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who knew macho came in so many delicate colors? evidently don carpenter did. and displayed the entire spectrum in his great brutal HARD RAIN FALLING... with a palpable adherence to some unsaid code of defiant honesty, carpenter's first novel anchors...more
who knew macho came in so many delicate colors? evidently don carpenter did. and displayed the entire spectrum in his great brutal HARD RAIN FALLING... with a palpable adherence to some unsaid code of defiant honesty, carpenter's first novel anchors itself in a historically determined idea of manhood that dates itself much less than one might at first assume.
three very different eras in one man's life: a raging early hoodlum boyhood of poolhalls and not-so-petty crimes; then stints at prison including one tremendous tear of writing and existential fury describing a solitary confinement episode and also, later, a very moving and tragic love story between inmates at san quentin... the book perhaps should have ended there but gives us a final portrait of the ex-con as a young father... this bit, while burning not quite as hot, also has its philosophical rewards. this last domestic section may also only seem a letdown because by then you've become accustomed to the explosive miracles carpenter seems to be pulling off scene after extended scene.
usually i dislike books where i'm constantly wondering what happens next because i feel manipulated, as if i'm on some kind of ride. i wondered what came next here, but i didn't mind.
when he took his life at the age of 64 don carpenter was at work on a final book called FRIDAYS AT ENRICO's about his particular san franciscio literary scene. he was good friends with evan connell, anne lamott, and richard brautigan. the obits report that carpenter was badly effected by his friend brautigan's suicide. here's a memorial written by carpenter about their friendship.
here's an interview with NYRB editor edwin frank about how the reprint came about -- mostly it seems from the support of george pelecanos.
and here's pelecanos reading from HARD RAIN FALLING.
pick it up from the library or from the publisher.(less)
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a lightning strike, a revelation. populated by persons afflicted -- the two serious ladies of its title most so -- by some hilarious strain of nutty. each too acquiring a certain kind of self-proclaimed but not entirely inaccurate sainthood. "saint"...more
a lightning strike, a revelation. populated by persons afflicted -- the two serious ladies of its title most so -- by some hilarious strain of nutty. each too acquiring a certain kind of self-proclaimed but not entirely inaccurate sainthood. "saint" a title to use advisedly, but there is something of the seeker and holy fool about these characters. an air of privilege perfumes our ladies but their disavowal of it through the casual violation or even destruction of propriety makes it seem the transgressions and non sequiturs are actually the fastidious following of a much higher order. my edition has a great intro by lorna sage who reveals parenthetically that Christina Goering was "named after Jesus Christ and Hitler's aviation minister"(!) ...published in 1943 TWO SERIOUS LADIES can be thought of as a proto-beat novel -- only in the sense that it too seems a response and protesting statement to the bourgeois strictures from which it arises -- but otherwise a total sui generis. it's madcap, movingly in touch with despair, structurally profound, and in the best sense foolishly holy.
(neither here nor there but for some reason while reading it i was frequently reminded of dead pan philosophy professor ray johnson.)
janes bowles' nytimes obit
great article by stacey d'erasmo on jane bowles in OUT which has this bit:
"It's possible," Koestenbaum tells me, "that I worship Jane Bowles a little less than I did five or ten years ago. Self destructiveness isn't as easily idealized as you get older." It's true. The loneliness of Bowles that seemed grand to me at 20 now seems like a question that was never answered.
find it at the library(less)
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variously rapturous and mundane and insightfully sad on sex. insightfully sad on race. uses its chosen terms (the Black Object, Herman the German) to riff poignantly in (what i tend to think of as) the indeterminate confessional manner. a few strikin...more
variously rapturous and mundane and insightfully sad on sex. insightfully sad on race. uses its chosen terms (the Black Object, Herman the German) to riff poignantly in (what i tend to think of as) the indeterminate confessional manner. a few striking urban reality nightmare images that may end up being the takeaway. and good bits of embedded workshop advice, such as (via faith ringgold "you should not try to be original, just think of the purpose." and "that if you learn about composition from the master, you may never learn to compose, but if you think about how to deal with space" . . . ).
a great last poem, here're its first three lines:
Last night, I was surrounded by other black poets, This statement breaches two important rules about poetry.
One, do not confess you write it.
__________________
a reading by ronaldo wilson: http://youtu.be/xgALxo9stPs(less)
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houellebecq is a supreme market analyst, not shying away from drawing a trendline even if it's more based on cynicism than data:
They had several happy weeks. It was not, it couldn't be, the exacerbated, feverish happiness of young people, and it was ...more
houellebecq is a supreme market analyst, not shying away from drawing a trendline even if it's more based on cynicism than data:
They had several happy weeks. It was not, it couldn't be, the exacerbated, feverish happiness of young people, and it was no longer a question for them in the course of a weekend to get plastered or totally shit-faced; it was already -- but they were still young enough to laugh about it -- the preparation for that epicurean, peaceful, refined but unsnobbish happiness that Western society offered the representatives of its middle-to-upper classes in middle age. They got used to the theatrical tone adopted by waiters in high-star establishments as they announced the composition of the amuse-bouches and other appetizers; and also that elastic and declamatory way in which they exclaimed: "Excellente continuation, messieurs, dames!" each time they brought the next course (58)."
inhaled it and enjoyed it thoroughly, but not his best (though maybe his most consciously ambitious). somehow it didn't appear to have the energy to finish what it started. the houellebecq character seemed to exist simply to settle scores and mock his own public image -- but after those tasks were (often, it's true, hilariously) done there ironically was a painful lack of development for this rather essential, important character. and the (d)evolution into police procedural i think was in some ways, even if premeditated and even if enjoyable, shark jumping.
there are even moments of unfortunate false notes and unexpected sentimentality, for example when the main character tries to find meaning in his life so waxes nostalgic for the one that got away:
The word passion suddenly crossed Jed's mind, and all of a sudden he found himself ten years previously, during his last weekend with Olga... Night was falling, and the temperature ideally mild. Olga seemed deep in contemplation of her pressed lobster. She had said nothing for at least a minute when she lifted her head, looked him straight in the eyes, and asked: "Do you know why you're attractive to women?... It's very simple: it's because you have an intense look in your eyes. A passionate look... If they can read in the eyes of a man an energy, a passion, then they find him attractive" (106-7).
this is houellebecq writing?!
and/but there's plenty to love... here's a favorite stand-alone bit. typical in its wry cultural observation, it ends with a quietly explosive insight:
The Sushi Warehouse in Roissy 2E offered an exceptional range of Norwegian mineral waters. Jed opted for the Husqvarna, a water from the center of Norway, which sparkled discreetly. It was extremely pure -- although, in reality, no more than the others. All these mineral waters distinguished themselves only by the sparkling, a slightly different texture in the mouth; none of them were salty or ferruginous; the basic point of Norwegian mineral waters seemed to be moderation. Subtle hedonists, these Norwegians, thought Jed as he bought his Husqvarna; it was pleasant, he thought again, that so many different forms of purity could exist (80).
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endpapers would make a good tshirt. a brief fun purposeful slog. but still a bit of a slog.
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reminded me of walser -- maybe a more worldy walser. as if instead of retreating to the madhouse, hrabal was sentenced to the purgatory of the diplomatic corps -- forced propriety despite the absurd or horrific swirls of history around him. but, like...more
reminded me of walser -- maybe a more worldy walser. as if instead of retreating to the madhouse, hrabal was sentenced to the purgatory of the diplomatic corps -- forced propriety despite the absurd or horrific swirls of history around him. but, like walser, he recognizes the poetic gesture... poetic or romantic despite or because of the old world sexism and classism rampant (and rampant still) just before the second world war, the ripened-to-rot but still shiny weimar-type decadence... without mentioning it to spoil it, the first chapter has one of the more romantic scenes i've read in many a year.
the movement from charming and bawdy to dark satire and political farce to apocalyptic dream and finally into prayerful meditation -- all that transition done quietly, even feigning modesty, yet this quiet hiding a great ambition. the transitions' build-up and execution reflective of not only the change of an individual but of nation-states.
here's a scene to wet yer whistle:
"I saw Zdenëk, the headwaiter at the Hotel Tichota, who enjoyed having a good time so much when he was off work that to get it he'd spend all the money he had with him, which was always several thousand. Then I saw his uncle, a military bandmaster now retired, who split wood on his little plot of land in the forest where he had a cottage overgrown with flowers and wild vines. This uncle had been a bandmaster at the time of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and still wore his uniform when he split wood, because he had written two polkas and several waltzes that still got played all the time, although no one remembered who the composer was and everyone thought he'd died a long time ago. Zdenëk and I, as we were riding along in a rented buggy on one of our days off, heard the sound of a military brass band playing one of his uncle's waltzes, and Zdenëk stood up and signaled the driver to stop, then went over to the band and had a little talk with the bandmaster. He offered to give him all the money he had, four thousand crowns, for the soldiers to buy themselves beer, if they would do what he asked. Buses were waiting, and the whole band was getting ready to climb aboard to go to a band tattoo, so we left the buggy there and got on the first bus with them. After an hour's drive we stopped in a forest, and soon a hundred and twenty uniformed musicians with their shiny instruments were advancing slowly down a road through the woods. Then they turned onto a footpath lined with thick bushes and pine trees that towered overhead, and Zdenëk signaled them to stop and slipped through some loose planks in a fence, disappeared into the bushes for a few moments, then came back and told them his plan. When he gave the sign, the soldiers climbed one by one through the hole in the fence into the bushes while Zdenëk, like a soldier at the front, directed them to take positions around the tiny house. They could hear the sound of an ax striking wood, and the entire band silently surrounded the chopping block and an old man in an ancient Austrian bandleader's uniform. When Zdenëk gave the signal, the bandmaster flung his golden ceremonial baton in the air, gave a loud command, and out of the bushes rose a glistening array of brass instruments and the band began to play a clamorous polka by Zdenëk's uncle. The old bandleader stood transfixed over the piece of wood he had just split, while the band moved forward a couple of steps, still up to their waists in pine and oak shrubs. Only the bandmaster stood in the greenery up to his knees, swinging his golden baton while the band played the polka and their instruments flashed in the sunlight. The old bandleader slowly looked around with a heavenly expression on his face, and when they finished the polka the band started right in on one of his concert waltzes, and the old bandleader sat down, put his ax across his knees, and began to cry. The bandmaster came up and touched his shoulder, the old man looked up, and the bandmaster handed him the golden baton. Now the old man got to his feet and, as he told us afterward, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven with a military band all around him, and he thought they must play military music in heaven and that God Himself was conducting the band and was now turning His own baton over to him. So the old man conducted his own pieces, and when he'd finished, Zdenëk stepped out of the bushes, shook hands with his uncle, and wished him good health. Half an hour later the band climbed back into their buses and as they were driving away they played Zdenëk a farewell ceremonial fanfare. Zdenëk stood there filled with emotion and bowed and thanked them, and finally the buses, and with them the fanfares, faded down the road through the woods, lashed by beech branches and shrubs" (159-61).(less)
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