{"id":150563,"date":"2021-01-29T15:29:36","date_gmt":"2021-01-29T20:29:36","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=150563"},"modified":"2021-01-29T17:56:42","modified_gmt":"2021-01-29T22:56:42","slug":"staff-picks-gardens-glasgow-and-graves","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/01\/29\/staff-picks-gardens-glasgow-and-graves\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Gardens, Glasgow, and Graves"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Still from Kentucky Route Zero<\/em>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Kentucky Route Zero<\/em><\/a> is haunted in the same way America is haunted. In this five-act play of a video game, the characters Conway and Shannon and their bizarre companions amble back and forth, around and through the real and unreal roads and rivers of rural Kentucky. Everyone has a goal of some sort\u2014delivering one last antique, finding a new workshop, reaching another gig\u2014but all of it folds into the layers of this dreamscape underworld. Just as so many Latin American writers took inspiration from Faulkner, the Southern Gothic of Kentucky Route Zero<\/em> takes inspiration right back from the magic realism of Garc\u00eda M\u00e1rquez and the pointed political artistry of Neruda. The hopeful folk songs of miners punctuate Kentucky\u2019s caves and forests as their ghosts come out to perform again, long past their deaths at the hands of corporate greed and negligence. Artists and blue-collar workers alike become trapped by exploitative debts that never stop following them. At the heart of Kentucky Route Zero<\/em> is the mounting fear that these specters are not from the past or even the present but exist eternally. There never were good old days because America\u2019s been stuck in the same cycle since its inception. Any memory of this land is phantom-ridden and cyclical; as Conway says at one point, \u201cI can\u2019t look at anything without remembering something else, and then that reminds me of something else<\/em>, and\u2014I\u2019m buried in it.\u201d In another scene, a minor character asks, as they\u2019re digging a grave: \u201cJust what are we burying here, anyway? Is it them, or us? Or some mix of both.\u201d Kentucky Route Zero<\/em> argues that in a sense, we all haunt America. Our debts, fears, and memories hang over others and this nation as much as they hang over us. No single change will exorcise the land, but perhaps by seeking out little slices of beauty where we can find them\u2014little slices of togetherness\u2014we can learn to live with the ghosts and respect them, for they are no different from us. \u2014Carlos Zayas-Pons\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

My seven years in South Louisiana gave me an earful of music and a bellyful of food. I miss those parts of Louisiana always, but particularly during carnival season. In prepandemic, post-Louisiana times, I did what I could to get my fix. Two springs ago, my boyfriend\u2019s friend\u2019s friend shipped live crawfish to Brooklyn for a boil. Reader, I was the third attendee to arrive. I\u2019ve sought out\u2014and found\u2014real andouille in Manhattan (served wafer-thin at Birdland) and tasted many New York City beignets\u2014none met the standard set by Baton Rouge\u2019s Coffee Call. But as this strange COVID<\/small> carnival gets under way (Mardi Gras this year is on February 16), I do what I can to celebrate the season safely. Last week, USPS delivered a box of beads, a purple-and-green feather boa, and a box of king cake mix (baby included) from a friend who knew I\u2019d be missing Louisiana right about now. The Venn diagram of pandemic beans and Monday red beans and rice overlaps nicely. And over the weekend, we put on WBRH<\/a>, Baton Rouge Magnet High School\u2019s public radio station. Dweeby as it sounds (and there are some adorable high school DJs on air midafternoon), the station\u2019s Saturday music lineup is just what I need. Dancing \u2019round the sofa isn\u2019t quite following a second line down the street, but it\u2019s cheering all the same. \u2014Emily Nemens<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Douglas Stuart. Photo: Martyn Pickersgill.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Sometimes it feels like every new novel these days is interested primarily in the concerns of the upper middle classes, their exploits and their triumphs. Thank God, then, for books like Douglas Stuart\u2019s Shuggie Bain<\/em><\/a>, which transports the reader to eighties Glasgow and follows the difficult childhood of its title character as he grows up gay and working class with an alcoholic parent. Like many alcoholics, Shuggie\u2019s mother, Agnes, is both charismatic and brutal, capable of making her loved ones feel like the most special people in the room while simultaneously forcing them to care for her and witness the slow suicide that is her addiction. Stuart is adept at portraying the power politics of both Glasgow, with its sectarian divides, and the world at large: a scene involving Shuggie\u2019s elder sister\u2019s impending move to apartheid-era South Africa illustrates how easy it can be for the oppressed to become the oppressors. And at the center of it all is Agnes: beautiful, funny, and capable of extraordinary interpersonal violence, doomed to repeat the cycle of her addiction on every page, save for \u201cone good year,\u201d as Shuggie heartbreakingly terms it. By its end, Shuggie Bain<\/em> is a book about power: who has it, what it takes to get it, and how a lack of it will destroy a person just as much as an excess.\u00a0\u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/strong><\/p>\n

There are books you breeze through, books you dip into, books you devour, books you handle with care; Anushka Jasraj<\/a>\u2019s Principles of Prediction<\/em>, a collection of stories currently available only in India, is the last. This sentence, in \u201cCircus,\u201d forced me to put the book away for an entire evening before I could go back to it: \u201cLanguage is a rigged carnival game where the hoops are too small to fit around any of the prizes.\u201d There is something eerie and prescient, and deeply discomfiting, about how Jasraj captures distance, disconnection, the breakdown of something so fundamental it is hard to put a word to; characters fail to reach each other or even to really reach themselves and generally seem not entirely certain they actually want to do so\u2014because who knows what they will find there? If story, in general, is an attempt to create meaning and to communicate it\u2014because a story is not a story until it is told\u2014these powerful, precise stories are a look at what happens when you can no longer make that effort. \u2014Hasan Altaf<\/strong><\/p>\n

It seems almost impossible that the opening poem of Khadijah Queen\u2019s Anodyne<\/em><\/a>, titled \u201cIn the Event of an Apocalypse, Be Ready to Die,\u201d was written years ago rather than right now, on the occasion of this attenuated world ending, but it was. The book greets us with a prescient warning, readying us for a world \u201ctransformed but not really transformed\u201d\u2014but still, \u201cremember galleries, gardens,\u2009\/\u2009herbaria. Repositories of beauty now\u2009\/\u2009ruin.\u201d The whole collection progresses in iterations of this: transformations in which the world, then the body, feel untenable, but small things emerge to feed our hopes nonetheless. \u201cFoolish I know,\u201d Queen declares, \u201cto try so many times\u2009\/\u2009after spectacular failure,\u201d and yet she walks this line of mournfulness and hope so expertly that she invites you to attempt it, too. And I cannot fathom that \u201cThe World Tells You Not to Expect the World\u201d was written long before I encountered it, at this exact phase of life in which I need it, though the poem feels almost extemporaneous as it comes up from the page to say: \u201cdo it anyway\u2014be made, all\u2009\/\u2009out of love.\u201d Every poem in Anodyne<\/em> reminds me what a poem can do, what a poem should do, in how it gets to the details of personhood by attending so gorgeously to the details of the world. There are no empty sentiments; every permission to accept tenderness is hard earned. And there is no shying away from harshness when conjuring beauty or cultivating hope. \u201cHow we fail is how we continue,\u201d Queen says. And we continue. \u2014Langa Chinyoka<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Khadijah Queen. Photo: Michael Teak.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 dispels any notions of the good old days, reads \u2018Shuggie Bain,\u2019 and marvels at the prescience of Khadijah Queen.<\/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-150563","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Gardens, Glasgow, and Graves by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"This week, the staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 dispels any notions of the good old days, reads \u2018Shuggie Bain,\u2019 and marvels at the prescience of Khadijah Queen.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link 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