{"id":48036,"date":"2013-03-08T11:05:41","date_gmt":"2013-03-08T16:05:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=48036"},"modified":"2013-03-08T12:28:14","modified_gmt":"2013-03-08T17:28:14","slug":"what-were-loving-underwater-photography-semicolons-rimbaud","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2013\/03\/08\/what-were-loving-underwater-photography-semicolons-rimbaud\/","title":{"rendered":"What We\u2019re Loving: Underwater Photography, Semicolons, Rimbaud"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"SilverSpring_may08_6\"<\/a>When I was a teenager, I had a series of dreams in which I would attempt to do the most banal tasks underwater: eat breakfast, cut my toenails, read a book whose waterlogged pages would always stick together. I never really thought much about the dream\u2019s implications\u2014Was I suffocating under life\u2019s demands? Or was it just something I ate?\u2014until I stumbled on Bruce Mozert\u2019s 1950s underwater photography<\/a>. Using a self-constructed underwater camera, Mozert spent his career shooting underwater portraits for numerous lifestyle magazines\u2014entirely without digital manipulation. (One Mozert trick was \u201cusing baking powder to create the powdery \u2018smoke\u2019 coming out of the underwater barbecue.\u201d) Why would a photographer devote his life to such a niche? Some things (like the genesis of my dreams) are better left unanswered. \u2014Justin Alvarez<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m impressed by a twenty-eight-page examination of \u201cThe Endangered Semicolon\u201d in the debut issue of Apology<\/i><\/a>, Jesse Pearson\u2019s new quarterly. It\u2019s disheartening, though, to read that the semicolon is in decline, not least because it is my favorite punctuation mark\u2014a fact that displeased\u00a0Matt Sumell, who cheerfully rejected the suggested use of semicolons in his story<\/a> for issue 200 (save two) and who wrote me recently with the sole purpose of informing me that he still doesn\u2019t use semicolons. I pity him and Alexander Theroux, who bemoans in Apology<\/i> the semicolon\u2019s typographical imbalance (neither a colon nor a period) and its existence as a tentative mark, an \u201cillicit and uneasy compromise.\u201d Let others have the em dash, the period, the showy exclamation point. I\u2019ll keep the semicolon, so adept at capturing a particular cadence, a curt melody. \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong> <\/p>\n

Can a person actually recommend The New Yorker<\/em> or This American Life<\/em>? Might as well recommend the Beatles, or Vermeer, or the Natural History Museum. So let this just be a thank you:\u00a0Thank you, New Yorker<\/em>, for getting Rachel Aviv to produce articles on a semiregular basis. Like Larissa MacFarquhar, Katherine Boo, or Elif Batuman, to name three other reasons for recent gratitude, Aviv has been allowed to stretch the New Yorker<\/em> feature in new directions, giving its familiar forms a sound of her own. In Aviv\u2019s case, you hear something like the pressurized non-hum of a recording booth. No matter whether she writes about homeless<\/a> or imprisoned teens<\/a>, the mentally ill<\/a>, pedophiles<\/a>, or (last week)\u00a0newspaper reporters in Newtown<\/a>, her articles are painfully intimate and compassionate and not quite like anybody else\u2019s. So thank you, New Yorker<\/em>.<\/p>\n

And thank you, This American Life<\/em>, for your two-part series<\/a> on everyday life in a Chicago high school struggling with gun violence. The interviews with students, administrators, social workers, and teachers show yet again why the editing style of This American Life<\/em> turned our generation into radio listeners. These two installments\u00a0kept me standing in the kitchen, when I was under deadline, long after the kettle boiled. \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

This week, I find myself captivated by Edmund Wilson\u2019s\u00a0Memoirs of Hecate County<\/em><\/a>,\u00a0a\u00a0collection of five stories and one novella, all narrated by an unnamed art historian with Marxist tendencies. The stories skew toward the supernatural\u2014in\u00a0\u201cEllen Terhune,\u201d for example, Wilson sets out to spook the reader by playing with time; but the novella,\u00a0The Princess with the Golden Hair<\/i>, is decidedly realistic and so sexually explicit that on its 1946 publication the book was banned in the United States. The novella concerns the narrator\u2019s all-consuming relationships with two different women:\u00a0luxe, luscious Imogen and working-class Anna. Class difference and erotic obsession combine to reveal a\u00a0New York City of the 1920s where highballs are gulped and gonorrhea is, unfortunately, gotten. \u2014Brenna Scheving<\/strong><\/p>\n

I couldn\u2019t help but swoon over Arthur Rimbaud\u2019s A Season in Hell<\/em><\/a>, surprising because I\u2019ve never been one to read a lot of poetry, let alone French classics. However, recently I stumbled on a dusty, early twentieth-century edition, so I finally decided to give it a try. Most critics have said that the book is a commentary on French society at the time\u2014the restraints of it\u2014which it is; however, in my humble opinion, most of the poem is about sex. \u201cAnd it\u2019s life again!\u201d he writes. \u201cIf damnation were eternal!\u201d What Rimbaud experiences as damnable are actually some of the most ecstatic moments of his life. It all feels like a gaudy neon sign, foreboding damnation but with an enticing glow. That\u2019s great poetry\u2014great art\u2014to me: questioning what pleasure and pain, heaven and hell, really are.\u00a0\u2014Matthew Smith<\/strong><\/p>\n

There\u2019s a weekly exodus from Grand Central to Beacon, New York, wherein art enthusiasts board the Metro-North and watch the Manhattan skyline recede to a row of jagged teeth. Upon disembarkation, this caravan of city dwellers files across a train overpass, navigates sidewalks buffered by snow banks and descends the sloping driveway of Dia Art Foundation\u2019s Dia:Beacon<\/a>. Whether or not you are engaged by minimalist art<\/a>, the museum space alone warrants a trip: factory windows that yawn forever and more skylights than actual ceiling. It occupies a renovated Nabisco factory and celebrates its tenth anniversary this year. \u2014Kendall Poe<\/strong><\/p>\n

It seems like yesterday that a friend made me go to St. Mark\u2019s Bookshop and read the intro to a new magazine called The Believer<\/em>. \u201cThey\u2019re quoting you,\u201d my friend said, \u201cas an example of snark. They\u2019re against it.\u201d I like to think we\u2019ve all mellowed over the years. For proof of The Believer<\/em>\u2019s diminished rah-rah-rah, look no further than their tenth anniversary issue, where Jonathan Goldstein (of This American Life<\/em>!) interviews\u00a0that prince of bitterness, the scary late-night radio genius Joe Frank. \u2014L.S.<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

When I was a teenager, I had a series of dreams in which I would attempt to do the most banal tasks underwater: eat breakfast, cut my toenails, read a book whose waterlogged pages would always stick together. I never really thought much about the dream\u2019s implications\u2014Was I suffocating under life\u2019s demands? Or was it […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[438],"tags":[10307,6526,10305,10308,1474,10311,10310,6439,10309,10306,40,7526],"class_list":["post-48036","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-alexander-theroux","tag-arthur-rimbaud","tag-bruce-mozert","tag-dia","tag-edmund-wilson","tag-joe-frank","tag-jonathan-goldstein","tag-matt-sumell","tag-rachel-aviv","tag-semicolons","tag-the-new-yorker","tag-this-american-life"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat We\u2019re Loving: Underwater Photography, Semicolons, Rimbaud by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"March 8, 2013 \u2013 When I was a teenager, I had a series of dreams in which I would attempt to do the most banal tasks underwater: eat breakfast, cut my toenails, read a\" 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