Read Online Although Of Course You End Up Becoming Yourself by David Lipsky - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Lipsky
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lady. [Michiko Kakutani, lead reviewer of the daily
New York Times
.] So I was sort of … guardedly excited, because I felt like this could either be a lot of praise, or it could also be a whole lot more public, you know, burning, basically.
And then I didn’t read it, but Michael called and said there was a review in … uh. Oh, I met the guy at the party. The man who’s married to McGuane’s daughter. Walter Kirn. And then Charis Conn called me and said, “Walter Kirn doesn’t like anything, and he really liked this.” And then I began to go, wow. I mean, “People seem really to like this.”
You know what he said?
I didn’t read it. I mean, I heard. People told me a couple of things that he said, which sounded to me really stupid. (Voice blocked by cigarette) ’Cause if I was on committees, it would so piss me off that …
[Walter Kirn,
New York Magazine
, 2/12: “Next year’s book awards have been decided. The plaques and citations can now be put in escrow. … The novel is that colossally disruptive. And that spectacularly good.”]
Didn’t go out to find it?
I went and found the
Atlantic
, because I was scared about Sven [Birkerts]. Look—it’s not like I’m, I’m not some
Buddha
. It’s just that, I’ve been through reading reviews before. They’re not for me. They always fuck me up. And I’ll
read
’em. But I’ve gotta like finish this book of nonfiction for Michael by like the end of April. And when that’s done, I’m gonna go ahead and freak out about this whole thing; I just can’t do it right now.
How’d it feel, though: “As if the book is a National Book Award winner already”?
I applauded his taste and discernment. How’s that for a response? What do you want me to say? How would
you
feel? I can’t describe it; it’s indescribable. You speculate and I’ll describe.
[Slightly mean/clever smile]
I’d feel I’d known all along it was OK, and here was someone actually saying what I’d hoped to hear said
.
Except you also know that—you know all along when something’s really good. But there’s the other part, that, “Oh no, this makes absolutely no sense to anybody else—I’m a pretentious fuckwad. People are gonna ridicule me.”
So it’s sort of like, um … here’s another part. You’ll like this, because this won’t make me look attractive at all. If you’re used to doing heavy-duty literary stuff—we’re talkin’ caviar for the general, that doesn’t sell all that well? Being human animals with egos, we find a way to accommodate that fact of our ego, by the following equation: If it sells really well and gets a lot of attention, it must be shit. It’s just generated by the hype machine.
Then of course the ultimate irony is: um, if your own thing gets a lot of attention and sells really well, then the very mechanism you’ve used to shore yourself up when your stuff didn’t sell well, isnow part of the Darkness Nexus when it does. And I’m still working that through. I’ve still gotta, I’m still worried that, Yeah, the book’s funny, and fairly fun to read. But it’s fun to read partly because I wanted to try to do something that was really
hard
and avant-garde, but that was fun enough so that it forced the reader to do the work that was required. And I think I’m worried that the fuss [his word throughout] is all about the book’s entertainment value, and that people will buy it on that.
Buy it for that reason—which is good, because Little, Brown makes money. But then they’ll read 150 pages and get that:
“Eeeew
. Y’know, this isn’t what I thought at all.” And then
not
read it. Which, I’ll … Yeah, all right. Avant-garde, or whatever you want to call, like, experimental fiction writers, we don’t write for the money. But we’re not saints. We write to be read. You know what I mean? And the idea of, OK, the book making a lot of money but not getting read, is for me fairly cold comfort. Although I’m certainly not allergic
New York Times
.] So I was sort of … guardedly excited, because I felt like this could either be a lot of praise, or it could also be a whole lot more public, you know, burning, basically.
And then I didn’t read it, but Michael called and said there was a review in … uh. Oh, I met the guy at the party. The man who’s married to McGuane’s daughter. Walter Kirn. And then Charis Conn called me and said, “Walter Kirn doesn’t like anything, and he really liked this.” And then I began to go, wow. I mean, “People seem really to like this.”
You know what he said?
I didn’t read it. I mean, I heard. People told me a couple of things that he said, which sounded to me really stupid. (Voice blocked by cigarette) ’Cause if I was on committees, it would so piss me off that …
[Walter Kirn,
New York Magazine
, 2/12: “Next year’s book awards have been decided. The plaques and citations can now be put in escrow. … The novel is that colossally disruptive. And that spectacularly good.”]
Didn’t go out to find it?
I went and found the
Atlantic
, because I was scared about Sven [Birkerts]. Look—it’s not like I’m, I’m not some
Buddha
. It’s just that, I’ve been through reading reviews before. They’re not for me. They always fuck me up. And I’ll
read
’em. But I’ve gotta like finish this book of nonfiction for Michael by like the end of April. And when that’s done, I’m gonna go ahead and freak out about this whole thing; I just can’t do it right now.
How’d it feel, though: “As if the book is a National Book Award winner already”?
I applauded his taste and discernment. How’s that for a response? What do you want me to say? How would
you
feel? I can’t describe it; it’s indescribable. You speculate and I’ll describe.
[Slightly mean/clever smile]
I’d feel I’d known all along it was OK, and here was someone actually saying what I’d hoped to hear said
.
Except you also know that—you know all along when something’s really good. But there’s the other part, that, “Oh no, this makes absolutely no sense to anybody else—I’m a pretentious fuckwad. People are gonna ridicule me.”
So it’s sort of like, um … here’s another part. You’ll like this, because this won’t make me look attractive at all. If you’re used to doing heavy-duty literary stuff—we’re talkin’ caviar for the general, that doesn’t sell all that well? Being human animals with egos, we find a way to accommodate that fact of our ego, by the following equation: If it sells really well and gets a lot of attention, it must be shit. It’s just generated by the hype machine.
Then of course the ultimate irony is: um, if your own thing gets a lot of attention and sells really well, then the very mechanism you’ve used to shore yourself up when your stuff didn’t sell well, isnow part of the Darkness Nexus when it does. And I’m still working that through. I’ve still gotta, I’m still worried that, Yeah, the book’s funny, and fairly fun to read. But it’s fun to read partly because I wanted to try to do something that was really
hard
and avant-garde, but that was fun enough so that it forced the reader to do the work that was required. And I think I’m worried that the fuss [his word throughout] is all about the book’s entertainment value, and that people will buy it on that.
Buy it for that reason—which is good, because Little, Brown makes money. But then they’ll read 150 pages and get that:
“Eeeew
. Y’know, this isn’t what I thought at all.” And then
not
read it. Which, I’ll … Yeah, all right. Avant-garde, or whatever you want to call, like, experimental fiction writers, we don’t write for the money. But we’re not saints. We write to be read. You know what I mean? And the idea of, OK, the book making a lot of money but not getting read, is for me fairly cold comfort. Although I’m certainly not allergic
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