{"id":100212,"date":"2016-07-08T15:21:21","date_gmt":"2016-07-08T19:21:21","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=100212"},"modified":"2016-07-09T18:20:11","modified_gmt":"2016-07-09T22:20:11","slug":"staff-picks-gold-teeth-hawk-noses-flying-cars","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/07\/08\/staff-picks-gold-teeth-hawk-noses-flying-cars\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Gold Teeth, Hawk Noses, Flying Cars"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"maxresdefault\"<\/a>

Andy Thomas\u2019s animation of bird sounds.<\/p><\/div>\n

In 1924, Samuel Beckett, eighteen, lurked at a\u00a0Sunday\u00a0salon in Dublin, standing obtuse and silent against the wall, his head down as conversation breathed around him.\u00a0Five years later, in 1929, in Paris, he sat silently on the edge of a circle of James Joyce\u2019s acolytes, while \u201cShem\u201d (Beckett\u2019s affectionate sobriquet for Dublin\u2019s literary master) held court. On a balmy afternoon, in 1932, he slouched into a corner during tea at Walter Lowenfels\u2019s (a cheerful American\u2014and failed publisher\u2014in Paris\u2019s literary society), where he sat \u201ctall, thin, looking like a forest ranger in a Western.\u201d Beckett\u2019s dark form\u2014I imagine him in the shadows of these parties, hunched, hawk-nose angled down, and blue eyes focused on a point\u2014is a recurring image in the early chapters of\u00a0Samuel Beckett<\/a><\/em>, the 1978 biography by Deirdre Bair that I started reading this weekend. But these aren\u2019t my only impressions of him. Bair was given unprecedented access to Beckett: the book was written while he was still alive, and though he didn\u2019t give her any interviews, he allowed Bair to write to his friends and family, informing them that they should give her whatever they like. And so Beckett emerges\u2014layered, brilliant, brooding, genius. \u2014Caitlin Love<\/strong><\/p>\n

From the first page of Antonio di Benedetto\u2019s 1956 novel Zama<\/a><\/em>\u2014in which the eponymous hero spies a monkey\u2019s floating corpse \u201ccaught among the posts of the decrepit wharf \u2026 ready to go and not going\u201d\u2014a humid nimbus cloud of despair settles over the story, never to dissolve. Set in the Paraguay of the late eighteenth century, Zama<\/em> follows a bureaucrat in his tortured efforts to secure a better position in far-off Buenos Aires, where he hopes to settle with his even-farther-off wife and children. Listless, phlegmatic, and increasingly horny, Zama wanders the lush country doing something close to nothing, watching almost distantly as he loses his moral compass. As a study in exile, paranoia, and the lonely tedium of quashed ambitions, this is great shit. But read it above all for the triumph of its style: Zama<\/em> holds forth in deep, stewing paragraphs as pompous as they are incisive. It\u2019s Sartre by way of J. Peterman, and in Esther Allen\u2019s translation it still feels unique and alive. \u2014Dan Piepenbring\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"zama\"<\/a><\/p>\n

In April, Harper Perennial reissued a new paperback edition of Michael Chabon\u2019s\u00a0Summerland<\/a><\/em>, the then-mysteriously underrated successor to his Pulitzer Prize\u2013winning\u00a0The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay<\/em>. I always thought it was Chabon\u2019s best, so its muted critical reception somewhat perplexed me. Granted, it\u2019s an all-ages epic fantasy framed around summer-league baseball in Washington State\u2014and on top of that, a Virgil-esque werefox, a tree that connects all worlds, and a flying car take center stage. In this reissue, Chabon writes an introductory essay that addresses a question he was often asked: Why did he write something so disorientingly eclectic? \u201cI did believe in fairies,\u201d it begins. \u201cI did. I did.\u201d He wrote Summerland<\/em>, we learn, in grief: in 2000, he and his wife had to terminate a pregnancy. Through this book, he sought to recapture the magic he\u2019d once believed in, back when he would search the woods behind his childhood home for signs of faerie rings. Such a loss, he suggests, \u201cis and always has been the inheritance of every American \u2026 The way lost things had the power to both haunt and to exalt, to move and to reproach\u2014that steered the book I decided to write, about fairies and baseball.\u201d \u2014Daniel Johnson<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nautilus<\/em>\u2019s latest issue is devoted to noise and the idea that an \u201cunwanted sound or signal\u201d might better be described as being unintentional (and perhaps more fruitful) than undesirable. In the early aughts, Stephon Alexander conducted postdoc work at London\u2019s Imperial College and recalls leaving the annual quantum-gravity cocktail hour with a friend and an unknown man with a gold tooth. To Alexander\u2019s surprise, the conversation between his friend and this \u201cgold-toothed wonder\u201d dipped into the physics of space-time, the mathematics of waves, and music. To his greater surprise, the stranger turned out to be Brian Eno<\/a>. Eno\u2019s \u201cgenerative music,\u201d or \u201can audible version of a moir\u00e9 pattern,\u201d invigorated Alexander\u2019s research into the physics fundamental to the birth of the universe. \u201cThe initial vibration of the energy fields,\u201d he concludes, \u201csonified throughout the space-time background like the vibrating body of an instrument, generating the first structure in our cosmos and then the first stars and eventually us.\u201d As a kind of coda, I recommend listening to a recording made of protons whipping around inside the Large Hadron Collider<\/a>\u2014a sound akin to \u201csomething like mutated aquatic mammal sounds making a cameo on a Brian Eno composition.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In 1924, Samuel Beckett, eighteen, lurked at a\u00a0Sunday\u00a0salon in Dublin, standing obtuse and silent against the wall, his head down as conversation breathed around him.\u00a0Five years later, in 1929, in Paris, he sat silently on the edge of a circle of James Joyce\u2019s acolytes, while \u201cShem\u201d (Beckett\u2019s affectionate sobriquet for Dublin\u2019s literary master) held court. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[23176,199,13057,23175,2890,23180,23181,313,14449,23178,53,9619,4429,13817,883,23179,23177],"class_list":["post-100212","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-antonio-di-benedetto","tag-biography","tag-brian-eno","tag-deirdre-bair","tag-fantasy","tag-generative-music","tag-hadron-collider","tag-michael-chabon","tag-nautilus","tag-paraguay","tag-reading","tag-recommended-reading","tag-samuel-beckett","tag-sound","tag-staff-picks","tag-summerland","tag-zama"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Samuel Beckett, Michael Chabon, Brian Eno<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of The Paris Review is reading this week.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, 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