuality. Who cares?

All right, I'll make a New Year's resolution to read more "best books" next year. But I'm already trying to read the complete series of James Lee Burke's Dave Robicheaux novels. And I find those hard to finish.

 

"God Bless Us, Every One": Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" published 176 years ago.

It's hard to imagine a world that had never heard of Ebenezer Scrooge, Tiny Tim and the ghosts of Christmas Past, Christmas Present and Christmas Yet to Come.

Those cultural icons first appeared on Dec. 19, 1843, when Charles Dickens published "A Christmas Carol in Prose: Being a Ghost Story of Christmas."

As Garrison Keillor noted in Thursday's Writers Almanac, the debt-burdened Dickens feverishly turned out the novella after his novel "Martin Chuzzlewit" sold poorly. The plot and characters inflamed his imagination on long walks through London.

Dickens paid for the publication himself when his publisher, Chapman & Hall, refused to take the financial risk. Illustrated by Punch magazine artist John Leech, "A Christmas Carol" was an instant hit, but Dickens fell short of his expected profits because of the high costs of his extravagant full-color design.

"A Christmas Carol" propelled a Christmas revival in London. As Britain urbanized, celebrating the holiday was seen as frivolous and wasteful. The book's popularity validated family gatherings, generosity to others and making merry.

The book launched countless stage, film and TV productions, including an excellent cartoon version with Mr. Magoo as Scrooge. The book was repeatedly retold through the years in Christmas classics like "It's a Wonderful Life."

After 176 years, poverty, greed and inhumanity remain as intractable as in Dickens' time. Economic disparity worsens. An unrepentant Scrooge agenda rules the GOP and Trump administration. Yet Dickens' ghost story offers the hope of mercy and redemption.

At age 31,  Dickens gave the world an enduring Christmas gift.

Battle of the Bulge anniversary recalls book I read in childhood

The 75th anniversary of the Battle of the Bulge this week brought back memories of one of my favorite childhood books, a history of the World War II battle in which 19,000 Americans lost their lives.

On Dec. 16, 1944, Hitler launched a surprise attack against Allied forces through the Ardennes Forest. His desperate final attempt to win the war almost succeeded, except for the bravery of American soldiers.

The German advance, planned to capture the port of Antwerp and split the Allied army, formed a bulge that gave the battle its name. After the initial German success, the Allies counterattacked, pushing back the Nazi forces and winning the battle on Jan. 25, 1945.

As a boy, I read over and over again the massive Battle of the Bulge book, thrilled by the maps, photographs and accounts of American heroism such as the 101st Airborne's defiant defense of Bastogne.

The American soldier's individual heroism won the battle. As Paul Fussell said in his World War II memoir, "The Boys Crusade: The American Infantry in Northwestern Europe, 1944-1945," the American men cut off from their comrades displayed courage and personal initiative fostered by American democracy. On the other side, the Germans showed the drawbacks of their regimented society.

The book, one of the the first written about the battle, was one of my parents' Book of the Month Club selections. "The Bulge" sat unread on the shelves in our den for months, until one day I pulled it down and found myself fascinated. It was the first "adult" book I read. I still loved the Hardy Boys, Chip Hilton and a series of biographies for young readers, but the Battle of the Bulge history began my lifetime of "serious" reading.

I wish I still had the book, but it's been lost through the years. Nor could I remember who wrote it. Internet research revealed that the book was likely John Toland's "Battle: The Story of the Bulge," published in 1959, when I was 8 years old.

At least I have my father's hardcover edition of John Dos Passos' "USA Trilogy," and many of my Hardy Boys books. Perhaps one day I'll find a copy of Toland's book to join them.

 

Season's greetings: More bad news on climate change

As the Christmas lights grow more opulent and ubiquitous commercials hawk gas-guzzling autos as gifts, alarming climate change reports mount.

Despite an impassioned plea by Greta Thunberg, Time magazine's Person of the Year and  Donald Trump irritant, the UN's COP 25 conference in Madrid collapsed, torpedoed by the United States, Brazil and Australia. The conference's purpose was to reaffirm carbon-reduction goals set by each country in the 2016 Paris agreement.

New York magazine writer and "Uninhabitable Earth" author David Wallace-Wells in a report on the failed UN conference outlines the folly of Australia denying climate change as wildfires burn, droughts grow worse and coral reefs die.

Trump has pulled the United States from the treaty, making the U.S. the only country refusing to make a commitment to cut carbon emissions. But no country has taken significant action to meet its carbon reduction goals.

Carbon output rose to an all-time high in 2019, breaking the record set in 2018, according to reports.

In a ray of good news, the global increase in fossil fuel emissions fell to 0.2 percent, after a 2 percent rise in 2018, Scientific American said. The reduction came from a 10 percent reduction in U.S. coal use, despite the Trump administration's campaign to revive the coal industry. Much of Europe also had a similar reduction in coal burning, the magazine reported.

But India and China boosted its coal dependency. A rise in natural gas usage also played a part in the emissions increase, although the fuel emits less carbon than coal.

Another message in this season of bad tidings: The ocean off the coast of California is turning acidic much faster than other ocean areas. That's a death knell for the spiny lobster, the market squid, the Dungeness crab, The New York Times reported. Hear the sea lions honking?

As the oceans absorb more carbon dioxide, they are turning more acidic, with the process going faster off the coast of California. And one more ominous report found that the oceans' oxygen levels are declining, raising the threat to sealife, not to mention our own.

Tidings of comfort and joy? Arctic melting accelerates. Greenland's ice disappears, raising sea levels. Soon the carol will be "'I'm dreaming of a white Greenland, just like the one I used to know."

We keep ignoring those urgent wake-up calls.

Still, we must hope, as the Christmas carols say.