{"id":130919,"date":"2018-11-13T13:35:19","date_gmt":"2018-11-13T18:35:19","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=130919"},"modified":"2018-11-13T14:26:45","modified_gmt":"2018-11-13T19:26:45","slug":"redux-floating-out-like-the-goodyear-blimp","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2018\/11\/13\/redux-floating-out-like-the-goodyear-blimp\/","title":{"rendered":"Redux: Floating Out Like the Goodyear Blimp"},"content":{"rendered":"

Every week, the editors of<\/em>\u00a0The Paris Review\u00a0lift the paywall on a selection of interviews, stories, poems, and more from the magazine\u2019s archive. You can have these unlocked\u00a0pieces delivered straight to your inbox every\u00a0Sunday by\u00a0signing up for the Redux newsletter<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

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

This week, you bring you\u00a0Kurt Vonnegut\u2019s 1977\u00a0Art of Fiction interview<\/a>, in which he recounts his time in the military;\u00a0M. F. Beal\u2019s story \u201cVeterans<\/a>\u201d; and\u00a0Peter Everwine\u2019s poem \u201cTo My Father\u2019s Ghost<\/a>.\u201d<\/p>\n

If you enjoy these free interviews, stories, and poems, why not subscribe<\/a> to read the entire archive? You\u2019ll also get four new issues of the quarterly delivered straight to your door.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Kurt Vonnegut, The Art of Fiction No. 64<\/a>
\nIssue no. 69 (Summer 1977)<\/em><\/p>\n

\n

INTERVIEWER<\/p>\n

It must have been a thrill to fire such a weapon.<\/p>\n

VONNEGUT<\/p>\n

Not really. We would put the shell in there, and then we would throw in bags of very slow and patient explosives. They were damp dog biscuits, I think. We would close the breech, and then trip a hammer which hit a fulminate of mercury percussion cap, which spit fire at the damp dog biscuits. The main idea, I think, was to generate steam. After a while, we could hear these cooking sounds. It was a lot like cooking a turkey. In utter safety, I think, we could have opened the breechblock from time to time, and basted the shell. Eventually, though, the howitzer always got restless. And finally it would heave back on its recoil mechanism, and it would have to expectorate the shell. The shell would come floating out like the Goodyear blimp. If we had had a stepladder, we could have painted \u201cFuck Hitler\u201d on the shell as it left the gun. Helicopters could have taken after it and shot it down.<\/p>\n

 <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

 <\/p>\n

Veterans<\/a>
\nBy M. F. Beal
\nIssue no. 98 (Winter 1985)<\/em><\/p>\n

For more than three hours the mountains had loomed ahead yet they did not seem particularly closer to Louise. They grew somewhat larger through the windshield of her truck as it crested small rises in the otherwise flat-as-your-hand prairie, and the lowering yellow sun cast different shadows as it moved westward. The demarcations of color\u2014ranging from the intense greened-up grasses of the hollows through the russet and gold of bench grass and into jagged snow at the timberline far in the distance\u2014still shone lividly under the canopy of sky.<\/p>\n

 <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

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

 <\/p>\n

To My Father\u2019s Ghost<\/a>
\nBy Peter Everwine
\nIssue no. 21 (Spring\u2013Summer\u00a01959)<\/em><\/p>\n

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0Once more
\nThe rain coerces memory,
\nAnd shadows cast upon the door
\nLove\u2019s old encroachment and the face
\nOf one whose history
\nUnwinds within this dark, abiding place.<\/p>\n

Clocks whir.
\nThe years\u2019 residual despair
\nSifts downward, gathers to a blur
\nOf meaning, and the heart is dust.
\nWho am I? and I wear
\nAgain love\u2019s degradation, as I must \u2026<\/p>\n

 <\/p><\/blockquote>\n

If you like what you read,\u00a0get a year of<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>The Paris Review\u2014four new issues, plus instant access to everything we\u2019ve ever published.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, you bring you\u00a0Kurt Vonnegut\u2019s 1977\u00a0Art of Fiction interview, where he recounts his time in the military;\u00a0M. F. Beal\u2019s story \u201cVeterans\u201d; and\u00a0Peter Everwine\u2019s poem \u201cTo My Father’s Ghost.\u201d<\/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":[1],"tags":[3020,40701,40703,40702,177],"class_list":["post-130919","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-uncategorized","tag-kurt-vonnegut","tag-m-f-beal","tag-peter-everwine","tag-to-my-fathers-ghost","tag-veterans"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nRedux: Floating Out Like the Goodyear Blimp by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"November 13, 2018 \u2013 This week, you bring you\u00a0Kurt Vonnegut\u2019s 1977\u00a0Art of Fiction interview, where he recounts his time in the military;\u00a0M. F. 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