{"id":90248,"date":"2015-09-25T13:56:23","date_gmt":"2015-09-25T17:56:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=90248"},"modified":"2015-09-28T09:13:47","modified_gmt":"2015-09-28T13:13:47","slug":"staff-picks-tall-and-thin-tortoises-tennis-sweaters","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/09\/25\/staff-picks-tall-and-thin-tortoises-tennis-sweaters\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Tall and Thin, Tortoises, Tennis Sweaters"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

A 2014 photograph by Cedric Nunn, from Unsettled<\/i>, now at David Krut Projects. Ntabakandoda monument, built by Sebe of the Ciskei Bantustan government as a homage to the Xhosa Chiefs who fought the British. Ndoda was a Khoi Chief who was killed in battle by Rharrabe.<\/p><\/div>\n

A few pages into Barbara Pym\u2019s 1944 comedy of manners Crampton Hodnet<\/a><\/em>, I turned to Sadie in confusion. What\u2019s with the descriptions? On page sixteen, \u201cHe was dark and thin, just a little taller than she was\u201d; on seventeen, \u201cHe was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a thin, sensitive face\u201d; and on twenty, \u201cHe was a short, jolly-looking man, while Mrs Wardell was tall and thin.\u201d As Sadie explained, Pym never saw fit to publish Crampton Hodnet<\/em> in her lifetime, so it\u2019s possible that all these height measurements are a sign of inexperience and haste. On the other hand, the novel is such a sharp send-up of romantic conventions (handsome new vicar meets long-suffering lady\u2019s companion) that they may be part of the joke. In any case, the book is addictive, with scenes as funny and impatient as anything in her later work. \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

The Greek tragedies were written for and performed by soldiers. Sophocles, a retired general, wrote his plays\u2014many of them postwar tragedies, PTSD tragedies\u2014between two major Athenian wars, and because they were performed during citywide festivals, they seem to have been a part of the civic war mechanism: a way for the citizenry to cope, understand, and grieve together. Bryan Doerries\u2019s Theater of War<\/a> project, which I first read about in Harper\u2019s<\/em><\/a>, stages readings of ancient Greek tragedies for service members and veterans in an effort to remind them that they\u2019re \u201cnot alone across time.\u201d Doerries\u2019s new book<\/a> is about his readings of the plays\u2014and how he gained support from the U.S. military for his project\u2014but it\u2019s also a study of the therapeutic values of art. Many of us lamely suffer from PTSD headline fatigue: it\u2019s always in the news but rarely makes the front page anymore, not for lack of persistence but because there aren\u2019t many new ways of thinking about it. Doerries\u2019s book implicates everyone when it says that the most useful healing is public rather than private. It\u2019s hopeful, in a way, to consider that we can learn through catastrophe: that this is not a new idea, and that it\u2019s best done together. \u2014Jeffery Gleaves<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cAll the more elegant forms of cruelty, I\u2019m told, begin \/ with patience.\u201d That\u2019s the first line in Carl Phillips\u2019s newest collection,\u00a0Reconnaissance<\/em><\/a>. The book is thin, no more than forty-eight pages, and though you could easily read it in an afternoon, I\u2019d recommend sitting with it awhile longer. Raw and unafraid, Phillips\u2019s poems sift through the cruelties of the heart; he writes of the old lovers that \u201crise as one before you \u2026\/ like perennials you\u2019d forgotten to expect again\u201d; of betrayal, \u201cthe kind of betrayal\u00a0<\/em>\u2026\u00a0I\u2019ve been waiting for, \/ all my life<\/em>\u201d; of mistakes, \u201cthe ones that sweetly rot beneath me.\u201d He left me so mesmerized that I reread the collection as soon as I\u2019d finished it. A few favorite (devastating) lines from \u201cThe Strong by Their Stillness\u201d: \u201cYou can love a man \/ more than he\u2019ll ever love back or be able to, you can confuse \/ your understanding of that \/ with a thing like acceptance or, \/ worse, all you\u2019ve ever deserved.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Youngquist\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"On<\/a><\/p>\n

The weather is finally changing, which means it\u2019s open season for hypochondriacs. Wreaths of goldenrod pollen are blowing into the city; autumnal viruses are percolating; Duane Reade is advertising flu shots; and my commute today was punctuated with the sniffling and sternutation of fellow passengers. So I\u2019m planning to curl up this weekend with Virginia Woolf\u2019s On Being Ill<\/a><\/em> and a steaming mug of ginger tea. \u201cConsidering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings,\u201d Woolf begins, \u201cit becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love and battle and jealousy among the prime themes of literature.\u201d Her essay contains digressive meditations on cloud watching, the virtue of plants, and the sensual, undisciplined pleasure of reading rashly. But amid all this curious furniture (tortoises, theorbos, bowls of roses, plush mid-Victorian curtains), On Being Ill <\/em>is urgently concerned with language, with a rash grasping after meaning. \u201cLet a sufferer try to describe a pain in his head to a doctor and language at once runs dry,\u201d Woolf writes: \u201cHe is forced to coin words himself, and, taking the pain in one hand, and a lump of pure sound in the other \u2026 so to crush them together that a brand new word in the end drops out.\u201d \u2014Hannah LeClair<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m at a loss to say anything about Eileen Myles\u2019s Chelsea Girls<\/a><\/em> that someone else hasn\u2019t said better. But it\u2019s good to see it back in print, and getting credit for its formative role in \u2026 whatever you like to call the hybrid novel-memoir mode. (You know the one.) For a novel told in vignettes\u2014digressive ones, at that\u2014it has an incredible momentum, and the parts you\u2019d think would be most boring are somehow the most propulsive. A riff on early-sixties fashion, for instance, is shrouded in\u00a0social commentary that rings true\u00a0today: \u201cWe wore tennis sweaters, and penny loafers \u2026 it was just before hippy and everything seemed to go. Yet it seemed so defended too. You\u2019d get in your assembled coded wardrobe like a bright little tank \u2026 It was pretty tense, being in nothing but your uniform. I remember being drunk in the back of a car in Arlington making out with someone named Glen Hobart who later died in Vietnam. We were heading towards a dance. We both wore Madras shirts.\u201d \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"chelseagirls\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Someone with eclectic reading habits and very good taste recently recommended Sergio Pitol\u2019s literary autobiography, cumulatively titled\u00a0Trilogy of Memory<\/a><\/em>. Although billed as \u201cMexico\u2019s greatest living author,\u201d Pitol was unknown to me\u2014unsurprising, as this is the first appearance of any of his works in English. More surprising was the volume of unknown writers I encountered within the books. Joyce, Mann, and Neruda I knew\u2014but what about the Romanians, the Venetians, the Colombians? But Pitol is not a pedant, nor does the relative obscurity of many of his references distract from his vivid prose. Writing about himself as a product of the art and literature he\u2019s ingested over seventy-odd years, his gratitude to all those who have fed him along the way is evident, its fierceness endearing. The\u00a0Trilogy<\/em>\u2019s introduction considers the connection between his tendency to misplace his glasses and his overall aesthetic. \u201cMy near-sightedness,\u201d he writes of in Venice, having lost his glasses once again, \u201cin no way dulled the wonder.\u201d I know what he means. \u2014Henri Lipton<\/strong><\/p>\n

Thanks to the playlist at Brooklyn Social, I’ve been listening to Everly Brothers songs from the late sixties. Their version of Merle Haggard\u2019s \u201cSing Me Back Home<\/a>\u201d is so sad I\u2019ve been instructed not to hum it around the house. \u2014L.S.<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"roots\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Cedric Nunn, the celebrated South African photographer, is showing new work at David Krut Projects under the title \u201cUnsettled: The 100 Year War Against the Boer and British<\/a>.\u201d\u00a0Undertaking what he calls \u201cradical cartography\u201d\u2014bringing to view the remnants of the spatial grammar of the hundred year Frontier War (1779\u20131878) fought by the Xhosa nation, the indigenous Khoi peoples, and the British and Dutch settler colonialists\u2014Nunn faced a thorny problem: How do you represent a world sundered by centuries of colonialism? Nunn navigates this quandary by training his lens on the decaying memorials; forgotten battle sites; former mission churches; and the dense, formidable, and picturesque flora of the Eastern Cape. These images, for the most part, lack a human presence; they are depopulated tableaux. When people are included in the frame they are either far out on the horizon or looking directly at the camera with anger, suspicion, melancholy and, in one case, joy and mirth. Gesturing toward the scarred land, the disheveled sites of remembrance, and the communities despoiled by the Frontier War, Nunn helps to break the trend of what Eduardo Galeano calls \u201corganized forgetting.\u201d\u00a0\u2014Joshua Maserow<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A few pages into Barbara Pym\u2019s 1944 comedy of manners Crampton Hodnet, I turned to Sadie in confusion. What\u2019s with the descriptions? On page sixteen, \u201cHe was dark and thin, just a little taller than she was\u201d; on seventeen, \u201cHe was a tall, distinguished-looking man with a thin, sensitive face\u201d; and on twenty, \u201cHe was […]<\/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":[3528,15374,19555,19558,12544,5365,19557,19556,17215,8494,883,969],"class_list":["post-90248","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-barbara-pym","tag-bryan-doerries","tag-carl-phillips","tag-cedric-nunn","tag-chelsea-girls","tag-eileen-myles","tag-merle-haggard","tag-on-being-ill","tag-sergio-pitol","tag-sophocles","tag-staff-picks","tag-virginia-woolf"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Barbara Pym, Eileen Myles, Bryan Doerries<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"What the staff of The Paris Review is reading this week.\" \/>\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\/2015\/09\/25\/staff-picks-tall-and-thin-tortoises-tennis-sweaters\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Tall and Thin, Tortoises, Tennis Sweaters by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"September 25, 2015 \u2013 A few pages into Barbara Pym\u2019s 1944 comedy of manners Crampton Hodnet, I turned to Sadie in confusion. 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