Donald Antrim’s My Eliot, the author’s first novel in more than 20 years, in which our protagonist “Donald Antrim” sits down to read his late father’s treatise on T.S. Eliot, determined to come to terms, at last, with the ghost of his old man … book rights sold to Random House
— from here
Her father is the former Newsweek correspondent Curtis (Bill) Pepper, and her mother is the controversial sculptor (and social steamroller) Beverly Pepper. “Jorie is an amalgam of the two,” one New York editor told me.
— that’s poet Jorie Graham, from here
Mother Teresa once rang the doorbell looking for her husband Bill.
— that’s the doorbell of Beverly Pepper, Jorie Graham’s mum, from here
When she was a little girl in Brooklyn, so did the Dodgers.
— from the same Beverly Pepper piece, here
Cole married his American wife, Elizabeth Lewis, in December 1989.
— that’s Lloyd Cole, from here
In 1987, Tim and his wife Sarah played along with lurid tabloid reports that they were incestuous siblings.
— that’s Tim Smith of the Cardiacs, here
American poetry is full of ‘Oh, poor me.’ Jorie doesn’t do that. I think she’s carved out such a powerful œuvre that it’s unignorable.
— that’s Jorie Graham again, from here
‘Your normal reading habits, which have to do with the follow-through of plot, aren’t going to work here. So let’s go and see what else we can read with.’ says Jorie Graham, followed by
Can We Decipher a Whale’s First Sounds?
— from here
Cole stays in the creep — that space of unresolved circumstances and emotions that has room for great discomfort and some hope, some beauty.
— that’s Lloyd Cole again, again from here and it finds it’s way into this list by way of the creep
Or is it simply the onslaught of another dangerous mood?
— from here
A screenshot of her comment rippled through social media and many fans, especially those in her sizable LGBTQ fanbase, were met with bewilderment, anger, and disappointment.
— although they weren’t met by her bewilderment, anger and disappointment, that’s Róisín Murphy, from here
on which subject, the bewilderment, anger and disappointment of fans, I’ve almost had it with Claire Dederer’s book, Monsters: A Fan’s Dilemma, had it after statements like this,
Hemmingway wrote in Death in the Afternoon: “Bullfighting is the only art in which the artist is in danger of death.” (Makes wanking gesture with hand.)
had it not because of its disrespect for Hemmingway but Dederer’s disrespect for herself.
~’~.~’~.~’~.~!~.~’~.~’~.~’~.~’~.~’~
A.L. Kennedy’s book On Bullfighting starts with the writer about to jump. Then from a neighbouring building she hears some crap song and decides that that cheesy mor tune can’t be the soundtrack for her going out. The telephone rings. It’s her publisher offering her an assignment to write on bullfighting. She goes, with Federico García Lorca as her guide.
La casada infiel Y que yo me la llevé al río creyendo que era mozuela, pero tenía marido. Fue la noche de Santiago y casi por compromiso. Se apagaron los faroles y se encendieron los grillos. En las últimas esquinas toqué sus pechos dormidos, y se me abrieron de pronto como ramos de jacintos. El almidón de su enagua me sonaba en el oído, como una pieza de seda rasgada por diez cuchillos. Sin luz de plata en sus copas los árboles han crecido, y un horizonte de perros ladra muy lejos del río. Pasadas las zarzamoras, los juncos y los espinos, bajo su mata de pelo hice un hoyo sobre el limo. Yo me quité la corbata. Ella se quitó el vestido. Yo el cinturón con revólver. Ella sus cuatro corpiños. Ni nardos ni caracolas tienen el cutis tan fino, ni los cristales con luna relumbran con ese brillo. Sus muslos se me escapaban como peces sorprendidos, la mitad llenos de lumbre, la mitad llenos de frío. Aquella noche corrí el mejor de los caminos, montado en potra de nácar sin bridas y sin estribos. No quiero decir, por hombre, las cosas que ella me dijo. La luz del entendimiento me hace ser muy comedido. Sucia de besos y arena yo me la llevé del río. Con el aire se batían las espadas de los lirios. Me porté como quien soy. Como un gitano legítimo. Le regalé un costurero grande de raso pajizo, y no quise enamorarme porque teniendo marido me dijo que era mozuela cuando la llevaba al río.
THE FAITHLESS WIFE by Leonard Cohen after the poem by Lorca The Night of Santiago And I was passing through So I took her to the river As any man would do She said she was a virgin That wasn’t what I’d heard But I’m not the Inquisition I took her at her word And yes she lied about it all Her children and her husband You were meant to judge the world Forgive me but I wasn’t The lights went out behind us The fireflies undressed The broken sidewalk ended I touched her sleeping breasts They opened to me urgently Like lilies from the dead Behind a fine embroidery Her nipples rose like bread Her petticoat was starched and loud And crushed between our legs It thundered like a living cloud Beset by razor blades No silver light to plate their leaves The trees grew wild and high A file of dogs patrolled the beach To keep the night alive We passed the thorns and berry bush The reeds and prickly pear I made a hollow in the earth To nest her dampened hair Then I took off my necktie And she took off her dress My belt and pistol set aside We tore away the rest Her skin was oil and ointments And brighter than a shell Your gold and glass appointments Will never shine so well Her thighs they slipped away from me Like schools of startled fish Though I’ve forgotten half my life I still remember this That night I ran the best of roads Upon a mighty charger But very soon I’m overthrown And she’s become the rider Now as a man I won’t repeat The things she said aloud Except for this my lips are sealed Forever and for now And soon there’s sand in every kiss And soon the dawn is ready And soon the night surrenders To a daffodil machete I gave her something pretty And I waited ’til she laughed I wasn’t born a gypsy To make a woman sad I didn’t fall in love. Of course It’s never up to you But she was walking back and forth And I was passing through When I took her to the river In her virginal apparel When I took her to the river On the Night of Santiago And yes she lied about her life Her children and her husband You were born to get it right Forgive me but I wasn’t The Night of Santiago And I was passing through And I took her to the river As any man would do
