Is plagiarism or churlishness the worse offense?

Plagiarism is wrong. We all know this. We were all told this by our parents, our teachers, our professors. At university I had to certify that I had read their policy for anyone caught plagiarizing work. We are failed for cheating. New books are scrutinized and authors are brought into court for the phrasing of sentences, familiar plots and other similarities to already published work.

And now a new controversy has joined the ranks, this time from the world of blogs. Neale Donald Walsch, the author of Conservations with God, was accused by writer Candy Chand of stealing a Christmas tale she had published in several publications, including in 2000's Chicken Soup for the Christian Family Soul, and using it as his Christmas post on his blog for Beliefnet. That post has since been taken down, from what I can tell, and Walsch has issued an apology and a long summary trying to explain how it happened.

Chand's story is a simple one. She wrote years ago of being at a Christmas pageant, and several young children gathering to hold up several cards that were meant to spell "Christmas love." But one of the children, most likekly astounded by throngs of adoring parents, or simply not yet able to read, help her M upside down, thus spelling, "Christ was love." A simple story, but certainly one that many people have been touched by, as the story became a popular e-mail forward, and Chand herself has published it in a number of places. In the e-mail forwards, she admits, she is often uncredited.

Now, according to Walsch, he saved this story at one point into his writing files. And over the course of many years, he told the story again and again, at lectures and events, until the story became far more than a useful anecdote. It became his own story, an event that had happened to him. And so when he was searching for a Christmas post that December day, he stumbled across this lovely, simple story in his folder of writing never used, and told it as his own. Cut, paste, post.

At least, this is his story. Walsch really does seem dumbfounded by the fact that he came to believe over the years that this event had actually happened to him, and not someone else. And I for one believe him. Memories are easily rewritten, especially when one tells a story over and over. And my own writing folders are filled with files and subfolders of random scraps of stories that may never be used (although I am careful to mark anything that is not my own as such.)

But the truly astounding part of the story, at least for me, is Chand's reaction. Perhaps it's the fact that she has received e-mail forwards of her own story, without attribution for easily ten years. Perhaps it's the fact that she envies a far more successful writer. But for whatever reason, Chand told The New York Times that she's "not buying it." She believes the author knew precisely what he was doing and chose to steal her work in the belief that he wouldn't get caught, which is rather laughable in this age when you can Google "Christ was love" and the second link contains any attribution of the story to Chand. (Walsch could hardly have been so brazen.) She also claims that his use of the story diminished the miracle that occurred on that stage all those years ago.

I think classifying a child's spelling error as a miracle might be stretching it, but she does have a point when she says out that it damages her credibility. I too would be upset to find out that someone had been telling one of my stories for years as their own, and thus diminishing my own right to the story as people begin to question who really wrote it, who really lived it. But the fact that a Christian writer would declare that she doesn't accept another Christian writer's apology, and that she won't forgive? That is the most surprising part, far more than Walsch's ill-timed memory lapse. And it doesn't speak very highly of Chand's own ideals.

*As it suddenly seems pertinent, I must note that I learned most of the story from The New York Times story linked above, written by Motoko Rich. And I originally heard about the story from the Christian Science Monitor blog, Chapter & Verse, written by Marjorie Kehe.

Another note on The Virgin of Bennington

Norris seems to hit very precisely on a problem we still struggle with in the US. In discussing the hostile reaction of a Jewish teacher to a Spanish poet in his school, who by reading poems in Spanish had epitomized the influx of immigrants into this previously Jewish neighborhood, Norris discusses our need to cling to that which is the same. She focuses on the tendency of people to exclude other ideas and cultures from their consciousness, and to be offended when those cultures intrude on their well-established boundaries of safety.

She mentions in particular small towns where the makeup of the population has changed very little for hundreds of years, but she also points out that even in a city like New York, people can cling to the sameness of life, excluding the idea that someone from the Midwest, the West Coast, the South might have a new take on this American life.

Having grown up in a small town where Asian and Caucasian culture were at times held in powerful tension, I can see now that the people I most admired in that town were the ones to whom change could never be a bad omen. And the people I most disliked, the foolish students mocking Hmong teenagers for speaking another language and the politically conservative firebrands who confused patriotism with being white and speaking English, were the very people that drove me to seek a new life in Chicago, just as Norris' mentor, Betty Kray, sought a new life in New York City.

The Virgin of Bennington by Kathleen Norris

Years ago, when I was still a virgin and still struggling with my faith, I came across a book in a bargain bin entitled The Virgin of Bennington. This in itself did not catch my interest, but the name of the author struck me. I had grown up hearing Kathleen Norris' name, who had written several books on faith that had served as a resource for my mother. But here, in this bargain bin, was a book, intriguingly titled, whose dust jacket promised tales of the "culture of drugs, sex, and bohemianism" in the 1960s. Indeed, I thought to myself. Kathleen Norris and sex. Who knew? Intrigued by the description and the $4.96 price tag, I bought it, placed it my shelf, and promptly forgot I had ever seen it.

Picking it up now, years later, after having had time to mature, to encounter my own culture of drugs, sex, and bohemianism (by comparison a remarkably tepid culture, given its placement at Northwestern University), and having had time to mature as a writer, I was eager to find out what she might have to say. And, surprisingly, I found myself moved and excited by her memoir in a way I have not been in some time, perhaps not since Bird by Bird. I found myself reading intently as Norris described the struggle of a writer in her 20s. She had a smattering of success, giving poetry readings, having a volume of poems published, and found herself frightened, disenchanted, and without inspiration for months. The publication of her book crippled whatever creativity had lived within her, and she was saddened to find that others, writers or no, were so turned off by her success that some stopped being friends with her. She retreated from writing, retreated into her safe administrative job, and it took some time for her to find her voice again.

How very familiar it was to hear that she took comfort in being good at an easy job, that she wondered if all poets had to be depressed in order to be good, and that she often wandered away from writing, trying to find something else that might please her. Having sat in an all-too-easy job as an administrator for two years, and so often losing my way as a writer since starting college, I felt so keenly Norris' struggles as a young poet. I too often wondered if the lot of a writer was to be unhappy, for having found happiness in my own life, I also found that my wellspring of stories and ideas had dried up, until I was left struggling to even fill a page, much less an entire notebook. But I have found, just as I did with Bird by Bird, that another writer's struggle often helps to open that spring again, and suddenly words and ideas are rushing into my mind and onto the page. This, of all the things I can say to recommend Norris' book, is perhaps the most important for any writer. Sometimes you need to know that someone else is out there. Sometimes you need them to tell you the way.

I found Norris' writing to be clear, loving and humble. She has devoted what begins as a memoir of her own life to telling the tale of another, namely her mentor, Betty Kray, a woman who seems to be largely responsible for the flourishing of poetry in the 60s and 70s, at least according to Norris. Certainly, Norris and Kray both met and befriended a great many writers while working at the Academy of American Poets in New York. Other celebrities from the 70s also haunt the book, including Andy Warhol and other semi-famous actors and artists. Norris interacted, danced and partied with people who, in my generation, are legend, urban ghosts who we wish we might have known. Norris' matter of fact tone when writing about such encounters at first seems like name dropping, but perhaps all encounters with celebrities will seem like name dropping in a memoir. But Norris' determination to depict her time in New York with clarity and honesty, to show the good and the bad of free love, free drugs and the struggles of young artists, ultimately carries through, and in the end we see ever so many poets, writers and artists to be what they really are: people.

Norris has devoted her memoir not to herself, but to her mentor, Betty Kray, a woman who gave Norris her start in New York but also pushed her to leave it when it became too comfortable. But it becomes clear over the course of the book that in telling Kray's story, Norris is telling her own. This woman had a profound effect on Norris' life and writing. Kray served as a reader, an agent and a knowledgeable friend, and helped Norris through her revelations of the inherent insecurities and dangers of being an artist. Through her work, Kray taught Norris that to be unhappy might allow one to write more, but was not required in order to remain a poet, and that being published can be one of the most difficult trials a writer ever goes through.

Norris spends her early 20s falling into things: the party scene, drugs, love affairs, poetry; but with Kray's example and guidance, she discovers that unhappiness is not required to make a poet, and that seeking this unhappiness can be ever so dangerous. Using real-life examples of poets who committed suicide or became increasingly susceptible to their own manic moods, Norris depicts just how often artists fall into patterns that ultimately hinder their craft and their enjoyment of their own life. Out of respect for her fellow poets and for Betty Kray, Norris never points out when a poets' work had gone awry, but she does show the many strange insecurities that crop up when poets start to have any sort of success.

The book is worth reading if only to gain a better understanding of where our current literary culture has come from. As an artist, it is also worth reading to understand the struggle of an artist in their 20s. There are drugs, depression, mania, self-absorption, egotism, and despair, and Norris tried several in her unknowing search to find out how to be a better poet. In the end, Kray urged Norris to seek a peaceful place within herself out of which to create her poems. Kray may not have approved when Norris found this peace in religion, but she only hastened to offer caution about the let-down of religious ecstasy, to urge Norris to write from these feelings and about these feelings without giving herself wholly up to them, lest she swing back down and lose her creative drive once more. Ultimately, Kray taught Norris by example how to be a writer, and reading this book passes on such useful insights that I would urge many young writers to read it, poet or no. There are certainly many ways to be writer, and though Norris never preaches that one way is best, she certainly offers many examples of the pitfalls along the way.

A Death in the Family Gets a New Draft

Looks like I was not the only one dissastisfied with Agee's posthumous publishing. Michael A. Lofaro has gone through Agee's manuscript and reordered it, leaving out some of the strange flashbacks that I too found jarring in the story and adding what sounds like a fair amount of material. I haven't read the book, but this essay provides a good overview of the scope and differences in the new work.

The Namesake

It seems that young writers these days are masters of short stories and never novels. After The Memory Keeper's Daughter, which started out so promisingly before wandering unfocused from character to character, I question the ideas that any successful short story writer can simply pick up and write a novel.

But The Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri is certainly an exception. Or perhaps a new twist on the same old problems. The detail of the book is startling - so many scenes filled with vivid, telling details that I did not think Lahiri could sustain such a pace. And yet, the novel is filled with moment after moment, like a million tiny climaxes within a short story that never ends. The story spans four decades, yet the main characters always feel so deliberately drawn, so delicate and present in the exact moment of their life.

The difficulty is that the tone here is so lacking in emotion and reliant on detail that at times it seems as if the characters feel nothing at all. All grief is expressed in action, such as clearing out a dead father's apartment or shaving one's head as a sign of mourning. Love is rarely expressed. In this Bengali family built upon an arranged marriage, the two lovers of the book do not even speak each other's names. They are distant and only slowly become accustomed to each other, and never in the book do you see a declaration of love. Their love is meant to be apparent only in that they stay together and raise a family, but frankly this does not come across in the book. It is not until one has lost the other that you feel that they truly had a life together, instead of a life side-by-side.

The Other Boleyn Girl

The Other Boleyn Girl by Philippa Gregory has been a delightful read from beginning to end. The fascination of the story lies in Gregory's ability to so clearly depict seduction and courtly flirtation. We are drawn into a world managed by wit, jest and compliments. Courtiers accept and decline proposals in the same loving language, always praising the person who complimented them, declaring their undying affection for them, using jests to parlay a conversation into personal gain. We see a court where women use sex and flirtation to achieve something that almost always benefits the men around them more than it benefits themselves.

The story is told by Mary Boleyn, sister to the famous Anne. She is the more conscientious but less clever sister, unable to manipulate the court and men as easily as her sister. Initially, I found myself hoping with her to achieve something in the court, to become the king's mistress and then queen. I hoped for her to succeed with King Henry. But as Mary gives birth to two children and comes to love pleasures that come without a price, such as raising her children and living in the country, I began to tire of the demands placed on her by her family. The constant work put in by the court in order to please the king is staggering, and when Mary calls the king and Anne "the two most selfish people alive," I had to agree. The work of pleasing a king seems like a very clever game until one begins to tire of it, and then it seems like a ridiculous thing, particularly to this Yankee rebel. We have been raised in a country where no one is unquestionable, and to watch two women circle each other just to keep the favor of one tyrant becomes increasingly difficult throughout the book. By the time Mary leaves court, I too was ready to be free of it.

Despite my enjoyment of the book, discussing the writing is a far more difficult thing to do. The characters are well-drawn, each presented with conflicting motives and passions which show why some, like Mary, find happiness and others, like Anne, find ruin. But once each character is drawn, the plot is set in motion. There is little physical description of England, or of the various palaces where much of the action takes place. There is much description of costume and dress, in part because the costumes worn by each character so frequently indicate their mood or desires. But this story is one that does not fuel itself on an elegant turn of phrase, but instead on the interactions of a multitude of ambitious people. Although I enjoyed the book and always looked forward to taking it up again, I cannot highlight any specific passage or quote the way I might for a book by, say, Michael Chabon or Somerset Maugham. Ultimately, the writing is humorous, well-characterized and driven. But there is no point where my breath caught in my throat at the beauty or aptness of some description. Only a general warmth and gratitude towards the characters for giving me such dramatic and gripping stuff to sink my teeth into.

A reflection on the writing process

James Agee died before he finished his novel, A Death in the Family. He wrote the first draft, in various parts, but had not finished editing his work when he passed away. He had enough admirers among his writing friends that they banded together to finish his work. They edited his novel, but took care to leave his original words intact. They also inserted certain portions that were not part of the original manuscript in the places they seemed best to fit. In some portions of the book, these pieces fit. In others, one cannot guess at the intent of the author, only that he was experimenting with a voice or tone that he might have altered or somehow fit into the novel had he not died beforehand.

Although I generally object to posthumous publications -- the idea of someone publishing a work I never completed is frightening to me, and I imagine many writers; we can't all be Emily Dickinson -- reading "A Death in the Family" is an education. For any writer, it is a thrill to see another writer's process; although we so rarely share this side of our lives because it is the most terrifying, boring, exhausting and essential part of our work. But to read a manuscript that will always sit without the author's final touch shows me that the writing process was not so different for Agee than it is for me and many other writers. The essential plot is there, but there are also sideliness, digressions, stories that never go anywhere. Agee may have intended to tie them up; he may have intended to cut them, forever, from the literary world. We will never know.

Now, Agee is such a fine writer that it is easy to overlook these portions. Also, his death provides an easy excuse. "Certainly, he would have cut these if he could have," we murmur at points that do not suit, that do not please. But the publication of his book without that final draft means we are privy to all the possibilities of the manuscript. It might have gone this way. It might have gone that. It might have been a fine book. It might have been great.

My instinct is that the novel would have been great, but to never know seems to me that Agee cheated the system. When an author allows a work to be published at a specific point, it leaves her open to our judgment. We criticize her choices, her mistakes, the weak points. But with Agee, we simply cannot know what to criticize because the author did not have the final choice. He may have intended so many changes, but given to us in this form, who among us can fault the novel or the writer when a set of now-nameless editors had that final say? Ultimately, we can only speculate. We can only say what we would have cut. But to critique the novel of a writer who never had that final choice seems impermissible and petty. "He died. We cannot criticize him for that."

Literary Cat Fight

Apparently Kakutani insulted Franzen's work, so Franzen insulted Kakutani. It's lovely that critics and writers have such a healthy working relationship.

Theatre by W. Somerset Maugham

I finally finished my first Somerset Maugham novel. I knew I'd love his writing. I knew I'd enjoy this book, and I was thoroughly enjoying the writing and characters up until the last ten pages when I began to suspect that no one could pull off a satisfying resolution in so short a time.

Theatre tells the story of Julia Lambert, the "greatest actress in England." Julia is talented, beautiful, and despite a modest upbringing manages to charm the rich, the aristocratic, the royal, with her acting talent and wit. She attends beautiful parties where she says scandalously funny things, does wonderful impressions of other actresses, and has a loyal following of rich and smitten patrons. Her long marriage to her theater manager, Michael, is affectionate but seems to be sexless. The couple no longer has a sexual attraction to each other, it seems, but imbued in their scenes together is the familiarity and comfort of two people long accustomed to each other. While both characters make clear that they do not fully understand the other - Michael insists that Julia doesn't care about sex, which Julia believes herself smarter than Michael in many ways - they do understand each other in certain crucial ways that make you believe that their marriage really could have lasted so many years. Michael is not greedy enough to have stayed with Julia had he been truly unhappy, nor is Julia so ambitious that she would have stayed with Michael simply to further her career. The two genuinely loved each other when they married, and if both have felt their lust of each other fade over the years, neither seems to be mind very much. Julia continues to compliment Michael's beauty, and Michael continues to manage Julia as the brilliant actress that she is.

For Julia is an amazing actress. One reads little of her time on the stage itself, but one is always aware of how Julia arranges herself to appear to her best advantage in front of her husband, her friends, her would-be lovers, and her actual lovers. To say it plainly, she is manipulative, artful, and downright deceitful. But that discounts the beauty of these very deceptions. Julia is very clever, and very intelligent. She sees people for who they are, for what they desire, for what they most want to see, and she ever affects to give this to them. She changes her tact and expression to present the best version of herself to her friends, and so it is often unclear who Julia really is. Is she the intelligent, refined, sensitive woman she presents to her friend Charles Tamerley? Is she the playful and easy lover she acts toward Tom Fennell, her young lover? Or is she indeed the deceitful person her son Robert believes her to be? In the end, the reader knows better than any character in the book, but I still wonder if I know, truly, who Julia is. She is artful, she is talented, captivating, and she has a dark and (to me) enjoyable sense of humour. She is a mighty actress. But she is ultimately not very kind, rarely sincere, and uses her friends to her own advantage. She has so many stories woven for so many people in her lives that at times she must be very careful not to get the threads crossed. But ultimately it is all done to benefit herself.

I think Somerset Maugham is brilliant. I loved his depiction of Julia. He has a talent for crafting small but not insignificant characters with a few quotes and a description of their hat. But he also saw such a complex character so clearly as he wrote this novel. He deftly handled how Julia would react to slights, to embarrassment, to disappointment. In the end, he knew his character best, and we are left looking in, trying to understand as well as he what Julia truly desires from her life. For in the end, what she seems to want is the triumph of interpreting best how life appears to be. In the final scene, she sits, alone and unrecognized, in a crowded restaurant, the victor in a battle of wills with her former lover and an ambitious young actress, and she watches couples dancing on the floor before her, and reflects that it is her gift that gives people's lives meaning. She says to herself, "Roger says we don't exist. Why, it's only we who do exist. They are the shadows and we give them substance. We are the symbols of all this confused, aimless struggling that we call life, and it's only the symbol which is real."

I felt at first that Somerset Maugham had given us no conclusion. A novel must have a conflict, and a resolution, and in the end the conflict is not between Julia and the young man who drops her, or between Julia's public and private person, but instead between the stage and real life. And in Julia's opinion, the stage wins out. There is a conflict here between the real world and this actress, but the resolution is that Julia is interpreting us at every moment, and that while she exists to give us meaning, we exist to give her the raw stuff of which plays are made. I cannot help but feel disturbed to find myself a shadow dependent on an artist as great as Julia to make me real. And yet I think of Somerset Maugham, of Virginia Woolf, of James Joyce and Jane Austen, and indeed I am dependent. Reading their work has shown me that my own thoughts are not unique - others have thought as I do, have grown up, have loved, have made mistakes and tried to correct them just as I have. I do not mean to compare myself to the great heroes and heroines, but the fact is that these very heroes and heroines, the Miss Elizas and Gatsbys and Mrs. Dalloways, do exist as mirrors against which we hold ourselves. We live, we breathe, we act, and these great writers see, interpret, and publish, and suddenly we have characters and plots that so remind us of some part of our lives, but with more meaning, more grace, more importance. Reading these books provides some interpretation for my life, some version of truth to consider. And Julia's plays, Julia's acting, does the very same for her audience. And so perhaps these people do depend on Julia, in some way. Perhaps she does hold all the power.

From the book review "Warsaw Underground" by Irvine Welsh

One measurement of a genuine writer is his or her ability to evoke a place that is instantly familiar yet outside our direct personal experience, presenting it to us as a more accurate and vivid depiction than our prejudices had previously allowed. Andrzej Stasiuk is this kind of writer. He’s an accomplished stylist with an eye for the telling detail that brings characters and situations to life.