January 4, 2019 This Week’s Reading Staff Picks: Frick, Fierce Femmes, and Fan Fiction By The Paris Review Still from the video game Doom, 2016. The striking thing about Doom (2016), a game in which the player enters a portal to hell and rips demons in half with an increasingly ridiculous arsenal, is the level of subtlety and care evident in its design. Doom is the dictionary definition of over-the-top, metal, and gruesome, but I’ve played few other games that even come close to matching its buttery smooth difficulty curve and firm sense of place. Resurrected by a sinister corporation that’s solved the energy crisis by harvesting the power of hell, the main character wanders corridors of abandoned space outposts, finding everywhere scenes of capitalism taken to its logical extreme: pentagrams scrawled on the walls, holograms cheerily pledging company dogmatism, ambiguous hunks of meat hanging from the ceiling. Level by level, the game slowly stirs in more chaos, ensuring that the player is always equipped to deal with enemy encounters—but only insofar as the player survives. Comfort is elusive, perpetually just out of reach. Never did I lose the rush of fear I’d feel when I saw a hell knight charging me from across the map, nor did I escape the jumpy, amphetamine-like rush of landing in a new arena filled with horrible creatures. Doom is loud, but necessarily so; it’s refreshing to find a work so thoroughly committed to raising the hair on one’s neck. —Brian Ransom Read More
January 4, 2019 Arts & Culture Dark Fashion By Nina Edwards Darkness in fashion is seldom bland. Even where it fails, its objective is to make its mark, whether one of elegance or uniformity, modesty or dangerous seduction. Like red wine rather than white, it can suggest sophistication, even opulence; like the darks of professional makeup—the art of smoky defining shadows and dark lipstick—it can obscure what we find less appealing and hint at mysterious qualities that a scrubbed-clean face couldn’t hope to inspire. In China and Japan, for example, teeth were once lacquered black to protect the enamel, but also because it was considered beautiful, and the practice goes on today among some minorities in Southeast Asia. To paint black what should be white creates a shock that is the essence of dark fashion. Fashion is related to the desire for conformity. Even the least sartorially concerned among us might feel uncomfortable wearing bright colors at a funeral unless asked to do so, say, or be reluctant to turn up at a wedding dressed top to toe in black or, indeed, white. To ignore the unspoken rules of dress is to draw attention to oneself and to seem to make a critical statement about the status quo, as if one knows better. This is fashion in its widest sense. We may not think we give a damn about what we wear, but still we can find ourselves caring very much when even the smallest aspect of dress feels curiously unlike ourselves, as for a conservative dresser in a tie that is brighter or fractionally wider than his custom. It may be important to a person that their clothes do not look cheap—or, to another, too new. Today dark clothing has become ubiquitous. It can be sexy, flattering, neutral, daringly individualistic, and even subversive. In the recent past, as now, dark clothing was often preferred because it was easier to maintain, although in the West, at least, the advantage of “not showing the dirt” has become less important, since clothing has become cheaper in relation to income and washing machines are a common possession. In our grandparents’ or great-grandparents’ day, black or dark clothing was often associated with formality, and in southern Europe it was—and sometimes still is—the uniform dress code of older women of lower status. Thus it may be that a greater formality remains attached to darker clothing. Darkness somehow lends a garment intrinsic gravitas. Read More
January 3, 2019 Poetry Rx Poetry Rx: This Is the Year By Sarah Kay In our column Poetry Rx, readers write in with a specific emotion, and our resident poets—Sarah Kay, Kaveh Akbar, and Claire Schwartz—take turns prescribing the perfect poems to match. This week, Sarah Kay is on the line. ©Ellis Rosen Dearest Poets, The women who raised me suffered so many missed opportunities, and I am seized with guilt about it. I construct vivid images from the stories I know. I imagine my grandmother as a married seventeen-year-old woman-child, patiently waiting for the local florist to pass by our house so she could catch a whiff of the fragrant champac flowers she had no money to buy. How long did it take for her to give up on this tiny desire, I wonder? I imagine my mother doodling soft hands offering lotus obeisance to who-knows-which-god, over and over in the margins of her book. She must have been giving away her tenderness, surely? I see my aunt posing shyly for a photo, which is now torn in half. In a year, I will defend my doctoral thesis. This should be a vindication. But it doesn’t feel that way. Is there a poem for the taste of ash in my mouth right now? Yours, Vanquished Read More
January 3, 2019 Happily Ghost People: On Pinocchio and Raising Boys By Sabrina Orah Mark Sabrina Orah Mark’s monthly column, Happily, focuses on fairy tales and raising boys. My son’s first grade teacher pulls me aside to tell me she’s concerned about Noah and the Ghost People. “Ghost People?” “Yes,” she says. She is cheerful, though I suspect the main ingredient of her cheer is dread. Something she probably picked up from childhood. “Can you encourage Noah to stop bringing them to school?” She is whispering, and she is smiling. She is a close talker, and occasionally calls me “girl” which embarrasses me. “I don’t know these Ghost People.” “You do.” “I don’t think so.” “He makes them out of the woodchips he finds on the playground. They’re distracting him. He isn’t finishing his sentences.” “Okay,” I say. “Ghost People,” I say. She smiles wide. One of her front teeth looks more alive than it should be. Read More
January 2, 2019 Department of Tomfoolery Classic Literature as Fortune Cookie Fortunes By Jean-Luc Bouchard Happy 2019! Allow us to tell your fortune for the year to come using ten classic novels: 1. Lord of the Flies An exotic trip is just around the corner. 2. The Jungle You’ll be amazed by the results of your hard work. 3. Beloved The one you love is closer than you think. Read More
January 2, 2019 One Word One Word: Salty By Myriam Gurba In our new column One Word, writers expound on their favorite words. One kid raises their hand. They ask, “Miss Gurba, why’d you become a high school teacher?” This is a classic time-killing move. My tone turns serious. I respond, “It was an accident.” Hearing a public school employee be so blunt widens kids’ eyes. They’ve baited me into a tacit game of truth or dare and I’ve knowingly broken the rules. I’m pretty sure they expect me to belt out the opening lyrics of “Greatest Love of All.” They want a saint. What garbage. Catholics raised me, but I’m not a martyr. Still, even teenagers know you’re not supposed to admit that you stumbled into their classroom, but who cares? I did and I stayed and I continue to stumble in every morning. Something my students ask me less often is whether or not I like teaching. Something they ask me even less often than that is what I like about my profession. Read More