{"id":121404,"date":"2018-02-09T13:00:11","date_gmt":"2018-02-09T18:00:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=121404"},"modified":"2018-06-06T16:25:52","modified_gmt":"2018-06-06T20:25:52","slug":"staff-picks-rachel-lyon-radiohead-richard-pryor","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/02\/09\/staff-picks-rachel-lyon-radiohead-richard-pryor\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Rachel Lyon, Radiohead, and Richard Pryor"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Karin Tidbeck.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Karin Tidbeck\u2019s collection\u00a0Jagannath<\/i><\/a>\u00a0strings together a chain of eerie vignettes where the fantastic creeps in from a place just outside your peripheral vision, subtly seeping into a reality you thought you recognized. Tidbeck translated these herself from her native Swedish, and the end result is a clear, succinct prose style that makes for a crisp blank canvas\u00a0so that the\u00a0strangeness of her plots and ideas stands out against a clean background. These stories are quick and varied, though Tidbeck deftly navigates each shift between narratives, keeping the reader hooked with swift, absorbing plots and empathetic, human characters. They often arrive at their endings unresolved but satisfying, and rarely ever in a place you thought they would take you. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Rachel Lyon. Photo: Debra Pearlman.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I read a draft of Rachel Lyon\u2019s debut novel,\u00a0Self-Portrait with Boy<\/a><\/i>,\u00a0in 2014. The finished book, published this week by Scribner, has evolved and changed, but the essentials were in place from the beginning. The story is told in crisp, clicking, photographic prose and has the narrative momentum of a thriller, though the question isn\u2019t what tragedy will befall the main character but what that character will do with a tragedy once it\u2019s happened\u2014and, most interestingly, happened to someone else. The story is set in DUMBO in the eighties. Pipes leak. Artists squat. Developers are only just beginning to arrive. The central character is the struggling photographer, Lu Rile. Rile happens to be taking a self-portrait in her apartment as a neighbor\u2019s child falls to his death outside her window. She catches the moment and ends up with the image of a lifetime. Now she must decide what to do with it. She harbors the secret as she comforts the child\u2019s mother. They become increasingly close, but all the while, Rile is developing the film in her apartment right downstairs, in her makeshift darkroom, adjusting its size, trying out different versions\u2014Lyon makes this process especially thrilling\u2014creating the work of art\u00a0that she knows could lift her from obscurity into the amoral splendor of the eighties art world. For those of us who have loved this novel for years, this week feels like something out of its pages. Finally, the secret is out. \u2014Brent Katz\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

<\/div>\n

At a recent dinner party, the subject of underrated novels arose. Molly Fischer and Alexandra Schwartz nominated Penelope Fitzgerald\u2019s\u00a0The Blue Flower<\/a>, <\/i>and, previously unaware of it, I\u00a0picked it up the\u00a0next day. Fitzgerald published her first book at the age of fifty-eight and this one, which is considered her masterpiece, at the age of seventy-eight. It is, as Molly and Alex promised, \u201cunlike anything else you\u2019ve ever read.\u201d Technically historical fiction, it traces the early life of Friedrich von Hardenberg, or Fritz, who would one day go on to become the poet Novalis. In the 1790s, however, he is still dutifully pursuing his father\u2019s dream that he become a salt-mine inspector. To everyone\u2019s mystification and chagrin, Fritz falls madly and inexplicably in love with twelve-year-old Sophie, who, it is agreed, is a) too young, b) relatively plain (though Fritz insists she looks just like Raphael\u2019s self-portrait of himself at twenty-five), and c) exceedingly simple. When Fritz first has his coup de foudre<\/em>, Sophie is tapping on a window and intoning, \u201cSnow. Snow,\u201d in the hopes that it will. But Fritz, who can scarcely carry on a conversation without mentioning that all of existence is one, is entranced (and frustrated) by Sophie\u2019s recalcitrant dullness to the point of calling her \u201chis Philosophy.\u201d At one point, Fritz commissions her portrait, convinced it will reveal her essence. The painter locks himself in an upstairs bedroom and refuses to emerge. Later, he tells Fritz, \u201cIn every created thing, whether it is alive or whether it is what we usually call inanimate, there is an attempt to communicate, even among the totally silent. There is a question being asked, a different question for every entity, which for the most part will never be put into words, even by those who can speak \u2026 Best for the painter once having looked to shut his eyes \u2026 so that he may hear it more distinctly \u2026 I could not hear her question, and so I could not paint.\u201d Fritz\u2019s question, however, is clear: he keeps reading people the beginning of his story, in which a young man cannot sleep out of longing for \u201cthe blue flower,\u201d mentioned once by a passing stranger. \u201cWhat is the meaning of the blue flower?\u201d Fritz asks after each reading. No one can answer him, not even the novel itself, but the desire to understand keeps you up at night. \u2014Nadja Spiegelman<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

<\/a>

A big pretzel. Photo: Jennifer Murch.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Things I can recommend\u00a0this week:\u00a0L<\/i>ady Bird<\/i>,\u00a0Call Me by Your Name<\/i>, a big pretzel, the latest Radiohead album, the Lil Peep song \u201cStar Shopping,\u201d the really good dance song\/scene from\u00a0Call Me by Your Name<\/i>,\u00a0doing things with\u00a0your\u00a0parents, crying at the movies, the David Hockney exhibition at the Met, burgers in general. \u2014Brian Ransom<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Quincy Jones. Photo: Robert Maxwell.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

One of the best\u00a0parts of Quincy Jones\u2019s interview<\/a>\u00a0in New York <\/em>magazine is\u00a0the footnotes that pop up eagerly to the left of the text as you read. (Jones\u2019s claim that Paul Allen can play the guitar like Jimi Hendrix, for example, is accompanied both by interviewer David Marchese\u2019s incredulity and by a note describing Allen as\u00a0a \u201cMicrosoft co-founder and multibillionaire\u201d with\u00a0a \u201ccollection of yachts and guitars to rival the world\u2019s finest.\u201d) Just as good as these footnotes are the articles that have appeared in the past day to further corroborate Jones\u2019s incredible claims, with headlines like \u201cRichard Pryor slept with Marlon Brando, Pryor\u2019s widow confirms<\/a>.\u201d\u00a0(\u201cIt was the \u201970s!\u201d Jennifer Lee Pryor says. \u201cIf you did enough cocaine, you\u2019d [sleep with] a radiator and send it flowers in the morning.\u201d) Third, of course, are Jones\u2019s actual statements, which are unadorned and improbable. In the space of ten seconds,\u00a0Jones pivots from Michael Jackson to the pharmaceutical industry\u2019s influence on the federal government to the zodiac sign of the interviewer (\u201cPisces,\u201d Marchese says, to which Jones replies, \u201cMe too. It\u2019s a great sign\u201d). The interview has spent the past few days bouncing around the Internet and gathering commentary in its wake. Its\u00a0comical frankness, aided by Marchese\u2019s well-informed and well-phrased\u00a0questions, brightened my entire week, just as Marchese\u2019s similarly incredible interview with Erykah Badu<\/a> did last month. \u2014Eleanor Pritchett<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The Leftovers<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

There sometimes comes an episode in a TV series that renders unwavering your commitment to the series. Season 2, Episode 8 of The Leftovers<\/i>, \u201cInternational Assassin<\/a>,\u201d is just such an episode. The three-season HBO series that first aired in 2014 and ended last year takes place, almost entirely, in a world seemingly just like our own. Season 2, Episode 8, however, takes place in some \u201cother place.\u201d Premised on a single moment when two percent of the world\u2019s population suddenly disappeared (or, in the show\u2019s\u00a0parlance, as if to grant some mysterious agency, \u201cdeparted\u201d), the series takes its time in answering even the smallest questions and generally makes its characters and viewers dwell in anxious confusion. So when Season 2, Episode 8 takes Kevin Garvey, the lead, to an \u201cother place,\u201d I was no more disoriented than usual. There is something even comforting about watching Kevin Garvey\u2019s confusion in a place uncanny to him. The episode\u00a0opens more questions than it answers, but it gets so weird that it is comforting. While the show (of course) will take its time in revealing when or whether Kevin will go back\u00a0to this \u201cother place,\u201d I am unwaveringly determined to follow. \u2014Claire Benoit<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

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

 <\/p>\n

The other week, I used this space to pay homage to\u00a0the playwright <\/span>Adrienne Kennedy\u2019s early work<\/a>. Now I\u2019ll use it to applaud her latest,\u00a0<\/span>He Brought Her Heart Back in a Box<\/i><\/a>.\u00a0<\/i>As I settled into my seat at\u00a0the Polonsky Shakespeare Center\u2014with\u00a0Kennedy\u2019s grandson behind me, John Guare a few rows in front\u2014I felt as though I was to bear witness to great American theater. I was right.\u00a0The play, no more than fifty minutes and directed by Evan Yionoulis, is a harrowing portrait of the Jim Crow era. It opens in Montefiore, Georgia, in the forties, where the love of two teenagers, Kay and Christopher, is doomed: she is of mixed race, he is white. A tragedy awaits. To borrow from Kennedy, the play comprises \u201ctwo\u00a0monologues\u201d: for much of it, the two read letters to each other aloud and, as they do, recount their genealogies, channeling the ancestral\u00a0voices of grandmothers and aunts, fathers and mothers. (Christopher fixates on his father and his Nazi\u00a0admirers; Kay revisits the tales of her mother\u2019s death: Was she murdered, her heart brought back in a box, or did she die by her own hand?) In true Kennedy fashion, the actors become vessels for a multitude of selves, of histories and myths, spilling forth from beginning to end.\u00a0When the\u00a0play finished, the young gentlemen behind me said, \u201cI saw my grandmother in all of it.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/span><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

  Karin Tidbeck\u2019s collection\u00a0Jagannath\u00a0strings together a chain of eerie vignettes where the fantastic creeps in from a place just outside your peripheral vision, subtly seeping into a reality you thought you recognized. Tidbeck translated these herself from her native Swedish, and the end result is a clear, succinct prose style that makes for a crisp […]<\/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":[32891,15006,32896,32897,32899,9524,32890,32893,8850,3995,2936,32895,32894,32888,7604,32889,32887,32892,32898,16252],"class_list":["post-121404","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-call-me-by-your-name","tag-david-hockney","tag-david-marchese","tag-erykah-badu","tag-international-assassin","tag-jimi-hendrix","tag-lady-bird","tag-lil-peep","tag-marlon-brando","tag-michael-jackson","tag-new-york-magazine","tag-paul-allen","tag-quincy-jones","tag-rachel-lyon","tag-richard-pryor","tag-scribner","tag-self-portrait-with-boy","tag-star-shopping","tag-the-leftovers","tag-the-met"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Rachel Lyon, Radiohead, and Richard Pryor<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" 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