{"id":71088,"date":"2014-05-09T18:30:59","date_gmt":"2014-05-09T22:30:59","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=71088"},"modified":"2016-04-03T18:39:04","modified_gmt":"2016-04-03T22:39:04","slug":"what-were-loving","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2014\/05\/09\/what-were-loving\/","title":{"rendered":"What We\u2019re Loving: Lovers, Lizards, Lowry"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"jliz\"<\/a>

The Jesus Lizard, in a photograph from The Jesus Lizard Book.<\/i><\/p><\/div>\n

I don\u2019t usually go in for collections of letters; it\u2019s hard to imagine sitting down and reading one cover to cover. But I couldn\u2019t resist picking up a volume of love letters between Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, in large part because it\u2019s titled The Animals<\/a><\/em>. It sounded sweetly romantic, and it is. Isherwood, some thirty years older than Bachardy, is Dobbin, an old workhorse; Bachardy is Kitty. Though they discuss all manner of subjects in the body of the letters\u2014dinners, friends, business, and art\u2014they are topped and tailed (no pun intended) with joyful, intimate love: \u201cI feel a need to tell Kitty today how dearly Dobbin loves him and how faithfully he waits and guards the stable until Kitty\u2019s return. Dub has been quite off his feed since Kitty hasn\u2019t been there to tempt him with morsels held by those pure paws.\u201d Bachardy sometimes even includes cutouts of fluffy white kittens in his missives.\u00a0Apart from the adorableness, there is, of course, other great stuff here: not least, Isherwood\u2019s coining of the word psychofiesta<\/em>. \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re eighty-two years old. You\u2019ve shrunk six centimeters, you only weigh forty-five kilos yet you\u2019re still beautiful, graceful and desirable. We\u2019ve lived together now for fifty-eight years and I love you more than ever. I once more feel a gnawing emptiness in the hollow of my chest that is only filled when your body is pressed next to mine.\u201d That\u2019s the beginning of philosopher Andr\u00e9 Gorz\u2019s Letter to D<\/a><\/em>, written to his dying wife. A year later, the couple took their own lives, together. The book itself is slim\u2014as the friend who sent it to me wrote, you can read it on the crosstown bus\u2014but it contains a fully realized true love story. \u2014Sadie Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

Nothing grates like a self-mythologizing coffee-table book, but in the case of the Jesus Lizard\u2019s new tome\u2014called, simply, The Jesus Lizard Book<\/a><\/em>\u2014you can forgive any aura of congratulation. These guys deserve to pat themselves on the back. One of the finest, most primal rock bands of the nineties, they drew a cult following in that they seemed to be, in fact, a cult, with David Yow the deranged high priest and David Wm. Sims his brooding voodoo-deacon. If the spectacular photography in The Jesus Lizard Book<\/em> is to be believed, their shows resembled nothing more than that scene in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom<\/em> where some poor dude has his still-beating heart removed in an elaborate ritual. (In the world of the Jesus Lizard, everyone is in the Black Sleep of Kali Ma.) Granted, Yow could be an oblique shock-jock\u2014\u201cI had a tendency to pull my balls out and hold them glistening up to the microphone,\u201d he says\u2014but at his best, he was as compelling a frontman and lyricist as anyone in music. In, say, \u201cKarpis<\/a>\u201d (\u201cAlvin\u2019s feelin\u2019 restless, cellblock H \/ A carton of smokes for ten minutes of pleasure\u201d) his lyrics have a gritty economy, telling an unmistakably terrifying story without having to spell anything out. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

While reading through an interview\u2014blind item!\u2014that\u2019s running in our upcoming issue, I was led by a series of Google searches to a would-be epitaph written by Malcolm Lowry:<\/p>\n

\n

Malcolm Lowry
Late of the Bowery
His prose was flowery
And often glowery
He lived, nightly, and drank, daily,
And died playing the ukulele<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

The \u201cDeath by Misadventure\u201d tag in his coroner\u2019s report calls the ukulele bit into question (or does it?)\u2014and\u00a0Lowry\u2019s actual tombstone, it turns out, isn\u2019t quite so\u00a0literarily engraved<\/a>\u2014but the verse\u00a0did<\/em>\u00a0remind me of another of my favorite would-be epitaphs, that of W.\u2009C. Fields. When asked\u00a0by\u00a0Vanity Fair<\/em>,\u00a0in 1925, to contribute to a piece called, fittingly, \u201cA Group of Artists Write Their Own Epitaphs,\u201d he came up with this, a riff on his running (and playful) disdain for the City of Brotherly Love:\u00a0\u201cHere lies W.\u2009C. Fields. I would rather be living in Philadelphia.\u201d \u2014Stephen Hiltner
<\/strong><\/p>\n

Discovering Mary Ruefle was like meeting someone for the first time I seemed to have known forever. Her arguments were my arguments. Her pain was my pain. A trick of d\u00e9j\u00e0 vu set in, even though I was reading her essays for the first time.\u00a0Stephen Sparks writes about Ruefle\u2019s Madness, Rack, and Honey<\/a><\/em> in the latest issue of\u00a0Music & Literature<\/a><\/em>, \u201cWhat about a book whose effects can be felt forward and backward, today and yesterday?\u201d The issue explores Ruefle\u2019s work, along with the Brazilian novelist Clarice Lispector and the music of Maya Homburger and Barry Guy. I read the issue cover to cover\u2014I love the line from Lispector\u2019s last interview, \u201cWe\u2019ll see if I can be born again \u2026 I\u2019m speaking from my tomb\u201d\u2014and I found myself returning to Ruefle\u2019s work to see, as Sparks puts it, her \u201cability to think by means of the poem, through the poem.\u201d Isn\u2019t this why we write anyway\u2014in hopes that while we may not figure out what we mean, the reader just might? \u2014Justin Alvarez<\/strong><\/p>\n

Last week I went to watch King Lear<\/em> with my mother. I often make the mistake, when reading Shakespeare, of taking him too seriously, but when seeing his plays performed, even the serious ones, I have more than once had the rather obvious realization that Shakespeare was funny. Thinking about these nuances I frequently miss reminded me of a video I\u2019d seen a few years ago<\/a> about the original pronunciation of Shakespearean English. (There\u2019s a recent Studio 360 interview with the father\/son team from the video<\/a> as well.) As it turns out, our pronunciation of Shakespeare hides a lot of meaning and, sometimes, humor. The best example, I think, comes from As You Like It<\/em>: \u201cAnd so, from hour to hour, we ripe and ripe \/ And then from hour to hour, we rot and rot \/ And thereby hangs a tale.\u201d An elegant statement about time and mortality, sure. But in the original pronunciation, \u201chour\u201d sounds like \u201core,\u201d or \u201cwhore,\u201d \u201cripe\u201d like \u201crape,\u201d and \u201crot\u201d like \u201crut.\u201d The meaning we understand is still there, but the line becomes a bawdy joke\u2014\u201cfrom \u2019ore to \u2019ore, we rut and rut.\u201d It must\u2019ve played well to a boisterous, standing-room-only crowd of drunken Englishmen in hose. \u2014Tucker Morgan<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

I don\u2019t usually go in for collections of letters; it\u2019s hard to imagine sitting down and reading one cover to cover. But I couldn\u2019t resist picking up a volume of love letters between Christopher Isherwood and Don Bachardy, in large part because it\u2019s titled The Animals. It sounded sweetly romantic, and it is. Isherwood, some […]<\/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":[13867,13863,12531,13866,13868,13706,1720,6912,10366,948,13865],"class_list":["post-71088","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-andre-gorz","tag-as-you-like-it","tag-christopher-isherwood","tag-david-yow","tag-don-bachardy","tag-epitaphs","tag-king-lear","tag-malcolm-lowry","tag-mary-ruefle","tag-shakespeare","tag-the-jesus-lizard"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nWhat We\u2019re Loving: Lovers, Lizards, Lowry by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"May 9, 2014 \u2013 I don\u2019t usually go in for collections of letters; it\u2019s hard to imagine sitting down and reading one cover to cover. 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