{"id":114912,"date":"2017-09-01T13:00:44","date_gmt":"2017-09-01T17:00:44","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=114912"},"modified":"2017-09-01T13:21:03","modified_gmt":"2017-09-01T17:21:03","slug":"staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Degradation, Demolition, Disillusion"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Brianna McCarthy, Garden of Lost\u00a0<\/em>Things<\/i>. From the cover of Electric Arches<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Eve Ewing is a sociologist of education, so it\u2019s no wonder my favorite poem in her first collection, Electric Arches<\/i><\/a>, observes the small, curious eddies of interaction in an elementary school. In \u201cRequiem for Fifth Period and the Things That Went On Then,\u201d she writes in the style of Greek epic poetry about invisible, individually insignificant moments\u2014about the science teacher, for instance, watching fourth-grader Javonte Stevens telling the gym coach \u201cthat Miss Kaizer will be sending over three kids \/ who did not bring in their field trip money \/ and cannot go to the aquarium \/ is that okay\u201d\u2014that accumulate, by poem\u2019s end, into an enthralling, powerful narrative. Elsewhere in the book, which also contains visual art and prose, Ewing writes trenchantly and tenderly of the demolition of a hospital (\u201cthe dynamite never says \u2018but my uncle died \/ here \u2026 and I still smell the ammonia \/ and see the misshapen pound cake\u2019 \u201d) and of her childhood neighborhood in Chicago (\u201conce you got to about Albany and Fullerton you could see \/ every place my brother had ever been, if you knew where to look\u201d). Her language is conversational, her verse lulling the reader into territory that feels immediately familiar, even when it isn\u2019t\u2014into a world of \u201cKool cigarette green,\u201d \u201clime popsicles,\u201d and \u201cpromised light.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

This week, I\u2019ve been reading the first-ever English translation of Guido Morselli\u2019s The Communist<\/i><\/a>, a political coming-of-age novel about Walter Ferranini, a Communist party member and deputy in the Italian parliament. If that\u2019s not the kind of escapism you\u2019re looking for these days, trust me when I say that Ferranini is William Stoner reincarnated as Communist politician in 1950s Italy. Ferranini hates parliamentary proceedings; he finds them boring. He can\u2019t seem to reconcile his political career, a reward for his years spent as a labor organizer, with his beliefs: he is having\u2014has had, for most of his life\u2014an existential crisis. The novel goes on like this, grumpy and disillusioned, sometimes funny and often sad. Morselli shot himself in the head in 1973, apparently out of despair that not a single publisher had accepted any of his manuscripts. Shortly after his death, all seven of his novels were published. \u2014Jeffery Gleaves\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

You wouldn\u2019t expect a novel that begins with a man crawling his way out of an ice bath to take you through the wild expanses of the nineteenth-century American territory\u2014with its accompanying cast of natives, immigrants, scientists, and bandits\u2014but that\u2019s exactly what Hernan Diaz\u2019s first novel, In the Distance<\/i><\/a>, does. Perhaps most striking is Diaz\u2019s ability to describe the known as unknown, the all too familiar when it is yet unfamiliar. The nature of his protagonist, H\u00e5kan S\u00f6derstr\u00f6m, a lost and wandering Swedish immigrant in the rough, largely uninhabited American territory, allows Diaz to write of what it is like to encounter the foreign or forgotten, such that the reader has a similarly enlightening experience, encountering it anew. When H\u00e5kan sees the human form for the first time in ages, I feel as though I am, too: \u201cThose flailing arms sticking out of the upright trunk. Those legs, like ridiculous scissors. Those forward-facing eyes on that flat face with that beakless, snoutless hole for a mouth. And the gestures. Hands, brow, nose, lips. So many gestures. Those misshapen and misplaced features and their wasteful, obscene movements. He thought nothing could be more grotesque than those forms. His next thought was that he looked just like them.\u201d\u00a0\u2014Joel Pinckney<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

From the cover of In the Distance<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Sometimes you need to put down the newspaper and take a break from the harshness of difficult times, and sometimes you need to face it head on. For the latter, I would prescribe the strength of a poetic voice like Nicole Sealey\u2019s. Her collection, Ordinary Beast<\/i><\/a>, makes eye contact with the forces that write history, in this case often a divine force, and hold it in a piercing stare that demands justification: \u201cThe West in me wants the mansion \/ to last. The African knows it cannot. \/ Every thing aspires to one \/ degradation or another. I want \/ to learn how to make something \/ holy, then walk away.\u201d \u201cCandelabra with heads\u201d is a striking poem that rings in my brain long after it\u2019s finished, reminiscent in many ways of Lucille Clifton\u2019s \u201cthe photograph: a lynching.\u201d Sealey\u2019s\u00a0virtuosic command of language presents itself in varied forms of verse, from quick, tight strophes aerated by wide spaces in the poem \u201cand\u201d to traditional blocks of free verse to \u201chappy birthday to me,\u201d which begins with fifteen lines of crawling periods. Sealey holds nothing back, in an artistry that is both frank and finessed, that is deeply personal while never losing sight of the fact that personal experience is intimately tied to a greater narrative.\u00a0\u2014Lauren Kane<\/b><\/p>\n

\u201cNow is the most dangerous, most seductive moment of all. If you believe you would be a better head of the government than our president, you may be correct. Hubris and reality have aligned. The Satanic fantasy has become a fact.\u201d That would be J. D. Daniels discussing \u201cthe Apprentice\u201d<\/a>\u2014<\/em>the Goethe-and-Mickey version\u2014over at Los Angeles Review of Books<\/em>. \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Eve Ewing is a sociologist of education, so it\u2019s no wonder my favorite poem in her first collection, Electric Arches, observes the small, curious eddies of interaction in an elementary school. In \u201cRequiem for Fifth Period and the Things That Went On Then,\u201d she writes in the style of Greek epic poetry about invisible, […]<\/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":[938,21167,30410,30402,30408,892,30403,30404,2861,915,30409,13435,811,2360,30407,29106,14140,30406,165,16932,25052,30405,30411],"class_list":["post-114912","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-chicago","tag-epic-poetry","tag-eve-ewing","tag-eve-l-ewing","tag-free-verse","tag-goethe","tag-grade-school","tag-hernan-diaz","tag-history","tag-hubris","tag-human-form","tag-immigrants","tag-j-d-daniels","tag-los-angeles-review-of-books","tag-lucille-clifton","tag-mickey-mouse","tag-narrative","tag-nicole-sealey","tag-poetry","tag-satan","tag-sociology","tag-unknown","tag-william-stoner"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Eve Ewing, Giudo Morselli, Hernan Diaz<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 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\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Degradation, Demolition, Disillusion by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 1, 2017 \u2013   Eve Ewing is a sociologist of education, so it\u2019s no wonder my favorite poem in her first collection, Electric Arches, observes the small, curious\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/\" \/>\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=\"2017-09-01T17:00:44+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2017-09-01T17:21:03+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/09\/71qo8i7eyil-e1504281398460.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1201\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"996\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\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=\"5 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\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/4a14f739935c82f100675b84e220252e\"},\"headline\":\"Staff Picks: Degradation, Demolition, Disillusion\",\"datePublished\":\"2017-09-01T17:00:44+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2017-09-01T17:21:03+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/\"},\"wordCount\":909,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/09\/01\/staff-picks-degradation-demolition-disillusion\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2017\/09\/71qo8i7eyil-e1504281398460.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Chicago\",\"epic poetry\",\"Eve Ewing\",\"Eve L. 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