Category: Art

The Idea of Guilty Pleasures

Disclaimer: If anyone is expecting this blog post to arrive anywhere near a conclusion, it is best to step off before the train gets rolling.  It arrives nowhere.  Stay on board if you think you might enjoy some of the scenery we pass on the way back to where we started.

Last night on Twitter, the subject of “guilty pleasures” came up. What do we mean by it? Is it an inherently objectionable concept? &c &c.  Some questions were asked that I’m having trouble answering, so I’m going to explore them a little.  Guilty pleasure, I think, is a concept worth taking some time with, if for no other reason than because it has some interesting interactions with the question of what we mean by “good.”  And, at least for a writer, it is always worth exploring that question, seeing as how, you know, writing stuff that’s good is kinda the goal.

Those who are saying, “it is time we get rid of this whole concept of guilty pleasures,” have an interesting point.  At least as I understand it, the argument runs, “If you’re enjoying it, there is something of value in it.  If there is something of value in it, maybe we should spend more time figuring out what that is and seeing if others will enjoy it, instead of castigating ourselves for enjoying it even though it does other things badly.”  That’s kind of hard to argue with.  Let’s see where it leads us.

First of all, to be clear, I do not actually feel guilty–in the strict, literal, I-have-just-hurt-the-feelings-of-someone-I-love sense of guilty, about enjoying something I call a guilty pleasure; nor does anyone else I know who uses the term.   What it means for most of us seems to be something along the lines of, “I like this, but I’m afraid if I admit it I’ll be teased about it,” or, “I recognize that this is a bad one-of-these, but I like it anyway.”  Hidden (or, perhaps, not hidden at all) in the idea of guilty pleasures are, therefore, two interesting concepts: one, that we worry about being judged for our taste, and, two, the idea that it is reasonable to have a sort of “good/bad” scale that is at least somewhat independent of one’s “like/dislike” scale.  At which point we realize that what we’re saying (to ourselves if not to anyone else) is, “I’m sorry I’m enjoying this.  I apologize.  I know I shouldn’t.” Sounds kind of dumb, doesn’t it?

Another thing that enters at this point is snobbery.  I don’t terribly care for snobbery, nor do I terribly care for those who point and cry snobbery whenever someone dares to suggest that the food at White Castle may not be as good as at the 5-star restaurant of your choice.  Here, too, we have the idea that there is something to the judgment of good/bad as distinct from like/dislike.

We all know that, for many, many years, science-fiction itself was something that certain literati who enjoyed it have called a guilty pleasure.  For me, the idea of apologizing for enjoying Theodore Sturgeon or Gene Wolfe is silly at best.  And I know that it would hurt my feelings to have someone call my work a guilty pleasure.  So, then, what am I doing apologizing (even if only to myself) for much the same thing?

Can I find a rational argument to support this position? Well, aside from cases that are so extreme as to be useless (horrible errors in spelling, grammar, syntax, or other technical problems) I really can’t. But I do feel that way.  I do feel that, for example, The Destroyer novels (one of my guilty pleasures) is, quite simply, not as good as, say, Zelazny’s Lord of Light.  I’m not at all certain I can justify that feeling, but neither can I ignore it.

I don’t know. Is my belief that there is good and bad in the arts anything more than rank pragmatism?  In other words, is it more than the knowledge that, if I don’t believe in “good,” I’ll be less driven to do my best work? I hope there’s more to it than that. My opinion of pragmatism is something I’ll save for another post, but it isn’t pretty.

There are a some subjective observations that might provide insight: 1. When I think of something as a guilty pleasure, it is based in part on the feeling that the artist did not do his or her best work–that this could have been better if the artist had cared enough.  2. One thing that I always feel when in the presence of what I consider great art, is a sense of awe that a mere human being, just like me, was able to do this, combined with a sense of pride in being a member of a species that could produce it. 3. Confession time:  When addressing a work that I consider good, especially a story, there is at least little part of me (and sometimes a big part) that is feeling, “Damn, I wish I’d created this!”  I never have that feeling with those works that I categorize as guilty pleasures.

So, as promised, I have arrived nowhere.  I’m still not sure what I think about this, or why I think it.  I know it is interesting, and I believe it matters, so I look forward to hearing what some of you think about it.

 

Margarine

The place was called The Bakery, and it was something of a Chicago institution.  Insofar as Valabar & Sons is based on any real place, it is The Bakery.  We used to drive from Minneapolis, eat there, then turn around and drive home.  It was well worth the journey.

Chef Louis — Lájos Szathmary — was an immense man with a massive gray mustache.  Periodically, during dinner, he would come out to meet the patrons and say hello.  Once, while he was chatting with us, it came out that I was a writer and we spoke about that for a bit.  From there, we got onto the subject of art in general, and I brought the conversation back to cooking.  I expressed the opinion that he was an artist.  He considered for a moment, then said, “I am an honest cook.”

“Can you explain that?” I said.  “I understand what honesty means in writing, but what does it mean in cooking?”

His Hungarian accent was thick, but his English was perfectly understandable.  He frowned a little, then said, “Every year, we use one pound of margarine.  For everything else, we use butter.”

Obviously, I had to know.  “What do you use one pound of margarine for?”

“We have a Christmas show once a year,” he explained.  “And to do it, we have to open up the building behind us.  The walkway is always icy, so we put margarine on our shoes so we don’t slip on the way.”

That’s what margarine is good for, you see.  For actual cooking, you use butter.  You use the best ingredients you can find.  You don’t scrimp on the details, and you don’t try to pull a fast one on the reader–excuse me, the customer.  If you ever find yourself thinking that the person you’re cooking for can’t taste the difference between butter and margarine, you’ve started down a road that leads to McDonald’s.

If there is joy in the story, let it flow naturally from events that feel inevitable, because the ingredients you have acquired and prepared and mixed together have formed that way.  The same if there is sorrow.  If there is death, make it real, make it meaningful.  If there is love, earn it.  If the food is spicy, let it be because the flavor combination you wish requires it, not because you added extra peppers to show how hot you can cook.  Sweet confections are fine, but you know and I know that there is a cloying, over-sweetness that can ruin the best dessert.  And if someone doesn’t care for your concoction because there isn’t enough sugar, or because it is too spicy, or there wasn’t enough action, or there was too much dialog, then at least you can know that what you set on the table was truthful.

The point is not to impress the reader with how good you are, but rather to delight, amaze, move, and even, if I may, epiphanize.  I am not the best writer whoever set fingers to keyboard, and sometimes my dishes don’t emerge from the kitchen tasting the way I want them to.  But I don’t cook my stories with margarine.  And neither should you.

In the Game of Science vs the Humanities, We Lose

My friend Casey Blair just made this post, which I liked because it made me think. I’m a sucker for that sort of thing.

There has been a fair amount of discussion in Some Circles about which is more important, education in science, or education in the humanities.  The general attitude is, you only have so many hours of education in college, you can only take so many classes, you have to choose how to divide them.  Casey points out that what is trendy today is to concentrate on math and science, because that will make you employable, and she elegantly picks apart the logic behind that position.  The crux of her argument is this: “Education is not primarily about teaching students employable skills.  That’s called training, and that also matters, but it’s not the same as education. Education is about teaching people how to think.”

In my opinion, the biggest problem in education today is that one needs massive student loans just to get enough of an education to get a job that will never allow one to pay off the student loans.  But, for the moment, let us ignore that and concentrate on the issue of education in science vs education in the humanities.

As far as Casey went, I have no disagreements; my argument comes in the next step.

I would argue that science is, in fact, about teaching people how to think.  However, when I say science, I do not just mean, “CSCI 4061 – Introduction to Operating Systems ,” or, “MATH 4707 – Introduction to Combinatorics and Graph Theory,” or, “BMEN 2501 Cellular and Molecular Biology for Biomedical Engineers .”  When I speak of science, I speak of using using our reasoning abilities and our means of gathering information to form conclusions that bring our thoughts as close as possible to objective processes in the real world.

In this regard, there can be no distinction between “science” and “the humanities.”

It is a false, pervasive, and dangerous dichotomy.

The point Casey makes above, that I quoted, is exactly on point: The idea of education is, yes, to teach us to think.  But just as much, it is to make us more complete, more empathetic, more well-rounded human beings.  That is also the role of art in life, as well as in education.  A good education ought to help us understand the world, both physically and emotionally–or, if you will, spiritually.

I think it is one of the great crimes of capitalism that today fewer and fewer people have access, not only to training in how to think, but in how to get the most out of works of art.  Of course, the closing of museums and the attacks on symphony orchestras are part of that same process.

I’m getting off-topic.  Sorry.   I’ve often heard things like, “science shows us how we change the world, the humanities show us why” and similar distinctions.  They’re clever, but I don’t agree. My point is, I think it is misleading and pernicious to make such a sharp divide between the sciences and the humanities. What matters is being able to understand, operate in, and change our world.   When it comes to education, to understanding how to think and to fully appreciate the world around us, we all need it all, and we all deserve it all, and, really, I don’t think that’s asking for so much.

The Incrementalists Audiobook Giveaway Contest

Okay, first of all, let me say that I am love with the audiobook. I’ve now listened to it twice, and Mary Robinette Kowal and Ray Porter do an amazing job of capturing the characters. I don’t know exactly how they do that, because their interpretations are so very different: Ray’s version of Oskar has a German accent and Mary’s doesn’t; Mary’s portrayal of Jimmy has a French accent and Ray’s doesn’t. You’d think they’d conflict, but in some weird way they compliment each other.

But the reading of the viewpoint characters: Mary’s Ren and Ray’s Phil, are where I lose the power of speech. So perfect, there needs to be a better term than perfect. There were a couple of points in there where I actually cried–and I’ve read this thing maybe a hundred times. I have no idea how they do that.

We’re giving away three copies (actually promo codes) for the book at Audible.com. We’re running three simultaneous contests here on this blog.

For those of you unfamiliar with the project, I would suggest reading the (free, of course) short story that’s up on Tor.com.  It can be found  here.

Contest 1: Suppose you were given the chance to join The Incrementalists. There’s a 50-50 shot (actually, more or less depending on how strong your personality is) that your personality would be swallowed by another and, though your memories would survive, you would be gone.  But if you did survive, you would become (at least somewhat) immortal, you would have access to memories from throughout human history, and you would be part of a small group dedicated to making the world better. Would you take the gamble? Why or why not? Maximum: 50 words

Contest 2: If you were an Incrementalist, with the power to influence individuals in subtle ways, what would be your first project? That is, what would be the first thing you did in an effort to make things just a little better? Maximum: 50 words

Contest 3: The Incrementalists have been around since the beginning of human history, trying to make things better, or make bad things a little less bad. Name one thing you’ve think they’ve done, and how could it have been worse if they didn’t?  Maximum: 100 words.

The contest will run until noon CDT on Monday, September 30, at which time Skyler and I will pick the best answer in all three categories. Post your answers here. You can answer all three, but you can only win one. Only one answer per contest per person.

Enjoy!

(Warning: If you say something really cool, Skyler and I just might steal it!)

(Note: As far as I know, audible can work on almost any device anywhere; but if I’m wrong, that’s not our problem, okay?)