{"id":138513,"date":"2019-08-09T14:06:35","date_gmt":"2019-08-09T18:06:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=138513"},"modified":"2019-08-09T14:20:43","modified_gmt":"2019-08-09T18:20:43","slug":"staff-picks-barbecues-beyonce-and-the-bourgeoisie","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/09\/staff-picks-barbecues-beyonce-and-the-bourgeoisie\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Barbecues, Beyonc\u00e9, and the Bourgeoisie"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Nancy Hale. Photo courtesy of the Nancy Hale Papers, Sophia Smith Collection, Smith College.<\/p><\/div>\n

Before picking up Where the Light Falls<\/a><\/em>\u2014a selection of Nancy Hale\u2019s short stories forthcoming from Library of America this September\u2014I had never heard of her. My ignorance, unfortunately, seems to be common. Despite being one of The New Yorker<\/em>\u2019s most prolific writers from the thirties to the sixties and a recipient of ten O. Henry Awards, Hale has been woefully overlooked. In some ways, this is understandable. Her concerns are primarily upper-crust, her scenes largely composed of WASP<\/small>s feeling fraught. But how many men have written about these subjects to lasting acclaim? And while Lauren Groff, the collection\u2019s editor, argues that Hale\u2019s bourgeois subjects belie fierce political commitments, Hale\u2019s prose is so compelling I hardly care. Every sentence pulses with energy and specificity. In \u201cMidsummer,\u201d Hale makes teen angst exciting again: \u201cShe wanted to climb the huge pine tree on the lawn, throw herself upward to the top by some passionate propulsion, and stretch her arms wildly to the sky. But she could only sit around interminably in chairs on the lawn in the heat and quiet, beating with hate and awareness and bewilderment and violence, all incomprehensible to her and pulling her apart.\u201d Hale\u2019s stories are rich, delightful, and often strange. They nearly always end abruptly, as if on an inhale, preparing you for whatever comes next. \u2014Noor Qasim\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Staff-picking a Beyonc\u00e9 album is like endorsing water or cosigning sleep: of course it\u2019s essential, of course everyone is already aware, of course, of course. But are you aware? Are you aware that Beyonc\u00e9\u2019s live album Homecoming<\/em><\/a>, released as the audio companion to her Coachella concert film of the same name, is the single most joyous piece of art I\u2019ve experienced this year? It\u2019s difficult not to slip into hyperbole when discussing America\u2019s reigning queen of pop, and I tend to feel queasy about the weird ways we deify celebrities these days, but I can\u2019t help myself here: Homecoming <\/em>is perfect. By playfully incorporating hits from the entirety of her catalogue\u2014and by paying homage at every turn to the black artists who inspire her most\u2014Homecoming<\/em> stands as a monument to the enormity of Beyonc\u00e9\u2019s cultural influence. But some things, like Beyonc\u00e9\u2019s work, are so ubiquitous as to be almost invisible. We forget that each of us engages with art\u2014even beloved, ever-present, near-mandatory art\u2014on intimate terms. Personally, the album serves as a profound reminder of all the ways her music has touched upon my life: I remember sitting in the family minivan and struggling to comprehend the lyrics of \u201cSay My Name\u201d in the Twin Chimneys Elementary parking lot while I waited for my older brother to step out of the school and into the encroaching Midwest summer evening; I remember purchasing a \u201cSingle Ladies (Put a Ring on It)\u201d ringtone for my first phone, a charming gray Nokia brick; I remember standing on the Hoyt-Schermerhorn subway platform, rewatching the video for \u201cFormation\u201d over and over, marveling at the wealth of striking frames, images I carry in my brain to this day. Above all, though, Homecoming<\/em> makes me want to go forth and create\u2014a ridiculous conclusion, perhaps, to draw from one of the biggest pop culture spectacles of the past decade, but a conclusion nonetheless. \u201cFuck \u2019em up, B!\u201d someone shouts into the canyon of silence stretched between Beyonc\u00e9\u2019s vocal runs. I know I\u2019m not the intended B<\/em> here, but the cry emboldens me just the same. \u2014Brian Ransom<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Camille Gr\u00e1vis, Captive balloon with clock face and bell, floating above the Eiffel Tower, Paris, France<\/em>, ca. 1895, watercolor over graphite underdrawing. Public domain.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I suppose this is more of a wish than a recommendation. I need more time. Don\u2019t you? Especially this week. Like I could use about two and a half to three more hours each night after my kids go to sleep but before I am so exhausted my eyes slam shut. Which also means I don\u2019t want this additional time to come out of my precious few hours of sleep. I\u2019m looking for a kind of infusion of added time\u2014three or so hours that could be inserted into or shimmied under the minutes between, say, 9:30 and 9:45. That way, I could have my three extra hours\u2014to write, catch up on work, have something to eat and drink, and maybe even have an engaging conversation with my wife\u2014and still do the things I normally do at night\u2014drink a bit more, worry, make plans and run through child-oriented checklists, fret, mourn the recent and distant past, catch up on other work, scan headlines until my soul goes completely bald, and have a few minutes to myself to wind down\u2014before falling into bed around 11:15 with a book I\u2019m far too tired to rake my eyes across. I think more time would be great. I recommend more time. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

The Altruists<\/em><\/a>, Andrew Ridker\u2019s debut novel, is about an unhappy family burdened by the weight of the past. The story centers on two millennials, Maggie and Ethan, who return to their hometown of Saint Louis to visit their irritable father, Arthur, an irrelevant professor who hopes to reconnect with them following the death of their mother, Francine. Ridker tells the family\u2019s story through a series of flashbacks\u2014Arthur\u2019s affair, Francine\u2019s abandoned dreams, their fraught marriage and failures to build a healthy family\u2014punctuated by chapters of forward momentum in the present. We see Maggie and Ethan act out in response to the inevitable realization that their parents are as flawed as anyone. Ridker psychoanalytically peels back layers of time to reveal the truth and, in doing so, crafts wholly complex, three-dimensional characters we come to love. As we root for them, Ridker brings up larger questions about what it means to live a good life, both for others and for ourselves. \u2014Camille Jacobson<\/strong><\/p>\n

This heat is unbearable. I don\u2019t know what to do with myself. Sitting in my basement apartment with the fan blowing in my face, I dream of fresh air. I imagine what it would be like to be back home in southwest Scotland, perhaps out for the day at one of the little coastal villages like Rockcliffe or Kipford, a sea breeze coming in from the Solway. Even on the hottest of days, the damp shade under a tree provides all the reprieve one needs from the sun. And\u2014even better\u2014the quiet<\/em>. Yellow lichen on rocks, seaweed, and silence; gorse bushes interrupt every sight line. It was to Rockcliffe that I was transported by this passage in Max Frisch\u2019s Montauk<\/em><\/a>: \u201cTo be alive: to be in the light. Driving donkeys around somewhere \u2026 That\u2019s all our job amounts to! The main thing is to stand up to the light, to joy in the knowledge that I shall be extinguished in the light over gorse, asphalt, and sea, to stand up to time, or rather to eternity in the instant. To be eternal means to have existed.\u201d Gorse, asphalt, and sea<\/em>\u2014nothing better could describe the lazy Sunday afternoons, our family barbecuing in car parks by the beach, that my brother and I enjoyed growing up. And standing up to eternity in the instant<\/em>\u2014surely every child\u2019s unconscious goal during long summer school holidays. In Montauk<\/em>, those instants prolong into adulthood and span Frisch\u2019s marriages, friendships, and career as he reflects on them from a holiday with a lover on Long Island. Each reflection is bittersweet, but there is a push and pull of memories that brings understanding of some sort. These memories, like the piece of wood Frisch throws into the waves, come back to him to be picked up and thrown again, or left to be swept back out to sea of their own accord. Some sort of closure results, and paddling in the shallows he observes: \u201cIt is just the present moment he wants, nothing at all.\u201d \u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Max Frisch. Photo: Jack Metzger.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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