{"id":142070,"date":"2020-01-17T14:02:32","date_gmt":"2020-01-17T19:02:32","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=142070"},"modified":"2020-04-07T13:44:53","modified_gmt":"2020-04-07T17:44:53","slug":"staff-picks-diamonds-dionysus-and-drowning","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/01\/17\/staff-picks-diamonds-dionysus-and-drowning\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Diamonds, Dionysus, and Drowning"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Silvina Ocampo. Photo: Adolfo Bioy Casares. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

I love a good hundred-page novel. Too many books go for quantity over quality, choosing to bloat their page counts with unnecessary plot twists\u2014and don\u2019t even get me started on that silly term novella<\/em>. Not so for Silvina Ocampo\u2019s The Promise<\/em><\/a>, recently translated from the Spanish by Suzanne Jill Levine and Jessica Powell. Ocampo\u2014an aristocratic Argentine who was friendly with Borges and whose elder sister Victoria was the founder of the prestigious literary journal Sur<\/em>\u2014purportedly took twenty-five years to finish The Promise<\/em>, and every sentence glints with precision. The plot is minimal at best: While traveling from Buenos Aires to Cape Town to visit family, the narrator falls ill. On the way back to Argentina, she falls off the side of the ship and spends the rest of the book swimming\u2014and presumably, eventually drowning\u2014as she recalls various persons and experiences from her life back home. A few characters reoccur: Leandro, an untrustworthy doctor; Irene, his lover; and Gabriela, also known as Gabriel, Irene\u2019s daughter. Entire paragraphs repeat themselves with small variations, and water seeps in again and again. The confusion is part of the appeal\u2014what you\u2019re after are the sentences, which have the feel of epigrams: \u201cI envy people who cry; they show off their tears like necklaces,\u201d goes one. \u201cWomen love with their eyes closed, men with their eyes open,\u201d goes another. I think I took a photo of nearly every other page so as not to forget them. The twenty-five years of work were worth it. \u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been knocked out by the new titles from Seagull\u2019s celebrated German List<\/a>. Georg Trakl\u2019s poems, previously published in individual hardcover editions, are now collected in a single paperback<\/a>, met with titles from Thomas Bernhard, Ralf Rothmann, Peter Weiss, and others. Of particular interest to me has been a volume of correspondence<\/a> between Ingeborg Bachmann and Paul Celan (translated by Wieland Hoban). In these letters, Bachmann is needful, especially early on, and Celan less so; the imbalanced exchange is reminiscent of that between Rainer Maria Rilke and Marina Tsvetayeva<\/a>. With Bachmann-Celan, the correspondence is also one of unequal weight: Bachmann\u2019s letters tend to be lengthy, and Celan\u2019s are shorter or absent altogether, his responses often apologetic for not having written sooner (or not having written at all). And yet we receive a sense of the tumultuous times in which they lived and the development of their thinking and writing. The volume\u2019s editors have included voluminous useful notes and appendixes and a sheaf of correspondence between Celan and Max Frisch, and Bachmann and Celan\u2019s wife, Gis\u00e8le Lestrange, the latter tracing the bloom of an unlikely friendship. \u2014Christian Kiefer<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

David Whyte. Photo: Christopher Michel (CC BY-SA (https:\/\/creativecommons.org\/licenses\/by-sa\/4.0)).<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

About a month ago, I unexpectedly tuned into an episode of NPR\u2019s On Being<\/em><\/a> featuring the writer David Whyte. His voice was deep and magnetic; he philosophized in improvised incantations, possessing a natural poeticism in conversation. When asked to read his poems, Whyte had them committed to memory. He intoned each with great force, emphatically repeating the most powerful lines as if unable to get past them. This week, I began reading Whyte\u2019s 2018 collection of poetry, The Bell and the Blackbird<\/em><\/a>, in which his poetic lineage is clear. His verse, exactly like that of W.\u2009B. Yeats, exists at the threshold of the subconscious, just beyond the realm of everyday life. There is a deep religiosity to the collection, including a series of blessings that seem meant to be collectively uttered by a congregation. But these prayers center on earthly matters rather than godly. The most earnest among them, \u201cBlessing for Unrequited Love,\u201d offers \u201cA blessing on the eyes that do not see me as I wish.\u2009\/\u2009A blessing to the ears that can never hear the far inward\u2009\/\u2009footfall of my own shy heart \u2026 A blessing for the way you will not know me\u2009\/\u2009in years to come.\u201d No matter the Yeatsian symbolism and lyricism, Whyte\u2019s more Minimalist verse inevitably returns to the lived moment. The collection begins with an invitation to journey through<\/p>\n

the shadow,
\nnot of death,
\nbut of
\nthe unconquerable
\nkingdom of life.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Within his lyric medium, human existence is, above all, the primary subject. \u2014Elinor Hitt<\/strong><\/p>\n

Since reading Esquire<\/em>\u2019s \u201cThe Secret Oral History of Bennington<\/a>\u201d at least a dozen times, I\u2019ve developed a sort of preoccupation with Donna Tartt\u2014how she\u2019s described in the piece, her striking sartorial choices, the nostalgia with which she discusses her college years. So it\u2019s strange that it\u2019s taken me until quite recently to read her enthralling literary debut, The Secret History<\/em><\/a>. The novel opens with a murder among a group of friends at the fictitious Hampden College, which is presumably based on Bennington, where Tartt wrote the book while still a student. The rest of the story explains how exactly this all came to be, tracking the narrator\u2019s start at Hampden, his journey into the classics students\u2019 inner circle, and his discovery of how dark the Dionysian can really be. The plot is both melodramatic and cerebral, Tartt\u2019s prose textured and supple. The way she describes student life feels at once familiar and aspirational (and very eighties)\u2014the best possible version of the campus novel. \u2014Camille Jacobson<\/strong><\/p>\n

I tore through \u00c1gota Krist\u00f3f\u2019s extraordinary trilogy<\/a> in the bleak British midwinter, giddy with jet lag. She is a writer perhaps best read in the dead of night. There is a profound loneliness to her books, an unsettling mix of memory and delusion, all written with the clarity of insomniac thoughts. Even more than Beckett, her prose has a style \u201cwithout style.\u201d It is blank and precise, even as it voices great horrors. The first of the trilogy, The Notebook<\/em>, starts with twin boys who act and speak as one; they record their lives with a rigorous commitment to objective truth. \u201cIt is forbidden to write, \u2018The Little Town is beautiful,\u2019 because the Little Town may be beautiful to us and ugly to someone else,\u201d they note. This method is the first lie; facades continually collapse, and every book undermines its predecessor. This combination of an utterly direct style and the endless misdirection of the narrative unnerves. Behind it all is a truth that can be neither told nor forgotten. As one character notes, \u201cNo book, no matter how sad, can be as sad as a life.\u201d I have read few books that engage so profoundly with what it means to write from life, and the fantasy and failure of fiction. Selves fall apart; narratives break into irreconcilable parts. Each immaculate section reshapes the whole and casts a different light: it is like watching a jeweler cut a diamond into dust. \u2014Chris Littlewood<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

\u00c1gota Krist\u00f3f. Photo: Ulif Anderson.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 lauds the hundred-page novel, obsesses over Donna Tartt, and reads the extraordinary \u00c1gota Krist\u00f3f<\/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-142070","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Diamonds, Dionysus, and Drowning by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 lauds the hundred-page novel, obsesses over Donna Tartt, and reads the extraordinary \u00c1gota Krist\u00f3f\" \/>\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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