{"id":150444,"date":"2021-01-22T14:05:00","date_gmt":"2021-01-22T19:05:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=150444"},"modified":"2021-01-22T14:45:31","modified_gmt":"2021-01-22T19:45:31","slug":"staff-picks-land-mines-laugh-tracks-and-ladies-in-satin","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/01\/22\/staff-picks-land-mines-laugh-tracks-and-ladies-in-satin\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Land Mines, Laugh Tracks, and Ladies in Satin"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Joan Didion. Photo: Brigitte Lacombe.<\/p><\/div>\n

Joan Didion\u2019s Let Me Tell You What I Mean<\/em><\/a> had me from the title: words can be hair-trigger things, to deploy them is to find oneself surrounded somehow by land mines, and despite the best of efforts and intentions, what one meant<\/em> seems almost never to come through cleanly. So how does Joan Didion do it? Her words are still weapons, but the diamond-encrusted kind, as beautiful as they are deadly, and, more important, they are entirely at her command. Let Me Tell You What I Mean<\/em>, a collection of essays spanning essentially the last third of the twentieth century, is a tiny jewel box of a book, and you could read it for the prose alone\u2014no one places a so<\/em> like Joan Didion\u2014but the real magic is that she pulls it off: she tells you what she means, and every injury is on purpose. There is a generosity to that, I think, and it feels like a gift just to understand what someone else meant even if one cannot hope to return the favor. \u2014Hasan Altaf\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Saturday Night Clive<\/em> was a TV show that aired in the UK in the late eighties. Each week, for an hour or so, the presenter played short video clips, introduced out of context to make whoever was on-screen look like a bit of an idiot. The format was, even then, pretty tired. There was a laugh track, and there were also, I think, scripted interviews\u2014some were sort of serious, but most were played for laughs. It wasn\u2019t a good show, though in those days there were only four TV channels, so a show didn\u2019t need to be good for it to be part of your Saturday night and the cultural background of your childhood. The Clive of the show\u2019s title, however, is the talented poet, gifted memoirist, respected literary critic, and kind-of-annoying broadcaster Clive James, and this was my introduction to him. I\u2019m sure this was the case for most of my generation. And so growing up, I never really thought to read his books. It wasn\u2019t until 2011, when James\u2019s health first started to fail\u2014and the newspapers started to write nice things about him\u2014that I became aware of him as a literary figure. James died in 2019, but I\u2019m glad I got to read bits of his work while he was still alive, especially his later poems. It was good to know that he was still writing, and still trying to work out life and his relationships, while you were reading that later stuff. Last weekend, though, I read about James\u2019s early years in Unreliable Memoirs<\/em><\/a>, his account of growing up in Australia. As a kid, he sounds like a nightmare, but James is a wonderful teller of stories and a hilarious observer of the solipsism of childhood. I should have read it sooner, of course, but I was bemused when I first encountered him. His loving though long-suffering mother, it seems, felt likewise. \u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Alexander Lernet-Holenia. Photo: United States Information Agency. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Count Luna<\/em><\/a>, the 1955 novel by Alexander Lernet-Holenia (translated from the German in 1956 by Jane B. Greene and recently reissued by New Directions), begins with a man named Alexander Jessiersky disappearing into Roman catacombs, on the search for two priests and on the run from the law. The second chapter picks up with Jessiersky\u2019s nobleman ancestor losing his title to the Austrian Empire\u2019s reclamation of East Galicia in the early nineteenth century. The paternal lineage tying the two together reveals all the emotional inheritance that leads to Jessiersky\u2019s inadvertent role in sending a man named Count Luna to a Nazi concentration camp. Count Luna becomes an obsession for Jessiersky (who believes the Count still alive), driving him to dark corners of the mind and the countryside, only to end up, yes, in ancient subterranean graves. At turns thrilling, understated, and outright strange, this novel gives in energetic spades a complex, ugly portrait of nobility and power. \u2014Lauren Kane<\/strong><\/p>\n

This week, the sun came out for the first time in four years. So what\u2019s the perfect soundtrack? For me, it\u2019s been M. Ward\u2019s latest record, Think of Spring<\/em><\/a>. This is his second full-length in a year, following the gorgeous Migration Stories<\/em>, which features a full band and lots of studio fanciness. Think of Spring<\/em> is a solo affair, just Ward and his acoustic plus some hardly noticeable overdubbing for texture, all of it recorded at home during the pandemic on a TASCAM<\/small> four-track. It\u2019s also a covers album, Ward\u2019s version of Billie Holiday\u2019s classic Lady in Satin<\/em>. These are familiar jazz standards, though you likely won\u2019t recognize them\u2014Ward has given each tune a new country twang, flattening the melodies and substituting his fingerpicking for Holiday\u2019s orchestral backing. Think of Spring<\/em> is a quiet, mellow record, good for listening to while you stare absentmindedly out the window. Why this album now? Because these songs are all about lost love and the bittersweet joy of remembering; they\u2019re all kinds of ambivalent, pushing and pulling at the heartstrings that Ward plucks so gently. They\u2019re in the same mood as me: grieving and hopeful. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

Mac\u2019s Problem<\/em><\/a>, by Enrique Vila-Matas, came out in Spanish several years ago and appeared in Margaret Jull Costa and Sophie Hughes\u2019s English translation in 2019, but reading it now feels very appropriate. In this strange Groundhog Day<\/em> of a time, wherein each day feels a lot like the last, Mac, with his hair-trigger paranoia and his great enthusiasm, makes for a welcome compatriot. During this January of the pandemic, many of us stay at home all day, perhaps only leaving the house to take the same routes within our neighborhood for essentials. We set goals for ourselves about better futures (New Year\u2019s resolutions, postpandemic plans) and give side-eye to strange characters (where is that person\u2019s mask?!). Enter Mac: Our protagonist has lost his job as a lawyer and so spends all day kicking around the house, making the most of his time in his home office (there is a lot of gazing out the window). He has set about starting a diary (does anyone else\u2019s New Year\u2019s resolution involve better documentation of ideas?) and falls into a rabbit hole of improving his neighbor\u2019s flawed and forgotten early novel. Mac\u2019s routes through his Barcelona neighborhood felt a lot like my own footpaths through Alphabet City. There is even a neighborhood foe, found in a nefarious nephew; side-eye ensues. Perhaps most important, Mac\u2019s indefatigable hope was buoying\u2014it made me ready to bear a bit more of these Groundhog Day<\/em> days. But don\u2019t wait until February 2 to pick up Mac\u2019s Problem<\/em>: you have only until January 31 to get the novel as part of the The Paris Review<\/em>\u2019s subscription bundle with New Directions\u2014available here<\/a>. \u2014Emily Nemens<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Enrique Vila-Matas. Photo courtesy of New Directions.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 side-eyes strange characters, descends into the catacombs, and imagines what\u2019s to come.<\/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-150444","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Land Mines, Laugh Tracks, and Ladies in Satin by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 side-eyes strange characters, descends into the catacombs, and imagines what\u2019s to come.\" \/>\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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