I recently heard John Banville read from his new book Christine Falls. It wasn’t that interesting to be honest, some crime novel with a dead lady and an alchy dectetive. He did say something interesting though; he said that he believes that the european novel is dead and that the American novel is still new. He then said this waning in europe is reason why American novels and novelists are so popular. I think that’s a bunch a crapola. What do you people think?
Yes, it is all about America. Everything is all about America. That is why we are American. We could not be American, we could be European. Or perhaps Indo-European, if we could find the right shoes. But then we would be un-American, and that would be wrong. Wrong as in not right. This is demonstrated by the popularity of America, particularly in narrative form.
hmmm. well, i have been spending countless hours translating paw krolowej by dorota maslowska–the polish writer–polish writers are hot, and i am sure give good head too. there is nothing hotter than euro lit–and young hot euro lit and young guys and gals–polish writers rule man–check out lampa–they are where it is at–sort of like chiamus in poland.
check out Agnieszka Drotkiewicz too. i don’t believe for one moment that the Euro novel is dead. Nothing is dead cept for all the dead naked ladies being inspected in USA–if you want dead naked ladies this is the place–we inspect them exploit them sell them eat them–healthy diet of dead gals and game shows–american idol:dead girl edition. competition will include anna nicole smith will kick ass with her hooker heart o gold–we can dance to her clown painted face and think of dahlia–the problem is that no one is translating all the young hot sexy dripping lit of europe any more–ignored, forgotten are they. central europe yeah yeah yeah. go there now. get some dictionaries read very slowly carefully, slow to hear, slow to speak, slow to wrath, the thing is you gotta hunt for it–find it hunt it kill it and bring back here. and we are wet with the game.
american novels are popular cause most of them are easy and easy is what america wants. and who are our great novelists now?(the word novelist and novel makes my skin crawl). (it puts the lotion in the basket). william t. vollman? william gass.? who art they? it seems to me the american novel is in the post post post mortem period. where we burp and fart in the face of god. and that is just oh so brilliant. hey i have to go laura palmer is here to take me home.
um, did u get the part that someone is immitating the u.s. murderous style.
uh-huh, oh yeah. john wayne gacey banville. rock on.
boring as.
(how she dies)
in bath of course. wrists slit. The water crimsoned—perhaps slightly thicker. Could she have afforded such physical pain. Perhaps not. Pills pills are always easier—cept of the choking on the vomit part. Who wants to drown. That seems to airless—the suffocation. Pills seems like the best way—less like murdering oneself. And never a gun. Unless you are prepared to aim right. A slip or shake of the barrel might not make it such a good idea. So how would she go. Jumping off some place high—that is the clue perhaps. And this could also mean drowning. But it is the splat that she after. Her life stands a loaded (semi-automatic) gun from high above the rotting fruited plains/planes no parachute allowed here, the water is deep and freezing suffocate for sure fuck yourself for sure, and what could hold her back, but let’s just say she goes for going sake, so that I can continue working in her absence, so that she can see. She has to go. She has to, it will be in late December, and she will go there—she’ll be running up that hill—she’ll make a deal with God—oh sure—she was in hell here—she really wants to burn so take her there then letter to self kill her to continue, kill her once twice three times a lady in every way you can from the top of—some place in california, drowned in the waves—her body finally washed a shore, she choked sadly yesterday on her own vomit sandwich not included. She was naked she was naked that is how we always wanted her. Naked blue-eyed girl and they can paint the gold there on top of the brushed red. She looked out the window and just had to jump. She tripped and fell of the edge—no more romantic than that—her car, the vintage Mercedes skidded around the turns—plunged over cliff—rolling fast down a deadly incline.
i’m the decider!
“oh, i might as well be talking to the wall.” loretta lynn now that is good american lit. what i need shot in my shallow hollow veins. america is a swell place for suicidal girls. we do suicide oh so well. imitation is suicide. oh yeah honey come right here in the palm of my hand. if she aint doing herself here in america some great american novel is doing her in. she is dead dead dead along with god. i happy to swallow–what i mean is that how do we know anything about euro lit not written in precious english–we don’t cause we can’t read it sweet sister. poland will pay people moneycashmoney to translate her books. a different girl indeed she is concerned about the world about politics about living. she aint dead yet–cause she has not lived until she has been translated in english, of course. nike prize aside.
the euro-novel is soooooooooooooooooooooooooo not dead–but the over-zealous product-oriented entertainment junkie american would have no possible fucking clue about that.
america: eating and paper.
gertrude motherfucking stein, baby.
blonde
futhermore, the american novel is hanging in there–but i feel certain that what I’M calling the american novel and what the general american populus is calling the american novel are two radically different things…
so for the record:
i’m calling the american novel the writing which interrupts the novel as commodity.
neener neener.
blonde