{"id":83412,"date":"2015-03-06T18:41:13","date_gmt":"2015-03-06T23:41:13","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=83412"},"modified":"2015-03-06T20:56:24","modified_gmt":"2015-03-07T01:56:24","slug":"staff-picks-no-conscience-no-hope-no-october","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/03\/06\/staff-picks-no-conscience-no-hope-no-october\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: No Conscience, No Hope, No October"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Ilf-Petrov005\"<\/a>

Ilf and Petrov.<\/p><\/div>\n

In the latest London Review of Books<\/em>, Adam Phillips conducts a restless interrogation of conscience<\/a>, that most eminent and most frustrating of moral constructs. We take it as a given, Phillips points out, that self-criticism has some purgative or ameliorative influence, that it moves us to better ourselves. But it\u2019s more often an exercise in a kind of self-slavery: \u201cWe seem to relish the way it makes us suffer.\u201d Why do we put such stock in our superego, who is, after all, mainly a reproachful asshole? \u201cWere we to meet this figure socially, this accusatory character, this internal critic, this unrelenting fault-finder, we would think there was something wrong with him. He would just be boring and cruel. We might think that something terrible had happened to him, that he was living in the aftermath, in the fallout, of some catastrophe. And we would be right.\u201d There follows a fascinating Freudian reading of Hamlet<\/em>, a meditation on cowardice, and a careful deconstruction of the superego, from whose ridiculousness Phillips draws an inspired conclusion. \u201cJust as the overprotected child believes that the world must be very dangerous,\u201d he writes, \u201cso we have been terrorized by all this censorship and judgment into believing that we are radically dangerous to ourselves and others.\u201d \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

When I saw the first installment of Knausgaard\u2019s travelogue for the\u00a0New York Times\u00a0Magazine<\/em>, I thought of Ilf and Petrov\u2019s American Roadtrip<\/em>, their account of driving around the U.S. for ten weeks in 1935. But in truth, the two chronicles\u00a0have little in common. Where Knausgaard is expansive and self-seeking, Ilf and Petrov are witty and concisely observant. \u201cAnd on a chilly November morning we left New York for America,\u201d they write, later finding the archetype of the American landscape at \u201can intersection of two roads and a gasoline station against a ground of wires and advertising signs.\u201d Both Ilf and Petrov had experience in journalism\u2014they met while working for the proletariat magazine\u00a0Gudok<\/em>\u2014but I hadn\u2019t read this early work until this week, when I saw Steven Volynets\u2019s translation in\u00a0Asymptote<\/em><\/a>\u00a0of a 1923 feuilleton by Ilf called \u201cA Country That Didn\u2019t Have October.\u201d It\u2019s an atmospheric recitation of the waves of occupation and retreat in Odessa during the civil war and World War I. Volynets calls it an \u201catomization\u201d of the city\u2019s fervor, and I was frequently reminded of Mayakovsky\u2019s brash, agitated poems. Of 1917, Mayakovsky writes, \u201cThe drum of war thunders and thunders. \/ It calls: thrust iron into the living,\u201d to which Ilf adds a description of the \u201cworker provinces \u2026 where the factory smokestacks and horns ominously billowed and tooted. The [revolutionaries\u2019] gaze fell upon the black depot, on the flurried seaport, on the rumbling, ringing, groaning railroad shops.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

If you liked Leslie Jamison\u2019s Empathy Exams<\/em> or Charles D\u2019Ambrosio\u2019s Loitering<\/em>, try Steven Church\u2019s latest collection, Ultrasonic<\/a>,\u00a0<\/em>a group of essays brought together by the theme of sound. Church at times seems to say, I make noise, therefore I am. He dissects the nature of sound waves in a racquetball court, counts the seconds between lightning and thunder<\/a>, and listens for signs of life from trapped Chilean miners\u2014and his digressions invariably come back around to sucker punch you. Church uses sound to explore notions of masculinity and fatherhood, love and death. He elaborates on his methods and inspirations in an interview with Jacket Copy<\/a>: \u201cI did a Google search for \u2018blue noise\u2019 \u2026 I read a sentence that said, \u2018Blue noise makes a good dither,\u2019 and, though I had no idea what it meant, I loved how it sounded. The sentence became a puzzle that I wanted to solve and, before I knew it, something like a book project began to take shape as individual essays, each focused on sound in some way.\u201d \u2014Jeffery Gleaves
<\/strong><\/p>\n

I became a fan of Anne Valente after reading her ferocious, elegant essay, \u201cMy Body, My Machine<\/a>.\u201d Her story collection, By Light We Knew Our Names<\/a>,<\/em> is full of weird, wild, and finely observed stories that explore questions of identity and longing. In \u201cTo the Place Where We Take Flight,\u201d a teenage boy plays Pink Floyd covers at the hospital where his mother is dying; \u201cDear Amelia\u201d takes the form of a loving and desperate address to Amelia Earhart, expressed by girls who find themselves turning into bears. Valente slides between realism and fabulism, and her imaginative leaps alone are noteworthy\u2014but even more so is the heart that beats throughout these stories. \u2014Catherine Carberry<\/strong><\/p>\n

Tea Obreht once described\u00a0described the concept of voice<\/a> as \u201cthe pinpointing of something in description where you hear it or you read it and you think, My god, that\u2019s really how it is\u2014there could be no other way of describing it.\u201d James Hannaham\u2019s second novel, Delicious Foods<\/a><\/em>, has voice. It has words and phrases such as \u201cbraindancing,\u201d \u201cchunky wallet,\u201d \u201cMr. Melon fucker,\u201d \u201chopegasm,\u201d \u201cher heels\u2014roach-stompers,\u201d \u201cdrinkahol,\u201d \u201cstranger-hate,\u201d and \u201cthrift-store blouse,\u201d and an attention to craft. It tells the story of a teen named Eddie and his mother, Darlene, who find themselves trapped on a sketchy farm called Delicious Foods. They\u2019re enslaved by the usuals\u2014debt, guilt, drugs\u2014and their travails are captivating in their own right. But what kept me reading was the voice\u2014three of them, actually, as\u00a0Hannaham juggles a trio of perspectives: Darlene, Eddie, and a drug. Yes: a drug. \u2014Matt Caprioli<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In the latest London Review of Books, Adam Phillips conducts a restless interrogation of conscience, that most eminent and most frustrating of moral constructs. We take it as a given, Phillips points out, that self-criticism has some purgative or ameliorative influence, that it moves us to better ourselves. But it\u2019s more often an exercise in […]<\/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":[1962,17300,15,4149,17,16,17301,17299,759,269,747,165,53,17298],"class_list":["post-83412","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-adam-phillips","tag-anne-valente","tag-arts","tag-asymptote","tag-books","tag-culture","tag-ilf-and-petrov","tag-james-hannaham","tag-london-review-of-books","tag-magazines","tag-novels","tag-poetry","tag-reading","tag-steven-church"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Adam Phillips, Steven Church, and More<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of \u201cThe Paris Review\u201d is reading this week.\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, 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