Archive for the ‘Literary Hirsutes’ Category

Emily St. John Mandel receives a tepid college try from the New York Times

So a writer, the creme of the byproduct of your civilization, has garnered a prime review at nytimes.com -> here

I cannot begin to moan and wail over such an unexciting ouevre -> here

If you are at all tangentially interfered with by themillions.com then please don’t bother, however if your senses have revolted from the pitter-patter of these tiny imprints I say, go on!

The fate of this volume will be the scourge of the unchosen, those MFA’s left in its wake. If we listen closely we hear a woman who has written a thing and been gladhanded most ungallantly. However the thing is, from the review directly, not exactly worthy of an eternal flame. We read that it starts with a charge and sputters over time. Ostensibly from an idea not a set piece. Cringing I read the words on the screen thinking how much a scandal a review can be that is truly mild. It almost pains ones efforts at life to believe in a peerage of colleagues treated so. How do these people partake in this production and analysis if the end result pardons her? My weary reader, ask not and want not, these are the things that must push my pen to react. How hard must we yearn and yodel for a solid work that plods and plots itself accordingly?  The meta of now is only a puddle, a puddle which seeks no greater body, that dries up and is restored to the heavens only to fall again and again with each week of this publication derelict of a sense of greater acts of creation. For when one has a vocation, we only injure ourselves when we inure against something of better wort.


For the lest to see.

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The Atlantic Monthly gushes, as their fave show crushes.


They tell us the how and the why of the thing that is True Detective.

Ostensibly, this show on HBO is the best thing going. Now why would I dare agree with that? I don’t. To say something is the best on the telly is telling how good your favorite brand of ketchup would be to my tongue. non compos mentis

The review/advert for the show is so chock full of unrepentant enthusiasm that I would rather not watch it after reading. I’m not going to muse over the difficulties I had with the review, this quote will suffice: “But while the pairing isn’t entirely new, it is nonetheless sublime.” For when one runs out of ideas or angles or anything original you must label something SUBLIME. One must get just how sublime this showing of metaphysicality through police procedural drame is though. Only HBO, the top-tier of Television programming, apparently can muster such a review and such a fawning.

Transparent, A- for overall true to forminess

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Three Men in A Boat – Jerome K. Jerome

Idle Thoughts of an Idle Fellow – Jerome K. Jerome

The Edinburgh Caper – St. Clair McKelway

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd – Agatha Christie

Night Flight – Antoine de Saint Exupery

Scots Poetry – John Buchan

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I’ve finished the first third of this memoir, which is chock full of interesting information. After reaching the point where Graves has enlisted, I feel that the rest of the book must go downhill. What is colorful and pointed during his lively childhood should serve to counterpoint the horrors of the First World and will probably be done with the same masterful tone.

The public school bits of the beginnings of the book serve to capture the most interest while reading. Those and the description of Bavaria pre-WWI neatly round out how flush Robert Graves ancestors and contemporaries were with culture. Which in turn allowed Graves’ pen to flow so freely here and with many other works.

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as if Tupac had a literary cousin?

this is pretty horrible writing. Oh, you didn’t ask me?


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Is attempting much, or being accused of it, simply for the forced sophistication of doing it, too much to ask for? Regard this excerpt from John Kinsella on J. H. Prynne: “It is a strong example of the Prynne lyric in which tensions between external social, political, and economic forces and interior, personal, emotive, and reflective experience come into play. The tone is almost of a love poem, yet there is a darkish irony at work as well.”  I will take the world and my own world and grind them together, for the smell of grinding gears?

When a piece of poetry is ground up then wound down it is painstakingly obvious to one. Why can’t we champion effortlessness, or the supple surface of serenity?

Here is the poem Kinsella is referring to.

Under her brow the snowy wing-case
      delivers truly the surprise
of days which slide under sunlight
          past loose glass in the door
      into the reflection of honour spread
through the incomplete, the trusted. So
      darkly the stain skips as a livery
of your pause like an apple pip,
      the baltic loved one who sleeps.
Or as syrup in a cloud, down below in
      the cup, you excuse each folded
cry of the finch’s wit, this flush
      scattered over our slant of the
          day rocked in water, you say
      this much. A waver of attention at
the surface, shews the arch there and
          the purpose we really cut;
      an ounce down by the water, which
in cross-fire from injustice too large
      to hold he lets slither
                                            from starry fingers
      noting the herbal jolt of cordite
and its echo: is this our screen, on some
      street we hardly guessed could mark
an idea bred to idiocy by the clear
      sight-lines ahead. You come in
          by the same door, you carry
what cannot be left for its own
      sweet shimmer of reason, its false blood;
the same tint I hear with the pulse it touches
      and will not melt. Such shading
of the rose to its stock tips the bolt
      from the sky, rising in its effect of what
motto we call peace talks. And yes the
      quiet turn of your page is the day
          tilting so, faded in the light.



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New from the publisher Godine is the new manifesto of communication. If only we would all expound as if we were classically educated. Besides, I’m not. Maybe an autodidact, but never conceived of the possibleness of the classical rigors. 

This review is interesting for the tidbits that it extracts. It is almost a full-length commercial for the book, though isn’t that what most reviews strive for in the end?

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