Writers: Dirtbags, History Denied, Advice From E.B. White

 RHP talks Dirtbags with Eryk Pruitt (Patreon) - a podcast, one that I found worth listening to.

In this episode Eryk joins Roger to talk about the origins of the book as an exercise in empathy and about how he might not be able to write something like Dirtbags today. If you like your fiction mean - think Jim Thompson's, The Devil Inside Me - and your conversations insightful and humorous, you should check this out.

Geovani Martins Wants Brazil to Stop Denying Its Past (Electric Literature)

WM: There’s a scene near the end of the book where Murilo, Biel, and Douglas—three of the central characters—find a bag with decades old photos of Rocinha. I was struck by their fascination and joy at seeing a piece of their home’s history. A kind of recognition takes place when they look at Rocinha’s past. At the same time, this moment underscores how little they know about that past. The fact that old images of Rocinha are preserved at all seems like a small miracle. I wonder if those pictures might be a metaphor for Via Àpia itself? And more so, why is the history of place in Rocinha so rare and unpreserved? Why are those pictures so exceptional? 

GM: A great Brazilian thinker, Millôr Fernandes, used to say: “Brazil has a great past ahead of it.” In other words, we were built as a nation that ignores its own history. There’s a strong political project rooted in denying our past. All throughout the 20th century, the dominant slogan was “Brazil is the country of the future,” which basically suggested we should stop thinking about what’s already happened and just look forward. So these gaps in historical knowledge aren’t exclusive to the favelas. They’re a problem that cuts across all social classes and territories.

That’s why it’s so important that they find those photographs. Because in that moment, we see the history of that place begin to unfold in front of their eyes. At a time when everything seems to be falling apart, they’re gifted—almost miraculously—with this realization that Rocinha has a history. And that realization makes them think that they too are part of that history, a story that’s still being written.

So yes, I’d say that moment of finding the photos is absolutely a metaphor for the book, both in terms of its ideological foundation and its formal construction.

I harp on Americans ignoring their history - or turning it into mythology - which is how we got MAGA and Trump, but ignoring history is not just for Americans, it seems. 

Writing Advice and Literary Wisdom from the Great E.B. White (Literary Hub) - I picked out these two to pass along.

On the writer’s responsibility:

A writer should concern himself with whatever absorbs his fancy, stirs his heart, and unlimbers his typewriter. I feel no obligation to deal with politics. I do feel a responsibility to society because of going into print: a writer has the duty to be good, not lousy; true, not false; lively, not dull; accurate, not full of error. He should tend to lift people up, not lower them down. Writers do not merely reflect and interpret life, they inform and shape life.

–from a 1969 interview in The Paris Review

On the role of the writer:

A writer must reflect and interpret his society, his world; he must also provide inspiration and guidance and challenge. Much writing today strikes me as deprecating, destructive, and angry. There are good reasons for anger, and I have nothing against anger. But I think some writers have lost their sense of proportion, their sense of humor, and their sense of appreciation. I am often mad, but I would hate to be nothing but mad: and I think I would lose what little value I may have as a writer if I were to refuse, as a matter of principle, to accept the warming rays of the sun, and to report them, whenever, and if ever, they happen to strike me. One role of the writer today is to sound the alarm. The environment is disintegrating, the hour is late, and not much is being done. Instead of carting rocks from the moon, we should be carting the feces out of Lake Erie.

–from a 1969 interview in The Paris Review

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