The Management of Savagery, Max Blumenthal. Editor of The Grayzone, Blumenthal depicts the propagandized lies of media & government hacks alike (often one & the same) to justify US tactics in the so-called war on terror & dubious humanitarian interventions, highlighting its involvement in Syria as a prime example. The Management of Savagery serves as a well-informed, well-documented argument against the continuation of American militarism in the Middle East.
Notes from the Underground, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, trans. Constance Garnett. Let me begin by saying that I like Crime & Punishment, & The Brothers Karamazov, despite my tepid opinion of the novel as a whole, has many brilliant passages, but Notes from the Underground is an absolute sleeping pill. On the bright side, I've had bouts of insomnia lately, so this snorer worked its magic beautifully.
The Moon & Sixpence, W. Somerset Maugham. Despite Maugham's fluid prose, the plot is repetitive & formulaic. Also, please note that you'll need your highwater boots to wade through the bigotry in this one.
Les Chambres, Louis Aragon, trans. John Manson. Aragon, my favorite poet of the first gen surrealists, lived into the early 1980s & published a tremendous glut of books during his lifetime. Nevertheless, he somehow remains underrepresented today, so it's a pleasure to find this tiptop translation of his last book of poems. If you ask me, it's actually one long poem, divided into sections. Also, if you ask me, I'd translate the book title as The Rooms. Manson doesn't, so I can share translation credit, right?
I'm Lying, Philippe Soupault, trans. Patricia Schmidt. I was surprised to find among these short, sweet, strange poems a eulogy of sorts to Louis Aragon. I'd always thought that Aragon had lived the longest of the founding members of French surrealist poetry, but it turns out Soupault, who died at 92 in 1990, outlived him.
Catch-22, Joseph Heller. Having recently read The Tin Drum, I decided to try another experimental novel set in the WWII era, Heller's highly-acclaimed Catch-22. It's not a bad book by any stretch of the imagination--its dark humor alone makes it well worth reading--but it doesn't stack up well against The Tin Drum.
Gravity's Rainbow, Thomas Pynchon. Speaking of the WW2 era, as a Pynchon fan, I had high expectations for what many call his most important work. Maybe something's wrong with me--besides the obvious, I mean--but I find it extremely disappointing. At several points, I thought about stopping, but pushed myself to finish, though I still don't know what I'd have missed if I hadn't. If this were the first novel I'd read by Pynchon, I doubt I'd have read another. I recommend The Crying of Lot 49, Inherent Vice, or Bleeding Edge instead. Even Against the Day, which, admittedly, goes on too long for my tastes, is way better. While I appreciate many of the sentiments in Gravity's Rainbow, it's unenjoyable to read.
Nazi Literature in the Americas, Roberto Bolaño, trans. Chris Andrews. Rather than a conventional narrative, Nazi Lit is a collection of biographies of fictional writers aligned with fascists & Nazis; included is a condensed version of his novella A Distant Star. The epilogues catalogue the bibliographies of these fictive writers. I feel funny calling them fictional, since I have the sense that they vaguely represent real personages who are given different names.
Paper Aeroplane: Selected Poems 1989-2014, Simon Armitage. Here's a good mix of poems, formal & free, on a diverse range of topics--some slice of life, some gritty, some dramatic, some comic--by the current UK poet laureate.
Vladimir Ilyich Lenin, Vladimir Mayakovsky, trans. Dorian Rottenberg. An epic poem that not only memorializes the life & accomplishments of Vladimir Ilych Ulyanov, aka V.I. Lenin, but also celebrates the communist state, Lenin is relatively unknown outside of the former USSR, where it was maybe Mayakovsky's best known work. Only two translations exist in English, both out of print for over 30 years before this Smokestack Books reissue. As for the translation itself, the rhymes are a bit clunky at times & seem to change the diction weirdly & abruptly, but it's still a joy to read Mayakovsky. I'd love to see a new translation sans rhymes.
Pro Eto, Vladimir Mayakovsky, trans. Larisa Gureyeva & George Hyde. Gureyeva & Hyde, which sounds like a vaudeville act, translate the title as That's What (even though pro eto means "about this") to emphasize, they explain, Mayakovsy's defiant tone. OK, I think that shows up in the work itself, but whatever. It's a bilingual text (hooray), & I have to wonder why they changed, it would appear, some of Mayakovsky's typography. I'm not going to become Chris Farley when served decaf crystals instead of his regular coffee about it. These minor criticisms aside, it's a really smooth read that, if you're so disposed, you could easily read from cover to cover in a single sitting. But use a spoon--you'll want to enjoy ever drop.
Volodya: Selected Works, Vladimir Mayakovsky, ed. Rosy Carrick. I'm happy that more Mayakovsky in translation is available, so big thumbs up to that! It's a shame that it's not bilingual--even though I don't speak Russian, I like to pretend I do. This volume contains, among other poems, excerpts from both Lenin & Pro Eto, so some may say I should have just bought this book & saved some cash, but to be blunt, they're wrong. The fools! You can never have too much Mayakovsky!
Chokey, Rosy Carrick. Intrigued by anyone with a Ph.D. in Mayakovsky, I thought I'd give Carrick's debut collection a go. If you like quirky, edgy poems, you'll probably like this book. Here's a clip of Carrick reading the opening poem, "Pig / Owner."
Laughter, Henri Bergson, trans. Cloudesley Brereton & Fred Rothwell. Comedy derives from the unexpected, the old saw goes, but a madman leaping out of the dark with a glistening blade while you're taking Mr. Muffins for walkies doesn't strike me as necessarily funny. Dismissing this oversimplification of comedy, Bergson devises his own categories of what makes us laugh. It's unfortunate, albeit regrettably characteristic of the times in which Bergson wrote Laughter, published in 1900, that he'd ask, "[W]hy does one laugh at a negro?" This is not only abhorrently racist & dehumanizing, but also shortsighted & ignorant. Obviously, Bergson couldn't have known about Sinbad, for instance, or Soul Plane. Moreover, to my way of thinking, no specific thing, situation, people, or person is intrinsically humorous (with the possible exception of Hugh Morris). Stephen King's It shows not all clowns are funny--they can't all be Whizzo, right? Whereas Bergson analyzes mostly theatric examples of comedy, I'd suggest a modern analysis would benefit from a wider examination of comedic forms, from simple jokes, one-liners, & riddles to the routines of Richard Pryor & George Carlin, as well as the more literary & theatrical brands. Also, if the goal is to understand what makes something funny, it would seem wise to understand as well why some attempts at humor fail. Why are the Marx Brothers funny, but the copycat Ritz Brothers not? Why aren't Carrot Top or Daniel Tosh funny, no matter how painfully hard they try? Science shows you can learn a lot from failures.
Laughter in the Dark, Vladimir Nabokov. If I had to, I'd guess Nabokov, however much he disliked him, shared Freud's assessment of sex being the driving force in human behavior, especially sex with teenage girls. The rogues' gallery of presidents, princes, lawyers, stockbrokers, philandering billionaire "philanthropists," & other rich elitist shits variously tied, bound, & otherwise in bed with Jeffrey Epstein would seem to give such a theory credence. Allegedly. Setting that aside, Nabokov's skills as a storyteller return me to his work repeatedly, despite his smugly smiling from the grave.
Tractatus Logico-Philosophicus, Ludwig Wittgenstein, trans. C.K. Ogden. Many people, of which I am a decimal subset, probably read Tractatus because of its unusual format, presenting propositions in numerical order to construct an argument about the nature of, uh, I'm gonna say, logic. Because Wittgentstein wants to state universal rules, he tends to make one non-specific, abstract statement after another while providing very few examples to clarify. As a result, his argument often becomes difficult to follow. Symbolic logic was once a hobby of mine, so I enjoyed the refresher course, although some of the more elaborate equations were admittedly above my paygrade. I won't tell you I understand everything Wittgenstein says, but I learned from reading Tractatus, so there's that.
The Blue and Brown Books, Ludwig Wittgenstein. While his major emphasis in these works is language in its variations of meaning & its limitations, Wittgenstein also explores how the mind processes symbols. He uses more examples to illustrate his points than in Tractatus, which makes these books easier to grasp.
Are You Ready, Mary Baker Eddy???, Bill Knott & James Tate. If, like me, you enjoy the poetry of both Bill Knott & James Tate, then you're probably going to be massively disappointed with this collaborative effort. To be blunt, outside of a few isolated lines, the poems are, if you enjoy the oxymoronic, mighty weak.
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Haruki Murakami, trans. Jay Rubin. I've read just about everything Murakami's written, including several grocery lists, a batch of banal notes to his wife, & even a rough draft of the letter to his attorney in regards to a restraining order, so yes, I'm a fan, & as such, my opinion is that Murakami writes better short novels than long novels. That said, I like The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle better than 1Q84 (which I call IQ 84), for many of the former's problems would be resolved through the consistent use of third person narration, while the latter would require fire. Also, there are several striking, unforgettable passages in The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle that seem akin to prose poetry. If you've not read Murakami before, I'd suggest The Wild Sheep Chase, Kafka on the Shore, Dance Dance Dance (why doesn't someone, not that fuckup Paul Thomas Anderson, made a movie of this book?), Sputnik Sweetheart, Norwegian Wood, or the short story collection below. If you read those first, you'll probably enjoy The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle better.
The Elephant Vanishes, Haruki Murakami, trans. Alfred Birnbaum & Jay Rubin. This collection of short stories, which includes "The Second Bakery Attack," "Sleep," "Barn Burning," "TV People," & "The Dancing Dwarf," reminds me why, with my height & girth, I'm one of Murakami's biggest fans.
Cat and Mouse, Günter Grass. The 2nd part of the Danzig Trilogy isn't as good as The Tin Drum--few books are--but it's got a lot of the inimitable oddness that makes Grass a recommended reading experience.
No Longer at Ease, Chinua Achebe. Speaking of 2nd books in a trilogy, No Longer at Ease begins strongly, but kind of rushes the ending. It's worth reading but falls short of Things Fall Apart, which begins Achebe's African Trilogy.
Uncle Tom's Children, Richard Wright. As great a novel as Native Son is, these powerful stories dramatizing the many putrid faces of racism may be even better. I regret not reading this collection, which has sat on my bookshelves for many years, long ago.
Out of My Mind, Richard Bach. Ever wonder where ideas come from? According to Bach, the protagonist of his novella, they come from an airplane manufacturer somewhere on the other side of consciousness. Crazy, right? What's the book called again? Flighty, but enjoyable read.
Illusions, Richard Bach. I thought this was a really cool book in the late '70s, but rereading it recently, the new-agey philosophy struck me as--shudder--a bit bourgeois. It's not an awful read, but I'm disappointed because I'd remembered it being better. Maybe I've changed over the last 40+ years.
A Passage to India, E.M. Forster. I rushed through this novel for a grad school class, so it's not surprising that I've forgotten much outside the basic plot. Forster writes in such a fluid style that it was easy to race through as a student with too little time. In fact, I completed the novel this time around in about a week. Even though it was written about a century ago, it still provides glimpses, intentionally & otherwise, of many of the evils of colonialism as well as the systemic racism & sexism in so-called Western culture, a term that's a bit geographically challenged.
Treelike: The Poetry of Kinoshita Yūji, trans. Robert Epp. One difficulty in translating poetry is the impossibility of ever truly capturing the sounds of the original because, to state the obvious, different languages use different words to express like ideas. Thus, while a translation may accurately convey the substance of the original, it often comes at the expense of vibrancy, musicality, & fluidity. In addition to these general translation problems, the inclusion of the original Japanese text (ありがとう) illustrates abundantly the inescapable differences in translations, down to the very way poems appear on the page. Nevertheless, by & large, this collection overcomes the obstacles to create a good many poems that work in their own right in translation. (Note: If anyone has a copy of Egg in My Palm: Selected Poems of Tsuboi Shigeji, also translated by Epp, let me know what you want for it.)
Geometry of Shadows, Giorgio de Chirico, trans. Stefania Heim. I like de Chirico's paintings, & these poems give welcome insight into some of his concerns as an artist. However, his writing often lacks not only the strange images that make his paintings intriguing, but much in the way of images altogether. His writings often seem more akin to observations, replete with allusions & analogies, rather than what I would call good poetry. Of course, one may argue that he's challenging the concept of what a poem is, although some doubt is cast upon the validity of such an argument, given a concern raised in "Morning Prayer of the Perfect Painter" is "To resolve the pictorial problems of my art, / Since metaphysical and spiritual problems / Are the domain nowadays of critics and intellectuals!" I suppose de Chirico's talent for creating images with a brush may have drawn him to abstract language in his writing since complex ideas are, generally speaking, more difficult to express clearly in visual arts.
Rapture, Susan Mitchell. Not only is it good poetry-wise--the abrupt, associative leaps in thought are lyrical gymnastics--but I also like the font. "Do not imagine this is unimportant," John Berryman says in "The Moon and the Night and the Men" about something completely unrelated to typeface, yet the point remains the same. I often read in the morning upon waking, & as I've grown older, as older one must, my eyesight (though not my poetic vision) has dimmed, & the large print renders Rapture one of the best books of poetry I've read this year. Indeed, it may be Mitchell's best.
Headwaters, Ellen Bryant Voigt. For the past few years, I've been writing poems sans punctuation--a return to the way I wrote in high school--so I was interested in reading a contemporary poet eschewing punctuation. In regards to his work, Merwin said that there's no punctuation in conversation (or capital letters, I might interject, unless you're shouting). Instead, inflections, pauses & context allow listeners to understand, one hopes. While Merwin often employs spacing within the line, my thought is that voice & line control themselves make punctuation & capital letters unnecessary. (Click here, here, here, & here for examples of my unpunctuated poems.) But I digress: I quite like Voight's book. Definitely worth reading!
Slow Lightning, Eduardo C. Corral. Qué chido Corral, qué chido his poetry! Qué chido the effortless way he blends language! Qué chido especially "Variations on a Theme by José Montoya," in which I learned the phrase "qué chido"! (Just so you know, I met Corral at an online poetry conference last year, & he seemed like a good dude.)
Playback, Raymond Chandler. If you like hardboiled detectives, Philip Marlowe fits the bill. What makes Marlowe's stories entertaining to me is no mystery: Chandler's wry sense of humor, e.g., "I rolled over gently and sat up and a rattling noise ended in a thump. What rattled and thumped was a knotted towel of melting ice cubes. Somebody who loved me very much had put them on the back of my head. Somebody who loved me less had bashed in the back of my skull. It could have been the same person. People have moods."
The Woman in the Dunes, Kobo Abe, trans. E. Dale Saunders. Honestly, this is one of the rare cases in which I like the movie better than the book. The visual medium of the former makes it impossible to forget the omnipresent sand, whereas in the latter, one has tendency to forget the oppressive sand in the often plodding plot, which at its core is a cautionary tale for golfers.
The Dwarf, Pär Lagerkvist, trans. Alexandra Dick. It's a killer novella, albeit at times repetitive, but I would love to see this allegorical tale of evil & corruption of the state made into a movie. This is my second reading of The Dwarf, & I like it every bit as much on the re-read.
Twenty-Five Poems, Ten Woodcuts, Tristan Tzara & Hans Arp. To be precise, Tzara wrote the twenty-five Dadaist poems, & Arp provided the ten woodcut prints. If you ever read Tzara, you know that it's kind of hit & miss, not only with the poems as a whole, but line to individual line. I'm an Arp fan, but the woodcuts don't do much for the book or me, if I'm honest, which, after all, is possible. All in all, though, a fun read.
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