4:08 p.m. 2001-05-16
I've finished reading Paul Auster's Autobiography,which Nick bought me. The autobiography is actually only half autobiographical. The first part is, as he calls it "A chronicle of early failure," and the story of his early years. The rest of the book consists of three appendices, one comprising three short plays, the second a game he made, and the third is a detective novel he wrote under a pseudonym. I've read the autobiographical section, the plays, and half the detective novel.
He's a talented guy. I'd really enjoyed reading New York Trilogy. But this autobiography . . . is . . .SO . . .arrogant! It is, indeed, a "chronicle of early failure." It's not arrogant because he's talking about how he did all this great stuff and everyone should bow down to him. It's about the time during which he basically wasn't getting published at all, and about how he didn't have any money, and some of the things he describes are pretty neat and fun to read about. But. The air of young-1960s-liberal-intellectual-arrogance that suffuses the thing is really infuriating. I don't know. Maybe I've just lost too much patience with the 1960s. Surely Auster is a smart enough guy to realize that he did not, in fact, invent poor people. Surely. But some of his autobiography doesn't act like he realizes it.
I just . . .I don't know. Some of it just seems so immature. That's probably the point, of course. It's about his early life, and the point of its being early is that he wasn't mature yet. But the idea, even, of calling it a chronicle of failure . . .do you want to know why he thinks he was a failure? He ended up doing anything he could to get a job, but couldn't. He'd been one of those who swore he'd do anything rather than capitulate to soul-crushing America and get anything with a regular paycheck.
Now, this may be because I'm just not enough of an artist to appreciate it, but I'm not sure I've ever understood that mentality. I understand not wanting to work at something that leaves you too exhausted or with too little time to work on your art. I understand that entirely. Of course you don't want to do that. But the idea of objecting to having money or work on principle kind of doesn't make sense to me. It seems, well, immature. Almost as if one might be guilty of believing that art is like some kind of imaginary friend that can't show up if real life is present. Or, more precisely, if you're doing anything like other people. Believe me, I know the urge to delineate yourself from the masses. I know the desperation of needing to be different, not mediocre, not normal, for God's sake not normal.
But I also know that that mindset is, in a way, immature. If I am different, I am different, and if I am not I am not. If I am myself, it will turn out, whichever way I am. If I have art within me, I think, and I optimize conditions to let it out, whatever that means, it will come. If the work is part of you, you will do it. If you do not, maybe the work wasn't part of you to begin with. It isn't a magic thing that I can mess up by doing the rituals wrong, although I have certainly acted like it was before. I have come to realize that, though it may seem like I just can't write without my lucky pencil, I can, and I will if I have something that's important enough to need to be written. And if I am strong enough to write what needs to be written, that's really the only qualification I have to meet.
I'm not saying Auster particularly believed this. I can't really figure out, actually, what the point of his money situation was. Though he seems to be trying very hard to make it clear why he "failed," I think he's also, rather sneakily, obscuring it. Maybe he's making the same point as I am, actually, saying that once he finally got off his high horse and started writing, it came. Or maybe he's saying something about the luck of making it or not making it, which is certainly something that bears repeating.
But there's also a whole lot there about the glory of youthful rebellion, and, you know what? I just don't buy it. Here's an example. He's talking about his undergrad education at Columbia during the sixties, and how, despite all the unrest, not a lot of actually tangible stuff got done:
In the long run, nothing of any great importance was accomplished. The proposed site for a university gymnasium was changed, a number of academic requirements were dropped, the president resigned and was replaced by another president. That was all.
So far, I agree. Yes. All that rebellion by all those kids didn't actually get much done, on this front, though maybe other rebellions did. But he goes on:
In spite of the efforts of thousands, the ivory tower did not collapse. but still, it tottered for a time, and more than a few of its stones crumbled and fell to the ground. (35)
So wait. What was supposed to happen, that sadly didn't was the destruction of the ivory tower? And what was good was that at least a "few of its stones crumbled and fell to the ground?"
You know, this makes me angry. I've recently discovered, actually, that it makes me angry. Because you know something that I think maybe I'm coming on to as I get older, wiser (hopefully), more mature? Rebelling against authority is not the same thing as legitimate, needful revolution. Or to put it another way: Just because someone is in power doesn't mean that he or she shouldn't be. I'm not saying that there aren't things that need changing all the time. Of course there are. I'm not a youthful liberal intellectual myself for nothing. And I fully recognize that many of the people who should be in power -- good people with good ideas -- aren't, and that many of the people who are in power aren't good and don't have any ideas at all.
But. What I'm coming to realize is that just because someone might be young, might be coming to recognize these facts about life, might be feeling like differentiating him or herself from what has come before, like being different and difficult and wild doesn't necessarily mean that that person is actually doing anything positive or new or insightful or even remotely interesting and mature. Youthful rebellion has nothing, in itself, in my opinion, to give it intrinsic merit. All it is is a very natural, very old process entailed in the development of the human adolescent that involves differentiating oneself in order to separate from one's parents. That's all.
You get older, your eyes open, you realize that maybe things are unjust here or maybe you don't feel like the person you've always been or maybe you don't feel like you're the same person your parents were at your age, and you need to differentiate yourself. Fine. Perfectly legitimate. Out of those feelings can come some great stuff -- the beginnings of art, of political thought, of mature life. But it doesn't mean you invented poor people. Or that the bastards before you didn't even care about social injustice. Or that you're the only one with an artistic voice here. That sort of thing is immature, egoistic, and, in my opinion, pretty useless.
Youthful rebellion, just for youth's sake, bugs me. I see a bunch of anger for basically no reason, calling itself anger with a reason, and I don't like it. I say, save your rebellion for when it actually matters. You want to turn your energy to something actually productive -- great! Help to free those who are really oppressed. Feed those who are hungry. Help those who are sick or hurt or in need. Become a voice for those who cannot speak or who have not been spoken for. That's wonderful, and that's what youthful energy is good for. But just griping about how people have power over you is pointless, witless, and ridiculous. Shaking the ivory tower and wishing it would fall down just because you're at the bottom is about the most egoistic, unlikeable kind of rebellion I can think of. "Just because it's there" is no kind of reason.
And in the description of some of Auster's early years, in some of the stuff he venerates, both in himself and in others, I see some of that pointless, selfish, immature kind of rebellion, and it bugs me. Not that he went through it. We all go through it. But that he still thinks it's the end-all and be-all. Title his autobiography "A Chronicle of Early Failure" though he might, Auster is pretty obviously proud of those "failures." Failures to get a job and live like a hated normal person. Failures to accept class or color boundaries. Failures to act like the stinking-pig-normal-society. Yeah. Big deal. You and the rest of the country, Paul. We may revel in our youth, and with cause. With youth comes energy and the beginnings of many wonderful things. But it is, also, a beginning. A beginning of adulthood and of the wonderful other half of our lives, a half in which we can accomplish so many incredible things. And I think I'm tired of reading things that seem to believe that with the end of youth comes the end of art and mind and vision. I'm ready for that viewpoint to grow up, I think.
I'm at the beginning of something, you know? Don't even try to tell me I'm almost finished.
I've finished reading Paul Auster's Autobiography,which Nick bought me. The autobiography is actually only half autobiographical. The first part is, as he calls it "A chronicle of early failure," and the story of his early years. The rest of the book consists of three appendices, one comprising three short plays, the second a game he made, and the third is a detective novel he wrote under a pseudonym. I've read the autobiographical section, the plays, and half the detective novel.
He's a talented guy. I'd really enjoyed reading New York Trilogy. But this autobiography . . . is . . .SO . . .arrogant! It is, indeed, a "chronicle of early failure." It's not arrogant because he's talking about how he did all this great stuff and everyone should bow down to him. It's about the time during which he basically wasn't getting published at all, and about how he didn't have any money, and some of the things he describes are pretty neat and fun to read about. But. The air of young-1960s-liberal-intellectual-arrogance that suffuses the thing is really infuriating. I don't know. Maybe I've just lost too much patience with the 1960s. Surely Auster is a smart enough guy to realize that he did not, in fact, invent poor people. Surely. But some of his autobiography doesn't act like he realizes it.
I just . . .I don't know. Some of it just seems so immature. That's probably the point, of course. It's about his early life, and the point of its being early is that he wasn't mature yet. But the idea, even, of calling it a chronicle of failure . . .do you want to know why he thinks he was a failure? He ended up doing anything he could to get a job, but couldn't. He'd been one of those who swore he'd do anything rather than capitulate to soul-crushing America and get anything with a regular paycheck.
Now, this may be because I'm just not enough of an artist to appreciate it, but I'm not sure I've ever understood that mentality. I understand not wanting to work at something that leaves you too exhausted or with too little time to work on your art. I understand that entirely. Of course you don't want to do that. But the idea of objecting to having money or work on principle kind of doesn't make sense to me. It seems, well, immature. Almost as if one might be guilty of believing that art is like some kind of imaginary friend that can't show up if real life is present. Or, more precisely, if you're doing anything like other people. Believe me, I know the urge to delineate yourself from the masses. I know the desperation of needing to be different, not mediocre, not normal, for God's sake not normal.
But I also know that that mindset is, in a way, immature. If I am different, I am different, and if I am not I am not. If I am myself, it will turn out, whichever way I am. If I have art within me, I think, and I optimize conditions to let it out, whatever that means, it will come. If the work is part of you, you will do it. If you do not, maybe the work wasn't part of you to begin with. It isn't a magic thing that I can mess up by doing the rituals wrong, although I have certainly acted like it was before. I have come to realize that, though it may seem like I just can't write without my lucky pencil, I can, and I will if I have something that's important enough to need to be written. And if I am strong enough to write what needs to be written, that's really the only qualification I have to meet.
I'm not saying Auster particularly believed this. I can't really figure out, actually, what the point of his money situation was. Though he seems to be trying very hard to make it clear why he "failed," I think he's also, rather sneakily, obscuring it. Maybe he's making the same point as I am, actually, saying that once he finally got off his high horse and started writing, it came. Or maybe he's saying something about the luck of making it or not making it, which is certainly something that bears repeating.
But there's also a whole lot there about the glory of youthful rebellion, and, you know what? I just don't buy it. Here's an example. He's talking about his undergrad education at Columbia during the sixties, and how, despite all the unrest, not a lot of actually tangible stuff got done:
In the long run, nothing of any great importance was accomplished. The proposed site for a university gymnasium was changed, a number of academic requirements were dropped, the president resigned and was replaced by another president. That was all.
So far, I agree. Yes. All that rebellion by all those kids didn't actually get much done, on this front, though maybe other rebellions did. But he goes on:
In spite of the efforts of thousands, the ivory tower did not collapse. but still, it tottered for a time, and more than a few of its stones crumbled and fell to the ground. (35)
So wait. What was supposed to happen, that sadly didn't was the destruction of the ivory tower? And what was good was that at least a "few of its stones crumbled and fell to the ground?"
You know, this makes me angry. I've recently discovered, actually, that it makes me angry. Because you know something that I think maybe I'm coming on to as I get older, wiser (hopefully), more mature? Rebelling against authority is not the same thing as legitimate, needful revolution. Or to put it another way: Just because someone is in power doesn't mean that he or she shouldn't be. I'm not saying that there aren't things that need changing all the time. Of course there are. I'm not a youthful liberal intellectual myself for nothing. And I fully recognize that many of the people who should be in power -- good people with good ideas -- aren't, and that many of the people who are in power aren't good and don't have any ideas at all.
But. What I'm coming to realize is that just because someone might be young, might be coming to recognize these facts about life, might be feeling like differentiating him or herself from what has come before, like being different and difficult and wild doesn't necessarily mean that that person is actually doing anything positive or new or insightful or even remotely interesting and mature. Youthful rebellion has nothing, in itself, in my opinion, to give it intrinsic merit. All it is is a very natural, very old process entailed in the development of the human adolescent that involves differentiating oneself in order to separate from one's parents. That's all.
You get older, your eyes open, you realize that maybe things are unjust here or maybe you don't feel like the person you've always been or maybe you don't feel like you're the same person your parents were at your age, and you need to differentiate yourself. Fine. Perfectly legitimate. Out of those feelings can come some great stuff -- the beginnings of art, of political thought, of mature life. But it doesn't mean you invented poor people. Or that the bastards before you didn't even care about social injustice. Or that you're the only one with an artistic voice here. That sort of thing is immature, egoistic, and, in my opinion, pretty useless.
Youthful rebellion, just for youth's sake, bugs me. I see a bunch of anger for basically no reason, calling itself anger with a reason, and I don't like it. I say, save your rebellion for when it actually matters. You want to turn your energy to something actually productive -- great! Help to free those who are really oppressed. Feed those who are hungry. Help those who are sick or hurt or in need. Become a voice for those who cannot speak or who have not been spoken for. That's wonderful, and that's what youthful energy is good for. But just griping about how people have power over you is pointless, witless, and ridiculous. Shaking the ivory tower and wishing it would fall down just because you're at the bottom is about the most egoistic, unlikeable kind of rebellion I can think of. "Just because it's there" is no kind of reason.
And in the description of some of Auster's early years, in some of the stuff he venerates, both in himself and in others, I see some of that pointless, selfish, immature kind of rebellion, and it bugs me. Not that he went through it. We all go through it. But that he still thinks it's the end-all and be-all. Title his autobiography "A Chronicle of Early Failure" though he might, Auster is pretty obviously proud of those "failures." Failures to get a job and live like a hated normal person. Failures to accept class or color boundaries. Failures to act like the stinking-pig-normal-society. Yeah. Big deal. You and the rest of the country, Paul. We may revel in our youth, and with cause. With youth comes energy and the beginnings of many wonderful things. But it is, also, a beginning. A beginning of adulthood and of the wonderful other half of our lives, a half in which we can accomplish so many incredible things. And I think I'm tired of reading things that seem to believe that with the end of youth comes the end of art and mind and vision. I'm ready for that viewpoint to grow up, I think.
I'm at the beginning of something, you know? Don't even try to tell me I'm almost finished.
Labels: anger, books, politics, reading, reviews, spirit of the age
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