Three

by Weston Cutter

Kristina Born’s One Hour of Television is, above all else, a mastery of rhythm. Most times when we read books we’re not thinking of pages as being rhythmic, as carrying a time signature, yet there they are, sprawled out, numbered, and aside from Jenny Boully’s The Book of Beginnings and Endings and DFW’s Brief Interviews, I’ve never read a book which actually made use of the rhythm of pages (Boully’s because each odd-numbered-page [the ones on the right] were starts, and the even numbers [left] were the ends; Wallace’s Interviews is, as far as I know, the only book which has the evens and odds inverted, and I’m not sure what the intent was other than him starting the book with “A Radically Condensed History…” on page zero, but there [obviously] was method).

So what is this, One Hour of Television. It’s a waltz, essentially, though porous: there are three recognizable voices and, whiplashingly, they braid through the text. Are there three voices? There seem to be three voices, though I’d guess a good argument could be made for different ways to read these voices. For sure there’s a first-person narrator who, with his friend/enemy Jean-Phillipe, makes his way ultimately toward a gambling table, and whose relationship with Jean-Phillipe is the coaxing river of what-the-hell that keeps the boat up and drift. There are, along with this first-person’s voice (about whom the reader knows next to nothing—name, visage, tastes—other than he has a wife, though that relationship gets complicated because of/through Jean-Phillipe), two other voices, and though we know next to nothing about these two as well, what we do know is fascinating.

(This book, by the way, is maybe flash fiction, maybe poetry; I’m not sure. Each page features prose of varying lengths, the shortest entries featuring two words, the longest stretching somewhere not absurdly past 150 or so words. We’ll get to the writing and everything further down, but the magnificently fascinating and satisfying part of the book is, yes, certaintly, partly the writing involved, but the big oomph has to do with the ride of it, which has everything to do with narration, everything to do with the story’s rhythm. Know Brubeck’s “Take Five,” or, more recently, Radiohead’s “15 Step”? How both songs are almost mathematically addictive? How the songs beg enjoyment while also begging you to spend time/energy ‘solving’ for the rhythm, begging you to learn how to tap them out on your thighs sitting there on the couch or whatever? Kristina Born’s One Hour of Television asks a similar mathematical awareness.)

The other two voices are distinct, weirdly (weird because they’re both implacable, un-touchable). One voice is first person plural, and the ‘we’ involved seem fundamentally In Charge (of what? Of television? Of the election that’s ostensibly happening within this book [there are sections in this book: there's "The Campaign" for 40+ pages, then "One Hour of Tevision" for another 40+, then "Who Voted" for another 40+, and you see that? The triptych the text itself is structured according to? You think I'm kidding about this being a waltz [though when I say 'waltz' please in your own head hear 'fractured/scratched waltz, a waltz more scratched and darker than, say, even Tom Waits or any recognizable musician's idea: this is a waltz sung to tires from knives, hummed by every fingernail that doesn't but wishes to claw at something]). This ‘we’ says things like “On the one hand we can’t be attacked; on the other hand we try to order pizza and end up calling in a missle strike. We don’t even know where.” [p.61]. This ‘we’ seems fundamentally in-control and fundamentally unclear about what ‘control’ even means. Without sounding lame and airless, this ‘we’ has all sorts of power but is living someplace/some-moment in which ‘power’ as it’s understood doesn’t mean much, or at least not in any way to this ‘us’.

The third voice is harder to parse, and, honestly, I’m not sure about it (I’m sure about it as art, as it works in the book, but I’m not sure I’m ‘right’ in how I’ve understood it). It’s another ‘us’ but one more powerless, seemingly: this ‘we’ doesn’t call in accidental airstrikes; this one’s more put-upon, less acting-out. Does this make sense?

Here’s the thing: I’m not certain about One Hour of Television. He’s what I’m 100% sure about, though: It’s not necessary to be certain about One Hour of Television (to be certain about what it ‘means’ or, even, what it ‘means’; it’s a text which, in the best and most frustrating ways, does, and of course to handle a text that’s exclusively doing demands not reviews or anything else but reading the fucking thing). It’s a hard-edged book which asks sideways and gives oddly and I read it all in one sitting, flying from Omaha to Chicago, seat 20A, and I’m not a huge fan of flying and get occasionally white-knuckled at the turbulence and One Hour of Television both made the turbulence more and less. I can’t explain it, thank fuck, which, I suppose, is the whole point of reading to begin with. As in: go read.

(And it’d be dumb not to note: the book’s published by Year of the Liquidator, which is run by Shane Jones [Penguin version of Light Boxes hits in May, remember] and Blake Butler [Scortch Atlas is yours for the purchasing; two more coming from him in the upcoming-ish], and if for no other reason get excited that smart people still put their energy toward shit that blows up in non-destructive ways [I'm looking at you, bankers and warriors]).

Novels, Pairs of

by Weston Cutter

Lorraine Adams’s The Room and The Chair is a fantastic, rewarding book which offers that rarest of luxuries and treats: you, as a reader, are treated with respect, and are assumed (demanded, really, if yr gonna hang on to the narrative’s wild-ride threads) to be smart enough to keep up.

Keep up with what? With a newspaper, with the defense department, with war. The Room and the Chair, in ways that should satisfy the folks who bemoan the fact that fiction rarely tries hard to engage with the world (that’s not actually fair: far more often it’s said about poetry which, for the record, let’s just all see how Bob Hicok’s new one, Words for Empty and Words for Full, gets reviewed, given that it’s got a whole section on the 4/16 shooting at VTech [Hicok teaches there, and did during the shooting as well]), is elbows-deep in Real World matters, and the novel satisfies the same sort of ached-for jones one might have for the sort of fantastic, investigative journalism that’ve made newspapers worth reading for so long (the sort of journalism [in this case not investigative] which, let the record show, Adams used to do—she quit the Washington Post in 2001, but, before she left, wrote stunningly rich things like this).

The questions the book raises and wrestles with have to do not with the relatively binary notion of security vs. civil liberties, but are deeper-ordered, more shaping. They’re actually hard to talk about, the questions the book raises, because they’re too involved and they take Adams almost 300 pages to wade through. To give a single, book-driving example: what sort of agency should those who plan wars have over those who actually do the fighting in the wars? It’s an astonishingly thorny question to even approach, mentally; it’s a testament not just to her writing prowess but to her skill as a thinker that Adams can so adroitly address the question, and from such a smattering of ways.

(If that individual Q sounds dull, swap it out for: are there various levels of ‘security’? For instance, in the book’s early pages, there’s a story of how some homeland security agency is keeping tabs on the White House…valid? Freakish and terrifying? It’s a mega-question, and, in ways, a meta-question).

For the record, too: The Wire is gonna be brought up a bunch in reviews about this book, and the association is there to be made for at least two good and large reasons. First: like the best TV show ever made, The Room and the Chair doesn’t judge, doesn’t find easy routes away from thorniness, and provides incredible satisfaction for those ready to be a partner in the narrative work (meaning: this isn’t just a sit-back-and-let-someone-supply-you-with-ah-hahs book, though there are some). Maybe just as important, though, is that Adams has, apparently, taken up with Richard Price—he of the phenomenal Clockers, of Lush Life and, of course, he of (with Pelecanos and David Simon and etc.) The Wire. Get this book and devour it: you’ll be hard-pressed to find as satisfying a narrative meal this year.

(interviews with Adams here, here, here and here; her Largehearted Boy book notes here)

Then Came the Evening by Brian Hart

This got small mention in the New Yorker a couple weeks back (in the books in brief section), and I suppose Hart’s debut doesn’t need a full-on Woods treatment in that august publication’s pages, but still: the book’s phenomenal, and it should be a cheering and nice development to know the New Yorker‘s keeping tabs on writers who’ll soon be making big names.

Because, rest assured, Brian Hart will be: Then Came the Evening is the story of Bandy Dorner, his ex-wife Iona, and his son Tracy. I’m trying to think of what I can say that’ll make you want to read the story more than just adamantly saying Read It! How about this: Bandy shoots someone in the book’s first dozen pages, and that gunshot’s echo resonates through the rest of the book. Or how about: Bandy’s son Tracy doesn’t even meet his own father till he, Tracy, is old enough to live on his own, and he first meets his dad in prison (as a visitor, not as a prisoner). Or how about: the story that these three enact and live has everything to do with trying to find ways to make use of the past, of trying to take something good and valuable from what’s back behind, over shoulders and part of old stories.

Any one of these reasons could be enough to compell you to pick up Hart’s debut, plus there are other bits—particularly Wilhelm, Bandy’s old neighbor, and a kindly old avuncular figure who takes Tracy under his guff wing—that make the thing worth diving head-long into. Still, the strongest reason to pick up Hart’s book is, in fact, not the story, but Hart’s writing.

I haven’t yet seen any reviews of this book, so maybe I’m guessing wrong, but there are going to be, in reviews, mentions of Cormac McCarthy, and maybe Sam Shepard. Hart’s got the sort of contemporary terse masculinity down like science, and he uses it well (if sometimes the comma-less sentences get a bit tiring, just in an I’ve-seen-this-before way). Still, and however: that style, the cleaved and attenuated McCarthy thing, is easy as hell to make tin through a bad impression, and I’m happy to report Hart’s style, while clearly coming from a certain lineage, is its own power, its own thing. Open at random for sentences like “They looked like different models of the same man, both tan and short, thick around the middle.” or “He thought of Iona and used the well-worn memories of her to guide him through the haze of the landscape. He followed her home.”

All of which is just to say: the story itself in Then Came the Evening would be worth it just for the story’s sake; it’s a dynamite read, though, and necessary, because, in this novel, you’ll find a novelist we should all, with luck and hope, be reading for years to come. Get in on it now: Brian Hart’s moment is even now, already, coming.

Them Crooked Vultures

by Jeremy Griffin

When I heard last year that Dave Grohl had teamed up for a project with Queens of the Stone Age’s Josh Homme and Led Zep’s John Paul Jones, I was skeptical. I’m not a big fan of supergroups—that is, groups composed of members of already well-established bands. To me, it’s just an idealized version of the creative process: outfits like this always seem much more interested in crafting a certain sound instead of letting the songs speak for themselves. Take, for instance, 1994’s Mad Season, a conglomerate of Seattle grunge stars that sounded like a heavily sedated Alice in Chains; or 2009’s Tinted Windows, featuring James Iha of the Smashing Pumpkins and Hanson’s Taylor Hanson (!), a group that, despite the prerelease hype, ultimately succeeded in creating some of the most lifeless powerpop tunes of the past decade.

However, I decided to give Them Crooked Vultures a try, not simply for the fact that Dave Grohl is the most likeable rock star of all time, but also because, despite my skepticism of supergroups, I’m strangely fascinated by them—the scope of the idea, all that talent lumped together (it’s the same reason we love the Justice League of America and MLB All-Star games). Good thing I did too, because Them Crooked Vultures is one of the most solid rock albums I’ve heard in a while.

The album opens with “No One Loves Me & Neither Do I,” a gritty, lurching track that that initially reminds the listener of all those mediocre garage bands they used to tolerate at house parties back in college. But then something happens, a pattern develops out of the lurching, steady and crisp and infused with tones of late sixties’ psychedelia and early eighties’ goth, craftily meted out by the kind of tongue-in-cheek hooks one might expect from the same dudes who brought us “D’yer Mak’er” and “Everlong.”

The rest of the album is rife with the same jerky rhythms and nerve-jingling textures that have characterized the three most representative bands. Homme handles most of the vocals, his voice seeming to teeter on the edge of panic, while Grohl and Jones maneuver their way through a network of thick, frenzied beats. The songs dip into every rock era of the past fifty years to such a degree that at times it sounds as though it was recorded over a similar time span (it’s impossible, for instance, to listen to a track like “Scumbag Blues” without envisioning a montage of Woodstock and Vietnam War footage). Them Crooked Vultures is weird enough to be interesting, but conventional enough to avoid any of the self-referential gimmickiness that makes other supergroups so irritating.

Perhaps the biggest problem that supergroups face is how to distinguish their music from their collective iconography. This seems like something that should work in their favor: if every member of the band is already famous, then there’s no uphill struggle to success, right? But all this means is that the listener is already approaching the album with a concrete set of preconceptions about how it should sound, and so the band has to negotiate that tricky terrain between appeasing longstanding fans and creating something new (the only band to successfully navigate this territory may be Me First and the Gimme Gimmes, and they were doing only cover tunes).

But this may be the greatest strength of Them Crooked Vultures: the album borrows so much from each of the three major representative bands that it manages not to mimic any of them—with the exception of those instances in which the trio seems to want to draw attention to a member’s musical history; it’s probably no coincidence that the opening riff of “Elephants” sounds almost identical to Zeppelin’s “Black Dog.”  But even these instances are offset by unpredictable shifts into new rhythms and grooves, a clever way of mocking the listener’s preconceptions; this “Elephants” riff runs for a few measures before segueing into a kind of slow, calculated march. Moments like this suggest that while the band is aware of their listeners’ expectations, they still have their own agenda. And while this approach doesn’t always pay off—there are some less-than-spectacular moments on the album, like the gaudy Lou Reed rip “Interlude with Ludes”—there’s never a sense that the band has lost control of the music: even the stuff that doesn’t work seems to not work on purpose. And this, I think, is a hallmark of great musicianship, this feeling of security, as though the band is telling you, Don’t worry, we know what we’re doing.

Bank Books

by Weston Cutter

Richard Powers in an interview somewhere talked about switching to an English major from a science major (I think it was physics), and the reason he made the switch is because English allowed him a bigger-picture view of things. He said something along the lines of that he imagined science would allow him the clearest, broadest picture of things, but that, in fact, it didn’t, and that the thing which actually allowed the widest view of everything was stories and language. Which makes sense: in any field, you can only include so much, but with language, you can include any field.

For instance, finance. Despite being pretty predisposed to bookishness, I’m far more of a newshound than I am a bookhound (bookmarks right on the browser bar: Big Picture and Credit Writedowns; buried in folders, Bookslut and Elegant Variation [though not HTMLGIANT, which is the greatest book blog that's ever been bookblogged]). There’ve been any number of compelling books on finance in the last, oh, two/three decades (I’m looking at you, Liar’s Poker and Barbarians at the Gate and Predator’s Ball), and, of course, with everything that’s happened in the last 2 years, there’s bound to be a pushing glut of books looking closely at yesterday’s decisions, and how they were made and how they broke us.

(for what it’s worth: I was hoping, I’m guessing like quite a few people, that such a book would come from Matt Taibbi, but he’s seeming a less and less likely candidate. There’s no argument with his writing, nor his angry enthusiasm, but there’s such an agenda you sort of have to wonder if there can ever, in anything he writes, be something close to a full story.Plus this stuff, about his interaction with the VF writer who profiled Exile, is shockingly bleak and bleakly foreboding).

Up today are three books which each, in their own ways, tackle the crisis, or are writing within the financial crisis’s long (and extending) shadow (not reviewed: Barry Rithholtz’s Bailout Nation, which I’m an idiot and haven’t gotten yet and haven’t read but absolutely should and want to). As follows:

Scott Patterson’s The Quants

This book is Bringing Down the House’s cool cousin; swear to god, read them back-to-back and it’s something of a primer in how a meshing-of-two-disciplines book can be written. That’s not entirely fair to Patterson’s Quants, actually, because Quants is ten thousand times better written than Mezrich’s breezy, half-unhitched ride.

The story in Quants is the story of, well, quants: Wall Street dudes who gravitated to finance from computer science and physics (I only even knew to bother getting interested in this book because a friend is, actually, a Ph. D in physics, and he hipped me to quants a few years back, explaining that the mathematical models used to price IPOs are in some way related to the mathematical models that measure thermal energy dispersion or something–I don’t remember, I just write; he’s the one heading to Rome to do theoretical physics). Anyway: the story in Quants is fascinating for lots of reasons, maybe most fascinating because, at least for me, Wall Street has long-slash-always been a place of computer modeling and nerdy dudes with complex algorithms; the age of Wall Street brokers as back-room dealers or gentlemanly folk was never part of my Apple Pie Indoctrination.

Regardless, Patterson’s written a riveting book detailing the rise of computer algorithms and programs and models so fine-tuned and complex that they’ve essentially become danger-inducing black boxes of money: he also, in real careful and good prose, ends up offering a significant measure of something that you’d have to call the insane beauty and perfect (economic) logic that’s helped turn Wall Street into what it is.

(Mr. Patterson was on The Daily Show last night, talking about all this; check it out.)

William D. Cohan’s House of Cards

Here’s what’s so strange about this book: if you force yourself to be just a little slow and cognizant as you make your way through it, you will likely get so angry you won’t know what to do with yourself. It was a strange sensation.

What’ll piss you so righteously off? “In the fiscal year ended June 1991…the thirteen top Bear Stearns executives received an average compensation of $2.8 million, up 25 percent from the year before.” Find something which won’t break as your grip tightens in fury, but go ahead and look up the average compensation for the thirteen top executives in any financial company 2007—do all the math necessary, and realize the percentage change in compensation. Don’t hit or hurt anything.

Because here’s what Cohan’s given us: he’s given us a coherent and pretty comprehensive account of all the yes/no Wall Street switches that, over a few-decade process, ended up being flipped in just the right way to melt and shell the hell out of the economy. If this sounds like something that’s not worth having bound in paper and nearbye, consider this: can you remember, off the top of your head, the various amounts of money that’ve been involved since this mess began? Percentage changes in stocks, TARP funds, supra-TARP bailout cash, etc.? Don’t look it up–just see if you can remember it all.

Because I can’t. I remember Washington Mutual going under, and I remember certain figures ($700B is hard to forget), but there are things that pass by. What’s impossible to forget, though, is that the money that most of us use day to day comes contained in quotes for Wall Street folks—what’s allows me to buy dinner is “money” for them (at one point in House of Cards, there’s a scene in which someone talks about a missing $25M is a rounding error; again, put yourself in a spot where you’re not gonna break stuff).

That’s the real value of this book: as much as it’s a present-tense indictment of all the badness that’s just transpired, it’s gonna be most valuable and helpful if we can keep it handy, head it, consult it re: figures when we need to remember how much fucking money has been involved. I mean this as the ultimate compliment to Cohan: it’s a desolate, desolating book.

Simon Johnson’s and James Kwak’s 13 Bankers

First, this isn’t coming till the end of the month, but mark my words: this book’s gonna hit big and matter, and here’s why—the phrase “Wall Street vs. Main Street.” I don’t know where the phrase arose, but I remember drowning on it during the presidential campaign, and it’s still got a sort of resonance. The phrase, most often, is used by politicians—those members of the citizenry ostensibly elected to, you know, represent Main Street. And, sure, while Kaplan’s So Damn Much Money did a dispiritingly good job of showing just how much (lobbyist) cash goes toward government, this book, Johnson’s and Kwak’s 13 Bankers, is another megaton blast that’s going to make it all sorts of hard for its readers to trust that the elected government does, in fact, have Main Street’s best interests in mind when they make policy.

Don’t misread that: this is not some book for freak-flag-flying libertarians, not something for folks who dream of nothing more than a tax-free life in the woods, rifle in one hand, gold back beneath the mattress. Nope, it’s simpler and nastier than that: since ’95, the six biggest banks’ earnings have gone from equalling roughly 20% of the GDP to, last year, equalling nearly 60%. Take your time with that fact, those figures–translate the numbers or scenario into another context, if it’s easier (imagine if only six families in your neighborhood controlled 60% of the neighborhood’s resources, for instance)(or not even neighborhood’s resources: the whole city’s, the whole state’s).

13 Bankers helps explain both massive sides of that story—the financial industry side, and the Government side—though this is one of those situations in which the explanation can almost make it seem worse. It’s sort of simple, here and now, for those of us with an unrefined financial background to bemoan (for instance) the repeal of Glass-Steagall, but Johnson and Kwak make it visceral and clear how such moves (and more! like: money-lending policies which led to bubbles, de-regulatory moves which allowed massive corporate gobbling, regulatory boards staffed by former Wall Streeters, etc.) have almost inevitably led us to where we are.

Fortunately, the book’s got an agenda, and its agenda is: let’s get the hell out of this. Let’s (Obamacally) change. For that, for providing an ending with proposals that could help the country and its economy get any sort of decent footing again, we owe Johnson and Kwak huge thanks, and we owe it to ourselves and them to read the book, fast. It comes out on March 30th: get it asap.

An Ache Since Slackened

by Weston Cutter

I’ve literally been waiting years to read Jennifer Boyden’s The Mouths of Grazing Things. I mean it: years. It’s been awhile since I’ve had my ear real real close to literary magazines, since I could open issues of Cimarron and Ploughshares and Colorado Review and know like half the names, even of (especially of) the folks who hadn’t yet published a book, but who’d been, in the small work of lit mags, blowing up.

I got into Boyden, in fact, because of something like that: I read her work in an issue of Cimarron and read her poem “The Magician,” (I’m stealing from myself on this: I wrote an essay about the woman and her work years back for a small St. Paul, MN lit journal called Whistling Shade–it’s all here), and was dumbstruck. We got to be friends through a mutual friend, and she sent me a manuscript that ended up not getting published (though that ms had many of the poems now in The Mouths of Grazing Things), and I’ve still got the ms, have kept it close, have loved it for all the reasons anyone loves a poetry ms (though maybe moreso because it was unpublished. Helen DeWitt’s upcoming Your Name Here is available for sale on her website, or used to be, and I’ve had that for nearly 3 years now and it means as much to me as it does both because it’s a tremendous book, but also because it, too, is unpublished [still, for now—though Noemi Press is coming out with it soon]). Anyway.

But now this, The Mouths of Grazing Things, and Boyden getting the attention and recognition she and her work deserve! And can we all admit that the UW Prizes are just incredible? Nick Lantz won along with JB this year, but flip to the back of either book and see the win-folk from years past–Hicok, Olena Kalytiak Davis, Renee Ashley…just a phenomenal thing. Anyway, Boyden.

This may be the most physically rich book of poems I’ve seen in a long time, a lushness attendant throughout that waves absolutely toward a love of and reverence toward the physical, real world. Seriously, page through and draw sentences like arrows from a quiver:

I am sawing again through

the storm’s fallen trees.

(“Regret”)

When the grouse startled from the brush, the moss.

(“The Moss Breathes Back”)

I was to come up with the words I’d need

and practice them until they did not answer back.

But nothing I found held the raggedness

of light hunched against my window; no words together

spoke the sound of a bleeding tongue.

(“Floating Even Now”)

That last bit from “Floating Even Now,” the idea of trying to find a language with which to sufficiently square the experience of existence: this is Boyden’s land, much as it’s Ammons’s land (whose lines she uses at the book’s start). There’s an infinity of delicacy and care in her word-choosing, yes (it’s poetry after all), but there’s more to it, too: Boyden sees carefully, she witnesses carefully. “I showed God the pool of fish because / he said no one thought he had a sense of humor. Look, // I said, these are funny—flashy / kissers, the silver darts of them.” (“Relying on What I Know of How the Hidden Feels, I Advance a Theory”).

Because look, here’s the thing: Boyden’s poetry, poem-by-poem and all muscled through The Mouths of Grazing Things as a whole, is soft and receptive, soft in a strong way. Does that make sense? It’s not surprising at all that her subjects end up being things like moss and birds, minnows and tress: these are natural elements both fragile and overwhelming, both individually precious and, as groups, more secure.

And, if one’s inclined, one can see Boyden’s book—and books like Boyden’s (meaning: books of poetry deeply invested in lived-life, books that eschew breezy cleverness and/or linguistic trickery, books which may make you laugh but are rarely trying to joke)—as being like these living things Boyden’s work focuses on. There’s danger in that focus, of course: it can be easier and more publishing-world palatable to create poetry that’s all rah-rah fireworky word stuff, work which extends itself not from or toward experience but to an intellectual (or funny, or defiant, or dismissive) consideration of that experience, and the difference between those two moves is profound (for an easy vs., if you’re looking for one, read Seidel and Boyden back to back—they seem real good markers of how the division works on the page).

What Boyden offers in her book is achingly, infinitely rare: she’s offering care, present-tense, I-am-in-the-world care. Books like this seem bound to be pretty quiet, and bound to resist the easy sputtery of Attention! and Notice! (I mean, for god’s sake, look at the title: Grazing things, meaning sustenance as ongoing/small-scale routine, meaning enrichment and nourishment and little-by-little). Maybe that’s for the best–I haven’t the faintest.

What I do know, for sure, is that Boyden’s book is something to hold dear, and to keep close. Boyden’s work, and The Mouths of Grazing Things, are acts of infinitely valuable quietude, of not stillness but work which stills, and this is a profound thing, the way her words can still. It’s too easy to close this by mentioning the ever-faster and -louder world, and how Boyden’s work is magic teleportation from such dins, but it’s better than that: the quiet world of which she writes, and which she offers, is not elsewhere but here, it’s beneath the loud, beneath the more-ness of things. Her book is a primer, a flashlight, a pick: a tool to help us find that quiet more and again.