hankrules2011

A polymath rambling about virtually anything

Posts Tagged ‘literary fiction’

EXITS

Posted by Scott Holstad on December 15, 2021

While I have been a professional writer for 35+ years & while I’ve been heavily published in print & later the Internet & while my work has appeared online in a number of formats & genres, I have never — to the best of my memory — personally posted any of my creative writing & certainly never any fiction. Until now. Why now? No clue. I just always liked this piece I wrote over two decades ago & a couple of editors did too, resulting in a decent paycheck that beat the hell out of poetry or academic publishing!

I’ve largely been invested in postmodern work throughout my life, whether literature, art, theory, etc., & at this particular time in my life, I was engrossed in a certain sub-genre of postmodern literature called metafiction — most likely a fad, but some good, well known authors were known for that type of work, such as Martin Amis. Additionally, it influenced other forms of writing, so many in the poetry field who write or study L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E poetry may attribute its movement & success to metafiction’s influence. Or not.

In any event, I spent a number of years engrossed in this & related movements while also being force fed (pompous) postmodern (faddish) theorists such as Foucault, Lyotard, Barthes, Lacan, Kristeva, Jameson & of course Derrida (We can thank Derrida for deconstruction, its overuse in grad schools & misuse among the media & general population.) Postmodern LIT was different for me though, at least some of it as opposed to the nearly exclusively French theorists (I can’t being myself to use the word “philosophers,” & some were other “professionals” as well, such as Lacan, etc.). (An aside on these pompous blowhards. I thought they were morons when first exposed to them & the more I read, the more I felt this. Frauds using grandiose terminology, concocted concepts & misused if not misunderstood ventures into other areas not their own (the hard sciences?), mixing & matching, all in a seeming effort to both impress & intimidate — especially cowering grad students. Well, a couple of badass physicists seem to agree and they wrote a book called Fashionable Nonsense: Postmodern Intellectuals’ Abuse of Science & it’s awesome! Alan Sokal & Jean Bricmont go even further than I would have in trashing these idiots, in calling their bluff, in correcting their absolutely attrocious butchering of physics & the hard sciences, if not other areas, in which they prove most of these French postmodern “geniuses” have no damn clue how to spell “quantum,” let alone “math,” they’re so stupid. They laugh at them & on behalf of their colleagues in the sciences as well & call them out, making them look like fools in one spoof so unbelievably stunning & brilliant that when one reads of it early in the book & sees proof of the plain idiocy amongst the cultural faux intellectuals & then goes on to read example after example of named, specific “demi-gods” spouting BS that, in some cases, is literally rubbish, dead wrong, proof of their insipidness. For others who wonder at the spectacle of such apparent twits gaining their reputations because they truly deserve them, this book will provide the truth with humorous sarcasm while putting the majority of them in their place — which is nowhere close to where “The Academy” has placed them!)

In any event, I’ve long enjoyed, been challenged by, amused, disturbed, impressed, etc., at what so many postmodern writers have done. I’m not foolish enough to state that these are the greatest writers, this the greatest genre. I’m just saying I dig it! And the creative opportunities seem endless so that one can go anywhere from simple “rebel” nonfiction masquerading as fiction (Winterson’s Oranges Are Not The Only Fruit — anti-religion) to the infamous Naked Lunch & yet even far beyond that as well. Some writers I’ve especially enjoyed include Vonnegut, Kosinski, Rhys, Acker, Doctorow, Burroughs & many more. While meandering through tons of books & authors, I discovered metafiction, which seemed to be a rising movement with a lot of promise, not for everyone as you’ll see, but utilizing various plot devices one can trace directly to a number of special films over the past few decades that were not adaptations of these novels, but were clearly influenced by them. As I’ve written a lot over the years, sometimes I like to experiment in new things, new areas, not because I plan to move in that direction, but just as a challenge, just for fun. So it was that I wrote several pieces of short fiction during the mid 1990s that were based upon & maybe even designed to be metafictional & while possibly three stand out in my mind, this one is the only one I think really came close to meeting that mark. And as I said, apparently I wasn’t alone in thinking that & it remains possibly my favorite piece of fiction I wrote, certainly so in writing it. I never claim my stuff is great; I’ve always claimed to outwork & outproduce virtually anyone else, which turned out to be true for some 15+ years I believe, as do some others in a position to make that judgment. So I didn’t intend to write a “Forward” or anything at all, but to simply put the story down & let people read it. But most people I’ve met haven’t read & thus wouldn’t understand the context of a metafictional work & while it’s not necessary in order to read any, because this is not representative of what I do & have done, I reconsidered & decided to preface the piece with a some info so anyone reading it might have a clue as to why the author apparently doesn’t.


EXITS

Hi!  I am a writer, or at least I pretend to be.  I think I am, therefore I am.  Yes, I write poetry, fiction, nonfiction ‑you name it, I write it.  Of course, if I wanted to really make money, I’d be writing kiddie lit, or maybe porn. Yeah…porn, that’s it….

Anyway, my name is Steve Universe. I know, I know, I get nailed for the name all the time. Actually, since I’m the author of this story, I suppose I could go by any name.  Naming is power, you know.  That’s what they say at least.  My parents exhausted universal power in first creating me, and then in naming me.  They created for me an identity, whether I wanted one or not.

Naming.  Power.  Writing.  Power.  Naming is such a buzz phrase these days. Current hot topic, especially with the feminists.  Because it’s true power.  For instance, I am writing a story.  Even now, as we speak.  Even now, as you read this.  I will write a character into the text.  I will name him.  What?  I’m not sure yet.  But I will create him and he will owe his very existence to me.  Pretty God‑like, don’t you think?  Power. Naming. I’m a writer.  Or at least I think I am.  Well, I speak as a writer.

My author’s name, evidently, is Scott Holstad.  (Who would have picked that name?)  He claims to be a writer (but then, don’t we all?).  I mean, who the hell has ever heard of Scott Holstad?  If I’m destined to be a measly character in someone’s story, why the hell couldn’t I get Updike or Vonnegut?  Hell, even Mailer or somebody like that? Somebody known?  Someone who matters?

Well, this Holstad character seems to be the asshole who gave me my name, at least that’s what he claims.  Steve Universe.  He seems to find humor in it.  Play on words, that sort of shit.  Universal.  University.  Mr. Universe.  Universe.  I don’t call that funny.  He’d never make a living as a comic.  And Steve.  Pretty boring I’d say. Why not something a little more exotic?  God knows, most writers do seem to have somewhat boring names.  Robert, John, Walter, Steven.  Well, I’m a writer; I speak as a writer. I would name my character Fabio…yeah, that’s it.  Exotic.  Romantic.  Steve.  That’s so…universal!  I mean, I could be anybody….

Hi! I’m THE writer, or at least I pretend to be.  The Government says I am, therefore I am.  They give me these little numbers and I exist.  Truly.  I kid you not.  I know it’s amazing, and I sometimes doubt it myself, but just try dodging your taxes sometime and see if you don’t exist!

Anyway, I’m the creator of Steve Universe.  I know, I know call me a narcissist (and you won’t be the only one), but deep down we’re all ego maniacs.  It’s that God Complex.

Well, Steve’s been railing away so I have decided to just write him out of the text. That’s right, erase him.  Just write him out.  Easy as pie.

There.  I’ve done it.  Steve Universe no longer exists.  And it was easy to do, like I said.  They say we are all capable of creation and that may be true but, God –  are we ever capable of destruction!  Total annihilation, say I!

 We can erase, Reconstruct, abolish, eliminate, terminate, DESTROY, with the greatest of ease.  Oh, and we writers are so proficient at it.  Comes with the territory I guess.

Actually, I’ve been thinking about something new lately.  New, that is, for me.  I speak to you as a writer, therefore I can say this.  I’m thinking of writing myself out of the text.  That’s right, textual suicide.  Innovative, eh?  I hate to admit this, but Steve was right about one thing, at least.  I’m not the best-known writer.  Oh, I have my share of groupies and I certainly appreciate them.  They’re devoted.  But, I’m not exactly a household name either.  Not that I’m ambitious.  Not that I’m a narcissist.  I speak as a writer, remember?

Look, what better way to achieve notoriety?  Textual suicide.  I will be no more. (And I know I am now. I know I exist because I have numbers proudly given to me by my Government.)  I will be no more.  Oh, I know I won’t be around to enjoy the accolades, but what the hell?

And those saps out there always fall for the suicides.  My God, what a bloody operation!  I’ve always wanted in on the scam.  The papers, TV, TV, TV, TV, mags, papers, bloodsucking TV.  We’re the fastfoodfastentertainmentfast sexfasttloodthirstyviolent generation by God, and we’re suckers for that shit!

Give me my suicide!

Give me my constitutionally guaranteed suicide!

Oh, they’ll just eat it up.  And Steve?  Well, he’s been written out of the text, eh? Doesn’t really matter anymore, does he?  He’s Steve Universe.  Was Steve Universe. Universal.  University.  Mr. Universe.  Steve Academia.  Boring Steve.


Steve, Steve I’m so 

bereaved I can’t conceive  

Why we must leave.


Oh, but I digress.  Again.  But I speak as a writer.  I’m allowed occasional digressions.  Writers, dammit!  Never seem to get to the friggin point.  I mean, well, what is the point?  The point’s the point son.  The end’s the point.  Cause we exist you know.  I, Scott C. Holstad, who speaks to you as a writer (and as a human? maybe?), I exist you know.  This I know.  For the Government tells me so.  It gets so slow.  Sometimes gotta go.  Breakdown.  Discourse.  Breakdown.  The point?

Oh yeah, the Point.  I guess it’s the End of the stick you put your hot dog on.  Or maybe your marshmallow.  The Point…the Point.

The Point, oh yeah.  Well, to get on with my story, I think I’m going to write a new character into the text.  To be my narrator, of course.  To carry on the tradition…the tradition…the Point.

Actually, to be perfectly honest with you, sometimes I feel like I’m already being erased from the text.  It’s like someone has pushed the Pause button, but it turns into the Erase button.  I don’t know how to explain it.  I don’t know how to…communicate…it.  I don’t know….

Well, this is very strange indeed.  It feels like someone’s been tampering with me, with me, with me, with me…me — …me…me…me with…me with…me with tampering… NO! That’s Martin Amis you dolt!  We’re not going backwards in this story.  We’re being Fucking erased!

As I said, I speak to you as a writer.  And I am the creator of this mess, so I decide what’s going on.  Right?  I am going to ever so conveniently create a new character before ever so conveniently obliterating myself from this increasingly dreary story.  Textual Suicide.  Oooh, how ’bout Cyber Textual Suicide?  Yeah, they love that Cyber shit.  It’s so in.

There.  See?  I’ve created yet again.  A new category.  A new ending.  A new genre which they’ll be beating down the damn doors for.  Cyber Textual Suicide.  Only a matter of time now before it’s in the Canon.  Oh baby, they’ll be asking GRE questions about it. I’m drooling now just thinking about it!  And I owe it all to me.  Me!  Not Steve Universe. Not Scott Holstad.  I mean, Wait!  Yes, Scott Holstad.  That is me.  I think.  Wait, hold on. Let me check my ID card.  Oh yes, right here.  Scott C. Holstad.  In black and white.  Very official looking.  See, the Government says I exist.  Therefore I am.  I am the Creator of this story.  Cause the Government says I can.  I am the Creator….

And people laughed when he claimed that God was dead.  God’s not dead you fools.  I am God!  The Creator.  Yes, of this story.  And the Government says I exist so it must be so.  Right?  And if I want to obliterate myself (Wait. Here it comes…a rousing, orgasmic cry of Cyber Textual Suicide!!!), from the text of course, I can do it!  Cause I’m the Destroyer.  I mean Creator.  I mean God.  Oh, what’s the difference?

And this new character…what should we name it?

It.  What gender first of all?  Or does that matter?  We’ve all read Virginia Woolf after all.  And we did see “The Crying Game.”

Well, ok, but what color hair?  Eyes?  Teeth?  Teeth?   OK, I tried to pull one over on you.  Or is it put one?  Or does it matter?  Whatever the case, I am the writer because I am the God.

OK.  Height?  Weight?  Genitals?  Oh, no need to go Victorian on me.  Really!  Boots or balls, what’ll it be?  Come on, come on, we don’t have all day here.

You see?  Do you see why I am writing this and you’re not?  My God, you’re slower than horse shit!  And indecisive.  What a match.  Readers dammit.  What the hell do Fish and Iser know anyway?  I mean, have they ever actually tried to work with a reader?  Ain’t that easy, is it?  No sirree.

I feel decidedly better now.  Sort of.  Just thinking about what I’m about to create makes me go positively gushy from head to toe.  I’m talking thrills a minute. Because I’m the Creator.  The Government says so.  And it should…. Hold on, what’s this?  But I haven’t decided to go yet.  I’m the only person who can erase myself from the text.  Hang it all, stop that!  What is going on here?  I speak to you as a writer because i am the creator exist you know the government tells me so this i know you know i am god it’s so I’m the master of this story but everything’s getting denser is that really a word werd weird bsmck shit now i know that’s not a word dammit i need my words to create i need my language my name my power my god….

Hi!  Sorry about all that gibberish back there.  You shouldn’t really have been forced to endure it.  Feel free to register a complaint with the proper authorities if you must.  But on behalf of the author and this publication, I would like to extend a formal apology.

Those Post-Modern writers think they can get away with anything.  Pretentious fucks!  Oops, sorry.  It’s just that they get feisty and break loose every now and then.  But don’t worry.  We take care of ’em. We put ’em back where they belong.

Now. Where were we?  Oh yes.

Hi! I am the writer.  I know I am a writer and I know I am the writer because I speak to you as a writer….

XXX

Scott C. Holstad 

© 1995 Scott C. Holstad

#metafiction

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Finally! A Few (Brief) New Book Reviews

Posted by Scott Holstad on January 27, 2020

Those of you who have been with me for a long time may remember I used to constantly write book reviews, for years, and in some cases, some very thorough, comprehensive in depth ones that took a long time to write. Unfortunately, my health really plummeted a few years ago and has gotten progressively worse ever since. I’ve been blogging regularly since 2003, often on a daily basis, but typically several times a week over the whole time, and while I’ve written on many different topics, my book reviews have typically drawn the most viewers. So when I went a year without posting anything while trying to stay alive, once I returned in 2018 for sporadic visits back here — sadly — I discovered that I still had a good number of followers, and hadn’t lost virtually any — technically. What I did lose, though, was virtually my entire reader base. And even though it’s been two years, I’ve never recovered any reader base at all, which has left me conflicted because my health has gotten very worse with the prognosis not too great and I’ve closed nearly all of my social media accounts and have very limited time, strength, energy, etc., to interact with people, let alone write much of anything, let alone READ much of anything — at least not like I used to. Nonetheless, I’ve been enjoying trying to get some more reading in and I’ve been writing largely brief reviews for many of these books, most just junk, but some fairly decent. But I am starting to feel like why write or post anything on this blog at all if literally no one sees or reads it ever besides myself. I’ve known others in similar situations over the years and the usual stock response is to do it for yourself as a form of diary, if nothing else. And that’s how I’ve been treating it. But if my expected life span is not that long, why the hell would I want to waste my time writing or posting stuff here if no one literally sees or reads any of it??? It’s a waste of valuable time and energy that could be better spent in other ways. Thus, while I’m starting to seriously consider permanently stopping blogging after 17 years and deleting this, my last, blog, I’m still hoping to work on a couple of blog posts I’ve had planned for the past couple of weeks, but just haven’t been able to do so while I ponder things. So I thought Why not post a few little reviews from some recent ones I’ve put on Goodreads? Which might be a way to jump start me and inspire me to move on to the bigger projects I’ve had in mind. So, forgive the lack of quality my book reviews formerly had. I’ve been woefully out of practice for a long time. But for the one person who stumbles across this blog post and decides to glance at it, I hope you’ll see something remotely interesting at least. Thanks, and cheers!

 

 

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Doc: A MemoirDoc: A Memoir by Dwight Gooden
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Well, the book’s okay, but not actually what I was hoping for. I remember when this kid came up. What a hell of a rookie year he had (and his second year was basically as good if not more so). You want strike outs? Serious freaking heat! He went from a name to a recognized world sensation in a month! It wasn’t long after that, with Daryl Strawberry supplying the lumber and former Expo catcher, Gary Carter, smacking a few out while providing clubhouse leadership, that they beat the Red Sox to win their first World Series in 25 universes…? Seemed that way.

I’m not a Mets fan, but this kid — they were starting to call him “Doc” — was a once in a life-timer. And then he seemed to just start to fade away. Eventually disappear. 15 minutes.

I guess I wanted to really hear about his coming up to the majors and his incredible rookie year, and on to the Series, instead of opening the book to him passed out in a drug den doped up and too screwed up to make it to the stadium for the big game. It’s not that that’s not important or what Gooden clearly wanted to do with his book. And it’s his prerogative to do that, sure. But it’s my prerogative too, as a consumer, to not care too much because that scene has been written about a thousand times in a thousand sports and entertainer’s books, while few of them ever approached the level of success he had in his first two years. It’s not that his focus isn’t valid — it is. It’s just, been there, done that a million damn times with players not even worth 10% of him, and I just wanted to read about a rookie season for the ages. I’m actually kind of sick of all of these screwed up athletes ruining their careers and lives and then NOT writing about what made them interesting when they were able to play, but instead writing almost exclusively on how down the gutter they all fell and what it took for them to make it back. And again, I don’t want to invalidate that. I’ve got my own stories too. But when reading a memoir of an athlete of this stature, I really just don’t want another “Insert pages of last athlete’s memoir, replace author/athlete names with current one, change book jacket, sell.” They’re redundant after awhile, so you almost start to not care anymore because you become so desensitized to it. Which is sad. I only wanted to read something fun for once, something decent, exciting, celebrating an amazing accomplishment instead of just another book on an athlete destroying their careers and lives. Hell, I predicted this exact outcome, but as I write this, former Steeler All Pros Antonio Brown and Le’Veon Bell just finished their first season after “escaping” evil cheap little Pittsburgh and neither of them really understood that they WEREN’T the damn straw the stirred the drink — they were an overall part of the drink, every part of the drink is replaceable, and frankly, Brown’s bitching about Ben really ticked me off because without Ben throwing him the ball — and Ben had PLENTY of other high drafted, very talented people to throw to, many of whom went on to become 1,000 and/or Pro Bowl receivers, often with another team rather than staying with the Steelers for their entire career — like respectable Hines Ward did, Stallworth, etc. The point is, Brown owes practically all of his stats to the 6th best QB in NFL history and possible the best offensive line for any one decade in NFL history, with three annual All Pros, two other decade-long starters, 2-3 going to the Hall of Fame one day? They thought they could spit in Pittsburgh’s face for whatever greedy, elitist reasons and continue to duplicate their numbers nearly ANYWHERE else? They obviously don’t have good agents or advisers because I would have bet my house that neither would do crap and that they just nuked their careers and their once probably HOF destinies due to total idiocy. See, we see a few Doc’s every year. And it’s not that they’re story, especially if redemptive, isn’t good, valid or interesting. I just wanted a good view into that incredible year for once rather than the downside of fame and riches. A different take. On something that I actually care about because I’ve seen and been around enough misery throughout my life around this planet to think there’s too much special about the redemptive stories — a ton of people could write the same thing — but they are the only ones who can write about what it was that made them household names. Whatever, I guess it’s just me. It’s an okay book but I’m kind of over these types of celebrity autobiographies, so while I want to give this book two stars for ticking me off, that’s subjective and probably not fair to the author, so I’ll give it three, but know what you’re getting before you get it so you don’t make the same mistake I did…

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Being ThereBeing There by Jerzy Kosiński
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Postmodern brilliance. Stunning in what is says in what it doesn’t say. I actually prefer Kosinki’s The Painted Bird, which is a little more brutal, but I honestly think Being There is the author’s best truly “postmodern” work, translated well to the screen, and perfectly holds a mirror up to society. Will they even glance at it? I did. Kicked my ass. Couldn’t be more recommended, but for those you don’t like minimalist postmodern, you may find yourself bored, possibly not picking up on some subtleties, or simply unimpressed. Or you may actually walk away feeling more and more impressed the more you think about it. (In fact, I was so impressed with it that I wrote a short paper on it from a Reader Response position and it was published in a peer-reviewed, MLA-indexed journal: The Arkansas Review. It’s titled “The Dialectics of Getting There: Kosinski’s Being There and the Existential Anti-Hero.” It’s actually online somewhere, but I don’t know what the policy here for giving our URLs is, so if you’re interested at all, you cane either do a search or go to my blog listed on my profile (hankrules2011), with hyperlink, and find it listed among a few publications. Feel free to leave comments re your own observations, if you’ve read it. It’s definitely not a universally admired or appreciated text. Which makes it all the more delicious for me. 😉

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The Bomb: A New HistoryThe Bomb: A New History by Stephen M. Younger
My rating: 2 of 5 stars

A lot of people seem to like this book, and it’s not that it’s not good — it is. It provides a solid history of how it came to be and what has happened since with some good technical details thrown in. And for those not already familiar with such information, it’s a good primer. However, in terms of the author’s present worldview, recent worldview, future worldview, again, while I don’t necessarily disagree, it simply seems a bit dated and it’s hard to believe this was published merely a decade or so ago, because this feels most definitely like an immediate post-Cold War book to me, and one wonders where the author has been the past 20 years… It’s like he hasn’t kept up with the changes he didn’t anticipate, or couldn’t have in 1990, but which were already taking place before he even published this book. Which again begs the question — are his assessments of present geopolitical conditions, military strategies, hegemonies, etc., accurate not only at the time of publication but today? I think most would argue, NO, they weren’t and aren’t. I feel fairly confident I could, most certainly. Which then begs the question of if he was and is so off base in his understanding of the present dynamics and his predictions of future dynamics and geopolitical likelihoods, how do we know how much to trust from this book, and further, is this book of any current relevant value? As a historical primer, it’s fairly well done. As a “New History,” it fails miserably. There are many better books out there and thus this is most definitely NOT remotely recommended.

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DeliveranceDeliverance by James Dickey
My rating: 1 of 5 stars

God, I can’t tell you how much I hate this book, nor how much disdain I have for Dickey. He represents, for me, everything that is wrong with both southern literary fiction and general “acceptable” and virtually ordained “literary fiction,” per the academic establishment officially set up to define what is “acceptable” and what is not “acceptable.” Gotta love these people claiming the title of judge and decider of such things so they can dictate not only to virtually all English professors what they can and can’t teach but to all students what is accepted and what is not. As well as to discriminate between those worthy of NEA grants, inclusion into the Academy of American Poets (yes, I was a member for years), etc. I recall asking a professor as an undergrad why we always had to study Dickey, Faulkner, Wharton, etc., but never Kerouac, Ginsberg, Rexroth, Bukowski, etc. The scorn was palpable as I received a lecture on true and acceptable literary work and its craft and value versus populist drivel writers. I recall thinking that very narrow minded, but as I continued in my academic studies, research, publishing, later teaching and even later deciding I hated the academic bullshit and got out of there, I’ve come to conclude the majority of these academic sheeple don’t know what the hell they’re talking about, are just trumpeting the party line, seem to think themselves worthy critics yet aren’t good enough to write and publish anything as good as, not only the authors they teach, but the extremely popular and successful writers they diss. Those who can’t write teach, yes? There’s a reason that saying came into being decades ago. And obviously it’s not that some English and writing professors don’t write or publish, but I’ve rarely met any who A) were successful at publishing more than a couple of small quickly forgotten useless pieces of academic, literary mainstream pathetic crap or B) who were successful at publishing more than a few books, and generally were well written, well crafted, but in the vein of much literary fiction/poetry, just flat out boring as crap. I recall when I was publishing prolifically one journal standing out especially as a stereotypical university journal that I hated so much, as did many of my friends and colleagues. The Southern Humanities Review, I believe, would often have issues that were full of little but poems with titles like “sunset at deer lake” or “robin at rest” or “sunrise at ‘x” mountain,” etc. It’s like, have none of you academic writers ever ventured outside your ivory towers or gone anywhere besides rural America? Do you love Walden that much? Because that’s not been my life nor the life of many I know and maybe that’s why I was always initially drawn to Sandberg’s Chicago poems and the grittiness of ACTUAL reality for so many people, followed by both reality and actual creativity and talent in Ferlinghetti’s A Coney Island of the Mind (the biggest selling book of poetry in US history), or Ginsberg’s infamous “Howl” and especially nearly any of Bukowski’s books. The fact that he was one of America’s most prolific poets, most successful and popular poets, and a continual best selling author in many other countries around the world, and that countless books have been written about him, movies made from his books and about him as well, etc., is irrelevant to those in charge of teaching, instructing and molding the minds and skills of students when in fact, virtually none of these people have the talent, skills, success and credits to even compete at all with Buk seems lost on them. Which should show you enough about their intelligence, knowledge and critical abilities. Crap, I really don’t know or care how good or not Deliverance is. It’s just always represented and been a symbol of all I view as wrong with the canon. It’s not that I think the topics they write about or some of the writers aren’t good or legit. I just take issue with these assholes simply casually dismissing non-rural, gritty populist fiction and poetry as illegitimate merely because so many of these deal with topics, issues, people, cities they dislike or don’t want to dirty their pristine hands with because I guess they’re too damn delicate to enter actual REAL life that so many millions in this country face every day, as opposed to their fairy tales spun and regurgitated as the only life experiences that contain validity. I’ve often wondered how these people would survive and what they would then write if they were placed in John Fante’s life, Bukowski’s life, Antler’s, my own for that matter… I would wager many of them simply couldn’t make it. Yeah, if you buy into the brainwashing, this book may be for you, and if you legitimately enjoy southern fiction or “legitimate” literary fiction, this book may be for you and more power to you. However, I’d implore any and all of you to not close your mind to others not in the “official” canon because if you haven’t stepped outside of the imposed boundaries, you might find yourself surprised by the creativity and talent out there. And you might not want to go back…

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Collected PoemsCollected Poems by Philip Larkin
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I never really enjoyed or appreciated poetry — especially that of the “masters” they continually shoved down your throat year after year throughout your educational experience. I mean, is there any official academic ban of a little damn diversity in poets and poetry being taught??? I recall asking a couple of professors why we never read or studied certain prominent poets and got the reply that they weren’t worthy of it, weren’t good enough to take seriously, etc. So while I have far too much education and too many degrees, the fact is as always, tradition academics devoid of open minds and creativity continually decide the appropriate “canon,” simply by recycling the same shit every year. I grew to hate Dylan Thomas with a passion, felt like puking when reading Plath, took years for me to appreciate Yeats, etc. If they didn’t cram it down your throat every year, I don’t think I would have been a poetry-hating English major! Thankfully, one professor quietly pointed me to Larkin as a poet who might appeal to me, and he was right! While not every poem resonated with me, I found relief in Larkin and simply quality poetry that was generally overlooked or ignored in academia. Naturally, I read everything of his that I could. LOL! It wasn’t too long, though, before I stumbled across the two poets who would both shape my own life and my own writing: Ferlinghetti and Bukowski, both of whom I had the pleasure of later meeting and getting to know and I will always treasure the various autographed books and other things they each gave me, but I’ve often wondered if I would have even found them, let alone come to appreciate them so much, if it weren’t for Larkin in the first place. I continue to remain grateful to him and his poetry for helping me to turn away from my hatred of poetry by realizing that there were many legitimate alternatives from the same old dusty boring “masters” forever taught in the schools and who gives a damn what some Ivory Tower academic says about what is or is not acceptable quality — it’s purely subjective, and the fact is, both Ferlinghetti and Bukowski have been far more popular and successful than any other American poets, with the sole possible exception of Ginsberg. If you haven’t read Larkin, do so and I think you may find yourself surprised at what you read, ideally in a positive way. Obviously recommended.

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Last Exit to BrooklynLast Exit to Brooklyn by Hubert Selby Jr.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This is without doubt one of my favorite novels of the so-called Accepted literary canon. I also think it’s Selby’s best work. Loved it a bunch, but I’ve always gone that way, whether it was Sandburg and his grim Chicago streets or John Fante in downtown LA or Bukowski on skid row and most of William Burroughs’ early work, like Junky and Queer. Of course, there’s the so-called “shock” factor. I guess academics (and I was one for many years) are a bunch of wussies then, because if they think this one is rough, there’s much rougher out there and just for shock value alone, I invite anyone to read de Sade’s Juliette. I read it in college and it blew my mind. The cool thing about that one is besides the sickness and perversion, de Sade goes into a great deal of philosophical thought/dialogue that should make many of the Enlightenment crowd pretty impressed. So twice the bang for your buck! Seriously, if anyone thinks this is too shocking (and they do), they’ve been sticking too closely with Jane Austen (whom I like), and ought to get their intellectual feet wet beyond the kiddie pool. Strongly recommended!

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