Corduroy Books

Books you should be reading. Music you should be listening to.

Three Newish: Torday, Brandt/Price, Leovy.

by Weston Cutter

The Last Flight of Poxl West by Daniel Torday


This thing’s just a phenomenal book—it’s big and sad and just meta enough to be spicy but not so much as to be annoying. The story is: there’s Poxl West, a pilot for the RAF who publishes a memoir, and there’s Eli Goldstein, his “nephew” (they’re not blood related), who comes of age watching his “uncle” publish a memoir that gets a ton of attention and then a very different sort of attention. One doesn’t want to explain to much, because explanation’s a mug’s game, but also to alllow the reader the satisfaction of discoveries. The structure of the book is: five Acts, with Interludes between, the Acts being work from Poxl, the Interludes from Eli, and while that structure could be cloying it’s not, and it’s not because the whole book’s about the significance story plays—how stories define us, what stories we retain and those we let go, what stories we can bear to retell. Anyway: the thing’s guaranteed (this was written, just fyi, several weeks before the book was received precisely as any good reader’d’ve hoped: with a light-it-up shout-fest on the cover of the NYTRB). Read on.

The Whites by Richard Price/Harry Brandt

Of course lots of good press hit for this, as there should have been, as there should be: Price at his worst is better than most people at their well-above averagest, and The Whites is Price in a sort of scrappier, more sandpapery register than he was in Lush Life. Maybe that’s not perfectly accurate, but it feels so: there was the article about him taking a different name, and wanting to write a pulpier crime novel, and this is what came out of it, and The Whites is certainly immediately recognizable as a Price novel—nobody does dialogue like this guy, nobody writes sentences of such shoulder (as in: they lean in) and draw (at random: “If he had to describe their eight-year marriage in two words, if he was allowed to go back in time and rescript their wedding cake, he would choose, in sky-blue icing, Good Enough, as in good enough companions, good enough lovers, good enough parents. Good Enough, as in if God or some fortune-teller had told him, early on in their relationship, that Sylavia was to be his mate until the end of his days, he wouldn’t have complained.”). And yet: it’s also not…I don’t know. It’s a grimy book, not pulpy, just messy, just dirty. Which, if you’ve read Price, you know—Clockers is dirty and messy and grimy, so is Lush Life and lots of the rest (those two are his obvious Greats, in my book). But this one’s messy and complex in ways that, on first reading it two months back, struck me as sort of modest, as too day-to-day, but now that some time’s passed and I’ve lived with the thing in my head, it’s gotten even bigger. Even more dynamite and dynamic and terrifying. You’re not gonna read a more propulsive book this year, I’d wager. Certainly: you won’t, at year’s end, be able to claim any book as great or best without contending with this one. Get to it if you somehow haven’t already.

Ghettoside by Jill Leovy

Devastating. This is not, as I’d hoped, the next Random Family, as of course nothing really can be, but shit is this a good book. It’s about the murder of young black men in LA. It’s as significant a book as I can imagine needing to read now, in this time (hopefully) in which the horrorshow that is the white establishment’s ongoing treatment of black men is coming to a (finally) let’s-change-this-for-good head. One hopes, anyway. Regardless: it’s a great book, and what it’s about is one driven detective’s search for one young man’s killer. That’s it: as simple and sad a story as imaginable. Yet what it ends up being, the book and the driven detective’s search, is a referendum on the value we mentally attach to lives, and how much work it’s gonna be to stop doing as we’ve for so long done. It’s a great and sad, sad book. You gotta read it, but it’s gonna cost you much more than the $26 or whatever for the hardcover.

In What World Is Pleasure Itself Not Political: An Interview with Jericho Brown

by Weston Cutter

Jericho Brown’s poetry’s the powerfully gentle sort that welcomes you incredibly into itself and then after awhile you notice how intently it’s directing your attention, like a warm hand on your jaw pointing your face at something and not shouting or whispering but just saying—I imagine it always a little hummed—Look.

This is to say his poems are Beautiful, though it’s also to say that his poems are asking something of us: attention, sure, but I’ve yet to find a way to read Brown’s work without feeling as if I need to try my hardest to love the work itself, alive on the page. Maybe everyone does this without thinking and I’m just a bastardish reader; I’m not sure. I don’t know.

But I’ve been hypnotically stumped by the glory of Jericho Brown’s poetry for going on seven years now, from first catching a poem of his in some old Hayden’s Ferry Review to his devastatingly great Please in 2008 to now, just now, this summer and autumn, his The New Testament, which has been the book not only that I’m most excited about, but the book that makes me forget prizes and publishing. If you think about or read or review books there’s a part of your brain (there is in mine anyway) that lights up on reading certain things, and the lit-up part’s flashing going, This should win a Prize! This should be Known! Jericho Brown’s The New Testament is better than any prize it might be up for or win. That’s what I mean. It’s a deliciousness. I read the thing out behind a Kroger on an autumn day and keep finding my way back to the thing still, months later.

Below’s an emailed interview Jericho kindly undertook this fall and I don’t know what else to say. It’s my favorite interview among the very many dozens of interviews I’ve done. He emailed his answers on 22 November, which means little other than that two days later, on the night of the 24th, in Ferguson, Mike Brown’s killer wasn’t charged with any crime, and, like many folks, Jericho was on Twitter, as was I, and at some point during that ______ (disgusting? fucked? heart-breaking? American?) night he tweeted: “Words clearly don’t work. I don’t think I’ll ever write another poem.” This is to say: work to make the country better. We need alive unjailed young black men and nonmurderous police departments and dismantled systemic racism and we need Jericho Brown.

I’m most interested in self and voice in The New Testament. The book feels more searching, somehow, than even Please: searching, specifically, for the particular self of Jericho Brown. Almost as if the other-voiced poems from the first book were more play, attempts at trying new tools to get to important insights or views, and now, with this, it’s much more grounded-in-self—that, whatever other tools are deployed, the who-you-are-ness of the poems, of the speakers, is the destination. It feels like there’s a lot personally at stake (which, even typing, feels silly: I don’t know you from Adam [in fairness: I saw you at some AWP in the last however-many years and stood around for a bit thinking to say something to you but got too anxious]). I’m of course not remotely trying to make you be more explicit or pin the poems’ speaker’s self too tight to the wall, just that there’s a focus on self-depth-plumbing that’s pretty heavy and beautiful here (raw, unflinching, carrying a lot of past, etc. as well).

I do wish you would have said hello, Weston.  I’d have hugged you tight and bought you a drink and, eventually, stolen you from whomever you think you love. We’d have started a new life together and seen the world knowing it was a better world since we had left all of it behind for one another. Now when I think back on writing The New Testament, I think only of how I’d never have finished it if I were busy looking into your eyes. You’d have no questions to ask me about voice or self because you’d only ask why I was staring at you instead of kissing you. As it is, though, I have nothing to hold or to hold me as the night falls into another morning—nothing but the power of poetry. When I was younger, that is when I was writing Please, I’d have said nothing but poetry. Now I say the power of poetry because I better understand it as a force capable of making the mind aware of its own infinitude.  I imagine getting older without you next to me has led to a life where I ask poetry’s power to sustain me, while it asks me to be a little more vulnerable to it each day. Each day, I search for something of my imagination or my experience or my intellect that I can give to poetry. Since I can’t love the man I want to love, I write the poems I now want to read, poems that search the self until getting to the bone. Then, like a young dog, poetry chews at that bone. I couldn’t have known that joy if you had said hello. I couldn’t have known that joy back when I wrote Please.

I’m just curious—I somehow didn’t retain this if I did see it in any bio mentions of yours from when Please was released, but: has there been any way in which being a speech-writer for a politician informed your poetry? I imagine it hasn’t been too much either way (and that you were writing poetry before you were writing speeches), but I’d be curious. Seems like there’d be some echoes between those two tasks.

Writing speeches was a way for me to make money when I was young person and knew no greater living than living in New Orleans, and no greater service than serving at the leisure of the Mayor. But poetry was an escape from that living and that service. Writing speeches requires staying on message. They are written by people who look at the page knowing what they have to say. Writing poetry is a much more dangerous task as it asks the writer not to have a message or, at least, not to be aware of it. I love taking the risks involved with writing poetry. That kind of risk has no place in speechwriting. In the midst of writing a poem, one must be ready to discover what he or she thinks. And those thoughts might be thoughts we are trained to discard or thoughts from which we’d like to run.

This is exclusively because at the end of your Kenyon Review Conversation you wrote the following: “San Diego taught me to wait for Atlanta.”  How much is place a thing for you? I don’t know if I’m missing it, or just getting too enraptured by other stuff, but place doesn’t seem as big a haunt for you as it does for some other folks.

Atlanta is home, but it wouldn’t be if it weren’t the South. I’m a very Southern poet, particularly when it comes to the ways I think about form and narrative and voice and mystery and, yes, decorum. I’m a fool for sound, and the people of Atlanta sound like a tune I recognize, one I heard the entire time I was growing up. Where you live dictates how you sound and how comfortable you are with that sound. When you live dictates what you see and how you see it. One day, someone will notice how much the natural world of places I’ve lived has played a part in the images of my poems.

You talk, in another of the interviews up elsewhere about how you want your legacy or your work to enact social change. I’m curious what change you’d like your work to establish or usher.

Here’s what I believe. I believe that the best poetry has an effect on the mind and the emotions. I believe that any effect on our mind and emotions leads us to imagining other ways we could possibly live on this planet. I believe that the more we imagine these other ways of life, the more we find ourselves in longing and/or attempting to make these ways of life a reality. I’d love to know why so many poets and readers of poetry get upset about the fact that a poem can lead to a change of mind and, therefore, a change in one’s own reality. Who, exactly, does my belief hurt? Yet, when asked about poems giving rise to social action, poets squirm. What happens to these people when they read a poem? In what world is pleasure itself not political? Or is it because I am black and gay that I see how political pleasure is? We all agree that poems mean for us to feel. Why can’t we agree that feelings shape our actions? It’s not as if I’m claiming that I would ever privilege a bad poem about the unending trouble between Israel and Palestine over a good poem about a sunrise.

I kept feeling the lines differently in The New Testament compared to Please. The lines feel both shorter and longer, somehow—I know there was plenty of variance in Please, nothing like some uniformity, but there does feel like there’s this more wild variety here. Was there any effort, on your part, to vary that? 

The poems of Please are the poems of a man learning to write poems. The poems of The New Testament are the poems of a man who wants to know if the act of writing the poem can do something to him, change his mind, move him to tears. I’d say there’s a greater sense of fluidity in the lines of the second book and that the lyricism here attempts to make greater use of abstractions. I don’t believe poetry can’t have abstractions, but I do believe it must use its abstractions well. In many ways, I was trying to see if that belief was true. This led to a different idea of how heavy a line could land in the mouth. I tested different weights every time I wrote a poem.

What’s the view out your window?

Blue. And I can see the monuments of Washington, DC below me. The flight attendant has asked me to power down. But I live to break the law.

Jorie Graham

by Weston Cutter

            Jorie Graham’s From The New World has been hanging around me for the last while, hitting me up for the readerly equivalent of a thousand or so bucks of attention: you don’t dip into Graham as you do other poets, or I don’t, anyway (you can, obviously—it’s just text, black on white—but for me the return on investment re her work increases dramatically with quiet attention. That’s a long way of saying: there are few punchy, pitchy bits you leave one of her poems with; mostly you feel held against or under a beautiful water, and—unlike water—the longer you’re under/against, the bigger the oh on release). Plus also: I’ve read all her stuff, and part of my reluctance to dance into the book had to do with what the TOC hipped me to: my favorite of her books, 2002’s Never, is radically underrepresented (six of the poems in From The New World are from Never; Materialism‘s got six as well, so, I guess, someone else can write the mournful lament about that book’s shortchanging), a problem I didn’t even want to much contend with.

I’ve written elsewhere about the glories of Never, and my anxiety about its lack, or anyway thin showing in this new Selected (her first, Dream of the Unified Field, hit in ’95), is that it’s one of the most glorious and somehow beautifully desperate books I’ve ever read. It hit at a specific moment for me: I had doubts about if contemporary poetry was even bothering to attempt to Really Connect in intellectual/emotional/moral ways, as, say, Stevens or Eliot or Frost or Bishop or Dickinson had, and Never offered the till-then (and still-now) biggest yes re that question. It’s terribly, achingly, shatteringly about connection (there’s a sidebar here available, re Graham’s biography, and how Swarm [itself represented by seven poems in New World] and Never, released in 2000 and 2002, repectively, were [presumably] composed at the time of the dissolution of Graham’s marriage to James Galvin and her marraige to Peter Sacks, and the fact that Swarm is among the murkiest documents in American literature [one could/should open it at random and count the number of words that are not bracketed, broken-off, typographically whispered, it feels] while Never is so hungrily revving for Connect, Touch, Share…anyway, that aspect exists, however one wants to slot it). Never is also, I think, among the least fussy of Graham’s books: one needs know nothing, not myths or artists or theorists, nobody: it’s a natural book. It’s messed-with, in lineation, but one needs no extra context to apprehend the poems.

What’s interesting, though, about Graham—as with any Great writer—is that she’s offering multitudes to each of us, all the time. What I read Graham for was this linguistic and self-based experiment—what Dan Chiasson in his unbelievably great review of The New World called her “brilliantly dissected subjectivity”—which I thought culminated in Never: that book read as if she were reaching clearly, deliberately out, to rattle the reader’s conception of how poetry could connect reader+writer, what it could ask of both of us in that shared moment of/momentous context. But of course she was doing other stuff, in Never and before—was talking about myths and paintings, about religion and literature, about America and nature, and nature, and nature—and for all the folks who like me read her to get some connective charge in certain terms, plenty others I’m sure were getting other stuff. And there was, always, plenty: Graham’s maybe intimidating for how much she puts in, her willingness to idea-check anyone, her ongoing comfort with writing from and in and toward what she called a Big Hunger: she’s never written poetry that functioned like New Yorker cartoons, sweet things that dissolved the minute the page flipped, and her stuff, at its gnarliest, is never ever (I don’t think anyway) opaque or idea-checking for points or some such: she wants to hit big, to be as specific as she can, to touch on Big Ideas, and (I believe) she does, and, in doing so, she goes anywhere: read the Notes of any of her books for a lesson in audacity.

And so now there’s From The New World, a book spanning almost forty years of writing, and what’s clear is that Graham’s had any number of Projects/Agendas/Obsessions in her work (if you dislike thinking like that, fuck off: any artist will, through her work, make clear—if the work’s looked at in a swath—what she’s centrally focused on, preoccupied by, and to pretend otherwise is so dumb I here apologize for even bringing it up, but I’ve got a kneejerk thing re: using any of those terms since it seems my age-bracket is intimidated by acknowledging such obviousness). The Project/Agenda/Obsession of hers I like and first fell for, the one I think best articulated in Never? The one about subjectivity? That’s simply one of many threads through her work, and it’s not at all the central thread in her work—at least the central thread as it’s articulated in *this* selection of poems from all the books (which selection, automatically, radically cleaves the scope of the books themselves [meaning there are several possible Selecteds to create from Graham’s oevre, each of which would paint a revised scene re: what she’s been Doing]). This is not at all a criticism, at all: it’s an attempt to note that the poems on offer here work together—beautifully, one quickens to add—to paint a picture of a poet who’s been for four decades fixated on questions about the world itself and living in it, about drawing some connective thread through the astonishing balances of existence. And, as Sea Change and Overlord and Never and to some degree PLACE make clear—along with the four new poems included in From The New World (poems I, unlike Chiasson, don’t find to be some of her best: the one he quotes, to end his article, is incredible, but those prior read, to me, scratchy, missing)—Graham’s emphatically a nature writer.

Which, of course, she’s always been: you see it now, here, echoing back to even Hybrids of Plants and Ghosts, her first collection: where the earlier Selected begins with that early greatness “The Way Things Work”—a poem I cannot read as anything other than a poem about connecting, thinking-into-feeling-into-living—From the New World begins with “Tennessee June,” a poem with similarities to “Work” but, instead of being accretive and trying to connect, “Tennessee” ends on “the spirit breaks from you and you remain,” which is compelling and gorgeous, but is decidedly different from the feeling offered by “The way things work / is that eventually / something catches.” Those are radically different dramas, with I’d argue wholly different stakes: the emphasis in “Tennessee” seems on where the act of existing remains once the spirit’s broken “from you,” and the emphasis in “Work” is on the catching, on the moment in which existence grinds gears with some other to breathe or enact living.

Of course, the selections from *all* Graham’s books are different, Selected to Selected. Not for nothing, the more recent books—Sea Change and Overland and PLACE—are exceptionally well-represented in From the New World, and there’s a way this reads that almost feels as if the glory of the now-early-middle-career books (Materialism, The Errancy, Swarm and Never) was a blip, some detour. In other words: if you fell hard for Graham based on the poems you read in The Dream of the Unified Field, you might find a different poet on these pages. I, anyway, have.

Again: this is not a problem. But the central drama of Graham’s poetry has now, with From the New World, been firmly grounded as a consideration of humans’ place in the world, how we interact with the world, and what we do to the world—and, ultimately, the peril we’ve put the world in, through our actions and ideas. Something about responsibility. This is a radically, radically different drama than the one you’d be forgiven for believing was the central one operating in Graham’s work up till now: if you know Graham’s work, you know that her Overlord and Sea Change—and certainly to a degree Never, though not as overtly—are engaged fairly directly with climate change, with the havoc humans have wrought on the planet. Sea Change and Overlord, for me, were the first misses in her long career: neither book finally ever cohered for me, not deeply, and I could never find or feel the pressure I’d once come for. What From The New World does, however, is recast all the poetry (or, actually, not really recast, but more re-jigger so that the stuff that’s already there is specifically highlighted) so that the questions of cost and humanity-in-relationship-to-the-environment is paramount. This is not a bad thing, but it is a *different* thing than what you may have understood to be happening in Graham’s poetry if your entrance was—like mine—through her work up until the early ’00s.

So: this is, for me, a weird book. It’s endlessly beautiful: I dare you to read any early or late or in-between stuff—”Reading Plato” or “Lapse” or “Dusk Shore Prayer”—without succumbing to the whallop there on offer. Dig it: nobody writes such Hugeness as Graham. Nobody. I’ve read for hours and days and months and years. Nobody has, in any way, tried to include/engage-with/tackle this much. Not even close. And so if you’re just finding your way to Graham, please, by all means: get From the New World, and allow the enrapturing to do it’s thing. If you’re however interested in a longer strand of American poetry—one that’s trying to wrestle with the most deeply gnarly questions of being and thinking and feeling—again, that subjectivity Chiasson notes so well—go ahead and get New World, but also, please, get The Dream of the Unified Field, and then read all the rest of her work. Maybe this is just a too-long way of saying: the selected poems of ANY poet this good is bound to be complicated, because in doing the so-muchness they’re engaged in, any fractioned presentation of their work precludes the oomph available through the totality of the work.

The point of this review—consideration, really—is simply to note that the Jorie Graham poetry you’re reading in From The New World is a rearranged approximation of one of contemporary poetry’s Greatest Writers, and please just know that the environmental focus one can’t help but notice in this collection is, I’d argue, simply one thread of the larger amazement she’s been now braiding for forty years (and, clearly, I believe another thread—the thing about connecting, self, and subjectivity—is more something, I can’t say what), and while it’s great, I can’t help, as a huge admirer of other facets of her work, but note that the other threads are equally monumental and transcendant. Anyway. If Graham doesn’t win a Nobel eventually, we should all be sad: she’s gunning for a glory so rare it’s not even aimed for by most practicing writers. Finally, the point of all of this is just this: Read Jorie Graham. Everything past that immutable fact is so distant as to be dismissable.

Manguso’s Diary Dialogue

by Kati Heng

9781555977030ONGOINGNESS: THE END OF A DIARY by Sarah Manguso

At the time this book/essay was released, Sarah Manguso’s diary contained about a million words. To write a book about her diary, she determined she would either have to include it all – events cannot be separated, cannot be brought out of the blue with no foreshadowing or follow-up – or none of it. At 95 pages long, obviously, she left it out entirely. And so becomes maybe the first personal autobiography about a diary that includes not one piece of the journal itself.

It’s a quick read I finished in an hour, many of those 95 pages not even halfway filling the page. Whatever. Manguso has no need to prove herself worthy of writing some mammoth book; she instead knows how much of the time, fewer words can be so much more poignant.

Manguso starts by explaining her writing habits. Much like any young girl, her first diaries were gifts, left empty save the drawings printed in each corner. Sometime in her teens, it just flipped. She began to write compulsively, multiple times during the day. There was (is?) something inside her that never wanted to forget a moment, and if her memory couldn’t contain it all, she hoped her diary could.

The fascinating thing about measuring history through a diary, as Manguso finds, is what, looking back, was worthy of note that day and what was omitted. The things that foreshadow future events are so often not noted, not written down, maybe even, not consciously acknowledge. The stuff that does make it in, that does seem so important in the moment, is often left at that day, never to be of importance again. It’s a fascinating thought – what happened today that seemed inconsequential that will mean all the difference in a week, a year?

Manguso often catches herself reflecting on her diary, wondering why she continues it even today. If she doesn’t capture every moment and every angle of every moment, what’s the point of catching any at all? “And then I think I don’t need to write anything down ever again,” she writes. “Nothing’s gone, not really. Everything that’s ever happened has left its little wound.”

After becoming pregnant and giving birth to her first child, Manguso both finds frustration and relief from her diary. She hates what people call “pregnancy brain,” the way it seems she can’t remember events of the day as sharply as she could before. Early on after the baby comes home, her tiredness reducing her days to a set schedule of feeding, diaper changing, holding, she realizes her own mortality, as many new parents do. And so begins a renewed need for the diary, a capsule to hold together the person she was even after she passes.

I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s an eloquent diary entry about a decades long record of a woman’s life. It’s written with passion and anguish, frustration with and love for her own work. It’s incredible.

Who would ever cheat on an astronaut, geez…

by Kati Heng



The title-inspiration story (actually called “Opal Forever”) starts with two kids in love, Opal and Griffin, who decide to get tattoos commemorating their passion. Opal opts for a simple, ambiguous “GO” on the inside of her ankle; Griffin goes all out and gets “Opal Forever” inside a heart etched proudly on his forearm. Of course, they break up, Griffin realizing it’s over as Opal and her new lesbian lover adopt a dog together. So, with an arm that promises to love Opal for the rest of his life, the man decides to re-enter the dating pool, only seeking another woman named Opal. Griffin’s luck gets stuck thanks to coming on too strong, straight up telling every woman on dating sites in America, Virgin Islands, Guam, and soon Canada that he will promise to love them for the rest of his life, showing photographs of the tattoo to prove his seriousness.

I’m a firm believer that most short story collections get ground alone on the irony. An author can start with boring characters doing predictable things and as long as there is an ironic twist at the end, readers will buy in. Not that I’m knocking the formula – pretty sure my obsession with watching “Tales of the Crypt” reruns proves I am fine with irony – it’s just that after a bunch of short story collections in a row, a girl begins to want a little more than irony at the end. And so, what Michael Czyzniejewski (hereafter referred to as Czy. because holy 15-letter name, Batman), brings to his collection isn’t just the ironic end (not that many of his stories don’t contain that anyway), but actually interesting characters, beginnings and middles.

Take the story “Space,” for instance, which opens with the line “When Miller’s wife went up to space, he set out to cheat on her.” WHAT? So simple and direct, telling you exactly the characters and motives, yet, what the hell is gonna go on in this story?? We can deduct that 1) Miller’s wife is either and astronaut or this is the future, both of which make me want to keep reading; and 2) despite what seems like would be an ideal domestic situation (in my mind, being married to a freakin’ astronaut), Miller’s got a beef about the whole thing. Maybe he never loved her. Maybe she’s going to be in space for the rest of her life. Whatever the case, we’re going to keep reading at this point.

Other interesting set-ups, just for me to throw out a few that are introduced in the very first paragraphs: 1) (god, this opening line again) “My sister once saw Meyrl Streep naked in a public shower (“All Out”); 2) A drunk guy sits and watches burglars break into his house (“Shelf Life”); 3) “Instead of getting married, I insist that Julian and I rig an election” (“Instead of Getting Married”); 4) A couple discovers both one partner’s allergy to shellfish and a mystical portal all in one night. What, what, WHAT? Seriously, not a moment of boredom in the whole collection.

Although this a collection of breakup stories, (which Czy. adorable dedicates to “Karen, who didn’t inspire a single word of this book”), my personal favorites are the ones where the stories expand themselves beyond simply Lover 1 and Lover 2. Like the story “Bullfighting,” in which a newly widowed mother falls in love with her son’s new imaginary (?) friend. Or the tale of “When the Heroes Came to Town,” unsuspectedly, to an previously peaceful town with little attacks from giant monsters before the heroes showed up (suspicious?), only, it seems to win the hearts of the town’s more-beautiful-than-average women.

Oh, jeez, what else to note? A good portion of the stories aren’t written in traditional narrative, keeping things fresh. There’s a story of a professor’s messy family tree, complicated after impregnating his research assistant, told completely through the form of an outline; there’s a tale of lovers facing the famed biblical plagues of Egypt plague by plague; there’s stories told so shortly, they themselves are almost poetry.

Seriuosly though, read THIS, if only to find out why that guy would ever cheat on an astronaut wife. Who would ever cheat on an astronaut anyway…



Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 60 other followers

%d bloggers like this: