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Friday, December 23rd, 2011

🦋 Dancing Barefoot

Mountain Station's show on Wednesday was a lot of fun -- we got a couple of people to come out and listen to us, we got a chance to play with amplification, played our whole set plus a couple of spur-of-the-moment songs, got a chance to play with Kari sitting in on vocals...

Ellen got a tape of us playing "Dancing Barefoot" on her phone -- the audio quality is a little strange but I think our sound comes across nicely.

posted evening of December 23rd, 2011: Respond
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Thursday, December 22nd, 2011

🦋 Forking Paths

«Hasta los confines del sistema solar hay cuatro horas-luz; hasta la estrella más cercana, cuatro años-luz. Un desmedido océano de vacío. Pero ¿estamos realmente seguros de que sólo haya un vacío? Únicamente sabemos que en este espacio no hay estrellas luminosas; de existir, ¿serían visibles? ¿Y si existiesen cuerpos no luminosos u oscuros? ¿No podría suceder en los mapas celestes, al igual que en los de la tierra, que estén indicadas las estrellas-ciudades y omitidas las estrellas-pueblos?»
In Savage Detectives group read news, Rise links to some translations of Bolaño's First infrarealist manifesto.

posted evening of December 22nd, 2011: Respond
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Sunday, December 18th, 2011

🦋 Voto en blanco

Somewhere, José Saramago is laughing -- emol.com reports that the town of Bello in northern Colombia will be repeating its mayoral elections after no-one won the vote -- no-one won the vote because 56.7% of the voters marked their ballots as blank. (Reinaldo Spitaletta of El espectador writes that he knew something was going on when he saw a lot of people in Bello reading Saramago's Seeing before the elections.) Thanks for the link, Jorge!

posted evening of December 18th, 2011: Respond
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Thursday, December 15th, 2011

🦋 How to Read Novels

by Juan Gabriel Vásquez
El espectador
December 8, 2011
Although I’ve been doing it non-stop for thirty years, in spite of living my life surrounded by other people who are always doing it, I still think there are few activities so intriguing as the reading of novels.

I keep wondering why we do it: why would an adult devote his time, his mental energies, his moral intelligence to reading about things that never happened to people who never existed; how could this activity be so important, so vital, that this person would voluntarily withdraw from real life to carry it out. I've come across a few answers over the years, some of them in conversations with other addicted readers, but mostly in books here and there along the way. And indeed, the most recent of these books is truly marvelous: The Naïve and Sentimental Novelist consists of six essays in which Orhan Pamuk seeks to answer one crucial question: What happens to us when we read (and write) novels? This book is the most illuminating, most stimulating, most abundant examination of this difficult topic that I've read in years. I can do no less than to offer this urgent call to readers.

"I have learned by experience that there are many ways to read a novel," says Pamuk. "We read sometimes logically, sometimes with our eyes, sometimes with our imagination, sometimes with a small part of our mind, sometimes the way we want to, sometimes the way the book wants us to, and sometimes with every fiber of our being." In other words: there are no two identical readers of the same novel; not even two identical readings. And this fact, which seems so obvious, is what can explain the effects, the intimate, unpredictable effects the novel can have on us. What are these effects? Pamuk says we read the way we drive a car, pressing the pedals and shifting gears while watching the signals and traffic and the landscape around us: our intellect moves in a thousand and one directions in every instant. With part of our mind we do the simplest thing: follow the story. But readers of "serious" novels are doing something more: are looking constantly for the secret center of the novel, for that revelation the novel seeks to bring to light, which cannot be summarized, which can only be expressed just as the novel expresses it. Sábato was once asked what he meant to say in On Heroes and Tombs. Sábato replied, "If I could have said it any other way, I would never have written the book."

To read a novel is to leave behind a Cartesian understanding of the world. We know these things never happened, but we believe in them as if they had happened; we know they are the product of someone else's imagination, but we live through them as if they were a part of our own experience. "Our ability to believe simultaneously in contradictory states," according to Pamuk, is an essential characteristic of the reader of novels; another one is the urge to understand, not to judge, the characters. "At the heart of the novelist's craft lies an optimism," says Pamuk, "which thinks that the knowledge we gather from our everyday experience, if given proper form, can become valuable knowledge about reality." As readers, we share in this belief: that a good novel is a means of bringing a little bit of order to the chaos which reigns around us, of beginning to understand it. And that’s no small thing.

Vásquez (who I think is my favorite new author that I found out about this year) writes a weekly column for Bogotá-based newspaper El espectador. Many thanks to Mr. Vásquez for allowing me to post this translation here, and especially to Anne McLean for helping me to contact him and for passing an editorial eye over my effort. It reads much more smoothly with her suggestions incorporated.

posted evening of December 15th, 2011: 1 response
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Pasquale Vassallo's submission to the 2011 National Geographic photo contest: an octopus's garden on the coast of Italy.

posted evening of December 15th, 2011: Respond
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Tuesday, December 13th, 2011

🦋 Rat race

posted evening of December 13th, 2011: Respond
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🦋 Chanting Sonoran Desert

The incantatory force of García Madero's invocation here brings to mind Judith Weissman's take on the "Wanderings of Oisin"...

Una excursión: nuestro Impala enfiló por la pista que cuelga a un lado del golfo de California, hasta Punta Chueca, enfrente de la isla Tiburón. Después fuimos a El Dólar, enfrente de la isla Patos. Lima la llama la isla Pato Donald. Tirados en una playa desierta, estuvimos fumando mota durante horas. Punta Chueca-Tiburón, Dólar-Patos, naturalmente son sólo nombres, pero a mí me llenan el alma de oscuros presagios, como diría un colega de Amado Nervo. ¿Pero qué es lo que en esos nombres consigue alterarme, entristecerme, ponerme fatalista, hacer que mire a Lupe como si fuera la última mujer sobre la Tierra? Poco antes de que anocheciera seguimos subiendo hacia el norte. Allí se levanta Desemboque. El alma absolutamente negra. Creo que incluso temblaba. Y después volvimos a Bahía Kino por una carretera oscura en donde de tanto en tanto nos cruzábamos con camionetas llenas de pescadores que cantaban canciones seris.
Also thinking vaguely of Dorfman and of Rivera Letelier and of the Atacama Desert as I read about the poets' journey through their desert. And here again!
Lo seguimos por la avenida principal del cementerio, un paseo bordeado de cipreses y viejos robles. Cuando nos internamos por las calles laterales, en cambio, vi algunos cactus propios de la región: choyas y sahuesos y también algún nopal, como para que los muertos no olvidaran que estaban en Sonora y no en otro lugar.

posted evening of December 13th, 2011: Respond
➳ More posts about Roberto Bolaño

Monday, December 12th, 2011

🦋 Belano in Africa

Todas las lenguas, todos los murmullos sólo una forma vicaria de preservar durante un tiempo azaroso nuestra identidad.

-- Jacobo Urenda
July, 1996

I had forgotten all about Urenda's narration, about this story of Angola and Rwanda and wartime Liberia. It started coming back to me when I was reading about Belano's duel with Iñaki and I've been feeling anxious about it ever since. (Anxious and a little mystified. "I remember that being a long story. How is there going to be space to fit it in to what little remains of part 2?") As it turns out, not really that long a story at 23 pages; but powerfully dense. This narrative could be a book almost by itself. Luigi's death is one of the most frightening, most moving moments in Savage Detectives.

The action here is more precisely pinpointed in time than anywhere else; Urenda says he got to Monrovia in April 1996 -- only a few months before he is speaking, and I wonder why he says "April 1996" instead of just "April"* -- I wonder if this has something to do with its being the end of Belano's story.

...And we get to the end, the final two interviews in part 2: after Urenda's story we hear from Ernesto García Grajales, the only scholar specializing in the Visceral Realists in Mexico and, so he believes, the whole world. The interviewer asks if he has heard of Juan García Madero, the first time García Madero's name has come up since part 1; he has not. (Is García Madero the interviewer? This would kind of work, except he could not have interviewed Amadeo Salvatierra in Mexico City in January 1976.) And finally we get to the end of Salvatierra's story, dawn of the following day, the two young poets promising him that they will find Cesárea Tinajero.

*This may just be an idiomatic thing. In Wimmer's translation, Urenda says "I got to Monrovia in April."

posted evening of December 12th, 2011: Respond
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Sunday, December 11th, 2011

🦋 Let's Listen to

Raphael Saadiq.

(Just found out about Saadiq today via his fantasic contribution to the new Amnesty International record, Chimes of Freedom. Saadiq covers "Leopardskin Pillbox Hat" in a way that has given me a whole new way of understanding the song, more blues than honky-tonk.)

Allow me to direct your attention as well to Saadiq's rhythm guitarist here, the extraordinary Rob Bacon, and to the instrumental duet about 9 minutes in.

posted afternoon of December 11th, 2011: Respond
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Friday, December 9th, 2011

Hm, time for a change of wallpaper...

Thanks, Wooster Collective! Thanks, Agostino Iacurci!

posted evening of December 9th, 2011: Respond
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