all hail the weirdo king. i'm now smart. i "get" ben marcus. of course that means i have to go back & reread what i already read, the age of wireall hail the weirdo king. i'm now smart. i "get" ben marcus. of course that means i have to go back & reread what i already read, the age of wire & string, & do the math to figger out if i was wrong, or just genuinely stupid.
these are things i think about. not things that occur to me, but things i turn around, smell, or throw against a wall to determine its, i don't know, something. that was probably stolen from my memory of something george saunders wrote, which one could say marcus seems to be, if not digging in a field somewhat close by, at least doing a flyby of reconnaissance for the examination of & remarking on of said field, if you were like me, someone as limited in his ability to offer an opinion on another's work, & yet, for some reason or another, so eager to comment. b/c you get him, now, ben marcus. me, that is. i get him now.
what's important to remember here is the logistics. this is the book that will make me read everything else ben marcus has written, including the book he wrote that i read that was not that book, as well as this book, that is ... umm ... that book. probably read each new one he puts out w/ respect to access at the time.
it reminds me of the moment i realized i loved a modest mouse record i'd previously resolved to dislike b/c of reasons so moronic i'll not mention here so as to not alter my "face" for the worse. sadly i continued to do this for years w/ no regard to evidence, or even the lie of an inquiry. i'm losing the point, so i'll just say it. either in spite of, or b/c of, or just b/c, everything isaac brock touches is gold to me.
my opinion on ben marcus, while not lacking the signature laziness i employ when forming an opinion, had only the hype he did not control [i hope! cause that would be weird, maybe even weird enough to ... nah] & my personal experience w/ one book, until i read this one, which i casually noticed & grabbed w/o thinking on my way out the library a few days ago. sometimes i get the little things right.
a little about the book
1) it's very fucking dark, which goes a long way towards explaining why, i think, i like it so much. i would say it's unrelenting in its fucking darkness.
2) if you love yer family, you might not like this book. if you hate yer family, you might like this book. if, however, yer about 99% sure you just found out you do, in fact, now blame yer family, instead of yerself, for how fucked up you really are, there is no way you will not love this book.
3) if you want to feel better about how much you hate humanity in general, you'll probably like this book. if you like other people, do not read this book.
4) if yer smart, you will like this book.
5) this book makes me feel smart, even though it also makes me acknowledge the horror of being smart, as well as the horror of not being sure if you are smart, or just feel smart, or even the possibility of the certainty that feeling smart is what makes you truly stupid, which, if true, you totally are.
this is really a really, really good book. really....more
hopefully review to come. not hopeful to come soon. other than kid's books i've read to my daughter, this is only the second time i've finished a bookhopefully review to come. not hopeful to come soon. other than kid's books i've read to my daughter, this is only the second time i've finished a book & immediately started reading it again from the beginning. the first was Tenth of December & was mainly b/c i was staying w/ my best friend temporarily, it had just come out, he'd just gotten it, i was broke, the library had an outrageous waitlist, it was amazing & george saunders fucking rules. this will be the first time i am doing this w/ a book i already own, an unbelievably huge (actual--not wishlist) & ever-metastasizing to-read pile & just b/c. thomas pynchon is for me part of a select group including the coen brothers, pavement & many others, that i am incapable of experiencing objectively. so, from an admittedly absolute & impossible non-objective viewpoint, do not believe the haters, the mehs, people w/ a built-in auto-response of disappointment to anything new by a writer sacred to them, people (similar but not the same as previous) incapable of considering a book on its own merit, people (also similar but different) incapable of considering a book within any context other than the writer's previous works, or probably me, either, for that matter. i will say this with absolute impossible non-objectivity: i loved Inherent Vice, but Bleeding Edge, while sharing many qualities (& how could it not--it's pynchon), is an altogether different beast & way better, more complex &, frankly, way more old school pynchonesque than anything review-wise i've come across. as captain beefheart used to say, "back to front." more to come . . ....more
I have no idea what just happened to me as I finished this book. I have very little idea what happened in the book. The plot is there, seemingly rightI have no idea what just happened to me as I finished this book. I have very little idea what happened in the book. The plot is there, seemingly right in front of you, and yet. . . and yet, it is still, a week after finishing it, almost completely indiscernible. More importantly, it is seemingly entirely unnecessary. I keep saying seemingly, I think, because a) I am trying to evoke a feeling I got that, while things may seem to be this way or that, or saying this or saying that, that they are not this or that, or they are not saying this or that; and b) I'm excusing my nebulous non-understanding of the book. The characters are there. They come up, out and right at you, and yet. . . and yet, I don't know who among them, if any, this book is about. I did not develop lasting attachments to any of them, at least not while reading the book. There is one that now, seemingly at least, has branded himself into my head, busted his way into the gallery of characters from fiction I've read over the years, a real rogues gallery of people like the Misfit from A Good Man is Hard to Find, or Gene Harrogate, the 'defiler of melons' from Suttree, or Ned Pointsman, Lazlo Jamf, Brig. Gen. Ernest Pudding, Blodgett Waxwing, or any number of major characters but not co-protagonists of Gravity's Rainbow, or Belacqua Shuah from More Pricks Than Kicks and Dream Of Fair To Middling Women, who is, without a doubt, the main character of his tales and yet. . . and yet; I could obviously go on with this list seemingly forever without making the point I'm trying to make. But that's kind of the point. Getting back, for one second, to the character I was referring to though, a certain Cap Leech, doctor, midwife, medicine man, among many other things, seems to be, by the end of the book, for lack of a better word, the protagonist of The Beetle Leg. The novel ends with some sort of confession from Leech, a short italicized ramble with his name as a heading, maybe one of the only really clear indicators of anything throughout the whole book. But what it meant was lost on me. Further, I have no clear recollection of his entrance into the story, but I'm pretty sure it's at least over halfway through, and though, for me at least, his thoughts, in many ways, dominate the story from the moment he appears, there is so much happening elsewhere that I can't, or don't know how to, put any of it in any kind of perspective. And that gets me to as good a place as any to say why I loved this book so much. It doesn't fucking matter! The writing itself is so purely perfect that the fact that reading the book made me feel like I was coming out of a heavy anesthesia, or that I was viewing everything through the filter of some trick you play on your vision by mashing your thumb into your eyeball works in a way, obviously entirely intentional on the part of Hawkes, so perfectly that to imagine seeing it without that eclipse-like detachment would make it. . . well, fuck if I know. How could I if I don't really know what it was the way that it was?
That unnameable point one comes to in any book you end up really loving, that moment you no longer notice you are reading a book and are just witnessing the story, or even the moment you notice you no longer notice that. . . Sometimes it comes 5-10 pages in, sometimes 350-500. Other than the first 20 or so pages I read before putting it down for over a month before picking it back up, I have no idea where that unnameable point in The Beetle Leg was, and it's not like I didn't go back and try and find it, either. And the book is a trim 159 pages total.
Let me say a couple of things on the other side over here that might make some of you want to actually read this. The back of my New Directions Paperback edition tells us that it was Hawkes's second full-length novel, first published by ND in 1951, and that apparently it spent 'more than fifteen years of underground existence' before 'emerging as a classic of visionary writing'. Newsweek referred to it as a 'surrealist Western,' and Albert J. Guerard called it a violent and poetic portayal of 'a landscape of sexual apathy.' And, S.K. Overbeck writes in his essay John Hawkes: The Smile Slashed By a Razor from Contemporary American Novelists:
The mixture of pity and exhilaration in the human condition is recreated with chilling authenticity by Hawkes. His is a search into the pit that stops at no amount of terrifying discovery. Admitting everything, rejecting nothing, Hawkes writes from a viewpoint of few American authors.
Overbeck also writes:
While it is true that Hawkes writes like, sounds like, no one else at all, it is equally true that his fiction "shares a birthmark," as he puts it, with a body of writing that might arbitrarily be represented by authors such as Faulkner, Kafka, Conrad, Lautréamont, Djuna Barnes, Flannery O'Connor, Nathanael West and Kraft-Ebbing.
When trying to understand or explain my thoughts on what writers came to mind as I read this, certainly Faulkner was one, and to a lesser extent O'Connor. But while her characters occupy a similar emotional landscape as do those in The Beetle Leg, she is intentionally as clear as one can be about the outcomes they suffer as Hawkes is intentionally. . . shit, I can't think of a word loaded enough to capture what he does; perhaps obtuse, but only if using some kind of secondary definition that eliminates reference to lacking intelligence or wit, like say, 'not sharp, pointed, or acute in form; blunt,' or 'not distinctly felt.' Of Hawkes's The Lime Twig, O'Connor stated she felt an intense sense of suffocation when reading it. I'm obviously out of my depth here, as usual, but the writers I mostly felt, while at the same time restating that Hawkes has a stamp all his own, were, sort of oddly I guess, Beckett, as a precursor, but mainly in the areas of detachment and isolation coupled with a fondness for grotesque humor; and, as someone who I simply can't imagine was not influenced by Hawkes, and even particularly The Beetle Leg, Cormac McCarthy. Beckett is Beckett, and somewhat incomparable to almost anyone in my opinion, but the main glaring lack of similarity here was the obsessive self-involvement of the characters/narrators in the works of Beckett I thought of while reading this, particularly First Love and Other Novellas. With McCarthy, again it is an almost eerie, bizarro-type feeling I get. While the language and dialogue could at times be lifted from one and dropped into the other without noticing it at all, Hawkes's book seems completely bereft of any of the literary and biblical allusion McCarthy's work is rife with. McCarthy also seems to be able to keep the reader in the loop as far as the plot goes even with the density of language and ideas he is throwing at you. Where McCarthy seems to fit somewhere in the scheme of retelling or re-interpreting myths as old as language itself, there is no parable or archetype or anything of the type to be found in The Beetle Leg. On a somewhat less profound note, it is interesting to me that Hawkes creates a world in which women live, move and do, and in ways equally as simple and complicated, as good and as bad, and as incomprehensibly bat-shit crazy as the men do, and that is something I don't think McCarthy does, or, as is totally his right and really not to the detriment of his work, have any interest in.
So this is way too long and I've lost any thread of what I might've been trying to say, but I'm gonna try to anyway real quick and then include a couple of passages just to show the utter twisted beauty of Hawkes's actual writing. First, there's this great, true story about a dinner Donald Barthelme hosted, not too long before his death, in New York where he contrived to bring together a group of his peers, most of the greatest, at the time, living North American postmodernist fiction writers. There was no great purpose or agenda for the event, just a dinner. Apparently Barthelme deliberated with great concern over the guest list, consulting a somewhat baffled Walter Abish, who felt out his league even giving his opinion on the subject. In the end, included were folks like Kurt Vonnegut, William Gaddis, William Gass, Robert Coover, John Barth, Susan Sontag (oddly the only woman writer invited), Abish, and John Hawkes, maybe a few others. Thomas Pynchon had politely declined, claiming to be caught between the coasts of Montana and Arizona. My point in mentioning this story is that apparently the only two people who had a good time were Barth and Hawkes, which was generally no surprise as they both liked a tipple and were of an outgoing nature. That was pretty much all I knew of Hawkes other than many, many titles from shelving his books over the years. To say the least, The Beetle Leg was not at all what I expected, and yet. . . and yet, I could've expected just about anything and it would not have been at all what I got, which is a book almost unlike any I've ever read before. And I've read a few.
A couple of excerpts. . .
The desert filled with women. They swarmed within sideboards of beaten wagons, staring ahead for sign of well or a shade in which to dismount and shake. Three cartloads plied the desert. Banded warm members, they traveled free of the farmer and cattle driver, chopped to the roots stray outcroppings of slate colored grass. These were women who rode unwatched on the dry bottom of the lake with empty breasts and nameless horses, and even the oldest unsnapped heavy collars and soured the passing miles from the tail boards where they sat and dangled their weak legs. They nodded to the thrust, the side slapping of the wheels.
“But I believe there’s trouble.” Again Luke climbed to his sod post and waited. Narrowly he glanced at Ma. “Yes, sir. Them women don’t have no water. Not a drop.”
“That’s all right.” Ma passed quickly with the basket. “You don’t draw such things to my attention.”
“Well,” Luke pulled on his hat, “I reckon they’d survive about anything.” He walked away, sat down and watched her.
And those women were roughly able to sing songs of the skewered lamb and waters driven back by faith or oath. They were dry. The boards on which they sat, scraped of fodder, might have burst aflame if the sun were caught briefly in the eye of a watch glass. They traveled in three lifeless dories with dead oarlocks and rotted sails; they sang stiffly, managed to hold the reins. They backtracked, chewed the sand and made their way over weary, salty miles to see one woman their own age brought to bed.
Every one of them made the trip. There was not a woman in the desert who had not left the animal pens, truck garden patch and particular gully of the home to sit all day in the sun, breathe the air of ancient lying in and love. For hours, under a never swaying skirt, a bare ankle remained chocked against brake iron or plank. The desert gave them up and they advanced; they might have died of thirst. But open-jawed and black, with matted and twisted cuts of hair, they crowded wagons taken from the farm.
They drew near, and Luke for the first time saw women’s faces. Once again on the sod hut, a thin scout in the sunlight, a bent marker limp through standing, his own face worked, pursed and dripping as he watched. Bonnets, ribbons but no curls, skull-blackened and thirsty they stared back above the slick fronts of horses plodding low, stepping singly, flat and without wind away from the wheels that were nearly locked. Instead of three wagon loads he would have liked to have seen just one face cleansed of the sun and that had not been formed and set long ago to the sudden bloody impression of a coffin bone. A few could not hear the meek but steady notes of their sisters’ hymns and pushed their ears with hand that had been raised trembling three days and nights. “I want to see one,” he searched among the tucked and tired wives, “before she’s learned to keep shut. And outlive a man.”
He did not wave.
On impulse, throwing off his coat, Cap Leach, in the days when he could shave a cow’s heart thin as glass and determine with one look beneath the sheets the span of the stricken, dared to extract the secret of a dead woman; on a wintry morning, having arrived according to the law too late, he attended the birth of Harry Bohn. The mother, dead but a moment, gave up the still live child in an operation which, hurried and unexpected, was more abortive than life saving and, when the doctor drew back, lapsed into her faintly rigorous position. the son, fished none too soon from the dark hollow, swayed coldly to and fro between his fingers. Leech left his scalpel stuck midway down the unbleeding thigh, buried the wailing forceps in his shiny bag, stepped outdoors with the infant and disappeared, thereafter, through all his career, barred from the most fruitful of emergencies.
But attendance at the surrounded bedside was not his special pleasure, he was not keen to treat night after night the umbilical cord like a burnt cork. He did not care for the sight of a swelling that decreased and felt no duty to bring relief to a woman lying in a shaft. Her only discoloration was for a purpose, and Cap Leech believed in the non-usefulness of burst organs; no good could come of it.
In the days following his clandestine operation upon the corpse, days of smooth cheeks and high collar, he teetered between the whiteness of a hall and the spotted robe tied behind the sufferer’s back. His training had begun with a set of wired bones in a dry box--he had clicked the teeth--and ended with poppy leaves smoldering in a pharmaceutical brash dish. Unguentine on the tip of his finger, reference to the tight page of a textbook, a limb swaddled in lay wrappings of bandage, the count of clear blood cells like constellations; with spectacles and shaved temples he took to searching coal bins for the wounded.
Cap Leech was no longer a midwife. A family of one son and one unborn had been abandoned for earaches and faeces smuggled in milk bottles when he set out with a few sticks and powders for thirty years practice among those without the chance of recovery, doomed, he felt, to submit. With him went the child whose features he had touched off by a slight grazing of the tongs.
He wandered the fields and lifted, dropped arms. At times, appearing starved and old, he answered questions and advised upon the description of a sore or at sight of a smoking specimen. He cauterized, poked, and painted those abrasions and distempers which, when healed, were forgotten or which, at their worst and sure to enlarge, brought a final shrinking to nameless lips.
The box grew brown with age. Once, in the empty frenzy of a cold night, he flung the bones across a whitened plain. But, always in time, he discovered the marble counter, the revolving fan, and jugs of pills. He crawled jerkily across the gumwood floor, stethoscope pressed upon the shell of a beetle sweeping hurriedly its wired legs. He mixed a foamy soda draught in paper cups, dust in water.
An old obstetrical wizard who now brought forth no young, losing year after year the small lock-jawed instruments of his kit, chalking black prescriptions on the leaves of a calendar, he was reduced to making the little circuits of malignant junctions, in conversation only now and then with a crafty druggist. His skills became an obsessive pastime and he looked even at the hobbling animal with a heavy eye. Warts appeared on the medicine man’s hands.
mark another one in the column of books i read waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too early to understand, enjoy, or even consciously remember i'd read it for some timmark another one in the column of books i read waaaaaaaaaaaaaaay too early to understand, enjoy, or even consciously remember i'd read it for some time after, b/c i lacked even the most rudimentary mental capacity to do so, that upon reading again, many, many yrs later, came to realize i've been plagerizing its contents, ideas, & staight-up passages in almost everything i've written since not too long after i finished not understanding, enjoying, or even consciously remembering i'd read it; but now that i know i'm still unable to change the fact ... just in a better position to control it. the name of the category is larger than its contents. three other prominent examples of this phenomenon--though one, obviously, is not a book--are waiting for godot, the crying of lot 49, & martin scorsese's mean streets.
also: i think the title of this book should've been prufrock, motherfucker. & yes, i do wear my trousers rolled....more
I'm afraid I don't have time to be fair or do justice to how good this collection of nineteen stories, divided into Songs of the Eastern Slavs, AllegoI'm afraid I don't have time to be fair or do justice to how good this collection of nineteen stories, divided into Songs of the Eastern Slavs, Allegories, Requiems, and Fairy Tales, really is. I grabbed it up at work for the title and the book cover alone.
I love modern or post-modern fairy tale collections, be they updates, reinterpretations, deconstructions; or completely original, yet undeniably belonging to the tradition of folk tales, myths, and fables. My favorites include Donald Barthelme's Snow White, The Fairy Tales of Hermann Hesse, Robert Coover's A Child Again and Stepmother, Angela Carter's The Bloody Chamber, and, particularly, The Book of the Unknown: Tales of the Thirty-Six by Jonathon Keats. And while comparisons to Hesse and Carter are not completely without merit, Ludmilla Petrushsevkaya's There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbor's Baby: Scary Fairy Tales is more the heir to Nikolai Gogol and brings to my mind the supernatural tales of Ambrose Bierce. Her characters drift in amnesiac states through moments, days, years and lives of experiences they rarely understand, either during or after. Some similarities to Shirley Jackson's short stories also make sense, but in Petrushevskaya's tales, there is a different rendering of the grotesque; sometimes terrifying and others comical, but proportionally more chimerical to fairy tales than ghost stories in nature.
In their introduction, Keith Gessen and Anna Summers (who also selected and translated the tales) give a brief history of Ludmilla Petrushsevkaya's fascinating life from virtually unpublishable author, despite writing "so far from explicitly themes (that) should be banned," to instant "major figure in Russian letters" upon the publication of first collection of stories Immortal Love in 1987. In the years that followed her reputation grew as her other work became available. In addition to being a novelist, playwright, and poet, she is a singer/songwriter and "has recently been performing a one-woman cabaret while wearing an enormous hat."
I'd heartily recommend this to anyone who enjoyed any of the works mentioned above, as well as to fans of Poe, the Grimms, Calvino's Italian Folktale, and particularly Jewish supernatural tales....more