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Showing posts with label Tom McCarthy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Tom McCarthy. Show all posts

Friday, 19 February 2010

Influential Novelists . . .


I was thinking the other day about which contemporary, living novelists have influenced my own writing the most. I have compiled the below list, each of these novelists has inspired me greatly, and I hugely admire their writing and artistic practice.

1. Jean-Philippe Toussaint
2. Tom McCarthy
3. Stewart Home
4. Tao Lin
5. Gwendoline Riley
6. Gabriel Josipovici
7. Lydie Salvayre
8. Dumitru Tsepeneag
9. HP Tinker
10. Niven Govinden
11. Tony O'Neill
12. Ben Myers
13. Noah Cicero

I think what I admire in each of the above is their steadfast individuality and approach to their work. All their work stands out alone as original and completely relevant. If you haven't read any of the above I would suggest you do so.

I reckon a future influential novelist will be Steve Finbow. Just finished his debut novel Balzac of the Badlands and I can't wait to read more of his work.

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Thursday, 18 February 2010

INS Manifesto . . .


I re-read the first INS manifesto today. It’s possibly one of the most thought-provoking and utterly maddening manifestos I’ve ever read. It serves as a vehicle that delivers us to our own everyday impossibility: that of defeating gravity.

Here is the manifesto:

We, the First Committee of the International Necronautical Society, declare the following:-

1.That death is a type of space, which we intend to map, enter, colonise and, eventually, inhabit.

2. That there is no beauty without death, its immanence. We shall sing death's beauty - that is, beauty.

3. That we shall take it upon us, as our task, to bring death out into the world. We will chart all its forms and media: in literature and art, where it is most apparent; also in science and culture, where it lurks submerged but no less potent for the obfuscation. We shall attempt to tap into its frequencies - by radio, the internet and all sites where its processes and avatars are active. In the quotidian, to no smaller a degree, death moves: in traffic accidents both realised and narrowly avoided; in hearses and undertakers' shops, in florists' wreaths, in butchers' fridges and in dustbins of decaying produce. Death moves in our appartments, through our television screens, the wires and plumbing in our walls, our dreams. Our very bodies are no more than vehicles carrying us ineluctably towards death. We are all necronauts, always, already.

4. Our ultimate aim shall be the construction of a craft* that will convey us into death in such a way that we may, if not live, then at least persist. With famine, war, disease and asteroid impact threatening to greatly speed up the universal passage towards oblivion, mankind's sole chance of survival lies in its ability, as yet unsynthesised, to die in new, imaginative ways. Let us deliver ourselves over utterly to death, not in desperation but rigorously, creatively, eyes and mouths wide open so that they may be filled from the deep wells of the Unknown.

* This term must be understood in the most versatile way possible. It could designate a set of practices, such as the usurpation of identities and personas of dead people, the development of specially adapted genetic or semantic codes based on the meticulous gathering of data pertaining to certain and specific deaths, the rehabilitation of sacrifice as an accepted social ritual, the perfection, patenting and eventual widespread distribution of ThanadrineTM, or, indeed, the building of an actual craft - all of the above being projects currently before the First Committee.

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Thursday, 4 February 2010

McCarthy on . . .

There is a very good essay on Jean-Philippe Toussaint in the latest LRB.

"For any serious French writer who has come of age during the last 30 years, one question imposes itself above all others: what do you do after the nouveau roman? Alain Robbe-Grillet, Claude Simon et compagnie redrew the map of what fiction might offer and aspire to, what its ground rules should be – so much so that some have found their legacy stifling. Michel Houellebecq’s response has been one of adolescent rejection, or, to use the type of psychological language that the nouveaux romanciers so splendidly shun, denial: writing in Artforum in 2008, he claimed never to have finished a Robbe-Grillet novel, since they ‘reminded me of soil cutting’. Other legatees, such as Jean Echenoz, Christian Oster and Olivier Rolin, have come up with more considered answers, ones that, at the very least, acknowledge an indebtedness – enough for their collective corpus to be occasionally tagged with the label ‘nouveau nouveau roman’. Foremost among this group, and bearing that quintessentially French distinction of being Belgian, is Jean-Philippe Toussaint."


As Andrew Gallix rightly pointed out, Tom's essay pretty much reads like a personal manifesto.


[read more]

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