M. Sarki's Blog: Mewl House

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John the Posthumous by Jason Schwartz

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


The importance of being Jason Schwartz is the lone fact that we need him. There is no one writing in the English language today that is on the level and measure of Jason Schwartz, and that even includes that McCarthy fellow. Yes, Cormac writes a strain more manageable than the virus that exists in John the Posthumous, but the works are both biblical. A clever writer on the periphery might think that a mere reference book laid out beside you could produce something of the sort these pages have listed, in order, between the covers of this OR book. But I don’t think so. Merely compiling lists fail to manage their dance on the page (in this case a waltz) as the words of Jason Schwartz do. I have always likened him to a poet of the first rank and that is probably the reason I enjoy reading his work.

To be fair I suppose I will have to give credit where credit is due. Gordon Lish found Schwartz first. But that doesn’t mean that I too can’t champion him. If you happen to read the full page praise at the very front of the book you can see the Lish that I am talking about. For only the right reason he might just explain.

Schwartz never, in any story I have ever read by him, explains anything. He is long-suffering in that regard and he makes it very hard on the lesser readers among us. It helps to have an open mind. And reading Schwartz is no guarantee you will come out of the experience feeling any smarter than when you first went in. But you won’t be numb. You will have what for some of us is called an abundance of feeling. “Unexampled” is how Lish likes to term it.

John the Posthumous by Jason Schwartz is a series of connections in digression. Historical fact, academic and theological reference books, all seem to be sitting at the side of his desk or writing table in case, and he does, wish to consult them and enter his findings and tabulations into his text. Of course, there are also the fictions which when connected appear to also be of some fact and enter also into his reporting. But Schwartz is not The Nightly News and he rarely resembles any news anchor we have ever gotten comfortable with on TV. I am not sure that Jason Schwartz can even be trusted. At least he doesn’t appear to be anyone who…and it feels I have already gone too far in my own assessments and have become what I refer in my house as a haglund in my posture now with my too judgmental nature. The writer and professor Schwartz is a completely other matter in that he most certainly is a stand-up guy. But it is because of the narrator of this book that one can be made to feel not quite so sure about him as a person. In other words, the fiction behind the words is sometimes scary. But still we go on, and it is as if we must.

What is remarkable, at least to me, is the seriousness in which the narrator takes himself in these studies, or stories if you wish me to be precise, and the pleasant conversational tone he employs, I suppose, to put us at ease. But that is anything but what I feel when I am reading him. My head is spinning much as Beelzebub in a horror film, but still I am comfortable that Schwartz, the man, will protect me from some fateful fall from a height in which I could not survive. My words here are not meant to scare you, or even suggest you not read him for fear of any danger to your person too often, or too much, in the presence of. Not at all. I love this guy and you will too if you just hang on as if on some scary ride. His rails and machine are both in good working order. One must always keep an eye on the prize.

One problem you are sure to encounter while reading Jason Schwartz is you will not be privy to what his master plan is. It becomes obvious immediately that he has researched his subject well though he rarely gives us hints for what his greater subject is that dictates the hours of long research and the scribbling that come after them. His motive from the very beginning has to be clear even to the most stubborn ones among us. Schwartz means to entertain. He has no other agenda than to impress upon those of us reading that language makes our lives and history most certainly worthwhile though the outcomes might not establish themselves as beneficial or as gratifying as we may have initially hoped for.

From page 24: “August arrives in due course, the color of a statue or a hatchet.” He continues on to say in the next paragraph of one line, “But this does overstate it somewhat.” Lines such as these please me and draw a laugh out from me or at least gets from me a smile.

I have heard no few complaints regarding the tendencies of Schwartz to categorize, to countlessly enter items in such a way as to suggest an extensive laundry list. But these no few have failed to get the gist of this somewhat scientific aptitude. Make no mistake about his creative use of hard nouns, things I might say, that add credence to what he is talking about in his setting down of place. It is what we must want ourselves to occupy, but instead he does it for us. As Lish has often taught as strategy, Schwartz himself does supersaturate. There is often a bit much etymology, but not enough even for my personal taste. I love knowing where words originated from even if they have been made up. I have no proof of this as I never cross-reference the work I read in front of me especially if it is deemed already fiction.

It could be argued that for as much as Schwartz elaborates his fiction there is still too much left out and unknown to us. Sort of like entering through a locked door into an unknown house of some repute, though no one has lived to tell about it. Every page a new discovery into a further unknown, though we are getting to know each other more intimately. It is his life we share in, though it is made up and of another time.

The book is separated into three sections. The first being titled, Hornbook.

From page 38: “Thief ants occur inside decaying trees.” That sentence alone is a poem in my world of verse. And then on page 39, “See the bees atop the cinders.” A world of its own in which we might also inhabit, carefully.

And just when the going gets a bit too dangerous the narrator stops abruptly and says, “But now I have managed to trample the annuals again.” In context it is similar to taking a walk in the garden with an older, more tired and nervous version of our beloved Marlon Brando.

I am not sure how it happened that it seemed a kind and thoughtful father figure was talking to me and then all of a sudden the voice changed to a grandmotherly type. Perhaps a Mrs. Doubtfire, but that seems impossible and makes no sense to me at all. I must have been reading too much into the thing about that canopy over the bed ruining the children’s room and the way he finished with, “my dear.”

In the second section titled Housepost, Male Figure the narrator’s voice is proper and speaks kindly but with authority. He certainly doesn’t know-it-all. He is trying hard to get things straight, or right, or fixed into some sort of order for us. He is not afraid to fail though he most likely knows he must. We all do as well. But I think the serious and exactness of these facts and observations presented are meant as a way for all of us to connect, much as things in the stories also tend to do, and in their own sweet time. There is gratitude enough for all and also a bit of too much sadness. Sort of like a Neil Young song that is going to end badly no matter how much we wish it to be otherwise. But this may be prematurely unfair as I am just getting into this second section, though I doubt it as I have had numerous previous encounters with this same character. “Character is our fate” remember, and it doesn’t take a poet the caliber of Jack Gilbert to remind us anymore as I for one got it perfectly the first time back when so and so said it. But we are working on a story here and I am getting way ahead of myself.

From page 65: “The cord wound around a brass cleat.” It feels as if I am reading at times a found journal, trying to make heads and tails in an evidence room down at the local precinct. Or perhaps a diary or even some sort of confession. But more is always unknown and the rest is our imagination. It is frustrating and never clear, though the found objects insist on our understanding of them. Even less on the awful truth of what might have really happened. The house still stands as well as some of the proof of its prior existence. What was used in this crime may, or may not, still be leaning or wedged into a corner of the dusty room.

The knowledge presented in this book would take more than a lifetime or two to acquire. The research needed to inform ones self of the many trades and manners found here on the page proves that Schwartz works harder than both you and I. All we’ve had to do is read what he has written, enjoy the poetry of his verse, and attempt to add two plus two and somehow make it five. The problem seems to keep changing before our eyes, but the tone of jeopardy always remains insanely the same. It is a labor that for some would make crazy. And that is why this type of work is rarely read and too eagerly discounted. Lish has already gone on record as saying Schwartz is clearly taxing. And let that be a warning to you. But you are never better off dead when a guy like Schwartz can amaze you.

The third and final section is titled Adulterium, of which the meaning of the word is unknown to me but may be construed as having taken part in some illicit or unbecoming behavior with someone’s wife, or husband. The thread of cuckold continues here as do the objects contained as prior evidence.

How frightening when he says on page 93, “The ashpit attracts finches rather than bats, but the housecoat catches fire anyway.” What poetry is expressed from within our fear.

There is a way in which to read him. It is troubling not to begin, and more so when Schwartz appears so busy labeling. Our planet has never seen another writer like him, and I find it remarkable, and a stroke of luck, that we here do.

The narrator seems to think the reader sees the same things as he does. Or it is a ploy in which to irritate or make us look even harder. Perhaps a question for our selves to consider, and in ways a failure to get what is clearly right before our eyes. For example, from page 104, “A winding-sheet would imply contagion, despite the burlap sacks at the chapel wall.”

It is quite possible, and I expect it is regardless of what I think, that the longer one spends with sentences of John the Posthumous the more understanding through feeling is derived. The words are never pretentious, however a dictionary or etymological study could prove useful or else, in contrast, complications may also arise which were never initially intended by the author to begin with. In other words, too much study could prove harmful and our obsession should fare better by just letting go and having some fun along the way. And for me this idea does not seem at all preposterous. It is likely this work was meant for us to enjoy in whatever way we might have come across it.

The clues are scattered more than bread crumbs are wont to be and they lead our investigation into a more elaborate labyrinth of sorts if one is enough interested in which to pursue them. I prefer the easier and more casual walk among the daisies of his literature and prefer my senses to do the hard lifting instead of this more predictable cerebral pull toward definite answers and complete understanding. My method of reading should result in much less confusion and a more reliable accounting of my complete experience. It helps to know how to read him, but I have already stated that previously and in fact am sounding now a bit redundant. And as quickly as we have entered this rich world we are gone.



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Narratives Unsettled: Digression in Robert Walser, Thomas Bernhard, and Adalbert Stifter by Samuel Frederick

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I certainly loved this book and will revisit it from time to time. It is an inspiration to read such well-thought ideas about at least two of my favorite writers of all-time. My own thoughts regarding this master work and how it judiciously affected me in matters concerning a more personal accounting can be read here, if you are so inclined:

http://mewlhouse.hubpages.com/hub/Wal...



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The Tanners by Robert Walser

My rating: 5 of 5 stars


I wrote a longer, more personal and detailed review you may read here, if interested: http://hub.me/aeMjf

For the naysayers in our midst, the esteemed readers of so much other fiction to be themselves thought of in the highest esteem here because of their thoughtful and intelligent reviews but nonetheless discounters of the writings of Robert Walser based on previous books they read such as The Selected Stories and Jakob von Gunten, please note that these two books were translated by a man person by the name of Middleton and in no way should the other works by Walser that others of us love such as The Assistant, The Robber, and The Tanners be tarnished because, truth be told, these beloved three gems all were translated by an enormously talented lady by the name of Susan Bernofsky. She is the brightest star in the galaxy of German translations. Enough cannot be said in regards to the talent of Susan Bernofsky. She makes everyone better, reader or writer, male or female, and never disappoints.

I wrote a more personal and detailed review you may read here if interested: http://hub.me/aeMjf



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Winter Journal by Paul Auster

My rating: 4 of 5 stars


As much as I loved this book I do feel in some way Auster was a bit of a coward in some of his most frank honesty. I explain why here:

http://mewlhouse.hubpages.com/hub/Rec...



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