dilluns, de juny 29, 2009

n+1 magazine

A partir d'ara ja podreu trobar a Laie CCCB la revista n+1, publicació de referència en crítica cultural i literària de Nova York.

Aguns extractes del contingut del número 7:


American Gorbachev
The America our new president inherits bears an uncanny resemblance to our old enemy, the Soviet Union—right before it went under. Our country's paranoia and stubborness have secured us indifferent allies and intractable commitments. Not only is there Afghanistan—still Afghanistan—where we fight the same enemy we once created to bleed the Russians, but just to show that we can do everything twice as much, twice as well, as anybody else, we've added Iraq.
The People of the Magazine
The position of the [Jewish magazines] is that it's the fate of the Jews to think of themselves as slouchy and neurotic, however glamorous they really are; occasionally they will "luck into" a post as the head of neurology at a New York hospital. In publications that command such resources; that attract some real talent; that photograph the sufferings of maimed Israelis and Palestinians and can't figure out what to say about them, this represents a refusal to take responsibility for the talent, perseverance, and courage of the Jews. In 1969, in Portnoy's Complaint, such suburbanized forgetting and refusal of the "world of our fathers" represented confusion, exhiliration, pain, and freedom. In 2008 it's straight-up bad faith.
On Bolaño
In Bolaño, literature is a helpless, undignified, and not especially pleasant compulsion, like smoking. At one point you started and now you can't stop; it's become a habit and an identity. Nothing is so consistent across Bolaño's work as the suspicion that literature is chiefly bullshit, rationalizing the misery, delusions, and/or narcissism of various careerists, flakes, and losers. Yet Bolaño somehow also treats literature as his and his characters' sole excuse for existing. This basic Bolaño aporia—literature is all that matters, literature doesn't matter at all—can be a glib paradox for others. He seems to have meant it sincerely, even desperately, something one would feel without knowing the first thing about his life.