Long Jerk From Sunday Morning to The Afternoon; Biden Out

I never heard of Hans Fallada until I was in prison. Before then, the only German novelists I knew were Erich Maria Remarque, Günter Grass and then Thomas Mann; neither I had read in full. The novel I read was Little Man, What Now?. He interested me because he stayed in Nazi Germany I did not know he kept a prison journal until I read Review: A Stranger in My Own Country, The 1944 Prison Diary by Hans Fallada By Thomas Sanfilip on Literary Yard.

In 1944, Hans Fallada was committed to a psychiatric prison after shooting a pistol off during an argument with his wife. He was to remain there for observation for an indefinite period of time. While there, he asked for pen and paper—a request that was surprisingly granted. Ninety-two sheets of paper, to be precise, on which he wrote a number of short stories and one novel. In addition, he kept a diary wherein he poured out his distain and hatred for the Nazi regime. He knew the risk, but forged ahead regardless. In order to conceal his words, he wrote in a mix of abbreviations and micro/calligraphic cryptography, turning the pages upside down and writing in the spaces between the lines in order to save paper. Two months later he was released, smuggling the diary out of the prison under his shirt. In writing the diary, his purpose was clear.

“I’ve told the story at some length in order to give the reader some idea of how, under the National Socialist regime, every artistic activity was inhibited and rendered almost impossible by the need to defer to the tastes and prejudices of senior government figures . . . They systematically took away from us our real work, they wouldn’t allow us to follow the call of our own heart. For them there was only one call, and that was the sound of them calling the shots. They are frightened of the individual and individuality, they want the shapeless masses into which they can drone their slogans. And they’ve done very well with that, especially during the war.”

One more book I would like to read and for which I have no time!

Another writer I read in prison was Balzac. Finally, I think that somewhere along the line, I may have tried reading him. Anyway, I read what I found in the prison library and, in my opinion, found where Faulkner got the idea for settling his novels in one local. He is worth reading. Then today, The Guardian sent its books newsletter and listed there was Balzac’s Paris: The City as Human Comedy by Eric Hazan review – street spirit.

Hazan’s peregrinations culminate in a thoughtful disquisition on literary realism, in which he suggests that the term itself is misleading. He points out that Balzac’s novels make no mention of the railways that were then proliferating in the city, or the new fortifications built in the 1840s; people with chestnut hair – the majority – are conspicuously under-represented in the Human Comedy, as Balzac preferred to populate his stories with characters who have either blond or jet-black hair.

Were this any other writer, the appropriate response would be: so what? He was a novelist, not an archivist. But something about the panoramic breadth and descriptive detail of the Human Comedy, with its cast of about 2,500 characters, has tempted generations of readers and critics to view it as something akin to a factual chronicle. Of course, the novels were only intended as entertainment. “Balzac,” Hazan quips, “is no more of a realist than Scheherazade”. Even so, the mythos of great literature bleeds into our sense of history.

Is any fiction, regardless of how much it is grounded in reality, not a fantasy?

I have mostly forgotten Zardoz, other than a very strange (the strangest?) Sean Connery movie. I have not seen it in over 40 years, then it was on HBO (I think). Now it is fifty years old, and Oscar Mardell has written an essay for 3am Magazine, Zardoz at 50. If you have ever seen the movie, read the essay. In my opinion, it is a movie that should be seen, so that people can see just how challenging film can be. There were plenty of films like this in the early Seventies before Star Wars proved there were big bucks to be made in mindless nostalgia. 

Why can I get nothing done? I get headaches and crashes for two hours. Then the computer gets balky.

After adjustments, "Road Tripping" went out to the Miami University Press Novella Prize, and to Sarabande Books. I sent "No Ordinary Word."

The latter acquired another rejection:

Hello! Us at the Groke want to thank you for taking the time to send over your writing. In our humble opinion, all writing is good writing and all art is good art. Unfortunately, though, we will have to pass on your submission. Please do not feel discouraged! We’d love to hear from you again! All the luck and best wishes,

The Groke

 Always Hungry | Thegroke.org

Lunch was a bowl of ice cream. The pork loins simmer.

I am off to do laundry. About 4 hours late. More later, maybe.

sch 3:33 pm

PS: Biden is out: https://s2.washingtonpost.com/3e6a587/669d5e2dd58c452cbbe8a689/61672d709bbc0f7ea8962b36/2/13/669d5e2dd58c452cbbe8a689