On Books (1)

I also read books. And, really, I do. Not as much or as many as I'd like, but still, I do. Books are wonderful. I like words. The sounds words make. The way certain orderings of certain words can evoke emotions like hate and anger and desperation. But, mostly, the thing I like about books is when you feel as though the author has come over for a private visit with you to let you in on a little secret. Shhhhhh, says the author, don't let anyone know but man oh man do I have a story to tell you!

It's my goal this year to go on a reading rampage. I'm still relatively new to the whole reading game, so I don't feel so bad about not having read some of the "classics" or "gems" or "quiet masterpieces" of our time. But it's high time I get with it and start digesting some books. I'll try to post some stuff on here about my forays into reading. I feel as though I really shouldn't attempt it with much gusto, however, because Nick Hornby already does this whole schtick over at The Believer. Still, I've wanted to chart my reading history for quite some time and this place seems as good as any, no? Yes, it does.

So here are some books I purchased recently with links to purchase them yourself, should you feel so inclined. Oh, the links will be to Powell's Books (Oregon) when possible, or Labyrinth (New York), places where you should try to buy your books. Independent bookstores are the only bookstores for me! Usually. Anyway, the list of books purchased:

1. Oh the Glory of It All by Sean Wilsey
2. The Stories of Vladimir Nabokov by Vladimir Nabokov (translated by Dimitri Nabokov)
3. Zoetrope All-Story Vol 10 No 3
4. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas by Hunter S. Thompson
5. The Moviegoer by Walker Percy
6. Dear Mr. Capote by Gordon Lish
7. Gravity's Rainbow by Thomas Pynchon
8. I'm Not Stiller by Max Frisch
   
9. Lost Positives by John Cotrona
10. The Dead Father by Donald Barthelme
11. Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut
12. The New York Trilogy by Paul Auster
13. Walker Evans (a monograph)

Of those books, I've already gotten around to reading Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, Lost Positives by John Cotrona, and The Dead Father by Donald Barthelme. I've been, admittedly, very late getting aboard the Vonnegut bus. I'm not exactly sure why I never picked up a book by him. I think a lot of it has to do with the notions of science-fiction that I associated with the man, and also with the fact that I felt since I had already read Ray Bradbury there wasn't a point to dealing with Vonnegut. I know, now, how dumb that is and that there isn't much of a relation between the two other than the fact that they lived during the same century and were both good writers, but, well... It's interesting to see how the mind works. I connected the title Ferenheit 451 with Slaughterhouse-Five in my head and, thus, felt like I had read both by reading one. So dumb of me. Especially because Vonnegut is so absolutely brilliant. The real start of my newfound fascination was a girl named Stephanie. She had a tattoo of the infinity symbol on her back (no, not in that dumb lower back area that acts as an ejaculation target) and when I told her it seemed sort of silly she explained that it was from Breakfast of Champions. Oh, said I, feeling dumb, because any tattoo that is related to a book is a good tattoo in my opinion. So then I read Breakfast of Champions and was awed by how fast I read through, about how captivated I was, about how there was something about his direct address of the reader that was unique and not affected or cheap. It was great, and made me think. So then, Slaughterhouse-Five didn't dissappoint me in the slightest. The story of Dresden's destruction through the time-travelling eyes of Billy Pilgrim. Bravo. So it goes.

John Cotrona was once the manager at the bookstore I frequent here (Labyrinth). Apparently he tired of selling books and decided to write his own. Lost Positives takes off where Aaron Cometbus leaves off (the book is, indeed, dedicated to Mr. Cometbus). But the stories inside this little book are decidedly Cotrona's. They exist on endless stretches of road, in mobile home parks in Alaska, in beds with women who leave, in bottles of alcohol. There's a lot of texture in these stories and they charmed me. A quick read, but one where you'll be wondering if you've just read fiction or non-fiction, and the blurring of that line always gets me, a la Bukowski, Fante, Hamsun, et al.

As you can see by the secondary name of this "blog," I'm quite a Donald Barthelme fan. Mandatory reading would be the two Penguin collections of his short stories: Sixty Stories and Forty Stories. It's quite a thrill to be able to say that I've never read anyone that writes like Barthelme. How rare is it to say that? And to say it with 100 percent honest conviction? His writing is because of this world, but not of this world. It exists in a strange grey area where giant half-dead, half-mechanized fathers can be dragged across the wilderness. And where, in the same story, four friends eat prawns. There is a preciseness in all of his eccentricity. An earnestness. A way in which you can feel him frustrated with the world, perhaps so frustrated that all he can do is laugh. And, when you read his books, you laugh in this special way where you realize you are laughing at yourself, at what you believe, at just how ludicrous life and living is. Bravo. A master.

So, then, while I'm on subject of Donald Barthelme, I figure I should explain where some of the books on that recently purchased list up there are from. I was roaming around the interweb the other day and found an article from the archives on The Believer's site written by Kevin Moffett. See if you can follow this: Kevin Moffett was instructed in the ways of writing by Padgett Powell. Padgett Powell, in turn, was instructed in the ways of writing by Donald Barthelme. Passed down from generation to generation was Barthelme's "syllabus," the 91 books that he finds to be mandatory reading. Read the article, but, more importantly, look at the lists:



The Believer, incidentally, is a great non-fiction magazine with articles about many things literary, a lot of things musical, certain things comedic, but all of which are very interesting. The subscription is pretty cheap, so try it on for size.

Lastly, I'll leave you with a video I watched the other day on the interweb. Charles Bukowski is another favorite writer of mine. I feel as though I'm not really allowed to say that. I feel as though, if you plan on being any sort of "writer" with any sort of "credibility" you can't say that you "like" good 'ole Buk. Hogwash. The dude was a dude of the highest caliber and his books read like stale milk that, somehow, tastes good. Michelle watched this documentary on Buk called Born Into This the other day and it got me thinking that there might be some footage of the man online. And, boy oh boy, was I correct! Make sure you watch the whole thing:



You fuckin' shit.
Al