Nicole Krauss, The History of Love (2005)
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The grass was slippery with mud. In the distance I could see a rowboat tied to the dock. I looked out across the water. Must have been a good swimmer, took after his father, I thought with pride. My own father, who had great respect for nature, had dropped each of us into the river soon after we were born, before our ties to the amphibians, so he claimed, were cut completely. My sister Hanna blamed her lisp on the trauma of this memory. I’d like to think that I would have done it differently. I would have held my son in my arms. I would have told him, Once upon a time you were a fish. A fish? he’d have asked. That’s what I’m telling you, a fish. How do you know? Because I was also a fish. You, too? Sure. A long time ago. How long? Long. Anyway, being a fish, you used to know how to swim. I did? Sure. You were a great swimmer. A champion swimmer, you were. You loved the water. Why? What do you mean, why? Why did I love the water? Because it was your life! And as we talked, I would have let him go one finger at a time, until, without his realizing, he’d be floating without me.

And then I thought: Perhaps that is what it means to be a father — to teach your child to live without you. If so, no one was a greater father than I.

Dan Chaon - You Remind Me Of Me (2005)
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The baby’s large eyes settled on him, and though this had been one of his happiest nights in his whole life, it made him melancholy. He had read somewhere that babies are instinctively drawn to faces, that they will fixate even on drawings or abstract, facelike shapes, and round objects with markings that might resemble eye-mouth-nose. It was information that struck him as terribly sad, terribly lonely — to imagine the infants of the world scoping the blurry atmosphere above them for faces the way primitive people scrutinized the stars for patterns, the way castaways stare at the moon, the blinking of a satellite. It made him sad to think of the baby gathering information — a mind, a soul, slowly solidifying around these impressions, coming to understand cause and effect, coming out of a blank or fog into reality. Into a reality. The true terror, Jonah thought, the true mystery of life is not that we are all going to die, but that we were all born, that we were all once little babies like this, unknowing and slowly reeling in the world, gathering it loop by loop like a ball of string. The true terror was that we once didn’t exist, and then, through no fault of our own, we had to.

Hey, have you read this book?

Bruce Springsteen: Two Hearts — The Definitive Biography, 1972-2003
by Dave Marsh

I’m a sucker for rock biographies. Well, I’m a sucker for lots of things, actually, as my wife will be more than happy to tell you — new cereal, useless gadgets, boobies — but these books are high on the list. I eagerly devour the ones about artists whose music I really enjoy, but I’ll also read hundreds of pages about musicians I think are overrated or actively hate listening to. My favorite parts are about the low points in these artists’ careers. I have no interest in listening to the actual albums again, but I’d love to know what was happening in the studio while Yes was recording Drama or Emerson, Lake & Palmer were working on Love Beach. There’s a Stones bio I may check out just to see what they have to say about Dirty Work. There’s a certain satisfaction in seeing the rich and famous fuck things up, I suppose, but mainly, I just think it’s incredibly interesting to trace the anatomy of a failure. Besides, there are entire books devoted to this or that classic album; the lousy ones are swept aside. I’d love to write a series of books about horrible records by well-known musicians. I think it’d sell, too.

It’d be next to impossible to do, though — mainly, I think, because these artists are ordinary human beings and would rather not dwell on their mistakes. I doubt Dylan would sit for a series of interviews about Down in the Groove, for instance. And besides, they’re used to a certain amount of fawning from the people who write about them.

Oh yeah, and speaking of fawning, here’s Dave Marsh with Two Hearts.

Now, I didn’t get this book because I wanted to read about Springsteen’s low period, or his shit record, because as far as I can tell, he hasn’t really had one or released one yet. And yeah, yeah, there’s Human Touch and Lucky Town, but those aren’t shitty albums; they’re just shitty Springsteen albums, and there’s a big difference. So I was expecting a certain amount of reverence for The Boss and his work. I was also expecting honest, critical analysis of the music, something the book pretty much lacks entirely.

Okay, so it isn’t entirely lacking — someone who has spent as much time with Springsteen’s music as Dave Marsh could purposely try to avoid analysis in a book like this and some would still leak out. Problem is, it’s larded over with over-the-top hooey about Springsteen the Messiah. For all I know, Springsteen’s a great guy — maybe even every bit as great as Marsh thinks he is — but, as the reader, I’d like the opportunity to draw that conclusion myself. Or at least think I’m drawing the conclusion myself, instead of being beaten over the head with it. Marsh thinks he addresses this in one of the book’s introductions:

I figured out that if you find the most coherent and dramatic rock ‘n’ roll story of your generation and tell it well enough for people to still be interested after a quarter of a century, you’ve done the job. If, as part of the story, you claim that the person you’re writing about is not a fraudulent, exploitative scoundrel but in fact honorable, immensely gifted, and inspired, and if, fifteen years later, there is nothing to contradict those claims, then somebody has a problem but it ain’t the writer.

Marsh is responding specifically to charges that his writing about Springsteen amounts to hagiography, and if, as he says, there’s nothing to contradict his claims, then he’s got a solid defense. But I don’t think anybody really had a problem with Marsh’s claims per se; it’s more the way he makes them. It’s like your friend dragging you to his favorite movie and then giving you a non-stop commentary during the whole thing. It’s unrelenting and obvious, and it makes you want to form an opposing argument, no matter how good the thing in question happens to be. Marsh was there pretty much from the beginning of Springsteen’s career, and at that point, his preaching made sense, because nobody had heard his music yet. Now it’s just irritating.

I think it mostly stems from Marsh’s old-school belief in rock & roll as a pure, magical force whose slow “corruption” (he actually uses this term in the book) broke his heart, at least until Springsteen came along and died for all our sins. I’m overstating his case, but just barely; the engine that really drives this book is an unwavering belief in the redemptive power of rock music, and how Springsteen not only shares this belief, but actually personifies it.

As far as theses go (not to mention beliefs), this is utterly groan-worthy: Rock & roll offers redemption from nothing, except maybe boredom or a bad mood. Understand that I love rock music, truly, madly, and deeply; when other kids my age were playing with toys, I was sneaking my mom’s LPs onto a Fisher-Price record player. It’s been a part of my life for as long as I can remember. But there’s no redemption in it, any more than there’s long-term subsistence in chocolate — ultimately, however closely your favorite music might speak to or reflect your own experiences (or even provide you compelling glimpses into experiences you wish were your own), that’s all it can do. It’s the experiences that feed the music. That’s why rock songs about rock & roll almost always suck.

The thing is, Dave Marsh might be in love with Bruce Springsteen, but he’s far from alone when it comes to this style of writing. It sort of goes with the territory when you’re writing about music; it really is sort of like dancing about architecture. The only way to accurately convey an auditory experience with words is either through conflation or truly brilliant writing; since there are a lot more music writers than brilliant writers, the former typically wins out over the latter. It isn’t so bad when you’re writing about music that sucks, because then the results can be funny even when they aren’t wholly accurate, or even truly descriptive. But writing about good music is tough. I think I’ve only done a decent job of it a few times in the last fifteen years. Very often, I feel something like self-hatred for the stuff I post in this space; the only reason I keep doing it is because I can offer mp3s so you can actually hear what I’m writing about. We can share the experience that way (though most of you seem content to just download the files and keep your opinions to yourself).

Oh yeah. Files. I guess this wouldn’t be much of a post without one or two, would it? Here’s a pair of semi-rare Springsteen tracks: A live acoustic version of “Brilliant Disguise” (download) and the twelve-inch “Dub Mix” of “Dancing in the Dark” (download). Enjoy!

I realize I’m like five years behind the cool kids on Chuck Klosterman, but I’m loving this book:

Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto

All the same, it’s a little depressing to learn you’ve been ripping someone off (poorly) without ever even knowing they existed.

I want to be Chuck Klosterman when I grow up.

Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis: The Story of a Childhood– great, auto-biographical graphic novel about a girl growing up in revolutionary Iran.
Frantz Fanon, The Wretched of the Earth — written as an analysis of the struggle for Algerian independence, but incredibly relevant today. A must-read for anyone interested in current events.
Merrill Peterson, John Brown: The Legend Revisited — Loony? Martyr? Both? Peterson’s book examines John Brown’s legacy and how it has been perceived throughout American history.
William Freehling, The South Vs. the South: How Anti-Confederate Southerners Shaped the Course of the Civil War — Freehling persuasively argues that the Civil War’s outcome might have been markedly different without the support of Southerners, both black and white.
Greg Palast, The Best Democracy Money Can Buy: An Investigative Reporter Exposes the Truth About Globalization, Corporate Cons, and High-Finance Fraudsters — many thanks to for recommending this. You’ll be glad you read it and wish you never had all at once.
Stephen King, The Dark Tower VII: The Dark Tower — I read this one slowly on purpose. I wish it wasn’t over.
Stephen King, The Dark Tower VI: Song of Susannah — ditto.
McSweeney’s Quarterly Concern Issue 13 — bought it because Chris Ware edited it; loved every page.
Joseph J. Ellis, Founding Brothers: The Revolutionary Generation — the stories of Hamilton, Burr, Jefferson, Adams, and Washington, written in Ellis’ compact, flowing, humorous prose.
Jim Hightower, Thieves in High Places: They’ve Stolen Our Country–And It’s Time to Take It Back — I’m a big Hightower fan. This isn’t as great as his last book, but worth reading nonetheless.
Craig Thompson, Blankets — a beautiful graphic novel about childhood, love, and loss. Ask if you don’t believe me.
Paul Hornschemeier, Mother Come Home — similar to Blankets, in a way, though I found Mother a little more emotionally wrenching.
Stephen King, From a Buick 8 — supposedly tied in somehow to the Dark Tower series. I must have missed the connection. Just okay.
Michael Wise, The First Messiah: Investigating the Savior Before Jesus — the story of the Sea Scrolls prophet known as Judah, and his impact on the Israeli theological landscape in the years leading up to Jesus’ time. Highlights the similarities between the claims of the two men. Thought-provoking without being polemical.
Studs Terkel, Will the Circle Be Unbroken?: Reflections on Death, Rebirth, and Hunger for a Faith — a phenomenal, phenomenally moving collection of interviews with famous and ordinary people about death and dying.
Shawn McBride, Green Grass Grace — a coming-of-age novel that is equally hilarious, heartwarming, and heartbreaking. Probably in my all-time Top 10.
David Hackett Fischer, Paul Revere’s Ride — Fischer gives the reader a ground-up view of the weeks and months leading up to the earliest days of the American Revolution. A solid, easy-to-read debunking of “great man” history.
Jeff Smith, Bone: One Volume Edition — exactly what it sounds like: the entire comic series, collected in a single volume.
Bruce Feiler, Abraham : A Journey to the Heart of Three Faiths — a personal account of Feiler’s attempt to explore possibly the most contested figure in all of Judeo-Christianity.
Mary Beth Norton, Liberty’s Daughters: The Revolutionary Experience of American Women, 1750-1800 — this is a problematic area of historical research, if for no reason other than the paucity of materials available on the subject. Norton does a fair (if dry) job.
Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail — if you haven’t read Bryson yet, you must do so now. Hilarious and informative.
Justin Martin, Nader: Crusader, Spoiler, Icon — one of the most balanced biographies I’ve ever read. Highly recommended.
Bill Bryson, The Lost Continent: Travels in Small-Town America — see A Walk in the Woods.
Jung Chang, Wild Swans:Three Daughters of China — a gripping memoir, written by the daughter of officials in Mao China (and the granddaughter of a warlord’s concubine).
Pete Hamill, Forever: A Novel — Hamill’s encyclopedic knowledge of New York is woven throughout this story of a man who is granted eternal life for a good deed. This book’s got it all: action, romance, epic adventure, all written with a steady hand.
Gerald Henig, Civil War Firsts: The Legacies of America’s Bloodiest Conflict — it looks like a snoozer, but this book is stuffed solid with interesting Civil War “firsts.”
Walter Isaacson, Benjamin Franklin: An American Life — Isaacson goes beyond the “kite in a storm” version of Franklin’s life and achievements to present a finely nuanced portrait of a preeminent American pundit, scholar, scientist, politician, and jackass.
Nicholas Rinaldi, Between Two Rivers — a grand, sprawling, messy character study that uses pre- and post-9/11 New York City for its backdrop.
Robert Dallek, An Unfinished Life: John F. Kennedy, 1917-1963 — it’s tough to find (write?) a Kennedy biography that successfully treads the line between hagiography and hack job, but Dallek acquits himself admirably. A little long on the details in some spots, but overall, an interesting read.
Marc Acito, How I Paid for College: A Novel of Sex, Theft, Friendship & Musical Theater — another coming-of-age novel, this one set in 1980s New Jersey. Fraud, blackmail, and impotence were never so funny.
Yann Martel, The Facts Behind the Helsinki Roccamatios — four short stories from the guy who brought you Life of Pi. Three of them so-so, one amazing; all four the product of one of the quirkiest, most creative fiction-writing minds on the scene today.
J.M. DeMatteis, Brooklyn Dreams — a wonderful graphic novel about love, spiritual awakening, and Italian food.
Marjane Satrapi, Persepolis 2: The Story of a Return — pretty much what it sounds like.
Walter Yetnikoff, Howling at the Moon: The Odyssey of a Monstrous Music Mogul in an Age of Excess — I read this for the behind-the-scenes dirt I knew I could expect from the guy who ruled Columbia Records from 1975-90…so I was surprised to discover what a powerfully moving tale of redemption it really is.”

Hey, I remember now: Graphic novels are cool. My latest acquisition, recommended by , is the One Volume Edition of Jeff Smith’s Boneg src=”http://www.jefito.com/bone.jpg”>

Hominahomina. 1300+ pages, weighing in at over three pounds. I’ve got a long plane ride coming up next month, and this will do me right.

I just ordered this bad boy. Ah, memories. I can’t wait.

Unfortunately, today I need to read a hundred pages of this.
—–

EXTENDED BODY:

I’ve been trying to collect all of Kerry’s position papers (he doesn’t make it easy–check out his stupid site)–and go over them with a fine-toothed highlighter. I think I’m most of the way through. Expect some analysis over the coming weeks. Then we’ll tackle the incumbent.

I also ordered the 2004 edition of Greg Palast’s The Best Democracy Money Can Buy, and have been flipping eagerly through its pages, slack-jawed. Many, many thanks to Phoebe for reminding me about this book.

In the meantime, here’s the first in a series of haikus about our drunken idiot of a roommate, Danny:

A clear Saturday morning
It’s 7:30
Why is the front door open?