Roger Zelazny

is neither the best, nor worse thing to happen to science fiction--but he's certainly closer to the first (though he fall far short of Delany, Wolfe, Harrison, Vandermeer, and all the other guys that I either can't remember or haven't read).

I recently finished Creatures Of Light and Darkness and I don't remember ever seeing so beautiful an example of an author with completely individual virtues. Zelazny has written a book completely devoid of human emotion. Rather, awe (in a new, stratified spectrum of incarnations) comes to replace everything we usually look for in fiction. Is there anything lost?

Not really.

Zelazny writes well (particularly for science fiction, and especially for science fiction forty years ago) and he has a fabulous imagination. Hardly a page goes by without featuring one or more displays of utterly unbelievable imagery. I read Lord of Light so long ago I'm not sure which I like better, but I appreciate the experimental undertones that take center stage here, and I've never read anything quite like it. I particularly enjoy that while the characters take themselves completely seriously, Zelazny does not.

Quick Meditations on first drafts

I had a really interesting experience with typos recently. After much bracing of fortitude, I typed an intro to an interview I did with the J.J. Steinfeld (who, for the record, was the delightfully cooperative, friendly, and gave some absolutely fascinating responses), felt really good about it, and sent it to my publisher--only to discover, a few hours later, that the intro had upwards of six or seven errors.

I made up a better version (which, still, is probably full of invisible errors, though I haven't found it yet), sent it--and noticed later that the message itself (one sentence) had a very obvious typo in it.

Of course, I haven't even touched on the monster that is the first draft. I belong to that majority of writers who produces decent material only by severe persistence... no matter that when that first draft is finished, I feel like Motzart in Amedeus. For a long time I felt really bad about this, until I read this excerpt on William Gass awhile ago--undoubtably one of the finest American stylists of all time. (Ironically, I picked it up off the wikipedia.

He says: "I write slowly because I write badly. I have to rewrite everything many, many times just to achieve mediocrity."

It was like therapy.

Of course, most of what I write here is sloppy, unedited, etc, so I guess I'll never learn.

On Borges On Joyce--a disagreement

By any standards, I would say that Borges had perhaps one of the most refined critical minds in existence, and I don't remember ever finding fault with his conclusions on any topic. But this line, from a fragment he did on Joyce (concerning Ulysses) has been running through my head for the last week or so, ever since I read it.

He says: "In Ulysses there are sentences, there are paragraphs, that are not inferior to Shakespeare or Sir Thomas Browne."

He meant it as praise, and initially I read it as one, but it just isn't true. Shakespeare and Browne were each some of the most fantastic authors to write in English... ever. I've only read bits and pieces of Browne, but I've read at least half of Shakespeare's collected work, and Hamlet four times in particular--ironically, once as supplementary material the second time I read Ulysses.

I think this should really be reversed. Of course, I realize I'm treading some highly subjective territory, but throughout Ulysses Joyce consistently proves himself the superior stylist, both in the quantity of exemplary passages (if we were to combine a hastily balanced sample, Hamlet, Julius Caesar, Macbeth, The Tempest, Henry V, The Merchant of Venice, King Lear, and a few others, and compiles our list of passages from those) as well as the quality thereof. Unfortunately, I don't have the background to validate this statement concerning Browne, but the samples I've read of his work still can't compare to Joyce.

I don't mean here to undervalue these artists (particularly Shakespeare, who I enjoy immensely), and they each have a variety of virtues that Joyce doesn't (particularly as an author who's virtues are entirely his own), but without a doubt, he is the superior stylist.

Icehouse/Thirteen Keys To Talmud Review

In an attempt to write a review outside the Hugh Fox cannon, I'll forgo a description of his past achievements—suffice to say that they are vast and very, very impressive. I read both of these novels a few weeks ago, and I've been struggling to articulate the experience ever since. To say the least, it's been difficult.

Icehouse is disturbing, funny, and (every so often) beautiful—but more than anything, pyrotechnic. Fox writes so well that language (out of context) can't possibly encompass his dynamics, or even represent it as an aesthetic object. His voice is recognizable, defined, and—most astounding of all—internally consistent. There are enough pop-culture references that it could be a Godard film.

Obviously, Burroughs comes to mind. Because Icehouse was originally written in 1963, four years after Naked Lunch, I find this comparison extremely important, maybe even essential—if Fox could be said to adhere to any literary archetype, this is the closest I can come. But while each share similar stylistic elements, rather than Burroughs's socio-political agenda, Fox is concerned with much more interesting issues of spirituality and metaphysics; and he writes just as well, if not better.

In the very loosest sense, the novella involves two characters living in... well... an icehouse. Hardly any of the sex is possible (and there is lots of sex) and characters masturbate obsessively—in one of my favorite episodes, utilizing a spear of ice, broom handle, garden hose, and toucan beak, to fantasies of Tarzan, George Raft, King Kong and Clark Gable. The icehouse is an oddly domesticated setting, at odds with everything that goes on there. At this point, a summary becomes
unnecessary: each read is too individual an experience to bother representing.

This brings me to Thirteen Keys to Talmud. In its own way, this novel is almost as significant as the first, for a variety of very different reasons. The first has to do with its most basic components. As an reader of science fiction, the chance to see an author of Fox's talent (sort of) take up the genre makes it something like a gift from god. Excepting Samuel Delany (who hasn't written actual science fiction in upwards of twenty years) and John Clute (in two isolated, fundamentally flawed novels), I'm not aware anyone who ever gave it prose like this.

The second is its abundance of ideas. Despite being rooted in Judaism, Fox touches an almost frightening number of theological and philosophical topics. It's somewhat like watching a film by Jodorowsky (Fox is willing to draw from anything and everything) if his themes were to go beyonds symbolism into the realm of articulation. Without exaggeration, I can say that a new concept (sometimes more than one) is introduced on every page. The very first paragraph paints a beautiful picture of perception, memory, and identity, and it only builds from there.

In comparison to Icehouse, Thirteen Keys almost approaches the linear—but, seeing as one has just emerged from that phenomenal book, this second takes on additional dimensions. It's certainly surreal; Fox has a powerful, powerful imagination, and he puts it to great use. Unlike Icehouse, it has a few noticeable flaws (sometimes the exposition tends to be a bit clunky, and the pulp influence gets a bit too heavy), but these are insignificant next to its resonance, erudition, and depth of invention.


Available directly from the publisher here:

http://www.crossingchaos.com/Icehouse_and_Thirteen_Keys_to_Talmud_by_Hugh_Fox.html

Borges the microchasm

This post was inspired by my recent reading of Penguin's editions of the collected Borges. I'm not sure what year they came out (and I don't care enough to check right now), but I can't help feeling they're some of the most important reissues... ever.

There are three in the series--the collected fictions, and selected non-fictions and poetry--each featuring humorous jacket blurbs proclaiming themselves more significant than the others. Before now, all this material was only available in very scattered additions; these new ones are beyond value. I haven't actually gotten around to the poetry yet (or finished the non-fiction--perhaps the most valuable of the three because more than half is only now available in translation), but the degree to which I understand someone I'd already considered one of my favorite authors (based only on my readings of Labyrinths and Ficciones) has grown exponentially, to the extent I feel I'd hardly read him at all.

Above and beyond being one of the most proficient thinkers ever, Borges is also the most interesting--and I can't help feeling that in a sense, despite being one of its most marginal writers, his works contain the whole of western literature within them.

Snail Review

This is a review I did awhile ago for one of the most unique, challenging, and beautiful books ever written.

http://www.kissthewitch.co.uk/seinundwerden/snail.html

Much thanks to V. Ulea for bringing this treasure into existence, and Crossing Chaos for printing it.

There are some books so good you can only be thankful they exist. This is one of them.

Inaugural post (mission statements)

I've been mulling the idea of a blog around for a while now. For a long time procrastination has kept it from happening, but I've finally decided to get around to it.

Mostly what you'll find here will involve literature, philosophy, film, music, possibly some dreams, unpublish(able?)ed short pieces, and I suppose anything else that crawls into my head whenever. I've been needing a home for all those uncollected pieces of non-fiction I tend to produce, and I guess this is it. Most every book to be released by Crossing Chaos will probably pop up at some time or another.

For the record, Variations (on phase) is the name of a hypoethetical collection of poetry and short-fiction I'll never get around to writing. I focus too much on my novels to ever really get around to working on it--which is fortunate, because if on the off-chance the world needs another such collection (which only the rarest of authors can pull off), I'm certainly not the one to write it. At least I can use the name to accomplish something, and I think it does a good job representing what I want to accomplish here.