When I first pulled a copy of Renata Adler's Pitch Dark off the dollar remainder shelves at the Strand sometime in the early 90s, I was intrigued, mysWhen I first pulled a copy of Renata Adler's Pitch Dark off the dollar remainder shelves at the Strand sometime in the early 90s, I was intrigued, mystified. ¿Que es esto? I was slaloming between the poles of philosophy and literature at the time and trying to get them to merge in some elegant way or at least not crash into a tree. I was grabbed there on 12th Street by how she alluded to Wittgenstein and Nabokov back-to-back, insisting that they belonged together, not to mention Scheherazade and a trapped raccoon and an affair which we see in the shadows and the wings and hear in echoes and stubborn silences. It was the first time I'd noticed a deckled edge on a book, and it seemed fitting for a thing that seemed to want to feel unpolished and shun smoothness of any sort. I went on to write my thesis on Wittgenstein and Adler, jazz improvisation and storytelling, symmetries made and broken, and other stuff that I can't remember anymore. Adler's book blew me away because it felt--in language and form alike--stripped down, yanked inside-out, exposed, nervy and raw. The words were like a row of naked defenders at a penalty kick that never quite happens, an ongoing state of uneasy vigilance itself the goal.
I bring this up now partly because Offill's writing recalls Adler's work, now celebrated (she's taken a Lazarus-like turn off the remainder shelf) in both form and tone, or maybe the better word is "pulse." Others have pointed out the connection, most notably Roxane Gay, who describes Offill's latest novel in the NYTimes Book Review as, "at times, reminiscent of Renata Adler’s 'Speedboat' with a less bitter edge." No question, Dept. of Speculation shares that quality of leaping from observation to observation, from memory to scholarly citation, anecdote to meta-anecdote, teeming with musings on marriage and motherhood, teaching, getting from point A to G, and the quiet, often hidden slapstick that can accompany each of these. There are fewer non-sequiturs in Offill, fewer head-scratching moments; she's quite easy to follow. I'm partial--pun intended, I suppose--to this form, which seems to be a counterweight to our longing for continuity. For doesn't a long, thick novel, broken only at the chapter-joints, promise us that we can sink in and immerse ourselves, that it will envelope us wholly (I'm thinking about you, two out of the three Pulitzer fiction finalists this year)? And I'll admit, I'm hardly immune to the allure of being swept away like that by the high tide in an ocean of prose.
But reading Offill reminds me of the pleasures of the staccato, the skittery, the odd and end, the pond and the puddle. Of course, the tradition of the fragment goes back long before Adler, and as a literary and epistemological phenomenon has been lauded by people like David Shields--even had its moment on the Colbert Report. The form goes back to Heraclitus at least, and his love of tension and contradiction are evident throughout Speculation, though Offill also names a bunch of other early philosophers, from Thales to the Stoics, rather than planting a stake firmly in one patch of philosophical ground. To borrow Zadie Smith's metaphor of literature as a "big tent," Offill's tent is small but somehow roomy, and bustling with entertaining company.
I'd say the book succeeds as well as it does by altering our sense of proportion, as we acclimate to its rhythms, its spaces and gaps, its refusal to step back too much and take in any grand view. There are real facts and pseudo-facts, definitions and redefinitions, jokes and inverted jokes, lists and indices, scientific précis and sampled lyrics and imagined conversations and confessions. Together these make their own tides. One of the most powerful strands in the book is that of outer space, and in particular of the Voyager missions, including the "Golden Record" of sounds assembled by Sagan and Co. to showcase humanity in all its (non-sexual and non-violent) glory to some alien version of eyes and ears. Apart from going behind the scenes and delving into the private lives and romantic entanglements of the scientists behind Voyager, reminding us how human they were all along, Offill aptly describes these missions as "messages in a bottle, but thrown into outer space rather than the ocean." As she points out, one will pass within 1.7 light-years of the red dwarf Ross 248 in a mere 40,000 years. What, in other words, could be more fragmentary than flinging this splinter of humanity into the void; yet, too, what could be more grand and tinged with hope? ...more
Possibly our greatest living sprawling miniaturist, Aira stirs rich helpings of thought and provocation into this compact novel, all while keeping itPossibly our greatest living sprawling miniaturist, Aira stirs rich helpings of thought and provocation into this compact novel, all while keeping it moving forward like some eddying but relentless stream. Aira both celebrates and pokes fun at the sort of intellectual conversations that eschew "gossip, soccer, health issues, or food" in favor of headier matters, i.e. "history and philosophy." In this case, a single conversation about a single scene in an action movie becomes the pretext for exploring any number of issues, from that of whether reality can be said to have multiple levels to the question of why verisimilitude matters at all. This single Conversation-of-conversations takes several twists and turns, and in spite of a certain timelessness, wherein the work verges on a sort of Platonic dialogue, it winds up addressing our contemporary condition of fragmentation and constant interruption, our harried selves. The internet is never mentioned, but one senses its insistent rhythms and leaps lurking along the edges, along with a Wikipedia-like obsession with minutiae and cultural marginalia. More personally, however, Conversations swept me back to my own seemingly endless conversations (though in retrospect, each came to an end) with friends, while walking or on the phone late at night or slothed out in an armchair, conversations which veered anywhere and everywhere according to a whimsical logic and felt frustratingly inconclusive yet somehow rewarding. At their ends you could always hear the other person's voice, still resounding in your ears and even continuing the dialogue in imagination, as when I play the trumpet I can still feel my lips tingling after setting the instrument down. The book made me more than a little nostalgic for those nights (always, they were nights). Maybe Aira's greatest achievement here is his way of conferring on conversations a quasi-physical form, a status somewhere shy of sculpture but surely well beyond mere sound-wave ephemera. I've lost those conversations with friends, lost some of the friends, but this book makes me think that perhaps they are not lost, only suspended somewhere in time, cast aside by the exigencies of the day, waiting for the right action film or football game or cheese-tasting or chance encounter to re-ignite them back into being.
Other pluses: 1) It fits in your pocket 2) You can read it twice in one night, which is like reliving the conversations which are already being relived in the narrator's mind, so you are acting in the spirit of the book, 3) Did I mention that there are toxic algae and a glowing owl?...more