{"id":138703,"date":"2019-08-16T13:00:28","date_gmt":"2019-08-16T17:00:28","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=138703"},"modified":"2019-08-16T13:05:07","modified_gmt":"2019-08-16T17:05:07","slug":"staff-picks-cranberries-canzones-and-catharsis","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/16\/staff-picks-cranberries-canzones-and-catharsis\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Cranberries, Canzones, and Catharsis"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

T\u00e9a Obreht. Photo: Ilan Harel.<\/p><\/div>\n

Many things will be said about Inland<\/em><\/a>, T\u00e9a Obreht\u2019s second novel. I can only hope to settle my tent with the believers. A Western as far as the eye can see, Inland<\/em> starts with lickins and bounties and ends with them, too, teasing your sense of exploration like you\u2019re home alone with the radio tuned to The Lone Ranger.<\/em> But this is not The Lone Ranger<\/em>; there are no heroes or, blessedly, \u201ccomplexly wrought antiheroes.\u201d Instead, reading Inland<\/em> feels like a rare chance to read about people, history, and myth all at once without any part canceling out the others. The book is a marriage between some sort of Howard Zinn history lesson, E.\u2009L. Doctorow at his best, and the kind of murkily beautiful folktale that is so vivid in Obreht\u2019s first novel, The Tiger\u2019s Wife<\/em><\/a>. I stayed up very late with Lurie, an outlaw with an improbable, unforgettable camel companion, and Nora, a homesteader with all the plagues, and felt the deep possibility of the impossible. It is a trick of the light that allows Obreht to introduce the sweet, downy Goatie (\u201cNobody could prove she was really a goat, and nobody could prove she was really a sheep\u201d) while asking broad questions about American settlement, belonging, race, and undying denial of water scarcity. There are newspaper fights and gunfights and ghosts and romance, and I wish they\u2019d all appeared earlier in the summer so I could tell the world THIS IS YOUR SUMMER READ<\/small>. But in Inland<\/em>, the past is present and will continue to be so into the fall and the next and the next.\u00a0\u2014Julia Berick<\/strong> <\/p>\n

I don\u2019t think I\u2019m wrong in saying that ours is in many ways a moment of arbitrary, almost cartoonish cruelty, here at home and around the world. Examples abound; the evil and the suffering are so vicious, so general, so ridiculous\u2014and, for the lucky among us, so far removed\u2014that they can become as meaningless as static. The phrase that has been on a loop in my head these days is Kashmir has no rights<\/em>, which comes from Agha Shahid Ali\u2019s poem \u201cLenox Hill<\/a>\u201d: \u201cSave the right she gave its earth to cover her, Kashmir\u2009\/\u2009has no rights.\u201d He is talking about his mother dying in a hospital in Manhattan but also about Kashmir\u2014and though he asks \u201ccompared to my grief for you, what are those of Kashmir,\u201d I am trying to learn from the poem how to walk this line, how to recognize one\u2019s weakness (\u201cHow helpless was God\u2019s mother!\u201d) and one\u2019s responsibilities (\u201cI hold back\u2014she couldn\u2019t bear it\u2014one elephant\u2019s\u2009\/\u2009story\u201d). \u201cLenox Hill\u201d is a canzone, repeating the words elephants<\/em>, mother<\/em>, Kashmir<\/em>, universe<\/em>, and dye<\/em>\/die<\/em>, tying these things together, past to present, New York to Kashmir, personal to political; the elaborate, mannered structure keeps grief contained and, by contrast, heightens that grief. There\u2019s a lesson in this, too\u2014that part of what we can do is insist on tuning in, insist on seeing the pattern, and insist on always hearing \u201cwhat I once held back: in one elephant\u2019s\u2009\/\u2009cry, by his mother\u2019s bones, the cries of those elephants\u2009\/\/\u2009that stunned the abyss.\u201d \u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Julio Torres. Photo: Zach Dilgard\/HBO.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

If you\u2019re not already familiar with the comedian Julio Torres<\/a> (Los Espookys<\/em><\/a>, Saturday Night Live<\/em><\/a>), his HBO special My Favorite Shapes<\/em><\/a> is an excellent introduction. Sitting in front of a conveyor belt, Torres introduces his audience to each and every one of his \u201cshapes,\u201d highlighting their personalities, their quirks, the dramas that make up their inanimate lives. These shapes range from the simple square\u2014\u201csome of you may be seeing a square for the very, very first time\u201d\u2014to a miniature zoo for which he has created more interesting animals, including their shadows and souls. Torres\u2019s deadpan charm is palpable in the smallest of movements. His glitter-dabbled hands take center stage, pulsing with energy as he mimes \u201cThe Transference,\u201d a process by which he moves the life force from a mangled toy to its replacement. A shot of him holding a Brita filter is startlingly elegant. \u201cI have often been called \u2018too niche,\u2019\u2009\u201d Torres says as he places rose quartz on a miniature chair. And yes, I did find myself wondering who, why, how anyone could arrive at this particular form of comedy. But Torres, recalling his deliberations over the pecking order for his shapes, provides the perfect answer: \u201cOh, I\u2019m sorry, is this one of the many good jobs I\u2019m stealing from hardworking Americans? Because, look, I\u2019m just doing it \u2019cause no one else was doing it and it needed to be done.\u201d \u2014Noor Qasim<\/strong><\/p>\n

From my extremely limited knowledge of the subject, the contemporary South Korean poetry scene seems extraordinarily exciting. Earlier this year, I read<\/a> Kim Hyesoon\u2019s Autobiography of Death<\/em><\/a>, translated by Don Mee Choi, and was blown away by its visceral imagery. This week, I\u2019ve just finished Kim Yideum\u2019s Hysteria<\/em><\/a>, published this past spring by Action Books and translated by Jake Levine, Soeun Seo, and Hedgie Choi. Most of the poems in the collection are narrated by a plainspoken yet enigmatic I, and deal with gender, sex, bodies, trauma, and Korean society in language that\u2019s at times brutal, at other times droll. \u201cI want to rip you apart with my teeth,\u201d begins the titular prose poem, which I found extremely cathartic to read on the subway ride home. \u201cI want to tear you to death on this speeding subway \u2026 Don\u2019t fucking touch me.\u201d \u201cI hate pain as much as I hate aphorisms,\u201d goes a line in another. There\u2019s an easy intimacy to the poems, whether Kim is writing about menstrual pads, misheard restaurant orders, sexual double standards, or class and poetry. I\u2019m eager to read even more of her work. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

Last week<\/a> blended into this one, and I\u2019m still trying to escape the New York summer\u2014even if it\u2019s only for a minute, and even if it\u2019s only between the covers of a book. This time, I was led into John McPhee\u2019s The Pine Barrens<\/em><\/a> in the hope of gentle, cool, resin-scented pine air. On that count, I was to be disappointed\u2014the pinelands are fire country, it transpires\u2014though I was grateful for the introduction all the same. The area owes its name to settlers in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries who discovered its sandy, impoverished soil to be unpromising for agriculture. The land went uncleared, and the region began its unique, modern-day history. All that wilderness so close to New York and Philadelphia made it a \u201csmuggler\u2019s El Dorado\u201d (smuggling being a \u201crespectable business in Colonial America\u201d); from here, sugar, molasses, tea, coffee, and rum filtered their way into the country. Iron furnaces were next to emerge\u2014the consequence of a geological curiosity that led to a buildup of iron oxide on the riverbanks. This \u201cbog iron\u201d resulted in one of the period\u2019s most important iron industries, an industry that played a significant role in supplying ordinance for the War of 1812 and the American Revolution. For years, each spring, the furnaces were fired up and kept in blast until the winter froze them out. Today those iron towns have all vanished, and cranberry bogs are the area\u2019s main industry (the region produces the third-highest volume of cranberries in the country; the blueberry farms there don\u2019t lag far behind). It\u2019s a various place, with a various past, and McPhee writes about it with genuine affection. When the summer passes and the cool breeze returns to the pines, it may be time to head back out there. \u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

John McPhee. Photo: Yolanda Whitman.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 escapes New York, reads South Korean poetry, and learns about Julio Torres\u2019s most treasured shapes.<\/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-138703","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Cranberries, Canzones, and Catharsis by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 escapes New York, reads South Korean poetry, and learns about Julio Torres\u2019s most treasured shapes.\" \/>\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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