New Sudden Fiction edited by Rob Shapard, James Thomas

A Sport and A Pastime by James Salter

Tree of Smoke by Denis Johnson

I Am No One You Know by Joyce Carol Oates

Happy reading friends. Enjoy your weekend.

Like many readers and writers interested in the short story form, I have an entire row of books by Raymond Carver on my bookshelf. I was introduced to his work a few years ago and have been reading my way through his catalogue at the rate grass grows, hoping I never come to the end. What We Talk About When We Talk About Love is perhaps best known for being edited (and depending on who you ask, clearcut) by Gordon Lish. If you’re unfamiliar with the backstory, you can read about Carver and Lish’s symbiotic (perhaps parasitic?) relationship in a fascinating article at the New Yorker.

Zzz.
Ahhh, rest days.

I believe in my own obsessions, in the beauty of the car crash, in the peace of the submerged forest, in the excitements of the deserted holiday beach, in the elegance of automobile graveyards, in the mystery of multi-storey car parks, in the poetry of abandoned hotels.

I believe in the forgotten runways of Wake Island, pointing towards the Pacifics of our imaginations.

I believe in the mysterious beauty of Margaret Thatcher, in the arch of her nostrils and the sheen on her lower lip; in the melancholy of wounded Argentine conscripts; in the haunted smiles of filling station personnel; in my dream of Margaret Thatcher caressed by that young Argentine soldier in a forgotten motel watched by a tubercular filling station attendant.

I believe in the beauty of all women, in the treachery of their imaginations, so close to my heart; in the junction of their disenchanted bodies with the enchanted chromium rails of supermarket counters; in their warm tolerance of my perversions.

I believe in the death of tomorrow, in the exhaustion of time, in our search for a new time within the smiles of auto-route waitresses and the tired eyes of air-traffic controllers at out-of-season airports.

I believe in the genital organs of great men and women, in the body postures of Ronald Reagan, Margaret Thatcher and Princess Di, in the sweet odors emanating from their lips as they regard the cameras of the entire world.

I believe in madness, in the truth of the inexplicable, in the common sense of stones, in the lunacy of flowers, in the disease stored up for the human race by the Apollo astronauts.

I believe in nothing.

I believe in Max Ernst, Delvaux, Dali, Titian, Goya, Leonardo, Vermeer, Chirico, Magritte, Redon, Duerer, Tanguy, the Facteur Cheval, the Watts Towers, Boecklin, Francis Bacon, and all the invisible artists within the psychiatric institutions of the planet.

I believe in the impossibility of existence, in the humour of mountains, in the absurdity of electromagnetism, in the farce of geometry, in the cruelty of arithmetic, in the murderous intent of logic.

I believe in adolescent women, in their corruption by their own leg stances, in the purity of their disheveled bodies, in the traces of their pudenda left in the bathrooms of shabby motels.

I believe in flight, in the beauty of the wing, and in the beauty of everything that has ever flown, in the stone thrown by a small child that carries with it the wisdom of statesmen and midwives.

I believe in the gentleness of the surgeon’s knife, in the limitless geometry of the cinema screen, in the hidden universe within supermarkets, in the loneliness of the sun, in the garrulousness of planets, in the repetitiveness or ourselves, in the inexistence of the universe and the boredom of the atom.

I believe in the light cast by video-recorders in department store windows, in the messianic insights of the radiator grilles of showroom automobiles, in the elegance of the oil stains on the engine nacelles of 747s parked on airport tarmacs.

I believe in the non-existence of the past, in the death of the future, and the infinite possibilities of the present.

I believe in the derangement of the senses: in Rimbaud, William Burroughs, Huysmans, Genet, Celine, Swift, Defoe, Carroll, Coleridge, Kafka.

I believe in the designers of the Pyramids, the Empire State Building, the Berlin Fuehrerbunker, the Wake Island runways.

I believe in the body odors of Princess Di.

I believe in the next five minutes.

I believe in the history of my feet.

I believe in migraines, the boredom of afternoons, the fear of calendars, the treachery of clocks.

I believe in anxiety, psychosis and despair.

I believe in the perversions, in the infatuations with trees, princesses, prime ministers, derelict filling stations (more beautiful than the Taj Mahal), clouds and birds.

I believe in the death of the emotions and the triumph of the imagination.

I believe in Tokyo, Benidorm, La Grande Motte, Wake Island, Eniwetok, Dealey Plaza.

I believe in alcoholism, venereal disease, fever and exhaustion.

I believe in pain.

I believe in despair.

I believe in all children.

I believe in maps, diagrams, codes, chess-games, puzzles, airline timetables, airport indicator signs.

I believe all excuses.

I believe all reasons.

I believe all hallucinations.

I believe all anger.

I believe all mythologies, memories, lies, fantasies, evasions.

I believe in the mystery and melancholy of a hand, in the kindness of trees, in the wisdom of light.

I’ve wanted to read J.G. Ballard for quite some time and this book of short stories was my introduction to his written work. I should have consulted a Ballard enthusiast for a novel recommendation, because I must admit, I skimmed through the majority of this book. His early work is a little too science fiction for my reading tastes. Anthony Burgess’s (Clockwork Orange) introduction to the book explains that Ballard’s work takes a dramatic stylistic shift through the last few stories of the collection. In the late 1960’s, Ballard begins to explore his obsessions with the aesthetics of urban isolation, car crashes, sexuality and political assassination. I read some of Burgess’s recommendations from the early years and decided to move on to the last thirty or so pages which were written in the “Crash” period. I’ve read that section twice now which includes an excerpt from the book of “condensed novels” called The Atrocity Exhibition. I liked it so much that I’m heading to the book store to buy it this afternoon.

Update: I gave this book to my brother today because I thought he would appreciate it’s sci-fi-ness and he bought me The Atrocity Exhibition for my birthday (along with another wonderful book, which I will post about later on). All is great in Shannonland.

—An excerpt from “The Importance of Living.” by Lin Yutang

I picked up this book after reading an interview in The Paris Review that unveiled the literary hoax behind an author named Laura Albert and the persona known as JT LeRoy. I found this novel colourful and clever but it didn’t really dig under my skin like good books tend to do. Instead, I wanted to share the interview because the non-fiction side of this tale is miles more fascinating and strange than the book that made JT “famous”.

Being JT LeRoy:
A Q&A between The Paris Review and Laura Albert, the woman who was JT LeRoy.

— Saul Bellow