Category Archives: “Knowledge is Death”

Many if not most of the stories in my present effort are told from first person. One or two are told from the omniscient point of view, author as all knowing, god-like, Jehovah, commonly known as third person point of view. Rest assured that there are library shelves heavy with teaching guides on how to accomplish first and third person, distinguishing all the literary aspects for the learning writer as to which is the best authorial stance to take. I am not particularly enamored of third person storytelling although a good part of me would like to be better at it. I see this as a “failing,” but I relish the first person tale because of its immediacy, its happening in the present, its “now-ness.” I have long accepted that I will never be a “significant” writer for too much of my life has been spent living the life of a worker, father, parent who had to put aside whatever creativity I had to take care of my family (boo hoo). I have no complaints about that; I wrote when I could. I was never an academic or a literary person but someone who had his song to sing and I have done the best I could at it. I came from lower middle-class shit and I did my best to emerge onto land where I spent too many years just croaking rather than moving on from the slime. I barely escaped being blue-collar.

I favor telling my tales from first person because the tales themselves are disguises for all the issues that have assailed me over these decades. Short essays are particularly attractive to me because I can exercise my philosophical bent of mind which after all these years I attribute to a romantic distortion of a kind — a search for answers, I suppose, rather, a search for better questions to ask. I like the epiphanous essay or story.  (Winesburg, Ohio readily comes to mind. Anderson was one hell of a writer.) As I look over the manuscript I’m working on I can detect some old flaws, a kind of ornateness of style, repeating images more than once as if the reader was a dunce and could not get it the first time around and a certain tendentiousness. So when I go about editing I try to cut out this dead wood repetitiveness. Unfortunately, as I am experiencing it now, the entire story may have to be thrown away for it lacks drive or life. The vibrancy has been killed by the need to advocate or “rub” it in.

My life has a strong dose of striving to it. For a while I thought it was a need to transcend, as I might sprout wings and ascend to a heaven I don’t believe in, don’t want and find ludicrous. It was striving, a need to overcome, to excel, to be intellectually ambitious — or in plain talk, a need to be loved or cherished. I think it is best that whatever insights I have into my childhood and young adulthood come to me now as I age and reflect, because at an earlier time I think I wouldn’t know what to do with these self-clarifications. At a time in my very early adolescence I thought nocturnal emissions were given off by street buses late at night. I was a child of benign neglect but reared in basic and honest ways — it was insufficient, alas. I struggled to learn, that is for sure, to get out of the economic morass I found my family in. I lived in city projects — they were relatively safe in the Fifties. I had no awarness that we were poor — I ate enough, clothes were good and new, I did not suffer from want. I suffered from a lack of mothering and fathering. I have made up for these emptinesses as best as I could, but second hand clothing is not as good as newly bought duds. In my writing is all of this, in my writing is empathy for me, perhaps sympathy for you, but essentially my tale of woe as I have lived it. No matter what I write I am deeply involved in it. And when I write about the Holocaust i really am writing, in part, about my life which to a degree has been a holocaust of a kind. Deaths and more deaths parade about me, estrangement from relatives and a child, loss of a daughter to suicide, divorces and personally unresolved issues that linger to this day.

It is mildly ironic that I favor first person, because I am the first person in my life. First person is tactile, in your face, authentic, present, here and now. At times as I revisit these stories for editing I am only burnishing their skins while a reworking or rearrangement of the structure of the stories might be more useful — but I resist doing that. Here the writer, me, is struggling with the writer, me, about adding another character or writing from the third person point of view. I see the resistance, it is palpable. Perhaps you have experienced this as well when writing a story, essay or paper. You just have had enough of it and to considerably rework it is a pain in the ass, regardless whether such an effort might improve the very story itself. I know as students we have all faced that, especially when new data for a paper upset the whole applecart which was your original theme. Consequently I am at the point with these stories that I may just have to let them cook a while longer.

The realization that most of these stories about the Holocaust are in first person is troubling, as if I can’t tell them from another perspective or unconsciously I choose not to do so. When you write about the Holocaust I believe that one must feel in ways that almost stretch or, in fact, go beyond empathy into some other telling — and compelling — space. At times I can walk in a survivor’s shoes, for my imagination is very good — very good at that. But imagination does not a story make. Here craft and art take over. Here I struggle to put the gem into facets.

So I fritter away my time tinkering at the stories knowing full well that in many instances they have not become realized. What is one to do? I will wait. And it will come to me or it will not.

Before I begin this howl, I’ll define Yahoo as a lout, brute and coarse human being, the term itself derived from Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels. I vaguely recall reading this fabulous book in the early years of college, thinking it was written for kids. Was I wrong! For the past year I tried to market my book by going to “literary” blogs, reading up a little on the blogger, scanning some of the books read in order to get a sense of the blogspot as a reasonable market for my book. I have seen hundreds of blogs, having sent my book out at least 137 times. And I have read the reviews of the book and now I have a biased (admittedly) perspective on bloggers and blogging. I write in hyperbole, so adjust accordingly. Exceptions are always the case (see my links).

There appears to be a social phenomenon on blogs. It is often called “the challenge.” The blogger sets a pre-determined amount of books to read in a year; or the blogger decides to read at least 25 books on Nazi Germany; the blogger invites suggestions about other books on a topic, compiles a list and merrily goes on to read these books. Assuming the books are read from cover to cover, some bloggers boast that they have read so many books in a year or have completed the challenge as described. Other bloggers laud them. Interactivity about the challenges met strokes each blogger for his or her achievement.

When I was taking a graduate course in English I recall the professor saying that when he prepared for his course on Henry Adams he was lucky if he got through 8 pages per hour, given the notes he wrote in the margins, the symbolism being employed causing him to reflect and reconsider. The point has always been to me that it is the careful reading of prose, the idea that great books need great readers and not how many books read that is the measure of the experience. One does not gather and collect books. One engages books. One examines, one gleans, one fixates on a concept, rolls an idea about in the hallways of one’s mind. Not bloggers. It is consumerism at its worst. Look, I have a library in my house and I can hear the books groaning on the shelves so filled are they with the wisdom of mankind. Bloggers who set challengers remind me unremittingly of Don Quixote, who demented himself by reading tales of knight erranty; isn’t that only one of Cervantes satirical barbs? I will not explore here the difference between illusion and reality in that work for that is not for the “book challenged.”

Consequently a part of blogging is the “challenge” and is yahooism of an “intellectual”
kind.

Another aspect of blogging reflects the ignorance of the blogger, call it being undereducated or not au courant in the field. I offer a book of short stories to be reviewed and some of the complaints voiced reflect little knowledge about short stories. Demands are made for plot, or discontent with the subject matter as if “dark matter” (think Poe) is uncomfortable, which it is for some of these bloggers. Books are comfort food for many of them and they readily dismiss books without a second read or perhaps the first read is shallow, lacking introspection. I sense that books should please and not discomfort. Interesting. I get bird-brain observations about how long the story should be, or how short; I hear shallow thoughts about why the novel is superior to the short story because there is more to read ! It is to say that I look only at murals and I dismiss sculpture. A narrowness prevails for these bloggers, revealing a weak background in the very subject matter they presume to evaluate. These are not critics — often savagely reviewing the writer — nor readers, nor reasonable evaluators; rather, they are Costco customers rummaging through jeans or sneakers. The pretense at being educated and well-read is pronounced and in hilarious poor taste. The personal posturing they give to themselves is worthy of a Swiftian barb. They are cultural boors.

When I am personally displeased with another human being, when I encounter insensitivity or boorishness, when I meet up with shallow hypocrisy I often say to that person: “You are not a serious human being.” Many bloggers are proto-humans blaring forth how cultural and critically wise they are. This is, again, intellectual yahooism.

Of course, blogging reeks of a mutual admiration social club, stroking one another’s reviewing skills, commenting on how interesting the other’s blogger’s life is; citing such fanciful things as a blogger’s birthday, pictures of her spouse, pictures of her pets, of recipes mixed in with reviewing books; I have seen trees, mountains, lakes, the natural world all on a blogspot. The blogspots call out: ME…ME…ME. The saturated fats of these blogspots require heavy doses of Lipitor. And amid all this sound and fury signifying self-importance is some underclass sense that reviewing books may give the appearance of intellect and social consciousness. Oh, sure.

A need to be important, to feel cultured,  to interact, all atwitter, a need to posture and pose like putting your foot forward in a Michael Kors shoe is the abundant blogosphere I have encourntered this past year. Marketers argue that to become noticed as a writer on the web is to leave comments at the site.  At first I did so,  often educating about the short story or to thank the blogger for a review well done. I was not motivated by selling my book — sometimes I was. However, as I scanned these comments it was like jumping into a pool of chicken fat, gelatinous self-congratulatory ooze. One time I engaged the reviewer and asked what he made of the mother in my story. He slapped back with the short sentence that he reviews what he reads, no more, no less; oh, how open and intellectual you are, how accessible to hear another idea. He is a dead human being, but his answer was so lacking in social skills, so loutish that this too is another one of my conclusions — the boors are in charge. Our culture is in charge, running rampant over the web. I am so glad that through hard-work, years of treatment, more years working on myself, on deconditioning my self I have arrived at a personal place where my crap detector senses shit all about. I said a few paragraphs back that I am writing now using hyperbole; that is so. Dear reader, it also is not far from the fact of the matter.

Pretentiousness. Savagery. Cruel Malaciousness. This extended example is true. I queried one blogger with my usual query letter. I received an e-mail in which she tweezed out all the so-called grammatical errors I had made; made observations about the query in that it was not up to standards and if I wanted my book reviewed, in essence, shape it up. More comments were made and I was so stunned. She could have not answered. She could have answered and said that at this time she’ll not review my work for whatever reasons. We call this politeness, or having social skills. The note was bereft of civility. After all it was a query. It reminded me of those English teachers who on subliminal levels savage a student’s paper down to the kind of ink he or she used. Her email was vicious, unnecessary and plain awful.

I thought about it and then decided to respond. In short, I labelled what she had done — a prig; I labelled her criticisms — anal-retentive; and I labelled what I believe to be her essential character disorder — narcissitic. She did not reply back. I never forwarded a book to her, let that be clear. However, six months later I googled the book and her review came up. (Imagine the purchasing or borrowing of the book, the waiting game, the malignant thinking process.) The book was not only dismissed, it was raped and savaged; wait a minute, not the book, but me. She reviewed me, having harbored this malice for some time. This is one disturbed chick. I felt I was being tortured by a Nazi. It was a very cruel event. I never responded. What was appalling is that her conclave of fellow reviewers joined in as she uploaded my response to her; I don’t believe she uploaded her original comments to me. In any case a slew of followers agreed with her assessment and launched an attack upon me, not the book. When I shared this incident later on with Sabrina Williams of breenibooks.com, she wrote back “Holy cow.” I do not exaggerate that this was a scene reminiscent of “The Lottery.” The blogger identifies herself as an “English Major,” that she has been recently married (poor dumb bastard!), and has no record of having publishing anything other than pictures of her feet and herself frolicking on the beach at her wedding to the poor dumb bastard.

All this was appalling. What is salient with this child was her image of herself, her picture of some kind of literary grandee, of being Maxwell Perkins, of correcting all those errors that mortal  writers send to her known as books. The grandiosity is monumental, but the sheer madness of it all is disturbing. Not one of her camp followers dissented, not knowing me at all; the human herd response in all its panoply was clearly represented. Granted this is an egregious blogger, but a consequence of a blogosphere that reflects inordinate self-importance, moral flatulence, the uneducated literary inmates being in charge.

A few final thoughts. Often bloggers will lust for a book after a query is made and then take months to respond, often as a prompt by a query by me. I understand magazines taking 6 months or so; I am used to that. Here is a book of 133 pages and often the delays are inordinate. Recently I had one blogger excuse herself with a paragraph of neurosis about her need to delay or to put off — review the book or don’t review it; sometimes bloggers ask for a book and then tell me that they choose not to review it and then choose not to return the book. A query was answered, a book was sent, the book was not read, and I the blogger now keep it; interesting. You are not a magazine, honey! Again, I help to fill up their libraries. Some bloggers waffle in that they say they’ll not review the book if they feel they don’t like it. I can’t get my mind around that. I submit a book and as the writer I’ll take the heat. A reviewer reviews. Don’t worry about my feelings. Review the book. It is an odd position to take. Or is it. Perhaps it is Americana — we have to be nice to one another, shoving chicken fat up one another’s asses. Yeah, that’s it.

This howl has said it all up to this point. I have no sweeping generalization to make except that blogs simply are cypher-visuals of peacock strutting human beings, some of whom imagine they are literary critics. And so it goes.

This blog will twist and turn because I have too much mentation floating about with regard to trains.  Several commentators have observed that the Holocaust is synonymous with the scheduling of trains during the Nazi era. Cattle cars shuffling along track for hundreds of miles and depositing Jews into death camps was a daily fact. In fact, if I have my history correct, Hitler gave these cars rail priority over the shipment of armaments.

Recently, after some consideration, I’ve decided to change the cover of The i Tetralogy. I discussed this with my son who is a graphic designer and artist as well as my fiance, Jane, who wrote the introduction to my book of short stories. At the moment I thought a photo of railroad tracks which my son took some time back, with the help of photoshop and all that jazz, might serve as a new cover.  We would change the color of the cover, perhaps brown, and “skeletonize” the tracks so that they appear to be lethal, mysterious, if not deadly, an abstraction. Jordan will cogitate over all this and surely come up with an original cover; it is becoming a family tradition for him to do the covers of my book.

In the Tetralogy I spend not an inconsiderable time describing the train set that Gunther, the Nazi guard and tormentor, sets up in his home. The train set is a layout of a Nazi camp he once ruled sway in. The trains are HO scale and are Marklin. Marklin trains are a world-class train company based in Germany. They are the American Lionel, if you will. I remember ordering the Marklin catalog in which they described at least five historical periods in which Marklins were produced, the cars, the scenery, the tenders, and all the rest. I teased out what locomotives and what cattle cars –or freight, would be used to carry Jews and other victims to the camps. I found it “amusing” that the years 1939 to 1945 were either not discussed or described. Orwellian, to say the least. Having operated trains as a kid in addition to doing this research for accuracy, I then created a narrative about the trains Gunther used in his dank and despicable train set, a grotesque remembrance of things past. The description of the train set has several pages to it and becomes part and parcel of Gunther’s sons childhoods. No one knew in the family what the real intent of the layout was as he went about disguising it; in short he got off on it.

Looking back at it now, I realize on several levels I was digging as hard as I could, using imagination, whatever skills I had as a writer, to dwell in his heart of darkness. The Marklins allowed me in. As i said at the start, I will twist and turn as this goes along. When I was about to be bar mitzvahed, my mother cooked all the food for the event as we were not well to do and catering was out of the question. Parallel to this is that I had a Lionel train set, the three rail track which always looked unrealistic, the classic figure eight layout with a locomotive and tender and, I believe, it is 54 years ago! three pullman cars. It was the kind of set that you placed a pellet into the smokestack and it did emit an acrid, still sweet to my memory, smoke from the stack. I had some kind of tower with a plastic globe about it, when turned on and warmed up,  consquently turned casting its glow across the tracks. It was a shared train set as my two uncles, Bernie and Seymour, made it a tradition to purchase a new car or freight each holiday season, which in those days for Jews was Christmas. Jews only got their bonuses on Christmas. You had to experience this set with the lights off. If memory serves me right, certain accessories like station crossings, long gone from memory now, alas, had red bulbs that glowed in the dark, bells and whistles, no pun intended. It was thrilling.

Realizing that the cost of the bar mitzvah was shy necessary funds, my father took me aside and asked if would I mind if he sold the set to raise money for the ceremony. It was the 50s, a time of repressed feelings and little straight talk. I acquiesced without a word, so passive was I. As I wrote elsewhere I gave up something that I cared for so much for something else that I did not care for that much. In retrospect my father should have dug ditches to Newark from Brooklyn to raise the cash. Oh, the historic ache. My son Jordan has shared with me how upset he was when his mother disposed of his Hans Solo Millenium Falcon that he had admired as a young boy. Not quite the same thing. The train set of that time, of my time, had signifcant emotions attached to it. I most likely would have kept it until this day and passed it down to my son or daughter, for I am that kind of person. Not nostalgia, not sentimentality, but remembrance, for I was a child who noted the changing of the days by the objects in my environment, the seasons, the unique or not so unique toys, the Spaldeen, the Rawlings mitt and the Raleigh three-speed English racer — I got that for my bar mitzvah.

And now to recrudescence, that which is latent now becomes manifest. Since 2001 when I came upon the n scale American Orient Express  train set put out by the European Arnold/Rivarossi firm, I have been feeling the need to get back into trains once more. In the last month the infection has spread as I am surfing the net about n-scale trains, manufacturers, articles, what are the best trains, what are the best books to read. Decisions and decisions. The funny thing about getting into train sets is that you need to hold your breath and not rush in — very difficult to do. Given my Art Deco and Art Nouveau sensibility, I am taking my time and enjoying the evaluating of this train versus that one; I live on ebay as a break from writing. When I see it, I’ll buy it. In any case, what are we to make of all this — Holocaust and trains, trains of my childhood and now trains of my final childhood? What is the compelling, almost gravitational pull that these moving trinkets hold on me, down through the years. It is not by accident that I write about trains in the Tetralogy, for I describe these demented layouts with a passion. Is it displacement? No psychspeak, please.

It is just curious, oh is it curious, what time, latitudinal time, time that circumnavigates ourselves as we choo choo to our end and here would be the appropriate place to cite a poem, a Nazi poem! that appears in the book.

Page 221 from Gunther’s Lament

When I hear in mind the choo choo, I call out Jew Jew . . .

Choo-Jew. Choo-Jew. Choo-Jew.

When I see in mind the cattle doors unlock, I hear again

in mind — Moo-Jew. Moo-Jew.

Moo-Jew. Moo-Jew.

As the train wheels clackety-clack away, the fraught engineer

takes a swig of his whiskey, for the trip is filled

with Jew offal and the keening of Jewesses.

I hear once more the sweet mechanics of repetition.

Trains ran on time, trains were time, the mechanical

marvels that rode on rail and gave us all time not on

a dial, but the latitudes and longitudes fo tracks

piercing time, clocking it off station by station.

Choo-choo Jew. Choo-choo Jew.

Time brings everything.