{"id":112539,"date":"2017-07-14T15:49:16","date_gmt":"2017-07-14T19:49:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=112539"},"modified":"2017-07-20T11:15:06","modified_gmt":"2017-07-20T15:15:06","slug":"staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Detritus, Dreamin\u2019, Dinos"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

From Paleoart.<\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

First published in 1966, Mr. Clemens and Mark Twain<\/a><\/em>, by Justin Kaplan, is still the standard biography of our most enduringly funny writer\u2014or, at least, the earliest writer who makes me actually laugh. I avoided it till now because I knew Twain\u2019s life got pretty dark. He outlived his wife and all of his children; he lost a fortune through crazy investments; as a writer, he lost his sense of humor. But what he achieved is incredible. On Kaplan\u2019s telling, it\u2019s not so much the individual books as the tone of voice\u2014almost a new way of writing based on the spoken word. Like David Sedaris today, Twain polished his essays by performing them onstage. He spent much of his life on tour and sold his books by subscription, direct to consumers, largely bypassing the critical establishment. In fact, it wasn\u2019t until Twain went to England\u2014and was seriously praised by authors like Browning and Tennyson\u2014that Americans started to grasp his originality. Details like these make the pleasure of Kaplan\u2019s biography worth the pain.\u00a0\u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

There really ought to be some kind of survey of artists\u2019 and writers\u2019 filing strategies. The writing spaces of Luc Sante and Marianne Fritz both have meticulously arranged shelves and file boxes, for instance. Who else? The artist Dieter Roth for one. A show of his book practice at Hauser and Wirth<\/a>, which I saw this week, includes six hundred binders, each of which contains accumulations of everyday detritus (he called the project\u00a0Flacher Abdall<\/em>, or \u201cFlat Waste\u201d). The best part of the show is the installation of his actual studio from Basel, Switzerland, which he shared with his son. As one would expect, art supplies abound\u2014a deeply pleasurable assortment of colors and brushes in jars and plastic buckets\u2014but the studio, complete with tiny kitchen, also contains items that show the artists on temporary leave from the work at hand: a pair of Groucho\u00a0glasses, a bottle-cap collection, slices of pie on pie-shaped rollerskates, models horses in a homemade cardboard stable. A long wooden table served as an informal canvas and displays\u00a0scribbled lines like \u201cyes or no or well I don\u2019t know\u201d and\u00a0doodles of the sort you\u2019d make while talking absentmindedly on the phone. The space is reminiscent, as my colleague Julia pointed out, of Donald Judd\u2019s Spring Street building: a live\/work space in which the most compelling details are the human ones.\u00a0\u2014Nicole Rudick\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/a>

The Studio of Dieter and Bj\u00f6rn Roth, Ackermannshof, Basel<\/i>, 1995\u20142008.<\/p><\/div>\n

Everyone loves dinosaurs, and so everyone crowded around the copy of Paleoart<\/a>: Visions of the Prehistoric Past<\/em> that arrived in our office with a pleasant thud this week. This massive art-object of a book, a collaboration between the writer Zoe Lescaze and the artist Walton Ford, explores the varying answers that generations of artists have found to that burning question: How do you depict the wonders and horrors of prehistory? Lurid, otherworldly colors; solemn, lumbering beasts; sharp teeth drenched in blood and guts: they\u2019re all part of the bizarre fusion of science and creative license that\u2019s helped dinosaurs come alive, if not always realistically, in the human imagination. As Lescaze notes, there\u2019s a psychology underlying all this\u2014you can learn a lot about a person by how he draws his dinos. \u201cIguanodon<\/em>,\u201d she writes, \u201ca three-ton herbivorous dinosaur half the length of a tennis court, appeared as a bloodthirsty, cannibalistic dragon in one image, an impish, overgrown lizard in another, an affable, scaly elephant in the next.\u201d Flipping through Paleoart<\/em> feels, in the best way, like taking a psychoactive substance and becoming a kid again. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m in the middle of\u00a0Teach Us to Outgrow Our Madness<\/a><\/em>, a collection of \u201cfour short novels\u201d by the\u00a0sweet-looking<\/a>\u00a0Nobel laureate, Kenzaburo Oe. The title story is about the everyday adventures and routines of a tremendously fat man and his mentally deficient son (based, in some part, on Oe\u2019s real-life son, Hikari), but it\u2019s also about a bitter feud between the fat man and his own mother, and it\u2019s\u00a0also<\/em>\u00a0about the mysterious circumstances surrounding the fat man\u2019s father\u2019s death. Like the rest of the collection, its blend of tenderness and darkness is dizzying. The main draw here, though, is \u201cPrize Stock,\u201d which won the prestigious Akutagawa Prize when Oe was in his early twenties. \u201cPrize Stock\u201d centers on a remote Japanese village in World War II, where a black American fighter pilot crashes in the forest. Isolated from the prefecture and helpless before the slowly churning wheels of bureaucracy, the villagers have no choice but to hold the pilot captive. Frog, a young boy who gets the lucky privilege of delivering food to the prisoner twice a day, slowly develops a friendship with him. However, this is wartime Japan, so we know the pair\u2019s\u00a0idyllic visits to the spring and naps under the apricot tree won\u2019t end well. A quiet tension buzzing throughout the story culminates in one of the most thrilling conclusions I\u2019ve ever read. (Oe\u2019s\u00a0Art of Fiction interview<\/a>\u00a0is wonderful, too.) \u2014Brian Ransom<\/strong><\/p>\n

Just before the summer weather hit, a friend turned me on to Donnie and Joe Emerson\u2019s long-buried 1979 album, Dreamin\u2019 Wild<\/a><\/em>. At first I thought the record was just one more item missing from my shamefully incomplete music repertoire:\u00a0the tracks were so yielding and plaintive, causing ripples of nostalgia. Dreamin\u2019 Wild<\/em>\u2019s most compelling track, \u201cBaby<\/a>,\u201d is the kind of song you\u2019d play on those long, humid, adolescent drives if you could do a rewrite. Surely it was on a Sofia Coppola soundtrack I\u2019d missed\u2014but no! The real story of Dreamin\u2019 Wild<\/em> is that it is the teenaged, home-recorded effort of a pair of brothers from rural Fruitland, Washington. A hope that nearly withered, the album was only \u201cdiscovered\u201d in 2008 by a record collector. It was rereleased in 2012, and you can languish now in the lush sounds that lay in wait for so long. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/a>

From A Month in the Country.<\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

Cutting across some of the center pages of Susan Howe\u2019s latest collection are the words \u201cTANGIBLE THINGS,\u201d which is exactly how I\u2019ve always conceived of Howe\u2019s poetry: artifacts of language that transcend the page and become more than just words, but something just ever more concrete in the world.\u00a0Debths<\/a><\/em>\u00a0is composed in a way that is similar\u00a0to her 2010 collection,\u00a0That<\/em>\u00a0This<\/em>, beginning with relatively prosaic passages that draw on memories of her life: from a fellowship at the Gardner Museum in Boston to her time as a child at a summer camp called Little Sir Echo Camp for Girls<\/a>. Echo her work does, as it reverberates with language drawn from mythology, from pieces held at the Gardner Museum, from Apuleius. The epigraph to the collection comes from\u00a0Finnegans<\/em>\u00a0Wake<\/em>, and the same referential project is happening here as in Joyce, forcing the reader to engage with their own language as only Howe can do. The title section in the collection is a finale worthy of such a project, using charged fragments to create energy from the alphabet\u2019s\u00a0physicality alone.\u00a0Debths\u00a0<\/em>is a striking collection that meditates with precision on the way the past echoes through the frequency of language.\u00a0 \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

J. L. Carr\u2019s\u00a0A Month in the Country<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>tells the story of Tom Birkin, a British World War I vet tasked with uncovering a medieval painting in the church of the country town of Oxgodby. The novel is set in 1920, amid the aftershocks of the war. As Birkin gradually uncovers the centuries-old mural, revealing a judgment scene with sinners being cast into hell\u2014a work, \u201clike all truly great works of art, hammering you with its whole before beguiling you with its parts\u201d\u2014his story bubbles\u00a0to the surface, progressively revealing glimpses of the hell he experienced during\u00a0and because of the war. The reader is also given insight into how Birkin regards his summer in Oxgodby at the time of writing, an old man filled with longing for a lost time. The novel is sobering, introspective, and funny, its characters lively and complex. Ultimately, it\u2019s a memento to those who survived, living out their years after the First World War, damaged and forgotten. And it gives insight into how, at least for Birkin and his eccentric counterpart Charles Moon, a month in the country helped them recover. \u2014Joel Pinckney<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In our staff picks this week: paleoart, Mark Twain, writers\u2019 workspaces, and more.<\/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":[29567,35,13887,17,29336,11052,10960,29565,29564,29560,7676,29559,29566,29558,19406,454,19455,1766,29557,747,29561,7221,165,9393,29563,444,29562],"class_list":["post-112539","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-a-month-in-the-country","tag-art","tag-art-books","tag-books","tag-debths","tag-dieter-roth","tag-dinosaurs","tag-donnie-and-joe-emerson","tag-dreamin-wild","tag-filing","tag-galleries","tag-hauser-and-wirth","tag-j-l-carr","tag-justin-kaplan","tag-kenzaburo-oe","tag-luc-sante","tag-marianne-fritz","tag-mark-twain","tag-mr-clemens-and-mark-twain","tag-novels","tag-paleoart","tag-poems","tag-poetry","tag-susan-howe","tag-teach-us-to-outgrow-our-madness","tag-walton-ford","tag-zoe-lescaze"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Paleoart, Mark Twain, Writers\u2019 Workspaces, and More<\/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\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Detritus, Dreamin\u2019, Dinos by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"July 14, 2017 \u2013 In our staff picks this week: paleoart, Mark Twain, writers\u2019 workspaces, and more.\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2017-07-14T19:49:16+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2017-07-20T15:15:06+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/screen-shot-2017-07-14-at-3.06.47-pm.png\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1635\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"548\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/png\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"7 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/4a14f739935c82f100675b84e220252e\"},\"headline\":\"Staff Picks: Detritus, Dreamin\u2019, Dinos\",\"datePublished\":\"2017-07-14T19:49:16+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2017-07-20T15:15:06+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/\"},\"wordCount\":1447,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/07\/14\/staff-picks-detritus-dreamin-dinos\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/07\/screen-shot-2017-07-14-at-3.06.47-pm.png\",\"keywords\":[\"A Month in the Country\",\"art\",\"art books\",\"books\",\"Debths\",\"Dieter Roth\",\"dinosaurs\",\"Donnie and Joe Emerson\",\"Dreamin' Wild\",\"filing\",\"galleries\",\"Hauser and Wirth\",\"J. 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