Rebecca Solnit writes in The Lit Hub that she’s gotten what she considers ill-founded pushback on an essay she wrote in response to Esquire’s list of “The 80 Best Books Every Man Should Read,” specifically with regard to Lolita: “some of the men out there respond on the grounds that my opinion is wrong, while theirs is right because they are convinced that their opinion is a fact, while mine is a delusion.”
In my experience very few people, even among cultural and moral relativists, actually espouse a view from nowhere in most of their daily life, pretending essentially that they have no preferences or personality. And Solnit herself does not do so here: instead she falls into the unfortunate position of holding the strong opinion that it’s wrong for other people to hold strong opinions.
The essay irked me when I first read it on December 17, the day it was published, but it irks me even more that I’m drawn to write rebuttals of things that seem so ultimately boring. Over the next few days, I seemed to see more organizations sharing the essay, though, praising it as…well, I’m not sure. Because what’s really here?
The 2,900-word essay takes more than 1,100 words to mention Lolita, and by my count less than 400 words are (generously) about the novel. There are about another 500 that could be fairly characterized as comparing other books to Lolita. Gamergate and pickup artists get more than half as much space as Lolita itself. Most of the essay is devoted to theorizing about empathy and the emotional state of people (men) who made negative comments about her previous Lit Hub essay.
(The Lolita essay includes only four links throughout: one to her previous Lit Hub essay on 80 books no woman should read, one to a story in The Atlantic on college students and microaggressions, one to a 1988 essay by Arthur C. Danto, and one to an essay about “women’s stories being discounted and discredited. There were no links to anything written by anyone who disagreed with her. She does not even clearly say that this essay is a counter to responses to her essay on the Esquire list; perhaps all the criticisms she is talking about are in the comments to that, but she never says.)
So what does she have to say about Lolita? That should, of course, be the interesting question. There are two main points: that men say it’s wrong to “identify with” a character, and she says they’re wrong about that (she doesn’t explain whether it’s correct, necessary, okay, one possible thing to do, etc.); and that it’s a book about “a white man serially raping a child over a period of years.” At no point does she explain what that is supposed to mean.
It’s just when you identify with Lolita you’re clarifying that this is a book about a white man serially raping a child over a period of years. Should you read Lolita and strenuously avoid noticing that this is the plot and these are the characters? Should the narrative have no relationship to your own experience?
If the answer to both of those questions is “no,” then what? What does that mean about Lolita and why it shouldn’t be on a list of books men should read?
Challenged by one man with the idea that Lolita is an allegory, she responds: “It is, and it’s also a novel about a big old guy violating a spindly child over and over and over. Then she weeps.” What does that mean? There is not much hope of finding out. All she really said about Lolita in the first essay was that it was a “masterpiece of Humbert Humbert’s failure of empathy,” which makes me wonder if she forgot about the frame.
The other issue is the one of “identification,” and whether it’s—what? acceptable? necessary? To support that, Solnit draws on the “currently popular argument that books help us feel empathy, but” notes that “if they do so they do it by helping us imagine that we are people we are not.” But does that theory really do the work Solnit needs it to?
The idea is that by reading a novel with characters who are different from you, and learning about how they might think and feel and be in the world, you will empathize with them better. But Solnit seems to take that to mean that you will sympathize with them more. It doesn’t occur to her that empathy could breed anything else, but of course not all understanding brings people closer together. Sometimes understanding someone better clarifies how different you really are. I have frequently felt more alienated by reading novels with characters who are truly different from me; their stories prove we are far apart.
And that really goes to the heart of it: Solnit makes a lot of unsupported claims about what empathy does, about what it means for novels to induce it, about how readers and critics react (“no one gets told they’re wrong for identifying with Gilgamesh or even Elizabeth Bennett”), and most of all around what automatically happens to someone’s epistemology because they, for apparently the first time, needed to develop a theory of other minds.
Curiously, she seems to undermine most of her point about Lolita itself:
You can read Nabokov’s relationship to his character in many ways. Vera Nabokov, the author’s wife, wrote, “I wish, though, somebody would notice the tender description of the child, her pathetic dependence on monstrous HH, and her heartrending courage all along…”
This would suggest that there is not only a possible reading generally in line with the way Solnit thinks of the world, but that in fact it was there all along, intended by the author or at least discussed with his wife, who was well known as a major influence on his work. Perhaps, in fact, the whole point of Lolita (or at least a point of it, and an important one) is Solnit’s reading—so why on earth is she pissed that Esquire thinks people should read it? Why not, instead, talk up how valuable it would be for men to read it and identify with Lo?
Because that wouldn’t be playing a team sport, I guess.
A commenter on that original piece complaining about Esquire seems perceptive:
I disagree — I think the books named for the “80 Books No Woman Should Ever Read” list should be on an “80 Books Every Woman Should Read and Talk With Men About”. I initially agreed with the article, and then I went to Esquire list to see what other absurd tidbits I could pick up from it. But Esquire’s point about For Whom the Bell Tolls (a book I disliked) says men should read it not for the guns or drinking or sex but for “A lesson in manhood: Even when you’re damned, you press on.”
And that made me realize something: I didn’t get that from the book at all, but many men probably did. Whereas I saw dumb machismo, they saw perseverance and purity of purpose. I’d be interested to hear why intelligent men think Hemingway embodies manliness– is it the penis thing? Or is there something more profound that doesn’t occur to me because I’m coming at it from a different perspective? What is it about penis-gun-death that is so appealing to some people but so ugly to others?
Intelligent and curious women should read these books because we are fascinated about a perspective that is alien to us, and because, for whatever reason, many men we share this earth with DO love these books and see something valuable in them. Let’s ask what it is. Let’s start a conversation. Let’s really absorb and try to understand perspectives that repel us, rather than giving them a label that allows us to dismiss them.
The constant psychopathologizing is, let’s say, just not to my taste. Passages like this seem so obviously hypocritical that it’s hard to see how others found the essay:
Saying this upset some men. Many among that curious gender are easy to upset, and when they are upset they don’t know it (see: privelobliviousness). They just think you’re wrong and sometimes also evil.
If the entire piece isn’t about how her interlocutors are wrong and sometimes also evil, I don’t know what it is about.
Because I have no idea what Solnit thinks of Lolita and why. Perhaps if she herself had a clearer opinion on the book, she would understand better when others defend theirs like they actually believe in them.
The shortlist for the Man Booker Prize is set to be announced tomorrow, so on Saturday, the women of the shadow jury so kindly organized by Frances (including Bellezza, Rebecca, and Teresa) all discussed our top choices for the list.
I didn’t manage to read all the books on the longlist in time, and I didn’t have a personal list of six I thought were worth giving an award to. I did feel that way about A Brief History of Seven Killings, though, and Satin Island. I had two other weaker choices as well. In an alchemical process of consensus-seeking, these are the titles we ended up choosing for the group’s shortlist:
- Did You Ever Have a Family? by Bill Clegg
- A Brief History of Seven Killings by Marlon James
- Satin Island by Tom McCarthy
- Lila by Marilynne Robinson
- Sleeping on Jupiter by Anuradha Roy
- The Year of the Runaways by Sunjeev Sahota
My guess for the real shortlist is different—for one thing, I am certain A Little Life will be on it. Incidentally, I’ve read a bit more of that, and it continues to be just awful. But I’m also pretty certain it will win the Booker outright.
I tried to psych myself up this year leading into the holidays to go back to some of my old spreadsheets and tot up my stats on the things that matter to me, but somehow I just couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, I felt called to create a very bibliographing sort of best-of list, which also gives me the opportunity (or should I say the duty?) to write a few words on my neglected “good reads” of the year. And anyway, I think some longtime readers will find my old categories not so different in spirit from the ones chosen in particular this year.
So, in no particular order, the 2014 bibliographing Best-Of!
Best novel by winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. Of the two contenders in this category, Patrick Modiano’s Dans le café de la jeunesse perdue and Halldór Laxness’s Independent People, the latter is the far more compelling and ambitious work. The worst thing I can say about Modiano is that he cares about Paris qua Paris far more than I ever could, and the best thing I can say is that he writes beautiful sentences. I’m in a worse position to say whether Laxness does the latter, stuck as I am reading him in translation, but he brings me to Iceland, he shocks me with bleakness, he breaks my heart with hubris, and he makes me laugh.
Best fiction on the English village. Fewer contenders than usual in this category, but I’d say it goes to Under the Greenwood Tree by Thomas Hardy. I broke my longstanding Hardy antipathy, and it’s safe to say the pendulum has swung hard in the opposite direction. But this one is adorable. Mac and cheese to a girl raised on 19th century English literature. Honorable mention: Some Desperate Glory by Max Egremont, though a meditation and collection of poems on the First World War, includes numerous examples of beautiful poems on the English countryside.
Best novel that other people seemed to “discover” this year. This one definitely goes to Submergence by J.M. Ledgard. While most Americans have Graywolf Press to thank for bringing this over the pond, I have Anthony of Times Flow Stemmed, who was kind enough to send me this book a few years ago when it became available in the UK. American press coverage prompted a re-read and Submergence is just lovely—as lovely as Giraffe, and as strange. Admittedly, I don’t read too many “it books,” so this category may be just a bit unfair, but the ones that I did (I’m thinking of The Luminaries and The Goldfinch here, mostly) did not impress.
Best nonfiction. I read a lot of great nonfiction this year, but I’m in no position to rank the relative value of all the great history and commentary I’ve read on World War I. On the other hand, I can say that I have cited B.R. Myers’s The Cleanest Race, a book of cultural and media criticism of the North Korean regime, on a very regular basis since reading it months ago. It’s completely fascinating. If you’re anything like me, your significant other will start hating you because you won’t be able to stop repeating crazy anecdotes.
Best book about children. I didn’t read many this year, again, but I am very particular about books about children, and Jacqueline Woodson’s Brown Girl Dreaming was beautiful for innumerable reasons.
Best comic novel not by Martin Amis. Joseph O’Neill’s The Dog. Honorable mention: Christopher Beha’s Arts & Entertainment. My promise still stands to write something real about these two. Also-honorable mention: Lydia Millett’s Mermaids in Paradise.
Best novel. Lord Jim. Because this year I re-read Lord Jim. Honorable mentions: Wuthering Heights, Heart of Darkness.
Best novel by someone I’d never read before. This one goes hands down to Kate Racculia’s Bellweather Rhapsody, which I wrote about in brief for BookRiot as my favorite book of August. Sure, Anne Brontë’s The Tenant of Wildfell Hall probably has more overall literary value, but Racculia’s debut was funny, smart, wacky, and weird. It should probably have an honorable mention in the books-about-children category, but whatever, they’re teenagers anyway. This is what I want from my fun new stuff. Racculia, Millett, Karen Russell: give me more of this, please, and I will have some fun. I’ve got to balance all that Conrad out with something, after all.
Far be it from me to, tackily, use a good man’s death as an excuse to falsely scold myself while making excuses. No. The passing of D.G. Myers—so unexpected, despite its expectedness—shames me and my pathetic will-to-write. I fail, as at many things, in the moral obligation to write well.
Go and read A Commonplace Blog. Go and read Rohan Maitzen’s worthy tribute. Go and reads the tweets of Michael Schaub and Matt Hunte and dozens of other people he touched via his blog and Twitter. He was never afraid to say what he meant, and I wish I could say the same of myself.
I can ascribe at least two books I’ve read directly to Myers: Dana Spiotta’s Stone Arabia and Christopher Beha’s What Happened to Sophie Wilder. Both were too good for me to be articulate about them. And while I am still writing (a shameful but ongoing trickle for BookRiot and every once in a while something that might actually be good), my own selfish regret at the moment is not having written the essay stuck in my mind about Sophie Wilder in time for Myers to have perhaps read and even criticized it.
Still, I am grateful for everything he did write, not to mention his attitude, well represented here.
In the Wall Street Journal article I mentioned Monday (found!), “Publishing’s Battle to Win the Great War” even a Real Historian laments. “‘The American public has very little understanding or knowledge of WWI,’ says historian David McCullough, the author of ‘John Adams’ and ‘1776.’ ‘When I talk at colleges and universities, many of them have no idea when it happened, and know nothing about it, and seem to have very little interest in it.'”
And who am I to argue? I’m sure he is right. I’m 30 now, so get off my lawn, you kids, and listen: “David Reynolds, professor of international history at Cambridge University, says World War I lays the groundwork for America’s later role as a superpower. …Mr. Reynolds calls WWI ‘the forgotten conflict of America’s war-torn 20th century. Forgotten yet also essential.'” The war “‘helped “define the country’s self-image across the whole twentieth century.'”
But wait, who cares about all that anyway? Sure, the article may be about the US publishing industry, but this blog isn’t. Complaints about how difficult it is to slap an evocative cover on a book about a war that killed millions of people and basically created modernity slash set the stage for the other war, the one you are somehow able to evoke with magical effectiveness, do not impress me all that much.
And why do I care about a centenary anyway? Well, because it led to that daft article (and a whole raft of others I’ve read since then), and I like reading books about the Great War, and I think it’s a shame—just a sad state of affairs—that a woman who wrote a book about the war could say, “‘Quite often it is simplified to the horror of the trenches and going over the top and being blown to bits. …And really, who wants to talk about that?'”
Now I am enough of an appreciationist not just to care about trenches, but even about mud—what could be more boring?—a central feature of much Great War writing. I’m hoping to cover it as a whole topic in itself, but look at this wonderful passage from Timothy Findley’s The Wars (speaking of crying shames, this book’s being out of print in the US is certainly one):
The mud. There are no good similes. Mud must be a Flemish word. Mud was invented here. Mudland might have been its name. The ground is the colour of steele. Over most of the plain there isn’t a trace of topsoil: only sand and clay. The Belgians call them ‘clyttes,’ these fields, and the further you go towards the sea, the worse the clyttes become. In them, the water is reached by the plough at an average depth of eighteen inches. When it rains (which is almost constantly from early September through to March, except when it snows) the water rises at you out of the ground. It rises from your footprints—and an army marching over a field can cause a flood. In 1916, it was said that you ‘waded to the front.’ Men and horses sank from sight. They drowned in mud. Their graves, it seemed, just dug themselves and pulled them down.
Houses, trees and fields of flax once flourished here. Summers had been blue with flowers. Now it was a shallow sea of stinking clay from end to end. And this is where you fought the war.
It just depresses me, the lack of—what, creativity, imagination?—that finds this boring, that finds no evil here. It makes me wonder whether the real lesson of the centenary isn’t just the one that Lady Juliet D’Orsey deplores later in The Wars:
And what I hate these days is the people who weren’t there and they look back and say we became inured. Your heart froze over—yes. But to say we got used to it! God—that makes me so angry! No.
But I don’t think Lady Juliet has the problem of some contemporary authors. “These were not accidents,” she tells her interviewer. “These were murders. By the thousands. All your friends were…murdered.”
Last week, I contributed a further edition of Genre Kryptonite to BookRiot: WWI literature. Longtime readers of bibliographing will not be surprised by my interest in the subject; it’s one of my many abandoned projects. But abandoned it shall be no longer!
As I mention in the BookRiot post, the First World War does not resonate for many Americans the way it does for other around the world, especially in France, Belgium, the UK and the Commonwealh countries. As an American who lived for years in one such country, I quickly became used to the seriousness—and quiet dignity—of Remembrance Day, and wore my poppy with, frequently, every other human being in sight.
These days, to my mind, never came close to glorifying either World War, so it came as a bit of a surprise to me to read several pieces in The Guardian—published, like my own piece, ahead of the centenary of the tragedy in Sarajevo—implying that the commemorations planned in the UK for the coming years were tasteless displays of jingoism, offensive to Germans, and so forth. Not that I can speak to the plans of Mr. Cameron’s government, but glorification has never seemed top of mind for much that came out of the Great War.
Indeed, just at the same time, Bill Kristol was writing in America’s own mirror-universe version of the same narrative: “the commemorations of 1914 will tend to take [Wilfred Owen’s] rejection of piety and patriotism for granted” as he laments, “do we dare take our bearings not from Owen’s bitter despair but from Francis Scott Key’s bold hope?”
The jingoism and/or bitterness is in the eye of the beholder, I suppose.
But what actually got me revved up to really complete a Great War project was an earlier story in the Wall Street Journal, sadly no longer available for me to even reference (this is what I get for putting off posting for weeks). Citing several new and upcoming titles that involve the war, being released to coincide with its anniversary, the article makes the inane implication that Americans just don’t care about WWI because there aren’t any obvious “good” and “bad” guys—you know, because with Nazis, you know just who to hate. One author—and though I may cover some in more detail, I have to say these seem like rather light fiction to me so far—went so far as to say a novel about the trenches was boring! No wonder people like her can’t find a bad guy. He is, so so often, terribly boring.
Where has she been, what has she been doing? Perhaps there are people out there who wonder these things. For better or worse, their possible existence is not why I have ever really written this blog, so I am allowed to reappear without really caring whether anyone else does. But amid a fair amount of “nothing,” I have indeed been reading, and there are far too many things that have gone un-written this year. I need to catch up, lamely as will inevitably be the case with things read without a post always in the back of mind. I’ll use the holiday week for some light catch-up work before getting to “the good stuff,” and the holiday itself for the lightest of the light.
Ivanhoe, by Sir Walter Scott. This is one of those books that make me want to warn people: it’s not really a novel. It’s fiction, it tells a story, but we must not forget the idea of “romances” and other pre-novelistic fictions when we pick up a book like Ivanhoe. Of course, in a sense it is very important as a novel: an early historical one. But it’s so historical that all the chivalry and quasi-mythical or -archetypal figures make it something a little different. Read it, read it by all means. It’s extremely engrossing.
Rebecca and Rowena, by W.M. Thackeray. Read this, absolutely, but only after Ivanhoe. Well, I suppose you could read it as a standalone, and it would still be biting and funny, but it really is better paired. For the record: Thackeray is totally right about Rebecca and Rowena.
Revenge, by Yoko Ogawa. Ogawa’s “eleven dark tales” are pure Ogawa and very good. If you know her from The Housekeeper and the Professor, read me on The Diving Pool for a better idea of what Revenge is like. Ogawa deserves more from me, truly.
The Vicar of Wakefield, by Oliver Goldsmith. It’s kind of a travesty I did not write about this for real-real, but it’s also the sort of thing that begs for re-reading. I have wronged you as well, Mr. Goldsmith.
Thousand Cranes, by Yasunari Kawabata. I will say only that Kawabata has shot to the top of my list of Japanese writers I have not really read yet that I will be reading a lot more of.
Minotaur, by Benjamin Tammuz, was my first try of Europa Editions’ new world noir imprint, and a book I would actually write about if it hadn’t started making the rounds from me to my consumption partner to his father and likely now to parts beyond. Tammuz is Israeli and the novel is worth reading both as compelling, spy-oriented noir as well as for the very interesting (if you’re into that sort of thing, which I am) mid-twentieth-century view of Israel’s coming into being.
Last week, Sam Sacks wrote in The New Yorker on criticizing the classics and how the canon is selected in today’s world. Contrasting the current, primarily American, state of the canon with that of the past, when the gatekeepers of the ivory tower and the salon determined not just which books were classics but the very definition of the concept, he argues that the classics are now determined by democratic and pragmatic tastes:
What makes a classic today is cultural significance. Authors are anointed not because they are great (although many of them are) but because they are important.
In other words, the current criteria for classics are more a matter of sociology than of aesthetics. That’s why prose-toilers like George Orwell and Aldous Huxley are securely fixed in the canon while masters such as Frank O’Connor and Eudora Welty could easily be left out. “1984” and “Brave New World” are embedded in the weave of language and history, but what does Welty have going for her apart from stylistic perfection? Henry Miller survives—and will continue to survive—because the country once found him shocking enough to censor. (Likewise, D. H. Lawrence might very well be a footnote if not for “Lady Chatterley’s Lover.”) There’s better prose in the average issue of Consumer Reports than in most Upton Sinclair novels, but “The Jungle” triggered actual legislative reform and will therefore last as long as the United States does.
I hardly consider myself a literary critic, so it’s hardly surprising I wouldn’t feel the same kind of “freedom” or “exhilarat[ion]” Sacks attributes to today’s critics, who can have at many of these classics, spitting into the Grand Canyon (to paraphrase Joyce Carol Oates) because, as it turns out, much of the Grand Canyon isn’t all that grand.* Still, I spend, I think, a fair amount of time doing just that. Great truth and beauty, such as they are, are what move me, but my curious nature draws me as well to the works of “cultural significance,” the important in addition to the great—not to mention the so-called great (since that’s what so many of these “classics” turn out to be). And while I rarely take any joy in savaging such works, or even savage them at all, I find it interesting and even a little bit important to explore the good and the bad, whenever there is any of either to be found. And I may just turn out to be halfway decent at doing it, too.
Even before reading Sacks’s piece (which is, I should say, one of the few written about the idea of “classics” that didn’t make me roll my eyes a single time), I had planned on writing this week about one such work: Jaroslav Hašek’s The Good Soldier Švejk. Admittedly, Švejk is hardly a part of the canon the way Orwell and Huxley are; I doubt many American high school English classes assign it. But it’s well-known enough to be the namesake of a popular house blend at my local coffee shop, where quotes from the novel sometimes appear on a blackboard, and has enough cult status to have been recommended to me by a “real-life human.”
Švejk is the story of a Czech soldier swept up by the currents of the First World War, fighting for an empire that systemically oppresses his own people. A note at the end of my Penguin Classics edition explains that it was “one of the most famous and widely-read novels published after the First World War,” and that Hašek died before he could complete it. It’s possible that some of my criticisms would have been mooted by a less abrupt ending, but we have what we have.
*This should not be taken as any slight on the actual Grand Canyon, which I have not yet seen, and my experience thus far of natural wonders suggests it really is that grand.
As others are haunted about not reading enough women,or enough YA, or enough world literature, I frequently torture myself over how little I read that is not prose (among many, many other things, of course). It’s bad enough the way I read fiction at the expense of nonfiction, the share of the universe of excellent essays and criticism I neglect, but the amount of space in my reading life accorded to poetry and, especially, drama, is pretty pathetic.
I’ve gotten somewhat better in the poetry side of things, and on the nonfiction side as well, though these are both things I find difficult to blog about so you often miss them here. It’s something I’d like to rectify. But to even things out in the drama department (and initially inspired, truth be told, by a Netflix marathon of Kenneth Branagh on recent weekend, along with other similar influences), I recently decided I would finally get around to reading all of Shakespeare’s plays (and finally Ocford Word’s Classics has editions that are actually attractive)–in my own sweet time, of course–as well as get into some Jacobean drama.
The most notable experience of reading the play was noticing how very many lines have become common references or clichés. It’s not just “mine eyes dazzle!”; I basically felt like I knew somewhere between a third and half the play. This is not to denigrate reading it in any way–quite the opposite. It was an enlightening experience, as well as entertaining.
The funny thing is, just as with poetry, and with short stories if I’ve stayed away from them a long time, I was also quickly noticing how much I enjoy reading in the form and wondering why I don’t do more of it. I’ll get to Shakespeare separately, as King Lear certainly deserves its own post, but if you’ve got any Jacobean suggestions I’m all ears.
…of the blogging variety, that is.
If you don’t follow me on Twitter or keep up with BookRiot, you may have thought my long-dormant blog meant I wasn’t writing anything at all. Several weeks ago I began a series on the site, “Read This Then That,” pairing contemporary novels with classics. The match-ups so far:
- What Happened to Sophie Wilder by Christopher Beha and The End of the Affair by Graham Greene. These two have been frequently compared, and when I re-read the Greene, Beha’s novel seemed even better than it already had in comparison.
- Treasure Island!!! by Sara Levine and Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. How a children’s book can lead to massive quarter-life crisis—and what that says about children’s classics and those who cling to them.
- Billy Lynn’s Long Haltime Walk by Ben Fountain and Israel Potter by Herman Melville. I suppose I should be impressed with myself that I didn’t head for Melville until the third edition in the series, but of course I had to go for one of his strangest and least-known works. I still think the comparison is an apt and original one.
- Boleto by Alyson Hagy and All the Pretty Horses by Cormac McCarthy. Two stories of a boy and his horse—and as superficial as that sounds, they really do have a lot in common.
- Old Filth (and The Man with the Wooden Hat) by Jane Gardam and Plain Tales from the Hills by Rudyard Kipling. My current Raj orphan obsession was fertile material for this series, with the phenomenon lasting as it did over a period of generations, and now being reexamined in a postcolonial light. Still, the fit of Gardam’s Filth books with early Kipling is almost uncanny.
- Glaciers by Alexis Smith and Mary by Vladimir Nabokov. At first I thought this was one of the more tendentious comparisons, relying as it does on the delicate thread of theme—and delicate themes at that, memory, dreams, and nostalgia. But sharper focus on the plot—a cloudy, unimportant thing in both novels—reveals other similarities as well, in the stories of intellectual loners living in transitional locations, quietly drifting among their “peers.”
I promise this work hasn’t been keeping me away from bibliographing, and it won’t in future. And do let me know if there’s any contemporary work you particularly think I should read!