{"id":100986,"date":"2016-07-29T14:11:48","date_gmt":"2016-07-29T18:11:48","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=100986"},"modified":"2016-07-31T21:16:11","modified_gmt":"2016-08-01T01:16:11","slug":"staff-picks-road-tripping-heart-eating-earth-fucking","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/07\/29\/staff-picks-road-tripping-heart-eating-earth-fucking\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Road-tripping, Heart-eating, Earth-fucking"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Danny DeVito in a still from Wiener-Dog<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

I could tell you the ending of every story in Scott McClanahan\u2019s collection\u00a0Hill William<\/a><\/em>, and it wouldn\u2019t spoil a thing. His stories are all about the telling, like oral tradition captured on the page. To be honest, I don\u2019t know the extent to which this is a book of fiction\u2014it\u2019s based on McClanahan\u2019s childhood in Appalachian West Virginia, in the town of Rainelle, where he grew up, and the narrator is named Scott\u2014but it doesn\u2019t matter; a story is a story, whether true or invented whole cloth. McClanahan\u2019s youthful tales swing between an outlandish realism (a guy named Bobbie B. describes how his cousin was once so lonely \u201che went out and fucked the earth\u201d) and a vague religious fervor that makes sense coming from a kid who\u2019s trying to figure out the world. In the same way, amid the characters\u2019 grotesque behavior are transcendent moments\u2014not least Scott\u2019s mother, who appears indistinctly in the book, as though always off-screen, but who is a wondrous light in his life; he\u00a0also finds unlikely reprieve in a church chorus: \u201cAnd there was something about those voices, so ugly by themselves, but beautiful together, that seemed like the meaning of the world to me.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

At least it\u2019s been a good summer for road movies. First there was the dachshund picaresque Wiener-Dog<\/a><\/em>, which has everything I could want from a Todd Solondz film\u2014including a deep, dark performance from Danny DeVito as an adjunct professor at the end of his rope. Then there was the continuous, two-hour surprise of Captain Fantastic<\/a><\/em>, directed by Matt Ross, with Viggo Mortensen as a Washington State survivalist who takes his kids on a bus trip to suburban Santa Fe. Don\u2019t let the premise fool you: with each turn of the plot, this amiable family drama gains in complexity, ambiguity, and pathos. It\u2019s hard to imagine two big indie releases that have less in common, but I loved them both. \u2014Lorin Stein\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

My parents were traveling old-time musicians, and I spent the years between 1998 and 2003 traveling in that Middle American chariot, the minivan, from one folk festival to the next. At the end of this hot, long, slowly unspooling week, I was brought back to those travels by this new mixtape from Aquarium Drunkard<\/a>. The mix, \u201cweaving in and out of gnarled roots and aged forests,\u201d features \u201cvintage vinyl-only\u201d folk, soul, and country songs from all over America\u2014the West coast, Appalachia, Texas. I\u2019ve kept it on repeat for days, pulled in right away by the first tune, a sweet hippie love song called \u201cSeeds\u201d from an obscure seven-inch by Melanie (of \u201cBrand New Key\u201d fame). Other gems include the 1971 recording of \u201cCircuit Rider\u201d by the folk band Lazarus, and Mattie Moultrie\u2019s soulful \u201cThat\u2019s How Strong My Love Is.\u201d If the music my parents played wasn\u2019t as polished with production shine as some of these tracks are, it certainly called on the gnarled roots or aged forests of something. \u2014Caitlin Love<\/strong><\/p>\n

Existentialism\u2014it\u2019s a gas! In the forties, as Sartre cranked out Being and Nothingness <\/em>and Edward Hopper put the finishing touches on Nighthawks<\/em>, the cartoonist Abner Dean was rewiring the single-panel gag comic to suit his own lonely, angst-ridden ends. In his collection What Am I Doing Here?<\/a><\/em>, to be reissued this fall, he draws mobs of denatured naked people (think Barbie and Ken dolls, but uglier) roaming a dismal cityscape in search of meaning. Just like regular folks, they walk, talk, fuck, dream, and eat, and no one knows why. Abner\u2019s scenarios are especially unnerving when they involve meals. In one cartoon, a row of sad sacks sit at a luncheonette counter with funnels plugged into their mouths; a waiter dispenses slop into them from a garbage can. The caption: \u201cGotta eat!\u201d In another, a man sits alone at a sprawling, swank restaurant in the middle of the desert, preparing to chow down on a heart that\u2019s still connected to his chest: \u201cThis is good food.\u201d You won\u2019t laugh out loud at What Am I Doing Here?<\/em>, but it will leave some small, forbidding part of you in stitches. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

A panel from What Am I Doing Here?<\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

In the most recent issue of The Baffler<\/em>, Ben Schwartz\u2019s \u201cKnock Yourselves Out<\/a>\u201d\u00a0<\/em>uses a history of American humor to challenge one of the major myths of American culture: that the more humble a person\u2019s origins, the more righteous is his or her claim to moral authority. Schwartz shows how rhetorically slippery this assumption can be, both on the Left and on the Right. In order to sway the American people, he writes, \u201cYou only have to convince your audience that you are the little guy, while your satirical targets represent the powerful, the elite.\u201d You can see this strain of rhetoric on both sides of nearly every issue, going back centuries: slavery apologists and Mark Twain, for instance, both claimed a vernacular language and folksy sensibility to argue opposite points. Schwartz\u2019s observations, which run from Ben Franklin to Amy Schumer, feel particularly vital during this election season, when we\u2019ve seen a slurry of candidates trying to \u201cpunch up,\u201d using their personal backgrounds as a smokescreen for actual policy details. \u2014Sylvie McNamara<\/strong><\/p>\n

Of the five pieces in the new issue of Assignment Magazine<\/em>, an annual literary journal I edit with Benjamin Nugent, my favorite is a short story by Greg Jackson,\u00a0\u201cThe Park<\/a>,\u201d\u00a0which is about as close in quality and style to his debut,\u00a0\u201cWagner in the Desert<\/a>,\u201d\u00a0which Lorin\u00a0lauded in this space a few years ago<\/a>. Like \u201cWagner,\u201d \u201cThe Park\u201d is light on plot; it loosely chronicles a weekend in which two artists, James and Frankie, lock themselves in the former\u2019s apartment after a prolonged separation: they get drunk, get high, and avoid the how\u2019s-life small talk by making love incessantly. Jackson seems to trust his talent at the sentence level when he eschews plot\u2014he places his characters and their interiority at the foreground. Particularly impressive, when he\u2019s at his best linguistically (as during the hike-on-mushrooms scene in \u201cWagner\u201d), is what he\u2019s able to do with light: \u201cThey lay there like they were floating in the river of gold that ran down the street just before townhouses opposite would eclipse the sun, the light as thick and warm as the vital chord change in a country ballad, a lament, the hinge heartache swung on.\u201d (Next Tuesday, Assignment<\/em> will host\u00a0a reading at McNally Jackson<\/a>.)\u00a0\u2014Daniel Johnson<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I could tell you the ending of every story in Scott McClanahan\u2019s collection\u00a0Hill William, and it wouldn\u2019t spoil a thing. His stories are all about the telling, like oral tradition captured on the page. To be honest, I don\u2019t know the extent to which this is a book of fiction\u2014it\u2019s based on McClanahan\u2019s childhood in […]<\/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":[23606,23602,23609,23608,23600,23601,14746,23597,20735,23599,23605,23604,23603,53,9619,10135,883,14687,430,23607,23598],"class_list":["post-100986","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-abner-dean","tag-aquarium-drunkward","tag-assignment-magazine","tag-ben-schwartz","tag-captain-fantastic","tag-danny-devito","tag-greg-jackson","tag-hill-william","tag-lazarus","tag-matt-ross","tag-mattie-moultrie","tag-melanie","tag-mixes","tag-reading","tag-recommended-reading","tag-scott-mcclanahan","tag-staff-picks","tag-the-baffler","tag-todd-solondz","tag-what-am-i-doing-here","tag-wiener-dog"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Scott McClanahan, Abner Dean, Todd Solondz<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of The Paris Review is reading this week.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/07\/29\/staff-picks-road-tripping-heart-eating-earth-fucking\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Road-tripping, Heart-eating, Earth-fucking by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"July 29, 2016 \u2013 I could tell you the ending of every story in Scott McClanahan\u2019s collection\u00a0Hill William, and it wouldn\u2019t spoil a thing. 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