{"id":168524,"date":"2024-09-13T10:00:05","date_gmt":"2024-09-13T14:00:05","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=168524"},"modified":"2024-11-22T13:27:40","modified_gmt":"2024-11-22T18:27:40","slug":"on-nate-lippens","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/","title":{"rendered":"On Nate Lippens"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"

Photograph by Peter VanDerWerf, via Wikimedia Commons<\/a>. Licensed under CC BY 2.0<\/a>.<\/p><\/div>\n

I\u2019ve been reading Nate Lippens for years. I think this is the third time I\u2019ve read My Dead Book<\/em> and I\u2019m finally getting a grip on what kind of machine his writing is. I think it\u2019s a poetic instrument and also some kind of natural phenomena. I went to Joshua Tree one night in the aughts with a gang of people to see the Perseids. I\u2019ve been thinking about that. We had sleeping bags and some people had drinks and their drugs of choice and then we all laid down flat looking up the sky waiting for the show. There wasn\u2019t much. Like almost nothing. There\u2019s one. And then in maybe about seven minutes another. Then another one. And nothing for a while. Then wham and all of the sudden we were screaming, giddy as kids because we were getting inundated with meteors making the sky like this crazy vibing net and we were ancient people animals lying there looking up in naked awe. It was the best. Start to finish I think that\u2019s what Nate Lippens has done. Let me lay it out here. My Dead Book<\/em> starts off with a fairly sentimental recitation, a recollection of one of his dead friends from the past. And then another one. I mean of course I like the way he writes. It\u2019s clean, it\u2019s fairly direct, and conceptually I am reminded of how practical friendship is to a lost child which this narrator definitely is. If you don\u2019t know who you are then you make yourself up with bits and pieces of your friends. And losing them means continually losing yourself who never existed except what you got from them and what\u2019s constant in these evocations and recollections is the trashy elegance, swarming and specific bravado of a collection of souls who are lost and living antithetical to the values of the culture itself. Young rent boys and old rent boys and the people who collect them. We have books of course that are memoirs by particular people living in particular times but My Dead Book<\/em> will have none of that. These are no ones mostly. Self-declared. It\u2019s a midwestern book. Going to New York or LA to trick, even living there for a while but always coming back. Maybe there\u2019s one kind of someone but he doesn\u2019t value that. And it turns out he\u2019s invented. He\u2019s mostly me, Nate said. So we\u2019re on the fringe, the fringe of the fringe. So what we have is loss and a compounding of loss, more and more. People age out, bodies get found in the river. People jump in the river. The cup spilleth over. So what\u2019s the story. It\u2019s a rhythmic trick. Like poetry. Like God is. And a queer one. His narrator tells about Gore Vidal saying that there are no homosexual people, only homosexual acts. So wise in a late-night-talk-show way (and Nate is not from that generation (mine) who stayed up late to see Truman Capote and Oscar Levant and Gore Vidal preen and pontificate on swivel chairs, but he\u2019s entirely of<\/em> it and Oscar Wilde too, definitely the Oscar Wilde of De Profundis<\/em> but funnier) but the joke I want is how our narrator finds that quote funny because Gore<\/em> Vidal<\/em> was such a faggot. Rich as he was and toney and all he nonetheless handed them that joke. He was one of the boys. So he knew he\u2019d be laughed at when he left the room or when the teevee went off for the night. So imagine reality being that place then. So we retreat into language here. Some of the jokes are just quietly squeezing the repetition. Almost with your fingertips. If money weren\u2019t a factor<\/em> somebody, a friend with money, begins a speech. What follows is a very conversational sequence of if-money-weren\u2019t-a-factors but thinky, inside oneself. Which is also one of the main soundstages here. The narrator can\u2019t sleep so he\u2019s prone to long conversations with himself. If money weren\u2019t a factor he asks finally (alone in bed) would we even know each other<\/em>? It\u2019s a quiet laugh followed by further critique of the wealthier friend but he has displayed his sword, his wit so we roll along for the next skein of thoughts. Nate takes huge risks with our capacity to suffer with him. And I like<\/em> being pushed to that edge which is like watching your single mom clean the house and never knowing (it might take forever) when she is going to say something disarmingly filthy or just informative\u2014something you\u2019d never known<\/em> about her before. <\/p>\n

Of his class of boys Nate Lippens tells us:<\/p>\n

We remembered social workers, outreach volunteers, and youth counselors with their advice, programs, groups, condoms, free anonymous screenings, and clean syringes. They trained us to be vigilant. No exceptions. They saved our lives and taught us to trust no one.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

It\u2019s a revelation. These dark comedians were \u201cbuilt\u201d in so many ways. By social programs that saw everything but them. These are the kids who had the shit kicked out of them in school, whose dads beat them up for being fags\u2014Dear Of\ufb01cer Krupke fuck you<\/em>\u2014but gay. The inside strikes back with a ton of young and not-so-young death. Thud, then everyone returning for encores throughout the text while the bodies keep landing on the deck like fish. Thump. And that\u2019s the story.<\/p>\n

There\u2019s no rules when you\u2019re not telling a story but stories. For me that\u2019s the most redemptive thing of all. And because the narrator always loved Shane, perhaps the most recurring burnished tragic figure here, he ends a passage explaining that he wanted to save him with a kind of Diamond<\/em> Dogs<\/em> flourish:<\/p>\n

I pictured us like salamanders, emerging from the \ufb01re with bright iridescent scales.<\/em> Always the \u201cjust before\u201d creates the very swirl of this. I imagine such lines bursting forth from hours of listening to music high for hours, and beauty and excess stepping out to dance just like humor always puts a stop to things and gets us out of the room. As I read My Dead Book<\/em> again I was increasingly in awe at Nate\u2019s timing and intuition. He was a poet first before anything else and you can smell it here. Most machinically, his bits and pieces are generally just a third of a page, a procession of them. This is a book full of asterisks for sure. Just when we\u2019ve hit bottom with a character\u2019s absolute inability to have intimacy with anyone other than his listening friend (and including him) the story races off to consider a world where \u201call the people who called \u2018us\u2019 bitter in the \u201990s are now\u201d\u2014guess!?\u2014\u201cat the Whitney\u2019s David Wojnarowicz exhibit.\u201d Point being they would eat our dead bodies if we were famous. Turned out like this, the despair that floods this book like an abandoned car feels more like everybody\u2019s problem and it is.<\/p>\n

Humor is a kind of disordering, like ten, nine, eight, seven, three! and three tears a hole in your expectation and you crawl out laughing from a trap. Sometimes it\u2019s ta-dum, sometimes a line noodles in like the moment when he\u2019s talking about a show of matchbooks from \u201cnow-defunct gay bars and sex clubs.\u201d His tone slightly shifts maybe lowers before explaining that the show refers to \u201ca time that is an intermittent blinking on some abandoned shore, maybe.\u201d I love the maybe<\/em>. A whole era could be vast as in a movie about it, or infinitesimal like a kind of distant unforgettable light. But honestly it\u2019s almost more than the beauty of the line, its noodling<\/em>, its refusal to be major as another way of honoring what\u2019s past. We were and now we are not. That\u2019s all it means to say. It\u2019s antimonumental. I feel I\u2019m in danger of saying things I\u2019ve said before, swooping Nate\u2019s work into a wave of praise for things I\u2019ve categorized before. If he\u2019s related to that he shines most as the most uncategorizable, a poet of adamantine failure who while he\u2019s experiencing the heft of his own declaration teases himself and us with vows of love, pledges to specific beauties, rages against conformities of comfort in relation to wealth and ideas and who\u2019s declared valuable by \u201cthe community\u201d (a phrase which he sneers at, delightedly) that wants to embellish our gay or queer love with the cozy and warm fragrance of home (and\u2014at last<\/em>\u2014acceptance).<\/p>\n

The spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book<\/em> is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever. I haven\u2019t read this yet before, not anywhere at all, though he\u2019s moved by a literature I know that is never fiction or nonfiction but poetic fact unraveled with unparalleled and sidestepping skill.<\/p>\n

Whatever his truth is he\u2019s willing to die for it, woulda, but didn\u2019t. And there\u2019s one final effect which I\u2019ve got to mention which is that once I\u2019ve gotten used to the erratic flicker of his prose, the effects that randomly lighten his dead load, as the book comes to its final curve and it feels a bit like the narrator is a survivor after all and is mourning his loves and his own life and his family in recollection, what I\u2019ve experienced in this book is formal somehow, the lights begin to stay and the final passage is bright as hell like one star stayed, yup, and got us home as well. It says hello. And man, can you write.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Excerpt from Eileen Myles\u2019s introduction to<\/em> My Dead Book by Nate Lippens, to be published by Semiotext(e) this October.<\/em><\/p>\n

\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n
\n

Eileen Myles (they\/them) came to New York from Boston in 1974 to be a poet. Their twenty-two books include<\/em> For Now,<\/em> evolution,<\/em> Afterglow,<\/em> I Must Be Living Twice, and<\/em> Chelsea Girls.<\/em> Myles is the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, a Warhol\/Creative Capital Arts Writers Grant, four Lambda Book Awards, the Shelley Prize, and a poetry award from the Foundation for Contemporary Arts. They live in New York and Marfa, Texas.<\/em><\/p>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/div>\n<\/section>\n

\n
<\/div>\n<\/section>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1228,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[31215],"tags":[5365,67827,19677,29902],"class_list":["post-168524","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-on-books","tag-eileen-myles","tag-featured","tag-nate-lippens","tag-semiotexte"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nOn Nate Lippens by Eileen Myles<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"September 13, 2024 \u2013 \u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"On Nate Lippens by Eileen Myles\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 13, 2024 \u2013 \u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2024-09-13T14:00:05+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2024-11-22T18:27:40+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:image\" content=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:width\" content=\"1024\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:height\" content=\"682\" \/>\n\t<meta property=\"og:image:type\" content=\"image\/jpeg\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"Eileen Myles\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:creator\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:site\" content=\"@parisreview\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"Eileen Myles\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"9 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"Eileen Myles\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/77d92dd03607d47196b3a8c6b3bb44b1\"},\"headline\":\"On Nate Lippens\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-09-13T14:00:05+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2024-11-22T18:27:40+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\"},\"wordCount\":1759,\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg\",\"keywords\":[\"Eileen Myles\",\"Featured\",\"Nate Lippens\",\"Semiotext(e)\"],\"articleSection\":[\"On Books\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\",\"name\":\"On Nate Lippens by Eileen Myles\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\"},\"primaryImageOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage\"},\"thumbnailUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-09-13T14:00:05+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2024-11-22T18:27:40+00:00\",\"description\":\"September 13, 2024 \u2013 \u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg\",\"width\":1024,\"height\":682,\"caption\":\"Paul VanDerWerf from Brunswick, Maine, USA, CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons.\"},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"On Nate Lippens\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"description\":\"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization\",\"name\":\"The Paris Review\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png\",\"width\":696,\"height\":696,\"caption\":\"The Paris Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/\",\"https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview\",\"https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview\"]},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/77d92dd03607d47196b3a8c6b3bb44b1\",\"name\":\"Eileen Myles\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/76b31a910d39dc57427f7966f4290a851f70a58062d0ca0a1257b6bada47eb44?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/76b31a910d39dc57427f7966f4290a851f70a58062d0ca0a1257b6bada47eb44?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"Eileen Myles\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/eileen-myles\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO Premium plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"On Nate Lippens by Eileen Myles","description":"September 13, 2024 \u2013 \u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"On Nate Lippens by Eileen Myles","og_description":"September 13, 2024 \u2013 \u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d","og_url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/","og_site_name":"The Paris Review","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","article_published_time":"2024-09-13T14:00:05+00:00","article_modified_time":"2024-11-22T18:27:40+00:00","og_image":[{"width":1024,"height":682,"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg","type":"image\/jpeg"}],"author":"Eileen Myles","twitter_card":"summary_large_image","twitter_creator":"@parisreview","twitter_site":"@parisreview","twitter_misc":{"Written by":"Eileen Myles","Est. reading time":"9 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"Article","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#article","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/"},"author":{"name":"Eileen Myles","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/77d92dd03607d47196b3a8c6b3bb44b1"},"headline":"On Nate Lippens","datePublished":"2024-09-13T14:00:05+00:00","dateModified":"2024-11-22T18:27:40+00:00","mainEntityOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/"},"wordCount":1759,"publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg","keywords":["Eileen Myles","Featured","Nate Lippens","Semiotext(e)"],"articleSection":["On Books"],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/","name":"On Nate Lippens by Eileen Myles","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website"},"primaryImageOfPage":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage"},"thumbnailUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg","datePublished":"2024-09-13T14:00:05+00:00","dateModified":"2024-11-22T18:27:40+00:00","description":"September 13, 2024 \u2013 \u201cThe spiky poetic homelessness of My Dead Book is in relation to a devotion to not fitting in, not anywhere ever.\u201d","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/"]}]},{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#primaryimage","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2024\/09\/1024px-perseids-19925344973.jpg","width":1024,"height":682,"caption":"Paul VanDerWerf from Brunswick, Maine, USA, CC BY 2.0 , via Wikimedia Commons."},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2024\/09\/13\/on-nate-lippens\/#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"On Nate Lippens"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#website","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","name":"The Paris Review","description":"The best prose, interviews, poetry, and art. Since 1953.","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#organization","name":"The Paris Review","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","contentUrl":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2025\/04\/tpr-hadada-roundell-logo-square.png","width":696,"height":696,"caption":"The Paris Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/parisreview\/","https:\/\/x.com\/parisreview","https:\/\/www.instagram.com\/parisreview"]},{"@type":"Person","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/77d92dd03607d47196b3a8c6b3bb44b1","name":"Eileen Myles","image":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/76b31a910d39dc57427f7966f4290a851f70a58062d0ca0a1257b6bada47eb44?s=96&d=mm&r=g","contentUrl":"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/76b31a910d39dc57427f7966f4290a851f70a58062d0ca0a1257b6bada47eb44?s=96&d=mm&r=g","caption":"Eileen Myles"},"url":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/author\/eileen-myles\/"}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/168524","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1228"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=168524"}],"version-history":[{"count":5,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/168524\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":169302,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/168524\/revisions\/169302"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=168524"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=168524"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=168524"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}