There's an old Ottessa Moshfegh interview with a line that stuck with me:
> In the past, I thought plot was trite, something for mystery novels and TV shows. And I thought clarity was tacky. People shouldn’t demand clarity from me. They should just ride my language-wave. It’s a very pompous attitude.
I think psychedelic-influenced prose often has that "ride my language wave" attitude.
This review's driving criticism of Lockwood's latest novel is that it lacks a coherent form and a compelling end, and thus is asocial in a way that art shouldn't be.
Yet being severely and/or frequently ill is precisely an experience of feeling one's form dissolve and one's convictions about meanings, plans, and aims collapse. I found Lockwood's book to be one of the most sensitive, intuitive, and accurate depictions of the chaos—and farce—of illness out there. (And that Sontag bit about illness being the night side of life could help one have a fun and meaningful time with Finnegans Wake. See also Blake Butler's recent writing about how that book helps us renew our sense of the possibilities of language.)
This review also elides how many jokes Lockwood's book tells per page. It is wildly funny.
In short, this review reads as a crisis what the novel presents as its subject. The artist's foundational gambit is the translation of private experience to a public's edification. This review seems to be based on a premise that art is intended for "the" public. Or, simply: perhaps Lockwood's novel is just for the sickos—and that could be its principal strength.
But - but - but - there are so many novels out there, old and recent, that offer you well-masoned plots, constructing heavy-handed meaning - why not cherish the ride offered by a skillful, nimble, glowing style? "The integrated rendering of experiences that gives rise to meaning" that the review insists on calls to mind a musty brick building rather than a tent, or better, a kite to take off on a vertiginous course. I prefer the thrill any day.
Incoherent writing is not inherently bad, but I think if you label your writing as a *novel*, you have certain obligations to the reader who will pick it up expecting it to have a comprehensible, followable plot. Agree with Dieck that Lockwood failed to reach a bar she set for herself and then tried to pass off that failure as the point of the whole enterprise
Sure, you're welcome to root for the comprehensible followable plot. I happen to like to follow things that go deliciously astray. Is there any evidence that Lockwood set herself some bar that she then failed to reach? Isn't that just a little meta-fiction kink that you may take a bit too seriously? Whatever—I'm just saying there are many ways to reading bliss - I'm all for keeping the brick dwellers safe and warm.
Thought I was pretty clear that calling your writing a novel is the action that sets the bar; perhaps you disdain clear writing because you can’t understand it. Whatever — now I’ll retreat to a less contestable position and call you something derogatory
There's an old Ottessa Moshfegh interview with a line that stuck with me:
> In the past, I thought plot was trite, something for mystery novels and TV shows. And I thought clarity was tacky. People shouldn’t demand clarity from me. They should just ride my language-wave. It’s a very pompous attitude.
I think psychedelic-influenced prose often has that "ride my language wave" attitude.
This review's driving criticism of Lockwood's latest novel is that it lacks a coherent form and a compelling end, and thus is asocial in a way that art shouldn't be.
Yet being severely and/or frequently ill is precisely an experience of feeling one's form dissolve and one's convictions about meanings, plans, and aims collapse. I found Lockwood's book to be one of the most sensitive, intuitive, and accurate depictions of the chaos—and farce—of illness out there. (And that Sontag bit about illness being the night side of life could help one have a fun and meaningful time with Finnegans Wake. See also Blake Butler's recent writing about how that book helps us renew our sense of the possibilities of language.)
This review also elides how many jokes Lockwood's book tells per page. It is wildly funny.
In short, this review reads as a crisis what the novel presents as its subject. The artist's foundational gambit is the translation of private experience to a public's edification. This review seems to be based on a premise that art is intended for "the" public. Or, simply: perhaps Lockwood's novel is just for the sickos—and that could be its principal strength.
🔥🔥🔥🔥🔥
But - but - but - there are so many novels out there, old and recent, that offer you well-masoned plots, constructing heavy-handed meaning - why not cherish the ride offered by a skillful, nimble, glowing style? "The integrated rendering of experiences that gives rise to meaning" that the review insists on calls to mind a musty brick building rather than a tent, or better, a kite to take off on a vertiginous course. I prefer the thrill any day.
Incoherent writing is not inherently bad, but I think if you label your writing as a *novel*, you have certain obligations to the reader who will pick it up expecting it to have a comprehensible, followable plot. Agree with Dieck that Lockwood failed to reach a bar she set for herself and then tried to pass off that failure as the point of the whole enterprise
Sure, you're welcome to root for the comprehensible followable plot. I happen to like to follow things that go deliciously astray. Is there any evidence that Lockwood set herself some bar that she then failed to reach? Isn't that just a little meta-fiction kink that you may take a bit too seriously? Whatever—I'm just saying there are many ways to reading bliss - I'm all for keeping the brick dwellers safe and warm.
Thought I was pretty clear that calling your writing a novel is the action that sets the bar; perhaps you disdain clear writing because you can’t understand it. Whatever — now I’ll retreat to a less contestable position and call you something derogatory
Ok - let's let it rest. I just have a different bar for what a novel can be (and no definite idea what it should be). No bad feelings!