{"id":94198,"date":"2016-02-05T18:52:23","date_gmt":"2016-02-05T23:52:23","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=94198"},"modified":"2016-02-06T18:03:22","modified_gmt":"2016-02-06T23:03:22","slug":"staff-picks-lunar-landscapes-washerwomen-file-formats","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/02\/05\/staff-picks-lunar-landscapes-washerwomen-file-formats\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Lunar Landscapes, Washerwomen, File Formats"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

Peter Hujar, William Burroughs, reclining<\/i>, 1975.<\/p><\/div>\n

Of all the things I\u2019ve read about Michel Houellebecq\u2019s Submission<\/em>, the most poignant has to be Elif Batuman\u2019s essay<\/a> in this week\u2019s New Yorker<\/em>\u2014about Houellebecq\u2019s novel, but also (and mainly) about her experience as a woman and journalist in Turkey, unexpectedly drawn to the idea of leading an observant Muslim life: \u201cHouellebecq\u2019s vision of an Islamic state, for all its cartoonishness, has a certain imaginative generosity. He portrays Islam not as a depersonalized creeping menace, or as an ideological last resort to which those disenfranchised by the West may be \u2018vulnerable,\u2019 but as a system of beliefs that is enormously appealing to many people, many of whom have other options.\u201d \u2014Lorin Stein <\/strong><\/p>\n

Dan has already covered<\/a> the Peter Hujar show that\u2019s up at Paul Kasmin<\/a>, but I can\u2019t resist\u00a0talking about it again. Hujar\u2019s portraits, particularly the close-ups that are on view here, are compelling:\u00a0looking at faces that are, often, looking back at us; rarely do we have such an opportunity to\u00a0study the details of another\u2019s visage, and the longer I look, the more foreign they appear, like lunar landscapes instead of human faces. Maybe that\u2019s why the subjects I recognize easily\u2014Warhol, Sontag, John\u00a0Waters, Quentin Crisp, Burroughs\u2014are less captivating than those I don\u2019t: Paul Thek, whose\u00a0head is cocked curiously as he stares agape into the camera; John Heys in Lana Turner drag in\u00a01979 and then again, in 1985, as himself; Rene Ricard, naked, his legs pulled to\u00a0his chest, head in hand. Of the two portraits of David Wojnarowicz in the show, I spent the most time in front of the one in which his hand obscures most of his face, so that, instead, I examine the tidy curve of his fingernails and the length of his\u00a0collarbone (and think of Georgia O\u2019Keeffe\u2019s\u00a0Ram\u2019s Head with Hollyhock<\/em>). \u2014Nicole Rudick\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"9780374299323\"<\/a><\/p>\n

Every year, about a dozen tourists are afflicted with a debilitating neurosis called Paris Syndrome: the contrast between their expectations of the City of Lights and the grittier reality leads to shock, hallucinations, and sometimes repatriation. They should read Luc Sante\u2019s The Other Paris<\/a><\/em>, a love letter to and an elegy for the Paris of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, a city uniquely comfortable conflating high and low. Sante\u2019s prose is dense with the argot of the French, English, and American intelligentsia that helped to inform the book. And this is no mere nostalgia exercise; Paris\u2019s bygone economies come alive on the page, a tableau of pimps, washerwomen, ragpickers, commercial poets, ant farmers, and clochards. Sante treats them all with sympathy. He\u2019s at his most passionate when chastising the bourgeoisie who irreparably \u201cfixed\u201d Paris; seldom has the word rational<\/em>\u2014used here to describe the city-planning ideology of Haussmann and his confederates\u2014been deployed with such venom. The import of The Other Paris\u00a0<\/em>is perhaps best expressed in a Baudelaire quotation from the first chapter: \u201cThe old Paris is no more (the form of a city \/ Changes faster, alas, than the heart of a mortal).\u201d \u2014Rakin Azfar<\/strong><\/p>\n

The dispassionate twenty-year-old narrator of Helle Helle\u2019s This Should Be Written in the Present Tense<\/a><\/em> pretends to be a student at Copenhagen University: she rides trains, begins and ends friendships, and lives, usually for a few weeks, with whatever man will take her. Her life is \u201ca fog of existential ennui occasionally punctuated by tenuous connection,\u201d as Jonathan Russell Clark put it in the\u00a0New York Times<\/em>. Despite what the novel\u2019s title would have you think, the future is always there in this story, reminding the narrator that everything she does is inconsequential: that she\u2019s only twenty, too young to matter, too young to make anything last. Isn\u2019t that how being twenty is? We forgive her because she continues to gives herself to the present, even though her wandering search for herself could be seen as sociopathic in an older person. Present Tense <\/em>may sound like just another bildungsroman, but it\u2019s surprisingly devoid of ego, and deeply thoughtful. \u2014Jeffery Gleaves<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"The<\/a>

The Fox sisters. From left: Margaret, Kat,e and Leah. From \u201cRadical Spirits\u201d<\/p><\/div>\n

The way I feel about Samantha Hunt\u2019s\u00a0Mr. Splitfoot<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>is how one of its characters describes meeting his wife: \u201cWe fell in love in a bloody way, thorns and hooks.\u201d The story follows two seventeen-year-old orphans, Ruth and Nat, as they escape their ludicrously evangelical foster home by freelancing as traveling mediums along the Erie Canal. Fourteen years later, it\u2019s along the same road that Ruth\u2014returned from over a decade of disappearance, now mysteriously mute\u2014escorts her pregnant niece, Cora, with an urgency she can\u2019t communicate. Drawing on the fanatical history of the Hudson Valley, Hunt explores the middle ground between spirituality and crookery; the title is an allusion to the Fox sisters\u2019 nineteenth-century s\u00e9ances. Ruth\u2019s and Cora\u2019s experiences of that landscape are like hallucinatory expeditions through a gothic wasteland. Somewhere along the way, Hunt conned me into believing that temporary possession by a hellish demon isn\u2019t, after all, so different from the crucible of motherhood. \u2014Daniel Johnson<\/strong><\/p>\n

\u201cThe data reminiscences that follow are probably an unrewarding read,\u201d Daniel Wilson begins Files I Have Known<\/a><\/em>, a twenty-nine-page e-booklet freely available from the experimental publisher Gauss PDF. And he\u2019s right: there\u2019s nothing terribly gripping in these ten stories, all pertaining to various files (e.g. \u201camb1.wav,\u201d \u201cfafda.rtf,\u201d and \u201cE-XCENTR.XM\u201d) and the ephemeral way they drifted in and out of his life as a computer user. So why did I read Files I Have Known <\/em>in one attentive sitting? I don\u2019t know. I liked the way it evoked many hours of wasted time, and the many technologies that have claimed said time. In a chapter that will ring true to many children of the nineties, Wilson recalls hoping to get a digital copy of The Anarchist\u2019s Cookbook<\/em> from a classmate who eventually delivers it on a diskette \u201cwrapped in pages ripped from an exercise book.\u201d Files<\/em> has no high-art pretensions. It\u2019s just a compact, potent reminder of how asinine things like file formats have come to fill our days. If Nicholson Baker kept a working diary of his e-mail attachments (and here\u2019s hoping he does), he might produce something similar. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Of all the things I\u2019ve read about Michel Houellebecq\u2019s Submission, the most poignant has to be Elif Batuman\u2019s essay in this week\u2019s New Yorker\u2014about Houellebecq\u2019s novel, but also (and mainly) about her experience as a woman and journalist in Turkey, unexpectedly drawn to the idea of leading an observant Muslim life: \u201cHouellebecq\u2019s vision of an […]<\/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":[21072,431,21071,454,13739,17349,20891,9619,7793,883],"class_list":["post-94198","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-daniel-wilson","tag-elif-batuman","tag-helle-helle","tag-luc-sante","tag-michel-houllebecq","tag-paul-kasmin","tag-peter-hujar","tag-recommended-reading","tag-samantha-hunt","tag-staff-picks"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Peter Hujar, Luc Sante, Samantha Hunt<\/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, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" 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