{"id":138446,"date":"2019-08-02T13:09:27","date_gmt":"2019-08-02T17:09:27","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=138446"},"modified":"2019-08-02T13:42:40","modified_gmt":"2019-08-02T17:42:40","slug":"staff-picks-free-verse-farewells-and-fist-city","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/02\/staff-picks-free-verse-farewells-and-fist-city\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Free Verse, Farewells, and Fist City"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Nell Zink. Photo: Francesca Torricelli.<\/p><\/div>\n

Nell Zink\u2019s Doxology<\/em><\/a> is the first truly great novel to tackle the 2016 election. I\u2019ve been a fan of Zink\u2019s work since The Wallcreeper<\/em>, but in this new novel, she\u2019s sharper and slyer than ever before. At times, it almost feels like she\u2019s winking at Jonathan Franzen\u2019s Freedom<\/em>, with its indie-rock musician character and D.C. environmentalist subplot. But Zink turns everything on its head: the musician isn\u2019t sexy but an idiot savant; the worldly D.C. operative isn\u2019t greedy but instead trying to defeat Trump; the environmentalists\u2019 idealism rapidly turns self-serving. And no one can write a one-liner like Zink: New York, for instance, is \u201ca city devoted to making the labor theory of value look stupid.\u201d In 2016, I briefly worked on the Hillary Clinton campaign. I\u2019d never worked in politics before, and I\u2019ll never work in them again; I joined the campaign out of a sense of fear, an obligation to do something, anything, in the face of Trump. We all know how that ended. But Zink, from her perch abroad, captures those doomed final days before November 8, 2016, more accurately than any breathlessly reported account from any political reporter or former campaign worker. \u201cHillary can beat a Republican, but she can\u2019t beat a totemic forest spirit,\u201d a character tries to explain at one point to a few hapless campaign staffers. It doesn\u2019t work, of course. Nothing worked in real life either. But at least we have Nell Zink to show us how we got here. \u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Last week, as temperatures around the city topped a hundred degrees<\/a>, a friend sent me the Denis Johnson poem \u201cHeat<\/a>.\u201d The sonnet begins with an image of bedroom repose: \u201cHere in the electric dusk your naked lover\u2009\/\u2009tips the glass high and the ice cubes fall against her teeth.\u201d The tone is redolent and, in typical Johnson fashion, slyly funny. But at the halfway point, the poem turns on itself, becoming frustrated, indignant. Heat has a way of doing that. As a fan of Johnson\u2019s fiction, I\u2019m slightly ashamed to say this was my first introduction to his poetry. Curious, I picked up a copy of his ornately titled collection The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly<\/em><\/a>, which I read while sizzling on a beach between jumps in the ocean. I\u2019m glad I did. A few of my favorites\u2014\u201cWorking Outside at Night,\u201d \u201cA Poem about Baseballs,\u201d and \u201cLooking Out the Window Poem\u201d\u2014are written in free verse, in plain language, about relatively banal subjects. But while the poems appear intent on declaring their ordinariness, on refusing elevation, they are quietly expansive, making room for the drama of the everyday. Each poem is, as Johnson describes the moon in the last line of \u201cHeat,\u201d held out to the reader \u201clike a cup of light.\u201d \u2014Cornelia Channing<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Lucio Piccolo and Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa in Capo d\u2019Orlando, late 1930s. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ten years free of the school system\u2019s yoke, I think summer still feels freer than the other months of the year. This past weekend, I suspended a few of 2019\u2019s well-earned morals between two fans and burned through a classic summer read: Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa\u2019s The Professor and the Siren<\/em><\/a>, a hot summer romance told as the recollection of a lion in winter. The titular professor is a respected academic who finds in a young, broke (but well-born) reporter a supply of sea urchins and a suitable audience for the one love story of his life: his summer with a mermaid. Like everything Lampedusa touches, this story of a long-ago study break\u2013turned\u2013torrid affair is gilded with well-trimmed details\u2014the stars over a mastic tree, the black cashmere sweater that is flattering on both men and women, the difference between the heat over the ocean and the heat in town\u2014that counterbalance some of his more indulgent fancies. All of this sinks you right away into the Sicily of the imagination, where it is always summer and Lampedusa is always king. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nearly every scene in Lulu Wang\u2019s latest feature, The Farewell<\/em><\/a>, couples humor and grief, moving seamlessly from joyous moments to somber ones, intertwining the complicated business of losing someone (and, in this case, not even being able to acknowledge the loss) with the pleasure of spending time with loved ones. Scenes like the one spent by the grave of the main character\u2019s grandfather conjure a mix of startling emotions. Midway through the series of bows led by Nai Nai (played by the intensely charming Zhao Shuzhen), I found myself with tears in my eyes while others in the audience laughed. This disconnect, however, wasn\u2019t jarring\u2014I understood why they were laughing as intensely as I felt the urge to cry. From one beautiful shot to the next, The Farewell<\/em> places the joys and tragedies of life in constant conversation. \u2014Noor Qasim<\/strong><\/p>\n

Much of Loretta Lynn\u2019s music, paeans to the lives of blue-collar women in midcentury coal-mining country, has little to do with my own life. Yet when Loretta Lynn\u00a0sings a song couched in jaunty guitar and lisping twang, I hear one of myself. She writes with a frankness that transcends particulars. \u201cFist City<\/a>,\u201d for example, is one of Lynn\u2019s many songs dedicated to women who have designs on stealing her husband. Like Dolly Parton\u2019s classic \u201cJolene,\u201d this tale of infidelity thinks little about the man in question; it is a conversation in which women settle the matter between themselves. Unlike \u201cJolene,\u201d however, in \u201cFist City\u201d Lynn doesn\u2019t plead but demands: \u201cI\u2019m not a sayin\u2019 my baby\u2019s a saint (\u2019cause he ain\u2019t)\u2009\/\u2009and that he won\u2019t cat around with a kitty\u2009\/\u2009I\u2019m here to tell you gal to lay off my man\u2009\/\u2009If you don\u2019t wanna go to fist city.\u201d Feminism might like to tell us that men aren\u2019t worth fighting with each other\u2014a nice, delicate idea that evaporates quickly in the heat of lived experience. Especially for Lynn\u2019s women, a man isn\u2019t just a man; he represents security (something affluent feminists can be wont to forget), and protecting that security sometimes means giving it on the chin to a floozy sitting too close. There is solidarity as well: her most controversial song, \u201cThe Pill<\/a>,\u201d is about a woman reclaiming her life after years of unwanted childbearing. Lynn\u2019s songs feel like they\u2019re written to an all-female world, one where we need not explain what\u2019s wrong because everyone already knows. And though Lynn may raise her hackles, her bravado is mitigated by more sentimental songs, such as \u201cCoal Miner\u2019s Daughter<\/a>,\u201d which paints her hometown of Butcher Hollow, Kentucky, as a rural haven (poor, full of love and happiness) and mourns the loss of her childhood there. Go listen to the album Honky Tonk Girl: The Loretta Lynn Collection<\/em><\/a> until you hear a song that you recognize as your own\u2014it\u2019s not a matter of if, but of when. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Loretta Lynn, 1975. Photo: Gene Pugh (CC BY-SA 2.0 (https:\/\/creativecommons.org\/licenses\/by-sa\/2.0)). Cropped.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 sees \u2018The Farewell,\u2019 sizzles on the beach, and slips into the Sicily of the imagination.<\/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-138446","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Free Verse, Farewells, and Fist City by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 sees \u2018The Farewell,\u2019 sizzles on the beach, and slips into the Sicily of the imagination.\" \/>\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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