Wizards, ‘wobots and painting pederasts

pjdillon@attglobal.net
Here come the excuses…
See, it’s not on account of having nothing to say, because I’ve always got something to say. Just ask anyone.
And it’s not on account of having been out of Internet range because I’ve been humping my laptop around the country for the past few weeks. And there have been functioning land-lines. And both Attglobal and TelcomNet were accessible. And I had a phone chord. And my cell is dialed up for Net access.
No, this time the excuse for not blogging once in (Idunno, maybeitmittabeentwoweeks?) a while is weight. The awesome, fat, burdensome weight of words. And the bindings they come in.
Witness One for the Defence: J.K. Rowlings’ latest tome wherein, over the course of 766 pages, she shamelessly tortures a 15-year-old kid for the audience’s amusement. And mine. My lovely and talented roomie picked up the latest Potter offering the day it was released here in Jakarta proving she’s adept at right brain thinking (or taking advantage of what she describes as an “Act of God” or a “Cosmic Intersection”) by avoiding bookstores which were sold out three weeks before P-Day and hitting an office supply company of all places.
She finished it in two days. Took me about five. Liked the book. Some decent Corona Milk Bar-esque ultra-violence (especially at the end) though none of those annoying Hogwarts brats who should die, do. And, there’s a couple of decent paragraphs devoted to the mindless rage that courses through the veins of every mid-teen male at some point or other. Organic, adolescent ‘roid-rage. You really get a hate on for the dude’s evil aunt and uncle in the early going but inevitably it takes a turn for the schmaltz to earn its PG rating. And, there’s no sex.
Witness No. Two. See if this rings a bell: “I was driving my Lexus through a rustling wind. This is a car assembled in a work area that’s completely free of human presence. Not a spot of mortal sweat except, okay, for the guys who drive the product out of the plant – allow a little moisture where they grip the wheel. The system flows forever onward, automated to priestly nuance, every gliding movement back-referenced for prime performance. Hollow bodies coming in endless sequence. There’s nobody on the line with caffeine nerves or a history of clinical depression. Just the eerie weave of chromium alloys carried in interlocking arcs, block iron and asphalt sheeting, soaring ornaments or coachwork fitted and merged. Robots tightening bolts, programming drudges that do not dream of family dead.”
That’s right! Me! Yes, I wrote it! Pretty good eh?
Actually, no, I didn’t. But if I’d ever written about a robotic assembly line I’m sure I’d craft something equally, umm, what’s the word I’m looking for… uhhh..
… but anyway it would read just like this line from Don DeLillos’ 1997 epic Underworld which runs to better than 830 pages in hardcover. And I’m only four chapters in or about 20 per cent in and sinking fast. Beautifully crafted, slightly surreal look at one man’s life, a back-handed tribute to America and the lifelong pursuit of a fabled baseball. Loving it. Not much action, bar fights, car chases or slutty women but despite these obvious flaws DeLillo is unputdownable. I’ve heard this all before about the guy whose earlier offering included a novel about God falling out of heaven, drowning in the Atlantic Ocean and subsequently being towed into New York Harbour by tug boat.
Would have sliced through Underworld in maybe 10 nights – I usually hit the pulp in the hour before bed (and then range on till the wee hours, curled up in the pool of blanched white light of a fluorescent bedside lamp) but have been unable recently becaaaaauuuuseee… I’ve been distracted by the third piece of evidence rescued from atop the stack of magazines I devour like popcorn every week: Time, Newsweek, Tempo, Stuff, The Economist, and any other shiny bits of paper that catch my eye.
I give you (metaphorically) Turkish writer Orhan Pamuk’s My Name Is Red. It’s staggering, dense and incredibly engaging. A murder mystery set early in the Istanbul of the first decades of the 16th century in the closeted world of the ‘miniaturist’, the men who illustrate the great books commissioned by the Sultan and powerful pashas, at a time when the fractures between the traditionalists and would-be modernists (those influenced by infidel Venetian perspective realism, threaten to destabilize the Sultan’s rule itself. Amazing stuff even if you’ve gotta reread the odd page or two to capture the essence of Pamuk’s words, packed into more than 500 wee-fonted pages of the soft-cover edition.
Writing in The Observer, Avkat Altinel concludes: “In this world of forgeries, where some might be in danger of losing their faith in literature, Pamuk is the real thing, and this book might well be one of the few recent works of fiction that will be remembered at the end of this century.”
A couple of tastefully written kill scenes that are unfortunately light on the Elmore James and heavy on the internal landscapes of the victim. No car chases, for obvious reasons but several long and colorful mentions of war-horses and horse racing; and a bit of sex, though mostly of the breathless closeted widow’s first experience with her new lover’s ‘rampant pole’ –variety and numerous passages wherein older men reminisce fondly over their relationship with an endless parade of young boys (I mean, these Turks are in no position to be imposing order on Afghanistan from what I’m reading).
So there you have it. That’s why I haven’t blogged ya since June: wizards, ‘wobots and painting pederasts. Oh, yeah, and Finding Nemo. Go and see it. A most excellent experience, dude.