We’ve just published Issue 49 of The Quarterly Conversation. Here are the contents:
As the 24-hour news cycle exceeded Hollywood in narrative originality, the Menendez brothers became TV stars, O.J. got away with it, and California elected Arnold Schwarzenegger as its 38th governor (a friend who attended San Diego State University told me he voted Republican only so that his diploma would come adorned with the Terminator’s autograph). This Southern California—of Nathanael West’s The Day of the Locust, Irwin Shaw’s “The City Was in Total Darkness,” Kenneth Anger, Charles Bukowski, early Tom Waits, Bret Easton Ellis, David Lynch, Quentin Tarantino, and Kathy Acker’s death, of breast cancer, in a Tijuana clinic—is Gary Indiana’s Southern California, an oasis of junkies, con artists, prostitutes, and thieves sipping afternoon cocktails in hotel bars. As Jean Baudrillard wrote about one of its many symbols in 1981, “Disneyland is presented as imaginary in order to make us believe that the rest is real, whereas all of Los Angeles and the America that surrounds it are no longer real, but belong to the hyperreal order and to the order of simulation.” For every Marilyn Monroe, there are more than a few Norma Jeanes who never made it onto the lot, while others imitate the real thing in Las Vegas and West Hollywood––and then, Indiana reminds us, there’s Marilyn herself. Los Angeles is the city of Skid Row, but it’s also Kim Kardashian’s hometown.
In the nearly twenty years since László Krasznahorkai’s The Melancholy of Resistance first appeared in translation, his reputation in English has grown at the same gradual, inexorable pace that his books favor. Nearly all his novels of lonely visionaries and glimpsed apocalypses have made it by now into English, and later this year New Directions will substantially fill out the short fiction with a large collection titled The World Goes On. In the meantime, we have last year’s smaller volume; Herman/The Last Wolf picks out three pieces from Krasznahorkai’s short work, two early and one late, and joins them up in an inverted tête-bêche binding. Additionally, The Manhattan Project is a broad, slim volume co-credited to Krasznahorkai and the photographer Ornan Rotem and constructed as “a literary diary presented as twelve chance encounters or coincidences.”
Baker dedicates to this land an imagination that is foil and febrile kin to Wordsworth’s genius. His prose has a sheer disorienting power: the words of a place raised out of time yet shaped through historical time. The uncertainty of wildness is at its center, bound to a persistent human namelessness that hangs on the fringes: “As so often on spring evenings, no birds sing near me, while all the distant trees and bushes ring with song. Like all human beings, I seem to walk within a hoop of red-hot iron, a hundred yards across, that sears away all life. When I stand still, it cools, and slowly disappears.” Such prose slips the read
In the often-staid world of literary translation, it is rare to come across the true shock of something new—sentences like “a few houses had already been sent packing to the underworld, along with a soccer pitch and half an empty school” or “Three Times Blonde’s pants rode her all over.” Sentences that let their readers into a strange new view of the world. But this is what Yuri Herrera has taught us to expect in his books, and with the publication of Kingdom Cons, his trilogy-of-sorts is brought to a close at the very moment that it brings language itself into question.
If, as Jonathan Sturgeon has suggested, we have entered an era dominated by “autofiction,” in which “the life of the author is now the novel’s organizing principle” (“2014: The Death of the Postmodern Novel and the Rise of Autofiction”), then in the search for progenitors of this literary phenomenon we might consider the fiction of Gordon Lish. Indeed, a common reaction to Lish’s books, at least since Peru (which may be his last work of fiction to predominantly feature a main character who can, to some degree at least, be separated from “Gordon Lish”) is to question whether Lish is writing fiction at all rather than some sort of free-form (some would say self-indulgent) autobiography. However, the wary reader would be just as mistaken to trust Lish’s writing to provide reliable accounts of the author’s actual experiences as to expect his “stories” to bear much resemblance to the traditional well-made short story.
Kafka definitely is the best example of the writer as the permanent apprentice, to the degree that he often gives the impression of being unable to finish the texts he begins. His diary is a laboratory where we can see evidence of investigations that, after twenty years of writing, shouldn’t still be going but that he, miraculously, pursues until the very end. His is an almost childish approach to writing, and this I like, because maybe it’s in the beginning of a writer’s life where writing feels most necessary and truthful. With Bolaño I have a similar sense. I see a continual brilliance to his writing: for him literature is also like a fascinating game. This game doesn’t fail to amaze Kafka, but it preoccupies and torments him to not understand how it works. By contrast, it only brings Bolaño happiness. Reading him, one sees how much he enjoyed writing. It’s even possible to hear him dying of laughter between certain lines.
The government’s intelligence services monitored him for months, censored his correspondence, controlled his visitors, and once in a while a nocturnal voice would threaten him over the phone. He would not treat it as a threat; in fact, he kept up a philosophical and theoretical conversation on the meaning of civil duty and moral responsibility with those deceitful voices. Those men were the new intellectuals, the thinkers of the future; any Argentine knows that a mark will be placed on his life if he dissents, which may be invoked at some future moment to track down and incarcerate him. The services had turned into the political version of the Oracle of Delphi; they decided in secret the fate of entire populations. Now they are the witches from Macbeth who control the power! They suppress everything that can threaten mediocre and average life; they attack diversity in all of its aspects, control it and surveil it, write our biographies. Conformism is the new religion, and they are its priests. He had reached a point at which he argued directly with the state, with the spokesmen for the state’s intelligence. Smash and grab exchanges in the depths of night; the voices came and went, through wireless circuits. They hounded him, cornered him, wanted to turn him into an intellectual outlaw. They know that I know; they want to destroy my thought.
Having read The Invented Part, it is not surprising that Fresán is often mentioned in the same breath as Bolaño and Cortázar; Bolaño because he is widely considered to be the Chilean’s heir, a folly that I will not elaborate on here, and because Fresán was also a close friend of his; and Cortázar because, as I stated above, The Invented Part is, rightly or wrongly, compared frequently to Cortázar’s magnum opus, Hopscotch; but more importantly because, like Bolaño’s and Cortázar’s translated works, The Invented Part is a welcome addition to the canon of translated Latin American literature.
For a reader not versed in the politics and history of Croatia, Yugoslavia, and, more generally, Europe, Belladonna can be a challenging novel. It is also enlightening and beautiful, sophisticated and tragic, haunting and stirring, not to mention a seamless blend of fact and fiction. It’s an angry book, at rage with nationalism and blind fanaticism, as well as the stifling mediocrity that can be academia. And it’s a heartbreaking meditation on aging and its many ills. Lest I forget to also mention, it is one of the most rewarding books I’ve read in years. The work that Daša Drndić asks of her readers does not come from the prose, which is razor-sharp, biting, and often hysterical in its outrage. The challenge lies in the constant shifts of time, which can often displace the reader. But I implore you to hold fast, because Belladonna is worth it.
Before Leonora Carrington became a famed surrealist artist and writer, she went mad. In the late 1930s, the English debutante was living with her lover Max Ernst (more than 20 years her senior) in a farmhouse in Provence, when Ernst was imprisoned on a visit to Paris and sent to a concentration camp. As the German army advanced, Carrington fled across the Pyrenees into Spain, where, after exhibiting increasingly deranged behavior, she was interned in an insane asylum in Santander. Down Below is Carrington’s brief yet harrowing account of her journey to the other side of consciousness.
In 1947, Louise Bogan reviewed for The New Yorker a first collection of poems by a 26-year-old who less than two years earlier had been discharged from the U.S. Army after seeing combat in Italy, France, and Germany. Bogan praises his wit and technical facility, and says he surpasses his contemporaries in “range of imagination and depth of feeling.” He possesses the gift, Bogan says, of “fitting the poetic pattern to the material.” She concludes her review with a forward-looking endorsement, almost a prophecy: “Let us watch Richard Wilbur. He is composed of valid ingredients.” Robert and Mary Bagg have written the first biography of our greatest living poet, now age ninety-six, borrowing their title from Bogan’s prescient review of The Beautiful Changes, published seventy years ago.
Long after he escaped East Germany to settle in the West, where he continued to reside until his death in 2007, Wolfgang Hilbig remained bound to the darkened landscapes of the GDR. He was not one to downplay the bleak and oppressive qualities of life amid the abandoned mines and crumbling factories of his hometown, Meuselwitz, and his dense, swirling prose evokes a world of strange, suffocating beauty. But his emotional attachment to his birthplace and his complicated misgivings about the benefits of reunification, left him forever torn between East and West—a conflict captured clearly in the stories that comprise the second part of the collection The Sleep of the Righteous. By contrast, Old Rendering Plant, the latest Hilbig offering to be released in English, presents a narrative firmly planted in the GDR that does not travel far beyond the immediate environs of the narrator’s home; yet this tightly defined arena affords the perfect space for a multi-layered exploration of one man’s struggle to define himself against the restrictions and expectations imposed by family, class, history, and circumstance.