FEVERS: Thoughts After Reading Michelle Malkin

I just picked up Michelle Malkin's Unhinged: Exposing Liberals Gone Wild. Very well-written. Very funny. Very apropos. And super depressing.

I've always believed that both sides of the political spectrum mirror each other, that you will find similar degrees of emotion and objectivity at all levels of liberalism and conservatism. Consequently, I would be tempted to dismiss the compilation of Malkin's experiences as the kind of stuff that happens only to pundits (on both sides). That is, if I hadn't been there too (and I'm not a political pundit, only a fiction-writing blogger). My own experience is that Malkin is right; yes, extremists exist on the conservative side of the political spectrum, but they aren't given nearly the lee-way (by their own party or American culture) as extremists on the liberal side (my apologies to Barak Obama and Christopher Hitchens).

There is a particular mind-set that I have encountered on both the left and the right. The difference is that when I meet it on the left, I encounter no shame, no self-awareness, no ambiguities, no qualifiers, no self-policing. I call the mind-set FEVERS.

F: Fix the opposition. In the feverish mind-set, people are never educated or converted or persuaded. They are fixed. Something is wrong with them. They aren't just different or human or free agents or imperfect. They are broken; their broken state is often due to one cause. If that one cause (culture, family, economics, lifestyle, George Bush) is removed, chucked out, dismantled, undermined (the feverish are very destructive), the broken ones will become perfect, happy (and just like the people doing the fixin').

E: Everyone dies. The feverish mind-set is usually doom-laden. The world is ending! Everything stinks!It is invariably an apocalyptic view of the future.

V: Villain! There must be a villain! (Replete with twirling mustache.) The villain is inevitably compared to Hitler. He or she is evil, one-dimensional. And there is always a conspiracy involved.

E: Edenic past. There must have been a time before the villain came along when life was perfect, pastoral, wonderful. Feverish mentalities dwell incessantly on that supposed past. They rarely enjoy progress. Show them our modern age; they don't see the lack of slavery, rights for women, cheap transportation, dental care, improved education, religious freedom, antibiotics. They see nuclear weapons, urban sprawl (don't you just love it?), no prayer in school, troops over sea, corporate chicanery. They think living without dental care is worth taking everyone back to the nineteenth century (they are wrong). If they are really extreme, they think our ancestors should have remained hunters/gatherers.

R: Right-brained literalism. This is the really odd thing about the feverish mindset. The fevered do not like objective historical evidence which they say is just the dominant capitalist culture (or the dominant liberal media) trying to brainwash us. They prefer warm fuzzy, gushy sentiments. Or angry epithets. They dislike science. BUT they aren't right-brained enough to go the Joseph Campbell, Star Wars route. They don't really like theology or even art (both of which require a degree of discipline and self-awareness). Everything is power-related, personal, relevant. Events have obvious causes and effects and contain literal (usually power-related) definitions. And everything--everything!--can be blamed on someone/something.

S: Self-righteous. Now, everyone is self-righteous to a degree. I'm sure I come across as a bit self-righteous myself. If people didn't think they were right about stuff (and weren't willing to defend that rightness), life would be pretty boring. The difference between ordinary self-righteousness and feverish self-righteousness is that feverish self-righteous will go on and on (and on and on) about how bigoted and close-minded the other side is and then turn around and, in the same breath, make truly bigoted, violent and horrible remarks about, say, Bush's cabinet, Michelle Malkin, Christians. I've been there. I've heard it. It is weird beyond belief. It is almost as if they honestly think that just saying, "I'm open-minded" is the same thing as being open-minded. For those of us with standards (against which we apply ourselves as much as others), open-mindedness is a behavior, not a self-proclaimed label.

As I've said, I've encountered this mind-set on both sides of the political spectrum. I've also encountered elements of FEVERS. Many people fit one of my descriptions, and many people would defend the F,E,V,E,R or S. However, as I've said, I've encountered the feverish mind-set in its purest form (no hesitation, no "well, okay, maybe I'm going too far") and in its entirety on the left. And I think it is the reason why, despite the many mistakes Bush has made, the Democratic Party still doesn't seem to have a chance in 2008. There are many objective, thoughtful, intelligently passionate Democrats. But it's hard to hear them amongst all the hate-mongering.

CATEGORY: BOOKS

Things I Wished I Liked...

Eggplant: Seems every time I'm in a restaurant, they are serving things with eggplant, things I normally like. People tell me it is good, and I imagine if I didn't know eggplant was in the sandwich or the salad or whatever, I would be fine. "Umm," I would say, "that has an interesting texture." As it is, the minute I hear eggplant, I start thinking slime, which isn't fair to eggplant. Or to slime, I guess, depending on your point of view.

Andre Norton: When I was a kid, there were TONS of Andre Norton books in our local library. They always had great covers and really fascinating plot summaries. I would try one, and get bored, try one and get bored. I wish I could have found them the most fascinating books ever; all those books just waiting to be read--sigh . . .

Drew Carey: Actually, I like Drew Carey, and I really enjoyed the improv show he sponsored. But I could never get into the sitcom. I tried. I really tried. I wanted to find it funny since there were a number of actors on the show that I find individually funny (like the guy who does the Fig Newton ads). But I never did. In fact, watching the Drew Carey show was rather a surreal experience. Usually, I know why I don't like a sitcom: too silly, too unintelligent, too many potty jokes. I could never figure it out with Drew Carey. I would sit there, thinking, "I know this is funny. I know this is supposed to be funny. Why am I not laughing?"

Silly feminism: It would just make my life a lot easier. Besides, it's instant-pesto no-responsibility: you can blame men and society and bosses and George Bush and economics! So many roads to self-justification. And I could get along with people in my college. But I have neither the inclination or the lack of humor that would allow me to perpetuate such a fantasy. (No ideology that can't survive a hearty laugh is worth the time it takes to argue its merits.)

Chips: They are one of those easy snack foods. A sugar-fiend like me can't (and shouldn't) eat donuts and brownies 24/7. Chips would be a good substitute. But I've never really cared for chips: potato, dorito, etc. On the other hand, not caring for chips gives me a faint feeling of superiority. Well, okay, I don't have the best diet in the world, but at least I don't eat chips.

The Da Vinci Code: I'd liked to read it. I get it out of the library every now and again. Three weeks pass, back to the library it goes. I understand it is a fun, fast read. But unfortunately, I know just a tad (not a lot, just a tad) too much about early Christianity, and I'm afraid that I'll spend the entire book going, "Oh, puh-lease" which kind of spoils the adventure/fun-read part of the equation.

Networking: Which would make job hunting and fiction publishing a whole lot easier.

Tom Cruise: But I just can't. I think he is kind of skanky. And not because of the whole Katie Holmes/Christian Science thing, or whatever it is. Personally, I find the tabloids' attitude here rather disgusting. Taking photos of stars in bathing suits is one thing; constantly harassing a Hollywood star about his beliefs is another.

That said, I don't care for Tom Cruise. Whenever I catch a glimpse of him in a movie, I always get this faint suspicion that here is a guy who feels really, really sorry for himself. The movies always seem to be about misunderstood men who are being persecuted by their wives or society. And, okay, there's a genre for that, but the men are always these James Bond types. And I simply can't watch a James Bond type movie AND feel sorry for the hero at the same time. It's too weird. But, like Andre Norton, the movies usually seem pretty interesting so I wish I could get into them.

Music: I am, I'm sorry to say, one of those people who hears a song on the radio and says, "Oh, yeah, I like that," and then never remembers the title or the singer or half the lyrics for that matter. I have enormous respect for people who enjoy music (any kind of music) and become well-versed in performers and styles. It seems very relaxing and another form of entertainment. Kind of like abstract art. But I require people and plot in my art forms, which is probably why I prefer the Pre-Raphaelites and musicals. Still, I consider it an aesthetic failure on my part. (I feel the same way about poetry, more or less. On the other hand, I don't care for the cubists, and it's pretty fine with me that I go on not caring.)

Exercising: I like to swim, but I'm afraid it's more splashing about in the water kind of swimming. I find any other kind of exercise dull in the extreme. In college, we had to do one cardiovascular exercise three times a day for twenty minutes. I chose walking, and I just about died with boredom. I'm not really a nature girl. And I can't get into houses or buildings. I like scenery, but you know, scenery, backdrop to my life. As it was, I didn't develop a habit (the point of the exercise), I just developed a dislike for walking to places for no reason. Which is a pity. One of these days it will come back to haunt me. (It should come as no surprise that I took golf and fencing for my next two gym classes.)

Widescreen format: Oh, wait, I've already talked about that.

CATEGORY: FARES

What You Will about Twelfth Night

Twelfth Night is one of those plays/movies where the success of the production depends entirely on the final scene. There are three reasons for this. First, the twins' reunion has to work. The audience exercises an enormous suspension of disbelief regarding these twins (they can't look THAT much alike!). When they are separated, disbelief is easy(ish); when they come together, the disbelief is strained to incredulity. More than that, however, like all long-lost reunions, the joy of the moment has to impress the audience. It can't be a wimpy "oh, hi, bro/sis" kind of thing. It has to be cathartic. (It has to make you cry.)

The second problem created by the final scene is the problem of Duke Orsino. The audience has to accept that this man changes his romantic attachment in an instant from Olivia to Viola. The audience also needs to be happy for Viola and not think, however secretly, "Man, that girl is a getting a bum deal."

The third problem is caused by Malvolio. There's an almost sickening cruelty underlying the treatment of Malvolio. If it goes too far, the ending isn't happy or even satisfactory, just faintly disturbing.

I have seen three productions so far: the 1988 production directed by Kenneth Branagh; the Complete Works of William Shakespeare version (with Felicity Kendal as Viola and the wonderful Robert Hardy as Sir Toby Belch); and the Trevor Nunn version starring, amongst many others, Imogen Stubbs, Toby Stephens, Nigel Hawthorne and Ben Kingsley. (I've also read a takeoff: a medieval detective novel, Thirteenth Night, in which the jester gets the girl--Viola--in the end.) Of the three, I prefer the Toby Stephens' version. It solves the three problems as best as anyone can.

First of all, it has one of the most touching reunion scenes I've ever seen. The reunion is also immensely clever (I won't give too much away; you really should see it for yourself). The Branagh version falls down here (very disappointingly). I'm not sure what Branagh was trying to do, but the twins' reunion definitely fits the the "oh, hi, there" model. I got the impression that Branagh was trying to avoid being sentimental and gushy. Well, call me trite romance girl, but the reunion ought to be gushy and sentimental! There must be resolution, pay-off, closure. Otherwise, the whole thing is just an exercise in textual self-indulgence. I demand complete narratives! None of this "but life doesn't have closure" garbage. As I told my English Composition students, "We don't do post-modernism in this class." I don't do it in my viewing either: set-up and pay-off, set-up and pay-off.

The second believable thing about the Toby Stephens' version is Toby Stephens. He is, to put it mildily, a sexy piece of compact masculinity. In the other versions, Orsino is tall, almost stooping, melancholy and extremely self-pitying. You keep wondering what on earth an adventurous, sharp and funny chick like Viola sees in the guy. (Which is why the book married her to the fool.) Toby Stephens, however, plays a tautly wound chap who is normally extremely energetic (and equally witty). He does not so much swoon with love as glower with it, and you get the impression, as one should, that his problem is offended pride, more than an offended heart. He doesn't really care about Olivia; he's just bored and she's available and he thinks she should like him. He does care about his servant Cesario (in fact, Stephens' reaction as Orsino to Cesario's "betrayal" is gripping and indicates what really matters to him); he is overwhelmingly relieved when Cesario turns out to be female.

The treatment of Malvolio still bothers me in Nunn's version. The trick with Malvolio is that he has to be so detestable that the audience's pity for him is transient. He has to be so annoying that the audience wants to see him brought down several pegs. Richard Briers as Malvolio (Branagh's version) accomplishes this better than Nigel Hawthorne's Malvolio; the middle scenes of Branagh's Twelfth Night are absolutely hilarious due to Briers' portrayal of Malvolio. Branagh also has the ability to cut and direct Shakespeare in such a way that meaning is immediately intelligable; I used to think it was just Branagh's acting--his ability to speak Shakespearean dialog so naturally, it sounds modern--but I now think that it is his overall style since the cast of his Twelfth Night does this sort of thing much better than the cast of the other versions. In any case, by the end of Branagh's Twelfth Night, Richard Briers' Malvolio has been brought so low that the audience's sympathy switches to the other side. Nigel Hawthorne does a better job at keeping Malvolio unsympathetic to the end. But just barely.

In any case, I think that modern directors make a mistake when they try to invest too much profundity/angst/sorrow into characters that Shakespeare originally intended to be gulls. I think that Malvolio is supposed to be played over the top right from the beginning. We are never supposed to sympathize with him, despite what Olivia says at the end.

Basically, a lot of Shakespeare was supposed to be the equivalent of Adam Sandler movies. And I say that as someone who detests Adam Sandler movies.

CATEGORY: MOVIES

And There Goes Another Wife . . .

I just finished The Wives of Henry VIII by Antonia Fraser. What I found most astonishing about the events of 1500 C.E. was the willingness, the positive eagerness, with which various families backed certain matches. When any wife got shuffled off (divorced, beheaded), she didn't go alone; she had a tendency to take swaths of relatives with her as well as various political supporters. And yet, oh, well, there's one down; now, who else can we promote?

Of course, a modern reader has the benefit of hind-sight. We know that number three wife (Jane Seymour, who died in childbirth) is actually the exception to the rule. Yet, it should have been reasonably obvious by the time the king reached Katherine Howard (after Anne of Cleves, divorced, which debacle lost Cromwell his head) that it might not be the best idea in the world to have a pretty niece at court who might attract the king's interest.

Of course, there are some things people have no control over, and I'm willing to bet that when Katherine Howard caught the king's eye, her uncle (Earl of Norfolk) started practicing pre-execution speeches. (As a matter of fact, he survived her, but barely.) Nevertheless, at the same time, hanger-ons piled out of the woodwork, demanding kudos, rewards, estates, etc. etc. (it was the great age of patronage). And you'd think that a certain amount of uneasiness would have crept into the picture. That people would have, rather than running to attach themselves to this new, young and wholly reckless young woman, might have thought, "You know, I think I'll stay away from court for the next three years" (and probably some did).

Because it wasn't just Henry himself who encouraged the divorcing, beheading of his queens. Every queen was surrounded by supporters and detractors, and the detractors spent an enormous amount of time trying to figure out how to get the queen and her supporters locked up in the Tower. Kind of like if Kenneth Starr and the Clintons, instead of just holding legal proceedings and issuing press statements, had actually been trying to maneuver the other party in front of a firing squad.

But then, thinking of the Clintons and politicians in general, I decided that believing, "This time it will be different. This time, our queen won't do anything stupid to annoy the king" is what makes politicians tick. Otherwise, well, they wouldn't bother. But those who would willingly (and consistently) play such dangerous (and quite often, petty) games must believe at some basic level that they have got their finger on the pulse this time.

It makes me very grateful for us boring middleclass types who just go to work and pay our taxes. Idealists and politicians may get all the credit for making history interesting, but at least the middleclass survivalists keep history going.

CATEGORY: BOOKS

The Thesis I'm Not Writing

I first considered writing a thesis on the three CSIs but I wasn't sure my professors would really go for 100 or more hours of television as a primary resource. I also would have had to come up with a lot of guff about regionalism and identity and although I can do that sort of thing for a space of a blog, I can't do it for much longer. (Eventually, I find myself just making stuff up. "As a region coalesces its imaginative pre-figurations in its attempts at self-expressive identification, regionalism is formed . . .")

Basically, if I were to write a thesis about the three CSIs, I would begin by noting that they are all filmed in LA, but all utilize very different images. I would go on to ask, "Is this how Americans perceive these different locations?" (This is the kind of question professors ask, rather than, Is this what these locations are really like? Because if you answer the last question, "Yes," *zap* no more thesis.)

For example, CSI: Miami is all bright, glowing sunlight. Everyone is always squinting. The CSI lab is made of glass through which the glowing, bright sunlight reflects and refracts; the lab is filled with shiny objects upon which the sunlight glitters. CSI: Las Vegas uses darkness in almost the same way: long shadows, dark punctuated by flashing lights. Their lab is a low-ceilinged warren with a circular format.

And in CSI: New York, it is always raining. Or at least, overcast. Gloomy with occasional afternoon sunlight that never seems to reach the ground. And the lab is a warehouse.

The first question, as noted above, is, Is this what Miami, Las Vegas and New York are really like? Well, possibly. The second question is, Is this how most people perceive these various cities: are the producers digging into some deep, Jung-like American concept of Miami, Las Vegas and New York? If you gave Americans Rorschach-like tests and asked, "What is the first word that comes to mind when you hear Miami, Las Vegas and New York?" would they say, "Sun," "Night on the town" and "Rain"?

Possibly. Those sociologists and humanists who have been brainfried by Marxist theory, will tell you that television reinforces (or creates) these images, but I think it is far more likely that the producers chose such images to create the impression of a place, enabling the suspension of disbelief. (Because, after all, Miami is not the same thing as New York.) We are, as the audience, supposed to believe that Caruso, Sinese and Petersen never, ever see each other. Of course, our (supposed) ignorance makes us pawns of evil mass media. But since it is only supposed, I don't really think it is much of an issue. The point is, fiction doesn't work at all if you keep looking at the scaffolding. And despite the attempts of higher education to turn everyone into skeptical literalists, it would be a pity for the arts.

In any case, I think the producers, writers, directors, etc. believe that Americans have an idea of region that the shows/episodes then play on. Which is pretty fascinating in its own right. It means that Americans associate rats, sewers, rain, sidewalk artists and art crimes with New York; sun, hurricanes, boats, drugs, drugs, drugs and hotel crimes with Miami; night, gambling, serial killers, weird families and bugs with Las Vegas (although the latter has more to do with Grissom than with Las Vegas). And who is to say Americans are wrong?

The second fascinating thing is that although the shows are similiar in many ways, and although a truly awesome amount of each episode takes place indoors, the overarcing image (this is Miami, this is New York, this is Vegas) is retained mostly through light: the amount of glittering sunlight, absence of sunlight and damp sunlight in each episode. Each show carries a tone, of sorts. It could also explain why I can't get into CSI: New York, no matter how hard I try. I mean, rain? Dampness? Oblique sunlight? It's all very atmospheric, but I just can't get excited about it. (Of course, I live in the Northeast so I see it everyday.)

CATEGORY: TV

CDs v. Cassettes and other things

So, on the subject of previous rantings, and at the risk of sounding like a Luddite, I much prefer audiocassettes to CDs. I listen to a lot of books on tapes, and CDs leave a lot to be desired in this category. You can't, for instance, take them out of one machine and put them in another and have them start from the same point. It's harder to fast forward to a specific spot (I realize this has more to do with my machine than the available technology). As a teacher, I prepare a lot of material at home, and then take it in to the college where I use the available machinery there. It's a real pain in the neck to do this with CDs (with DVDs too, but I really like DVDs, despite the whole widescreen issue). Instead of just sticking the thing in and hitting play, I have to put it in, find the correct track and then, often, fastforward within that track to the right location (or, if the machinery is dated, listen to the track until it gets to the right spot and hit pause). The beauty of audiocassettes is you don't have to do that. You can cue to a very precise position on, say, a Wednesday, and still have the stuff ready to go on Friday.

I think the solution (and again, the technology appears to be out there, I just don't have it) is to create systems where you can mark your place on a DVD or CD. The only problem there is, like rewinding, the renter has to remember to unmark the DVD or CD before returning it to Netflix or the library or wherever. Otherwise, the next person who watches it will be carried instantaneously to the scene with Frodo and the eagles or the blowing up of some ship or whatever.

On a completely different subject, does anyone actually read the blurbs on the backs of books? Not the summaries but the parsed out quotations of reviews by famous people? I don't think I've ever bought a book in my life based on those quotations. Perhaps, they're like eye candy. We expect them to be there, but nobody actually reads them. In any case, what do we expect them to say? "This book is kind of good but I didn't care for the middle." Or, "Read this book only if you have absolutely nothing else to do." Maybe the quotes do say that, and nobody reads them closely enough to know it. (Actually, occasionally I have looked to see who, rather than what, reviewed the book, but that's usually after I've already started it.)

CATEGORY: FARES

Title of Blog

Yes, I have once again changed the title of my blog! When I first began blogging, I called this site The Anti-Angst. I then changed it to The Consumer. It would probably still be The Consumer, except that Blogger has suddenly developed a distrust of my legitimacy. (I think they think I'm a mass-advertising site.) And I was getting tired of the name anyway.

The phrase "votaries of horror" comes from a 1946 review of The Duchess of Malfi by Brooks Atkinson (New York Times). I ran across it during my research for my thesis. It has a nice ring to it. It isn't as clever as many (check out my friend Mike's blog for a good title) but I might actually stick with it for awhile, this time, since it dovetails with my current line of research. Unless I start getting angry letters from Stephen King fans looking for thoughts about gore, not a bunch of rants about academic institutions. (Which isn't to say I won't discuss horror, the genre, at some point, just not a whole lot.) "Votary" refers to a dedicated student (there is a religious connotation as well). Brooks Atkinson used it in his article (and I use it in my thesis) to refer to a devoted fan, someone who really, really loves something for the sake of itself.

CATEGORY: INTRODUCTION

Rant about Widescreen v. Fullscreen

It has to be said: now that I have a larger television, I still don't like widescreen. Having a larger television does make the widescreen experience less tiny-little-ants-on-a-plain-ish, but I still enjoyed my fullscreen viewing of The Matrix far more than my widescreen viewing. It was much more exciting, in-your-face.

Fact is, I don't really get widescreen. I'm not in the theatre; I don't need to pretend that I am! Yet whenever I go to videostores, all I can ever find is widescreen format. Are all the fullscreens checked out? Is this some weird little tic on my part, that the rest of the world doesn't share? Or, on the other hand, is the whole widescreen fetish perpetuated by the film industry that thinks this kind of thing is really, really important and doesn't realize that most people would prefer fullscreen? Is it the kind of thing where "real" aficiandos can't admit that they detest widescreen? I don't know. But I wish that all this cool DVD technology would mean that ALL DVDs were issued in both formats, rather than just a few here and there.

CATEGORY: MOVIES

The Wonder of Proof (thank you white males)

CASE 1: When David Irving brought his libel suit against Deborah Lipstadt, Deborah Lipstadt's lawyers hired the historian Richard J. Evans to examine David Irving's history books about Hitler and Dresden and World War II. In his examination, Evans and his assistants discovered that Irving had consistently misread, misinterpreted, misquoted and deliberately obscured the documentation upon which his books were supposedly based. Evans was able to do this because he traced back the many, many footnotes in Irving's books to the written documentation (letters, municipal documents) itself.

CASE 2: The Salem Witch trials were ended by the same culture in which they began. As the trials went on and on and more and more people were accused and hanged, Puritan ministers and lawyers began to speak their doubts. They believed in witches, but they weren't too keen on the methods by which witches were accused--namely, oral testimony. Where's the proof? they said. Where's the evidence? Eventually, these skeptics were heard, a new set of judges was appointed, and the trials ended.

I give these two cases to illustrate the importance of the academic, scholarly, educated concept of proof and secondly, the importance of written documentation. This is an ongoing argument in my master's program. This week, we read Henry Glassie. Henry Glassie has some interesting things to say but, as I foresaw, the statement that everyone fell on was not Glassie's call for historians to be vigorous, ongoing and dynamic in their scholarship but his statement that, heaven help us, histories are "either all history or all folk histories." That is, both academic history and oral history (or folk/myth history) string together narratives from the facts available. Ergo, they are the same, should be treated the same, and given the same weight.

I and one other student argued against this. I am not disputing that history (as it is told and taught) doesn't involve a narrative. Neither will I dispute, as one student pointed out, that oral histories (like academic histories) are both trying to be truthful, that both have checking systems, that both come out of particular cultures, that both change over time. Neither will I dispute that academic, written history--thank goodness--has more weight or power than oral history. What I did dispute was the expectations or process to which either is submitted. What I could not communicate (which is, frankly, why I'm trying to do it here) is that confusing the two does not, in the long term, aid either one.

If all histories are one then Irving's oral testimony of his own good intent bore as much weight, if not more, than his misuse of written documentation. The historians in that trial were only able to undermine Irving's claims because they could access written documentation that could be disputed, argued over, debated, re-interpreted and checked. This is almost impossible to do with oral testimony. One student argued that students are taught to take anything written as automatically true. I have a difficult time replying to people who say things like this, because I am afraid I will say something nasty like, "Well, stupid people do." Stupid people also believe anything that is said to them, simply because it is said. Good historians question what is written, who wrote it and why, just as any of us do about an oral tale. That doesn't undermine the superiority (historically) of a written text, which can be brought forward and studied, over oral testimony which morphs, through time, beyond recognition (the other student actually made this argument).

The fact is, if all histories are one, then the oral testimony of the accusers in Salem Witch trials had as much bearing as the requirement of proof. Vice versa--which no one seemed to realize--if all histories are one, then I have as much right to demand empirical proof from folk histories as I do from academic histories. If the standard is the same, then oral folk histories (which have, in general, a different purpose and standard from academic histories, despite the occasional similiarities) could be submitted to the same requirement of proof. I mention this because it is the latter demand (that folk histories submit themselves to rigorous scholarly approval) that upsets pro-oral history folks. But, by insisting that the one is as historically valid as the other, they are causing this confusion to take place. I am not declaring that oral histories and folktales are unimportant; I am myself a big fan of folktales, myth and faith-based theologies. But I don't demand, unlike the creationists, that faith-based theologies be submitted to the same standards of empirical and historical proof as science and history and, even, critical theory. In my mind, this preserves both from degredation. I also believe that the importance of empirical and historical proof can never be understated. We thrive as a culture because of it. Western civilization is very flawed and makes many mistakes; but it also progresses, improves and fixes itself due to the demand that one must have evidence, proof, written or artifact, that other people can see and discuss.

Otherwise, in the end, the only people who will win are the people whose political side (whether academic or oral) happens to be winning. (And frankly, I sometimes think that is all the relativists want: to win.) For instance, the requirement of proof (in America) arises out of a white, patriarchal, academic cultural mindset and that seems to be enough reason to despise it. Our class on Tuesday was filled with statements like, "All histories are cultural constructions." When I put forward the idea that yes, alright, every historian speaks out of a particular frame of mind so we need to study written histories over time, I was informed that past histories were written by white males. The impliciation was that such histories are too narrow to be of any worth.

If I thought this cavalier attitude towards proof/the past/written documentation and knowledge was in the ascendent, I would get really depressed. But I don't think it is. I've noticed in younger scholars a vague contempt for the relativism and self-importance of this "we can't really know anything" attitude. They know they can't be completely objective, but they aren't willing to abandon the idea of standards or of a canon--the idea that some books are better than others, that some histories are more accurate than others. They aren't willing to throw all power into the hands of the "nobody knows the truth" relativists, who want to dismiss the burden of proof as male, white, patriarchal and power-hungry. As Cynthia Ellter points out in her book The Myth of Matriarchal Prehistory, feminists hurt themselves more than male culture when they promote an imaginary past not as lore (which would be acceptable by the standards of lore) but as a history (which is not acceptable by the standards of academe) that ought to be believed in as history. If that is the best feminists have to offer, and if they continue to insist that "good" feminists ought to accept this kind of relativist tryanny, I'll stick with patriarchy, thank you very much.

CATEGORY: HISTORY & LEARNING

Rejection and Criticism

I've received many rejection notices throughout the years. I'm going to list various types of rejection letters, favorites to least favorites:

The best, of course, is the personalized note--the handwritten scrawl across the bottom of the form letter or, if you're really lucky, a personal typed letter. These fall into two categories: one, an explanation for why the story wasn't accepted; two, an apology for not taking the story even though the editor really, really liked it. Of the two, the first, believe it or not, is best. As my brother Eugene says, regarding the second, "My ego thanks you, but I'd rather be paid." Still, both are way up there. The first time I got a personalized note from an editor, I was as happy as if I'd got an acceptance. It was a fairly prestigious magazine (for me), and I floated around on Cloud 9 for days.

The second best, which I didn't used to like, is the form letter with boxes. The editor(s) check the boxes that apply: Not Enough Description; Boring; Not For This Magazine. I've learned to appreciate feedback, although I know it isn't always possible; besides, I always like to make sure the Totally Horrible Writing box isn't checked.

The next is the ordinary form letter. I mention this because, in comparison to the last, I don't mind it as much.

The personalized form letter: now, most form letters say something like, "We're sorry we can't use your story. Try us again. We apologize for this form letter," and that's fine, but I get a bit ruffled when the form letter says something like, "We read your story, Katherine, and although we enjoyed TITLE OF STORY, we won't be using it this time around." The first time I got one of those, I thought it was a personal note. Yes, okay, call me naive. After I received the third one, I realized that it was a form level with a clever assistant. (Merge is an amazing feature.) They really annoy me. I'd rather just have the editor say, "You're a cog in our machine," then pretend they know me, like sales people who want to buddy up to you on the phone. Just tell me about your product. If you can't tell me about your product in ten seconds, if you're just going to ask me how I'm doing, forget it.

The final type of rejection letter is a personal rejection letter; however, this kind of personal rejection letter is different from the types mentioned above. At this point, I have to digress and talk about literary criticism. I believe one of the most important jobs of literary criticism is figuring out what the author intended to do. That intent then becomes the standard by which the piece is judged. In other words, it is foolish (if interesting in a bizarre way) to criticize Tolkien's Lord of the Rings for not involving aliens and spaceships or successfully describing submarine warfare or pronouncing judgment on class warfare. (Where's the feminist message?!) Not only should critics look for the author's intent, they should also look at the author's work as a whole. This means that it is also pointless to criticize Tolstoy for killing off Anna Karenina (spoiler, I know, but really, you ought to know that) or Kafka for turning his protagonist into a cockroach, rather than a snake.

In other words, literary criticism should never be about what the critic thinks the story ought to have been about. It should be about whether the author succeeded at what he or she was attempting to do.

To return--the personal rejection letter that I don't care for is the personal rejection letter which isn't about my story as a whole and whether it succeeded or not or, even, where it was flawed; rather the personal rejection letter I dislike is the one which wants to take issue with me for calling a character Bob intead of Billy, or for employing a certain theme, or for delivering a particular outcome. If you don't like it, says I, don't buy it.

This isn't to say that I'm opposed to the magazine editor saying, "Well, really, you know, we prefer happy endings" or "Well, really, you know, we prefer sad endings where everyone dies and life is hopeless and there's angst dripping from the ceilings." That's fair. Magazines have certain audiences and certain self-perceptions. But there's a difference between saying, "We prefer angsty endings, and you don't have one" and saying, "You ought to change the pleasant hero into a Bryonic sociopath. That will make it so much better."

This final type of personal rejection letter inevitably involves blatantly condescending sentences. I have received brutal rejections of stories, but none of them are as bad as the condescending rejection letter which smugly informs me that I'm a good little writer in my way and here's some suggestions (which would completely alter the theme and plot of my piece) which will make me so much better. In many cases, the critic completely misses my real failures as a writer--namely, slow beginnings, a dearth of description and a failure to close the story down--and instead mistakes my plot choices as good or bad writing. (Like critics who mistake the appearance of magic in a story as bad writing, simply because they don't care for all that fantasy genre stuff.)

But then, I will say, that I think good critics--who can put themselves in your shoes and try to look at what you are attempting to do from the inside--are hard to find. It truly is a skill, like writing or sculpting or whatever.

In any case, I never, never complain. (To the editors, I mean.) I'm a poor artist, but I don't consider myself especially beleagured. I don't think the world is against me--if only the publishing world knew it, they are missing out on the NEXT BEST THING since Rowlings (or, in my case, C.J. Cherryh). I'm more literary than Rowlings, but I don't think I could pull off her sense of immediacy. And I know I'm not a better writer than Cherryh. Eh, if it happens, it happens. There's always someone out there looking for fame and fortune. It might be me this round. It might not.

CATEGORY: FICTION