Message in a Bottle
Is Hillary Writing a New Memoir?

imageThere aren’t many people who can write a new memoir every decade and say something fresh, but there is one who can: former Secretary of State Hillary Clinton. When she announced recently that she’s planning a new memoir, the publishing world went crazy with excitement. Editors started drooling over the very idea. It could be an epic bestseller in the making—but it will be crucial that the book covers the right stuff. If Clinton is willing to write the kind of memoir we want to read, there’s bound to be a huge bidding war between publishers. Along with the question of who will publish it comes speculation over the amount of her advance, which will likely be one of the highest sums ever paid for a book proposal.

Hillary has published two memoirs already: It Takes a Village in 1996 and Living History in 2003. Both were tremendously successful and surprisingly intimate. So there’s good reason to believe her next book will be on par. The question is what are her motives this time around? It all depends on whether she runs in the next election. If that’s her intention, this new work will be a platform for her candidacy, much as Obama’s The Audacity of Hope was a way of capturing the public’s attention back in 2006.

imageWill Clinton talk about the 2008 primary election and the evolution of her relationship with Obama? The attack in Benghazi? The last decade with Bill and Chelsea? She addressed the tough stuff like Whitewater and the Monica Lewinsky affair in Living History, but she was in a different position back when that book came out. We can only speculate what could be in her latest, but let’s hope it lives up to our expectations. Because if it’s as compelling as I suspect it will be, we have something good to look forward to reading when the next presidential election rolls around.

—Miriam

First Line Friday: Non-Fiction Edition

                

                

               

Previous installments of First Line Friday have been dominated by fiction, which probably shouldn’t be too surprising. Non-fiction writers tend to be concerned with having a sound basis for their arguments rather than worrying about the sound of their sentences. But many in the reality-based community marshal their facts in a stylish and memorable way, so I thought it was time to give some of them their due.

Memoirs generate a fair number of great opening lines, and one of the best is from a real master, Vladimir Nabokov. His Speak, Memory is considered a monument of the form, and its beginning lives up to the billing: “The cradle rocks above an abyss, and common sense tells us that our existence is but a brief crack of light between two eternities of darkness.” Portentous, isn’t it? He’s going to talk about his own life, but first he has to sum up our timeless existential condition.

Augusten Burroughs might not be so high-minded, but his opener for Running with Scissors is at least as catchy: “My mother is standing in front of the bathroom mirror smelling polished and ready; like Jean Naté, Dippity Do and the waxy sweetness of lipstick.” Where Nabokov was universal, Burroughs is specific; the perspective of a child and the era in which he lives are immediately apparent. 

Speaking of specificity, Lucy Grealy’s Autobiography of a Face starts with a literal bang: “KER-POW! I was knocked into the present, the unmistakable now, by Joni Friedman’s head as it collided with the right side of my jaw.” That’s so on-target it almost hurts. 

There’s some marvelous scene-setting at the beginning of another memoir that was written by a young man who went on to have a pretty significant career outside of literature. It starts off almost like a hard-boiled mystery:

A few months after my twenty-first birthday, a stranger called to give me the news. I was living in New York at the time, on Ninety-Fourth between Second and First, part of that unnamed, shifting border between East Harlem and the rest of Manhattan. It was an uninviting block, treeless and barren, lined with soot-covered walkups that cast a heavy shadow for most of the day. The apartment was small, with slanting floors and irregular heat and a buzzer downstairs that didn’t work, so that visitors had to call ahead from a pay phone at the corner gas station, where a black Doberman the size of a wolf paced through the night in vigilant patrol, its jaws clamped around an empty beer bottle.

That’s Dreams from My Father by Barack Obama. 

Writing about yourself seems to make arresting introductions easier, but biographers, science writers, historians, and other non-fiction authors have managed the trick:

  • Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Last American Man: “By the time Eustace Conway was seven years old, he could throw a knife accurately enough to nail a chipmunk to a tree.”
  •  Vincent Bugliosi’s Helter Skelter: “It was so quiet, one of the killers would later say, you could almost hear the sound of ice rattling in cocktail shakers in the homes way down the canyon.”
  • Diane Ackerman’s An Alchemy of Mind: “Imagine the brain, that shiny mound of being, that mouse-gray parliament of cells, that dream factory, that petit tyrant inside a ball of bone, that huddle of neurons calling all the plays, that little everywhere, that fickle pleasuredrome, that wrinkled wardrobe of selves stuffed into the skull like too many clothes into a gym bag.”
  • John Hersey’s Hiroshima: “At exactly fifteen minutes past eight in the morning, on August 6, 1945, Japanese time, at the moment when the atomic bomb flashed above Hiroshima, Miss Toshiko Sasaki, a clerk in the personnel department of the East Asia Tin Works, had just sat down at her place in the plant office and was turning her head to speak to the girl at the next desk.”
  • Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: “We were somewhere outside of Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.”

Not sure what non-fiction category to put that last one in, or even that it isn’t really fiction underneath, but that’s a good segue. You didn’t think I’d let you go without peppering you with some eyeball-grabbing openers from novels, did you? Let’s kick off this section with a few titans from the middle of the last century.

Saul Bellow, who won the Nobel Prize in 1976, could write circuitous sentences with the best of them, but he could be concise when he wanted to be, as he was when he began Herzog: “If I am out of my mind, it’s all right with me, thought Moses Herzog.” The Adventures of Augie March is more characteristically prolix and swaggering: “I am an American, Chicago born—Chicago, that somber city—and go at things as I have taught myself, free-style, and will make the record in my own way: first to knock, first admitted; sometimes an innocent knock, sometimes a not so innocent. But a man’s character is his fate, says Heraclitus, and in the end there isn’t any way to disguise the nature of the knocks by acoustical work on the door or gloving the knuckles.”

Philip Roth is still with us and may match Bellow’s Nobel yet. His tribute to onanism, Portnoy’s Complaint, was shocking in its time and remains influential today: “She was so deeply imbedded in my consciousness that for the first year of school I seem to have believed that each of my teachers was my mother in disguise.” Augusten Burroughs may have had that line echoing in his head when he picked up his pen, in fact—see above. Roth hasn’t softened with age, either. His recent Sabbath’s Theater raises eyebrows right away: “Either forswear fucking others or the affair is over.” You won’t see lofty vocabulary crash into the gutter any quicker than that. He transitions from elevated diction into earthy Anglo-Saxon without an intervening word.

J.D. Salinger, that shrinking violet, would never dare be so explicit, but he’s quotable nonetheless. Franny and Zooey commences as follows: “Though brilliantly sunny, Saturday morning was overcoat weather again, not just topcoat weather, as it had been all week and as everyone hoped it would stay for the big weekend—the weekend of the Yale game.” 

Going back even further, we have Isak Dinesen’s atmospheric Out of Africa: “I had a farm in Africa, at the foot of the Ngong Hills.” The location is doing a lot of work for her there, of course. Probably wouldn’t have achieved the same romance if she’d said, “I had a farm in Iowa.” 

Contemporary author Joshua Ferris challenged himself with an even less romantic setting than that—a cubicle farm in a corporate office. The dehumanizing nature of the work he comedically describes is comprised by the narrative voice he uses. Instead of featuring a single protagonist in his And Then We Came to the End, he gives us the collective experience of the employees: “We were fractious and overpaid. Our mornings lacked promise. At least those of us who smoked had something to look forward to at ten-fifteen.”

Science fiction has its share of tasty hors d’oeuvres, too. A sampler plate:

  • Octavia Butler’s Kindred: “I lost an arm on my last trip home. My left arm.”
  • J.G. Ballard’s High Rise: “Later, as he sat on his balcony eating the dog, Dr. Robert Laing reflected on the unusual events within this huge apartment building during the previous three months.”
  • Michael Swanwick’s Stations of the Tide: “The bureaucrat fell from the sky.”
  • James Morrow’s Towing Jehovah: “The irreducible strangeness of the universe was first made manifest to Anthony Van Horne on his fiftieth birthday, when a despondent angel named Raphael, a being with luminous white wings and a halo that blinked on and off like a neon quoit, appeared and told him of the days to come.”

If that angel is an avid reader, he’ll already know what’s in store, but the rest of you will have to wait until the next time First Line Friday rolls around.

—James

The Same Thing, Only Different

The 2012 presidential election season, having been unofficially underway since the day after the election of Barack Obama, began formally this week with the Iowa caucuses. If you pay attention to the candidates you hear a good deal about America and what it stands for. Mitt Romney, for example, just gave a speech inspired by the lyrics to the song “America the Beautiful,” although at least one report indicates he doesn’t embrace all of what it has to say. I don’t mean to single him out; he’s not the first politician to creatively misread a song’s message and won’t be the last. He, like everyone else, is entitled to his own interpretation of art and to his own view of what makes our country special. Whatever our differences, I think we can all agree that America is exceptional.

The thing is, so is every place else. Take the small nation of Belgium, which springs to mind only because I have relatives who live there. At first glance there’s not much to distinguish it from its neighbors, though it’s often recognized as having a chocolate center, figuratively speaking. It’s also arguably the greatest beer-brewing nation on earth. Digging deeper, did you know Belgium is steeped in the culture of comics? Steven Spielberg’s latest movie action hero, Tintin, who has sold over 200 million books, is a Belgian native, as are the Smurfs. That’s just one thread in a grander tapestry—Belgium turns out to have a distinctively off-kilter creative tradition that also manifests itself in literature and the visual arts. Rene Magritte’s surrealist paintings are familiar, even if his nationality isn’t. This outlook of smirking strangeness may stem from the country’s bifurcated status. It’s really two countries in one, Wallonia and Flanders. They’re joined by a common national border, but separated within it by language (French and Dutch, respectively) and government. In some places, Walloonian-administered regions encircle parts of Flanders which in turn encompass tinier Walloon outposts. Laws change from block to block, and there are even homes and businesses that are divided in half. When it’s closing time one one side of the bar, you can pick up your drink, cross the room and carry on. Everywhere you look you find another unique facet, and the same is true of every other nation on the globe.

I guess that’s why I’m such a fan of a yearly anthology series that’s being produced by Dalkey Archive Press. The latest installment, Best European Fiction 2012, has just come out, and it introduces the American audience to stories from 34 different regions on the continent, selected and edited by someone who’s the perfect choice for such a project. Aleksandar Hemon grew up in the former Yugoslavia, visited the US as a young man, and found himself unable to return to his home when war broke out there in the 1990s. He not only became a speaker of English, but an award-winning writer of the language. He’s an active participant in the literary communities on both sides of the Atlantic, and there’s no one better equipped to recognize excellent prose, whatever its origin.

Mind you, I’m not suggesting you should pick up a copy of BEF 2012 out of anthropological interest. It’s a rich collection of fiction that does exactly what storytelling is supposed to do, entertain, enlighten, and establish a connection to those around us, however flawed they may be. As the introduction puts it, each piece provides “a sense of kinship in the belief that human lives, thoughts, and feelings always matter.” It’s always hard to comment on an anthology like this without checking off every story one by one and giving it a rating, and even that approach isn’t very useful since every reader will find an individual favorite anyway, so apologies for the very general review I’m giving here: This book is really, really good. What puts it above even the admirable Best American Short Stories series for me is that it offers a bit extra—the quality is the same (as it should be when you skim the cream from an entire continent) and the topics are familiar, but it stretches your boundaries in every direction. The perspectives are a little fresher, the forms are a touch more innovative, and the results surprise you just a little more. 

A recent non-fiction collection offers satisfaction along the same lines. Dubravka Ugresic’s book of essays, Karaoke Culture, takes on the vapid world of pop artifice that all of us in the developed world share in the 21st century, but with an outsider’s twist. She too is a former Yugoslav who no longer has a homeland and considers herself a kind of vague European ghost, currently residing in the Netherlands. She’s always smart and usually quite funny, almost an intellectual Dave Barry. For a taste of her style, sample this assault on the ubiquitous hotel minibar, “a dollhouse for grown men.” Hers is an inimitable voice, and her writing will have you nodding and saying, “I know exactly what she means,” right up till she makes you realize, “I’ve never thought of that before.” 

It’s that mental transition that makes reading fun for me, and when I’ve gone too long without finding a book that makes it happen, that’s when I feel I’m in a rut. If you find yourself in that situation, try one of the titles I’ve mentioned here, or something else from somewhere exceptional.

—James

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