{"id":145259,"date":"2020-05-22T15:03:50","date_gmt":"2020-05-22T19:03:50","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=145259"},"modified":"2020-05-22T15:38:36","modified_gmt":"2020-05-22T19:38:36","slug":"staff-picks-slapstick-stanzas-and-stuff","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/05\/22\/staff-picks-slapstick-stanzas-and-stuff\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Slapstick, Stanzas, and Stuff"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Michael Rips. Photo: Ric Ocasek.<\/p><\/div>\n

Cooped up at home, many of us are now being kept company by our stuff<\/em>, that antifunctional classification of belongings that rarely move from their spots on side tables and shelves, displaying little immediate value to anyone but their owners. The stories of how these things came to be, or how they came to be possessed by us, measure their worth, and those with a special sensitivity to that worth become collectors. Two writers have recently captured the singular vocational pull of the collector, and in doing so, they show us the whimsical and strange roots that run deep beneath stuff. Michael Rips\u2019s memoir The Golden Flea<\/em><\/a> chronicles both the author\u2019s lifelong pursuit of oddities and the disappearance of New York\u2019s flea subculture into the anecdotal past (the Chelsea flea market on Twenty-Fifth Street, the last bastion of the once-glorious economy described in The<\/em> Golden <\/em>Flea<\/em>, closed this year). Allan Gurganus\u2019s recent story in The New Yorker<\/em>, \u201cThe Wish for a Good Young Country Doctor<\/a>,\u201d is a nested narrative, a story of an old portrait as told by a junk-shop owner to a graduate student whose academic specialty is collecting. The narratives of the painting\u2019s subject and the student\u2019s bid to possess the painting unspool alongside each another. As the modern person\u2019s general interest in stuff wanes, both Rips and Gurganus are invaluable shopkeepers, telling us the story of something old in hopes we may pick it up and take it home.\u00a0\u2014Lauren Kane\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

If the month of May has brought one good thing, it\u2019s a new season of At Home with Amy Sedaris<\/em><\/a>. Sedaris\u2019s idiosyncratic caricature of a homemaker\u2019s talk show is, if anything, hard to describe. It\u2019s like an early-aughts Food Network series injected with a heavy dose of slapstick. Each episode has a theme, such as dinner guests, holidays, or book club meetings. The theme of this week\u2019s episode\u2014a bit more preposterous\u2014is childbearing. The fictional local actor Russell Schnabble (John Early) turns a craft room into a nursery, and Amy makes a haphazard mobile with rusty nails collected from the yard. But when Amy tries on maternity clothes with a fake belly, things start to go awry. I won\u2019t give away much more, but I will say it involves a hysterical pregnancy. Despite the frequent gags and overall uncanniness, Sedaris\u2019s show has its basis in reality. It\u2019s set in the imagined \u201cResearch Triangle\u201d area, a tight-knit Southern community not unlike the North Carolina suburb where the Sedaris children grew up. A regular cast of neighbors visits Amy as if she were Mr. Rogers, my favorite being Chassie Tucker, played by the incomparable Cole Escola. He is a stand-out comedian in his own right and a delight to see grace the screen. At Home with Amy Sedaris<\/em> has always permitted me to embrace my homebody sensibilities. But now, in confinement, Amy\u2019s absurdist take on domestic life feels even more relatable. \u2014Elinor Hitt<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Brad Fox.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been finding it difficult to focus on novels lately, but Brad Fox\u2019s To Remain Nameless<\/em><\/a> is a happy exception\u2014a perfect quarantine read in many ways, though it\u2019s more than that. Tess\u2014a veteran humanitarian aid worker from Kansas with skinny limbs, a rough childhood, and, one imagines, a thousand-yard stare\u2014spends a night in a New York hospital room with her old buddy Laura, a fellow humanitarian who has left the field and is having a baby. Tess fetches ice and presses Laura\u2019s hips while Laura screams; in between, Tess recalls the years they worked together in the Balkans, Cairo, and Istanbul. As Tess drifts from country to country, past to present, expatriate scene to expatriate scene, the language is terse yet urgent, with bright glimmers of beauty. It\u2019s the language of crisis, tuned to the story it tells: After years of wandering the world and considering it home, after dedicating her life to a field centered on helping humans for humans\u2019 sake while witnessing the world grow ever more violent, Tess in the maternity ward suspects that humans are the problem. \u201cWe should all drop dead,\u201d she thinks, rubbing her pregnant friend\u2019s back. \u201cIt would be the best thing that could happen.\u201d No! But the sentiment isn\u2019t totally unfamiliar to those of us who have grown up watching humans destroy each other and our coearthlings, the mishandling of COVID<\/small>-19 just the latest manifestation of an omnipresent horror. Wading through the years with Tess, searching alongside her for a sense of worth and purpose amid memories of different gigs, parties, languages, apartments, and friendships, is just the sort of literary companionship I want these days. Along with my novel-concentration issue, I have trouble focusing on video calls, but I\u2019m looking forward to Fox\u2019s conversation<\/a> with Wayne Koestenbaum in a McNally Jackson Zoom room on Monday. \u2014Jane Breakell<\/strong><\/p>\n

Many of the poems found in Whale and Vapor<\/em><\/a>\u2014a new collection by the Korean poet Kim Kyung Ju, translated by Jake Levine and published by Black Ocean\u2014deal with the eternal themes of either love or poetry itself. \u201cAmong my thousands of names\u2009\/\u2009my saddest name\u2009\/\u2009is you,\u201d goes the first stanza of \u201cLet Me In\u201d; \u201cPoet Blood\u201d declares that \u201cthe poet\u2019s role is to play breath.\u201d Sometimes the subject matters are even combined, like in \u201cContemporary Literature,\u201d which begins, \u201cI try to think about my love\u2019s reaction and\u2009\/\u2009the side effect you have of disappearing.\u201d In their thematic repetition, these poems remind me of watercolor paintings, thin washes of color that, when layered, turn opaque. A painter even figures in one of the poems, \u201cCave Story,\u201d which asks how exactly one can convey the artist\u2019s vision in a work of art. I don\u2019t know the answer to that, but in Whale and Vapor<\/em>, Kim successfully creates a world of lyric intimacy.\u00a0\u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

The Atlantic<\/em> released Floodlines<\/em><\/a>, an eight-episode podcast, this March. That was two months ago\u2014fifteen years after its ostensible subject, Hurricane Katrina, and amid a particularly strange moment in our current crisis, before the worst of things happened but still too late. But the show turned out to be strangely well timed. For one thing, it provided an escape valve that I desperately needed from reading and hearing and thinking and worrying constantly about the coronavirus. For another, and more important, Floodlines<\/em> is a blunt reminder that the term natural disaster<\/em> is a particularly disingenuous gloss. These things\u2014hurricanes, earthquakes, droughts, pandemics\u2014are certainly at some level random, but not much about them is. Who is prepared and who is vulnerable, who is protected and who is abandoned, who receives help and who does not, who suffers, who lives, who dies: much of that is set beforehand. In this country in particular, those fault lines are increasingly plain to see; equally plain to see are the odds that whatever lessons we should learn from this pandemic will be as lost as those we have already had so many terrible opportunities to learn. \u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Vann R. Newkirk II, host of the podcast Floodlines<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads, watches, listens to, and thinks about stuff.<\/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-145259","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Slapstick, Stanzas, and Stuff by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads, watches, listens to, and thinks about stuff.\" \/>\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\/05\/22\/staff-picks-slapstick-stanzas-and-stuff\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" 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