who knew macho came in so many delicate colors? evidently don carpenter did. and displayed the entire spectrum in his great brutal HARD RAIN FALLING. with a palpable adherence to some unsaid code of defiant honesty, carpenter’s first novel anchors itself in a historically determined idea of manhood that dates itself much less than one might at first assume.

three very different eras in one man’s life: a raging early hoodlum boyhood of poolhalls and not-so-petty crimes; then stints at prison including one tremendous tear of writing and existential fury describing a solitary confinement episode and also, later, a very moving and tragic love story between inmates at san quentin… the book perhaps should have ended there but gives us a final portrait of the ex-con as a young father… this bit, while burning not quite as hot, also has its philosophical rewards. this last domestic section may also only seem a letdown because by then you’ve become accustomed to the explosive miracles carpenter seems to be pulling off scene after extended scene.

usually i dislike books where i’m constantly wondering what happens next because i feel manipulated, as if i’m on some kind of ride. i wondered what came next here, but i didn’t mind.

when he took his life at the age of 64 don carpenter was at work on a final book called FRIDAYS AT ENRICO’s about his particular san franciscio literary scene. he was good friends with evan connell, anne lamott, and richard brautigan. the obits report that carpenter was badly effected by his friend brautigan’s suicide. here’s a memorial written by carpenter about their friendship.

here’s an interview with NYRB editor edwin frank about how the reprint came about — mostly it seems from the support of george pelecanos.

and here’s pelecanos reading from HARD RAIN FALLING.

pick it up from the library or from the publisher.

a lightning strike, a revelation. populated by persons afflicted — the two serious ladies of its title most so — by some hilarious strain of nutty. each too acquiring a certain kind of self-proclaimed but not entirely inaccurate sainthood. “saint” a title to use advisedly, but there is something of the seeker and holy fool about these characters. an air of privilege perfumes our ladies but their disavowal of it through the casual violation or even destruction of propriety makes it seem the transgressions and non sequiturs are actually the fastidious following of a much higher order. my edition has an awful cover and a great intro by lorna sage who reveals parenthetically that Christina Goering was “named after Jesus Christ and Hitler’s aviation minister”(!) …published in 1943 TWO SERIOUS LADIES can be thought of as a proto-beat novel — only in the sense that it too seems a response and protesting statement to the bourgeois strictures from which it arises — but otherwise a total sui generis. it’s madcap, movingly in touch with despair, structurally profound, and in the best sense foolishly holy.

(neither here nor there but for some reason while reading it i was frequently reminded of dead pan philosophy professor ray johnson.)

janes bowles’ nytimes obit

great article by stacey d’erasmo on jane bowles in OUT which has this bit:

“It’s possible,” Koestenbaum tells me, ”that I worship Jane Bowles a little less than I did five or ten years ago. Self destructiveness isn’t as easily idealized as you get older.” It’s true. The loneliness of Bowles that seemed grand to me at 20 now seems like a question that was never answered.

find it at the library

houellebecq is a supreme market analyst, not shying away from drawing a trendline even if it’s more based on cynicism than data:

They had several happy weeks. It was not, it couldn’t be, the exacerbated, feverish happiness of young people, and it was no longer a question for them in the course of a weekend to get plastered or totally shit-faced; it was already — but they were still young enough to laugh about it — the preparation for that epicurean, peaceful, refined but unsnobbish happiness that Western society offered the representatives of its middle-to-upper classes in middle age. They got used to the theatrical tone adopted by waiters in high-star establishments as they announced the composition of the amuse-bouches and other appetizers; and also that elastic and declamatory way in which they exclaimed: “Excellente continuation, messieurs, dames!” each time they brought the next course (58).”

inhaled it and enjoyed it thoroughly, but not his best (though maybe his most consciously ambitious). somehow it didn’t appear to have the energy to finish what it started. the houellebecq character seemed to exist simply to settle scores and mock his own public image — but after those tasks were (often, it’s true, hilariously) done there ironically was a painful lack of development for this rather essential, important character. and the (d)evolution into police procedural i think was in some ways, even if premeditated and even if enjoyable, shark jumping.

there are even moments of unfortunate false notes and unexpected sentimentality, for example when the main character tries to find meaning in his life so waxes nostalgic for the one that got away:

The word passion suddenly crossed Jed’s mind, and all of a sudden he found himself ten years previously, during his last weekend with Olga… Night was falling, and the temperature ideally mild. Olga seemed deep in contemplation of her pressed lobster. She had said nothing for at least a minute when she lifted her head, looked him straight in the eyes, and asked: “Do you know why you’re attractive to women?… It’s very simple: it’s because you have an intense look in your eyes. A passionate look… If they can read in the eyes of a man an energy, a passion, then they find him attractive” (106-7).

[this is houellebecq writing?!]

and/but there’s plenty to love…  here’s a favorite stand-alone bit. typical in its wry cultural observation, it ends with a quietly explosive insight:

The Sushi Warehouse in Roissy 2E offered an exceptional range of Norwegian mineral waters. Jed opted for the Husqvarna, a water from the center of Norway, which sparkled discreetly. It was extremely pure — although, in reality, no more than the others. All these mineral waters distinguished themselves only by the sparkling, a slightly different texture in the mouth; none of them were salty or ferruginous; the basic point of Norwegian mineral waters seemed to be moderation. Subtle hedonists, these Norwegians, thought Jed as he bought his Husqvarna; it was pleasant, he thought again, that so many different forms of purity could exist (80).

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bits from the paris review interview here.

Harp & Altar #9 now up! I’ve stepped down as Fiction Editor and want to send many thanks to Keith Newton for the opportunity to work on this great magazine. The new issue has poetry and fiction by Amaranth Borsuk, Tina Brown Celona, Oisín Curran, Kate Dougherty, Farrah Field, Kevin Holden, Gregory Howard, Paul Killebrew, Noelle Kocot, Aubrie Marrin, Jenny Nichols, and Sampson Starkweather. http://www.harpandaltar.com/

One advantage of trading mothers would be that you could have sex with her, your mother who was not really your mother but somebody else’s mother that you had traded with. I imagine this might appeal to some people. It might be an exciting idea to them. On the other hand, it would be equally true that someone, specifically the person you had traded with, could be having sex with your mother, your real mother that you traded away. I understand that this would be upsetting to some people. Although not to others.

from “On Trading Mothers” by Jenny Nichols

reminded me of walser — maybe a more worldy walser. as if instead of retreating to the madhouse, hrabal was sentenced to the purgatory of the diplomatic corps — forced propriety despite the absurd or horrific swirls of history around him. but, like walser, he recognizes the poetic gesture… poetic or romantic despite or because of the old world sexism and classism rampant (and rampant still) just before the second world war, the ripened-to-rot but still shiny weimar-type decadence… without mentioning it to spoil it, the first chapter has one of the more romantic scenes i’ve read in many a year.

the movement from charming and bawdy to dark satire and political farce to apocalyptic dream and finally into prayerful meditation — all that transition done quietly, even feigning modesty, yet this quiet hiding a great ambition. the transitions’ build-up and execution reflective of not only the change of an individual but of nation-states.

here’s a scene to wet yer whistle:

“I saw Zdenëk, the headwaiter at the Hotel Tichota, who enjoyed having a good time so much when he was off work that to get it he’d spend all the money he had with him, which was always several thousand. Then I saw his uncle, a military bandmaster now retired, who split wood on his little plot of land in the forest where he had a cottage overgrown with flowers and wild vines. This uncle had been a bandmaster at the time of the Austro-Hungarian Empire and still wore his uniform when he split wood, because he had written two polkas and several waltzes that still got played all the time, although no one remembered who the composer was and everyone thought he’d died a long time ago. Zdenëk and I, as we were riding along in a rented buggy on one of our days off, heard the sound of a military brass band playing one of his uncle’s waltzes, and Zdenëk stood up and signaled the driver to stop, then went over to the band and had a little talk with the bandmaster. He offered to give him all the money he had, four thousand crowns, for the soldiers to buy themselves beer, if they would do what he asked. Buses were waiting, and the whole band was getting ready to climb aboard to go to a band tattoo, so we left the buggy there and got on the first bus with them. After an hour’s drive we stopped in a forest, and soon a hundred and twenty uniformed musicians with their shiny instruments were advancing slowly down a road through the woods. Then they turned onto a footpath lined with thick bushes and pine trees that towered overhead, and Zdenëk signaled them to stop and slipped through some loose planks in a fence, disappeared into the bushes for a few moments, then came back and told them his plan. When he gave the sign, the soldiers climbed one by one through the hole in the fence into the bushes while Zdenëk, like a soldier at the front, directed them to take positions around the tiny house. They could hear the sound of an ax striking wood, and the entire band silently surrounded the chopping block and an old man in an ancient Austrian bandleader’s uniform. When Zdenëk gave the signal, the bandmaster flung his golden ceremonial baton in the air, gave a loud command, and out of the bushes rose a glistening array of brass instruments and the band began to play a clamorous polka by Zdenëk’s uncle. The old bandleader stood transfixed over the piece of wood he had just split, while the band moved forward a couple of steps, still up to their waists in pine and oak shrubs. Only the bandmaster stood in the greenery up to his knees, swinging his golden baton while the band played the polka and their instruments flashed in the sunlight. The old bandleader slowly looked around with a heavenly expression on his face, and when they finished the polka the band started right in on one of his concert waltzes, and the old bandleader sat down, put his ax across his knees, and began to cry. The bandmaster came up and touched his shoulder, the old man looked up, and the bandmaster handed him the golden baton. Now the old man got to his feet and, as he told us afterward, he thought he’d died and gone to heaven with a military band all around him, and he thought they must play military music in heaven and that God Himself was conducting the band and was now turning His own baton over to him. So the old man conducted his own pieces, and when he’d finished, Zdenëk stepped out of the bushes, shook hands with his uncle, and wished him good health. Half an hour later the band climbed back into their buses and as they were driving away they played Zdenëk a farewell ceremonial fanfare. Zdenëk stood there filled with emotion and bowed and thanked them, and finally the buses, and with them the fanfares, faded down the road through the woods, lashed by beech branches and shrubs” (159-61).

find it at the library or from the publisher or pick it up from an independent bookstore.

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three profiles on the bohemian’s bohemian:

james wood at the london review of books.

adam thirwell at the guardian.

mats larsson at Art Bin.

in no particular but starting it off: giancarlo’s glamour-soaked narcissus tale as lit journal advertisement… hans rickheit’s SQUIRREL MACHINE is a great gross-out dream… the beautiful ephemera of luca’s DAS DING #3… saying goodbye and anticipating saying goodbye to merce… the tumult of a chinese lifetime told in incredible locked down, long take that is wang bing’s FENGMING… the state of the disunion address of teju cole’s OPEN CITY… catching up with lewis warsh’s A FREE MAN (1991) and its inverse mirror A PLACE IN THE SUN (2010). they’re what social realism could admirably be — if those words meant something different… monica youn’s love song of j alfred IGNATZ (“and the fading//echo of the detox/mantras://helpless  helpless/helpless  helpless“)… speaking of which, 1st volume of beckett’s letters, which include the quip “T. Eliot is toilet spelt backwards” and untaken advice from his brother in the form of the question “Why can’t you write the way people want?”  …and, a year late, but RIP barry hannah you lunatic god.

& last but definitely not least: hat’s off to the erstwhile and ever OWS People’s Library, which rallied the troops and served as symbol in a way yer kindle download will never.

…

i’m happy to have a new story called “Booster Rockets” in the latest issue of FENCE magazine. here’s how it starts:

I was coming from a haircut and I was upset. I had just spent a lot of money on the haircut but I didn’t have a lot of money. It’s not because I’m vain but looking good is important to me. Anyway I was walking across Washington Square Park and I was not happy. I was pissed off. I wasn’t crying or raving or anything like that, just cranky, because I’d taken a chance on a new hair cutter and just then I thought she’d fucked it all up, not done what I wanted her to do, what I’d told her to do. A little bit later, a few days later or even the very next day, I realized it was actually a very nice haircut, that I liked what she’d done, and I kept going back to her for several more years…

pick up a copy here why not.

i’ve a review of this perec gem in Jacket2. an issue devoted to the stroll. edited by corey frost and louis bury.

An Attempt at Exhausting a Place in Paris was written by Georges Perec during a gray Parisian weekend in October 1974. The stated intention was to “describe … that which is generally not taken note of, that which is not noticed, that which has no importance: what happens when nothing happens other than the weather, people, cars, and clouds.” A nonambulatory flâneur, Perec sets himself up at a cafe in Place Saint-Sulpice to do as his directive epigraph of Life: A User’s Manualorders us to do also: “Look with all your eyes, look.”

https://jacket2.org/reviews/detour-more-traditional-paths-composition

what would happen to raskolnikov if he hadn’t killed the old woman? kurumatani seems to ask that question in this grim tale about a young japanese man who decides to opt as far out of life as he can. if not wholly unique in tone and content, a very good book on a great theme: the isolato in both the noir-y tradition of philip marlowe and the devastatingly pure refusnik ‘tude of bartleby. like his literary predecessors, our man here is an individual who rejects the prescribed ambitions of life, judging them as ultimately disappointing and petty.

reminiscent of recent down-and-out memoirs like TRAVELS WITH LIZBETH or GRAND CENTRAL WINTER this contemporary take on the autobiographical  watashi shosetsu genre, or “I-novel,” is grimly poetic and sweatily spiritual. like the tales of the marginalized burakumin of nakagami but less macho, more philosophical – something akin to the depressed soul of perec’s A MAN ASLEEP except ikushima’s no student and he has no rent money.

I was about to visit somebody I had never met. A complete stranger. My only hope was to talk this stranger into giving me a job so that I could keep on living. I had lost everything, thrown everything away. I had already been made to understand, all too well, that I was a loser. Whoever I was about to meet was probably used to being tough toward people as unworldly as me. No matter; whether it turned out to be some guy I couldn’t get anywhere with, or a woman with a heart of stone, I had no other choice; I was at the end of my rope (10).

pick it up at the library or your local independent bookstore.

a review of kurumatani and keizo hino in the quarterly conversation here.

watch the trailer of the movie based on it (in japanese) here: 
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[found this one browsing a bookstore's shelves, that encounter with chance and fuzzy curating now increasingly rare and endangered. but how else to find that book not clamoring by tweet and hype but just by consistent work on the page? o well.]