Why Do Women Hate Joyce Carol Oates?

March 30, 2010

Why are so many intelligent women I know so intensely critical of Joyce Carol Oates? It's a good question. Women are notoriously antipathetic toward their kind when it comes to giving professional or political support or due. The latter claim I'll support with just one name: Hillary Clinton.

But this is only one bothersome point concerning Oates, who is one of our best living writers, if not the best. The most pressing question remains -- Why hasn't she yet received the Nobel Prize for Literature?

This incredibly prolific writer has produced more than 50 top-notch novels at the rate of about two a year for the last 25 years. Not only has she brought forth novels, but stories, essays, poetry, children's and young adult fiction, plays, mysteries and more. She is in a realm all her own. In 1995, she won the Pulitzer Prize for What I Lived For. She has won the National Book Circle Award, the National Book Award and the O.Henry Award and many other prizes.

But never the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Why?

Could it be that those that judge writers for these kinds of prizes are mostly men and that Oates challenges or threatens the boys' club? Could it be that, along with this, women who write and women who are in a position of power where writing is concerned simply don't like Oates because they too are threatened by her or don't understand her or don't like her themes or taste?

Sad to say, it's probably due to a combination of all these reasons that she has not received the grand Nobel. But I believe her day will come, and I hope it's within her lifetime. She's 71 now, and she deserves it.

Concerning my first question, I can tell you about two recent experiences regarding the reaction of well-read female friends to JOC. I sent a friend who is recovering from surgery a copy of Wild Nights, a collection of stories published in 2008 about the final days of Poe, Dickinson, Twain and Hemingway among others that is perhaps the most compelling work of the imagination I have read in recent years. The story about Hemingway is simply astonishing, penetrating as it does Hemingway's psyche with such uncanny force and detail, it really takes the reader's breath away.

While appreciative of "the thought behind the gift," my friend made it clear that she is not a fan of JCO -- Oates is too "dark," she "assumes" reality, she is less intuitive than she is presumptious, asserted this friend.

Following this incident, a couple of days ago, Oates again came into the conversation as I discussed her with two other friends. One of them, a woman who works as editor at Pearson Education, (which, by the way, owns Penguin Group, which published Oates' We Were the Mulnaveys), grimaced at the mention of Oates' name, calling her work "too serpentine."

I now have this vision of Oates as a kind of Minerva spinning her tales, consuming delicate sensibilities in the wake of her powerful interest in dark subjects such as rape, violence and death and her "masculine" tastes such as boxing.

Frankly, what I love most about Oates is her long-time dedication to breaking down conventional notions of what a woman who writes is and what a woman who writes likes and what a woman who writes should think.

Oates, who is an avid runner and who married recently for a second time -- her first husband died not long ago -- teaches creative writing at Princeton University. Among her influences, she has listed Kafka and Flannery O'Connor. She claims that Sylvia Plath's sole novel, The Bell Jar, is an almost perfect work of art, and she has said repeatedly in interviews that she is best known for "Where Are You Going? Where Have You Been?" a story dedicated to singer/songwriter Bob Dylan and published in the 1960s. Oates is said to keep a diary of more than 4,000 single-spaced typed pages to which she now adds emails.

What I admire most about Oates is her uncanny vision, her extraordinary capacity to cut through the crap of myth and get to truths that matter. Favorite examples of this: Black Water, and Wild Nights. She disturbs and outwits, and rethinks the past and the future. What else is a writer supposed to do?

Bourdain, Again

March 6, 2010

"Context and memory play powerful roles in all the truly great meals in one's life." Anthony Bourdain

I've had a slip and must now confess. I've been at it again -- reading Bourdain. A Cook's Tour. I can't help it. The guy mesmerizes me. I want to live like he lives -- if, indeed, he does do all he says he does.

Of course he does.

All the meals, travel, drinks, late nights, exotic locales, amazing diversity of people.

But no live cobra hearts, thank you. I appreciate Bourdain's gusto, but don't need or want to savor his experience killing beings or watching them be killed, or even eating them. No thanks, not for me. That part is an ugly stain in an otherwise lovely relationship -- hard drinking without the hangover; gluttony without indigestion; endless travel minus jet lag and nausea. It's a present he gives a lot of people, who, like me, live vicariously through him.

I am loving A Cook's Tour. It was written in 2000, when Bourdain was still fresh off working the grill at Les Halles, a hunk of a cook stepping out into the world, trying on the hat of a traveling food journalist, and getting high off his experiences. That high rubs off on the reader, just like it does those who view his show, No Reservations. The man was at his peak then, enjoying his new life to the utmost.

He was peaking regarding his perceptions too, even his view of humanity, appreciating his amazing strokes of good fortune, primed to notice those not in a place of such luck. In Saigon, after seeing a toothless man with a face burned beyond recognition by napalm, Bourdain retreated to a hotel to stare up at a ceiling, transfixed, in tears, unable to eat "for the next 24 hours."

It was a glimpse of the sensitive guy, as opposed to the macho dude that usually wins out in his narratives.

There have been many other trips, meals and drinks since Bourdain produced A Cook's Tour. By his own account, he'll never work in a kitchen again, in this lifetime anyway. He tried going back. No Reservations captured that painful moment in which you saw Bourdain completely out of sorts in his old mold, barely able to get up off his knees, really struggling. His time was up.

Bourdain need not have regrets. He's found a better life, and one that I'll bet is feeding him a lot better financially than the one in the kitchen did. He has found better stories out in the world and more memorable personalities -- the wild success of his books and his show would seem to attest to that.

But I wonder if Bourdain still remembers that moment in Saigon. I like that sensitive guy. But you can't separate him from the dude who loves to watch a sheep killed and stripped and gets a maudlin thrill out of hearing its carcass thump in the back of a truck. No, you can't take that out of him, much as some of us would like to.

"Something Very Special," a chapter in A Cook's Tour, follows Bourdain's adventures in Morocco, and pretty much sums up his style. The chapter is short and bumpy, and like it or not, you get the good, the bad and the ugly. You'll oooh and aaah at the beauty and grit and wince in disgust, all in the span of a few pages.

There's an angelic Tony that flashes in cartoon form alternately with the Tony with horns at a corner of the screen at the start and in-between commercial breaks on his show. Here's a sample of the "good Tony" in A Cook's Tour:

"From the mosque next door came the nuezzin's call to prayer -- a haunting chant, beginning with 'Allahhh akbarrrrr' (God is great), which occurs five times a day all over the Islamic world. The first time you hear it, it's electrifying -- beautiful, non-melodic, both chilling and strangely comforting. Upon hearing it, you understand -- on a cellular level -- that you are now 'somewhere else.'"

And the "good Tony" vying with the "bad":

"I watched the poor sheep's eyes -- a look I'd see again and again in the dying -- as the animal registered its imminent death, that terrible unforgettable second when, either from exhaustion or disgust, it seemed to finally decide to give up and die. It was a haunting look, a look that says, You were -- all of you -- a terrible disappointment. The eyes closed slowly, as if the animal were going to sleep, almost willfully.

"I had my fresh lamb."

Along with this, you have sublime descriptions of shopping in Fez, a hysterical anecdote about being struck dumb before the camera and his host while high on hashish, all in one chapter about one place.

The man lives precariously on some indefinable edge, satiating himself from table to table, place to place while his eyes roam the horizon, longing for what lies around the next corner. I'd like to be in his flip flops, but with some sense of measure, equally transfixed, struck with awe and wonder, but compassionate too, and accountable.

Confessions

Feb. 13, 2010

I must confess that, as I prevailed in my reading of The New Yorker compendium edited by David Remnick, I was struck by not much and left about as cold as a vichysoise by the writing. Steve Martin drawing up a couple of imaginary menus -- one from an organic eatery, the other from someplace in Kansas where fat is akin to gold -- What is there to say about that? Or Woody Allen's brief spewing on the subject of fat? Sometimes TNY indulges, and these were indulgent little pieces published for the sake of a name.

But let me tell you what did impress me recently, even more than my reading. Friday night, I cashed in my paycheck and decided to take a friend out for some Japanese fare at a local eatery. We live near the Big Apple and boast some pretty fine restaurants here, despite the fact that we are actually separated from the culinary brain of the world by a bridge -- the GWB -- and a vast expanse of fetid water -- the Hudson River.

Into this notable little restaurant we stepped at about 9 p.m. It was cold inside, and we appeared to be the only non-Asians, so we made ourselves comfortable at a table, and were presented with an assortment of three menus each -- one with photos, for idiots (like us) who can't read Japanese; the other, a sushi menu; the last, containing a standard listing of appetizers, entrees and desserts, such as one finds at any establishment. We have eaten here before on less crowded nights during the week when only one or two other tables were filled. This night, only one or two tables were empty.

The place isn't really big. You know the sort it is -- a handful of rectangular tables under bright lights separated by a row of plants, with a sushi bar set in the corner.

Along came Madam, clunking in her small, strapped black shoes; black tights, black dress, black bun -- taut and hard. Her eyes perpetually squinched and her eyebrows arched and her lips perennially pursed, as if in an inverse question: "Oh? What is this? Who am I? Why do you want to know?"

She approached, and I asked, "Can you please tell me what this vegetable dish is?" The word "vegetable" was written before another indecipherable word, and I was curious, being a vegetarian, whether I might in fact be able to enjoy something here besides the Miso soup and Fried Tempura that I'd ordered on a previous occasion. Madam pursed her lips further, arched backwards and said, "Not for you. Only Japanese eat," and walked away.

It was a curious way to take an order, so we waited some more, and watched as she cleared and cleaned a couple of tables behind us. After she'd wiped them clean of varnish, she passed by again, and my partner said very nicely, "We're ready to order." She pretended not to hear and clunked away to the back of the restaurant, and that was that. We sat for another five minutes in a state of mild stupification, then my friend stepped to the back of the restaurant and broched the subject with the manager, who ignored her as well.

It was a conspiracy of ignoring, and it did not taste good. We stepped out feeling we'd trespassed into an establishment in front of which had been posted a sign we'd failed to notice that read, "You Are Not Allowed."

Was it something cultural we missed? we asked ourselves. Outside the restaurant, my extroverted friend parlayed about the incident with two English-speaking Asian females who had just dined where we were. "Was it some kind of cultural misunderstanding?" we asked again. Did I humiliate the waitress by asking her a question in English that she couldn't understand?

"No, she's just tired. She's probably really tired. She's the only waitress," said the woman, who answered.

In the car, on our way to Roberto's, where we enjoyed a very satisfying meal of stuffed mushrooms, Arugula salad with blood oranges, broccoli rabe and chocolate cake and espresso, I pondered the matter further.

Briefly, I imagined an Asian conspiracy in this city, where approximately half the inhabitants are Korean, and half their establishments bear signs that are unreadable. Often, it's hard to distinguish friendliness on a stiff expression, and fear and not knowing a language often make people seem stiff and removed. But it was not this, I know better. We know many nice, friendly Asian people. Our Korean Bikram teachers; the owner of another restaurant we frequent; a Japanese businessman who started a very worthwhile foundation in honor of his son; many of the members of our rotary. This wasn't about race so much. But what about gender?

What is a woman close to age 70 who speaks virtually no English doing, waiting on so many tables all by herself n an American locale? -- Perhaps she just helps her husband who runs the business, and perhaps she gets no pay. Maybe we just walked in too late.

"Too many tables. Too many orders, even if from my people. These new customers are just women. And my shoes are too tight."

Cheese, Please!

Feb. 8, 2010

"Cheese is the collective memory of France," a cheesemaker once remarked, according to Burkhard Bilger in his essay about cheese called "Raw Faith," published in 2002 in The New Yorker. It does seem as if all the best cheeses have a French connection or name -- Brie, Camembert, etcetera. But France is not the only producer of great cheese.

Did you know that the U.S. has long produced more cheese than any other country in the world? -- Eight and a half BILLION pounds in 2001, if you can fathom that!

Much of Bilger's essay focuses on Mother Noella Marcellino, "the cheese nun," an American expert on the subject. A PhD. in microbiology, Mother Noella has lived as a cloistered nun for more than 30 years; occasionally, she has been permitted to travel to do research on the subject of cheese.

While studying the history of French cheese caves in the 1990s, Mother Noella decided to focus on one particular mold -- Geotrichum candidum, "the wrinkly white mold that encases some of the greatest French cheeses." She makes cheese in a Benedictine cloister, the Abbey of Regina Laudis, in Bethlehem, Connecticut.

There is something sacred about cheese. Learning to both savor and appreciate it in its various forms has become a kind of quest of mine these past 20 years that I've been a vegetarian. It's the meat in my diet and the centerpiece of my favorite hors d'oeuvres and main meals, although I don't eat it all that often -- Favorite things remain favorite because they are not over experienced.

I first became aware of cheese when we moved to the United States and I encountered Velveeta. I was eight, and loved to rip the thick blue foil of the processed cheese package, and plunge my fingers into the soft, gooey, orange, made-for-kids mass, then suck it off my fingers. It was my favorite snack then. Fortunately, my tastes have evolved.

I've always loved soft cheeses-- therefore, Brie and Champignon. There is very little to say that's not delightful about the taste and sensation of these mushroomy cheeses, which I have enjoyed alone, on celery and carrot sticks, crackers, and best of all, on thin slices of fresh, crusty bread. Brie is synonymous with abundance, romance, parties. I can never get enough.

After Brie and Champignon is the semi-soft, fresh Mozzarella, or "motzarelle," as the folks in Jersey say. Try this for a delectable brunch -- sliced mozzarella and fresh tomatoes in a bowl of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, tamari, a dash of pepper, and basil leaves from the backyard, then scoop onto French bread.

Cheese lovers can satisfy their passion on the subject on the Web site, fromages.com. Is there a school for cheese lovers? Yes -- The Cheese School of San Francisco. It's one of a kind!

Some People Will Eat Anything (Redux)

Jan. 25, 2010

Caution: Some of the following material may cause indigestion.

I just finished a story about a fruit detective, another about harvesting oysters and another about rat eating. I must confess I've never eaten oysters, and don't have a desire to catch up on that missed experience. Ditto on the rats. I have no adventurous streak that would one day have me impulsively ordering rat soup, for example. And fruit in all its varieties is also low on my must-eat list.

So, there you have it, I'm not fond of either rats or fruit. But, if hard pressed to eat one or the other, say, if I was locked up in a basement, being held for ransom with a bunch of other kidnapped people, and in the meantime was being told by my captors, "Bag to the right, or bag to the left for your only meal" -- the bag to the left, with a lot of squirming going on; the damp bag to the right, emitting a sweet stench -- I'd take the bag to the right, thank you, and nosh on those nice white apricots at the top until the money comes.

Some experts claim you should never bite into an oyster, that the way to eat one is to swish it around in your mouth a couple of times before swallowing it, say, with a gulp of beer. Other experts insist you bite firmly at least once into an oyster, or else it will sit live inside your belly.

The guy harvesting the oysters in the article I read, asserted, "When I eat an oyster, I feel I'm connecting to something primordial." I say you're in trouble man if that's what it takes to connect you to the primordial. Gaze at your navel for a while. That'll do it. It's less expensive, cholesterol-ridden or daunting. No shells to pry open.

And no slurping or chewing options to ponder.

I say, don't bite into anything that can duplicate itself or what it contains in your belly.

And as for those rats. Let me say a thing or two about what some cultures can consume without so much as a thought about what they're killing or how they are doing it. I saw a television program once that showed animals in cages at the back of a restaurant in China, and showed customers pointing to what they wanted.

"I want that dog," said the giggling woman. "I want that cat," said her son. And so forth. I also saw a man with a knife in the back of that restaurant peel the coat off a cat while it was still alive. The stripped cat stood quivering and in shock before being placed in boiling water -- still alive. Just to satisfy the appetite of a customer.

(And while we're at it, let's ponder the quandary of a lobster).

What kind of people do this, or care not a whit about what a being feels -- Not even care to wonder, accepting only what's always been done, and believing the myths about how it might serve you. Why bother considering the rat or its pain, it will put more hair on your head. Who cares that that cat doesn't want to die yet, it will endow you with a lively spirit!

What follows then if a child is in pain, but you stand to get a lot of money if it dies. It stands to reason that a people that don't care how beings feel, only about how they might serve you, that focus only on the end not the means, would let a child die too if it brought in some cash -- without thinking twice about it.

I can't fathom the lack of morality or heart, and sheer selfishness that the rabid killing of animals for pleasure represents. And I can't fathom ever going to countries where domestic animals are killed right on the spot for eating pleasure. It's bad enough knowing what's on most menus in this country!

You say the rats only eat fruit from the mountains, they're not city rats. That's fine. I believe you.

I've made my choice. I'll take my fruit, straight up.