c u l t u r e h o l e s

2008-06-07T09:37:00.003-04:00

Another one from the Chelsea Flea Market.
3.5 x 4.5". I'll probably mat the photo,
cropping it like this:

trees in snow

2008-06-07T09:27:00.007-04:00

Here's a tiny snapshot from the Chelsea Flea Market.
Nevr-Fade stamp on verso, Feb 18 1937
2.75 x 1.75" with deckled edges.

Popeye

2008-06-05T20:04:00.000-04:00

a reading by Zachary Schomburg

2008-06-05T10:36:00.001-04:00

Wednesday June 11 at 6:30pm.
Jefferson Market Library
425 Avenue of the Americas
(at 10th Street)
NY, NY 10011

"The Man Suit, a darkly comic debut from poet Zachary Schomburg, assembles a macabre cast of doppelgangers, talking animals and dead presidents in poems that explore concepts of identity, truth and fate. The resulting body of work walks a dynamic line often reading like anecdotal fables or cautionary tales in the form of prose poems. Through it all, Schomburg balances irony with sincerity; wit with candor; and a playful tone with the knowledge of inevitable sorrow."

The Man Suit was chosen by The New York Public Library as one of 25 Books to Remeber for 2007.

Photomatic photobooth photo, Feb. 1, 1942

2008-06-05T08:34:00.000-04:00

talking to cats

2008-06-05T08:25:00.005-04:00

“One of my all-time favorite jazz pianists is Thelonious Monk. Once, when someone asked him how he managed to get a certain special sound out of the piano, Monk pointed to the keyboard and said: “It can’t be any new note. When you look at the keyboard, all the notes are there already. But if you mean a note enough, it will sound different. You got to pick the notes you really mean!”

I often recall these words when I am writing, and I think to myself, “It’s true. There aren’t any new words. Our job is to give new meanings and special overtones to absolutely ordinary words.” I find the thought reassuring. It means that vast, unknown stretches still lie before us, fertile territories just waiting for us to cultivate them.”

This is an excerpt from an essay titled Jazz Messenger by Haruki Murakami.

Music has always played an important part in the work of Murakami, from the cool jazz of the 1950s to bands like The Beatles and Radiohead. Nakata, from Kafka on the Shore, and his ability to talk to cats probably has its roots in music, in particular with Bossa Nova great Joao Gilberto. Joao talked to cats. He sang to them. I like to imagine cats mesmerized by Gilberto's whispery soft voice. One day his cat Gato was asleep on a window sill and fell to its death. Gilberto's friends joked that the cat, sick of listening to Joao's voice, didn't fall in its sleep but instead jumped and committed suicide.

Miles Davis later stated that Joao Gilberto “could read a newspaper and sound good".

I saw Gilberto perform about four years ago and it was beautiful beyond words. He’ll be back in NYC at Carnegie Hall on June 22.

Open Studio

2008-05-14T22:04:00.000-04:00

Yes, we're South of the Navy Yard Artists,
respresenting Clinton Hill and Bed-Stuy...

Saturday May 17 and Sunday May 18th.
Noon to 8pm. 66-68 Washington Ave. Brooklyn, NY
Artwork by:
Sinclaire Alkire
Matt Miller
Billy Parrott
Jeff Tyack

ida - shotgun

2007-11-22T11:26:00.001-05:00

ida - what can i do

2007-11-22T11:21:00.001-05:00

Out Stealing Horses, by Per Petterson

2007-07-27T16:10:00.000-04:00

Some reviews have stated that Per Petterson's Out Stealing Horses is one of the best novels to come out of Scandinavia in recent years. I'd go so far to say it is one of the best novels to come out in recent years. Period. It was the winner of this year's Independent Foreign Fiction Prize and Dublin's IMPAC Award, beating out the likes of Cormac McCarthy, Salman Rushdie and J.M. Coetzee.

I'll post more thoughts on this one soon. It is definitely one to watch.

Kockroach, by Tyler Knox

2007-06-11T19:27:00.000-04:00

Imagine Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis turned inside out by Tim Burton and you’d get something very much like Kockroach by Tyler Knox. Tyler Knox is a pseudonym for William Lashner, a lawyer and established writer in the legal crime genre. I haven’t read any of his other work but its probably safe to say that Kockroach is somewhat of a departure from his norm. Thank goodness for departures. Kockroach is a fever pitched satirical crime noir novel featuring Jerry Blatta, a cockroach who awakens one day to find himself changed into a human. Thus begins his metamorphosis into the strange world of humans. The novel is set in New York City in the early 70’s but if there hadn’t been a mention of Nixon and Watergate I would have placed the action in the hard-boiled 50’s. There are three narrators: Jerry, his sidekick Mickey "Mite" Pimelia (taken from the genus Pimeliaphilus, or the common roach mite) and Celia, a woman who loves them both. The dialogue is laugh-out-loud funny and the casts of characters are all memorable. Unlike cockroaches that operate on only two levels (hunger and fear) this book works on multiple levels. Kockroach is real pleasure that I could easily see making its way onto the big screen in glorious film noir black and white.

American Youth, by Phil LaMarche

2007-06-08T15:34:00.000-04:00

American Youth is a compelling story about teens, peer pressure, gang violence, and firearms. After an accidental shooting in his home, Ted (referred to as "the boy" throughout most of the novel…ok Phil, we understand he’s alienated) becomes entangled in a web of lies and falls in with the wrong crowd. That crowd is a straight edge gang called American Youth. They abstain from sex, beat up jocks who drink alcohol or smoke, and vandalize new housing developments that represent unwelcome change in the community. The pacing is ideal in creating a tense atmosphere which suits the seriousness of the subject matter, but you don’t really come to like or care for any of the characters. Overall there is a young adult tone and feel to the novel and in the end it comes across as a serious young adult book rather than serious adult literature.

LaMarche was a writing fellow at Syracuse University, the stomping grounds of George Saunders who has a four sentence blurb on the back of the book. Saunders calls LaMarche a “young master” and a “young genius”. That’s young twice in four sentences. Maybe George Saunders is trying to tell us something.

friday's found photograph

2007-06-08T08:29:00.001-04:00

friday's found photograph

2007-06-01T10:14:00.000-04:00

friday's found photograph, one day late

2007-05-26T11:41:00.000-04:00

2007-05-25T11:34:00.000-04:00

There is no shortage of post-9/11 novels. The Reluctant Fundamentalist by Mohsin Hamid barely manages to stand out.

The novel is a one-sided conversation between the protagonist Changez and an unknown American he's just met in his hometown of Lahore, Pakistan. Told as a monologue, the conversational tone of the story grabs you from the outset. But this narrative device does eventually get a little tiresome (What's that? You want some more bread? Why look, here comes our waiter! ). I wonder if diary-like entries as opposed to a running one-sided conversation would have made the narrative flow more realistic.

In the conversation which takes place over dinner Changez recollects events from his past: coming to America, adjusting to Western ways, succeeding in school and the world of finance, a failed relationship with a woman named Erica, and his eventual rejection of the West with his return home to Lahore. The present-day Changez seems very open, forthcoming, and eager to discuss his life. The Changez described in the recollections seems stereotypically subdued and introverted. Someone who is not particularly religious but observant of his country's culture. A reluctant fundamentalist. This contrast between the past and present Changez tries to show how exposure to Western views had changed him. A lot of attention is also paid to Erica and her troubles getting over her boyfriend who died at a young age. She cannot seem to escape the past and it eventually consumes her. Similarly, Changez cannot get over Erica and continues to obsess over her for years. The parallels are a little heavy handed and more than a little obvious. Towards the end as the tension mounts it becomes clear that Changez and his views have become more radical.

At the heart of the novel is the idea of change. The similarity between the names Changez and changes and Erica and America is no coincidence. The novel is at its best when the monologues are long and uninterrupted. Over the course of the entire novel this literary device is sophomoric and not effective. The ending was easy, weak, and expected.

The post 9/11 emphasis of the novel is more about the relations and conflict between India and Pakistan and America’s stance regarding the two countries in the years after 9/11 as opposed to the traditional post-9/11 novel which concentrates on fear, America’s recovery, and the war on terror. The Indian-Pakistani view is interesting but it is not enough to overcome the rest of the novel’s faults. A half-hearted recommendation for The Reluctant Fundamentalist.

Budapest, by Chico Buarque

2007-05-23T18:42:00.000-04:00

Chico Buarque has been a fixture on the Brazilian music scene for over 40 years. His novel Budapest showcases the lyrical prose that followers of his music have come to know and love. It presents an interesting take on ghostwriters and a linear narrative that beautifully and subtly overlaps upon itself until the memorable ending when events come full circle. It is poetic and magical. It came out a few years ago and falls under the catagory "one of those books you've never heard of, much less read". Read it. You will thank me.

For your listening pleasure check out Chico Buarque de Hollanda Volume 1 (1966), Volume 2 (1967) and Construcao (1971).

No Country For Old Men

2007-05-23T17:12:00.000-04:00

The Joel and Ethan Coen's new film No Country For Old Men, based on the novel by Cormac McCarthy, has opened at Cannes. Variety has a review. It opens in limited release in the U.S. on November 9th. Nationwide on November 21st.

Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name, by Vendela Vida

2007-05-23T12:08:00.000-04:00

Vendela Vida. Who? Vida Blue? From the A's? No. Yes he was. Vendela. Isn’t she that model? No. She’s married to Rick Ocasek. No she’s not. Vendela Vida. Who’s that? Oh. Mrs. Dave Eggers? Vendela Vida?! Ohh, her! Oh yeah, I know her work.

All kidding aside: Vendela Vida's new novel Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name is quite simply stunning.

Clarissa’s mother disappeared when she was fourteen. Her father dies fourteen years later. In going through her father’s things Clarissa finds her birth certificate and everything she thought she knew changes. She travels to Lapland in search of a priest who might have the answers. She discovers more than she expected.

In succinct and beautiful prose Vendela Vida tells the story of a woman’s search about her past and her true identity. It is funny, compassionate, and considerate.
The details and descriptions about the Sami and their land are fascinating. The unfolding mystery of Clarissa's and her family's past is truely compelling.

Mrs. Dave Eggers? Well, yes, but with Let the Northern Lights Erase Your Name Vendela Vida has surely made a name for herself.

friday's found photograph

2007-05-18T08:08:00.001-04:00

finally...

2007-05-16T08:51:00.000-04:00

After delay upon delay, my website is finally up and running.

http://www.billyparrott.com

A few updates are still to be made, so bookmark it and check back often. If you notice any particular problems (browser issues, etc..) let me know.

Open Studio May 19th & 20th

2007-05-15T07:44:00.000-04:00

Open Studio
66-68 Washington Ave. Brooklyn,NY.
Saturday May 19th
Sunday May 20th
noon - 8pm

Sinclaire Alkire
Russell Boyle
Carl Grauer
Vivian Liddell
Matt Miller
Billy Parrott
Adam Rogers
Jeff Tyack
http://www.repopny.com

In the Country of Men, by Hisham Matar

2007-05-12T13:25:00.000-04:00

What is the coming-of-age age? Twelve? Thirteen? A Holden Caulfield-esque sixteen? The protagonist in Hisham Matar’s debut novel In the Country of Men is nine years old. Far from dealing with the pangs of adolescence. But the year is 1979 and the country is Libya. In that violent political climate most nine year olds were forced to grow up quickly. So despite the protagonist's young age this is most assuredly a coming-of-age novel.

The atmosphere and actions in the novel are immediate and tense. Children play familiar games in the dusty streets and then watch as a friend’s father is taken away in a car by unsmiling men with guns. A boy struggles to listen to the hushed whispers of his parents and wonders why his mom and family friend are burning his father’s books and papers. Interrogations, mock trials, and executions are televised. The boy watches wide-eyed and notices the details others miss; the gentle gestures of the hangman, the dark stain spreading on the hanging man's pants. And when the boy's parents send him to live in Egypt, he cannot understand that it is for his own good.

This novel gives an unflinching look at the brutality of Muammar Gaddafi's dictatorship. The details and descriptions are poignant and the novel is beautifully written. In the Country of Men is a moving and poetic portrait of both a confused child trying to comprehend the actions of adults and events of the changing world around him and an exiled adult trying to remember and come to terms with his past.

friday's found photograph

2007-05-11T06:42:00.000-04:00

Sibylle Baier's Colour Green

2007-05-05T10:50:00.000-04:00

To call this CD a lost treasure or a recently discovered classic would be an understatement. Its like finding a musical time capsule from 1971. Imagine discovering an albums worth of previously unknown Joni Mitchell songs circa Blue. Its like that.

Though she studied piano and guitar at an early age Sibylle Baier was not a musician or songwriter but primarily an actress. After a spirit-renewing road trip through the Swiss Alps in the early 70s she returned home and wrote a song called Remember the Day. It was the first song she ever wrote. Though her music did come to appear in a film by Wim Wenders she never pursued a career in music. The songs, recorded between 1970 and 1973 on a home reel to reel, were only shared among family and friends and never released.

Some thirty years her son dug the recordings out of the closet and made CDs for family members. He also got one into the hands of a producer and the rest is history.

There is a hushed melancholy to these fragile songs. A haunting sadness. Its like listening in on an intimate private conversation, or reading someones diary. Its a bare album and with the exception of only a few songs her vocals are accompanied only by guitar. Comparisons have been made to Nico, Nick Drake, and Vashti Bunyan. There's a definite folk quality to the recordings. The melodies are subdued yet uplifting. It took over thirty years for these songs to surface. We can be thankful that they did.

friday's found photograph

2007-05-03T18:09:00.001-04:00

What is the What, by Dave Eggers

2007-05-02T19:30:00.000-04:00

“You would not add to my suffering if you knew what I have seen."

This is what Valentino Achak Deng thought as he was being robbed in his apartment in Atlanta, GA. Or, I should say, this is what Dave Eggers writes that Valentino Achak Deng was thinking as he was bound, bleeding, and being robbed.

Valentino is one of the Lost Boys of Sudan. What is the What, as the introduction to this novel explains, is his autobiography, as told by Dave Eggers.

Alternating between the past and present, What is the What tells the story of Valentino Achak Deng, from the age of seven, when he was violently separated from his family in their Sudanese village, to the 13 years he spent in refugee camps in Ethiopia and Kenya, to his eventual exposure to Western culture and finally, the United States.

More than a coming-of-age story, What is the What is a portrait of grim despair and humanity at its worse, but also a moving and compelling tribute to human endurance.

Beginning in 1983, tens of thousands of people, displaced, their families’ fates uncertain, were forced to into the unknown to escape the horrors of Sudan’s civil war.

The Lost Boys, most under the age of ten, endured days without food, assaults, cruelty, and gunfire from soldiers and countrymen, disease, minefields and massacres, bombings from aircraft, attacks from lions, hyenas, and crocodiles. Many of the Boys did not survive the journey. After months of walking across Sudan they finally made it across the Nile to a place described as “not the worst place on the continent of Africa, but among them”, a place in which no one, simply no one but the most desperate, would ever consider spending a day. This place would become their home for one year, for two, then five, then ten. Many of the Lost Boys thought that the situations and circumstances surrounding them were temporary and that they would soon return to their villages and homes. For over ten years they lived with the constant tension and anxiety of the unknown.

And yet for all of those years Valentino maintained hope in his harrowing struggle to survive. Hope that his parents were still alive. Hope that he could one day return home.

Two and a half million people perished in Sudan’s civil war.
Some of the Lost Boys did make their way to America.

For most, the prospect of traveling to America seemed like another in a long line of reckless acts of faith. They had few personal possessions, no money, and no family where they were going. They were again leaving everything they knew to go to a land that was as much of an “unknown” as the previous lands. But America offered grace in place of suffering, serenity in place of pain. And this time the choice to relocate would be theirs.

Valentino Achak Deng said, “We had been tested as none before had been tested. We had been sent into the unknown once, and then again and again. Now we can stand and decide. This is our first chance to choose our own unknown.”

The Dinka of Sudan have a creation myth.
When God created the Earth he made the first man and woman. He made them tall and strong and more beautiful than any of the creatures on the land. And when God was done, he said “Now that you are here, on the most sacred and fertile land I have, I can give you one more thing. I can give you this creature, which is called the cow, which will provide milk and meat and prosperity of every kind, or you can have the What," The first man lifted his head to God and asked, “But what is the What?” And God said, “I cannot tell you. Still, you have to choose.”

Bebel Gilberto's Momento

2007-05-02T13:25:00.000-04:00

Bebel Gilberto's musical genes have long been obvious. She hails from Brazilian music royalty: her mother is Miucha, her uncle is Chico Buarque, and her father is "O Mito", Joao Gilberto. Momento is her third and newest release. Her first two CDs took the mellow and understated bossa nova style her father made famous and brought it into the 21st century with subtle hints of pop and electronica. There is a consistent trance-like trip-hop quality to her earlier work whereas her new CD is more upbeat. I wouldn't say Momento is a drastic departure from her previous work but it does seem more mainstream. With lyrics in both English and Portuguese, this album is sure to appeal to a wider audience while still satisfying those who are already fans. Of particular highlight is the cover of Cole Porter's Night and Day.

Bebel Gilberto is performing at the Gramercy Theater on May 22nd and 23rd.

Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin

2007-05-02T07:15:00.000-04:00

As far as new music goes I am about ten years out of the loop. But with the death of Boris Yeltsin on last week on April 23rd I figured I'd give a quick mention about one of the newer bands I do like, Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin.

A few months ago I got one of those "people who bought _____ also bought _____" emails from Amazon. In this case they recommended Broom by Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin because I had purchased CDs by the band Ida. Ida's early material fits nicely into the alt-country genre but their newer CDs are often referred to as sadcore and sound exactly like what you might think sadcore would sound like if you didn't know what sadcore was. Sadcore is sometimes also called slowcore. So there you have it.

I have always been a little wary of taking Amazon's advice when they recommend books and music they think I’d like. More often than not they are just recommending other books or CDs from the same writers, bands, or labels. In any event, the only similarity between Ida and SSLYBY turned out to be their label, Polyvinyl Records (hence, probably, Amazon’s recommendation).

So to keep it short: The first thought that came to mind was a lo-fi Weezer, with maybe a little pop-Radiohead. But what do I know. Every song is incredible and memorable and full of hooks. I really like that you can hear stuff going on, as if the songs were recorded in an attic. Or a basement. (I think they were, in an attic, and a basement). Not overly produced but lush and beautiful in an indie lo-fi way. I could go on and on with "they sound like this" or "they sound like that" but I would rather just say give them a listen to. Before they are the next big thing. Because they will be the next big thing. Then you could say "I knew and loved their stuff. Back in the day. And still do."

Track down their Myspace page, or one of the many fan pages like http://www.iamwarmandpowerful.com/

Black Swan Green, by David Mitchell

2007-05-01T09:35:00.000-04:00

Do not set foot in my office. That’s dad’s rule. But the phone’d rung twenty-five times. So I went in. But the person on the other end didn’t answer.

The last six steps I took in one death-defying bound. We crossed the crossroads by Black Swan and went into the woods. The lake in the woods was epic. Granddad’s Omega’d never once gone wrong in four decades. In less than a fortnight, I’d killed it.

Powdery moonlight lit the attic room through the snowflake-lace curtain. Her windpipe bulges as her soul squeezes out of her heart. A silent roaring hangs here. Not going anywhere.

Hugo received my telepathic signal and looked up at me. I half-waved. Hugo wore a thin leather cord around his neck. I wanted one.

A pause. Wrong numbers and crossed lines happen all the time. Don’t they? Short pause.

In came the hot gassy dirt. My lungs flooded with it. The smoke leaked out, a genie from its bottle. “And that,” said Hugo, “is all there is to it.” The first torrent of vomit kicked a GUUURRRRRR noise out of me and poured on the muddy grass. But Hugo’s not even looking at me. My cousin’s sobbing with laughter.

In my parent’s creamy bedroom I sat at Mum’s dressing table, spiked my hair with L’Oreal hair mousse, daubed an Adam Ant strip across my face, and held her opal brooch over one eye. I looked through it at the sun for secret colors nobody’s ever named.

“Thirteen,” I said, guessing he thought I was still twelve. “Thirteen, are you? That a fact?” Ancient.

New leaves oozed from twigs in the hedges. Seeds thickened the air, like sweet gravy.
Dewy cobwebs snaptwanged cross my face. Hate smells of burnt dead fireworks.

A vaportrail gashed the sky. But the sky healed itself. Without fuss.
The crows’ beaks were daggers. Their oily eyes had cruel plans.
Rain turned the world to whites and grays.
I’ve never kissed anyone.
Dawn Madden’s eyes are dark honey.
The tulips are black plum, emulsion white, and yolky gold.
Were Mum and Dad ever like this, once upon a time?

The wind riffled the ten thousand pages of the oak tree. The old lady’s rivery eyeballs chased the words across the pages. She jabbed my heart.
Once a poem’s left home it doesn’t care about you.
The poem is a raid on the inarticulate.

Beauty is immune to definition. When beauty is present, you know. Winter sunrise in dirty Toronto, one’s new lover in an old cafe, sinister magpies on a roof. Beauty is.

Druggy pom-pom bees hovered in the lavender. A July afternoon yawned.

Cars’re rooms. So are woods. Skies’re ceilings. Distances’re walls.
Wombs’re rooms made of mothers. Graves’re rooms made of soil.

That music was swelling. A bored dog barked a garden or two away. I lay back on the armless sofa. I’ve never listened to music lying down. Listening’s reading if you close your eyes. Music’s a wood you walk through.

I sucked Mint Imperials in case I met a suntanned girl who’d take me upstairs to one of those saggy houses with seagulls screaming on the ridges, and draw her curtains and lie me on her bed and teach me how to kiss. The coins in my cagged fist rattled like silver bullets. Space Invaders first. Then I saw this lush girl. Magnets don’t need to understand magnatism. I took a long piss, wondering if girls’d like me more if I had more scars. Which girl’s carrying the other half of my kid, deep inside those intricate loops? What’s she doing right now? What’s her name?

I smiled back.

It’s epic being up at the crack of dawn. A red setter raced ghost-dogs through the bellyflopping waves on the shore.
Do spirals end? Or just get so tiny your eyes can’t follow anymore?

“Only total space cadets say ‘epic’ anymore.”

Grimy windows rectangled misty gloom. The exact color of boredom. Too heavy and too gray not to turn into rain. Autumn’s fungussy, berries’re manky, leaves’re rusting, V’s of long-distnace birds’re crossing the sky, evenings’re smoky, nights’re cold, autumn’s nearly dead.

Photos’re better than nothing, but things’re better than photos ’cause the things themselves were part of what was there.

Julia received my telepathic signal and looked up at me. I half-waved. “Much louder without carpets and curtains, isn’t it?” The echoey house asked its far corners but no answer rebounded back.
“It’ll be alright in the end, Jace.”
“It doesn’t feel very all right.”
“That’s because it’s not the end.”

The Raw Shark Texts, by Steven Hall

2007-04-30T18:55:00.000-04:00

Resembling a cyber-punk mash-up of Memento, The Matrix, Neil Gaiman’s Neverwhere, and Jaws, Steven Hall’s debut novel is already gaining momentum as the next big cult classic (thanks in part to a juggernaut of a Da Vinci Code-esque marketing campaign). As for the book itself, some parts are wonderfully abstract and original while other moments are all too similar to their inspired sources (the last quarter of the book resembles a scene-by-scene homage to Jaws). Despite the obvious influences, overall this book is one of the most original debuts in years and unlike anything you’ve ever read. The motorcycle chase scene with the shark and the letter bomb was unforgettable. I just wish that excitement had carried through the rest of the book.

A few dozen foreign rights deals were in place before the book even saw print and the movie is already in the works. Rumor has it that Nicole Kidman was so taken by the book that she asked Hall to change the gender of the main character so she could play the role in the film. It won’t win any major literary awards but it’s a fun ride nonetheless.

The US tour brings Hall to NYC on May 7th upstairs at Mo Pitkins (34 Ave A betw, 2nd and 3rd) and May 8th at the Barnes and Noble on 6th Ave @ 22nd St. Both at 7pm.

The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

2007-04-30T14:51:00.001-04:00

Slow and half opaque. The wet gray flakes twisting and falling out of nothing. Gray slush by the roadside. Black water running from under the sodden drifts of ash. No more balefires on the distant ridge.

Desolate country. A boar-hide nailed to a barndoor. Ratty. Wisp of a tail. Dried and dusty among the wan slats of light.

Though the descriptions are vivid, there is a poetic restraint and understatement that runs throughout Cormac McCarthy’s The Road.

The country is America, but one can only guess at what happened to this once land of plenty. The post-apocalyptic landscape is barren and charred. It is cold. The sky is bruised and thick. Ash blocks out the sunlight and blankets the ground.
The snow is gray.

With the first gray light he rose and left the boy sleeping and walked out to the road and squatted and studied the country to the south. Barren, silent, godless. He thought the month was October but he wasn’t sure. He hadn’t kept a calendar for years. They were moving south. There’d be no surviving another winter here.

An unnamed father and his young son, who have their devotion to each other and little else, trek across country in the grim aftermath of a cataclysmic event. Struggling to stay warm, scavenging for food, searching for shelter, hiding from lawless bands who have resorted to horrific extremes in order to survive, the father and son follow The Road that will lead them to the sea.
They don’t know what, if anything, awaits them there.

McCarthy is a master at his craft, where all is intentional:
brief and fragmented paragraphs, lack of punctuation, the sentence structure, the word arrangement…all visual cues on the actual page reinforcing the sparseness of the scorching dialogue and the bleakness of the events that unfold.

…knelt in the ashes. He raised his face to the paling day. Are you there? He whispered. Will I see you at the last?
He was a long time going to sleep. After a while he turned and looked at the man. His face in the small light streaked with black from the rain like some old world thespian.
Can I ask you something? he said.
Yes. Of course.
Are we going to die?
Sometime. Not now.
Okay.

Can I ask you something?
Yes. Of course you can.
What would you do if I died?
If you died I would want to die too.
So you could be with me?
Yes. So I could be with you.

But in a world in which all hope has been lost, McCarthy, in the heart-wrenching ending, does offer a final glimmer of hope. This is a tale of solitary desperation, but also of faith, hope, and love. It is a sparse and grim novel, but there is a poignant beauty and poetic elegance that comes out of the stark simplicity of this profound work.

Cormac McCarthy’s The Road is a book you will not soon forget.

On a related note, the Coen Brothers new film No Country for Old Men, based on McCarthy's novel of the same name, opens May 2007 at the Cannes Film Festival.

After Dark, by Haruki Murakami

2007-04-28T16:15:00.000-04:00

At just under 200 pages, Murakami’s new novel falls somewhere in between his epic works like The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle and his small jewel-like short stories. Murakami has always had a thing for music and this novel is no different. With jazz-like pacing, After Dark follows the interconnected lives of a handful of individuals in just one night between the hours of midnight and dawn. There is a definite cinematic feel to his newest work. We the readers become the viewers, part of a collective “we”, as in “we look” and “we see” and changes in our perspective are sometimes even described as changes in camera angles. There are also obvious nods to Godard’s Alphaville and Lynchian scenes which are viewed through television screens, blurring the lines between what is real and what is not. At the heart of the novel is trademark Murakami: “mesmerizing drama, metaphysical speculation, interweaving time and space as well as memory into a seamless exploration of human agency.”

friday's found photo

2007-04-27T20:21:00.000-04:00

No One Belongs Here More Than You. Stories by Miranda July

2007-04-26T16:35:00.000-04:00

A woman teaches senior citizens how to swim. In her kitchen.
A special needs assistant has a secret relationship with her college advisor, who happens to be Madeleine L’Engle’s husband, and goes on to have her heart broken by a special needs student who is the embodiment of something she has known and longed for most of her life. A middle-aged woman dreams up ways to fulfill her secret longing to meet Prince William. Perhaps her lecture on earthquake preparedness will make him fall in love with her.
No One Belongs Here More Than You is the debut collection of short stories by Miranda July. Those familiar with her performance art and film work will instantly recognize her voice. In these wonderful and tender stories she makes the improbable all too probable and the absurd all too familiar. The stories overflow with a feeling of spontaneity and yet have the immediacy and thoughtful details of a well-thought-out plan (“I was patience defined, patience misspelled, patience sounded out slowly, letter by letter, with the t pronounced “shh.”). There is an innocence displayed in the repeated use of the “if X, then Y” cause and effect kind of child-like internal logic (“I lifted the curtain and saw him putting out the sprinkler. It was dusk. If he saw me, I would live. Look up, look up, look up. He raised his eyes, as if it were his own idea, and I waived.”). But it is not all smiles and sunshine. It is dark at times, but it is all familiar territory. There is a sadness in these stories. A loneliness. A longing to be loved. Feelings that are all too human. And all too real. George Saunders calls these stories July-esque, which is to say “infused with wonder at the things of the world”. I couldn’t have said it better myself.