Posts Tagged ‘Roberto Bolaño’
August 29, 2014 | by The Paris Review
John Swartzwelder has written more Simpsons episodes than any other writer (fifty-nine in total). He’s also one of the most eccentric writers in the business: one story goes that “when he could no longer smoke in restaurants, he bought his favorite booth from his favorite diner and had it installed in his home.” Since leaving The Simpsons in 2003, he has self-published a novel each year, all of which are available on his Web site. After reading his first novel, The Time Machine Did It, I’m not surprised that Swartzwelder is the same person who introduced now-classic Simpsons characters such as Cletus Spuckler, Stampy the Elephant, and the three-eyed fish Blinky (who has now become a symbol among pundits for nuclear waste and wildlife mutation). The novels are pure screwball, honoring the comedies of the Marx Brothers and Preston Sturges as Swartzwelder dismisses any narrative rule for laughs. In The Time Machine Did It, a private detective named Frank Burly (“to give prospective clients the idea that I was a burly kind of man ... and who would be frank with them at all times”) finds himself traveling through time for a supposed multimillionaire who wakes up one day to find that everything he owns is gone. The plotline includes a homemade time machine and a town taken over by criminals, but why the novel works is the simple fact that it never takes itself too seriously. “On an impulse I mooned most of the 1950’s as I went by. I don’t know what makes me do these things. I guess it’s just part of my charm.” —Justin Alvarez
In outline, it reads like something made up by Roberto Bolaño: an Austrian writer crosses America, wracked by nightmares and visions and pursued by his mysterious, estranged wife. Peter Handke’s 1972 novella Short Letter, Long Farewell helped inspire the American “road movies” of Wim Wenders, and if Bolaño didn’t know the book, there is a strong family resemblance. As the critic Wayne Koestenbaum put it, the two writers share an “ability to sound sane (though vacant-souled) about insane circumstances,” whether these involve a desert sunset or a restaurant serving bear hock à la Daniel Boone. —Lorin Stein
That Olivier Messiaen’s “Quartet for the End of Time” is, in part, a transmutation of birdsong into lines of music has oddly come up several times over the past month, in the course of putting together the Fall issue and elsewhere. At the same time, I’ve found myself returning periodically to Music & Literature’s impressive fourth issue to gaze at the work of British composer Barry Guy, whose graphic scores are translations of sensory experiences relating to literature, painting, and architecture and visual reflections of movement, energy, and pitch. So it felt like the stars had fully aligned when I read Christian Wiman’s “translations” of Osip Mandelstam, from a small collection called Stolen Air. Instead of faithfully translating Mandelstam’s poems, Wiman has created versions of them: though some closely resemble the originals, others, he says, are “liberal transcriptions” and “collisions and collusions” between the two poets. Wiman sought to get at the sound of Mandelstam’s language, its music, without having any knowledge of Russian but feeling buoyed by Mandelstam’s notion of a poet’s “secret hearing.” And so we get silvery, jostling lines like “I love the early animal of her, / These woozy, easy swings” and “Better to live alluvial, / Better to live layered downward, / To be a man of sand, of hollows, shallows / To cling to sleeves of water / And to let them go—” —Nicole Rudick Read More »
July 28, 2014 | by Dan Piepenbring
- “It’s not too much of an exaggeration to call autocorrect the overlooked underwriter of our era of mobile prolixity. Without it, we wouldn’t be able to compose windy love letters from stadium bleachers, write novels on subway commutes, or dash off breakup texts while in line at the post office.” The wondrous history of autocorrect, including a brief meditation on the nature of profanity. (Because autocorrect “couldn’t very well go around recommending the correct spelling of mothrefukcer.”)
- “Three hundred thousand books are published in the United States every year. A few hundred, at most, could be called financial or creative successes. The majority of books by successful writers are failures. The majority of writers are failures. And then there are the would-be writers, those who have failed to be writers in the first place, a category which, if you believe what people tell you at parties, constitutes the bulk of the species.”
- On the distinct merits of Bolaño’s Distant Star: “At some point in 1995, Bolaño seems to have discovered that he could expand a published text without diluting its effect or getting bogged down in circumstantial details, and that he could bring back characters and give them fuller lives without being strictly constrained by what he had already written about them.”
- After twenty-seven years, the Rodeo Bar, “New York’s longest-running honky-tonk,” has closed.
- “I’m not happy about people wearing sunglasses at all. Proper upstanding citizens never used to. They preferred to leave that sort of thing to dodgy characters from the underworld.”
April 1, 2014 | by Dan Piepenbring
At last! Spring is here, Easter is coming, and, as you can see, the latest issue of The Paris Review has already taken its pastels out of the closet—it’s ready to sally forth into the cherry blossoms. And at its heart are two of our most anticipated interviews.
First, there’s Cormac McCarthy on the Art of Fiction:
I rise at six and work through the morning, every morning, seven days a week. I find the sun has a forlorn truth before noon.
Being called paranoid seems preferable to any number of things. Especially now, with the degrees of access, the ubiquity of cameras—it’s a position that seems increasingly less, well, paranoid. The word that does bother me is recluse. I don’t consider myself reclusive.
Plus, an excerpt from a newly unearthed novel by Roberto Bolaño; fiction by Lydia Davis and Ottessa Moshfegh; poems by Frederick Seidel, Anne Carson, and Dorothea Lasky; an essay by Christian Lorentzen; and a portfolio by Salman Rushdie.
We humbly assert that it’s one of our strongest issues ever. See for yourself.
September 9, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
June 17, 2013 | by Sadie Stein
We were thrilled to run across this custom bike helmet, modeled on the 2666 cover designed by Charlotte Strick (who just happens to be The Paris Review’s art editor!). Says Ariel Abrahams, who commissioned the literary topper,
I chose my design because when I read the book 2666 by Roberto Bolaño, I was literally taken aback. I had to sit down, stop my life and just read. I really fell in love. I thought a bike helmet depicting the magical sea-life images from the cover of the third book of 2666 would commemorate these overwhelming, larger than life feelings somehow. If you have read the book, you know the importance of the sea creature images to the tone of the story.
June 14, 2013 | by The Paris Review
“Pretty Much Every Single Black Flag Poster Designed by Raymond Pettibon” pretty much says it all. This gallery of eighty-two posters, in the collection of Kill Your Idols publisher Bryan Ray Turcotte since 1982, has been keeping me occupied the past few days. I’ve been trying to pick a favorite, but it’s tough. I still remember seeing the Black Flag logo for the first time: it was unmistakable and striking and strangely compelling. It still is. —Nicole Rudick
In the search for Roberto Bolaño’s Woes of the True Policeman, I ran across the New Directions edition of his 1980 novel Antwerp tucked between his better-known works. It’s an amalgamation of short, experimental descriptions of conversations and neo-philosophical interpretations of love and life, written when the author was twenty-seven. I haven’t come across something so simultaneously challenging and lucid in a long time. —Ellen Duffer
I was in Chicago this past weekend for Printers Row Lit Festival, where the Review shared the Small Press Tent with a handful of old friends (A Public Space, McSweeney’s, Bookforum) and new friends (featherproof books, MAKE magazine, Midwestern Gothic). Over the course of the festival, I picked up Franki Elliot’s chapbook Piano Rats from Chicago publisher Curbside Splendor and spent a plane ride with Elliot’s brief, deeply personal free verse “stories,” which detail her varied interactions with both strangers and current/past lovers.
the only sound was our breathing
when you cleared your throat and said,
neither loud nor quiet
“I wish there was a God.”
I didn't have to say anything
At times mundane, awkward, offensive, and, ultimately, heartbreaking, it takes a while to warm up, but, by the end, leaves a lasting impression. I didn’t sleep a wink on the plane. —Justin Alvarez
I was one of the many fans devastated this week when Scottish indie band the Pastels canceled their U.S. shows (the first since 1997!) due to work-visa issues. At least we can derive some solace from listening to their gorgeous new release, Slow Summits, which is as tender, wistful, and thoughtful as all their albums. (And start saving up for tickets to Glasgow.) —Sadie Stein