29th Street Ballroom
Ventura Wrong on Derrida
RECEIVED Thu., Jan. 27, 2005
Dear Editor,
It's disappointing that Michael Ventura, typically a courageous freethinker when it comes to the art of letters, has fallen under the popular sway of the reactionary neoconservative critics who disparage Derrida without spending more than a few cursory moments with his texts. ["Letters @ 3AM," Jan. 7] Creative and analytical readers expect such slog from Publishers Weekly and The New York Times Book Review, but not from Ventura. I guarantee that had Ventura ever picked up a book of Derrida’s, rather than rely on Derrida’s reputation-according-to-newspapers-and-magazines, he would have been impressed. Surely he would have disagreed with Derrida, but he would have at least recognized another writer just as equally devoted to the magic of language and literature. A sure sign that Ventura is out of his range in this essay: He lambasts Derrida for "confusing multitudes," as if Ventura himself wouldn’t be the first to lead a charge of asking questions to engage with a subject from a fresh viewpoint, even if those questions weren’t immediately answerable and the engagement turned up more questions than answers.
Anti-intellectualism, as if it needed any more nurturing in this country, could be more easily critiqued and dismissed if independent thinkers like Ventura didn’t lazily jump on its bandwagon when convenient (especially considering that it’s not even relevant for Ventura’s focus in this essay).
An element of bitterness clearly informs Ventura’s closing jibes at any and all literary theorists, and a longtime reader of his columns has to wonder: Is anyone besides Ventura allowed to write about literature? (Consider that one-third of all his columns have been devoted, illuminatingly, to the writing process and the many forms that literature takes.) An analogous portrayal of the logic of his critique against literary theorists could be represented like this: I hate all trombone music because I’ve only heard bad trombone music. Surely Ventura’s not letting the slackening analysis that passes for thought in America determine his own level of rigor as he matures.
It's disappointing that Michael Ventura, typically a courageous freethinker when it comes to the art of letters, has fallen under the popular sway of the reactionary neoconservative critics who disparage Derrida without spending more than a few cursory moments with his texts. ["Letters @ 3AM," Jan. 7] Creative and analytical readers expect such slog from Publishers Weekly and The New York Times Book Review, but not from Ventura. I guarantee that had Ventura ever picked up a book of Derrida’s, rather than rely on Derrida’s reputation-according-to-newspapers-and-magazines, he would have been impressed. Surely he would have disagreed with Derrida, but he would have at least recognized another writer just as equally devoted to the magic of language and literature. A sure sign that Ventura is out of his range in this essay: He lambasts Derrida for "confusing multitudes," as if Ventura himself wouldn’t be the first to lead a charge of asking questions to engage with a subject from a fresh viewpoint, even if those questions weren’t immediately answerable and the engagement turned up more questions than answers.
Anti-intellectualism, as if it needed any more nurturing in this country, could be more easily critiqued and dismissed if independent thinkers like Ventura didn’t lazily jump on its bandwagon when convenient (especially considering that it’s not even relevant for Ventura’s focus in this essay).
An element of bitterness clearly informs Ventura’s closing jibes at any and all literary theorists, and a longtime reader of his columns has to wonder: Is anyone besides Ventura allowed to write about literature? (Consider that one-third of all his columns have been devoted, illuminatingly, to the writing process and the many forms that literature takes.) An analogous portrayal of the logic of his critique against literary theorists could be represented like this: I hate all trombone music because I’ve only heard bad trombone music. Surely Ventura’s not letting the slackening analysis that passes for thought in America determine his own level of rigor as he matures.
Andrew Choate
Los Angeles, Calif.
Los Angeles, Calif.