{"id":137676,"date":"2019-07-05T13:00:56","date_gmt":"2019-07-05T17:00:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=137676"},"modified":"2019-07-05T13:09:47","modified_gmt":"2019-07-05T17:09:47","slug":"staff-picks-fathers-fleabag-and-the-french-toast-of-agony","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/07\/05\/staff-picks-fathers-fleabag-and-the-french-toast-of-agony\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Fathers, Fleabag, and the French Toast of Agony"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Ingeborg Bachmann. Photo: Heinz Bachmann.<\/p><\/div>\n

I knew I was going to appreciate Ingeborg Bachmann\u2019s 1971 cult classic Malina<\/em><\/a> before I even picked it up\u2014not only have I enjoyed reading her poetry in the past (some of which has been published in the pages of<\/a> this very magazine<\/a>), she\u2019s also a major influence on one of my favorite writers, Elfriede Jelinek. And so I sat down this past weekend to finally read Malina<\/em>, recently reissued by New Directions, with a great eagerness\u2014but I didn\u2019t realize just how profoundly it would affect me. The novel is almost impossible to describe\u2014dense and experimental, it\u2019s essentially a portrait of one woman\u2019s psychological unraveling. The narrator, a nameless writer in Vienna, is torn between obsessive relationships with two different men: Ivan and the mysterious Malina, who may or may not be real. But the book is also about trauma and shame and the implicit violence that lurks in the relationships between women and men. Many pages are dedicated to a series of nightmarish visions the narrator has about her father, seemingly based on Bachmann\u2019s hatred of her own Nazi father. Like Jelinek after her, Bachmann delineates the relationship between patriarchy and fascism to extraordinary effect, and though her vision may be bleak, it is one of profound, disquieting importance. \u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong> <\/p>\n

Phoebe Waller-Bridge seems to be so sincerely in<\/em> her own body. I don\u2019t just mean she\u2019s lovely\u2014she is\u2014or that she\u2019s great at physical comedy\u2014she\u2019s that, too\u2014but I also mean she writes, especially her show Fleabag<\/em><\/a>, from within a female body such that a troop of women, hundreds of thousands, all feel kinship with her eponymous character. At one point in the show\u2019s second season<\/a>, newly released in the U.S., our thirty-three-year-old protagonist (Waller-Bridge) speaks to a fifty-eight-year-old (Kristin Scott Thomas) about menopause. Scott Thomas\u2019s commanding \u201cwoman in business\u201d says menopause is wonderful: \u201cYou\u2019re free.\u201d For the week after I watched that scene, I thought about it ceaselessly. She means so much more than being free from the pain and discomfort of menstruation, cramps, and expensive, flowered blood-catching devices. In the few weeks since, I\u2019ve encountered a few more accounts of what it\u2019s like to have womanhood disappear and fade after menopause. As Sarah Manguso writes<\/a> in her review of Darcey Steinke\u2019s memoir Flash Count Diary<\/em>, \u201c<\/em>In menopause, even the blondest and the most protected of women will join the rest of us in ignominy.\u201d Manguso and Steinke write of this as a loss that\u2019s both equalizing and troubling. But listening to Waller-Bridge talk about her work and craft, I\u2019m not sure she would agree. Plenty has been made of Fleabag\u2019s interaction with the fourth wall\u2014it is so magical and makes her cracks totally new. But as Parul Sehgal notes<\/a>, this technique is also a commentary on being watched, on objectification, on womanhood. At the end of the series, Fleabag walks away from the camera, and watching this, I felt my heart break for all the reasons it could: would that there were more, would that I, too, could walk away from self-consciousness, from body talk. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Donald Hall. Photo: \u00a9 Linda Kunhardt.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Allen Ginsberg, the story goes, once told George Plimpton that Donald Hall \u201cwouldn\u2019t know a poem if it buggered him in broad daylight.\u201d This appraisal strikes me as a little harsh\u2014I have encountered significant evidence to the contrary in Hall\u2019s Essays after Eighty<\/em><\/a>. It\u2019s a wonderfully sad book\u2014his late wife Jane Kenyon is everywhere in it, even when he\u2019s talking about unrelated matters\u2014but it\u2019s also insightful, informative, and frequently very, very funny. (And naturally, Hall is particularly good when writing about poetry.) When Hall died last year, I read his collection Without<\/em><\/a>. It was suitably hard reading such personal poems about Kenyon\u2019s death, but despite this, I have found myself returning to the collection often, and returning, too, to the emotions that Hall draws out of his readers in those poems. In Essays after Eighty<\/em>, one discovers that his prose has the same tendency, and buried sadnesses are hauled up and out of one\u2019s stomach without forewarning. When he ends one paragraph recounting his love of steak and potatoes, the next begins with a simple declarative: \u201cJane had leukemia for fifteen months.\u201d The statement comes as a shock, and the effect is similar to the one experienced in those first moments that follow waking during a period of grief or trauma\u2014moments of forgetful innocence before the dreaded truth returns to one\u2019s thoughts and the world becomes dark again. In this, we share Hall\u2019s mourning, if only in a small way. It\u2019s a remarkable effect to achieve in prose. There are many such moments in Essays after Eighty<\/em>, and each of them is difficult\u2014but each, too, is worth it. \u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n

At one point in her latest poetry collection, No Matter<\/em><\/a>, Jana Prikryl imagines New York City underwater: Central Park dreams it\u2019s a coral garden, the submerged cabs are \u201cnoble,\u201d the barnacles on the Brooklyn Bridge are \u201cethical,\u201d and the subway is pleased not to feel alone anymore being \u201cunderneath everything.\u201d All the while, \u201chedonists lap the sweet water\u2009\/\u2009still trapped in the pipes of Harlem walk-ups.\u201d People are condemned; the city is faultless. Prikryl is a dedicated student of the New York School, and this radiant new collection considers the city without ever becoming parochial. These poems are each in their turn enormously satisfying and smart, with notes of Ashbery alongside healthy doses of wit. With lines resonant and solid, Prikryl presents the world around us and then slyly reveals it to be something altogether more mysterious. Upon turning the last page, I wanted immediately to return to the first and dive again into these revelations, hoping to find what else is contained within them. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

Allow me to submit to your attention, by way of recommendation, this fearsome creature (pictured below), henceforth to be known as the Pancake of Death. It (the Pancake, a kind of skate, was far too fearsome, and also inaccessible, separated as it was from me by a thick pane of glass and tens of thousands of gallons of water, to allow for proper sexing) resides at the National Aquarium<\/a> in Baltimore, to which I took my daughter this past weekend. The Pancake lives in the vicinity of many cousins and friends, including the Waffle of Doom (a more corner-rich ray), the Tablecloth of Destruction (a ray with a seven-foot wingspan), and, finally, the French Toast of Agony, whose excellent name was coined by my daughter. While none of these monsters is available for purchase\u2014they are deceptively dangerous and, paradoxically, surprisingly docile\u2014you may nonetheless cower before their awesomeness, should you wish to be humbled, by visiting the aquarium, which I highly recommend. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The Pancake of Death.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 admires Phoebe Waller-Bridge, obsesses over Ingeborg Bachmann, and confronts the Pancake of Death.<\/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":[],"class_list":["post-137676","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Fathers, Fleabag, and the French Toast of Agony by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 admires Phoebe Waller-Bridge, obsesses over Ingeborg Bachmann, and confronts the Pancake of Death.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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