“Show business is a bit like guys that say, ‘You know, that hooker really likes me.'”

Jay Leno (quoted in Bill Carter, The Late Shift)

I love what OGIC wrote just below, and it reminded me of one of my favorite quotations about literature, which comes at the very end of C.S. Lewis’ An Experiment in Criticism. I’ve mentioned it before on this blog, but it seemed so relevant to what she said that I thought it worth repeating:

Literary experience heals the wound, without undermining the privilege, of individuality. There are mass emotions which heal the wound; but they destroy the privilege. In them our separate selves are pooled and we sink back into sub-individuality. But in reading great literature I become a thousand men and yet remain myself. Like a night sky in the Greek poem, I see with a myriad eyes, but it is still I who see. Here, as in worship, in love, in moral action, and in knowing, I transcend myself; and am never more myself than when I do.

What he said.

Over at Elegant Variation today, Mark Sarvas has a self-searching little essay about the way his literary tastes are changing as he grows older. The spur for his ruminations was reading two very different books in succession–David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas and Shirley Hazzard’s The Great Fire–and discovering that the artistically conservative Hazzard did a whole lot more for him. On the verge of turning 40, Mark’s not so sure how he feels about this:

But the truth is I like things a little quieter, a little slower. I like to linger. I like to peer inside. I don’t necessarily mind books where nothing much happens; because in life, it’s often the case that nothing much happens. I find that for my taste–and it is not much more than a question of taste–I prefer the quiet truths. I was struck by Stephen Mitchelmore’s recent post on his splinters blog, where he said: “Is there anyone else who gets excited, instead, by very short novels that do not rely for effect on clinical mastery, faux-naivete, ‘very old-fashioned entertainment’ and/or bad faith?”

When I read that, I jumped up and down pointing at the screen, shouting, “Yes! Yes! Exactly!” (It’s worth pointing out that [John] Banville closes his review of The Great Fire with these words: “Yet when the narrative leaves love to one side and concerns itself with depicting a world and a time in chaos, it rises to heights far, far above the barren plain where most of contemporary fiction makes its tiny maneuvers.”)

Still, these leanings trouble me. I often ask myself what I would have made of cubism when it first appeared. I’m a great devotee of Picasso and Braque today but I recognize that it’s with all the benefits of hindsight. Or would I have embraced Jackson Pollock forty years after cubism, or would I have derided him as Jack the Dripper? I like to think I would have recognized genius for what it was but I’m just not certain. (When I played in a rock band, I used to promise myself that my outlook would always stay young; that I’d one day be the sort of parent who knew and listened to the same music as my kids. Perhaps the fact that I played in a band that exclusively covered the Beatles should have been seen as something of red flag, but it’s hard to be heard above youthful intransigence.)

I’ve recently noticed some shifts in my own reading tastes that seem to signal nothing so much as that I’m getting older. For me, though, it seems a matter of wanting windows where I used to want mirrors. I’ve read enough novels about people like me having experiences like mine. Now I want to find out about the rest of the world. Much like Sam Golden Rule Jones here, I want, these days, to find the world itself in a novel. It might not be going too far to say that I want information from my fiction, however much that makes it sound like I should be reading the newspaper.

If it’s any comfort to Mark at all, I think there’s a way to see an artist like Hazzard, however traditional her methods, as anything but conservative. I haven’t read The Great Fire yet; I’m saving it up for a moment when I need some surefire rapture. But what was so enthralling to me about Hazzard’s Transit of Venus was that it dared to try to be true–always a long shot. That sort of vision, and conviction to it, is a hook that postmodernism can make it easy for a writer to–rather conservatively–wriggle off of. So stop worrying, Mark, and have a liberally pleasurable birthday.

Three more readers chime in on “About Last Night”‘s topic du jour:

– “Reading your post on the effect of technology on the written word, I
noted your statement that no one in his right mind would write a 5,000-word essay with a fountain pen. My personal preferences aside, I feel
obliged to point out that Neal Stephenson, an author known for his
cutting-edge science fiction, wrote all three of his most recent books
(totalling nearly 3,000 pages) by hand, with a fountain pen. Whether
Mr. Stephenson is in his right mind or not is up for debate, I
suppose, but he is, at least, proof that the fountain pen can keep up
with the modern age.”

– “I fall heavily in favour of using the library. I survive on a single
income, so hard cover books fall on the wrong side of the budget for
me. The library comes through for me every time. In fact, I found 4
out 5 of your suggestions for new jazz listeners at my library and I
currently have ‘The Skeptic’ signed out. (And no, I can’t find ‘The
Terry Teachout Reader’ at the library either.) The other thing my
library has is movies – including DVD’s.

“One thing that has made my library experience even more enjoyable is
the online catalogue. If I discover a book, CD or movie I want to
explore while surfing the web, it’s a quick click and search to see if
my library has a copy. Then I simply reserve it and when it is
available they notify me. I think they are even going to e-mail
notifications. Between my computer and my library card I can continue
to learn and be entertained without a large bill at the other end.”

– “A friend just pointed out something else about ebooks. You can’t get an author’s written signature on it!”

I promise to let you all know at once if anybody ever asks me to inscribe an e-book….

Harcourt just messengered over the first finished copy of All in the Dances: A Brief Life of George Balanchine. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I can’t even begin to tell you how this feels….

I note wistfully that Chicago Shakespeare’s production of Rose Rage officially opens in New York tonight. Terry and I saw the play last January here in Chicago, where it held us rapt for its whole five hours plus. Jay Whittaker’s Richard, especially, is a performance not to be missed; I still get a little chill up my spine.

I just got back from hearing the Maria Schneider Jazz Orchestra at the Jazz Standard, and I’m still flying. It’s been some time since Schneider’s big band last appeared in a New York nightclub, and there’s no better place to hear it than the Standard, where the barbecue is tasty, the vibe is comfy, and the sound system is in the hands of experts. Schneider is, of course, the jazz composer of her generation, and as for the band, I hope I don’t need to tell you how remarkable it is.

Schneider continues at the Standard through Sunday. For more information, go here. Be sure to make a reservation, by the way–the club was packed for the first set on Thursday, and my guess is that most of this weekend’s performances will sell out in advance.

On Monday I went to hear Madeleine Peyroux‘s opening night at Le Jazz Au Bar. I profiled her in last Thursday’s Wall Street Journal, and the effects of that piece were still being felt four days later. Monday’s performance was sold out to the walls (which astonished the manager–jazz clubs are never full early in the week), and several out-of-towners told me they’d come to New York to see the show after reading what I wrote. How about that?

Peyroux continues at Le Jazz Au Bar through Saturday, with sets at eight and ten p.m. Once again, I strongly suggest you make a reservation–the joint, it seems, is still jumping. For more information, go here.

As so often happens after Thursday, today is Friday, meaning that I’m in The Wall Street Journal with a review of two terrific off-Broadway revivals, Eug