{"id":97820,"date":"2016-05-06T13:17:43","date_gmt":"2016-05-06T17:17:43","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=97820"},"modified":"2016-05-09T09:00:27","modified_gmt":"2016-05-09T13:00:27","slug":"staff-picks-milk-guzzling-sheriffs-metallic-fiber-mythologybot","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/05\/06\/staff-picks-milk-guzzling-sheriffs-metallic-fiber-mythologybot\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Milk-guzzling Sheriffs, Metallic Fiber, @MythologyBot"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

A still from Flamingo Road<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

In 1955, Stith Thompson, a folklorist at Indiana University, published the first volume of his Motif-Index of Folk-Literature. Betraying every bit of the gumptious optimism of the midcentury milieu in which it was conceived, the work was intended as \u201ca systematic arrangement of the whole body of traditional literature.\u201d Eventually it grew to six volumes, but lately it has found a new life on a microscale. Every three hours, @MythologyBot<\/a> raids Thompson\u2019s index and drops a new motif, a sort of freeze-dried folktale, into the feeds of its thousand-plus followers on Twitter: \u201cFetish betrays fugitive,\u201d \u201cGhost laid by prayer,\u201d \u201cRainbow as loincloth.\u201d Given the primary-election season that we\u2019ve all just cowered through, it\u2019s hard to insist that any of us needs more bewilderment in our lives. But @MythologyBot\u2019s little gusts of absurdity are often just the thing, I\u2019ve found, to disperse the mental drear. \u2014Robert P. Baird<\/strong><\/p>\n

I\u2019ve been going to the movies a lot since I moved to New York, particularly to\u00a0Metrograph<\/a>, an art-house theater on Ludlow Street that\u00a0grandly claims to be \u201cthe ultimate place for movie enthusiasts.\u201d Last week, my boyfriend and I saw\u00a0Flamingo Road<\/a><\/em>\u00a0(1949), a work of high Hollywood melodrama starring Joan Crawford as Lane Bellamy, who begins the film as an impoverished carnival dancer stranded in a small town in the South. Glowing and assured, Bellamy gets a job at a local diner; her goal is to live on the town\u2019s most prosperous street, the eponymous Flamingo Road. But when a flirtation develops between Bellamy and the town\u2019s deputy sheriff, her ruin becomes the obsession of\u00a0Sheriff Semple, a\u00a0milk-drinking<\/a>\u00a0political wire-puller who\u2019s grooming the deputy for the governor\u2019s seat. It\u2019s luminous to see a woman in early Hollywood assume a role so empowering. In her own life, Crawford had recently reemerged as a star\u2014Flamingo Road\u00a0<\/em>mirrors all the energy of her comeback and is blighted only by knowing of Crawford\u2019s self-destructive final years, when she became a recluse after seeing an unflattering photograph of herself. \u201cIf that\u2019s how I look,\u201d she said, \u201cthen they won\u2019t see me anymore.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Love\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

If you skipped the fiction in the April 18 issue of The New Yorker<\/em>, go rescue it from the recycling. Colin Barrett\u2019s \u201cAnhedonia, Here I Come<\/a>\u201d is the funniest story I\u2019ve read about a poet since Natasha Wimmer translated The Savage Detectives<\/em>. Barrett is an adjectives-and-adverbs man (\u201cBobby\u2019s head swam, tritely\u201d) and one of the most exciting writers to have emerged in these last few years from that small Dublin powerhouse Stinging Fly Press. (You can read our 2015 interview with Barrett\u00a0here<\/a>.)\u00a0\u2014Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

You may have read Benjamin Hale\u2019s \u201cDon\u2019t Worry Baby<\/a>\u201d in our Spring issue<\/a>. It\u2019s my favorite from his new collection,\u00a0The Fat Artist<\/a><\/em>, because it\u2019s the most hallucinatory and unhinged display of his prose: \u201cKaleidoscopes projected onto everything. Like a net of lace woven out of semitranslucent metallic fiber, a spiderweb mapped onto everything.\u201d The other story that stands out as something truly special is \u201cIf I Had Possession over Judgment Day,\u201d which centers on a poorly executed murder and an ill-advised nude photo shoot that occur simultaneously in a Colorado lakeside park at\u00a0midnight. Above this earthly mess, errant Iridium Communications satellites flare at precise times every evening. While Hale\u2019s characters are quick to attribute the chaos that ensues to forces cosmic, the orbiting satellites are the only vestiges of order that remain after the bloodbath; in all three points of view, this passage appears at least once: \u201cThe tiny prick of light traveled in a smooth, shallow arc, gradually gathering in brightness until it became\u00a0a bright white flash \u2026 \u201d He\u2019s saying something here about our impulse to blame our most entropic mistakes on the actually quite regimented universe.\u00a0\u2014Daniel Johnson<\/strong><\/p>\n

When Joanna Walsh published a very limited edition of a story called \u201cShklovsky\u2019s Zoo\u201d last year, I wanted a copy but put off tracking one down. I\u2019d likely have been out of luck anyway, since most were given away at the booklet\u2019s launch event in London. I hunted around online for the text, but to no avail. It existed only in print and out of my reach. Not long ago, I wrote to Walsh and pleaded my case; she generously emailed me a PDF of the story. The first line, appropriately enough, is \u201cThere are some things you still can\u2019t get on the internet.\u201d Walsh\u2019s story is about not being able to get her hands on a copy of Shklovsky\u2019s Zoo, or Letters Not About Love<\/a><\/em>, which is a book that I own. Because she can\u2019t read it, she ends up reading about<\/em> it and discovers, among other things, Shklovsky\u2019s sentence \u201cI\u2019m not going to write about love, I\u2019m going to write about the weather.\u201d So Walsh is writing about not being able to read a book in which the author writes about not being able to write about love. Her story is wonderful. I loved reading it, but I can\u2019t offer you a link to read it yourself; I can only write about what it\u2019s like to read it.\u00a0\u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"<\/a>

The cast of Eclipsed<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

A friend took me to see the Broadway play\u00a0Eclipsed<\/em><\/a> the day after it had been nominated for six Tonys. A Mother Courage<\/em> throwback, the plays is about five women fighting to survive during the end of the 2003 Liberian Civil War. It stars Lupita Nyong\u2019o (of 12 Years a Slave <\/em>fame), was written by The Walking Dead<\/em> actress Danai Gurira, and is the very first Broadway show to have an entirely black and female cast and creative team. Given all that, I was surprised to find myself sitting in a half-empty theater. But maybe I shouldn\u2019t have been: after all, it\u2019s a play about erasure, the erasure of black women, and the empty seats reminded me how interdependent art, consumerism, and culture really are\u2014to tourists, the spotlessly groomed Book of Mormon <\/em>cast must look better on a poster than a black woman playing a refuge. It\u2019s their loss. The cast of Eclipsed <\/em>dedicates every performance to young women from war-torn regions who have been abducted and are still missing. Another reason to go see it<\/a>. \u2014Jeffery Gleaves<\/strong><\/p>\n

Bob Rosenthal published Cleaning Up New York<\/a> <\/em>in 1976, when he was twenty-six, living in the East Village and cleaning apartments to make the rent. The book, reissued last month, is a stoner\u00a0picaresque proceeding from two basic truths: to clean someone\u2019s home is to become his intimate and to clean any home, anywhere, is to embark on\u00a0a weird journey\u00a0of self-discovery. Rosenthal, a poet, tells his stories with a deceptive, rakish casualness, and he throws in a few legitimately handy cleaning tips along the way. By the end of his career, he\u2019s befriended a wide array of eccentrics, stolen countless drugs (\u201cI am an artist and I need this pill just because I am an artist\u201d), and tricked himself into fucking a vacuum cleaner. (Spoiler: neither man nor Hoover reach completion.) Most of all, he\u2019s written convincingly about cleaning as a philosophy, one in which being and seeming are sometimes indistinct: \u201cI always try to wear the same clothes when I clean. It makes me less visible and more like a machine and it adds psychic energy to my work. If my uniform walks through a dirty room, it seems cleaner.\u201d \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

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

In 1955, Stith Thompson, a folklorist at Indiana University, published the first volume of his Motif-Index of Folk-Literature. Betraying every bit of the gumptious optimism of the midcentury milieu in which it was conceived, the work was intended as \u201ca systematic arrangement of the whole body of traditional literature.\u201d Eventually it grew to six volumes, […]<\/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":[22235,21336,22244,22245,17242,22242,22239,2030,19499,22243,22238,22237,9619,22241,883,22236,22240,4152],"class_list":["post-97820","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-mythologybot","tag-benjamin-hale","tag-bob-rosenthal","tag-cleaning-up-new-york","tag-colin-barrett","tag-eclipsed","tag-flamingo-road","tag-joan-crawford","tag-joanna-walsh","tag-lupita-nyongo","tag-metrograph","tag-motif-index-of-folk-literature","tag-recommended-reading","tag-shklovskys-zoo","tag-staff-picks","tag-stith-thompson","tag-the-fat-artist","tag-viktor-shklovsky"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Joanna Walsh, Benjamin Hale, Colin Barrett<\/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\" href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/05\/06\/staff-picks-milk-guzzling-sheriffs-metallic-fiber-mythologybot\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Milk-guzzling Sheriffs, Metallic Fiber, @MythologyBot by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"May 6, 2016 \u2013 In 1955, Stith Thompson, a folklorist at Indiana University, published the first volume of his Motif-Index of Folk-Literature. 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