Oh I get it, it’s a sci-fi novel!
Alex Abramovich
The Strand Bookstore, which opened on Fourth Avenue in 1927, now takes up 55,000 square feet on Broadway and 12th and has ’18 miles of New, Used, Rare and Out of Print Books’ in stock. The novelist David Markson, who was born in Albany in 1927 and died in his West Village apartment last month, spent more than a few of his intervening hours at the Strand. (Here’s a short clip of him speaking there.) Still, it was a shock to walk into the Strand last week and find the contents of his personal library scattered among the stacks.
A shock, in part, because Markson’s work relied so heavily on other books: Schonberg’s Lives of the Great Composers (I paid $7. 50 for Markson’s copy), Wittgenstein’s correspondence (Paul Engelmann’s Letters from Wittgenstein with a Memoir, $12.50), Robert Graves’s edition of the Greek myths ($30 for the two-volume Penguin hardback). There are too many inscribed books for any one civilian to buy; most have notes, check marks, underlined passages. I’d guess that a few of them – especially the more heavily annotated ones – belong in a proper archive. And yet, here they are: hundreds of hardbacks (the only paperback I could find was a copy of Walter Abish’s How German is It?, sent to Markson with the author’s compliments), some of them with price tags covering Markson’s name, as if the buyers were afraid that his signature would somehow diminish their value.
I’d heard about the haul from Jeff Severs, who teaches at the University of British Columbia. He’d heard about it from a student who’d stumbled on Markson’s copy of Don DeLillo’s White Noise. ‘my copy of white noise apparently used to belong to david markson (who i had to look up),’ the student had written.
he wrote some notes in the margin: a check mark by some passages, ‘no’ by other, ‘bullshit’ or ‘ugh get to the point’ by others. i wanted to call him up and tell him his notes are funny, but then i realized he DIED A MONTH AGO. bummer.
‘That’s amazing,’ Jeff had replied. ‘Did he write his name in the front or something? Did you buy it secondhand recently – as in, his family sold off his library?’
yeah he wrote his name inside the front cover and the cashiers at the strand said they have his whole collection. favorite comments: ‘oh god the pomposity, the bullshit!’, ‘oh i get it, it’s a sci-fi novel!’ and ‘big deal’.
That night, I put $262.81 on the credit card and brought three shopping bags home to my fourth-floor walk-up: Djuna Barnes’s Nightwood($7.50), Yeats’s Essays and Introductions ($15), Leslie Fiedler’s Life and Death in the American Novel ($10), Tristram Shandy ($5); 27 books in all. My new collection includes old Modern Library editions (Joyce, Kafka, Balzac, Pater, Lao-tse and Tacitus), undergraduate philosophy texts (the future novelist paid more attention to Kant and Hume than to Erasmus, Descartes and Hegel) and Joyce’s Selected Letters (with brackets around the dirty bits). Thanks to Markson, I now own Stephen Joyce’sModern Library edition of Gogol’s Dead Souls. A gift? Did Markson borrow the book and fail return it? Or did he run across it himself on a visit to the Strand and wonder how it had ended up there?
My friend Ethan paid not enough money for a heavily annotated edition of Hart Crane’s poetry, an even more heavily annotated T.S. Eliot, and a beautiful volume of Melville’s shorter works, with every one of Bartleby the Scrivener’s ‘I would prefer not to’s underlined. (‘Melville, late along, possessed no copies of his own books,’ Markson wrote in Vanishing Point.)
The next day, another friend emailed to say he’d spent $93 on Ellmann’s biography of Joyce, Pound’s letters to Joyce, Hardy’s poems, Spenser’s Poetical Works and A.J. Ayer’s Wittgenstein. ‘I found some Lowry,’ he wrote. ‘The letters and poems, but left those for someone who cares more about him than I do.’ Pound’s Cantos, Jan Kott’s Shakespeare Our Contemporary and Balzac’s Lost Illusions are all still in the stacks, at reasonable prices.
Comments
Jeff Severs' student was kind enough to send some more 'White Noise' marginalia; pending her ok, I'll put it up in the comments tomorrow....
"This book may have set the all-time record for boredom. At 1/3 of the length, it might have worked."
"Awful awful awful"
"We got the point of this stuff a long time ago. A long time ago. It's now BORING! And has been."
"Are we supposed to believe this?"
"If this were not my first Delillo, I probably would have quit 100 pages ago."
"This 'ordinariness' is just that -- ordinary, i.e., a bore. Presumably it is meant as satire. Except, dammit, satire should be amusing!"
"Boring boring boring"
(and twice on one page) "Oh God"
http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=138148862885737
The dream, of course, is the get the physical books back together in one place, and make them available to everyone.
http://htmlgiant.com/author-spotlight/alas-david-finding-marksons-library-by-kevin-lincoln/
One last, sad trip to the Strand: Kott's gone. Ditto, Cervantes. Basically everything mentioned in print/comments, here & elsewhere, is gone. Still in the stacks: Lots of books on Joyce (including one by my old thesis adviser, Stanley Sultan), a few on Whitman, the four-volume Chicago UP edition of Greek tragedies (80 bucks!), Eliot's 'Cocktail Party.' Poetry anthologies. Etc. Nothing left on the $1 tables outside. I picked up an annotated edition of Eliot's essays. Twenty bucks. No inscription, but clearly his handwriting, w/heavy annotations to the essay on Baudelaire....
Apparently there are boxes of Marksoniana yet to be unpacked. Still on the shelves in philosophy, Josiah Royce, Karl Popper, G.E. Moore, and Benedetto Croce. On the dollar carts, I saw Vico's Autobiography and a commentary on Plato's Republic.
The word is out, though, and the faithful are trawling. Marksonism is alive in the stacks of the Strand.
I noticed that Markson rarely saved his dust jackets.
On a related note, a year ago I found Allen Ginsberg's paperback copy (inscribed with his P.O. address) of James Schuyler's Crystal Lithium. Also found at the Strand.
It is like scattering someone's ashes.
I hope more than a few of these books, like a book of poems, a novel by Balzac, or the letters of Van Gogh end up in the hands of honest readers, people who don't know who David Markson is, who bought one of Markson's books simply to read it. That excites me more than this effort to try and reunite the library.
From what I'm reading online, it seems that you're right - 50 boxes, w/50 books in each box. (And, contrary to what clerks at the Strand told me, some boxes haven't yet been unpacked.)
And yes - who can guess at motivation (let's say that you ARE right; maybe it was a romantic gesture; maybe it was born of bitterness, a sense of futility, etc.) - but Ethan and I wondered if that this might have been the case (though we didn't put it as nicely as you have). Still, I'm of two minds: on the one hand, it's pretty; scattered like ashes is just right. On the other, I wonder if it's the sort of bequest that (pace Max Brod) shouldn't have been ignored, or partially ignored, esp. given how important some of these books were to Markson's own. Some of the marginalia's funny. Some of it seems, to me, to be fairly important, if you happen to care about such things. Lots of it doesn't belong in an archive. But now we'll never know how much of it does, and how much literary scholars / critics / students / etc. have lost. I'm as romantic as the next guy, but this case, I'll take pedantry over the poetic gesture....
The parallels to Max Brod don't seem appropriate here. Brod was saving works of art. Markson's marginalia, if it's worth anything, is for the scholars, or, most likely, for his fans. Markson’s indifference to his own notes and sending his books away to be sold is not the same as Kafka’s anxieties about his own highly autobiographical writing.
Would what we learn by reuniting the library mean more than honoring the wishes of this writer we admire, love, or respect? As grateful as I am for Markson's work, and the dark comfort it provides, I don’t think it lends itself to scholarship. I'm paraphrasing, but he once said his approach to writing was "to see how little I can get away with." At best, combing through Markson’s notes looks to be a treasure hunt through ephemera, and only for the fans of Markson's writing. So Markson underlined Bartleby's every "I would prefer not to", and references to Gaddis shows up in other books, and he didn’t like White Noise --but what of it? How does this aid us in reading Markson’s books, a majority of which defy criticism? Owning a particular book that inspired a particular paragraph in another book is exciting, but its only value is as memorabilia, and limited to the current owner.
It seems to me the wish to somehow reunite these books --a labor of love, no doubt-- is more sentimental or romantic than my desire to honor a dead man's last will and testament. Many of us have a desire to be the next Max Brod or Malcolm Cowley, saving genius from oblivion, but the cultural responsibility here seems to be outweighed by respect.
I don’t know. When I imagine of all different people buying and reading a book from Markson’s library, I have the same haunting but bracing feeling I got after I finished one of his novels. It makes me shiver but smile.
I know you won’t do this, Alex, but take the Markson books that you already own and don’t plan on reading and sell them to other used bookstores in the city, like Mercer Books, East Village Books, or the new used bookstore at 66 Avenue A, or Atlantic Bookshop in Brooklyn.
And it’s crossed my mind that all the happy horseshit about Markson’s books “recirculating,” and enjoying “a second (or third, or fourth) life” is itself romantic and reifies the books as fetish objects to a far greater extent than the idea of preserving the library as a whole. Why do these books need to circulate? There isn’t any shortage of copies of the works of Herman Melville in the world. If the books have no worth as anything other than the content that was printed and bound within them, they might as well have been burnt, the ashes literally scattered.
So when it comes to scholars and artists, yes, most often I’ll side with the artists and art. I think Markson would too. Markson’s reputation is going to stand or fall on the merits of Markson’s work, not the work of scholars –especially if that reputation rests on marginalia.
This attempt to reunite his library isn’t like an attempt to save an author’s letters, diaries, rough drafts, or unpublished fiction or essays. This is mere marginalia --little notes, scribbled in passing, incomplete or passing thoughts of author and whatever mood possessed him when he was alone. Yes, it is exciting to see one author engaged with another author’s book, and to see how the writer’s mind works, but marginalia has to be one of the least reliable forms of writing a scholar could quote from with good faith. And so I can’t follow the belief “If only we had all his marginalia we’d know how Markson’s feelings about Don DeLillo have changed and evolved.” What if one day, back in 1997, a friend of Markson stole his copy of Mao II, which just happened to be full notes praising DeLillo and calling him a genius? What if there was a copy of Pafko at the Wall where on the last page Markson scrawled “I forgive Don everything”?
I’ll admit that Fred Blass and his Strand don’t feel like the best place for the books to end up --or even the best used bookstore in NYC --but Markson had a relationship with the store and it appears his wish was (to say nothing about his desire, perhaps, to help the Strand make a view thousand bucks) to see these novels, volumes of poetry and philosophy back in the hands of readers who’ll read them and treat them as books
I'm Annecy. I'm the proud new owner of Markson's copy of White Noise. I'm also not a very careful reader and rely too much on my memory.
Instead of "Oh I get it, it's a sci-fi novel!" it actually says, "I've finally solved this book, it's sci-fi!"
I'm very sorry! I hope this doesn't make people say, "See? Told you those books should've been at the Ransom Center."
So here are a couple of thoughts that are unrelated to the binary dilemma that seems to have gotten its grip on this thread:
--For a guy who told the audience at a 2007 reading at the 92nd St. Y that he had been taught in 3rd grade not to fold back the pages so far that he would break the binding of a book, it's odd that he seemed to have thought nothing of marking up his books and scribbling in the margins.
--For a writer who produced non-traditional novels, I'm amazed at how conservative his collection seems to have been. And also how exclusively focused on European art and thought it was.
--For a guy who clearly read widely and glanced around the room a lot, he seems not to have written--or at least not to have published--any criticism or essays (though perhaps he was following Wittgenstein from the Tractatus: Of what we cannot speak we must remain silent.)
Phil: I find marginal notes and underlining destructive but not creative. I have a hard time re-reading my old paperback of the 'Great Short Works' of Tolstoy and a messload of my philosophy books. They seem diminished by my haphazard use of the old Eberhard Faber No. 2. And I had to breathe through the pain when my girlfriend went through a paperback first-edition of 'Against Interpretation' (chipped, brittle and delicate, and purchased for $1 at the Strand) with a yellow hi-lighter.
A friend at college got heavily into mediaeval religious literature and bought his own copy of Julian of Norwich's Revelation of Divine Love. In those pre-Amazon days this was quite a big deal; it was only available as an academic hardback, which he had to order through a bookshop. I went round to his room once and found him reading it - "Oh, this is wonderful. Listen to this bit!" And he read out a paragraph to me, while simultaneously underlining it line by line in wiggly blue biro. I tried not to stare.
I’d like, though, to clarify the point I was trying to make about the marginal comments within Markson’s copy of White Noise, although I think Carland inadvertently makes the point for me when he(?) says that marginalia is “one of the least reliable forms of writing a scholar could quote from with good faith.” Yeah, well, I think if by “good faith” Carland means scholarly due diligence, which would consist of the scholarly endeavor of combing through Markson’s other DeLillo titles for marginalia, checking that against things he might have said about DeLillo in more guarded and public moments, etc., etc., that’s certainly true. Unfortunately, what’s sad is that those things didn’t happen. This doesn’t seem fair or right somehow. To atomize that library, and the remarks within it, is, in effect, to impose upon them the condition Carland describes, i.e., “little notes, scribbled in passing, incomplete or passing thoughts.” Yes, in their dispersed state I think that’s true. I don’t think it valorizes scholarship or enshrines the idea of gatekeeping to suggest that Markson’s remarks, archived, preserved, catalogued, and put in context, would serve both him and us better than the piecemeal release of “interesting” snippets to the world*. Since even within the genteel confines of the literary blogosphere the sensationalistic impulse prevails, the takeaway for people around the world, absent any illuminating context, has been the factoid “Markson hated DeLillo.” Carland doesn’t seem to think that the library united could have any effect on Markson’s reputation, and that may be -- but the library divided already has had an effect on it. Markson’s the snarky guy who hated DeLillo.
*especially, as Annecy makes plain in her very considerate clarification, when they are incorrectly transcribed.
WH Auden says, "The critical opinions of a writer should always be taken with a large grain of salt. For the most part, they are manifestations of his debate with himself as to what he should do next and what he should avoid."
And he was talking about written criticism or reviews, not notes made in the margins by someone halfway through a book.
While they appear to be the most sensational, those (mis-transcribed, though still playful) comments on DeLillo still might have surfaced in some article somewhere when the library had been saved. And that's the most many people would've heard of the marginalia, then the comments would've been forgotten in a few weeks. One wonders if the funny way in which Markson criticized Delillo actually brought him more readers than it did turn people off. But we're talking about a handful of people here. Either way,someone reading and enjoying his or her first Markson book a year from now isn't going to be affected by these quotes (ruined or not by atomization), especially since so many other snarky comments about other artists appear in works he actually had published.
It appears one argument for preserving his notes is that Markson is a lesser-known, or cult writer and his reputation apparently needs to be protected. For an experimental writer, he is pretty well-known, isn't he? His books are in print, his obituary was much larger than Melville's, he's discussed on the LRB blog, etc. More people should read Marson, certainly. But I don't think Markson's reputation is at a level where he needs a Raymond Weaver to save him. Maybe, someday it'll reach its nadir. (Unless it's already happened) Also, Markson's under-celebrated gifts aren't too out of proportion to the level of his renown to be considered scandalous. It seems more and more scholars and PhD students are looking to be someone's Raymond Weaver or Malcolm Cowley, regardless of their subject's talent or relevance --a sort of sycophancy mixed with the desire to be recognized as someone who understands and saves genius. I prefer people who just read books.