{"id":98678,"date":"2016-05-27T14:05:35","date_gmt":"2016-05-27T18:05:35","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=98678"},"modified":"2016-05-27T14:34:03","modified_gmt":"2016-05-27T18:34:03","slug":"staff-picks-turtles-tornados-teen-dirt-bike-racers","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/05\/27\/staff-picks-turtles-tornados-teen-dirt-bike-racers\/","title":{"rendered":"Staff Picks: Turtles, Tornados, Teen Dirt-bike Racers"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_98681\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-98681\" class=\"wp-image-98681\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/worksanddays.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"418\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/worksanddays.jpg 782w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/worksanddays-300x209.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/worksanddays-768x535.jpg 768w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-98681\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">From <i>Works and Days<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m not even sure anything happened to me. \/ Or to whom everything happened.\u201d So ends Brenda Shaughnessy\u2019s long poem of adolescence \u201cIs There Something I Should Know.\u201d Reading those lines, I realized I had been waiting for that wisdom\u2014that formulation\u2014a long time. Her new book, <em><a href=\"http:\/\/www.amazon.com\/So-Much-Synth-Brenda-Shaughnessy\/dp\/1556594879\" target=\"_blank\">So Much Synth<\/a><\/em>, is full of these moments. Soulfulness is not a quality I always look for in poets of my generation, but over the last two decades Shaughnessy has stripped herself down to a voice that can sing plainly about disappointment and love in hard circumstances and the lost art of the mix tape, here revived in verse:<\/p>\n<blockquote>\n<p>As it records, you have to listen to each<br \/>song in its entirety, and in this way<\/p>\n<p>you hear your favorite song with the ears<br \/>of your intended, as they hear it, new.<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n<p>\u2014<strong>Lorin Stein<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>I\u2019ve never been very diligent about keeping a journal, but the form is one I enjoy reading: the lists one makes, the mundane things that fill an afternoon. <em><a href=\"http:\/\/www.ndbooks.com\/book\/works-and-days\/\" target=\"_blank\">Works and Days<\/a>\u00a0<\/em>is Bernadette Mayer\u2019s forthcoming book, at once a collection of poetry and a dated record of a past spring: woven among her verse are her journal entries. I found myself pulled toward these other, more austere little notes. Comprising teensy, often inconsequential moments\u2014like whether it\u2019s rained or has been threatening to rain\u2014these prosaic morsels are gorgeous and serene. Hardly any of Mayer\u2019s days are spectacular, but her eye is so keenly attune to all that surrounds her that nearly everything feels touched with grandeur. She writes of the grackles that remind her of Donald Trump and her broken ulna, of the tornados in Duanesburg and the poems she wrote with Jennifer Karmin and Niel Rosenthalis. She says she hates rye bread and recalls the sound of New York City pavement being swept. But there are delectable, sometimes even bawdy bursts of excitement in the collection, too, like when she writes about the poet Bill Berkson bringing a dildo to sex camp or the heron that \u201cate my heart.\u201d \u2014<strong>Caitlin Youngquist\u00a0<\/strong><!--more--><\/p>\n<p><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-98682 aligncenter\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/51agapnjrfl.jpg\" alt=\"51aGaPnJRfL\" width=\"333\" height=\"500\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/51agapnjrfl.jpg 333w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/51agapnjrfl-200x300.jpg 200w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/p>\n<p>\u201cI don\u2019t want to go to the Zoo anymore. The other night I dreamt of an octopus.\u201d So read the first two sentences of\u00a0<em><a href=\"http:\/\/www.nyrb.com\/products\/turtle-diary\" target=\"_blank\">Turtle Diary<\/a><\/em>, a hilarious, mordant, sympathetic little novel by the Russell Hoban.\u00a0<em>Turtle Diary\u00a0<\/em>is arranged in alternating diary entries written by two strangers: William G., a divorc\u00e9 working in a London bookshop, and Neaera H., a single children\u2019s book author. Both are in their forties, lonely in their isolated lives. They\u2019re each marked with the black spot of empathy. William G. makes regular trips to the zoo (in spite of his low-grade whine at the beginning of the novel), where he\u2019s drawn to the sea turtles, though their tanks depress him (\u201cTheir eyes said nothing, the thousands of miles of ocean couldn\u2019t be said.\u201d) He anthropomorphizes two conversing birds, who walk \u201cwith their heads down and if they\u2019d had hands they would have had them clasped behind their backs.\u201d Neaera H., too, feels the battling wonder and emptiness of the zoo, which equals\u2014and maybe stands for\u2014the battling wonder and emptiness of life. Eventually, William\u2019s and Neaera\u2019s empathy works like a magnetic to bring them, almost telepathically, to identical aims\u2014to free the sea turtles from their tanks\u2014and to each other. I love what Ed Park says in his introduction to the 2013 New York Review Books edition: \u201c[<em>Turtle Diary<\/em>] offers solace to anyone who has ever looked at her situation in life and wondered \u2026 \u2018Am I doomed\u2019? (The answer: No.)\u201d It\u2019ll also make you laugh out loud. \u2014<strong>Caitlin Love<\/strong><\/p>\n<p>A few weeks ago, we <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2016\/05\/05\/babies-in-art\/\" target=\"_blank\">published an excerpt<\/a> of Rivka Galchen\u2019s <a href=\"http:\/\/www.amazon.com\/Little-Labors-Rivka-Galchen\/dp\/0811225585\" target=\"_blank\"><em>Little Labors<\/em><\/a>, another excerpt of which I\u2019d read in <a href=\"http:\/\/harpers.org\/archive\/2015\/08\/notes-on-some-twentieth-century-writers\/\" target=\"_blank\"><em>Harper\u2019s <\/em>l<\/a><a href=\"http:\/\/harpers.org\/archive\/2015\/08\/notes-on-some-twentieth-century-writers\/\" target=\"_blank\">ast summer<\/a>. Galchen looks at babies as objects, unruly houseguests, and, most often, animals, calling hers \u201cThe Puma,\u201d and, once it can locomote, \u201cThe Chicken,\u201d as a way of dismantling the magical states of babydom and motherhood. She writes like a wide-eyed oracle, in a state of knowing calm, and often plays the observing diarist, noting how the presence of the puma\/chicken elicits fresh and baffling reactions from the people she sees daily: her family, a disliked neighbor, the corner drunk. In these short essays, anecdotes, and aphorisms, Galchen views motherhood in equal parts euphoria and dread, and her forays into literature, mostly Japanese, look to unravel the myth of the woman writer, but more so of the mother writer. \u2014<strong>Jeffery Gleaves<\/strong><\/p>\n<div id=\"attachment_98683\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-98683\" class=\"wp-image-98683\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/spetters-620x443.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"429\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/spetters-620x443.jpg 620w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2016\/05\/spetters-620x443-300x214.jpg 300w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><p id=\"caption-attachment-98683\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">The cast of <i>Spetters<\/i>.<\/p><\/div>\n<p>I\u2019ve used this space before to <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/02\/27\/staff-picks-actors-bluesmen-showgirls\/\" target=\"_blank\">express my admiration for Paul Verhoeven<\/a>, whose new film <em>Elle<\/em>, his first in more than a decade, debuted at Cannes this month. I haven\u2019t seen it yet, but <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/02\/27\/staff-picks-actors-bluesmen-showgirls\/\" target=\"_blank\">an interview with Verhoeven in the<em>\u00a0Guardian<\/em><\/a> has confirmed that it\u2019s agreeably disturbed: \u201cIt\u2019s a film that walks a tightrope,\u201d Benjamin Lee writes, \u201cprovoking and challenging our preconceptions \u2026 It stars\u00a0Isabelle Huppert\u00a0as the icy CEO of a gaming company who is raped in her home by a masked assailant. But rather than rush to the police, she calmly cleans up, takes a blood-tinged bath and goes on with her busy life. When her attacker starts to threaten a reprise, she becomes entangled in a strange and twisted game.\u201d In anticipation, I watched his excellent 1980 film <em><a href=\"http:\/\/www.imdb.com\/title\/tt0081547\/\" target=\"_blank\">Spetters<\/a><\/em>, in which a group of horny teen dirt-bike racers behave badly. I won\u2019t elaborate except to say that the film sparked protests in the Netherlands, and its title, in Dutch, is a triple entendre, serving as slang for grease spatters, semen, and hot people (\u201cDude\u2019s a total spetter\u201d). \u2014<strong>Dan Piepenbring<\/strong><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>\u201cI\u2019m not even sure anything happened to me. \/ Or to whom everything happened.\u201d So ends Brenda Shaughnessy\u2019s long poem of adolescence \u201cIs There Something I Should Know.\u201d Reading those lines, I realized I had been waiting for that wisdom\u2014that formulation\u2014a long time. Her new book, So Much Synth, is full of these moments. Soulfulness [&hellip;]<\/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":[8587,3682,4067,5706,22199,17209,165,9619,5394,5332,22543,22545,883,12778,22544],"class_list":["post-98678","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-this-weeks-reading","tag-bernadette-mayer","tag-brenda-shaughnessy","tag-elle","tag-journals","tag-little-labors","tag-paul-verhoeven","tag-poetry","tag-recommended-reading","tag-rivka-galchen","tag-russell-hoban","tag-so-much-synth","tag-spetters","tag-staff-picks","tag-turtle-diary","tag-works-and-days"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Staff Picks: Brenda Shaughnessy, Bernadette Mayer, Rivka Galchen<\/title>\n<meta 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