{"id":149209,"date":"2020-11-20T15:03:35","date_gmt":"2020-11-20T20:03:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=149209"},"modified":"2020-11-22T12:45:38","modified_gmt":"2020-11-22T17:45:38","slug":"staff-picks-mammoths-magazines-and-mysterious-marks","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2020\/11\/20\/staff-picks-mammoths-magazines-and-mysterious-marks\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Mammoths, Magazines, and Mysterious Marks"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_149244\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/joao.png\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-149244\" class=\"wp-image-149244 size-full\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/joao.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"667\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/joao.png 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/joao-300x200.png 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/joao-768x512.png 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-149244\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jo\u00e3o Gilberto Noll. Photo courtesy of Nectar Literary.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>This past week, when my roommate asked me about the plot of the Jo\u00e3o Gilberto Noll novel I was reading, <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9781949641059\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>Harmada<\/em><\/a>, I struggled to even begin. \u201cA man wakes up in the muck and encounters a child. He spits on the child\u2019s wound to cure it, then walks away, eventually happening upon a play featuring two actresses. Then he has a threesome with the actresses, which eventually turns into a foursome with the company\u2019s director, and by the way, one of the actresses is a single mother and has a baby, don\u2019t forget. Then the man is in some kind of asylum or halfway house, remembering his life before, when he was a director and his wife abandoned him after he proved to be infertile. Then this baby, who\u2019s now a teenage girl, is also there, and he helps her become the most famous actress in the city of Harmada. Eventually there\u2019s a celebration, and I think this all might be a metaphor for the creative process and also Brazil, but maybe not \u2026\u2009\u201d I\u2019m still not entirely sure, but what I do know is that <em>Harmada<\/em>, translated from the Portuguese by Edgar Garbelotto, made me laugh out loud as much as it perplexed me, its boisterous absurdity and dreamlike logic making for a delightful way to spend an afternoon. <strong>\u2014Rhian Sasseen\u00a0<\/strong><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>There is a wide variety of work in \u201c<a href=\"https:\/\/seankelly-viewingroom.exhibit-e.art\/viewing-room\/shahzia-sikander-weeping-willows-liquid-tongues\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Weeping Willows, Liquid Tongues<\/a>,\u201d a show by Shahzia Sikander at Sean Kelly Gallery: massive, rough-edged mosaics; graphite drawings; videos; even a sculpture in bronze, in which a devata modeled on one in the Met balances atop a Venus based on a Bronzino painting. This could have lapsed into chaos, but the works are bound together by the idea of mixture, mingling, boundaries\u2014between places and eras, between languages or media, between people or within them\u2014made porous. One particularly striking work is titled simply <em>X<\/em>, and I\u2019ve looked at it on my computer for hours now, trying to figure it out. The painting is made up of text, neatly printed Urdu (and I think I see some English in the back) written over and over to form a red X on smoky black, the words legible in places but lost in others. The shape and the colors appear to indicate \u201cstop,\u201d like a warning or something being forbidden, but the separations seem a trick of the eye. So maybe it is another kind of X\u2014strips of tape holding something together, or bandages, or perhaps the X that marks the spot. The text, a quote from Ghalib, points in that direction: \u201cIf the divine lives within earthly instruments and the music they produce, where is then the locus of divinity?\u201d <strong>\u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_149246\" style=\"width: 1010px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/cesar-aira_select_3784.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-149246\" class=\"size-full wp-image-149246\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/cesar-aira_select_3784.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"750\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/cesar-aira_select_3784.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/cesar-aira_select_3784-300x225.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/cesar-aira_select_3784-768x576.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-149246\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">C\u00e9sar Aira. Photo: Nina Subin. Courtesy of New Directions.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>This week I took a look at Katherine Silver\u2019s translation of C\u00e9sar Aira\u2019s <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9780811229265\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>Artforum<\/em><\/a>, which immediately enchanted me with its farcical combination of comically obsessive narrator and hyperfixation on the mundanity of things. Most of the chapters concern themselves with one man\u2019s religious, relentless search for new issues of the titular art magazine or his anxieties as he irrationally hopes for missing issues to arrive at his doorstep after many months\u2019 postal delay. In between, Aira sprinkles a few equally comical short stories about other objects\u2014like coins and clothespins\u2014and the forms and meanings they take on through personal or societal perceptions. Ultimately, what are these objects but tools? And what is <em>Artforum<\/em> (the magazine) but a simulacrum of art? But perhaps they are art as well? This novella leaves a lot of these theoretical questions unanswered, but they\u2019re all enriched by Silver\u2019s wonderful, tongue-in-cheek translation. <strong>\u2014Carlos Zayas-Pons<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>The pile of books designated \u201cread next\u201d is reaching precarious heights at my bedside, scaling up the wall, a thin mosaic of pink, blue, yellow, and white, hardcovers and paperbacks alike. New additions arrive frequently, and the unread from months ago remain, a catalogue of things I almost had time for taunting me in semi-chronological order, saying, Remember April? September? June? Hovering at the top these days, however, is a mammoth volume of <a href=\"https:\/\/bookshop.org\/a\/1531\/9780679764038\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">the collected stories of William Faulkner<\/a>, which I\u2019ve been parsing my way through for, admittedly, years. But I\u2019m coming back to it more earnestly now, more intentionally. Between the few finished books that make it off my bedside and onto the bookshelf, I come back to the dense latticework of Faulkner\u2019s prose. There\u2019s not much to be said about Faulkner that doesn\u2019t feel reiterative and not much praise I could give that Faulkner didn\u2019t give himself, but reading his stories is a practice in patience that I appreciate. When I finally reach the back cover\u2014which will be years from now, I\u2019m sure\u2014I see myself starting again. And if I don\u2019t, I\u2019ll likely try a similar exercise in slowness. Usually one to barrel through books in the middle of the night, sacrificing sleep and sense, I\u2019m glad I pulled out the book from the bottom of the pile, where it had lain almost abandoned, earlier this summer. Being forced to savor each sentence and watching my postcard-turned-bookmark slowly make its way closer to the last page are small joys, but they delineate the days a little, and I savor that feeling, too. <strong>\u2014Langa Chinyoka<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>Returning home for the holidays (somewhat early this year) also means returning to familiar bookshelves. A few books glare at me, a reminder that I placed them there last winter and have yet to read them. Most of them, however, are in their usual, comfortable spots, and these make the best company. Late last night or early this morning (interminable jet lag), I took one down and sat with it for a while. It was <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/interviews\/3379\/the-art-of-poetry-no-24-peter-levi\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Peter Levi<\/a>\u2019s debut collection, <a href=\"https:\/\/www.abaa.org\/book\/1248123886\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\"><em>The Gravel Ponds<\/em><\/a>, from 1960<em>. <\/em>I wanted to find a poem I\u2019d remembered, one in which a narrator reflects on an imagined apocalypse. (Apocalypse stuff is a bit of a draw these days.) The poem opens: \u201cThree counties blacken and vanish,\u2009\/\u2009rivers run unlighted and silent,\u2009\/\u2009lamp by lamp of the city came, went,\u2009\/\u2009into the utter dark, which was my wish.\u201d Ah, and here\u2019s the line I was looking for: \u201cLeaves fall. Blood runs cold in the wrist.\u201d I hadn\u2019t remembered it was the last line\u2014an odd thing to forget. And here\u2019s another misremembered thing: I had thought the title was some riff on <em>guillotine<\/em>, but no, it\u2019s \u201cL\u2019Aurore Grelottante,\u201d or \u201cThe Shivering Dawn.\u201d Which clearly illustrates that I never understood this poem at all, because despite the malevolent speaker visualizing the destruction of everything he sees, <em>dawn is coming<\/em>. Despite that in his \u201cscarred thought this city\u2009\/\u2009burns to ruin under the visiting air,\u201d <em>dawn is coming<\/em>. Whether he likes it or not. Yes, given the state of the world right now, that seems worth remembering. And what\u2019s more, the poem was <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/poetry\/4753\/laurore-grelottante-peter-levi-sj\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">first published<\/a> in <em>The Paris Review. <\/em>Worth remembering, too.\u00a0<strong>\u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/pete.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"aligncenter size-full wp-image-149247\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/pete.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1000\" height=\"733\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/pete.jpg 1000w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/pete-300x220.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2020\/11\/pete-768x563.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads C\u00e9sar Aira, stares at Shahzia Sikander\u2019s \u2018X,\u2019 and watches the pile of bedside books climb ever higher.<\/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":[67827],"class_list":["post-149209","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Staff Picks: Mammoths, Magazines, and Mysterious Marks by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 reads C\u00e9sar Aira, stares at Shahzia 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