{"id":143662,"date":"2020-03-20T15:19:53","date_gmt":"2020-03-20T19:19:53","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=143662"},"modified":"2020-04-07T13:06:16","modified_gmt":"2020-04-07T17:06:16","slug":"staff-picks-demons-decadence-and-dimes","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/03\/20\/staff-picks-demons-decadence-and-dimes\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Demons, Decadence, and Dimes"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Ladislav Kl\u00edma.<\/p><\/div>\n

Prince Sternenhoch is lovelorn, despite his qualities: \u201cLeaving aside my family and wealth, I may boldly say of myself that I am a beau, in spite of certain inadequacies, for example, that I stand only 150 centimeters and weigh 45 kilograms, and am almost toothless, hairless, and whiskerless, also a little squint-eyed and have a noticeable hobble\u2014well, even the sun has spots.\u201d He meets the silent Helga, whom he instinctively loathes and swiftly marries. She opens up, travels as a brigand, finds her m\u00e9tier as a demon, and starts to murder \u201clike a doctor.\u201d Ladislav Kl\u00edma\u2019s (1878\u20131928) The Sufferings of Prince Sternenhoch<\/em><\/a>, styled as the eponymous noble\u2019s edited journals, is a phantasmagoric freak-out, a work of consummate madness. It is gross and wretched; it is a Tinder date in a pandemic. Sternenhoch lives in a succession of ghoulish castles. He transcribes his titters and cackles and\u2014after he is possessed by the spirit of his defenestrated Saint Bernard, Elephant\u2014his barks. He schemes to make a gorilla cry and invests his fortune in a nut. Helga is killed, gains a swift promotion in hell, and visits to torment. Perhaps they reconcile, when she confesses, \u201cMy financial outlook is atrocious, my rabbits all died suddenly, and I have come to realize I lack artistic talent.\u201d The truth is impossible to discern: the tale is all delusion, but for Kl\u00edma, delusion is all there is. In A Czech Dreambook<\/em><\/a>, Ludv\u00edk Vacul\u00edk remarks that \u201cKl\u00edma\u2019s horror stories have no more than a poetic effect on me. I can read them last thing at night and then have a nice peaceful bureaucratic dream.\u201d For Vacul\u00edk, Sternenhoch<\/em> might offer no relief from those anesthetic dreams proscribed by the state, but at present I could do with a good night\u2019s sleep. Besides, I was moved. In Kl\u00edma\u2019s \u201cAutobiography,\u201d which is appended to this edition\u2014vividly translated, like Sternenhoch<\/em>, by Carleton Bulkin\u2014he writes of his life spent in \u201cconsistent divergence from all that\u2019s human\u201d: he eats only raw flour and raw horse meat, gobbles mice half eaten by cats, and \u201cwould glug down bathwater from people with smallpox.\u201d At that, I put the book down and immediately washed my hands. Then I opened it again. \u2014Chris Littlewood\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

During these early days of social isolation, I\u2019ve gone surprisingly deep down a rabbit hole of German productions on Netflix. One of my favorites, Babylon Berlin<\/em><\/a>, just dropped its third season with barely any notice. The historical thriller follows the homicide detective duo Gereon Rath and Lotte Ritter through the gritty, decadent Berlin of 1929. Every episode is packed with vivid depictions of debauchery, addiction, and violent crime, all shaded by the specter of rising fascism. About five episodes in, though, I needed a break, so I turned to Isi & Ossi<\/em><\/a>, a German rom-com about a billionaire heiress who falls for a boxer from the wrong side of the tracks. My expectations were low, and I was stunned by the artful and attentive cinematography. In one quiet shot, Isi and Ossi are lying in bed, and a round mirror frames them like a painting. Isi takes notice, self-consciously tucking her hair behind her ear. \u201cWe used to have a picture like that in my parents\u2019 bedroom,\u201d she says. \u201cThey were lying there like this.\u201d Isi & Ossi<\/em>, like Babylon Berlin<\/em>, is remarkable for such small and well-crafted moments of human connection, which, however brief, offer consolation to the solitary viewer. \u2014Elinor Hitt<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

On October 25, 2015, the\u00a0New York Times <\/em>ran a piece about the Dimes crowd<\/a>. I had been in New York for seven months and wanted to be a New Yorker my whole life. Ticking through the pictures, I felt the aspiration of a suburban teenager all over again. This was clearly where creativity sat down for a wheatgrass margarita and worked the bar. Once I visited, I realized Dimes was everything I wanted New York to be. It\u2019s full of friends and flirting, the waitstaff is always just a month ahead of even the most fashion-forward citizens, and when I finally did get to know them, they told me about their dance companies, their bands, their radio stations. They are cool in a city of young people seemingly made all alike by Instagram and start-up capital. The food feels virtuous and tastes delicious. There are whale songs in the bathroom. In the past few days, as New York City suspended all sit-down restaurant service, Dimes launched a cookbook<\/a> years in the making. Dimes Times: Emotional Eating<\/em> captures the charm and character of the restaurant. The trim size is funny, the table of contents is funky fresh, there is a running narrative about the emotional moments of the Dimes day, and there are even cutouts. This weekend my man cooked us Alberto\u2019s unbeatable posole (page 107), and for just a moment it was all still possible: a last-minute trip to Mexico City, a hug across the bar, a waiter job that would keep you afloat between gigs, the din and the smiles of a noisy dining room. Whenever I settle into a seat at Dimes, I think, I\u2019m one of the lucky ones; I\u2019m having my moment in this crazy city. Consider ordering a copy of the cookbook this week or directing a little something straight to the staff<\/a>. It might just be the coin that keeps Dimes waiting for us somewhere beyond quarantine. \u2014Julia Berick<\/strong><\/p>\n

Praised by Ocean Vuong and Viet Thanh Nguyen, the Vietnamese poet Nguy\u1ec5n Phan Qu\u1ebf Mai\u2019s first novel, The Mountains Sing<\/em><\/a>, is a beautiful evocation of a lost world. Nguy\u1ec5n\u2019s family saga tells the story of a country torn apart by the vagaries of history and the fires of a quickly globalizing political world. But lest I give the wrong impression, Nguy\u1ec5n\u2019s interests are centered largely on the hearts of her characters, their struggle to maintain their own humanity in a landscape drowned in the blood tides of the past. Her book tour has been canceled due to the current pandemic, but that\u2019s no reason to miss out on this beautiful, stirring novel. \u2014Christian Kiefer<\/strong><\/p>\n

I bought my copy of Culpeper\u2019s Complete Herbal<\/em><\/a> a few years back, not because I am particularly interested in herbal medicine but because I am fascinated by so-called early America, the period when the Northeastern United States was considered by Europeans a wilderness. In those anxious days, the Herbal<\/em>, first published in 1653, could be found alongside the Bible in settlers\u2019 homes\u2014books to protect body and soul. This week the world again feels like wilderness, the body and soul small and isolated amid looming, shadowy dangers. Depending on your beliefs, Culpeper\u2019s cures can seem pathetic\u2014thank modern medicine, for example, that we\u2019ve moved beyond purslane to cure \u201cblastings by lightning\u201d\u2014but his visual descriptions of plants are timeless. Consider his entry on hellebore, long a favorite of mine for the name\u2019s suggestion of a mythic queen: \u201cIt has sundry fair green leaves rising from the root \u2026 abiding green all the winter \u2026 about Christmas-time \u2026 the flowers appear upon foot-stalks, also consisting of five large, round, white leaves a-piece, which sometimes are purplish towards the edges, with many pale yellow thumbs in the middle; the seeds are black, and in form long and round. The root consists of numberless blackish strings all united into one head.\u201d In New York, hellebore appears around March and can be white, rose, green, or purple. Among its many uses, according to Culpeper, the roots are effective for madness. My mind, however, is calmed by the precision of his language and the reminder that outside the walls of social isolation, these flowers\u2014muted in color, bold in their advance against winter\u2014bloom on. \u2014Jane Breakell<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Line engraving of Nicholas Culpeper, 1827. Credit: Wellcome Library, London. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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