Alex Kudera's Blog, page 3

Rick & Jack in Croatia

"Take me home and I'll get the money, he said, and I wondered if I could get the meter over $100. Turns out I could not. I pulled up in front of his house at $96.50, taxi time. You know what happened, of course: he disappeared into his house and the lights went out after about five minutes."
~~ from Rick & Jack in Croatia by Rick Harsch

The Cult of the Cactus Boots

 

Corona\Samizdat's best sellers include this maximalist effort by Phillip Freedenberg.

back and front

The short memoir, Rick & Jack in Croatia , is engaging.
 

Buy Corona \ Samizdat Books

 

Rental House

I'd previously appreciated Weike Wang's Joan is Okay, and in July, I enjoyed Rental House.

two for one

I'm excited to announce that this fall, Rick Harsch's Corona\Samizdat Press will publish as one volume the corrected version of Fight for Your Long Day and the sequel to my debut novel. What further adventures await Cyrus Duffleman? Is our adjunct hero even alive?

Assisted Living

Assisted Living , Conversational Therapy , and other titles are available at Rick's Harsch's Corona\Samizdat Press.
 

The Life and Times of the Literary Agent Georges Borchardt

INTERVIEWER

What do you remember about fleeing Paris?

BORCHARDT

It was just before the Nazis rounded up people at the Vel’ d’hiv, in 1942, before deporting them to Auschwitz. My oldest sister had a friend whose boyfriend worked for the police, so we were told about it. My mother’s Russian dressmaker’s Spanish boyfriend came and got us and brought us to the apartment of some White Russian princess. Then, for some reason, we left that place, and we stayed with an abortionist. The police came for her, not because we were staying there, and somehow—I have only vague recollections of this—the Spaniard came at the same time and got us to go to the roof until the police left. Then it was arranged that we would go to Chalon-sur-Saône, which was a small town southeast of Paris that was half in the occupied zone and half in the free zone. At night—if you paid them—people would take you in a rowboat to the other side of the Saône River.

So my mother, my two older sisters, and I somehow got down there, partly by train, partly by walking, because it was too obvious if you arrived at the train station. When we did arrive, my legs were all cramped up, and I could barely stand anymore. And my mother, who I think in her youth had studied to be a nurse, massaged my legs so I would be able to walk. That evening, we were told that the guy who ferried people across had been shot at and now he wasn’t doing it anymore. Somehow, we got an identity card that allowed us to go back and forth across the bridge. The card was for a woman, and whoever sold it to us doctored it up each time, so my mother went over, and then each of my sisters went over. There was nothing for me, of course.

I was told to cross over with a group of schoolkids. I was given a little apron like they were wearing, over short pants—I was rather small for my age. I still remember crossing the bridge—there were guards and soldiers—and feeling my legs turning to cotton. The guards may have been part of the French militia, which was even worse than the Germans. Once across, it was easy. We went to Nice, a large city with schools. I went to private school there. And then the next summer, we went to the beach. One day, I returned to the hotel, and I was told that my mother had been arrested by the French militia. And so I left immediately—I knew the militia would come back. I met a boy from school who was older than I, and he put me in touch with a priest in Nice who took me in. He arranged for my sisters to go to some village up in the hills, a dead-end kind of place. I spent the rest of the summer with the priest. Then I went to the lycée in Aix-en-Provence. One of the professors there knew of my parents through his parents, and also knew the head of the lycée. He arranged for me to be in school without being officially on the books.

Mark and Dan

 

Mark SaFranko's Nowhere Near Hollywood and Dan Fante's Chump Change

Nowhere Near Hollywood

"Everybody had heard of The Radioactive Vindicator, even if they hadn't seen it. It was, of course, nothing but a steaming pile of offal, eighty minutes of junk for glue-sniffing teenagers, but in America that's what grabs attention. It's a strange country, America. It claims to be the world's arbiter of taste and culture, but it mostly sells horse manure. Occasionally a great artist or a masterpiece somehow slips into view, but like a blue moon they are few and far between."

~~ from Nowhere Near Hollywood by Mark SaFranko