David Lehman’s Valentine Place by Robert Polito

Part of the Editor's Choice series.

BOMB 59 Spring 1997
Issue 59 059  Spring 1997
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David Lehman. Photo by Bill Hayward. Courtesy of the writer.

In “The Choice,” a sly, characteristically disconcerting poem in his latest collection, Valentine Place, David Lehman quotes a coolly conflicted lover: “‘War and peace may be great themes,‘ He said, ’but adultery is greater’.” Throughout Valentine Place, much as in certain songs by Elvis Costello, or certain Fassbinder films, or, to cite an American artist probably closer to Lehman’s witty melancholic heart, the song lyrics of Lorenz Hart, love and war are often difficult to tell apart. “She went to his head,” Lehman writes in “Infidelity,” “like a double martini at a bar/ Where gangsters gather after a hit.”

Shot through with spies, secret agents, double agents, deceptions and betrayals, yet intricately agitated by a moral question that one poem phrases as, “When did we stop believing that life/ Was real?,” Valentine Place sometimes impishly, sometimes warily, filters both love and war through novels and movies—Joseph Conrad, Graham Greene, Dark PassageThe Third ManNotoriousRear Window, and Vertigo. As “You’re going to miss me” dissolves into “Kiss me,” and a poem with the title “Last Words” giddily winds down to the exclamation “More, more, more!,” Lehman emerges as an hallucinatory maestro of the collapsing alternative, the self-canceling story, the multiple dead-end quandary, and the fractured truism.

Valentine Place is our darker, more troubling, funnier sequel to George Meredith’s Modern Love.

—Robert Polito

Valentine Place was just published by Scribners.

Susan Wheeler by Robert Polito
Wheeler01 Body
Marcia Douglas by Loretta Collins Klobah
Half Way Tree

In echoes and splices of “narrative sonic bites,” Douglas sets her experimental novel, The Marvellous Equations of the Dread, to the dub pulse of Rasta tradition.

Roque Larraquy’s Comemadre by J.W. McCormack
Comemadre Abedit

Let’s begin with death. “Let’s say that in the course of all human experience, death is pure conjecture: it is, as such, not an experience. And all that which is not an experience is useless to mankind.” The speaker here is Ledesma, one of a cadre of lovelorn, thoroughly chauvinistic doctors up to no good at a sanatorium just outside Buenos Aires.

Gunnhild Øyehaug’s Wait, Blink by Ryan Chapman
Wait Blink

What kind of novel would you write if you had never read a novel before? Would it have the mounting tension of a campfire tale? The breathless cadence of fresh gossip shared with a best friend? If you’re Norwegian writer Gunnhild Øyehaug, you unspool 50,000 words with the inventiveness of Scheherazade and the guilelessness of a Red Bull–fueled, hyperarticulate ten-year-old. This is Wait, Blink.

Originally published in

BOMB 59, Spring 1997

Featuring interviews with Tim Roth, Amy Hempel, Emmylou Harris, Matthew Ritchie, Wallace Shawn, Christian Wolff, Gilles Peress, Kendall Thomas, and George Walker.

Read the issue
Issue 59 059  Spring 1997