Close your eyes for a second. Remember Faulkner's Sartoris family? Now imagine the last two men of the Sartoris clan are now old and living together as their lives dissipate. Imagine they are hoarders. Worse than anything you've seen on Oprah. Think of decay, the kind that only time can make a person and their belongings suffer.
Got it? Now you're on the way to understanding Matt Bell's The Collectors. Bell's language is as obsessive as his characters in this novella, and that's what really makes the story churn. The story is presented in short chapters, vignettes about the miserly Homer and Langley interspersed with inventories.
Where Bell really shines is when you find him in dialogue with his own characters, such as in the section, "How I Came In." Bell writes, "After you are both gone, I am afraid that I will still be here." Of course, I am not saying that Bell is writing himself into the story (no more than any other writer does), but in effect this third voice is Bell. It's authorial, it's the voice of discovery, of historian, of antiquiter. And it is in these moments where the voice lights upon the characters and the story, frees it up for the reader to be welcomed into the museum of Homer and Langley, to experience first hand their decay.
"How long has Homer been sitting here in the dark?" The story begins, and by the end the reader is left wondering the same thing, but not just about Homer, about themselves as well. Homer's darkness is not just the physical lack of light, or the depressing state in which we discover his life, no, it is the nature of growing old. Homer and Langley have grown old together, clutching their disappointments, the way they hang on to their posessions. In this way they are a cautionary tale, one the first person narrator affirms when he says, "Once, I wanted to be just like them."
The Collectors is a beautiful perfect-bound chapbook from the ever-amazing Caketrain. More than worth the purchase and the read.
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
EVER
I've taken a lot of time to try and figure out what I want to write about Blake Butler's EVER. And I've come to the conclusion that perhaps there is no concrete way to talk about the book. Maybe that sounds like a cop out, especially in light of the numerous reviews floating around the internet ether about this particular book. But for me there is no real way to sit down and say a connects to b, with a minus of x here and an extra dose of y there, which leads me to conclude z about EVER. Just not going to happen.
So, here is a bit about the experience of reading this book. I read it at work. Probably not the best locale for its consumption, but alas, the only place where I am likely to get any reading done at this point in time. I took notes while reading. Something I've done only on the rarest of occasions. While reading I thought of Jorge Louis Borges. There's a labyrinth in Butler's words, and Borges was the closest I felt to a kindred spirit in those terms. In other ways the writing reminded me of Ken Sparling, because of the sparseness, as well as the mash of short short short short long, in terms of sections.
There is mastery in EVER, which as far as I can tell won't be doubted. There is abstraction in the way Butler puts words next to one another. Often this is quite successful, as in page 9, when Butler writes, "These days I sleep with steak knives, grow my nails out. I'm saving money for a gun." Or small poignant clips like on page 16: "I like to take pictures and hide the film." I wonder if these things pop into Butler's head at random intervals, and if he then writes them on scraps of paper or Post It notes. The fragmentary nature of this book, begs such questions from a reader who no longer knows how to look at something strictly from a reader's point of view, something I imagine much of Butler's audience can relate to.
But there are times where Butler's exploitation of language and word combinations are not as successful, dragging me back to the reality that a book is being read, thought about, not merely consumed. I felt this most startlingly on page 13 when Butler writes, "In mother's absence, our front yard never henceforth grew. Though in the bugs that came to grovel, grieving, smothered, well... well nothing." I was worried that early into the book to feel so jolted and removed because of a personal grievance with the writing, often such a moment can thwart my entire reading. Such was not the case here, for which I am thankful. But it was one of the moments in EVER where I was reminded as a writer and a caring/careful reader that experimentation, abstraction, etc. can only take something so far, that being experimental and abstract is a thin line to tread, one that is easy to fall off of. And while I enjoyed EVER I also felt that it was a reminder to myself to watch my experimental side, because while Butler doesn't fall off that thin line, he does stick his toes over it now and then, which was enough to make me wonder if he is throwing caution to the wind with his prose.
You can buy EVER through the publisher Calamari Press.
So, here is a bit about the experience of reading this book. I read it at work. Probably not the best locale for its consumption, but alas, the only place where I am likely to get any reading done at this point in time. I took notes while reading. Something I've done only on the rarest of occasions. While reading I thought of Jorge Louis Borges. There's a labyrinth in Butler's words, and Borges was the closest I felt to a kindred spirit in those terms. In other ways the writing reminded me of Ken Sparling, because of the sparseness, as well as the mash of short short short short long, in terms of sections.
There is mastery in EVER, which as far as I can tell won't be doubted. There is abstraction in the way Butler puts words next to one another. Often this is quite successful, as in page 9, when Butler writes, "These days I sleep with steak knives, grow my nails out. I'm saving money for a gun." Or small poignant clips like on page 16: "I like to take pictures and hide the film." I wonder if these things pop into Butler's head at random intervals, and if he then writes them on scraps of paper or Post It notes. The fragmentary nature of this book, begs such questions from a reader who no longer knows how to look at something strictly from a reader's point of view, something I imagine much of Butler's audience can relate to.
But there are times where Butler's exploitation of language and word combinations are not as successful, dragging me back to the reality that a book is being read, thought about, not merely consumed. I felt this most startlingly on page 13 when Butler writes, "In mother's absence, our front yard never henceforth grew. Though in the bugs that came to grovel, grieving, smothered, well... well nothing." I was worried that early into the book to feel so jolted and removed because of a personal grievance with the writing, often such a moment can thwart my entire reading. Such was not the case here, for which I am thankful. But it was one of the moments in EVER where I was reminded as a writer and a caring/careful reader that experimentation, abstraction, etc. can only take something so far, that being experimental and abstract is a thin line to tread, one that is easy to fall off of. And while I enjoyed EVER I also felt that it was a reminder to myself to watch my experimental side, because while Butler doesn't fall off that thin line, he does stick his toes over it now and then, which was enough to make me wonder if he is throwing caution to the wind with his prose.
You can buy EVER through the publisher Calamari Press.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Colin Bassett's WHEN PEOPLE TALK TO ME I WANT TO CLOSE MY EYES
Colin Bassett's self-printed collection of poems, When People Talk to me I Want to Close My Eyes is an intimate smattering of verse. His poetry doesn't jump off the page so much as it languishes. "People," the first poem in the collection illustrates this perfectly. He writes, "it will be something that made us laugh when we were in bed" which instantly sets the mood for every line of each poem that follows. There is an intimacy to these words and they want to crawl across the hardwood floor and find you in the living room. Simon & Garfunkel's line, "Me with my Walt Whitman, you with your Emily Dickinson" comes to mind reading these poems, because they are addressing someone. A loved one. A relationship, we get the idea, that has seen better days.
There are times where the line breaks or lack there of begin to make my brain whirl. Is Bassett looking for Whitman-esque movement to his words? Is Bassett unconcerned with line breaks as a convention? In part I get the feeling like these poems are practically journal entries. Snippets recorded during moments in a relationship, and that each line is a scrap of paper with the words scrawled hurriedly. Then I am broken out of this when Bassett provides a poem like "Coffee" or "Mattress" where his lines are well composed and further the cause of the words they are presenting. I get more out of those two pieces than almost anything else. They are what linger in my brain because I can see them on the page well after I've set the chapbook down.
Ultimately this collection is young, introspective, desolate perhaps. The three aforementioned examples are the shining beacons in WPTTMIWTCME, they are hallmarks of a voice that is in the process of honing itself. I like this look at Bassett's work because I suspect that his work will only grow and improve and take on a life of its own. I don't think it is farfetched to imagine a future where a collection of Bassett's poetry is readily available at the bookstore up the street. An idea which makes this collection all the more exciting as an interested reader.
For a copy of WPTTMIWTCME check out Bassett's blog: http://colinbassett.blogspot.com and send him an email (he'll send you a copy for free).
There are times where the line breaks or lack there of begin to make my brain whirl. Is Bassett looking for Whitman-esque movement to his words? Is Bassett unconcerned with line breaks as a convention? In part I get the feeling like these poems are practically journal entries. Snippets recorded during moments in a relationship, and that each line is a scrap of paper with the words scrawled hurriedly. Then I am broken out of this when Bassett provides a poem like "Coffee" or "Mattress" where his lines are well composed and further the cause of the words they are presenting. I get more out of those two pieces than almost anything else. They are what linger in my brain because I can see them on the page well after I've set the chapbook down.
Ultimately this collection is young, introspective, desolate perhaps. The three aforementioned examples are the shining beacons in WPTTMIWTCME, they are hallmarks of a voice that is in the process of honing itself. I like this look at Bassett's work because I suspect that his work will only grow and improve and take on a life of its own. I don't think it is farfetched to imagine a future where a collection of Bassett's poetry is readily available at the bookstore up the street. An idea which makes this collection all the more exciting as an interested reader.
For a copy of WPTTMIWTCME check out Bassett's blog: http://colinbassett.blogspot.com and send him an email (he'll send you a copy for free).
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Brandi Wells' PATIENCE
In the second round of Mud Luscious Press' single serving chapbooks comes Brandi Wells' "Patience," so far the most under-appreciated of these unique installments of literature. Having read a limited amount of Wells' work around the internet, I came to "Patience" with fresh eyes, so to speak.
"Patience" is about a man who carves oranges into female organs. You can't get more unique than that. "He picks up another orange, carefully slicing the peel & putting it away," Wells writes, before her protagonist sees visions of baby blue and cribs. The story is abstract in the greatest way, it's only hang up being that it hits its apex and takes two more paragraphs before it ends. "Patience" is about a void, and has the chance to go out on the high note of a repetition of the word "empty," a moment I found surprisingly poignant. It's not that there is anything wrong with the last two paragraphs, it's just that after reading them I wanted to read more "emptyemptyempty."
If "Patience" is any indicator for the rest of Wells' proposed collection revolving around oranges, there is nothing to do but wait on the edge of any available seat. At $2, this mini-chap is more than worth the price. Honestly it's worth the $6 for the entire second set of mini-chaps. Mud Luscious Press is doing wonderful work and "Patience" is a perfect example of the devotion to unique reading experiences. Though this volume is apparently sold out, it will not be the last you read of Wells' orange visions, and you would be wise to keep an eye on MLP for the next set of chaps.
"Patience" is about a man who carves oranges into female organs. You can't get more unique than that. "He picks up another orange, carefully slicing the peel & putting it away," Wells writes, before her protagonist sees visions of baby blue and cribs. The story is abstract in the greatest way, it's only hang up being that it hits its apex and takes two more paragraphs before it ends. "Patience" is about a void, and has the chance to go out on the high note of a repetition of the word "empty," a moment I found surprisingly poignant. It's not that there is anything wrong with the last two paragraphs, it's just that after reading them I wanted to read more "emptyemptyempty."
If "Patience" is any indicator for the rest of Wells' proposed collection revolving around oranges, there is nothing to do but wait on the edge of any available seat. At $2, this mini-chap is more than worth the price. Honestly it's worth the $6 for the entire second set of mini-chaps. Mud Luscious Press is doing wonderful work and "Patience" is a perfect example of the devotion to unique reading experiences. Though this volume is apparently sold out, it will not be the last you read of Wells' orange visions, and you would be wise to keep an eye on MLP for the next set of chaps.
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