Joyce Carol Oates – The Faith of a Writer – Comment

 

Joyce Carol Oates continues to write prolifically to this day. The Oates 'cannon' in sheer volume is, for any writer, overwhelming and daunting. To read only a few of her works is to barely make a dent. As far as the American literati is concerned, she stands level with Vidal, Hemingway, Faulkner, Updike, Bellow, and Chandler. For American literature over the last century, Joyce Carol Oates is a force of nature. In this thin volume are 14 essays on writing and being a writer.

The most common question Professor Oates is asked is: When did you know you were going to be a writer?

Answer:

To me, the very question is a riddle, unanswerable. My instinct is to shrink from it: the assumption that I think of myself as a “writer” in any formally designated, pretentious sense. I hate the oracular voice, the inflated self-importance of the Seer.

Oates attempts to talk about writing undogmatically, something provisional...the process of writing than the uneasy, uncertain position of being a writer.

Returning to her childhood, the fascination with the story was instantly there. It wasn't the written word that intrigued her young mind, but the coloring books that sparked that storytelling gene. Remembering the written word, it was The Gold Bug and Other Stories by Edgar Allan Poe. Recalling her feelings about these stories, she didn't know what to make of it. Time moves forward, and she says she Persisted with Edgar Allan Poe.

One can see the influence of Poe in her writings, as the stories appear banal on the surface, later revealing a vile undercurrent of human evil and the macabre.

In the Chapter, To a Young Writer, the advice is straightforward and simple:

Write your heart out.

Never be ashamed of your subject and of your passion for your subject.

The chapters I found to be the most informative are: Notes on Failure and Reading as a Writer.

I came away from Oates' comments on Chekhov, Kafka, Joyce, and Woolf. The early works from many of these writers were never published, however, led the way to their individual masterpieces. Feeling like a failure, persistence paid off. In the case of James Joyce, his first unpublished novel, Stephen Hero, paving the way to A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. Would Portrait ever have been written if the uncompleted Stephen Hero had been published? Joyce made a list of “epiphanies” or “spiritual manifestations,” later incorporated into Dubliners and Ulysses.

In the Chapter, Blonde Ambition Greg Johnson's interview about Oates' novel Blonde, a fictional text about Norma Jeane Baker, better known as Marilyn Monroe. Personally, what I found interesting was the author's answer concerning her writing process:

With a novel of such length, it was necessary to keep the narrative voice consistent and fluid. I was continually going back and rewriting, and when I entered the last phase of about 200 pages, I began simultaneously to rewrite the novel from the first page to about 300 to assure this consistency of voice. (p.147)

I remember at school being told over and over again,... there is no such thing as writing, only rewriting. JCO takes this to a whole new level.

The “advice” given that I believe to be the most powerful and true is:

Is there any moral to be drawn from this compendium, any general proposition? Read widely, read enthusiastically, be guided by instinct, and not design. For if you read, you need not be a writer; but if you hope to become a writer, you must read.

The Faith of a Writer – Life, Craft, Art is a text any budding writer or practicing writer should read.

An inspiring text.

The Crying Girl

 

It was sometime yesterday or last week (my time perceptions are meshing) while traveling into the city of Melbourne for no reason other than to feel the energy of the streets, a beautiful young girl, no more than 25 years of age, suddenly fell into deep grief, sobbing, not the wailing type, though a quiet somewhat restrained release of pure sadness.

The woman’s sadness was palpable, contagious as I felt like weeping with her. But, no, I thought, do not interrupt, and let her sadness release naturally.

At first, I felt compelled to ask her if there was anything I could do to ease her pain. I wanted to help her but did not have the courage to do so…

Our train reached Flinders Street Station and finally came to a grinding halt. The passengers began standing up, gathering their belongings…but I waited. I could not even bring myself to look at her out of fear of possibly embarrassing the woman.

After a few moments, when most of the passengers had left the train, she gathered her small backpack and headed towards the outside platform. I slowly stood up too, trying to be as nonchalant as possible, walked directly behind her with the only thought in my mind: is there anything I could do to help this woman experiencing so much grief and sadness.

As we walked along the crowded platform, I could not help looking in her direction. I noticed her long auburn hair caught under the strap of her carry bag, where, ever so gently and with such grace, she pulled her hair out from under the strap. She lifted her head, her body pushed consciously straight up and true as she ascended the escalators with the rest of the crowd. Through observing her subtle body movements, I saw raw courage in a fellow soul, feeling so much sadness only moments before, deciding to carry on with life despite life’s pain.

Some moments require us to ‘intervene’ in a strangers’ life, and the motivation to act is instinctive. In this case, a mere kind word might have helped this beautiful young woman, but a coward, I chose to sit back and let the important moment slip by.

I regret this moment but must remember to act in the future when at least a simple kind word might ease someone’s pain…if only a little.

Beauty vs. the Reality of Everyday Life.

 

Trouble sleeping over the last two weeks: waking every three hours, feeling I've slept for days, yet the clock continues to read 3:30 am.

My work is done; most all responsibilities have been met, and with this chased sense of guarantees, this solidity of self, my poised confident persona has gone by the wayside: feeling like a stranger in a strange land.

Received a phone call from my dear friend this morning asking if a scrumptious picnic would be out of the question? Having not eaten properly for days, the invitation seemed like a divine intervention mainly designed for me.

She appeared in front of her driveway holding a true-to-form "picnic basket," sunglasses, and a kind smile.

"Let me drive." she insisted.

We headed towards the country and suddenly arrived next to a river.

Living in city circumstances, cars, petrol, the feeling that one's space will explode at any moment because we all seem to live on top of each other, no room to move, the drive in the country felt like a gift. The river smelled of fresh flowers, and the walker's all smiled.

After a brisk walk, we finally settled next to a deserted old Fern tree. The public walking path was too close for total privacy but far enough to make us feel that we were somewhat alone with each other.

We laid the blanket over the grass, and all at once, the beauty of our surroundings became evident before my eyes.

My friend had made cold Lamb sandwiches with just a hint of mint. The bread was bought at the bakery that morning and tasted like it had just come out of the oven. (There's nothing like fresh bread). Then, reaching into the picnic basket, a bottle of 2000 Cabernet Shiraz and two crystal glasses. The wine and the Lamb were a perfect union, a marriage of the unusual but lovely sort.

As wine and delicious food affect one's outlook on life, the afternoon a perfect temperature, both of us peered out toward the green mountain, she commenting how utterly beautiful the landscape, when, disrupting our reverie of aesthetic vision, a young German Shepherd bounded happily towards our paradise of beauty and perfection, turned around and proceeded to defecate in our ideal world. Her master appeared on the path and looked terribly embarrassed but knew nothing he could say would change things once the dog started.

The young lassie finished her business, turned innocently, smiled at us, and trotted off completely satisfied.

We looked at each other and fell into fits of laughter, to the point of tears, because we both knew life is wonderful, a miracle, but also full of shit.

These experiences make life worth living.

Ray Nayler – The Mountain in the Sea – Review

 

One of the more unusual and unique novels of 2022. Mountain attempts (successfully) at creating a speculative future world of Artificial Intelligence, a planet devastated by war; corporate ownership of governments and all of earth's resources. We're going extinct because of the 'bottom line'. Even slavery is reintroduced, where able bodied men are snatched-up off the streets and sent to fishing boats to further rape the oceans at minimum cost. This is the background of the story. The central concern of the novel is communication with alien species; language, symbolism, empathy and perception.

Nayler writes:

One of the aims of The Mountain in the Sea is to explore the idea of communication with a truly alien species here on earth, one that has developed its own system of symbolic communication. Above all, I wanted to be honest as I could about the complexities of the problem of communication between species.

As said, this is no ordinary novel. The author even stated that he thought about including footnotes and a bibliography.

Indeed, the reader should come away from the text with a greater understanding of linguistics and the major issues confronting the science of Marine Biology. More so, for this reader, the novel explores the notion of consciousness – awareness of oneself or being aware of one's awareness.

Our central character is Dr. Ha Nguyen. She is whisked away to an island in the South Pacific to continue research on the brain, intelligence, habits and behavior of the Octopus. She meets two incredibly advanced AI's who're there to help her with her research and provide security on the island. The AI Evrim, displays exceptional intelligence and empathy. Apart from (their) outer appearance, (they) display human consciousness at an advanced level. Evim's pronouns are 'their' and 'they' and 'them' as the AI's (mind) is made up of several neuron systems firing at once.

At the beginning of each chapter is a long quote from Dr. Nguyen's book, How Oceans Think. These quotes provide greater insight into what exactly the doctor is attempting to achieve

Not only do we not agree on how to measure or recognize consciousness in others, but we are unable to even “prove” it exists in ourselves. Science often dismisses our individual experience – what it feels like to smell an orange, or to be in love – as qualia. We are left with theories and metaphors for consciousness. A stream of experience. A self-referential loop. Something out of nothing. None of these are satisfactory. Definition eludes us.

The famous line from Descartes, I think therefor I am, was the first “modern” attempt at defining consciousness. As the good doctor expresses, however: Definition eludes us.

Dr. Arnkatia Minervudettir-Chan is the genius and creator of the most advanced AI. We also get to read sections of her writing at the beginning of certain chapters. Arnkatia is the person who recruited Dr. Nguyen to study the octopus. Through studying the octopus, its obvious superior intelligence; the research focuses on its communication, only to discover the extent and complexity of its language.

The novel also portrays a dystopic future, run by corporations whose wealth exceeds many countries on the planet, but what will certainly eventuate if we continue to extract earths resources without any thought of her future welfare. For certain, the novel does not portray the “corporation” in a positive light. Profit over the well being of the planet and the well being of our fellow humans will lead no-where but to a dark, and empty oblivion.

Our future welfare is assured if we maintain our humanity.

A wonderful novel.