I read Requiem for a Dream during my last winter break. In my opinion, Selby is an author that should be pulled into the canon of American Literature. The text’s focal point is a bastardization of what we consider to be ‘The American Dream.’ There’s something intellectually masochistic to the downfall of the characters. Given the nature of Henry Rollin’s work and his perpetual cynicism, I can picture him identifying with Selby’s writing. In the video above, Rollins talks about suffering from writer’s block. While we all don’t have the ability to look for our favorite writers in the phone book, I think it could do a writer justice to remember where they’re coming from as readers. Maybe revisiting their work is just the best we can do.
One of my professors once told me that he identifies first and foremost as a reader before either a teacher or a writer. Reading through all of this theory and criticism this summer, I’m really starting to reshape what I consider the role of the reader to be. ‘Reader,’ when you lift the lenses back, is synonymous with self. I don’t think the reader is actually a role, but the text is an experience of the reader. It’s a definition I want to play around with some more.
Last week, I finished reading McCourt’s Angela’s Ashes. Captain Jack, who is an Irish lit enthusiast, had been prodding me to finish it for a bit. While the Captain and I could probably be categorized in a similar niche, we both read this book completely differently. Both of us have rejected our catholic heritage, but I was generally more pessimistic and made extremely rude comments on the role of religion and pride in the novel. I complained about his final confession to St. Francis—probably one of the most pinnacle moments in the novel in terms of Frank’s development, but I didn’t like that religion was still being curtailed into his life and that it ultimately followed him on his way to America. Jack asked me what I thought the ashes were. I argued for shame, but he thought it was Angela’s solace. For either of us, it wasn’t the same experience. Somebody once said that English majors just read a bunch of books and talk about their feelings. Is there any truth to that? I think one of our responsibilities is creating somewhat of a textual collage of experiences. Which will inevitably help us understand ‘the experience’ or something.
I’ll get to ‘Tis at some point, maybe even by the end of the summer. Right now I’m reading through Italo Calvino’s If on a Winter’s Night a Traveler and Mark Vonnegut’s The Eden Express. I’ve been trying to get my hands on Calvino’s stuff for a while and my girlfriend gave me Vonnegut’s book for my birthday. Both of which are very optimistic, despite the two styles of desperation the works are showing. I’d like to write about both.
Stage Fright 