Emprise Review

getting the last word in at dusk.
It’s not a word.
With so much talk about
the coming of the end
it’s hard to know where to begin.
I’ve lost all interest
in being smart or charming
and only want to stop
mid-path, lay down
in the grass and listen to the wind
boss the trees around.
Neither happiness or unhappiness.
Nor the beveled place in a Levis poem
where a cat lay on the counter
of a rural post office or how
its fur stirred when a hand passed
over its sleeping body
when mailing a letter. Like the ones
we used to write to each other
in what seems now like another life.
Dear you, dear me.
When we lived in orchards.
When we slept in open fields.
When on a Canadian back road
there was so little traffic
we stretched out on the asphalt
as evening came on, trying to
hold onto the day’s heat,
saying here’s a good thing,
here’s a good thing a little longer.

There wasn’t much to say. We’d reached that soggy impasse where we were running out of material and dialogue, our script letting us down. Tired of each other after only a month—and god, what did that say about our capacity, or rather incapacity, for intimacy, about our shallowness, which, sure, was no doubt reflective of a larger cultural shallowness, but still, you had to wonder if we were in fact epic failures or merely honestly acknowledging the reality that this wasn’t right and we should then therefore move on, and move on sooner rather than later, respectfully, adultly? I mean, why drag things on? We’d seen the movies, sampled the gamut of ethnic restaurants, spoke of jazz and John Cassavetes, consoled and cuddled when appropriate, gone through that initial—and mind you, not to be underestimated—elation of exploring someone new (figuratively, literally). Continuing any further would prolong the inevitable. We both knew that it wasn’t working, that it was like we were trying to remember the words to a song just beyond the orbit of memory, that except for the comfort sex and at-least-I’m-not-alone relief of dating someone and not being a social exile among one’s coupled peers (particularly acute on Friday and Saturday nights) there wasn’t a true future here. Despite sharing a certain much-coveted youthful demographic. Despite the compelling “P” factor—that is our professional, personal and political similarities. Despite coming to the city at more or less the same time and making our respective marks in a relatively short time, both of us vesting nicely and earning good money (and how I’ve always wanted to say that—“I’m making good money”—aloud in a restaurant or crowded elevator, and now that I could I realized I hadn’t done so yet). In short, our existence as a couple, whether spoken or unspoken, was doomed. What else can I say? We’d peaked.
……..So. One of us was going to have to do something. That would be me…Read the rest of Burn Rate.

Lost is back which is book related because of the writer’s affinity for putting classic books and writers or thinkers front and center. Right from the start in Season 6 you have Desmond reading Rushdie’s Haroun and The Sea of Stories. Pop culture is safe to consume? Yes!

Well, looks like the iPad is not going to be the savior some (me included) thought it might be. I guess now we’ll wait and see if the latter iteration is what gets things moving as is often the case with Apple products…

Salinger elegy abounds, I’ll do ours in relaying that my literary education felt stagnated until Franny & Zooey came along and I, pardon the phrase, saw the light. Hopefully the rush to capitalize on his passing will not prove egregious and that any heretofore unpublished work will warrant publication, or, be presented tastefully.

Point Omega is out now. Has anyone picked this up? Here is a piece about DeLillo at The New York Times. Also in publication news: McSweeney’s has Millard Kaufman’s Misadventure on the way in March. His first novel, Bowl of Cherries, published when he was 90, is great fun. Kaufman’s life story is something as well. Here’s an interview with Kaufman.

Aidan Higgins’ Balcony of Europe (review forthcoming) arrived yesterday and fifty pages in I’m hooked–the hype is justisfied so far. A conversation between two characters plausibly progresses from vacation literature to Mid-Century apocalypse fears and from there the historical plight of the Jewish people and the rationale behind the Third Reich. There’s so much more to speak on…To Be Continued.

A Lady Gaga bio is on the way, gag.

February edition of Hobart is up, featuring work from Rob Carney, Brandi Wells, David William Hill, Lydia Ship, and Jan LaPerle.

“Grief” – Anton Chekov — Because many of the stories you read, many of the stories you write, whether you know it or not, are influenced in some shape or form by Chekov.

“William Burns” – Roberto Bolaño — For one it’s Bolano which is reason enough. Also love the matter-of-fact, almost non-chalant framing device on this one, and the economy, it’s right around three pages, a fascinating turn from a guy whose novels are mammoth.

Nine Stories – J.D. Salinger — Holden Caulfield gets the bulk of the attention, but for my money the Glass Family saga eclipses Catcher in The Rye.

What’s in store for 2010?

Shooting some videos of the book–voiced over by an actress, with some storyboarded prop action–should look a bit different from trailers/ authors reading with book in hand. Doing more live readings and hopefully connecting with the readers–the novel has a strong voice that I think lends itself to being vocalised. And then hopefully getting back to my work in progress interrupted by all this promo work…

Your leads are a gangster’s moll and a nurse, can you tell why you selected two such disparate types without spoiling anything?

The moll is, by dint of the world she moves in, very masculinised. She has status as the other wives have to defer to her as wife of the top man, but she has no real power because ultimately that rests with the men and their violent souls. The nurse however is the epitome of femininity, embodying a spectrum of male fantasy. From virginal angel, through mother-carer, to sexually provocative vamp. This particular nurse asserts her power in trying to deny all these various projections put upon her. Both are determined to some extent by their position in society and both kick against such shackling. With what success? Ah, that would be telling!…Read the full interview.

If I could imagine not being watched,
it seems it would be another world,
but doesn’t everyone, even you out on
the center of the frozen lake, mid-January,
midstream, the fish hovering motionless
there beneath your feet, looking up, have
a watcher? It’s pitch-black, and it seems
at a time like this those fish might catch
sight of a red stone (like a red star) and
rush off, and you might watch the stars
alone, and tell them to look because this
is what it looks like from here and make
an X to mark the spot and talk out loud
and admit it, that out there–if nothing else—
it seems you are watching yourself.

Sitting in a teashop on the main road, Tamal watches the rain swirl around streetlamps, reducing them to bristly, smothered moons. Outside the shop, about a foot and a half below the level of its floor, a murky stream churns and gurgles furiously along the overflowing gutter. The road is empty except for the odd taxi, and a pedestrian or two sloshing slowly through ankle-deep water, sandals in hand, head bent under rain-beaten umbrella. Lights from storefronts and neon signs, only the brightest ones gleam with harried intensity through the sweeping gauze sheets of rain; the rest have dimly melted into its ground-glass haze. The air that baked bodies and scorched lungs for months is doused and gone. A flood in its place, gusting and gushing.
……..At last! Tamal thinks. Soaking in the season’s first rain was one of his cherished rituals until a bout of pneumonia almost killed him the year before he left college. Now, every time he sees someone walk in the rain, willingly or not, he thinks of the thrill he used to feel in his veins—chilly pellets of water hitting the parched skin, making it crawl, deliriously, with goose bumps. Sitting there, imagining the cool tingling, he lets his eyes trail the pedestrians, their gloomy, sopping, drowned-rat shapes, until they’re out of sight.
……..Every few minutes a fresh gust of wind blows a fine spray deep into the teashop, wetting clothes and newspapers, and blinding glasses, but no one seems to mind. Tamal doesn’t either. After what the city’s had to endure for the last few weeks, with the pre-monsoon heat reaching record highs across the state, making the tar on some roads run like butter in the sun, and causing the worst water and power shortages in years, it’s a welcome respite.
……..A sudden blue-white flash lights up everything, and before Tamal can plug his ears, the thunder cracks. He hates these jarring bolts, especially when they’re too close. “Pour it, pour it,” someone in the back of the shop screams, laughing, “bring on a flood, sala!”…Read the rest of the story.

While my head was still on the pillow, my nightmare not completely erased by the sudden awakening, I opened my eyes and saw a cockroach running from the stove, over the gray kitchen-floor tiles, getting on the carpet, running a bit slower, as if on sand, going beneath the chair, coming diagonally across, going around my slippers trying to reach the safe space underneath my futon. I watched it, it was running fast, never stopping, going straight without hesitation. What was it running from? What was running that little engine? Desire to live? Fear of death? The instinctual–perhaps, even, molecular–awareness of the gaze of the supreme sharpshooter? What a horrible world, I thought, when every living creature lives and dies in fear. I reached for my left slipper, but the cockroach was already underneath the futon.

From “A Coin”, part of The Question of Bruno, by Aleksandar Hemon

Not only did I discover Five Dials, but Five Dials #10 is a tribute to David Foster Wallace featuring Don DeLillo, Zadie Smith, George Saunders, Jonathan Franzen, and others.

Issue Six of The Collagist is live!

There was a brief bit on HTML Giant about responding to rejection letters and it spurred some percolating thoughts I’ve had of late regarding contributor antagonism, and so, a reminder: understand we don’t do this with any monetary reward, or budget to speak of, ostensibly, we do this (hopefully) for literary and cultural betterment. While some of the content featured is derived from our editors, the bulk of the work we do is in reading, preparing, and publishing contributor submissions. If you have questions or concerns, grievances or quarrels, by all means let us know, but please do so with respect. We really do do this for you–the writer.

If you haven’t heard of Daniel Woodrell, he writes pretty solid Ozark tales in the same spare style as Cormac McCarthy. Winter’s Bone is probably his best and they’ve made a movie out of it, with John Hawkes and Garret Dillahunt, actors that don’t exactly guarantee a quality feature, but do tend to deliver interesting performances.

Intentions to read Aleksandar Hemon expedited by his work on Best European Fiction 2010, I just completed The Question of Bruno and the hype for the man is justified. Of course, what’s most thrilling is not only that he isn’t a natural English speaker but the speed at which he learned the language and started writing exemplary literature. A Coin, a series of letters (some real, some perhaps only considered) exchanged between a war correspondent in Sarajevo and an emigre living Chicago, examines in gruesome existential detail what it is to live in a war zone, one in which rooftop snipers take aim at civilians, what it is to run from Point A to Point B, knowing that expert killers armed with high-powered rifles pointed are waiting, watching that one stretch of open ground. Less grim, The Life and Work of Alphonse Kauders, lists brief vignettes describing/remembering a bizarre fictional character integrated with key figures and moments of early twentieth century history. It may all sound a bit much, don’t be afraid, the writing is exceptional.

While we’re on the topic, The Believer has a great conversation between Hemon and Colum McCann

Reviewing a short story collection presents a challenge. Reviewing a short story collection of translations from thirty-five different authors hailing from almost as many countries presents an even greater challenge. Much has been said about Best European Fiction 2010, we’ve rhapsodized the anthology here. It’s great. Essential.

How about three stories to start?

Read on.