{"id":139036,"date":"2019-08-30T13:24:00","date_gmt":"2019-08-30T17:24:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=139036"},"modified":"2019-08-30T14:06:54","modified_gmt":"2019-08-30T18:06:54","slug":"staff-picks-family-fleece-and-flamin-hot-cheetos","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/08\/30\/staff-picks-family-fleece-and-flamin-hot-cheetos\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Family, Fleece, and Flamin\u2019 Hot Cheetos"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Michael Paterniti. Photo: Joanna Eldredge Morrissey.<\/p><\/div>\n

Earlier this month, I visited family on Cliff Island, off the coast of Portland, Maine. It\u2019s a lovely place, with pebbled beaches and raspberry bushes. And it\u2019s small. Very, very <\/em>small. The whole island is about two miles from end to end; the total population, according to the most recent U.S. census, is sixty-one. There are no cars or restaurants or hotels. People get around on foot or bike, or with the occasional golf cart. But what Cliff Island does have is a library\u2014and a great one. Run out of an old house and open for only a few hours a day, the Cliff Island Library<\/a> contains a large and eclectic selection of books, many of which have been collected over the years by the island\u2019s residents or else donated by tourists passing through. On my aunt\u2019s recommendation, I picked up Love and Other Ways of Dying<\/em><\/a>, a delightfully strange and sensitive essay collection by the journalist Michael Paterniti. Paterniti\u2019s writing defies traditional categorization. Is it journalism? Is it poetry? At times it reads like both. At times it reads like something else entirely. In \u201cThe Man Who Sailed His House<\/a>,\u201d for instance, Paterniti embodies the voice of Hiromitsu Shinkawa, a Japanese man who was stranded on a piece of flotsam for three days following the 2011 tsunami. This is a so-called true story, but the empathetic imagination Paterniti brings to bear on it is all his own, drawing upon nearly unbelievable levels of detail\u2014like the purple fleece the man wore, and the notes he scrawled in desperation on various pieces of garbage with a marker he fished from the sea\u2014to conjure the fear and hope and loneliness of the situation. Near the close of the story, just before the man is saved, even the prose itself seems to reflect his condition, becoming somewhat ecstatic and dreamlike, as though Paterniti were right beside him on that plank of wood, lost in a hunger-induced hallucination. In the end, the reader is grateful for these liberties. They leave us with a feeling of expansiveness\u2014a sense that, within the world of the book, anything is possible. \u2014Cornelia Channing\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Clairo\u2019s debut full-length album, Immunity<\/em><\/a>, is the soundtrack of my summer. Here she goes beyond her early \u201cbedroom pop\u201d<\/a> into something bigger and more interesting while still upholding the sincerity and simplicity of songs like \u201cFlamin Hot Cheetos<\/a>\u201d (the refrain a simple \u201cI\u2019m feeling something right\u201d on loop.) On Immunity<\/em>, Clairo manages to display a range of styles\u2014indie rock, grunge, synth pop\u2014with heightened emotional specificity and a restrained voice that I can\u2019t stop listening to. The album opens with \u201cAlewife,\u201d a surprisingly honest song in which she sings earnestly about something serious: \u201cYou know you saved me from doin\u2019\u2009\/\u2009something to myself that night \u2026 I didn\u2019t mean to scare you\u2009\/\u2009just had thoughts in my mind.\u201d This dark scene is paired with a frank quietness, hiding a meaning that doesn\u2019t reveal itself in a single listen. And in \u201cCloser to You,\u201d there\u2019s a newfound anger amid the vulnerability: \u201cI don\u2019t wanna hear it now I\u2019m fed up\u2009\/\u2009Wish I could say it was enough\u2009\/\u2009to make me walk away.\u201d In the seven-minute final track, \u201cI Wouldn\u2019t Ask You,\u201d Clairo gets at the strangeness of where she is right now, caught between adolescence and adulthood. She layers a haunting chorus of children\u2019s voices over her own as she says: \u201cI wouldn\u2019t ask you to take care of me.\u201d \u2014Camille Jacobson<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Anne Boyer. Photo: \u00a9 Cassandra Gillig.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

There\u2019s a line in Anne Boyer\u2019s 2015 poetry collection Garments against Women<\/em> that has stuck with me ever since I read it: \u201cI am not writing a memoir because memoirs are for property owners.\u201d It\u2019s a line that encapsulates everything I find interesting about Boyer\u2019s work, with its bracing combination of leftist politics and a refusal to obey the staid rules that seem to inform so much of what we call literature. In her latest book, The Undying: Pain, Vulnerability, Mortality, Medicine, Art, Time, Dreams, Data, Exhaustion, Cancer, and Care<\/em><\/a>, Boyer turns her eye to America\u2019s health care system, her treatment for and recovery from breast cancer, and the relationship between money and art. Alternating between fury and elegy, by the end, it\u2019s an affective portrait of what capitalism does to the body. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

For the past decade, I\u2019d tell anyone who asked (nobody really asked, but I told myself that I\u2019d tell them if they did) that Wye Oak was one of my favorite working bands. The Maryland indie-rock duo has evolved over several albums from melancholy and somewhat aggressive guitar music to almost celebratory synth pop. That evolution is, in part, explained by Release the Dogs<\/em><\/a>, the first solo album from Andy Stack, Wye Oak\u2019s drummer and keyboardist (on stage, he plays both at the same time!), who records as Joyero. This lovely, gently aching record is all synths and sneaky guitars and smooth textures and melodies that enfold and get buried under one another. Release the Dogs<\/em> is the kind of record that takes a few listens before you can hear it, and then it\u2019s all you want to hear. Then it\u2019s music to drive to as much as it\u2019s music to stay at home and feel lonesome to; you\u2019ll feel lonesome but not alone. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

Sometimes my therapist, bless her, mentions phobias I don\u2019t have. \u201cYou\u2019re not an agoraphobe,\u201d she offered on Wednesday. But nevertheless, I am skeptical of crowded opinions. Books loved by enormous groups of people unnerve me. I skirted Wolf Hall<\/em> for ages, and the number of people who told me Pachinko<\/em><\/a> is a good book is equal to the number of times I responded, \u201cOh, I have to read that,\u201d and then didn\u2019t. I shouldn\u2019t have hesitated. Min Jin Lee began her career as a lawyer, and her interest in research and justice shines through this compelling family narrative. It is sweeping but specific. When my reading lamp putters out\u00ad\u2014the only way I can close the book at night\u2014words and images last: Sunja\u2019s simplest chima<\/em>, or the way her mother cuts radishes in perfect cubes. Huge cultural questions also sweep past, not unanswered but unanswerable: How do communities thrive on each other\u2019s exclusion? How can a people flourish when their equity is rejected? This book is so much about the collective, its fragility and its dangers, paper-thin walls and the thickness of blood. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Min Jin Lee.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 succumbs to the hype, visits Cliff Island, and feels lonesome to the sounds of Joyero.<\/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-139036","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Family, Fleece, and Flamin\u2019 Hot Cheetos by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 succumbs to the hype, visits Cliff Island, and feels lonesome to the sounds of Joyero.\" \/>\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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