Archive | 7:03 pm

Vox: Ivy Alvarez

6 Dec

The rise of e-publishing is already enshrining the book (especially handmade books) as a fetish object. Perhaps one day people will go around carrying these books as jewellery, new status symbols denoting prestige.

But that’s the physical form of the book. The novel, the contents of a novel, its plots and narratives: these are not trivial. There is a reward in the reading, whether enlightenment, entertainment or escape.

I think we are in a state of flux. People will pendulum between the physical book and the ebook. Eventually, it will swing further in one direction but at the moment, not yet — not for me anyway.

My personal affections will always lean towards the book. Still, I am mindful that, as a writer, I would want my work to reach its audience, in whatever forms that might take.

 

Vox: Sam van Zweden

6 Dec

Reeling between aloneness and togetherness. I am not panicked. I am excited by the places where the two worlds meet. Postmodern trickery on the page would make little to no sense if Google hadn’t changed the way we read. Last night a tweet-up saved my life.

Novels:

pages. written. musty library books. overdue fines. rainy day curling up with coffee and. lining shelves. procrastinating by alphabetizing. holding a secret in my hands. my own copy. book shop. dreams – one day I’ll have my own. running out of room for. exchange. hunting op shops for. I’m feeling down, can you bring me a? lying in the sun reading. notes in margins. inherited notes in margins of second hand copies. judging by a cover. judging by embossed lettering and quality of paper. dog-eared pages. book art. perving on commuter’s reads. bags full of. café corner. lending etiquette. physical copy signed by physical author at physical launch. smell of pages, pages, pages.

Digital:

www. one click. hyperlink. interactive fiction. free classics. twenty-three books in a 7×5” space. poetry slam via video link with some guy in Finland. narratology of WOW. screen caps of everything everything. @hashtag. like comment share. send it to me. networking on the network. saying something while pointing elsewhere (see: book art, above). sparknotes saving students worldwide. 99c publication. leave a comment. twitterature. inbox me. she popped up. pingback.

‎”One ought, every day at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if it were possible, to speak a few reasonable words.”

One ought, every minute at least, Youtube, Tweet, Instagram, and if it were possible, Skype.

Reeling between aloneness and togetherness, and I am happy at this impasse.

 

Vox: Kirk Marshall

6 Dec

Here’s how I choose to argue the incommensurably debatable, incommunicably topical conundrum as to whether the emergence of e-publishing signifies the “demise” of print publishing (which I’m certain we’re all resolved to agree wouldn’t be an especially dignified or auspiciously indemnified death, but would probably involve blood, entail entrails, command carnage, inspire violence): I’m forever resigned to envision an alternative world, a feasible future, a caricatured grotesquery of reality populating some Philip K. Dick short-story, in which these sorts of speculative arguments collapse into one another like farts in an echo chamber. It’s not that the praxis of publishing, nor discussion, debate, hyperbole, hypothesis or even a literary soliloquy addressing the fate of formats is devoid of value – it’s not a question of intellectual economics, it’s a question of whether a rampant concatenation of contentions from writers and editors can constitute anything short of pretentious – but after the months of monotone dialogue that any individual invested in literature must endure when conversation about the future of publishing abounds, I’m left feeling somewhat devoid of a voice. Let me tell you a story as to why this is the case – as to why all vacillating views on the evolution of publishing might not even be valid. A few years back, when I was younger and more adventurous but no less handsome, I relinquished ongoing employment as a full-time teacher in Tokyo, Japan, and returned to Brisbane, Queensland, to work for minimum wage and free felafels in an Australian performing arts bookstore, which was sequestered below street-level and kept in a state of reasonable disarray where cats seemed to always spawn from between the floorboards. The bookshop will have to remain unattributed, but I’m comfortable enough to disclose the personal tyrannies of the shop’s pyrrhic inhabitants, and specifically those of my boss, a piratical sycophant with the heart of a giant aardvark. A kind of Zarathustrian übermensch who assumed the disquieting physical status of Hemmingway, equipped with the faculties of an elegant like Laurence Olivier and the facial hair of the Brothers ZZ Top, my boss was a fantastical misanthrope who would smoke Toscani cigars at the counter, swill cask wine from the only clean highball he claimed to possess, and swear at his customers if they asked him to locate a book by ISBN. I distinctly recall one torrid afternoon when, an hour before I would close shop, he arose storming from his back-office to explain to everyone currently occupying his establishment that they were all “cunts” and if he had a gun on premises, “browsing might become fun for everybody”. He was constantly amazed that his bookstore continued to attract patrons at all, but such an emotion manifested itself as a Gordian knot within his sheer interior, because he loathed the idea of transacting business – my boss was an avowed Communist, and often quoted aloud from The Communist Manifesto – and yet feared falling into bankruptcy by resisting to sell his wares. He was a gregarious ex-emeritus professor of Literature and Philosophy who had, for decades, engaged in combat with the “coterie of academic fucks” occupying Queensland’s pre-eminent tertiary institution, and had retreated into a tiny life of bookselling, daytime drunkenness and month-long heart attacks. On one profound occasion, he cornered me in the store during business hours to extol the pleasures of eating marijuana by the leaf, which he advised “was an elevator to the stars”. During my three-month stint as bookstore assistant, dogsbody, and infrequent fire warden, my boss paid me cash-in-hand from the same teapot he used to brew tea. He retained a corkboard honour wall with almost obsessive focus, which he decorated and scrapbooked with the many faultlessly eloquent civic complaints that he had published in the city newspaper. He chased me around the store chanting C.J. Dennis’s The Glugs of Gosh in an attempt to dismantle the mechanics of freeform verse, and when I found myself stonewalled between two shelves of children’s books, shaken and with no salvation in sight, I could do little else but succumb to song:

“Begone, red Devil!” I made reply.

“Parch shall these lips of mine,

And my tongue shall shrink, and my throat go dry,

Ere ever I taste your wine!”

What I am revealing here, perhaps for the first time, is that I loved the man: he was of angelic muscle, and his lust for life was violent and infectious. I harbour not a single reservation when I confess that, despite occupying only a crazy three-month ellipsis in my life prior to my move to Melbourne, he persists in my memory as a favourite boss. Perhaps the most significant disclosure in context to our discussion of e-publishing, however, is that the man was a rampant champion of technology: he preferred to populate his days by playing Space Invaders in preference to consolidating stock via Thorpe-Bowker’s Booknet, and found it appropriate to demythologise the 3D motion-capture rendering of Angelina Jolie’s Scandinavian porn-Gorgon in Robert Zemeckis’s Beowulf, insisting that a perfect world would be one in which we all participated in suitmation by wearing svelte spandex, to transubstantiate our flesh for pixels, our dicks for vectors. He took me aside one morning and confided that he was dying from heart disease, and that the bookstore was no longer commercially viable – I think we both laughed at this juncture – and that he would have to liquidate his assets. His speech wasn’t entirely lucid, now dislocated of his common bombast so that appeared small before me, a man of vast shoulders but small dividends. He kept mopping his face with the palm of his hand – it was a fact that we were seized by a Queensland summer, but it wasn’t the sort to squeeze from between your pores – and I discerned the image of a defeated lion at the threshold to our store, as he turned his back to me and gazed accusingly at the street. “One day soon, you won’t find a single fucking book on a shelf,” he muttered, his eyes squinting through the shopfront glass, a tornado whistling through his septum. “I’m not assuming the role of a doomsday prophet here, either. A book will either be electric, pure thought, reduced to an electronically-calibrated text document that people download, read, discard, pirate precisely like gaming shareware – or it will be a kitsch hardcopy print-object that is purchased via the internet, from behind the colophon of an online bookstore and from inside a cardboard box secreted beneath a web developer’s bedroom mattress. It will be both these things, and neither will come to occlude or cannibalise the other. I’m looking right square at the future,” he rumbled, the musculature in his neck summoning up visions of dinosaur flesh thrashing through gingko canopies. “I’m standing right at the brink here, Kirk, we both are, and this is the future. Books will be two things, and they will be the same thing, and people will again convey their monstrous ignorance by arbitrating false values that one of these things is superior to the other. But it won’t matter. Because booksellers will become new again. It’ll be like we’re finally all lycra-clad performers in a collective act of suitmation. We’ll forego these physical ramparts for pixels, and we won’t have to invest a flying fuck in the worries of pundits or patrons. Literature is gonna invade cyberspace, and people like you and me who it’s slowly killing might be able to retire, happy, fresh cannabis in our mouths. They’ll set us all on pyres to Valhalla, set upon the rafts with torches, and we’ll ebb out into the wine-dark brink, words crackling between fibre-optic cables within our earshot like a dying applause.” He turned to me then, and regarded me with eyes that were dry and full of sorrow for a day he would not greet. “No-one will ever say that I mattered. That’s the very point. If there’s words swarming behind computer screens or between covers in days to come, I wouldn’t want to matter. The words will be king, and we’ll all have won. Not a single cunt will interrupt our tea-breaks ever again.” At the doorway, his body spangling against the daylight, his shadow cast the store in a hue I don’t even think it’s important to debate.

Vox: Emma Dallas

6 Dec

There has always been, since the first painted palm was pressed to a cave wall, a desire to create a tangible impression of our thoughts. I’m beginning to think of blogs as paintings on our walls. If these are to be our artefacts, if the technology doesn’t become so obsolete that no one remembers how to extract data from it, then bring it on.

Thoughts as artefact. Imagine if we could press a palm against a cave painting and understand how the painter felt, what they were actually thinking. I know blogs aren’t always brilliant or literary in a traditional sense, but we are making them by the million and quite often loving it. What could be more interesting than browsing the unfiltered thoughts of a generation as well as the crafted books and print journals? Blogs add a layer, they don’t take one away.

It seems to me that a lot of people are saying print isn’t dying, its just becoming more beautiful. I call bullshit. I enjoy reading those mass-produced orange paperbacks as much as the rest of the population buying them by the armload, but I sure as hell don’t enjoy displaying them in my home.

Publishing has always been about technology. In the beginning, technology was simple: paper, ink, quill. When presses came along it changed the game and what a fucking gift it was. We have never looked back. Let’s not stop and stick in the mud now just because the game is beginning to change once again.

Let’s look at the game for a moment. Though the novel began as entertainment, it grew into a form so powerful we are fighting to keep it. I don’t believe the novel will die but I do believe the blog will rise to take a place quite near it. Good blogs are being written, coming in waves, the best rising into shining mackerel-backed crests, the poor ones remaining flat and blue, but you don’t have to read them.

If you want to, you can revel in the glorious mixed bag of everything. Now is a time when we can read what we want, how we want and then change our minds and go back again in half an hour.

If you’re a hard-backed literary purist, then I’m the worst offender there is. I write a blog and use a pseudonym – it’s a gossip channel from an imagined persona to the inattentive masses – and I also write long form; a traditional, likely-to-be-rejected-by-the-publishers novel. To round it out a little I also write for an online music journal and edit a print magazine.

Some days I want to be savage and remove box after box of books from my crowded house. I imagine what it might feel like to live in a genuinely clutter-free home. How easy it would be to move house the next time a landlord or lady decides to kick me out. The next day I want to raise the ceilings and pave the walls with beautiful tomes and this right here might be the trouble. Collectively, we don’t know what we want; we imagine one thing incompletely and then try to imagine it again, and end up somewhere else.

People seem obsessed with the physicality of books; caressing them, holding them, dropping them, bathing with them. Like taking a new lover, you might need to drop a guiding hand down once in a while until your body develops a feel for it but sooner or later it becomes second nature.

We’re gestating something here, preparing to birth a new beast. E-books could turn out to be fly, ointment or minotaur, but then again they might not. On my desk today, I have a pile of yellowing paperbacks, a smartphone, a laptop, two newspapers, three magazines, an e-reader, an mp3 player, a turntable, at least three notebooks and various pens and pencils. I’ve got choices.

Let’s stop predicting for a moment and take a photograph of now. If this is the dying light of the print era then let it shine on me. Right now, today, I can get it however I want it and that’s fucking great. Bring on the changes. I’ll take all the kinds of books you’ve got because, like so many people, my first and enduring love is reading somebody else’s words.

 

Vox: Shane Jesse Christmass

6 Dec

“In proportion as the mass of citizens who possess political rights increases, and the number of elected ruler’s increases, the actual power is concentrated and becomes the monopoly of a smaller and smaller group of individuals.” – Paul Lafargue.

In regards to the debate of e-books and how new technology will change the publishing landscape, I have a yes and no response to it all. On one hand, I can relate to a certain phrase that you may have heard:

“There is no avant-garde just those left behind…”

On the other hand I do wonder what relevance any of this could possible have to those less financial, given that they’re not part of the middle-class that wants to keep having this blowhard debate.

I am certain that if you went out into the middle of Australia, the Arrente tribe’s people wouldn’t be concerned with your Kindle, or how it affects the publishing industry.

Notice that I reference it as the ‘publishing industry’, because to be honest, none of this really concerns writers at all, and any bookseller, or publisher, that tries to steer such a debate into how it affects writers is clearly delusional, or in the business of political spin, and above all else, a rotting capitalist.

This has nothing to with polemics, or empirical concerns, or philanthropy, it’s about turning a coin, or from a publisher’s point of view, how to stop money severely leaking out from their industry, an industry that has all the hallmarks of organised gangsters.

When one reduces down the debate to what it’s really about, then one can’t help but become uninterested and realise that none of this is important. Imagine what aliens would think if they came here in their spacecraft and found us all raging about E-Readers. However, taking that into account, a bunch of toffs raging about new technology probably wouldn’t be high on the list of reasons that would make them turn around and take flight. You can see the absurdity of all this eternal guff. It’s the dog-chasing-it’s-own-tail conundrum. It’s a fallacy, this isn’t an issue to anyone except rich people wanting to get richer.

One of the ‘guilt trips’ during the parallel importing debate, and now the new technology debate, was that this would be detrimental for local writing. As if publishers, or booksellers, in this country had ever done anything for local writers, and if they had, they had done it from a point of provincialism.

What needs to be asked is what are they afraid of losing? People, who claim to be independent, are not, they clearly have their own political agenda, and any tripe messed up under the guise of ‘trying to assist local writers’ is all bulldust.

Booksellers and Publishers don’t care about you, or anything else except protecting their own monopoly in a marketplace. Will E-Books take this away, who knows, who cares, but it certainly has them worried.

Money and power is what this is about, not your reading experience, or even your shopping experience. This is about cartels and nothing else. It’s also interesting to notice their ineptitude. In progress, or say evolution, or change, one can reach a stage of stasis. This prolonged stasis, usually occurs before de-evolution. The industry is in a state of pointless debate, a stasis, but what’s really making them go mad, is their ineptitude to make a buck. They were high jumped at the first turn by other entrepanuers, in most cases writers taking control of their own fate, and this really gets up in their noses. They don’t like this. Oligarchies can suffer malnutrition and then evolve into tiny oligarchies, and because of this publishers become everywhere. Like I said, they don’t like this.

These robber barons have also, somehow, made something incredulous and downright psychotic, become known as fact. There’s this mass mind control thing going on. I’m sure you’ve heard saps saying things, in regards to them visitng bookstores, or why they don’t wish to read off a computer screen. The working poor have been stymied into believing frivolous things that the publishing industry states as fact, to prop up their failing proprietorships. Blurting from the mouth of people, you will hear them state that they like the experience of walking through a shop, the smell of the paper of the books. As opposed to what, the smell of the metallic and plastic of a Kindle? What type of person would be so interested to compare the smell of a book to the smell of new technology, and then have the audacity to wish to comment on which smell is better? The answer is a sociopath. A sociopath would claim that the experience of walking through a bookstore is somehow more wholesome or moral, than looking at a computer screen and experiencing the same piece of fiction by the exact same author. The sociopath that is detailed here, needs to seek out hackneyed ideas of culture and contentment. These sociopaths are complicit in maintaining the robber baron’s monopoly. They’re luddites quite frankly. They claim that the internet is abhuman, but anyone who would spit that much hate toward a poor little E-Reader, is much more than an abomination to humanity, they’re somewhat of a borish creep.

The other thing these people don’t understand is the lack of space. Book burnings didn’t occur because prudish people were against the ideas inside the covers of said books, they occurred because the Europeans needed space. With the advent of the MP3 and now the E-Reader, it is evident that we can remove all that superfluous waste that occurs in our environment. Now I have no idea whether the forest of trees required to make the latest fashionable tome, is anymore environmental than the plexus of metal, alloy, plastic and rubber that makes up one of those dinky devices, but what I do know about is space. If one can remove all of this detritus and rubbish from one’s household, think of all the space you would discover. More room for people to live, and I don’t mean people will have more space to air their dirty laundry, what I do mean is, one can invite 30 more people to come and live in their house where the books once stood.

As I said in the introduction, I don’t really think too much about these issues, the subject is too much of a soapy sponge for this streamlined body. Remember what is important, it is those people that we leave behind. And in this circumstance, it should be the devilish industry.

 

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