{"id":144598,"date":"2020-04-27T13:28:13","date_gmt":"2020-04-27T17:28:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=144598"},"modified":"2020-04-27T14:37:52","modified_gmt":"2020-04-27T18:37:52","slug":"the-art-of-distance-no-6","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/04\/27\/the-art-of-distance-no-6\/","title":{"rendered":"The Art of Distance No. 6"},"content":{"rendered":"

In March,<\/em>\u00a0The Paris Review\u00a0launched<\/em>\u00a0The Art of Distance, a newsletter highlighting unlocked archive pieces that resonate with the staff of<\/em>\u00a0the magazine<\/em>, quarantine-appropriate writing on the<\/em>\u00a0Daily, resources from our peer organizations,<\/em>\u00a0and more. Read Emily Nemens\u2019s introductory letter\u00a0here<\/a>, and find the latest unlocked archive pieces below.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cIn celebration of the warmer days soon to come, this installment of The Art of Distance is devoted to spring\u2014to stories, poems, and other pieces that put us in mind of the season\u2019s hope, bounty, and optimism. Spring has sprung in these pages, at least.\u201d \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher, Digital Director<\/em><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Photo: Dominicus Johannes Bergsma.<\/p><\/div>\n

I\u2019m watching spring blossom through the window of my sister\u2019s childhood bedroom; the sun is bright, the breeze is cold, and the birds are louder here than in Manhattan. Reading William Styron\u2019s \u201cLetter to an Editor<\/a>,\u201d the preface to issue no. 1, I imagine that the spring of 1953 was as crisp and as bright as this one. Styron\u2019s letter is an anti-manifesto manifesto, a critique of criticism itself, its very syntax exuding a biting and springlike energy. He admits that all ideas fall subject to scrutiny when put to paper. He writes, \u201cIt\u2019s inevitable that what Truth I mumble to you at Lipp\u2019s over a beer, or that Ideal we are perfectly agreed upon at the casual hour of 2 A.M. becomes powerfully open to criticism as soon as it\u2019s cast in a printed form which, like a piece of sculpture, allows us to walk all around that Truth or Ideal and examine it front, side, and behind, and for minutes on end.\u201d Styron asks, however, that we try to put all that aside, resisting intellectual exercise and simply enjoying the patient work of writing and reading. \u2014Elinor Hitt, Intern\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Spring, to me, inevitably leads to the singsong rhyme \u201cApril showers bring May flowers\u201d repeating in my head, and when I think about flowers, I think about this Clarice Lispector short story<\/a> (translated from the Portuguese by Rachel Klein). \u201cSomeone who has never stolen is not going to understand me,\u201d goes the first paragraph. \u201cAnd someone who has never stolen roses will never be able to understand me. When I was little, I stole roses.\u201d But wait, there are many more roses in the\u00a0archive, including in the brief poem \u201cIn the Storm of Roses<\/a>\u201d by Ingeborg Bachmann (translated from the German by Mark Anderson): \u201cWherever we turn in the storm of roses,\u2009\/\u2009thorns illuminate the night.\u201d Though they are separated by an ocean and different languages, there\u2019s something oddly similar about Lispector\u2019s and Bachmann\u2019s writing. \u2014Rhian Sasseen, Engagement Editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

Spring is my least favorite season. It\u2019s too cold to enjoy being outside, yet (most years) one feels wrong staying in. I love how Galway Kinnell\u2019s poem \u201cLast Spring<\/a>\u201d acknowledges spring\u2019s harshness, like some kind of vengeful seasonal reformer after the long dreamy winter. Spring\u2019s onslaught of light destroys cozy illusions\u2014\u201cIt sent up my keepsakes\u2009\/\u2009My inventions in dust\u2009\/\u2009It left me only a life\u201d\u2014and demands that we be here now. I\u2019m grateful to the poem for recognizing how hard that is (in any season, and whether you\u2019re a spring skeptic or not) with the wonderful final line, in which the speaker finds himself \u201cknocking on the instants to let me in.\u201d \u2014Jane Breakell, Institutional Giving Officer<\/strong><\/p>\n

Blackberries, an early concern of this long story<\/a> by W.\u2009S. Merwin, won\u2019t be in season until July, but his sensuous language is perennially evocative of life\u2019s springtime stirring: \u201cThe limestone upland, the causse<\/em>, was fragrant too, in whatever season, and its scents changed through the hours as the shadows moved, and the cool patches in the air, the damp currents from under the trees. Beyond the west wall of the garden, in the spring, three big bird cherry trees silently exploded in white flowers, their thick sweetness laced with a rank bitterness like that of almonds.\u201d It\u2019s a story not only long but lingering, asking a patience befitting its pastoral nature. The time is made rich by loamy smells, verdant pastures, and all the decadent flavors of food freshly harvested. \u2014Lauren Kane, Assistant Editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

New Yorkers know this is tulip season: I\u2019ve seen the East River Park abloom in Dutch delights\u2014to say nothing of Tompkins Square and its daffodils. Walking the pooch down petal-laden paths, I\u2019ve been reminded of what a bloom can do, and I think back to the fun we had in issue 228 with sculptor Francesca DiMattio\u2019s amazing ceramics<\/a>. Her maximalist vases are sculpture in their own right, but they also embrace their vestigial purpose as vessels, standing at the ready for any bouquet. And if we\u2019re looking for floral motifs in TPR<\/em>\u2019s art, don\u2019t forget Thomas Demand\u2019s cut-paper cherry trees<\/a> (accompanied in issue 212 by Ben Lerner verse) or Michel Beret\u2019s \u201cfastidious flower fantasies<\/a>\u201d from issue 4. \u2014Emily Nemens, Editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

At the cold center of Amie Barrodale\u2019s short story \u201cWilliam Wei<\/a>\u201d is a relationship for our moment: a forged-over-the-phone nondalliance between the narrator and a mysterious woman named Koko, who calls one night as he is eating a Mediterranean salad while lying belly-down like a dog on his army-style cot. Their eventual meeting smolders into an anticlimax perfect for reading as the flames of midspring lick at our windows from the outside, always beyond reach. \u2014Brian Ransom, Assistant Online Editor<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sign up\u00a0here<\/a>\u00a0to receive a fresh installment of The Art of Distance in your inbox every Monday.<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 dreams of spring.<\/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":[63638],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-144598","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-art-of-distance"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nThe Art of Distance No. 6 by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 dreams of spring.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/04\/27\/the-art-of-distance-no-6\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" 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