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Jim Grimsley

Jim Grimsley

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To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

Jim Grimsley Posted on May 2, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyMay 2, 2020

To the LighthouseTo the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

When I was studying writing and literature in college, this was the novel that I often heard people speak of in the most glowing, wondrous terms. It is the most perfect use of point of view I have ever encountered, an omniscience that is quietly carried from object to object, person to person. In my experience of sharing this book with students, many are put off by the quiet of it, or the long sentences, or the story that is almost not there. But many are enthralled as I was by the rhythm of those sentences, the luminous quality that Woolf affords to every person, every moment, every object. It represents the height of that voice she found in Jacob’s Room, what she called the “loose, drifting material of life;” at least this is my opinion. The middle section of the book, in which the house itself is the subject of scrutiny, opens this quiet novel to the shadow of dying, the image of Mrs. Ramsay no longer where she should be, the settling of years of quiet onto the house. What appeared ordinary and peaceful is changed utterly, and the small novel is no longer measurable. Yet I have a hard time rereading this book. Maybe it just daunts me.

Kalpa Imperial by Angélica Gorodischer

Jim Grimsley Posted on May 1, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyMay 1, 2020

Kalpa Imperial: The Greatest Empire That Never WasKalpa Imperial: The Greatest Empire That Never Was by Angélica Gorodischer
My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Gorodischer is an Argentine writer who has a take on fantasy that is reminiscent of Calvino, and this book reminds me of Invisible Cities in its intent; each chapter is drawn from a different era of an infinite empire, spanning all known places, which rises and falls in an endless succession of waves. It would be tempting to use the word “cyclical” for this pattern, but there is no hint of repetition in what the author creates. There is simply a continuous tapestry of invention that sometimes feels tinged with allegory but most often sprawls into new territories, new iterations. The empire has the kind of feeling evoked by Borges in “The Library of Babel,” each new emperor branching off from the last, changed from it, and yet fixed within the greater framework of history. There will always be an empire, it will always rise and fall. The only people who see it whole are the storytellers who pervade the world and remind people of its history. It’s difficult to talk about the writing since this is a translation (by Ursula le Guin, no less). But the prose is dense, descriptive, admonitory in tone, and marks out its own path. This is the kind of singular work that stretches the reading muscles and offers a landscape unexpected, atypical of more formulaic fantasy. Not for everyone. Like Olaf Stapledon, like Calvino, or Anaïs Nin, or Djuna Barnes, she creates a space all her own.

Watching Dark Shadows in the 21st Century

Jim Grimsley Posted on May 1, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyMay 1, 2020

When I was in elementary school I would rush home to watch the saga of the Collins family of Collinsport, in which poor orphan Victoria Winters arrives at the gloomy old family mansion and descends into a gothic bog of family curses, graveyards of various sizes, and monsters of various descriptions. When Barnabas Collins climbed out of his coffin, a vampire, I was significantly horrified.
I had already learned about vampires from a movie that kept me sleepless for a week, “Curse of the Undead” with Eric Fleming (of Rawhide fame). The idea that somebody might climb out of his coffin, bite my neck, and drink my blood, was the most terrifying idea I had ever encountered. But Barnabas Collins, being my second vampire, struck me with less terror and more curiosity. Some of my friends were watching the show, too. We discussed who Barnabas had bitten or his obsession with Josette or his pursuit of poor Vicky, whatever had happened the previous day. When the witch Angelique appeared on the show, I was not so much frightened by her; I wanted to be her, with magical powers to cast spells and such.
By that age I was writing stories, typing them on my typewriter, and sometimes submitting them to magazines when I could afford the stamps. I started a long vampire novel called “The Hoffman Journal,” written in pen and pencil on notebook paper, a story that went on and on and on. I can’t remember whether any of it actually survives, but it would be good if it has vanished, so dreadful it was. But I could not stop myself.
Watching the show now, available on Amazon Prime, I find myself giggling and groaning and yet still watching the familiar story unfold. While it was considered good television at the time, it is simply awful to watch, despite my longstanding affection for it. I feel sorry for poor Joan Bennett, who had a long career in movies stretching back to the days of silent films, only to end up in the Collins mansion where the walls sometimes swayed back and forth and the shadows of boom mikes are visible in the corners and along the floor. The acting is kindly referred to as melodramatic; the actors stand in awkward poses and move as little as possible so the camera doesn’t have to do too much work. I have read that everything was filmed in one take, and it’s clear that the actors barely had time to learn their lines, which leaves them glancing at the cue cards in nearly every scene.
Yet it still works, somehow. Probably due to the nostalgia it evokes, or the sense of camp which was always part of its charm. It was one of the most popular soap operas of its day. To its credit, it made use of hardly any of the usual tropes of soapy shows; unlike the Newmans and the Abbotts, the Collins family was never guilty of serial marriages or constant infidelity. At times the writing is daring, line by line.
What’s most interesting in seeing the series again is its very different, pre-Ann Rice, pre-Twilight take on the vampire. Here the vampire is not an erotic object but a much more mundane one who actually sleeps in a coffin and is vulnerable to harm during the day. Nobody would fall in love with him. That’s his problem. He’s not a superbeing, his powers are matched with weaknesses, and he requires help to survive because of this. I’ve watched the vampire evolve into something strangely pornographic over the decades since this show was aired – the word “pornographic” may seem extreme until one remembers that “Fifty Shades of Gray” has its roots in the Twilight series. It’s never appealed to me, the idea of a sexy parasite sucking my life away. But it is an idea that has taken root in our culture.
I am currently watching Barnabas in 1795, on his deathbed, cursed by his wife Angelique, blood oozing from two holes in his neck, growing paler by the minute, headed for his transformation into the living dead. My mother and I watch the show while eating dinner or playing games on the computer. Being a soap opera, the plot moves at a snail’s pace, so it’s an easy background for multitasking. I still feel sorry for poor Vicky Winters, aware that the actor, Alexandra Moltke, will grow up to be the mistress of Claus von Bülow and thus will be associated with a real life soap opera murder trial. In the show, at present, she is jailed and about to be tried as a witch. The real witch lurks in the background, beautiful Angelique from Martinique, and I still want to be just like her when I grow up.

Wolf Whistle by Lewis Nordan

Jim Grimsley Posted on May 1, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyMay 1, 2020

Wolf WhistleWolf Whistle by Lewis Nordan
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

The death of Bobo, the seeing power of that demon eye even after he is dead, as Solon moves him away from his killing ground – a fourteen-year-old child – remains one of the great passages of fiction I have ever read. In scanning other reviews of this book I note a few statements of disbelief that such hate should exist in the world, adult monsters killing an innocent like this one over an idle remark that sullied the purity of a white woman in Mississippi. Maybe the hate exists because the disbelief in it hides it so well in the everyday. Lewis Nordan was so seized by the story of Emmett Till, the real child who died for this crime, so famously, that he created this long elegy and examination of the heart of the small place that committed the act that set fire to the world, the story still told, an example of what one people will do to another in the name of superiority. Nordan reached moments like Bobo’s death in his writing almost without effort, in clear, chisel-sharp sentences. He deserves to be remembered for all that he wrote.

Blue Light in the Sky & Other Stories by Can Xue

Jim Grimsley Posted on April 30, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyApril 30, 2020

Blue Light in the Sky & Other StoriesBlue Light in the Sky & Other Stories by Can Xue
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

In stories that are indescribable Can Xue marks out a territory that is singular. I read the first story, for which the collection is named, and felt as though it were crawling inside my skin. The words that get used in reviews are so worn out that when a writer like her comes along you have to shake them up and wake them up and remind yourself that calling a writer unique should be a rare thing, calling a writer phenomenal should mean that you get goosebumps when you read. Her fiction is like this. It is difficult to speak of them in normal terms – she makes ideas like plot, character, logic, all irrelevant. Of course her stories each have a plot but how do you talk about them? One feeling transforms into its opposite, a landscape that appears familiar becomes suddenly supernatural, people behave oddly but in a way that appeals to the instinct. Meaning grows so large in these stories that it defies statement. I am grateful to have encountered these (intense, unprecedented, fantastic, unbelievable) stories. Kafka meets Flannery O’Connor while Borges sits on the sidelines. And that description is only a sketch.

The Sweetest Fruits by Monique Truong

Jim Grimsley Posted on April 30, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyApril 30, 2020

The Sweetest FruitsThe Sweetest Fruits by Monique Truong
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Her prose is the finest. The three women who constitute the voices of the novel are worlds apart, united only by the person of Lafcadio Hearn. Their different voices create a space around him that is intricate, deep, and true. The novel tells Hearn’s story in its own way, and made me contemplate the significance of the women more than the person of the famous man. He is there but he is seen, never entered, by the book, and the women who keep him and care for him – and sometimes abandon him – are echoes of something deeper and more tragic. I was struck in different ways by all three but particularly by the stained glass effect of their juxtaposition. The wife in Japan was marvelous, and that section of the book accomplishes something remarkable, a quiet story of something like peace and contentment. I would read anything Truong writes.

Reading Dune Messiah and Children of Dune

Jim Grimsley Posted on April 28, 2020 by Jim GrimsleyApril 29, 2020

Dune Messiah & Children Of DuneDune Messiah & Children Of Dune by Frank Herbert
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Goes like this. Tense situation implied. Everybody has heightened awareness. Prescience, spice sense, Bene Gesserit, Tleilax, mentat. Think think think about current problem. Something happens. Switch to next scenario. Repeat. The problem is that writing about sitting at the top of an empire of this magnitude and complexity is just hard. Feels inert even when something is trying to happen. I admire the ideas. Have waited since the 60s to reread Dune Messiah; hated it when I was young. Never read Children of Dune. Now that I am reading them, I find myself mostly in awe of the scope, the layers of ideas one after the other, but the books are a slog. If Paul and Leto were female characters they would be Mary Sues. Always seeing, seeing, thinking, thinking, always right. At last some action comes. Doesn’t quite save the books. But I will always admire this universe and am looking forward to the newest movie version of Dune.

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Willful ignorance and chaos

Jim Grimsley Posted on March 13, 2016 by Jim GrimsleyMarch 13, 2016

The astonishing spectacle of a nation veering into cultural madness, in which ignorance is virtue, blindness is vision, and words of hatred are venerated as a courageous honesty, is new to those of us who are living through it, no matter whether or not it reminds us of other such moments in history. To call our present political cycle a renewed age of ignorance, while helpful to those of us who respect education, is to miss the point of what is going on in the people who support extreme political candidates and policies of xenophobia.

Ignorance does not explain the current candidates for political office; ignorance can be cured by information and education. Willful ignorance is not ignorance at all; it is evidence of a deeper problem. To say that people are angry with their government, while true and troublesome to a marvelous degree, is still an understatement. People are angry with their world.

Angry people do not want to see the truth, refuse to comprehend arguments that undermine their anger, and turn any fact within reach to their own advantage.

Many white people in particular are angry at a world that threatens them with information about themselves that they don’t want to be true, that they refuse to consider, no matter how logical. This subset of white people cannot be addressed through appeals to their human emotions; these emotions only apply to equals, and far too many white people do not see the world in terms of equality.

The root of this fear comes from the attacks on white male supremacy that are now open and successful. The presence of white privilege and the pervasiveness of white hegemony are so clearly demonstrated in our world that there is no real argument to overcome the overwhelming evidence. White men – white people – who refuse to take this message into themselves are left with nothing to stand on except willful refusal to admit that they are wrong.

The only argument left to white supremacists is to retreat into the ideas that always supported this way of thinking, namely, that white people are superior and that white men are entitled to run the world. To their way of thinking, the clearest example of this is the degraded and criminal state of black people in particular, who are the opposite of white people and therefore the ethnic group who are marked out to be the most despised. Other groups can sometimes be admitted to a kind of whiteness, and individual black people who support the ideas of white supremacy – whether explicitly or implicitly – are also all white in their way.

Calls for white people to examine our racism are met by the same responses, all of which fall into familiar categories.

Someone will write to say that all people are racist and that no progress will be made on the issue until everybody admits this. This ignores the fact that racism is different from prejudice, requires a structure of power to support it, and cannot be practiced by groups who do not have power. The argument amounts to saying that we all have to be perfect before anything can change. History clearly demonstrates that white people have played a special role in the promotion of racism in our country, at the very least, and most likely in the wider world as well. The idea of white supremacy was applicable to the whole world, after all.

Someone will write to say that white people have invented nearly every good thing in the world, that we have clearly demonstrated our superiority, and that any argument to the contrary is simply based on political correctness, whining, or jealousy. This argument usually comes with a list of the good things that white people have brought to the world, and nearly all the time a simple online search of the history of any of these good things will clearly demonstrate that very few of these inventions or innovations are attributable to white people alone or at all.

Someone will write to attack black people, using words like “thugs,” asserting that black people are inherently criminal, that “they” ruin schools, neighborhoods, cities, by their willful destructiveness, and that any effort to keep “them” in line is justified. The historical roots of this argument go all the way back to the earliest justifications for the slave trade. The fact that a discussion of racism veers immediately into the reasons that racism is justified is clear proof that racism is a problem without the need of any further debate.

Often the author of any statement about white racism or white supremacy will be invited to move to Africa; this happened to me recently in the aftermath of the publication of my memoir about school desegregation in 1960s North Carolina. The underlying foundation of this statement is clearly that the U.S. is a white country, founded and operated for the benefit of white people and their supporters, and anyone who has ideas to the contrary should go elsewhere.

The pattern of these arguments against the pervasiveness of white supremacy is self-perpetuating; every debate on this issue is followed by the same litany of response.

It is easy to misinterpret these statements as ignorance, but they are in fact something much worse. These arguments and all their kin – including the similar constellation of reactions to writing and thinking about sexism, which is the other pillar of white male supremacy – are evidence that smart people, educated people, and so-called decent people, have developed sophisticated, conscious strategies to refuse any truth they find difficult or inconvenient.

Ignorance is not our problem. People have abandoned the idea of objective truth altogether. Our idea of whiteness is so precious to some of us that we would trade anything in order to keep it. That’s a much more dangerous state.

So Who Are the Racists?

Jim Grimsley Posted on August 10, 2015 by Jim GrimsleyAugust 10, 2015

I was raised to be a bigot in the ways that were common to nearly every white southerner of my generation, having been born in the mid 1950s and sent to school during the era of 1860s.

I grew up in the segregated south and was part of the generation that saw the ending of separate schools for blacks and whites. In my childhood I heard adults talk openly about their disgust at the notion of sharing bathrooms with black people. On the playground I chanted vicious rhymes about “niggers.” It would be easy to say that my heart and mind, even as a child, rebelled against such practices, but to make such a claim would be a lie. Because I was a child, I accepted what I heard. Only later, when black and white schools were consolidated in rural North Carolina, did I come to question these early lessons.

I say that nearly every white person of my era, in my place, was trained in this same bigotry, but in my heart I believe that the training was common to all. In the same way, I say “white southerner” when in my heart I believe that these teachings were common to all Americans.

I have good friends who discuss racism, white people who are constantly sharing information about this or that event in which a black person figures as a victim or a white person has made some outrageous comment about people of one color or another. These days, such discussions often take place on social media, or after a story like the shooting of Trayvon Martin becomes widespread.

These are well meaning people who believe they are doing their part to end an evil that has been with us for far too many centuries already, a murderous prejudice that shows no sign of ending in any future one can foresee.
Yet I have rarely heard any white person say the words, “I am a racist.”

In my own head I have confessed to racism, and I have made this statement about myself at times in the past when I was involved in a conversation about black-white relations. I have confessed to my own racism in mixed company, when there were black people present to force the discussion of oppression, and onto whom the conversation was assigned as a kind of burden, as if they were to absolve me of my sin.

An article that I have read in various forms, in print and online, reads something like, “Ten things a white person should not say to a black person when discussing racism.” But never have I seen any guide to how white people should talk to each other, nor have I found the slightest hint that it is the responsibility of white people to have this conversation with one another, about ourselves.

Racism only exists when there are black people in the room, or this seems to be our message. The racist is always somebody else. The bigot is someone obvious, like members of the Aryan Nation, or followers of the Ku Klux Klan. Why do we refuse to understand that our first job is to see inside ourselves?

So often I hear white people say, “I’m not a racist,” as if that blanket declaration removes all the training, all the programming, that has come into us throughout the years of our childhood.

The truth cannot set you free unless you face it, and what I mean is that all white people from my generation down to the present have some level of programming that says white people shaped the world, white people are the authors of civilization, and white people are and should continue to be the natural leaders of humankind. This lesson is the beginning of racism, since it sets the white race above the rest.

Even in the sharing of information about the victimization of black people, even in our most earnest declarations that all people are equal no matter what skin they wear, so many of us are missing the point in an essential way. White people need to talk to white people about our racism, and the first conversation should be face to face with a mirror, each of us looking into our own face and understanding the truth. I am the problem. I am the racist. Maybe I can begin to recover if I take that path.

No one can erase racist programming that is ingrained deep into the mind, early in childhood. Like the addict, the racist must learn to recover from this training, and must realize that recovery will never end. I am a racist now, and will always have that flaw inside me, but I do not have to act on it, and I can change the way I live. We don’t argue about whether white dogs are better than black dogs. Why do we think color makes such a difference when it comes to human beings?

The Second Best Thing

Jim Grimsley Posted on July 27, 2015 by Jim GrimsleyJuly 28, 2015

I am aware that an advertisement that makes me notice its utter stupidity is just as useful to a marketing campaign as one that arrests my attention for some other reason. This is of course one of the more inane first world problems with which I deal, and I am a bit ashamed of my need to whine about it. But nevertheless I shall do so. I have been feeling much too serious of late.

My manner of accomplishing this task is to award Kevin Botfeld a prize for the most utterly stupid character in an advertisement of the moment. Botfeld, you might know, is the person who, upon receiving a check for one million dollars – from a very nice but soon-to-be-perplexed gentleperson who rings his front doorbell – announces that this is the second best thing that has ever happened to him.

The best thing that ever happened to him is soon revealed to us through the car-dealership flashback during which Botfeld delivers a laughable martial arts kick upon receiving the new-car deal of a lifetime.

Naturally we are supposed to pause at the idea that a fabulous deal on a twenty thousand dollar car is better than a one million dollar cash prize, ignoring the fact that for a million dollars one could buy approximately fifty such new cars. The fact that this is a ludicrous claim on all levels is the point, of course, and in writing words to protest this bit of stupidity I am simply perpetuating the marketing ploy. But this is not the first time I have been the dupe of the market, and it will not be the last.

In terms of idiocy, this is very much of a piece with the lizard who tries to sell me car insurance or the fairy who tries to convince me that buying the more expensive paper towel will quickly deplete my savings account. While I am grateful to have a savings account, I have no fear of buying the more expensive paper towel, and furthermore I have a loathing of winged fairies, oozing with hopeful cuteness, who try to gull me into degrading my stock of paper products.

Take this complaint for what it is worth, a brief moment in which a person giggles at the stupidity of the world in lieu of tears at its brutality. In all ways we appear to be lost in the dim side of the force.

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