Daily Postings
literature : word choice

Three Poems

by Melissa Barrett

Mother Is Only One Letter From

Homer, the father of culture. And yet he was never born.
And yet he gave birth to a hero who wanted to go home.
Home. Two letters. Let her journey, too. Culture, one letter from ulcer.
A moth laying eggs on your good suit. On the suitor’s leather.
The books on motherhood change every year, but they all say there will be blood.
Saddam Hussein popularized the expression “the mother of all —— ”
when he referred to the Gulf War. The first one. The second was his redheaded stepson.
All wars create gulfs, and all wars are motherly, since from death comes life.
Cf. forest fires. They’re part of a forest’s natural ecology.
From death comes heat. From heat comes tea. Find our way back to this scene,
carrying a knife, a camera, a book of myths.
That’s Adrienne Rich. My children cause me the most exquisite suffering.
Poor Penelope. It’s not easy being the first cock tease, the original single mom.
She suffered, too. Molly Bloom said yes I said yes I will Yes. What hyperbole.
And Penelope, No. Please. Smothered by the suitors, the rumors, fidelity,
a son. T is for Telemachus, two letters from machetes. 

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literature : word choice

The Cow

by Hernán Ronsino

I hear about it from my old man. He calls Buenos Aires early in the morning and tells me, in a weary voice, that Pajarito Lernú has died. He says that it happened last night. They found the body in a ditch, on the dirt track to the cemetery. Two policemen came in the middle of the night to give him the news and ask him to pick up the body—one of the cops was the boy from Cejas and he seemed drunk. Two idiots, my old man says, at that hour. I threw them out. But when he went back to his bedroom he was hit in the chest by a wave of unbearable anguish. So he stayed there, waiting for the light to filter in through the window so he could call me. Then he says that he needs me. The last thing he tells me is that a few hours before he died Pajarito Lernú gave me a cow. It’s a wounded animal, he says. He stole it from Negro Soto.

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literature : interview

Georgi Gospodinov

by Jeffrey Zuckerman

Empathy in literature, public reminiscence, and the long half-life of socialism.

Here we have an author whose “immodest desire is to mold a novel of beginnings, a novel that keeps starting, promising something, reaching page seventeen and then starting again.” An author who incorporates flies, pseudonyms, minotaurs, and nested memories into his unclassifiable books, and who has hoped critics might say, “this novel’s good, because nothing’s ever certain in it.”

Georgi Gospodinov’s astonishing debut, Natural Novel, was published in 1995, just after the fall of the Iron Curtain, and immediately went on to be translated into twelve languages. On the face of it, the novel described a marriage’s dissolution, with a backdrop of Bulgaria in the ’80s—but its pages contain more: a chapter about the language of toilets, a consideration of whether the alphabet’s letters have sexual characteristics, a bit about Linnaeus and whether man should be the measure of all things…

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literature : word choice

Two Poems

by Graeme Bezanson


Music parts to reveal the famous antiquity, a fine lace
Of gasoline in the tapwater, an anomaly of pinkish light.

See now how the cheek of South America pulls away from
Our kisses. My wife, the compound-adjectived,

Dappled by a net of starlight, hands in a deathless
Watermelon: Everything you find in the trough of a U

Is rising: Peregrine insects, sap in the fir tree, imperative
Sentences containing just one or two words. Or you might have

No views on the rolling table, borrowing where it’s cheap to borrow,
Sleeping where the beds are huge. This is why we’re in your

Wheelhouse, looking for sapphires. Refracted by treetops.
I can’t tell if I’m the flotilla or another wayward curl.

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literature : word choice

from Where the Bird Sings Best

by Alejandro Jodorowsky

In those good old days, Salvador Arcavi, the first of a long series of Salvadors—traditionally all his descendants had the same name—though respectful of the Holy Book, decided he was not to going to be a prisoner to its letters. Following the prophecy Jacob made to his son (“Your hand will be on the neck of your enemy. Your father’s sons will bow down to you. Judah is a young lion.”), he became a lion tamer. His way to draw nearer to God was to study those beasts and to live an itinerant life, giving performances in which his union with his animals surpassed the limits of reality and reached the miraculous. The lions jumped through flaming hoops, balanced on the tight rope, danced on their hind legs, climbed up on one another to form a pyramid, spelled out the name of a spectator by choosing wooden letters, and, the greatest test, accepted within their jaws without hurting it the head of the tamer, then dragged him through the sawdust to draw a six-pointed star.

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literature : from the editor

BOMB's Biennial Fiction Contest

Our fiction contest returns. We are pleased to announce this year's judge is Sheila Heti, author of How Should a Person Be? and Ticknor.

The winner will receive a $1,000 prize and publication in BOMB Magazine’s literary supplement, First Proof. All submissions will be read anonymously.

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literature : word choice

Communist Bun Shop

by Gerald Etzo

Sitting in the Communist library next to the old man who spits into a jar. Him there leafing through a broadsheet newspaper and sweating pork bun—its sweet essence, a long, slow, milky journey through the body. Breath of air conditioning. Now the librarian leaning over, musky, asking me to please close the window. Me staring out this window at the Communist bun shop directly across the street.

Trying to read. Difficult when hungry, as is writing, and thinking is always difficult, hungry or not. And that is what I’m doing here, what has been asked of me, and what I’ve chosen, lord help me, to do here in the Communist library—to read writing about thinking, think thoughts about thinking and then write them down. The endless garden. But the stink of a pork bun, even under the lapel or caught in the wiry hair of an old man spitting into a jar, maybe also clinging to his mouth or carried in his sweat, can remind you that you’re also such a creature, also an aching, intemperate body that needs to be fed.

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literature : interview

Can Xue

by Annelise Finegan Wasmoen

“One day of cold doesn't freeze three feet deep.”

After reading through all the available interviews with the Chinese author Can Xue (pseudonym of Deng Xiaohua), the novelist Porochista Khakpour wrote in summation, “All that opposes my training, my literary culture, and even my gut instincts as a writer lives in her self-presentation. Here is the writer as true iconoclast, the uncompromising original.” Don't say you haven't been warned.

I've had the absolute joy of corresponding with Can Xue for the past half-decade, sharing drafts of translations and discussing all the peripheral details of publication; her kindness was a constant as her novel The Last Lover made its gradual way into English. In a way, I suspect she and I know each other better through her writing and my attempts to render it in English than through our actual correspondence. I have come to share, along with many other readers, the confidence in her writing she demands in this brief manifesto on experimental fiction and the conversation that follows. For intrigued readers, Can Xue's body of work in English is substantial, including several story collections and two novels from among the hundreds of short stories, novellas, novels, essays, and criticism published in Chinese over her thirty-year career.

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literature : word choice

Five Poems

by Omar Pérez

Why Does Yemayá Need Blue Cloth Scraps?

At coral reefs we have observed, among many sorts of garbage,
scraps of blue cloth as large as a square meter
which devotees toss to the goddess
we put forth this hypothesis:
Yemayá doesn’t need those, what could she do with them, wipe down a big rock?
observing anthropomorphic infatuation Yemayá notes one advantage, the cloths
proliferate across rocks and sands, in so doing they attract attention from scientists
who can usually get the attention of impresarios
who will know how to persuade the whole world that gods need nothing at all

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literature : word choice

A Vindication of Hypnosis

by Sergio Pitol

Suddenly, during a pause in his monologue, Federico Pérez cautioned me not to become too lost in circumlocution. I should lay everything on the line, he said. I replied that I had already done that the very day I made the appointment by phone. I was trusting that his treatment by hypnosis, about which I had heard great things, would help me give up smoking. If I had gone into too many details at the beginning of my explanation, it was to clarify what my relationship with tobacco was and had been. I do not remember his exact words, but he did allude to the evasiveness and circumlocutions in my speech. He added that he thought it was a manifestation of insecurity, a defense mechanism behind which I was hiding. I do not know if the doctor’s intervention, his interruption and description of the structure of the story, which unbeknownst to me had become unnecessarily and painfully labyrinthine, was part of the treatment, an attempt to stimulate a particular reaction, the beginning of subjugation. I defended myself with literary arguments.

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literature : interview

Norman Manea

by Morten Høi Jensen

“You heard everywhere talk of the end of ideology, the end of history—what end? If people are alive, there is no end.”

Norman Manea’s life began where so many others ended. At just five years old he was interned along with his family in a concentration camp in Ukraine; four years later they emerged with their lives intact only to begin anew in different kind of prison: Stalinist Romania. By 1965, when Nicolae Ceaușescu became General Secretary of the Romanian Communist Party, Norman Manea was quickly emerging as one of the occupied country’s most promising young writers: he would publish his first novel, Captives, in 1970. That novel has just been made available to English-language readers for the first time by the venerable folks at New Directions. Called “an enduring work of literature” by the Chicago Tribune, it is a furiously complex novel by a remarkably protean writer. It offers readers an immersive experience in the oppressive universe of Soviet Romania—“in the black corridors of a destiny without Sabbath,” as the narrator has it. It is a universe that abounds in a past it cannot address, in which memories “burst forth from their shroud of ashen fog,” and will not be forgotten. Though Norman Manea worries in the course of this interview that the novel is not really suited for an American audience, the experience of navigating the complex narrative of Captives, seamlessly rendered into English by Jean Harris, is a deeply rewarding one.

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literature : word choice

from I'm Very Into You

by Kathy Acker McKenzie Wark

Oh will I remember all that you just wrote? Memory slips even more than... what?... gender (is that self? not here)... and I was going to email, I can’t even remember spelling, to just quickly tell you about the movie I just saw, Todd Haynes Safe... and your email!... now I can’t remember all you said ’cause I want to tell you, emotion taking over, see Safe, it is WONDERFUL hits the spot (advertisers make correctness) makes the art world into the stupid nothing it is... well it is so great seeing something that good... I saw it with RU we’re friends again which is great ’cause I hate losing friends there aren’t enough and it is my family, my friends... so now all is dream... Australia and this usual life melding, here where I do my emailing at two in the morning and wake up figuring out deals business how to give my publisher his share of daily grief oh will I get enough hours to write? I’m so greedy to do that... not like Sydney passing days drunk roaming through the bookstore with you... oh no please “analysis”? For me, “analysis” means “Kathy’s being insecure and needs to breathe a few times.”

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literature : interview

Jeremy M. Davies

by Scott Esposito

“A very specific, peculiar sort of universe-in-a-bottle.”

Jeremy Davies just might be reclaiming comedy’s place in the frequently dour, futile world of modernist literature. His first novel, Rose Alley (Counterpath, 2009), told the disintegrating story of an attempt to make a film about the satirical, bawdy eighteenth-century figure John Wilmot, all while Paris comes to pieces in 1968. Excessive but reliably deadpan, Rose Alley proved both hilarious and experimental. Now he gives us Fancy (Ellipsis Press), a long-winded monologue delivered by a crazy-old-cat-man, who, in between cranky rants about seemingly every irrelevant topic on Earth, sentimentally rhapsodizes the key moment in his long-lost youth: a few blissful months when a fellow librarian used to fellate him in the stacks. Alternately slapstick and pokerfaced, and impeccably timed, Fancy is laugh-out-loud funny, even while it forges new ground in the line of the unstable Thomas Bernhardian narrator. It’s also deeply metaphysical—or maybe not, in which case, the joke is on you, reader, and you’ve just listened to the mock-philosophical, unhinged ravings of a lonely old quack. It was my pleasure to interview Davies over email, and my one hope is that none of me ends up being fodder for his next unreliable narrator.

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literature : word choice

Cecil Taylor

by César Aira

Dawn in Manhattan. In the first, tentative light, a black prostitute is walking back to her room after a night’s work. Hair in a mess, bags under her eyes; the cold transfigures her drunkenness into a stunned lucidity, a crumpled isolation from the world. She didn’t venture beyond her usual neighborhood, so she only has to walk a few blocks. Her pace is slow; she could be going backwards; at the slightest deviation time could dissolve into space. What she really wants is sleep, but she’s not even conscious of that any more. The streets are almost deserted; the few people who usually go out at this time (or have no indoors to go out of) know her by sight, so they don’t examine her violet high-heeled shoes, her tight skirt with its long split, or her eyes, which wouldn’t return their glassy or tender gazes anyway.

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literature : interview

Danielle Dutton & Richard Kraft

Magpies, comics, paradoxes, and the spirit of disruption.

Leaps—the kind that ask you to embrace the sense in nonsense, to surrender, to let go of what you might expect in favor of what you might discover. There are few other artists and writers capable of the extraordinary leaps Danielle Dutton and Richard Kraft make both in their respective works and in their collaboration Here Comes Kitty: A Comic Opera. In this book, Kraft reassembles a Cold War-era comic book about a Polish spy infiltrating the Nazis, densely layering each collaged page with material from Amar Chitra Katha comics of Hindu mythology, Jimmy Swaggart’s Old and New Testament stories, the English football annual Scorcher, and various images from art history, encyclopedias, and so forth. Frames are broken. Time collapses. The world is in flux. Dutton meanwhile, with masterly command, renders this ever-mutating world into language. Her sixteen “interpolations” punctuate Here Comes Kitty, and they are marvels of nimbleness and imagination. Here collision and juxtaposition may very well be more revealing than logical causation.

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literature : interview

Ned Beauman

by J. W. McCormack

Read, rave, and research.

Poor Ned Beauman. At twenty-nine years old, with two acclaimed and technically astonishing novels behind him and his third, Glow, just out in the US in hardcover, this Cambridge-educated winner of multiple prizes, whose work combines philosophical fascination with actual entertainment, must shoulder the most complimentary curse in all of blurb-ese: inexorable comparison to Thomas Ruggles Pynchon. It isn’t specifically that Beauman is somehow unworthy of the Pynchonesque pedigree—both write the kind of associative, pop-culture-infused novels fetishized by kid-geniuses and highly-educated drug users—but that, while Pynchon is supposed to have once declared “Every weirdo in the world is on my wavelength,” Beauman seems set to a more universal frequency. It’s hard for me to imagine anyone quibbling with his first novel, Boxer, Beetle (Sceptre, 2010), in which a contemporary frame story about a fish-smelling collector of Nazi memorabilia is intercut with a cat-and-mouse game between a gay pugilist and a devious entomologist in the ‘30s. And what kind of monster, I wonder, wouldn’t fall in love with his second novel, The Teleportation Accident, a historical slapstick about a sexually-frustrated theatre director who flees Weimar Berlin for LA only to become entwined in a Chandleresque scheme involving tycoons, mad scientists, and H. P. Lovecraft?

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literature : word choice

Mirror Work

by Ander Monson

What is it about a mirror that works to hold our gaze? We’re certain of ourselves until reversed or made grotesque in hotel light, every blackhead on our blockhead body highlighted, each crease accentuated. Science says we’re built to see ourselves in everything, everything in ourselves (or is that just Narcissus speaking through story, through science?). So you will search for yourself in this. You can’t not.

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literature : interview

Felix Bernstein & Cecilia Corrigan

“I don’t think being a cynical, academically oriented deconstructor should stop one from being a wild and crazy performer.”

Cecilia Corrigan and I share a whirlwind of coincidental positions—wanting to perform and wanting to retreat into writing, hovering around the academy but insistent on humor, both of us in drag but unwilling to say what we’re dragging. And a whirlwind of skepticisms—of the homogeneity of queer theory and Conceptual poetry, the cliquish mediocrity of global art and Facebook poetry worlds, and the compulsive sucking up that the blonde girl and gay boy in their twenties are expected to relish. While rehearsing for Cecilia's theatrical book launch at Artists Space, we talked over our bones of contention until we cut all our personae to bits and finally felt some relief.

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literature : word choice

Three Stories

by Chiara Barzini

Things were happening. It was festive and official: everyone in the building was allowed to take the elevator. No more exceptions. To celebrate the new event, the tenants were invited to a dance performance and offered a free ride in an airplane that would drive across the city and maybe even take off. The couples were excited. They left babies at home and kissed. Some even had the courage to look into each other’s eyes. “If you want to go and kiss our neighbor, that’s fine. It’s such a joyous event. Don’t let me keep you.” Men pressed their lips against new women’s necks. Some pulled down their pants playfully. The women saw their partners falter in front of fresh desire. They stayed and watched their performances, feeling jealous, then free.

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literature : interview

Breanne Fahs

by Liz Kinnamon

Madness, SCUM Manifesto, and Valerie Solanas—history's most famous lipstick misandrist.

Breanne Fahs has written an impossible biography. She worked on Valerie Solanas: The Defiant Life of the Woman Who Wrote SCUM (and Shot Andy Warhol) (Feminist Press, 2014) for over ten years, traipsing across the United States to weave together Solanas's story from postcards, institutional records, zines, the memories of radical feminists and Warholites, and “discussions in cat-filled apartments.” Valerie was homeless for the majority of her life so writing the biography was like “pursuing the movements of an invisible wolf.” Who was the woman who wrote SCUM Manifesto—one of the most charged, prescient, and militant manifestos in feminist history? What happened to her? Fahs managed to gather unforetold reflections about Solanas from every angle, resulting in the gut-wrenching and electrifying story of a person whose assassination attempt against one man was a symbolic, global patricide: a mission to kill postmodern appropriation, capitalism, and male privilege.

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literature : word choice

A Raven on the Snow

by Patricio Pron

That winter the city was full of ravens. They usually gathered in the parks, where they could be found in little groups of three or four, inspecting their surroundings with a wicked stare. If they noticed something shiny in the snow—a wrapper or a scrap of paper—they'd land on it, grabbing it with their beaks, and then spit it out in contempt. Sometimes the ravens would fight over the object, thereby sharing the confusion and disappointment their find created. Then, still united in some way by their defeat, they'd move away from each other slightly before going after the object again with little hops that were both ridiculous and threatening.

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literature : interview

Beau Rice

by Aiden Arata

Text messaging, parasexual literature, and psychiatry in drag.

I personally don’t know where relationships come from, but I suspect they are conceived in the gaps between our boundaries. Beau Rice’s Tex (Penny-Ante Editions, 2014) is an exploration of such borders and what connects them: a study in masculinity, language, and space in the form of 252 bound pages of text messages. Here Rice has archived eight months of an exclusively digital relationship with the diffident Matt G. It is rife with emoji, word play, and theory; it is interrupted by emails from friends, Craigslist hookups, and someone who wants insurance money. The book treats sex (and there is a lot of it) as obscene and vulnerable, often both at the same time. Ultimately, maybe, Rice’s archive speaks of desire: in love, in language. It is the grid-work that fills the gap. Tex’s appeal to desire is electronically contoured, taking shape as a set of sentient haikus:

So much of the stuff i
read is inspired and
motivated by intense
writer people meeting
aloof/absent men and
being shaken up by them

but it’s like the 21st century,
don’t they know how to
have textual intercourse?

I first met Beau a few years ago at the Jewel’s Catch One disco club in Los Angeles. Like a relationship comprised of text messages, Rice himself is a taut balance of glittering wit and self-aware anxiety. We chatted online about process, personality, eroticism, and Internet sex.

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literature : word choice
literature : interview

Dolan Morgan

by J. T. Price

Freedom, negation, and marine zoology.

Goats will arrive. Goats will disappear. That’s the premise, in short, of Dolan Morgan’s “Infestation,” the story leading off his debut collection, That’s When the Knives Come Down (Aforementioned Productions, 2014). 

Further along, another story, “Euclid’s Postulates,” reads: “I can’t help but assume the words are merely decorative here, festooning the empty belief that a narrative ripples beneath the facts. Something about space, about shape, about us.”

“Content” is what the business side calls the work of writers—you know, the words that fill the empty space where a book would go. Morgan’s fictions exist knowingly in that interstitial gap between notion and accomplished fact. Actually, they thrive there.

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literature : interview

Michael Hofmann

by Keenan McCracken

Deep language, the “silver” figures of literature, and reader as pit canary.

My first dealings with Michael Hofmann were professional—or should have been. The publishing house I work for was printing one of his translations, and so I wrote to introduce myself.

What started formally—“Dear Mr. Hofmann”—quickly devolved into an embarrassingly ingratiating letter, in part detailing my love for his recent translation of Durs Grünbein's Ashes for Breakfast, but also asking him for any reading recommendations. I’m not entirely sure what I expected back from someone who has established himself as the preeminent translator of German literature, not to mention a brilliant critic and poet. Even a selected résumé of Hofmann’s work is formidable: translations of Joseph Roth, Gottfried Benn, Franz Kafka, Peter Stamm, Wim Wenders, Wolfgang Koeppen; six collections of poems; decades of writing for the London Review of Books. I received in return a modest email of thanks. And a PS: “Have you read any Penelope Fitzgerald?”

While Hofmann is certainly best known as a translator here in the United States, his reviews in the LRB confirm that his criticism is some of the most incisive and beautifully composed in contemporary literature. At times incendiary and seemingly ruthless in his critiques—his now infamous takedown of Austrian writer Stefan Zweig goes so far to describe Zweig’s suicide note as boring and reading “more like an Oscar acceptance speech”—Hofmann’s criticism is unpredictable, informed, personal, sensitive to inscrutability.

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