The Book Report

One of the purposes of a writer is to create, construct, and produce something better (from morning to night), until— somewhere along the line, you say: that’s it, I can’t do better, or this is my masterpiece, or I’m simple out of steam and can’t write anymore or it doesn’t pay, or I lost interest in it. I was never cut out to be a writer in the first place ((for such people they have suffered foolishly and gladly, so it would seem, or they simple had great energy for the short distance, and wishes to be a lazy dog now) (a simple matter of being a deportee you might say, which is perhaps best, because they never hired out to be a patriot, nor really had a knack for writing in the first place, just go pay your taxes)). For me it is a pleasure to be with a good writer, better than being with generals or presidents, etc., we can add politicians in general to the list, and actors—the last two are the same, all unimportant in the long scheme of things to me. Then the task of writing becomes of no outcome.
For example, George Sterling, the San Francisco Poet, of the 1920s committed suicide, because he admitted to the above statement, yes indeed he laid aside his life, as did Sylva Plath, and Ann Saxon, they had come to the zenith of their writing of poetry, and looked at what was ahead, and perhaps, what they did in the past, said—it’s all mediocrity now, perchance we can put Hemingway into this category with the long novels, and the famous writer of “In Cold Blood,” because Mr. Capote, never wrote anything worthwhile thereafter, so it has been said, yet I liked his short stories better than his longer novels or novelettes. Erich Maria Remarque, wrote a number of long novels, all great, he knew what he was doing when he did it, and he did it well, and long, throughout his life. And he enjoyed his celebrity. E.E. Commings wrote one good book, turned to poetry, and wrote one good poem, and should have returned to writing novels, he was better at it.
Most writes, but not all, hope the next book is one grain better than their last, some writers could careless, they write strictly for the quick reader, and then toss the book in file thirteen—and if they don’t, the reader does, right where the rubbish goes, and the publisher laughs all the way to the bank. They’re not writing for posterity, or God or even the devil, they know they write trash, and with no style, they acknowledge they wrote for the present way of life, which stops them from ever creating anything better, they have many enjoyable nights, but nobody ever can tell them honestly, “I’d like to reread that book again, page to page, shoulder to shoulder,” if they can even find it on the shelves after a month or two. They are a hindrance to the good writers, characterless, like the characters in their novels (books) —the usual ponies, of Hollywood. Although this area is complicated, in the long run they lose the goat and the rope.
Some folks—readers, in particular readers, and especially movie makers who read books and manuscripts, and screenplays, and plays, and rewrite them, even many newspaper reporters, the media in general, condemn having a good writer putting their best into their form, they call it foolishness nowadays—the dead don’t see their work in print, so those things that may have lasted way beyond a person’s life time, such work that could have been, should have been, never will be, was never undertaken, God forgive them.

There are some books that no matter what page you turn to, it will never turn pale or stale, and will always have its own following.
Even rereading a good book, every month or year, or decade for some folks, is gratifying, short and snappy for the reader, you know when you open that book turn its pages the work that was done in it was part of the man or woman’s obituary, he or she died a little so it could be produced. The book is inspiring, satisfying. In essence, the book has immortality. This so called book I am talking about, while people die around it, it continues to breath and live, like the pillars in Greece.
At this point, it might be worthwhile mentioning Mary Renault, she wrote about everyday life in ancient Greece, and I’ve yet to read anything better in novel form.
It is nice to make the New York Times book review list (it only takes a certain following to make it, it is called selling; trash is put on the list on a regularly bases as well as fairly good reading books but it is no way to rate a book reasonably). Let me also add to this list, the Bram Stoker Awards, the National Book Awards, the Nobel Prize for Literature, and the Pulitzer Prizes, all shine with folly and contempt.

On another note, not everybody needs to write poetry, or the long book, or the short story, you experiment, like you do with everything else in life, you try this and that, until you find out what you do best. William Faulkner I think wrote better short stories than he did long novels and he didn’t know it; Robert E. Howard wrote long novels but to me his poetry was far better. Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote what he wrote best, long, plain novels of blood thirsty warriors; and Brum Stoker’s arduous novels of mystic, are a great read, most all of them. And then you got those great short story writers, such as Hawthorn, and O Henry. But you also get your mixture, those who can write anything, and everything, or a number of things, again like Hawthorn, and I suppose I can add Mark Twain also into this everything category, although he would not be on the top of my list. And then you got the terrible certain things, such writers write, whom should never skip into certain categories, such as Hemingway was by no means a poet, nor was Faulkner in my eyes, paler than dead ghosts.

No: 468 (9-17-2009)