{"id":151273,"date":"2021-03-05T16:09:49","date_gmt":"2021-03-05T21:09:49","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=151273"},"modified":"2021-03-05T16:37:53","modified_gmt":"2021-03-05T21:37:53","slug":"staff-picks-raisins-rhythm-and-reality","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2021\/03\/05\/staff-picks-raisins-rhythm-and-reality\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Raisins, Rhythm, and Reality"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Allan Gurganus. Photo: \u00a9 Roger Haile. Courtesy of W.\u2009W. Norton.<\/p><\/div>\n

In his Art of Fiction interview<\/a>, Allan Gurganus preaches the power of the sentence. But for me, the real satisfaction to be had from the newly released Uncollected Stories of Allan Gurganus<\/em><\/a> comes from the layers: a shrewd grad student\u2019s thrifting trip becomes the story of a portrait<\/a>, which is actually the story of a tragic moment in a small town\u2019s history; a local news report becomes a firsthand account of the incident told by a police officer to his tape recorder. (In fact, local news reporters are more than once a way of getting into a story; they act as a kind of chorus for small-town America.) Gurganus\u2019s Uncollected Stories<\/em> is lean, nine extended narratives often broken up by Roman numerals. He is unafraid of the darkness deep inside his characters. These are tales that left me feeling unsettled and newly aware of strangers I encountered, the likely mysteries in their lives\u2014and yes, in awe of excellent sentences. \u2014Lauren Kane\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

Why are the three musicians who make up the jazz group Thumbscrew so wonderful together? It\u2019s almost as if they shouldn\u2019t be\u2014each has such a distinctive sound on their instrument and such a unique musical sensibility. The band\u2019s guitarist, Mary Halvorson, is all prickles and edges and sharp, sudden turns; the bassist, Michael Formanek, plays somewhere between gloopy and ghostly; the drummer, Tomas Fujiwara, is a wonky miasma of rhythmic hailstones. They are all gluttons for rhythm, for finding all its nooks and crannies. Never Is Enough<\/em><\/a> is their sixth album as a collective, and I think it\u2019s their best yet. Recorded and composed during an extended residency at Pittsburgh\u2019s City of Asylum, this is a tight series of new compositions by a band that is now deeply in sync. The trio breezes and bangs through songs that bubble and squawk and shriek and slide over and around their boundaries. This is aggressive, rock-facing jazz, but it\u2019s not the kind of music that makes you want to cover your ears from the inside\u2014it manages to be heavy, intellectually stimulating, and relaxing all at the same time. Plus, the vinyl version comes with a little live EP on the fourth side. \u2014Craig Morgan Teicher<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Terry Waite. Photo: James Gifford-Mead. CC BY-SA 4.0, (https:\/\/creativecommons.org\/licenses\/by-sa\/4.0), via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

Terry Waite was released in November 1991. He had been held hostage in solitary confinement in Beirut for 1,763 days, and his release dominated the news in Britain to such a degree that even eight-year-old boys like me couldn\u2019t help but take notice. His name and face, and particularly that image of him waving from the door of an airplane when he arrived home, were familiar to everyone, and deference to this unassuming man became part of my generation\u2019s cultural inheritance. Growing up, I often saw the best-selling account of his imprisonment, Taken on Trust<\/em><\/a>, on bookshelves back home, though I never read it. Something about this pandemic brought him to mind, however, and I found myself ordering it one lazy afternoon. Last weekend, the book arrived on my doorstep, and I\u2019ve barely left my comfy chair since. It\u2019s a remarkable story, though distressing, of course. Waite had been in Lebanon to negotiate the release of other prisoners and in the process was taken hostage himself. Taken on Trust<\/em>, it seems, was written in his head while he was in prison\u2014a remarkable literary achievement\u2014and the scenes alternate between memories of his previous life and his years in captivity. It\u2019s a testament to his skill as a writer that the everyday scenes never feel like they\u2019re getting in the way of the main event, and there are many moments of quiet poignance in both of these disparate parts of his life. He resists entirely the temptation to sensationalize. Reading Taken on Trust<\/em>, I\u2019m reminded of Lionel Trilling\u2019s statement on Orwell: \u201cHe communicates to us the sense that what he has done, any of us could do.\u201d But this, of course, is merely an act of generosity on Waite\u2019s part: most of us would not be able to endure as he did. And very few of us, when first stepping back onto home soil, would still be possessed of the good manners to thank the assembled crowd for having braved the drizzle on that soggy English day. Gosh, what a thoroughly decent fellow he seems to be. \u2014Robin Jones<\/strong><\/p>\n

This week, I\u2019ve been reading Jenny Hval\u2019s Girls against God<\/em><\/a>, translated from the Norwegian by Marjam Idriss. It\u2019s a strange book, and I can\u2019t quite pin it down. Witchcraft, girl bands, and black metal abound. On one page, it\u2019s a diatribe against small-town life in southern Norway; the next, it\u2019s a criticism of canonical practices in high art. Is it horror? A surreal dreamscape? A feminist manifesto on art and culture? All of the above. The book knows no bounds\u2014in subject matter, genre, or possibility. It moves in and out of time, between the real and surreal. Hval seeks to dispel divisions, collapse binaries, and make space for something new. To nullify the reader-writer divide, the narrator turns and addresses us directly. She calls us in: \u201cDon\u2019t try to follow me,\u201d she says, \u201cjust close your eyes.\u201d I don\u2019t try to follow. I\u2019m just along for the ride, trailing Hval\u2019s various whims as she pokes and prods me onward. I keep reading and wait to see where we end up. \u2014Mira Braneck<\/strong><\/p>\n

Raisin meditation is a mindfulness practice in which the practitioner eats a single raisin, essentially, but not before examining the raisin\u2019s every conceivable aspect\u2014its little raisin ridges, its rich raisin history, its aromatics, its weight, its raison d\u2019\u00eatre! The result is often a greater understanding and appreciation of the subject, followed by, after much practice, a heightened awareness of life\u2019s other overlooked details. Such has been my experience with The Anatomy of Melancholy<\/em><\/a>, by Robert Burton, who trained his mind not on the sun-dried grape but on gloom, or what we might call depression. First published in the seventeenth century, the book is an exhaustive exploration of melancholy in its many manifestations, causes, and cures as told by Democritus Junior, a speaking persona whose namesake was an early proponent of atomism\u2014the explanation of complex phenomena in terms of a collection of indivisible parts. The navigation of such an atomistic approach requires a kind of wanderer\u2019s spirit, as our speaker admits: \u201cSo that as a river runs sometimes precipitate and swift, then dull and slow; now direct, then per ambages<\/em>; now deep, then shallow; now muddy, then clear; now broad, then narrow; doth my style flow.\u201d My efforts have taken me through nearly a third of Burton\u2019s pages\u2014a thousand or so to go\u2014which is to say I have only just begun to go with the flow, to weave through the book\u2019s rocky raisin valleys, to press against its tender edges, to hold it to the light and appreciate the delicate translucency of its flesh. Never has melancholy seemed so meditative. \u2014Christopher Notarnicola<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Gilbert Jackson, Robert Burton<\/em> (detail), 1635. Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

The staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 peels back the layers of Allan Gurganus\u2019s latest collection, appreciates Terry Waite, and meditates on melancholy.<\/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-151273","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-featured"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Raisins, Rhythm, and Reality by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"The staff of \u2018The Paris Review\u2019 peels back the layers of Allan Gurganus\u2019s latest collection, appreciates Terry Waite, and meditates on melancholy.\" \/>\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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