{"id":156845,"date":"2022-01-20T15:20:33","date_gmt":"2022-01-20T20:20:33","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=156845"},"modified":"2022-03-21T11:47:08","modified_gmt":"2022-03-21T15:47:08","slug":"the-reviews-review-back-to-the-essence","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2022\/01\/20\/the-reviews-review-back-to-the-essence\/","title":{"rendered":"Back to the Essence"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Three-year-old girl riding an Arabian horse. Miragexv at English Wikipedia, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.<\/p><\/div>\n

\u201cThe Bridge 94 (Demo),\u201d by Mobb Deep featuring Big Noyd, went unreleased for twenty years. The fact that you could make something that good and decide not to put it out says everything about Mobb Deep\u2019s seat in the pantheon. The whole thing is a kniving, wintry blast of phonetic artistry, but the last lines are Shakespearean. The rapper is Prodigy, a twenty-year-old Albert Johnson the Fifth (Albert the Third was Albert J. \u201cBudd\u201dJohnson, a major early bebop saxophonist who came out of Dallas and got his break recording with Louis Armstrong in the early thirties). Prodigy will die in his early forties from problems related to sickle-cell anemia, but at the moment he\u2019s talking about his home ground in the vast housing projects of Queens. The song is a warning to would-be intruders or, in Big Noyd\u2019s words, \u201cmotherfucking violators.\u201d In six seconds Prodigy draws an eerie picture of cops surveilling the block: \u201cAs jakes look over the hill, their eyes see nothing but nighttime,\u201d while in the buildings, \u201cdue murders\u201d happen \u201cat an unseen right time.\u201d Whoever is being spoken to fails to listen and gets \u201ctwo to his dome so his last thought is hot.\u201d At that point the story needs to make a pivot from \u201cBe careful or you\u2019ll get killed\u201d to \u201cYou weren\u2019t careful and now I\u2019ve been forced to shoot you.\u201d Prodigy:<\/p>\n

You came as a whole
\nBut you\u2019re leaving
\nIn incomplete pieces
\nAnd didn\u2019t expect to meet Jesus
\nIn your adolescence
\nSending you back to the essence
\nSo you can feel at home
\nAnd safe in God\u2019s presence<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Whole, home. He murders you, and he blesses you. Even in the act of taking your young life, he retains the power to confer his blessing on you, and gives it. That\u2019s how far above petty bullshit he\u2019s hovering. Chills. \u2014John Jeremiah Sullivan
\n<\/b><\/p>\n

While reading Hannah Regel\u2019s Oliver Reed<\/em><\/a>, I remembered that Sylvia Plath poem \u201cDaddy<\/a>,\u201d in which she explains how her father\u2014or maybe, every father\u2014is like a Nazi, and, in a way, how hot that is. Famously, \u201cEvery woman adores a Fascist \/ The boot in the face, the brute \/ Brute heart of a brute like you.\u201d (It\u2019s an amazing poem because it\u2019s such an obvious one.) Like Plath\u2019s \u201cAriel,\u201d the poem that titles the posthumous collection in which \u201cDaddy\u201d first appeared in 1965, Oliver Reed<\/em> is poetry about girls and horses. Girls like Sylvia Plath love horses, and Regel points out how they are like<\/em> horses: pretty, glossy, usually submissive\u2014though sometimes not\u2014and totally disgusting. Like its central conceit, Oliver Reed<\/em> is clever, darkly funny, and always shifting between shapes; its language is composed, among other things, of a collage of imaginary cinematic scenes starring, for instance, Sarah Jessica Parker and interviews with famous men. The collection is divided into sections, the titles of which seem to imply a kind of protagonist: \u201cSorry Gets Hooved,\u201d and \u201cSorry is a Girl, Grown Up.\u201d Brilliantly, Regel transmutates that most feminine of linguistic gestures or reflexes into a name and a character. Sorry learns about \u201cthe furnished dream of a hip bone \/ softly concave under pale jeans.\u201d Sorry drinks glittery apple cider vinegar. Sorry reminds me of the \u201cpale blogs\u201d that first introduced me to Sylvia Plath, most of which are now banned from Tumblr for depicting underweight, underage girls in knee socks baring pale pink lines striating their thin white wrists, and generally banned from polite culture for promoting aesthetics and ideas that are simultaneously dangerous and self-indulgent. Sorry, I think, much like pale bloggers and horse girls, would be perceived as an annoying kind of girl, especially in 2022. Girls are so annoying when they apologize too much. I am sure \u201cMen\u201d have told her she does not need to say sorry, but Sorry keeps saying it and saying it\u2014and keeps drinking vinegar, even though, obviously, she\u2019s skinny enough, and just won\u2019t stop apologizing for it, and just keeps on vomiting glitter, on her red, knee-socked knees.<\/p>\n

The blurbs describe Regel\u2019s poems as \u201cdiscomforting,\u201d and their subject as the \u201call too familiar subjugation of women.\u201d If they are discomforting, it is because, in 2022, women\u2019s subjugation, especially poetry about it, is \u201call too familiar\u201d\u2014like beating a dead horse, perhaps \u2014and maybe it\u2019s all a bit too much to hear? But Sorry just will not stop saying her name. Oliver Reed <\/em>is an insistent refrain recalling what we\u2019re told in Jeffrey Eugenides\u2019s The <\/em>Virgin Suicides<\/em>: it really is very sad, strange, and specific to be a girl\u2014which is also, as we know from Sofia Coppola\u2019s adaption, why it is so awesome. Regel writes the thin edge between both sides of that coin. \u201cWhat happens,\u201d she says, following a scene of a horse being butchered in front of Jennifer Lopez, \u201cis as secret as lip gloss.\u201d<\/p>\n

Regel cuts sharply from image to image, and her syntax is tight and brutal, somehow constrained; a grammar for girls. It is a pleasure to read. If horse girls are disgusting, it\u2019s mostly because of how much they like being like horses\u2014how much, like Plath, they adore \u201cthe boot in the face\u201d\u2014and how much they read, talk, and write about it. Sorry actually seems to be having a lot of fun hating herself. Between and through the lines of her stylish sentences, Regel materializes an awful, sorrowful need, but also a cold and perverse satisfaction.<\/p>\n

From \u201cSorry Leaves the Boat,\u201d in which each of these lines appears on its own page:<\/p>\n

I walk with my errors
\nTight like little arm bands
\nAlong the plank
\nAs my pigtails swing
\nIn the loop of an apology
\nAs I downward
\nMy best impression of a sucked thumb
\nHotness is a miserly place to wait for it
\nI\u2019ll show you owning a face
\nReally own one.<\/p>\n

\u2014Olivia Kan-Sperling<\/strong><\/p>\n

If you ever watched that sci-fi series Battlestar Galactica<\/i> that was popular in the early 2000s and found yourself wanting just a bit more beauty in its depictions of sentient robots acting out against their human creators, then Olga Ravn\u2019s The Employees<\/i><\/a> is for you. Translated from the Danish by Martin Aitken and forthcoming next month from New Directions, Ravn\u2019s novel takes the form of employee statements gathered from the human and humanoid crew of the Six-Thousand Ship, who are gathering samples from the planet New Discovery following some kind of crisis on Earth. The statements range from the poetic (\u201cI dream that I’m cooking my dress\u201d) to the poignant (\u201cthe child hologram has without a doubt helped stabilize me as an employee here\u201d). As mutiny and the threat of violence become a danger, these statements become increasingly heartbreaking, as the language of bureaucracy breaks down and the question of what it means to be a human\u2014rather than facsimile of one\u2014takes precedence. \u2014Rhian Sasseen<\/b><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

We review lyrics by Prodigy, horse girl poetry, and robot sentience.<\/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":[68386],"tags":[67827,23892,68342,1577,68341,5245,165,5692,200,883,2704],"class_list":["post-156845","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-the-reviews-review","tag-featured","tag-feminist","tag-hannah-regel","tag-john-jeremiah-sullivan","tag-montez-press","tag-new-directions","tag-poetry","tag-rap","tag-science-fiction","tag-staff-picks","tag-sylvia-plath"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nBack to the Essence by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"January 20, 2022 \u2013 We review lyrics by Prodigy, horse girl poetry, and robot sentience.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" 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