{"id":92568,"date":"2015-12-04T18:19:23","date_gmt":"2015-12-04T23:19:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=92568"},"modified":"2016-04-03T18:17:36","modified_gmt":"2016-04-03T22:17:36","slug":"staff-picks-cuppy-cloverleaves-captain-cunt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/12\/04\/staff-picks-cuppy-cloverleaves-captain-cunt\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Cuppy, Cloverleaves, Captain Cunt"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Illustration by Ed Nofziger, from How to Attract the Wombat<\/i>, by Will Cuppy.<\/p><\/div>\n

Lovers of dictionaries and nature can rejoice in John Stilgoe\u2019s new book, What Is Landscape?<\/a><\/em> Stilgoe, who holds the enviable title of Orchard Professor in the History of Landscape at Harvard, wanders the etymology of the landscape lexicon, from the ancient Hebrew word kittor<\/em> (meaning a stream of water, but also a pillar of smoke) to the difference between a cart path and a cow path. He manages here, as in other of his books, to abut the old and the new, the outmoded and the contemporary in such a way that the differences are plain but the connections between them are still vital\u2014in the way, say, a plowed field abuts a brushy fence line and the beach abuts both the sea and the edge of human civilization. These are marginal spaces, constructed spaces, spaces \u201ceasily taken for granted, all too easily half seen.\u201d His examination of highway cloverleafs is particularly good. Though not villages in any sense, they nonetheless provide the basic commercial services of one, and he links them fluidly to their counterparts in the past: \u201cEspecially in rural and wilderness areas, the \u2018sparsely settled regions\u2019 that slightly unnerve urban and suburban travelers, every cloverleaf might be the isolated tavern or inn of European and British folktale.\u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

On Nicole\u2019s recommendation, I\u2019ve been reading\u00a0The Strange Hours Travelers Keep<\/em><\/a>, the Griffin Poetry Prize\u2013winning collection by\u00a0August Kleinzahler<\/a>. It\u2019s as good as she says.\u00a0I\u2019m drawn to poems that revel in their own grit\u2014ones that knead sex and death and deadpan humor in with the erudite and the literary; in\u00a0Strange Hours<\/em>, such moments come in delectable little bursts. In a poem to the philosopher Aristippus there\u2019s a \u201cCaptain Cunt of the Roaring Forties\u201d; in another, a young woman is chewed out for her unflattering expos\u00e9 of an ex-lover: \u201c \u2026 Mark, who kissed and indulged you, opened his heart, \/ only to have you pick up your pen to write \/ about his belligerent penis \u2026\u201d\u00a0Kleinzahler takes us to the natatorium, the marketplace, the Oxford River; he introduces us to Calliope and Erato and Lewis Bernard Castel; and all the while he muses on the peculiar hours we keep to eat, to fuck, to pass the time. And yet, my favorite lines are far tenderer. They\u2019re from \u201cAfter Lady Murakami\u201d: \u201cJust as I found myself \/ in the dentist chair \/ only yesterday \/ hands clenched against my thighs \/ so I find myself here \/ in this seat \/ heart in my throat \/ as you walk into the room.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Youngquist\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been listening to Packin\u2019 Up: The Best of Marion Williams<\/a><\/em>, a new compilation of songs recorded mainly in the 1980s and 90s, when the great gospel singer was in failing health and had lost the powerful upper register that had such an overwhelming effect on Little Richard (among many others). As her accompanist, Herbert \u201cPee Wee\u201d Pickard remarks in the liner notes, \u201cSome of those later songs took me to a whole other place. I started thinking of some poor woman, coming home from the factory or the laundry \u2026 Mama didn\u2019t need no rock \u2019n roll.\u201d A couple of earlier recordings, including a 1957 performance of \u201cSwing Low, Sweet Chariot\u201d with the Ward Singers, show what Williams could do when she was young, but my favorite for now is the direct, defiant \u201cI\u2019ve Come So Far,\u201d recorded when she was undergoing dialysis: \u201cI surprise myself with the strength God gave me \u2026 I believe I can run on some more.\u201d \u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

\u201cThe newt is just one of those things,\u201d writes Will Cuppy in a characteristic chapter of\u00a0How to Attract the Wombat<\/em>. \u201cYou don\u2019t have to know about him but you probably will sooner or later.\u201d The book is, without a doubt, one of the stranger things I\u2019ve picked up lately: a collection of short essays about animals, each more charming\u2014and more vexing\u2014than the last. Not sure what to make of it, I committed the intentional fallacy and went off in search of\u00a0Cuppy himself<\/a>, a humorist who, it turns out, was published regularly in\u00a0The New Yorker<\/em>\u00a0before his untimely death in 1949. (He was also an early admirer of Ray Bradbury\u2019s; Cuppy gave a favorable review to Bradbury\u2019s first collection of short stories,\u00a0Dark Carnival<\/em>, in 1947.) Cuppy\u2019s most famous book,\u00a0The Decline and Fall of Practically Everybody<\/em>, was published posthumously in 1950\u2014I already have it on order. \u2014Stephen Hiltner<\/strong><\/p>\n

Jhumpa Lahiri\u2019s essay \u201cTeach Yourself Italian<\/a>\u201d captures the large and small upheavals of carving out a new life in a new language better than anything I\u2019ve read recently. Perhaps that\u2019s because she\u2019s writing about it in Italian, and it appears, in the latest issue of The New Yorker<\/em>, in translation by Ann Goldstein. Lahiri writes, \u201cIt\u2019s as if I were writing with my left hand, my weak hand, the one I\u2019m not supposed to write with. It seems a transgression, a rebellion, an act of stupidity.\u201d What\u2019s the idea behind Lahiri\u2019s choice to write in Italian? Is it just a kind of literary telephone game? A translation like this could be an unstable, fractured document, re-interpreted and reconstructed\u2014and yet Lahiri\u2019s prose is striking for its clarity and simplicity. Her effort is apparent. There\u2019s something labored about her writing\u2014that is to say, something especially painstaking and deliberate in the way she moves from one idea to the next. The essay crystallizes around an allusion to Ovid\u2019s tale of Daphne\u2019s metamorphosis from nymph to laurel tree. Likewise, Lahiri undergoes a transformation. Writing in Italian leaves her \u201crenewed, trapped, relieved, uncomfortable.\u201d \u2014Hannah LeClair<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

Susan Cianciolo, Four-Page Advert for Dune Magazine #3 (detail)<\/i>, 1998, C-prints, collage, newsprint, and tape on gelatin silver print, 14 x 11″.<\/p><\/div>\n

Susan Cianciolo\u2019s clothing label RUN produced eleven collections between 1995 and 2001. The layered pieces are intriguing, with their meandering seams and colorful patches\u2014they\u2019re not like any clothes I\u2019ve seen before. Cianciolo\u2019s friends and family came together in sewing circles to produce the garments. Anyone who, like myself, missed the chance last summer to see her work up close at Bridget Donahue Gallery, can find solace in Nick Mauss\u2019s \u201cRadical Chic: The Art of Susan Cianciolo<\/a>,\u201d in the November issue of Artforum<\/em>, with plenty of photographs and a pullout portfolio. I\u2019ll be starting my weekend at MOMA PS1\u2019s \u201cGreater New York<\/a>\u201d exhibition, which features six of Cianciolo\u2019s films and a selection of her costumes.\u00a0\u2014Jessica Calderon<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019m leery of abstract art, which so often seems to be the output of shallow careerism. Although his pieces resist figuration, Alberto Burri is not of this ilk. On being interned in a POW camp in Gainesville, Texas, the Italian medic, captured by Allied forces in Tunisia toward the end of World War II, began to make art\u2014\u201cpainting without paint.\u201d He used the materials available to him in the camp, including burlap sacks, to conceive works that appeared to limn the pain and anguish of a war-torn world. Throughout his career, he remained cagey on whether his work possessed any meaning beyond the materials that comprised them. Nevertheless, it is hard to intuit the ripped-then-sutured burlap, mottled plastic, knobbly distensions and craggy impastos as signifying nothing more than their corporeality. Trekking up the Guggenheim\u2019s rotunda<\/a> (an even footing is impossible to find), eyes fixed on the scarred and distressed works, one feels Burri\u2019s dizzying, breathless, and melancholic materials and techniques catch some of the febrile ambience of the present geopolitical moment. The words of another Alberto, Giacometti, come to mind: \u201cThe object of art is not to reproduce reality, but to create a reality of the same intensity.\u201d \u2014Joshua Maserow<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"

Alberto Burri, Bianco B (White B)<\/i>, 1965. Image via the Guggenheim<\/p><\/div>\n

To the aspiring novelist: put away your how-to books. Elizabeth Bowen\u2019s \u201cNotes on Writing a Novel<\/a>\u201d might not provide more thorough instruction, but it makes for more pleasant reading. As in many essays on craft by fiction writers, Bowen makes her points in short, quotable (and therefore memorable) axioms. To wit: \u201cThe novel lies, in saying that something happened that did not. It must, therefore, contain uncontradictable truth, to warrant the original lie.\u201d The closest she comes to advice, <\/em>rather than aphorism, is in the essay\u2019s final section: \u201cthe most striking fault,\u201d she writes, \u201cin work by young or beginning novelists, submitted for criticism, is irrelevance\u2014due either to infatuation or indecision. To direct such an author\u2019s attention to the imperative of relevance is certainly the most useful\u2014and possibly the only\u2014help that can be given.\u201d \u2014Robert Magella<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Lovers of dictionaries and nature can rejoice in John Stilgoe\u2019s new book, What Is Landscape? Stilgoe, who holds the enviable title of Orchard Professor in the History of Landscape at Harvard, wanders the etymology of the landscape lexicon, from the ancient Hebrew word kittor (meaning a stream of water, but also a pillar of smoke) […]<\/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":[20443,8585,5765,2094,20438,20439,20442,20441,20440],"class_list":["post-92568","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-alberto-burri","tag-august-kleinzahler","tag-elizabeth-bowen","tag-jhumpa-lahiri","tag-john-stilgoe","tag-marion-williams","tag-nick-mauss","tag-susan-cianciolo","tag-will-cuppy"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Cuppy, Cloverleaves, Captain Cunt by The Paris Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"December 4, 2015 \u2013 Lovers of dictionaries and nature can rejoice in John Stilgoe\u2019s new book, What Is Landscape? 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