My Reaction to FREEDOM by Jonathan Franzen

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My Reaction to FREEDOM (Jonathan Franzen)

by Joseph Suglia

Patty Berglund is one of the good people.  She lives in St. Paul, Minnesota.  Her husband–his name is Walter Berglund–is also one of the good people.  He lives in St. Paul, Minnesota, too.  He is greener than Greenpeace.  Then the Berglunds move to Washington, District Columbia, and Walter works for a man named Vin Haven, a big oil-and-gas guy.  A Republican with ties to the Bush-Cheney regime.  One of the conformists.  One of the conservatives.  One of the evil people.

Vin Haven’s a funny kind of person.  He and his wife, Kiki, who is also evil, they, like, love birds and stuff.  Vin got a lot of money by losing money on oil and gas wells in Texas and Oklahoma.  He’s kind of old now, and so he’s decided to blow a lot of dough on the cerulean warbler, a songbird on the Endangered Species List.  There’s a real healthy population of warblers in West Virginia and so to keep the bird off the List and garner some good press, Vin Haven has a dream: to build a cerulean-warbler conservatory in West Virginia and finish building the Pan-American Warbler Park in South America, which is below the U.S.  That dream is Walter’s dream, too.  And it can only come true through properly managed mountaintop removal–blasting mountain peaks so that coal-mining companies can mine coal.  Walter believes in a Green Revolution–a revolution that would be painless to him.

In 2004, Walter starts working on an anti-population crusade.  He struggles to get an intern. program going before the nation’s most liberal college-kids all finalize their summer-plans and work for the Kerry campaign instead.  Even though he’s got kids, Walter wants to make babies an embarrassment because the planet’s overpopulated, like smoking’s an embarrassment, being obese’s an embarrassment, like driving an Escalade’s an embarrassment, like living in a four-thousand-square-foot house on a two-acre lot’s an embarrassment.  The evil people just want to make more evil people.

The Berglunds’ son Joey moves in with the neighbors–who are really evil people–and eventually becomes a Republican war-profiteer.  One of the evil people.

Then there’s Richard Katz, Walter’s old friend from college.  He’s a rocker and a roller, was in a band called The Traumatics, and he knows that rock ‘n’ roll ain’t nothing but the selling of wintergreen Chiclets, man, and ain’t it the truth.  He’s not a real rebel, and he knows it.  He’s a closet Republican, shilling merchandise, just like everyone else in the entertainment-industry.  A poseur.  One of the evil people.

But at least Richard knows it, man.  And gets sick of livin’ The Lie.  So he gives up rockin’ and rollin’ and goes back to what he used to do, building decks.  Back to doin’ the only honorable thing he can think of.  He tries to become one of the good people.

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Jonathan Franzen is to liberalism what Ayn Rand is to neo-conservatism.  They are both doctrinaire writers who employ fiction as a means to an end.

Whether reactionary or liberal, ideologically charged fiction is sickly writing designed to proselytize.  Its plot and characters are dependent on an easily identifiable political program.  Jonathan Franzen is an ideologizer and a slick pseudo-literary entrepreneur.

Poetic language does not produce characters that are good or evil, politically right or politically wrong.  It creates an imaginary world in which it is impossible to draw such easy distinctions.

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When did writing stop having to do with writing?  When novels became nothing more than precursors to screenplays.

It is time, and high time indeed, that American letters stopped having to do with propaganda, cinema, etc., and started having to do with writing again.

Joseph Suglia

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TREE OF CODES by Jonathan Safran Foer / WRITING WITH SCISSORS – by Dr. Joseph Suglia

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WRITING WITH SCISSORS: A review of TREE OF CODES (Jonathan Safran Foer)

by Dr. Joseph Suglia

“[Schulz’s] writing is so unbelievably good, so much better than anything that could conceivably be done with it [?], that more often than not I simply wanted to leave it alone.”
–Jonathan Safran Foer

He should have left it alone.

What does one do if one wishes to become a writer but lacks verbal talent?  If one is Jonathan Safran Foer, one mutes and mutilates magical masterpieces.  Tree of Codes (2010) is an anti-book, assaulting language, crushing words under the weight of optical imagery, a non-book in which words serve a merely ornamental function.  It is an atomic weapon that is pitted against verbality, against writing, against the Word.  It is the stifling of a book, a sequence of stillnesses.  There is more writing–more expressive language–in Max Ernst’s collage novels.

To construct this monstrosity, Foer took an English translation of Bruno Schulz’s magisterial Sklepy Cynamonowe (“Cinnamon Shops,” 1934).  (Please note: The book is NOT called “The Street of Crocodiles,” no matter what Foer might tell you.)  Foer then carved blocks of text out of the English translation, excising Schulz’s beautiful prose poetry, scissoring it up.  Anyone who finds this practice innovative should consult the work of Tristan Tzara, Brion Gysin, and Raymond Queneau.

Here are two of Foer’s vicious eviscerations:

“The demands were made more loudly, we heard him talk to God, as if begging against insistent claims” (28).

“Knot by knot he loosened himself, as unremarked as the grey heap swept into a corner waiting to be taken” (39).

SPAM poetry.

Refrigerator-magnet poetry.

The first problem with Foer’s cut-up is that he chooses the wrong object.  Knock, knock!  Schulz wrote in Polish, not in English.  What on Earth is the point of cutting up, mucking up, mashing up, and rescrambling the English translation of a Polish novel?  Polish is frightfully difficult to render into English.  If you would like evidence for this assertion, take a look at any English translation of Jan Potocki, Bruno Schulz, Stanislaw Ignacy Witkiewicz, or Witold Gombrowicz.  Consider, for instance, Alastair Hamilton’s translation of Gombrowicz’s Pornografia.  Hamilton translated a French translation of the novel into English: His is the translation of a translation.

Secondly: The ingenious Bruno Schulz–a writer more gifted than Kafka, in my estimation–did not have to dazzle his readers with glistening typographies.  He let language do the work.  He let his beautiful prose speak for itself.  If Schulz’s book is the richest book Foer ever read (it is one of the richest books I’ve yet read), why disembowel all of that richness?  We know the answer: Because Foer feels condemned by the richness, threatened by the richness, punished by the richness.  Foer the Hipster, who is incapable of expressing himself inventively in writing, chainsawed the work of a great author, an author who intimidated him.  Foer’s venomous envy and hatred of Schulz are unmistakable.

Snip, snip, snip!  Pare it down!  Tear it up!  What we are left with is an absolute abomination, something far worse than a book burning.  It is one thing to immolate a great book such as “Cinnamon Shops.”  It is quite another to replace a great book with a papier-mâché dummy, an Ersatz effigy, a kitschy replica.  Nothing more malicious in the literary arts could be imagined.

In the republic of letters, Jonathan Safran Foer will be remembered as a slicer, shearer, and shredder of literature.  He is at home in a culture that is tawdry, boring, and stupid and that is becoming tawdrier, more boring, and more stupid by the day.

Dr. Joseph Suglia

Postscript: STREET OF CROCODILES = *TREE* OF C*O**D**ES

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