David Antin: I Never Knew What Time it Was
David Antin's idea of poetry is giving talks, which are exactly what they say they are - they involve him talking about stuff to an audience. Essentially this book is a series of transcripts of these talks. They're a form of thinking out loud, part improvisation and part meditation on a pre-conceived question and/or theme. He covers the conversational territory that fascinates him: place, art, language, change, etc. The conversation is largely with the past, both his own lived history and the histories of others which have been related to him. Cue anecdotes within anecdotes within anecdotes. He compares anecdotal evidence for different ways of seeing and saying. And in this collection he gives particular attention to time: how we experience it, how we talk about it, how we think about it. He makes speaking seem like a new kind of writing.
Some favourite quotes (with some punctuation added by me):
... what I'm doing is entertaining ideas not people / I'm quite happy for people to feel free to get up & leave whenever / they stop finding this entertaining / & that's how I know I'm a poet / not an entertainer ...
I begin to think that finding the year two thousand is like painting a wave white in the middle of the sea & saying / let's gather there & celebrate ...
... they won't know what you're talking about / you'll be talking about art / it'll make them feel better because you're talking about it / so it's all right that they don't know what you're talking about ...
Michel Houellebecq: Atomised
All the hype about Houellebecq had got to me, so I decided it was time to see for myself what he was all about. And I have to say I'm left kind of undecided.
Atomised is definitely pretentious, definitely soiled and sordid, definitely intrudes on some of the more hulking issues of our time... but is it a great novel? I think it's clumsy and either poorly written or poorly translated or both (friends who have better command of the French language than I do have assured me it's the latter). Houellebecq seems more comfortable when talking about sex, and most comfortable when talking about masturbation: these are the most 'intimate' aspects of the novel. The rest is a blend of science-heavy science fiction and concept-heavy case studies of the contemporary psyche which are cold and clinical like concrete. I think this is what Houellebecq was aiming for. The novel is really just a vehicle for his philosophical arguments, and for rubbing up against taboos (especially misogyny, paedophilia and racism). All told, it's a shameless wank of Genet-like proportions, and I get the impression he takes a Sadean delight in his capacity to shock. Such is literature.
I have no doubt the novel will continue to stir debate and divide public and critical opinion, and most likely will remain in the 'must-read' category. It will probably be regarded as 'important' 20 years from now. You should probably read it to make up your own mind.
