{"id":98146,"date":"2016-05-13T14:05:14","date_gmt":"2016-05-13T18:05:14","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=98146"},"modified":"2016-05-13T16:34:01","modified_gmt":"2016-05-13T20:34:01","slug":"staff-picks-fear-fumes-that-fucking-cardinal","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/05\/13\/staff-picks-fear-fumes-that-fucking-cardinal\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Fear, Fumes, That Fucking Cardinal"},"content":{"rendered":"
\"\"<\/a>

From the cover of Esopus<\/i> 23. Photo \u00a9 Estate of David Gahr<\/p><\/div>\n

Horacio Castellanos Moya published\u00a0Revulsion<\/a><\/em>\u00a0in 1997, less than a decade after the official end of the Salvadoran civil war. The book\u2014the first English edition of which is forthcoming from New Directions this July\u2014began as an exercise in style, an attempt to ape the unrelenting antagonism of Thomas Bernhard. The result was a slender, scalding diatribe that brought Moya death threats and infamy. With no plot, no real action, and only the slightest sketch of two characters, Revulsion<\/em> is barely a novel, and nowhere near its author\u2019s best. (For that, try\u00a0Senselessness<\/em>\u00a0or\u00a0The She-Devil in the Mirror.<\/em>) But its sprays of vituperation are often funny, and even nineteen years on, the book\u2019s atmosphere of exasperated rage feels itchy, jagged, and real.\u00a0\u2014Robert P. Baird<\/strong><\/p>\n

You don\u2019t have to be a Stones fan to fall in love with Rich Cohen\u2019s The Sun & the Moon & the Rolling Stones<\/a><\/em>. Part rock history, part memoir, it\u2019s so charming, so candid, such a mixture of sweetness and disillusionment and deep fanboy research, that I found myself reading the first four chapters out loud to Sadie\u2014then staying up late, racing to finish, so she could take my copy.\u00a0\u2014Lorin Stein\u00a0<\/strong>\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n

\".\"<\/a>

From the cover of The Swimmer<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Under the patter of Sunday\u2019s rain, I read John Koethe\u2019s newest book of poems,\u00a0The Swimmer<\/a>.<\/em> At seventy, Koethe writes mostly of the ordinary things that comprise a lifetime\u2014of \u201call the little \/ Accidents that make the days go by,\u201d of \u201cthe human shit defining what we are.\u201d Like the cats that live with us until their kidneys fail\u2014\u201cI sing the cat,\u201d he says\u2014or the model trains some of us collect, the great sex we have,\u00a0the unexpected packages that wait for us on our porches. Despite Koethe\u2019s fascination with the prosaic, nearly every line of his lets out the sigh of some existential dilemma. From Wittgenstein to Hume, Gottlob Frege to the Battle of Franklin, Koethe braids the philosophical, the mathematical, and the historical, into his verse. My favorite lines are still the ones that feel as though he\u2019s slung his arm around my neck and pulled my cheek close to his as he points to \u201cthe small delights\u201d before him: \u201cOn that apple tree there\u2019s that fucking cardinal \/ Who reappears each year, plotting to shit on my car \/ Before I leave in the morning.\u201d \u2014Caitlin Youngquist<\/strong><\/p>\n

I spent last night with the enormous, lavish new issue of Esopus<\/a><\/em>, which is, at the risk of fetishizing it, a tactile thing: it has fifteen different paper stocks, metallic inks, varnishes, die-cuts, booklets, prints, posters, and other stuff that will fall out if you shake it. But it\u2019s an art object, not a novelty\u2014the magazine\u2019s luxe production values serve its contents well, giving them a spirit of intrigue that beguiles you into turning the pages. Of special note are Knausgaard\u2019s essay \u201cOn the Value of Literature<\/a>\u201d (\u201cIt is surely a meaningless endeavor, an idiotic exertion leading to nothing, and yet it is exquisite, in its own singular way\u201d); a vast series of found photographs from the last century<\/a>, all of which had been hand-labeled \u201cME<\/small>\u201d by their subjects; and \u201cSpray On<\/a>,\u201d a drizzly, oblique portfolio from Marilyn Minter that comes alive in the care with which it\u2019s printed. \u2014Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"

From the cover of Something Will Happen, You\u2019ll See<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

Douglas Adams died fifteen years ago last Wednesday, when I stumbled across a magnificent essay by Jess Zimmerman<\/a>, written a year ago, about the sizable impact\u00a0Hitchhikers Guide to the\u00a0Galaxy<\/em>\u00a0<\/em>had on both her adolescent psyche and her trajectory as a writer (the first was positive; the second, less so). A friend pressed me to read Adams\u2019s book years ago, and after a few pages I knew why he\u2019d been so persistent: in addition to being the funniest book I\u2019ve ever read, the\u00a0Guide<\/em>\u00a0puts the everything in the world\u2014including and especially you, the reader\u2014into perspective, albeit a rather frightening and vast perspective, one that, in the book, destroys minds. For Zimmerman, reading the\u00a0Guide<\/em>\u00a0was profoundly influential and inspired her to want to write books that could do for others what Adams\u2019s book did for her. But the anxiety of influence has proved more powerful, as has Adams\u2019s inimitable genius. Her recognition of the immense sway certain books hold over us is remarkable, and the essay may or may not have made me tear up a little. See for yourself: \u201cWhen I look at a bookshelf I see the books that are the scaffolding of my life, and all the other books I loved and all the ones I\u2019ll never read, and the ones I\u2019d hate, and the ones still being written and poised to become beloved or fall into obscurity, and the ones that could be written in the future, along with an invisible dot on an invisible dot marked \u2018you are here.\u2019 \u201d \u2014Nicole Rudick<\/strong><\/p>\n

Something Will Happen, You\u2019ll See<\/a><\/em>\u2014the title of Christos Ikonomou\u2019s story collection, translated from the Greek, reads like a mantra for its characters, all citizens in the harbor town of Perama, left impoverished after the debt crisis in 2009. The hope in that title isn\u2019t borne out in the stories themselves; each begins in the wake of a small tragedy that echoes the government\u2019s fall from grace. Fathers die from having inhaled cargo-ship fumes all their lives, from gas explosions in factories; a brother is beaten nearly to death in a labor rights protest; a boyfriend steals his girlfriend\u2019s piggy bank and takes off in the middle of the night.\u00a0Something Will Happen\u00a0<\/em>is a heartbreaking and essential portrait of Greece\u2019s modern despair, and while there are hopeful moments scattered throughout, the ones that ring truest are apocalyptic: \u201cOutside it\u2019s getting dark. Black birds sit rustling their wings on the electrical wires like notes on the staff of some strange music, some music written to be played on the last night of the world.\u201d \u2014Daniel Johnson<\/strong><\/p>\n

\"\"

From the cover of Titus Groan<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n

It\u2019s a torturous lull between Game of Thrones<\/em> episodes. I\u2019ve passed the time with Mervyn Peake\u2019s\u00a0novel Titus Groan<\/a><\/em>, a refreshingly elevated take on the gothic: what it lacks in GoT<\/em>\u2019s military splendor it recoups in Tolkien-like quality of style. The novel is set in the decrepit castle Gormenghast, home to the noble family Groan, most of whom are so covered in dust that they seem to have calcified into extensions of the castle walls. For the family, a long-established pattern of ritual and routine is disrupted by the impending birth of the lord Groan\u2019s heir, the titular Titus, and the arrival of young upstart Steerpike. Characters are styled almost exclusively through their perversions and flaws, which cast them as witless\u2014and more often than not, creepy\u2014caricatures of medieval aristocracy. It\u2019s a comic novel, but not without its intrigue, mayhem, and murder. In other words, it should hold you over till\u00a0Sunday. \u2014Ty Anania<\/strong><\/p>\n

Maybe this internship has unearthed some latent Francophilia in me: the past two books I\u2019ve mentioned in this space have been French, and now I\u2019m happy to continue with Patrick Modiano\u2019s Villa Triste<\/a><\/em>. The novel\u2019s nameless, abstractly fearful hero recalls the early sixties, when he absconded from Paris to a lakeside town near Switzerland. He finds a reprieve from his anxiety there: he meets an aspiring actress and a cosmopolitan doctor who guide him around the village on excursions reminiscent of the Lost Generation\u2019s aimless hedonia. Modiano\u2019s prose oscillates between brute force and delicacy, and he\u2019s especially skillful in evoking the way memory can play with youth: serving as both a conduit and an excuse to fixate on (or fabricate) the past. Above all, memory for Villa Triste<\/em>\u2019s narrator functions as a panacea: \u201cI was dreaming,\u201d he says. \u201cI therefore avoided making overly abrupt movements and asking overly precise questions so that I wouldn\u2019t have to wake up.\u201d \u2014Rakin Azfar<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Horacio Castellanos Moya published\u00a0Revulsion\u00a0in 1997, less than a decade after the official end of the Salvadoran civil war. The book\u2014the first English edition of which is forthcoming from New Directions this July\u2014began as an exercise in style, an attempt to ape the unrelenting antagonism of Thomas Bernhard. The result was a slender, scalding diatribe that […]<\/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":[22363,10323,22361,20820,22362,18322,8542,2268,3712,834,9619,7779,883,10856],"class_list":["post-98146","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-christos-ikonomou","tag-douglas-adams","tag-esopus","tag-horacio-castellanos-moya","tag-jess-zimmerman","tag-john-koethe","tag-karl-ove-knausgaard","tag-marilyn-minter","tag-mervyn-peake","tag-patrick-modiano","tag-recommended-reading","tag-rich-cohen","tag-staff-picks","tag-the-rolling-stones"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\nStaff Picks: Castellanos Moya, John Koethe, Esopus<\/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\/2016\/05\/13\/staff-picks-fear-fumes-that-fucking-cardinal\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Staff Picks: Fear, Fumes, That Fucking Cardinal by The Paris Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"May 13, 2016 \u2013 Horacio Castellanos Moya published\u00a0Revulsion\u00a0in 1997, less than a decade after the official end of the Salvadoran civil war. 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