write as you — read as you write

In silver and a sliver of a book held together with words and a bit of tied string sewn through the single or signal signature of the book but not holding the silver cover onto it at all.

It is called the silver book, and it is a book, not more than a chapbook and maybe less than that, by Jen Bervin.

The entire "text was typed by the author on an olympia de luxe found on union at one summer," and the title of the book is typed, each by hand, on the silver cover of the book folded onto the skeleton of the book.

The typeface of this book is italic, aslant and with little bulbous extremities to each letter with extremities.

The words are simple, printed double-spaced ("Welcome to Typewriter Land," it seems to say), and given to the heavy use of dashes in place of all other possible punctuation.

No capitals. A pleasant wistfulness to the text. Meaning through mild repetition and rhetorical effects. Personal, and (and this is important) imperative.

The voice (and mood) is imperative and almost always telling you to write. (The imperative always suggests but never, in idiomatic speech, says "you.")

And it is about writing. Written as if to a writer. Written as if to a friend.

write to get lost in the day ——

or

write what died for this space —— and
only what will live in it ——

Written as if to a lover

—— tell me —— who touched you all winter
tell me who —— you'll remember —— in
spring

and

garbage smells good —— write it's
spring —— new york —— and you're not
done with me yet ——

A beautiful little book, read, even slowly, in a few minutes, so that it's almost immediately over as running words but continues as an aura, a silver light cast upon you, warm and gently bright, something you feel compelled to write about.

So you do.

_____

Bervin, Jen. the silver book. Ugly Duckling Press: Brooklyn, 2010. US$10

ecr. l'inf.