Telegrams of the Soul
When someone says, “Flash fiction is popular because of the internet, kid’s attention span these days…” why don’t you kick them right in the balls? Why don’t you sweep the leg for me?
Peter Altenberg lived from 1859-1919. Adolf Loos, the famed modernist architect, made the cross for his grave.
You like blurbs? Check these fucking blurbs. You wish. This isn’t your mom’s pal or former teacher or little Internet buddy in an indie/alt scene circle-jerk let’s get drunk at AWP and wear skinny, colored eyeglasses type of blurb, you fuckers. This is Kafka going, “In his small stories his whole life is confirmed” and oh, Thomas Mann going, “If it be permitted to speak of ‘love at first sound,’ then that’s what I experienced in my first encounter with this poet of prose.”
Kafka just blurbed your ass. Get it?
Altenberg quit everything. Law school, medical school, book-selling. His own name. He got a doctor’s note, he did, a doctor’s note excusing him from life. A golden ticket. He spent the rest of his days in bars, coffee bars and good old regular bars. He liked drinking and whores, just like anyone with time on their hands.
He wrote about it, this life, in fits of brevity.
You should probably start here and then just learn to read German afterwards.
A Portrait of My Failures as a Critic
“Every book in the world is out there waiting to be read by me” – Roberto Bolano, The Savage Detectives
2012 took forever. Moments came and went when things seemed exciting or new or whatever, but all in all it was a long year filled with strange decisions and I came out of it with a pile of books that I’d either ordered late at night because I’d been struck with some desire to “know completely the works of Slavoj Zizek” or that I’d agreed impulsively to review a tome describing the life of such-and-such Avant Gardist because I liked the idea of discussing literature at length in a “public” arena like HTMLGIANT.
Because of this strong desire to be as well-read as possible, balanced against the harsh reality of not having enough fucking time on my hands, there’s now a plethora of things I haven’t finished, haven’t fully reviewed, or haven’t begun to understand that sit on my shelf that—although I can easily discern their respective merits—I can’t see having the time for in the foreseeable future. As a result I’m going to review them, or review their covers, or review their quotes, or whatever; as a collective mea culpa while perhaps discussing the rigors of ambition/the insurmountable plague that is my laziness.
On the surface, this is a lazy approach to make up for my being a disorganized moron; however when I look at these books and think of where I was when I threw my hat into the ring to review them I understand that there’s a bit more to it than that. As a reader—especially a young reader—I think it’s tempting to hope for some sort of Johnny Neumonic device that allows all of Tolstoy or Perec or whomever to immediately flood my consciousness. If this weren’t such a temptation, no living human would ever walk out of a bookstore with more than five books; and yet I typically see those favorite bloggers or writers of mine on the internet citing their interest in more like ten, or fifteen books that they’ve just picked up or received in the mail. As a result I have to believe that on occasion the proverbial/collective eyes are trounced by the collective stomach, and as readers we constantly have to face the guilt of not yet delving into certain editions that loom over us like aggressive schoolteachers.
I admit my problem at the outset. I have no trouble saying “mea culpa” and moving on to think about another review of “Big L’s lyrics” to cheer myself the fuck up. Living is bullshit. I think we’ve all discovered this for the most part and it shouldn’t come as a surprise when I say that in said “living is bullshit” frames of mind the last thing I want to do is read a book for review. I want to watch TV, or read Jim Thompson, or fuck off into the confines of my stupid head for a couple of weeks and completely shirk my duties; and yet for all that self-assuredness in my decision(s) to put off a review another week or so, we have the guilt.
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January 16th, 2013 / 12:00 pm
January 16th, 2013 / 12:00 pm
The Many Tentacles of Octopus Books
I’m in Portland. I read at Bad Blood XVI last night with Elaine Kahn, Brian Foley, and Rebecca Farivar. Portland seems full of rad people. 99% of them are poets. I had a really great time at the reading. Here are 3 items of interest related to Portland, Bad Blood and Octopus Books:
Flags and Fists
On December 19 1984, Daniel Larusso defeated Cobra Kai α-male John “Johnny” Lawrence in the final match of the All Valley Karate Championships using the “Crane,” a kick derived from a Zen-like balance within, best practiced on a stump. One wonders if sweeping Daniel’s leg didn’t simply clear the floors to his enlightenment. The tournament’s logo, likely a creation of the film’s set designer, is a fist from the POV of an imminent victim. Turn it 90° on its side, and you have a quick allusion to a fist-pumping “wax on/wax off” Daniel likely practiced in his bed every night with quixotic visions of Ali (Elizabeth Shue). The film’s real muse, however, is transcendental absorption — to catch a fly in chopsticks not with one’s eyes, but knowing. All this faux-Buddhism, despite the slightly racist exoticism, is a wonderful thing. Daniel’s shower curtain costume on that fateful night may be a metaphor for evasion, conceived by Mr. Miyagi who himself had been hiding from troubles back in Okinawa. The red dot in the flag of Japan represents the sun, though its derivative in the flag of Bangladesh symbolizes the blood shed in gaining independence from Pakistan. “If a white flag means surrender, a black flag represents anarchy,” says Raymond Pettibon, co-founder and designer of Black Flag’s logo, which I always considered a fist with a tucked-in thumb. Unlike Karate, which employs offensive strikes, Jujutsu (literally, “the art of yielding”) is a grappling martial art in which an opponent’s force — both as vector and psychological intent — is used against himself. Daniel would have simply gotten out of the way, a John Cagean absence splattered by boos. As a flying fist gives you something to run from, anarchy may give a kid something to run to. I turn up “Rise Above” at work, but am only able to relate to …it’s no use, never mind the preceding try to stop us, but… A true cynic will not believe in punk (only what his hypochondria tells him). Henry Rollins staunchly stands on stage with taut legs hunched in some martial stance, as if bracing himself for the unknown. There is a moment of dread when a mosh pit begins to form around you. Someone hit my face and my glasses flew off. I got on my hands and knees, desperately grasping for re-vision, a halo of flailing arms above me and boots so near my fingers but never quite touching. It’s like I disappeared.
How Should a Person Be
The first day of the year feels like a good day to talk about Sheila Heti’s How Should a Person Be.
I’m afraid that in discussing it I will show myself to possess the vacuousness that some critics have accused the book itself of possessing.
I liked the book. I did. But when, in the m.o. of Heti’s main character, I set upon the smart small circle of friends around me to suss out how a person should think about How Should a Person Be, I found that my thinking was wrong. They hated it. READ MORE >
We Bury the Landscape
Peter Tieryas Liu (and Angela Xu) made this video review adaptation of his review earlier this year of Kristine Ong Muslim’s We Bury the Landscape. Check it out:
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December 31st, 2012 / 2:38 pm
December 31st, 2012 / 2:38 pm
Why would anyone want to write, read, or listen to someone read out loud a “piece of fiction,” let alone a fucking poem?
Why would anyone want to write, read, or listen to someone read out loud a “piece of fiction,” let alone a fucking poem?
Personally, I have never written any fiction, and I don’t plan on starting any time soon.
Some habits are naturally addictive, like smoking cigarettes or eating large bags of Kettle chips, and other habits are only willfully, stubbornly repeated–one of these is sitting down and trying to write “interesting” sentences to create “literary art.”
Holiday Shopping Guide: Poetry Recommendations
Since I did a Nonfiction Shopping Guide and a Fiction Shopping Guide, it seems only fair to offer a Poetry Shopping Guide as well.
Same guidelines apply here as with the other two: 20 titles published in 2012, randomly arranged, omitting publications by HTMLGIANT crew, and skewed toward my own aesthetic interests.
Without further adieu…
Holiday Shopping Guide: Fiction Recommendations
Last week I did a Nonfiction Shopping Guide. Now I’ve got this list of fiction titles published in 2012, for all you last minute shoppers.
Like the previous list, I’m going to select twenty titles. And I’ll present them in no particular order.
These obviously represent my own interests and therefore omit plenty of titles I’m sure were great.
Also, I omitted titles by HTMLGIANT crew, despite the fact that a bunch of us have really awesome works of fiction out this year.