writing into the void!
posted on 2024-08-11 by: kirby | 10 min read
You may have read this blog and thought to yourself, “what’s with all the footnotes, and why are they so long? you’re not citing anything.” About that… it’s because I get to ramble even more about stuff that is ultimately not adding anything to the post. Basically, it’s an excuse for me to write more detailed stuff where it wouldn’t fit elsewhere.
Isn’t it an inappropriate use of footnotes? Maybe, but whateva, I do what I want!
Last year, I read a novel by Nicholson Baker titled “The Mezzanine” (1988), and I got immediately hooked. It’s now probably my favourite book ever. Though, that doesn’t hold much weight since, if you happen to know me, I’ve never been the literary type or that big into English class. I don’t read many books (I don’t count manga or graphic novels, though I don’t read much of those either anymore), and I haven’t been big into reading since high school, but that’s changed since I got a cheap eReader last year for my birthday — it’s mainly used for reading on the bus and I go to town on a nice, usually short, novel, or collection of short stories. I’m trying, alright?1 This post will be a “short” explainer (and a novel review, I guess?) on how I use footnotes here and how much I rip off of that novel’s style to convey what I want to say.
The Mezzanine’s narrator spends the novel’s introductory chapters going in-depth about getting replacement shoelaces. I didn’t know much about the book other than seeing it as a recommendation for a “stream-of-consciousness” type book online. When I first navigated to the footnotes and saw that some spanned several pages (at least in the .epub format I have), I couldn’t help but keep reading. Baker’s prose, especially with regard to things so insignificant like the innovations of the plastic drinking straw and social conduct in corporate restrooms, were so engrossing.
“[26] For new-hires, the number of visits can go as high as eight or nine a day, because the corporate bathroom is the one place in the whole office where you understand completely what is expected of you. Other parts of your job are unclear: you have been given a pile of xeroxed documents and files to read; you have tentatively probed the supply cabinet and found that they don’t stock the kind of pen you prefer; relative positions of power are not immediately obvious; […]2 Once I took a new-hire to lunch, and though he asked not-quite-to-the-point questions as we ate our sandwiches, and nodded without comprehension or comeback at my answers, when we reached the hallway to the men’s room, he suddenly made a knowing, one-man-to-another face and said, “I’ve got to drain the rooster. See you later. Thanks again.” I said, “Yip, take it easy,” and walked on, even though I too needed to go, for reasons that will become clearer soon.”
Maybe it’s because I never really get to read such detailed explanations and sentimental attachments to involuntary memory concerning every day objects and routines. Is this ADHD brained? Maybe. But to see it expressed so gracefully in a novel that’s under 200 pages added to some of the mystique to me as a reader. Why was I so invested in what the narrator thinks of the milkman as a means of asserting the social contract?
“But I also had a strong counter-fascination for the system of home delivery, which managed to hold on for years into the age of the paper carton. It was my first glimpse of the social contract. A man opened our front door and left bottles of milk in the foyer, on credit, removing the previous empties — mutual trust!”
Who in their right mind would connect the social contract and something as routine as a milk delivery? There are little bits of genius like this written throughout the novel and its footnotes, and it’s told in such an elegant way that I couldn’t help but keep reading even after getting off the bus and getting to the next lecture. One time I was quickly gorging down a snack bar on the way to my next lecture, and carelessly drinking water in between, and another one of the novel’s excellent footnotes came to mind:3
“[46] My mother had said unexpectedly one afternoon while we both were at the kitchen table (I was reading “Dear Abby” while finishing a peanut butter sandwich and a glass of milk; she was reading “Readings in the Philosophy of the Social Sciences” for a course she was taking) that it was not a good idea to take a drink of what you were drinking before you had swallowed what you were chewing — not, she explained when I asked her why, because you were more likely to choke, but because it was considered rude; rude in a subtler way, apparently, than the childish crudity of talking with your mouth full or “smacking your lips” (a phrase I still don’t fully understand) […] The thought that I had grossed my own mother out at the kitchen table was painful to me; I never again took a sip while still chewing in public, and I felt my stomach flip when others did; but since in the case of milk and cookies simultaneity really is the only way to deflect the killing sweetness of the cookie and camouflage the Pepto-Bismolian cheesiness of the milk, I went ahead, relatively unobserved there on the bench, and bit and sipped by turns.”
I never expected such a detailed explanation of this specific case of table manners, but it was something that I enjoyed reading nevertheless. It’s just another aspect of life that now catches my eye whenever I am in a situation of hastily eating food while also being in dire need of water in my system. Also, the mention of the Dear Abby column I found particularly funny, not really sure why, but it is. The narrator didn’t have to mention it, but he did anyways.
Now, this isn’t much of a review other than sharing excerpts I find hilarious from the book. It’s full of pleasant surprises like these, spending paragraphs of footnotes or asides in the bulk of the text expanding on the narrator’s thoughts and childhood memories. There’s something oddly charming about that; giving the same attention to the overarching “plot” of a lunch break as the narrator would be recounting interactions from his past, eventually revealing details of his personal life. The footnotes don’t seem more like an interruption to the story but more as a supplement, but I’m probably saying that only being used to footnotes as a means of citation. There’s a certain flow to it that lets any casual reader peer into such a stream of consciousness while still being relatable. I’m sure I will be recounting moments from this novel for a long time as we chug along our daily routines.
I have always enjoyed media that explores “slice-of-life” themes, or detailing things that don’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. One of my favourite shows of all time is Larry David’s Curb Your Enthusiasm.4 And of course, since I bring up “slice-of-life”, we cannot ignore the subgenre of anime that focuses on character interactions and sharing the same settings of high school, karaoke bars, malls, Shibuya Crossing, and neighbourhoods. Usually spearheaded by a cast of moe characters and their interactions taking on the role of a conventional arc-based plot and ongoing story. Episodic stories, self-contained situations that could happen any day of the week, are more important here in this space of television.
Anime aside, the fact that many authors and writers can derive so much from simple everyday life is something for me to admire and carry on the tradition of. Footnotes on this blog are here to stay, dare I call them a “feature” or “stylistic choice”, and I hope my explanation of my bias towards this novel and why I enjoy it so much helps you understand that. Take it like an additional comment on the post, or a little something extra for a reader to chew on in lieu of a lack of substance in the main post. We shouldn’t discount our subconsciousness, or involuntary memory.5 It’s something to appreciate.
“[42] There is no good word for stomach; just as there is no good word for girlfriend. Stomach is to girlfriend as belly is to lover, and as abdomen is to consort, and as middle is to petite amie.”
It is a shame that I can’t find many novels like this. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get around to Infinite Jest. If you, the reader, have any recommendations, I urge you to let me know.
You will not see me reading something like Don Quixote, The Divine Comedy, One Hundred Years of Solitude, the previously mentioned Infinite Jest, or A Room With A View anytime soon, though. I just read whatever I think would be a “chill” read during my downtime or when I’m lazing around on the couch. Much like how I approach other forms of media. Not going to start with the classics or anything like that, I had enough of that shit reading in high school. I think the closest thing I’ve read recently that could be considered a “classic” novel or something you’d write a report about for an English assignment is Bulgakov’s The Master and Margarita (1967), but I was more drawn to its premise than the fact that it seems to be revered in some literary circles. Yes, there are themes about Christianity and religious beliefs, the dichotomy of good and evil, so I could draw some relation to it now as an agnostic (atheist? yuck) person who grew up Catholic, but it was when I actually got to reading the book when that subtext started to click for me. My true motivation to read the book was my desire to read about Satan in the form of a magician’s entourage with a talking cat, a vampire, and a hitman fucking around in Soviet Russia. I won’t ignore the classics — I’ll get around to them if they happen to fit what I’m looking for at the moment. A more recent award-winning novel I read was José Saramago’s Essay on Blindness (1995). I’ve also read Aurelius’ Meditations (the Penguin Classics translation edition), several times at that over the years, and that was before I read The Mezzanine. Let’s just say it was a happy coincidence that the narrator of The Mezzanine was carrying Meditations around too. ↩
Yes, I actually had to shorten this footnote from the novel, but holy fuck I find it so funny I had to include most of it. What leads an author to write gold such as this? I’m entranced. ↩
Might I add that the annotation features of eReaders are fucking awesome for quickly referring back to excerpts I particularly enjoyed. Not that there’s anything wrong with placing sticky markers and such in paperbacks, but it all comes up so conveniently in a list in a little submenu of the eReader interface, all neatly placed with page numbers and chapter references. ↩
It’s probably my sense of humour. I find that I can just laugh at the dumbest of things, or situations that others would find insignificant. Quick retorts, subtle body language and expression, overblown reactions to meaningless things, and in the case of Curb, something seemingly small occurring at the beginning of the episode only to have it gloriously build up into a nearly perfectly orchestrated punchline topped off by that sweet Curb outro music. ↩
Not to give too much away from The Mezzanine, as I give it my highest recommendation and though there really isn’t much to give away, but the narrator also explains the use of footnotes in a long footnote near the end of the novel. It’s a wonderful way to cap off the story, or lack of a story, since most of the novel is the narrator getting lunch and ascending an escalator. ↩