Wild history

by Richard Prince

A mid-eighties anthology compiled and partially photographed by Richard Prince, with stories by him, Tina Lhotsky, Spalding Gray, Glenn O'Brien, Kathy Acker, and Gary Indiana, among others. Each story is accompanied by an image of its respective author, with Prince credited for Reese Williams, Peter Nadin, and Kathy Acker. The image of Lynne Tillman was shot by Nan Goldin.

234 pages, Paperback

First published January 1, 1985

Reviews

[Jørgen]

My copy was faded on the back, and the glue dry and cracked, so it came apart, and I took it to a bookbinder. Now it came back all nice and with freshly cut edges, so I read it again. I’m shure Richard Prince would have done the same.
Favourite stories and songs by Tina Lhotsky, Reese Williams, Anne Turyn, Constance DeJong, Glenn O’Brien, Gary Indiana, Kathy Acker, Richard Prince, Sylvia Reed, Cookie Mueller, Lynne Tillman, Paul McMahon and Spalding Gray.

[Kaylee]

No star rating because I found these stories to largely differ in quality. Thankful that the UW library has a nice copy of this since it seems to be hard to find. I'm including the beginning of my favorite story, The Live Pool by Peter Nadin.

"So, here we are tethered to time and place,
One room, one body, one thought, one face,
Alive in political system, work and race.

In Penistone, the Old Crown disco
Is the place I go,
And in New York, the world appears
Yet still it is the same.

For here or there, all time
And chance and circumstance
Make face and place our choice,
The one choice, you over some other
A singularity, one night, one lover.

For every window conceals a life
A place, a refuge for husband and wife.

Together a preference for one above others
In fathers and sons, daughters and mothers.

Why force breath into a corpse
When it is only returned as your own breath,
The same breathing?
Why force the chest to move? Better to leave alone
What is dead; Death is not so bad, in Liverpool they say it
Is only natural.

So you do not think about me in church.
I can understand that. But why tell me?
Why do the dead make it so plain?
So confront me, but what about this, here is
The mystery. I do not know your age, class or
Marital status. So are you a suitable mate?
If I cannot pose the question, I cannot find the answer.
In other words this is perfect, as
I do not wish to know.

I don't make you feel, but I did do those things
They say and more but they haven't told you yet.
So ask me something? I have told you I know the answers
But expect the truth and yes it is too bad, I hope your
Indifference is real because you are right. We both shall
drown.

I forget, is it cats
Or mice who like the cheese,
And does the mouse chase the cat
Or vice versa? I have forgotten certain things,
But those things will return, if natural.

And does wood float, or is it steel?
Or does steel sink and stone float? I forget.
But remember something 'sinks like a stone.'

This order does not change,
But waits lame and foolish 'to be discovered.'
Preferences however are not
Discovered then constant, but discovered
Then changed.

You tell me
When you swim in the surf,
At night, in sleep, still the waves
Break upon you. But one wave is like another
Until once and once alone your wave
Arcs and rises above the ocean swell
Before flatly sliding, sullenly returning
To the ocean floor.

And do we say
'What wasted effort
And who cares?
A wave is but one of many
And like waves after and waves before
Only further dampens the wet
And sodden tide marked shore.'

Sweet girl whose light ghostly shadows fear,
Sweet girl come near, hold me.
Why continue?
Which girl? A different girl or the same girl?
I forget which girl. I forget if I must love you.
This girl, or love any girl, any girl I can clearly see.

And for that and this
I do apologize,
For I feel little at your loss
And recall saying I would feel more.
I have been paralyzed,
The paralysis of the cat caught in the mouse gaze.
In order's reversal confusion hides
As in work or leuisre duty resides.
As in questions Why you? Can you?
Should you? Will you?

I am indifferent to you, to all
Of you 'myself'
And the choice is not about you, but whether
To speak of time wasted, time lost in pursuits.
Pursuits to disguise,
No, to make painless life's waste,
Or to reflect on life's order.
I have chosen both.

So I have decided to torture all thieves
And I am afraid we begin with you.
You the girl on whom waves break,
My sublime distraction. Yes, we begin with you
You will not thank me, later you may hate me.
But for now you do not know.
So let me apologize in advance, but this is only just
The sentence was only fair.

The point is this,
Experience is transformed into matter and you
Are my material. But my good fortune is not yours
So your sentence must be served
Until I say 'I am sorry, I did not realize' and
Tearfully you say
'But now it is all too late'
And I reply
'Yes, I already know.'"

[Lanea]

This is a fantastic anthology, though I'm guessing it's pretty hard to find. We used it in a post-modern lit class in 1995, and our copies traveled from the editor's hall closet to our prof's hands to ours.