{"id":86422,"date":"2015-06-05T19:16:51","date_gmt":"2015-06-05T23:16:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=86422"},"modified":"2016-04-03T18:18:06","modified_gmt":"2016-04-03T22:18:06","slug":"staff-picks-beach-brain-polychromatic-plumage","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/06\/05\/staff-picks-beach-brain-polychromatic-plumage\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Beach Brain, Polychromatic Plumage"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"Talk2\"<\/a>

From the cover of the Talk<\/i> reissue.<\/p><\/div>\n

In 1965, Linda Rosenkrantz summered in East Hampton\u2014as one does, I guess\u2014and had the good sense to bring a tape recorder with her. On the beach, she logged hours of her banal, brilliant conversations with two friends; in 1968 she published the transcripts as a novel, Talk<\/a><\/em>, to be reissued next month. In many ways the book is as exasperating as you\u2019d expect: Linda and her friends, all approaching thirty, seldom entertain thoughts beyond themselves or their coterie. They gossip about fucking and psychoanalysis; pubic dandruff is among their more elevated concerns. And there are moments when you can hear them ham it up for their imaginary audience, affecting even more weariness, intellect, and neurosis than they\u2019ve already claimed. But who cares? Even at its most vapid, Talk <\/em>captivates: it\u2019s funny, honest, and not infrequently heartbreaking, and it still feels weirdly provocative almost fifty years later. The dialogue captures the sun-brained rhythm of beach talk better than anything I\u2019ve read. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"o-AMELIA-GRAY-900\"<\/a>Amelia Gray\u2019s last novel,\u00a0Threats<\/em>, was a weird and wonderful book set on the outskirts of reality. Her new story collection, Gutshot<\/a><\/em>, is an episodic version of the same strange locale, one populated by a convulsive puker, a Brobdingnagian snake, and a couple who trap a woman in the air ducts of their house. It\u2019s a place where \u201cthe sun beats the shit out of a dirty road called Raton Pass [and] the closet thing to a pair of matching earrings is a guy named Carl who punches you in the head with his fist.\u201d The characters are all misfits of one kind or another, and they are dedicated to their stories even when they don\u2019t seem to want to be a part of them. The title story (my favorite) reads like a shaggy-dog story, except that the ending is unexpectedly moving and meaningful. The membrane between Gray\u2019s stories and our reality is often thin; it’s sometimes breached by a pinhole, as in \u201cViscera,\u201d in which the skin flakes and spittle of a paper-factory employee drift into the pulp, \u201cbaking the genetic evidence of his future heart disease into this very page, which you are touching with your hands.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick
<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cWhat can I tell you, Mr. Investigator, about a crime committed in a book?\u201d Kamel Daoud writes in\u00a0The Meursault Investigation<\/a><\/em>, his retooling of Camus\u2019s\u00a0The Stranger<\/em>. Daoud turns Camus\u2019s fiction into fact, implying that within his fictional world,\u00a0The Stranger<\/em>\u00a0was penned by an unrepentant murderer and canonized nonetheless. Harun, the brother of the unnamed \u201cArab\u201d killed by Camus\u2019s narrator, goes off on a book-length barroom screed against the man who murdered his brother and has been all but exonerated by high school curricula across the globe. The novel contains a powerful critique of colonialism, but it\u2019s also a brilliantly executed slap in the face to a literary-academic establishment that treats writers as celebrities and celebrates literature as \u201cchallenging\u201d to avoid being challenged by it. (So now let\u2019s all do the only reasonable thing and celebrate\u00a0The Meursault Investigation<\/em>.) \u2014Rebecca Panovka<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"Lehrer-2\"<\/a>Readers of the\u00a0Daily<\/em>\u00a0who paid attention in chemistry class will probably remember Tom Lehrer\u2014or at least the tune of his, \u201cThe Elements<\/a>,\u201d\u00a0that allowed for one of the more humanizing moments in an often tedious grade-school science curricula.\u00a0I recently revisited some of his work (\u201cVatican Rag<\/a>\u201d\u00a0is a personal favorite) and afterward went off\u00a0in search of his\u00a0New Yorker<\/em>\u00a0profile\u2014only to find, to my surprise, that it doesn\u2019t exist. In fact, there\u2019s been very\u00a0little written about the man; BuzzFeed seems to have published\u00a0one of his only profiles<\/a>\u2014and this for a prodigy who entered Harvard at the age of fifteen, achieved unlikely success with his darkly humorous and satirical music, and retired from touring in his early thirties, having sold hundreds of thousands of records. (Weird Al Yankovic, who claims Lehrer as one of his two living idols, has called him \u201cthe J. D. Salinger of demented music.\u201d)\u00a0If satire rings your bell, then run off and spend some time with his oeuvre. You won\u2019t be disappointed\u2014and you may, like\u00a0Daniel Radcliffe, end up\u00a0committing some of his spectacularly tedious lyrics to memory<\/a>. \u2014Stephen Hiltner<\/strong><\/p>\n

In a couple of weeks, I\u2019ll set off for Charles Town\u2014a small Maroon village in Portland, Jamaica\u2014where I\u2019ll attend the seventh annual\u00a0International Maroon Conference<\/a>.\u00a0So it was with great pleasure that I found Nicola Lo Calzo\u2019s photographs\u00a0of the French Guiana and Suriname Maroons,\u00a0introduced by Hilton Als, in the pages of\u00a0this week\u2019s\u00a0New Yorker<\/em><\/a>. For those less familiar,\u00a0the Maroons<\/a>\u00a0are descendants of an insurgent group of slaves who built autonomous communities in rural pockets of Africa, South American, the Caribbean, Canada, Australia, Europe, and the U.S. \u201cObia<\/a>,\u201d Lo Calzo\u2019s most recent project, looks inside Maroon culture today. Comprising the portfolio are some of the most vibrant photographs I\u2019ve seen in a while: there\u2019s one of a Ziploc bag holding an embalmed parrot, its polychromatic plumage a near-perfect rainbow; its body, according to Maroon tradition, is a vessel for spirits. But the photograph I\u2019m most fond of is of a young\u00a0Ndyuka\u00a0<\/em>woman wearing a Marilyn Monroe shirt with pink, floral shorts, fingernails painted to match, and the word swag<\/em> hanging from her necklace. As Als attests, \u201cLo Calzo takes as his great subject the meaning that a photographer\u2019s eye can draw from the African diaspora, all those disappeared bodies brought back to life by their living and breathing descendants.\u201d See more of his work here<\/a>. \u00ad\u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/p>\n

Hans Ulrich-Obrist, the manic Puck of the curatorial world, has been panned and praised alike for his omnivorous interests in interview subjects. A new compendium of his talks with modern musicians, A Brief History of New Music<\/a><\/em>, aligns selected artists ranging from Boulez to Kraftwerk in an echo chamber, framing their responses around specific artistic loci. Obrist conjures questions like a pop-theoretical Magic 8 Ball: What of Duchamp\u2019s comment that the spectator does at least 50 percent of the work? How about Bakhtin\u2019s conception of Dostoyevsky\u2019s polyphony? He\u2019s especially fond of asking about artists\u2019 \u201cunrealized\u201d or impossible projects\u2014their \u201cKubla Khans.\u201d Brian Eno describes the possibility of quiet clubs, or clubs \u201cwhere nothing much happens.\u201d Elliott Carter apparently wanted to write an opera about suicide cults like the Order of the Solar Temple. At its best, A Brief History <\/em>is an antic, organic collection of esoteric and overlapping reflections, shaking loose digressive gems like a late-night conversation. \u2014Casey Henry<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

In 1965, Linda Rosenkrantz summered in East Hampton\u2014as one does, I guess\u2014and had the good sense to bring a tape recorder with her. On the beach, she logged hours of her banal, brilliant conversations with two friends; in 1968 she published the transcripts as a novel, Talk, to be reissued next month. In many ways […]<\/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":[3783,6678,16424,18379,18378,18380,13528],"class_list":["post-86422","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-albert-camus","tag-amelia-gray","tag-hans-ulrich-obrist","tag-kamel-daoud","tag-linda-rosenkrantz","tag-nicola-lo-calzo","tag-tom-lehrer"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Beach Brain, Polychromatic Plumage by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"June 5, 2015 \u2013 In 1965, Linda Rosenkrantz summered in East Hampton\u2014as one does, I guess\u2014and had the good sense to bring a tape recorder with her. 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