{"id":139682,"date":"2019-09-20T15:22:34","date_gmt":"2019-09-20T19:22:34","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=139682"},"modified":"2019-09-20T15:43:13","modified_gmt":"2019-09-20T19:43:13","slug":"staff-picks-ducks-dubs-and-dung","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2019\/09\/20\/staff-picks-ducks-dubs-and-dung\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Ducks, Dubs, and Dung"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Nicole Flattery.<\/p><\/div>\n

When I moved to New York, I was overwhelmed by the sense that everyone I encountered was desperately holding themselves together. I could not escape the feeling that I, too, must be very careful, that if I were not, some crack in my skin would open and spill my insides onto the sidewalk. Accompanying this vigilance was an impulse toward rebellion, the sense that if only I were reckless, I could finally have some fun. I came to fancy myself somewhat deranged and decided to leave it at that. There are many such women in Nicole Flattery\u2019s outstanding collection Show Them a Good Time<\/em><\/a>\u2014women who are holding themselves together or flagrantly resisting the mandate to do so, in worlds both horrifying and hilarious. \u201cAbortion, a Love Story\u201d is a standout, a lengthy piece that merits the patience it requires. Natasha, engaged in a \u201ctedious liaison\u201d with her pathetic professor, believes she must \u201ckeep her emotions quiet and fixed in place or her whole face [will] break apart.\u201d Out to dinner, she returns from the bathroom to find herself replaced by her inverse, a girl named Lucy. Lucy is \u201cmonstrously drunk\u201d and looks like \u201cwhat was promised men when they returned from war.\u201d This Gogolian turn does not end in tragedy but in rapturous joy, the women holding hands as the lecherous professor quite literally fades into the background. I hope one day to be so united, warring impulses finally in harmony. In the meantime, Flattery\u2019s collection will be my wry and devastating companion. \u2014Noor Qasim\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cCarnivores beware,\u201d begins one review of Jean-Baptiste Del Amo\u2019s Animalia<\/em><\/a>. \u201cDung, urine, mucus, blood, bile and every other bodily fluid spread noxiously across the pages of Animalia<\/em>,\u201d another warns. A third: \u201cWith stomach-turning flamboyance,\u201d Del Amo describes \u201cthe slimy, spurting realities of breeding, birthing, castration and culling.\u201d Okay, we get it. Animalia<\/em>, which is Del Amo\u2019s fourth novel\u2014though the first to appear in English, via Frank Wynne\u2019s translation\u2014is gross. But Del Amo\u2019s multigenerational portrait of a hardscrabble family of pig farmers in Gascony is also a lyrical powerhouse, a sophisticated portrait of a fucked-up feedback loop of familial cruelty and disappointment, and a story that, for all its brutality, also reveals something more. Yes, many of Del Amo\u2019s descriptions will turn you vegetarian for a time, and there is wickedness enough for this book to stand alongside Cormac McCarthy\u2019s meanest, but the brief moments when these beleaguered characters show their humanity and kindness\u2014delivering a calf, bathing a mother\u2014left me breathless. (PS. I\u2019ll be speaking with Del Amo, Maxim Osipov, and Ishion Hutchinson this Sunday at the Brooklyn Book Festival<\/a>.) \u2014Emily Nemens<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Paul Muldoon. Photo: Peter Cook.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

As the name suggests, Paul Muldoon\u2019s newest poetry collection, Frolic and Detour<\/em><\/a> (forthcoming from Farrar, Straus and Giroux in November), is a rambling book, digressive even for a poet famous for digression. Playful, lyrical, and a little melancholy, it pirouettes between forms\u2014from sonnet to ballad to pantoum\u2014all the while demonstrating Muldoon\u2019s virtuosic capability. The overall effect is exciting, madcap even, like white-water rafting in a river that threatens at every moment to overflow. The book is densely populated, too: contained within these pages are chickadees, fancy cheeses, celebrity eulogies, and Celtic clansmen. There is ibuprofen, bird feed, Bacardi, and bok choy. All this gives the reader the sense that they are riffling through the desk drawers of an eccentric and aging intellectual. Muldoon\u2019s humor, incandescent as ever, is most visible in his wordplay, which can be almost ostentatious in its silliness\u2014as though he were proving, just in case we had forgotten, that he can do whatever he wants. In \u201cBelfast Hymn,\u201d for instance, he rhymes \u201ccream of tartar\u201d with \u201ccomplete nonstarter.\u201d In \u201cPosition Paper,\u201d a merry catalogue of altered aphorisms, he tells us: \u201cYou can\u2019t teach an old dog and not get up with fleas,\u201d and \u201csometimes the bearer becomes the bad news.\u201d Fast-paced and labyrinthine, the poems can, at times, be a little hard to follow\u2014jumping between different trains of thought and historical periods with dizzying speed. Somewhere between modern-day New York City, nineteenth-century Ireland, and ancient Budapest, a reader might feel left in the dust. Still, for the most part, it\u2019s fun to watch Muldoon scurry mischievously around the next corner, always one or two (or ten) steps ahead. \u2014Cornelia Channing<\/strong><\/p>\n

For the past year, I have been enraptured with the music of Katherine Paul, who performs under the name Black Belt Eagle Scout. Her music is a gorgeous brand of achingly melodic indie rock: songs about longing, pain, and the spaces between things. She\u2019s released two albums in quick succession; the second one, At the Party with My Brown Friends<\/em><\/a>, is as good as her debut, Mother of My Children<\/em><\/a>, and adds a sweet melancholy\u2014it\u2019s a kind of rainy-day party\u2014that I can\u2019t resist. She plays all the instruments on her records, effectively making her a one-woman band. Whereas many artists who overdub themselves seem too close to their own music to actually hear it, Paul discovers something at every moment in her several-way conversations with her split selves. Especially stunning is \u201cHalf Colored Hair,\u201d a spare song about new love that flickers with hope: \u201cHow you look at me,\u201d she sings, \u201cin the brightness of your room\u2009\/\u2009The lightness of my fingers on your face.\u201d She knows how to start a sentence that doesn\u2019t need finishing. Black Belt Eagle Scout\u2019s music seems to slowly billow outward from a dark center, filling a heavy room with increasingly breathable air in which one might eventually levitate. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

Although it\u2019s been less than a week since I finished Lucy Ellmann\u2019s Ducks, Newburyport<\/em><\/a>, the entire experience feels something like a far-off fever dream. Perhaps that\u2019s because I read it over the span of a weekend, devouring the thousand-page epic at the expense of interacting with my friends, roommates, and assorted other loved ones. This was the right decision. Most of the novel is devoted to a stream-of-consciousness narrative from an unnamed Ohio housewife as she goes about her day, taking care of her four children and making sweets for a baking operation she runs out of her kitchen. Reading this in a marathon session creates an experience that\u2019s hard to replicate elsewhere\u2014I found myself sinking into the narrator\u2019s mind, consumed in such a way that it was as though we were merging. On Saturday morning, I woke up and realized that I had been dreaming in her distinctive style, each phrase beginning with the fact that<\/em>. The length of the book works to its advantage. Yes, this is a novel about Trump\u2019s America, but politically it\u2019s about much more than that. The narrator\u2019s mind slides away from the minutiae of her everyday and toward meditations on the violence that is baked into the very structure of the United States and the entire concept of empire itself. The Native American genocide is remembered, as is the violent legacy of slavery and continued antiblack racism. Excess\u2014be it an excess of words, the excess of a new nation\u2019s attempts to claim land, the excess of human attempts to cast dominion over nature\u2014is tied, again and again, to destruction. Intercut with the narrator\u2019s thoughts are brief sections following a mountain lioness as she is separated from, and attempts to reunite with, her cubs. What is the demarcation between human and beast? By the book\u2019s last thirty pages, it\u2019s unclear. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Lucy Ellmann.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads Paul Muldoon, feels despair, and considers the fact that \u2018Ducks, Newburyport\u2019 is very long.<\/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-139682","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Ducks, Dubs, and Dung by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads Paul Muldoon, feels despair, and considers the fact that \u2018Ducks, Newburyport\u2019 is very long.\" \/>\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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