Archive for the ‘I Hate Writing’ Category

Ernest Hemingway’s Bathroom

August 3, 2026

In Key West, Florida.

Desert Rose

March 6, 2025

Guys, remember when the Syrian government was overthrown?  Me neither!  There have been so many awful and engrossing news stories since then––the wildfires in Los Angeles, the inauguration and the return of Trump, the global wars still raging––that my puny, addled brain can barely recollect the experience of reading the news the day Syrian rebels swiftly and easily captured Damascus.  

But apparently my long-term memory is, unlike my short-term one, in decent shape, because whenever I hear the al-Assad name I think: how’s Joan Juliet Buck doing?

In case you missed it, here’s the background: Joan Juliet Buck was a well-respected if eccentric writer for Vogue who, in 2011, took an assignment from her editor to write a profile of Asma al-Assad, the British-born wife of then-Syrian president (he was president in 2011, when Buck profiled his wife, not when they met).  In her retelling of this afterward, she was uneasy from the get-go.  “Absolutely not,” she wrote in an essay for Newsweek. “I don’t want to meet the Assads, and they don’t want to meet a Jew.”   Nevertheless, she said it was “more interesting” than her usual assignments profiling models and actresses, and she was eager to see the antiquities in Syria, so she went.

You can probably guess what happened next.  Shortly after Buck’s article came out, the brutal Syrian Civil War began, during which al-Assad killed many Syrians.  Scrambling for a justification for printing a glossy profile of a woman married to a mass murderer, Vogue threw Buck under the bus, even though anyone in or around publishing would––should––have recognized that the buck didn’t stop with her, and Vogue would have had to be complicit in many ways, if not the sole reason for such a misstep.  

Regardless, Buck’s article vanished from the Internet, and her contract wasn’t renewed.  As of 2017, she was living in a rented apartment in Rhinebeck, New York and working on her memoir from the basement of a local library.  

I’ve long been curious about what happens to documents deemed no longer reliable because of social reasons, like this, or because they’ve been found unreliable due to plagiarism or authorial dishonesty.  (For a long time, I was obsessed with wondering who would actively choose to read James Frey’s A Million Little Pieces post-Oprah debacle, and what that person’s experience of the book would be.)  So naturally I went on Ebay to track down a copy of Vogue’s Power Issue from March 2011.  (Don’t worry––it wasn’t that expensive.)  

My first thought upon receiving it is how weird it was to hold a bulky magazine like this again, actually.  Given how much we’ve moved away from print in recent years, and how most of the publications I now do read IRL are slim or literary journals (so therefore kind of thick but much smaller), I had a shocking jolt of recollection––I wouldn’t call it nostalgia, really, because it wasn’t entirely pleasant––when I flipped through what felt like dozens of pages of ads before I even got to the table of contents.  As a person who can fetishize the analog, I was sort of surprised to find I didn’t actually miss this tactile experience.  

At the time I purchased it earlier this year, you couldn’t find the article itself anywhere online, although a friend told me she’d heard Gawker had a copy up for a while.  You could, however, find recounting of the debacle like this one, which quoted or paraphrased the piece in a few places, including the Guardian (here).  Most of those articles about the article focused on the rather gauzy, Vogue-appropriate physical descriptions of the first lady, which play pretty, uh, poorly in retrospect.  “[G]lamorous, young, and very chic… [A] thin, long-limbed beauty,” Buck calls the woman currently believed to be holed up in some opulent Moscow apartment.  

I agree that a lot of her descriptions read as unsavory in the light of the present, but actually, the article isn’t as glowing as many of Buck’s detractors made it out to be.  Right in the second paragraph, she calls out the assumption of Syria’s safety as based upon the fact that its government “conducts intense physical and electronic surveillance” of Syrians and foreigners alike.  When the first lady feeds Buck a bunch of bromides about coexistence in Syria, Buck segues into a description of the desolate Jewish quarter in Damascus.  

By far the weirdest and saddest thing in the piece is not Buck commenting on Mrs. al-Assa’s quiet luxury or whatever; it’s her description of their visit to one of the Massar centers, youth civic centers where kids are, on that day, learning music and chess on computers.  Then:

“Asma al-Assad stands to watch a laborious debate about how–-and whether––to standardize the Arabic spelling of the word Syria.  Then she throws out a curveball.  ‘I’ve been advised that we have to close down this center so as to open another one somewhere else,’ she says.  Kids mouths drop open.  Some repress tears.  Others are furious.  One boy chooses altruism: ‘That’s ok.  We know how to do it now; we’ll help them.”

Then the first lady announces, ‘That wasn’t true.  I just wanted to see how much you care about Massar.’

As the pilot expertly avoids sheet lightning above the snow-flecked desert on the way back, she explains, ‘There was a little bit of formality in what they were saying to me… Tricks like this help––they became alive, they became passionate.’”

Tricking refugee children into believing a major source of support is about to disappear: this is jaw-droppingly insane!  Buck touched upon this in her Newsweek piece, but it doesn’t pop up much elsewhere that I’ve seen, and I mean honestly, just getting that in there I think makes Asma come off really poorly.  Am I wrong on this?

Anyway if you want to see the thing in full reach out to me, I’ll just scan this sucker and send it along! 

OK Well He’s Not Wrong

May 14, 2024

As a lover of literature and writing, I still have to admit SBF has a point here.

“By high school Sam [Bankman-Fried] had decided that he just didn’t like school, which was odd for a person who would finish at the top of his class. He’d also decided that at least some of the fault lay not with him but with school. English class, for instance . His doubts about English class dated back to the sixth grade. That was when the teachers had stopped worrying about simple literacy and turned their attention to deeper questions. ‘As soon as English class went from ‘can you read a book’ to writing an essay about a book, I completely lost interest,’ recalled Sam. He found literary criticism bizarre: who cared what you felt or thought about a story? The story was the story, with no provable right or wrong way to read it. ‘If they said to talk about what you like or don’t like, okay, I would do that,’ he said. That’s not what they were asking him to do, however. They were asking him to interpret the book, and then judging him on this interpretations… “

“‘I objected to the fundamental reality of the entire class,’ said Sam of English. ‘All of a sudden I was being told I was wrong––about a thing it was impossible to be wrong about. The thing that offended me is that it wasn’t honest with itself. It was subjectivity framed as objectivity. All the grading was arbitrary. I don’t even know how you grade it. I disagreed with the implicit factual claims behind the things that got good grades.'”

~Michael Lewis, Going Infinite: The Rise and Fall of a New Tycoon

Solomon Silverfish

September 10, 2023

So friends! Remember this? The early DFW story about a man who pretends to be Jewish, called “Solomon Silverfish”? Well, I found a copy of the literary magazine it was published in (Sonora Review, issue 55, in which it is re-printed as a tribute) on Ebay and bought it for a cool $10 so I could read! And the verdict is…

… it wasn’t good!

I mean, the truth is, I kind of saw this coming. I am actually a fan of what James Wood called “hysterical realism”: I’m a maximalist and I enjoy things that are fast-paced, so Infinite Jest suited me just fine (as did, for what it’s worth, White Teeth). But I think that in order to pull off hysterical realism, every detail needs to be absolutely not one tenth of a centimeter out of place, or else the rapidity of the tone gets thrown off. And so perhaps I’m at a disadvantage reading this piece as a Jew, because it just became so clear, via the details, that David Foster Wallace knows nothing about Jews.

The basic plot is as follows: Solomon Silverfish, a lawyer of indeterminate specialty (sometimes he represents his brother-in-law, prone to drunk driving, and sometimes some unsavory pimp-types) has long been devoted to his wife, Sophie, who is in the end stages of dying from cancer. He’s called out by said brother-in-law in the middle of the night to fetch him from the drunk tank, but when Solomon goes, his friend is there with another acquaintance and Silverfish’s otherbrother-in-law. The trio tells Silverfish they know he isn’t really Jewish and he’s been lying about it all these years; Silverfish essentially says he never told them one way or another, so it doesn’t really count as lying. Meanwhile, Sophie’s parents visit her at her home and tell her what’s happening; Sophie stands by her husband, but in the midst of her defense, gets violently ill and is rushed to the hospital. The piece ends with a section in the first-person (most of the rest is, like Infinite Jest, sections in rotating close-third) voice of the pimp, who’s describing Solomon’s first attempt to buy weed for Sophie, to alleviate her nausea, and then a questionable vision of Silverfish committing adultery (I think it’s a hallucination but what do I know).

At the risk of sounding like a total philistine, I really have no idea what the… point of this story was, overall? There were nods, I think, to the all-consuming power of romance and partnership––Solomon and Sophie’s devotion to one another is total and, at times, sweet––and to the great equalizing indignities of dying, but there seemed to be some kind of Bigger Meaning that was just completely lost on me. I say “seems to be,” because a non-Jew pretending to be a Jew––and maybe I’m biased here but it’s what I think––is an idea very pregnant with symbolism, and it was just completely unclear what it was symbolic of. Literally the only thing I can come up with is that Solomon feigned Jewishness because he was so instantly enamored of Sophie that he decided on the spot to live a lie, and the fact that they remained the Platonic image of love means that Solomon’s choice was the right one in the face of his small-minded identity-obsessed compadres. Translation: love conquers all, love is love, whatever. But this seems way too saccharine and quotidian for a guy who characterized his first novel as “a conversation between Wittgenstein and Derrida,” and who generally is not a sentimentalist nor one whose work betrays any interest whatsoever in community norms and politics.

The other trouble here for me was again, the details. The characters were completely unbelievable Jews. And I recognize that I’m shooting myself in the foot here, because one hallmark of hysterical realism is that the characters are all kind of meant to be figures/symbols/composites of tics/quirks/antics and not really, well, real. And this largely did work for me in IJ, because I did feel that for the most part, there was some heart and authenticity there (it varied though: I felt it more in the halfway house than the tennis academy). Perhaps this is because DFW knows what it feels like to be a tennis phenom, a depressive, an addict, etc.

But he doesn’t have a clue what it means to be a Jew, and it shows. I don’t mean anything as grandiose as carrying galut around in your soul; I mean he literally doesn’t know what words Jews use. For example, when the trio of Silverfish’s familiars are interrogating him about his deception, one of them says something to the effect of, “You sat with us in Temple! You did the mitzvahs! You ate the matzah at our seder! How dare you!” Never mind that this reads like someone looked up “what are Jewish words” and just threw them on the page; the fact that he used the word “Temple” automatically assumes these are Reform Jews, and for Reform Jews, the stance toward intermarriage ranges from “neutral” to “wholly embraced.” There is some nuance there: I don’t know when this story is supposed to take place, so perhaps the kind of light stigma of intermarriage would have been held by Sophie’s family just as a vestige of shtetl mentality, and obviously, the men are also reacting to the deception in addition to just the fact of him being not Jewish, so some of the anger might be more about that. But the truth is I don’t really think that’s why. I think DFW is trying to imply these are Serious Jews by using this kind of vernacular, but doing so without knowledge of what Serious Jews would look like or say––probably not Temple, probably not “annulment” when they talked to Sophie about ending the marriage (they’d like use afka’inhu, the halakhic equivalent, or say that she should force Solomon to give her a gett, or something like that). This is all to leave aside the fact that they speak basically like low level gangsters with the occasional Jewish term thrown in, nor do they do any of the things Serious Jews would do over the course of the story (like, IDK, pray, wrap tefillin, etc.).

I would be really curious to hear another person’s take on this (and no, DFW bros on Reddit being like “This was great as always” doesn’t count as a “take”). I’m sure there is/are practical and/or philosophical reason(s) for specifically using a goy masquerading as a Jew in this story, and I would love to know what they are. There is a chapter in this book that seems to revolve around the thesis that DFW was interested in language as a way of “self-creation” and that “Solomon Silverfish” was an unsuccessful attempt at grappling with that idea in writing, but it’s $110 to get digital access so I’ll just have to assume her qualms with it were the same as mine.

In closing, I’m still glad I spent the $10, and I still love you DFW! But this story was not good.

The Perfect Pandemic Book

March 16, 2021

Earlier in the pandemic I wanted to write a poem that would sort of mimic the structure of Patricia Lockwood’s “Rape Joke,” except it would be called “The Perfect Pandemic Book” and then would subsequently replace “book” with “TV show” or “movie” or whatever and involve a lot of evocative (but humorous!) imagery about loneliness, fear, germs, escapism, nightmares, and so forth, but then I realized I’m not a great poet so someone please take this off my hands, thanks so much.

A Tweet

February 9, 2021

How many critics called Ottessa Moshfegh’s My Year of Rest and Relaxation A Rebours for the 21st century? Probably a lot, right?

The Most Romantic Promise

December 28, 2020
Til social ostracism do we part

Title Dropping

September 27, 2020

Every book the narrator of Want by Lynn Steger Strong references reading. This book got a lot of buzz but I hated it for many reasons that I’m more than happy to elaborate on if you would JUST GIVE ME THE CHANCE. I honestly feel like this reading list encapsulates some of my irritation: I’m super highbrow and super, super sad!

Jean Rhys, Good Morning, Midnight

Gayl Jones, Corregidora

Imre Kertesz, Kaddish for an Unborn Child

Marguerite Duras, The Lover

Merce Rodoreda, The Time of the Doves

Nawal El Saadawi, Woman at Point Zero

Claire Lispector, The Passion of G.H.

Henry Tree, Party Going

Dorothy West, The Living is Easy

Gerald Murnane, The Plains

Mariama Ba, So Long a Letter

Svetlana Alexievich, Secondhand Time

Magda Szabo, The Door

Tom McCarthy, Remainder

Jean Rhys, D.H. Lawrence, Colm Toibin, Deborah Eisenberg, Iris Murdoch, Barbara Comyns, Penelope Fitzgerald, Doris Lessing, Jane Bowles, William Faulkner, Virginia Woolf

Anita Brookner, Hotel du Lac

Louise Erdrich, LaRose

Long Post

July 19, 2020

I’ve really been hoping to do a longer post for a while now, but you know, pandemic living has got me (and basically everyone else) down.  So I’m just posting this dumb thing in hopes of looking like as diligent a blogger as Jason Kottke––better a stopgap measure to save face than nothing at all!

Here’s my thought: I saw a think piece on why Twister is the best 90s disaster movie the other day.  I say “saw” because I didn’t actually read the think piece––who has that kind of time?!––but instead just nodded in bemused agreement.  Sure, that seems reasonable to me.  (Also, what else qualifies as a 90s disaster movie?  I guess I was thinking “natural disaster,” although when you Google the phrase it suggests films like Titanic and Independence Day.)  So I put it on when I was cleaning the other day, was mildly amused for the first fifteen or so, and then just started doing something else and didn’t bother to finish it.  But what those first fifteen minutes made me realize is that I am really missing something from my life: the thrill of the chase!  Not romantic chase, of course.  More like, that feeling when you’re with your pals and you all want a glimpse of something mighty and ephemeral and then someone says, “It’s close!” and you all race to jump in your cars and you’re radioing to each other, “Make a left!” and “Don’t let it get away!”  You know, the chase.

I think maybe I just want to be a storm chaser, although I don’t love tornadoes.  A monsoon could be cool.

Good talk eh?

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Hahahaha

June 12, 2020

For work I get the online dispatches from the medical journal JAMA, and today one of their headlines is below.  What an understatement!

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