These are the books I read in the month of June, 2022—
Castle Faggot by Derek McCormack
A strange book. Coprophilic circus poster as geometry-novel? A bit silly, bordering on nonsense. Fun nonsense is still fun, though.
Fable by Robert Pinget
Some more glossolalia from France. Couldn’t make it past 20 pages.
Hôtel Splendid by Marie Redonnet
Loved how this novel’s sentences were so often staccato but gave an overwhelming feeling of languidness. Could feel the damp of rural, nowhere-Europe vaporizing off the page. But this wasn’t enough for me. Ultimately repetitive, redundant, frustrating. 113-page novella that could have been half as long.
Forever Valley by Marie Redonnet
This one had even less of an effect on me—the story was more promising, but the novelty of Redonnet’s sentences lost its charm. These books are remarkably static, not in a particularly good way; the affect is flat and unchanging. I don’t think Redonnet is a very interesting writer. I’ll be reading the third and final of these books next because I already spent the money and they’re all around 100 pages.
Rose Mellie Rose by Marie Redonnet
I enjoyed this one the most of the three, though found it similarly grating by the end. I was happy when it was over. Redonnet leans into the fabulism hinted at in the first two, and there’s a greater sense of movement, but it seems clear to me these books were written by someone who did not put much prior thought into what it means to write a long-form prose text, which I suppose most people would call a novel. They seem the product of intuitive image-linking, which is fine, but not convincing enough for the effort. Oh, I fear I’m becoming old fashioned! Give me a stupid knight and some sad lady in a far away tower.
Paradais by Fernanda Melchor
Gripping! Purposefully juvenile at moments, and it sort of works, though to be honest it struck me as a little cloying at times. A lot of words like “cock” and “pussy” and “fuck.” Kinda like… yeah, alright. Ok. Nevertheless, a writer with real verve and gumption, I’d say.
Paris Spleen by Charles Baudelaire
As great as I expected. Totally unique at the time of its composition, I would imagine. “The Bad Glazier” is one of my favorite things I’ve read.
Selected Declarations of Dependence by Harry Mathews
Whacky. A book composed almost entirely from the language of proverbs and ‘perverbs’ (stitching together different proverbs, e.g. “A rolling stone leads to Rome.”) and paraphrases of these things. Not so much a book you read, but look at. Dedicated to John Ashbery. Something I would recommend to only very specific kinds of word-loser persons, which as it happens includes many of my friends and indeed myself.
The Punishments of Hell by Robert Desnos
Stopped reading this after about 30 pages. Beginning to accept I don’t like the original Surrealists very much—so much of what they do seems kind of corny. They just aren’t very great writers! I am undoubtedly deeply influenced by the larger tradition, but the initiating material doesn’t do anything for me. Regret spending $13 on this. That’s like two iced coffees in this economy.
Man in the Holocene by Max Frisch
An extremely boring book. Like if Wittgenstein’s Mistress was written by a wealthy European man who likes taking his summer in the Alps. Even Wittgenstein’s Mistress is pretty boring, if I’m being honest—certainly not Markson’s best work, which I’d say is This Is Not a Novel, though I love all those books in his final tetralogy.
Philosophy as a Way of Life by Pierre Hadot
A wonderfully fun and fascinating book, if a bit repetitive towards the end. Hadot’s central thesis is that ancient Greek philosophy, as well as the Hellenistic philosophy that followed it (the Stoics, Epicurus, et al.) saw philosophy as an action, a way of life, of being in the world. It was only later, Hadot argues, under early Christian monasticism, and through the Medieval Church, that philosophy was transformed into a purely theoretical activity (a “handmaiden” to Christian theology), and that while philosophy in the secular, modern era lost its relationship to Christianity, it largely retained the character that Christianity had designed for it. Unfortunately, I am not so historically acquainted as to know whether or not Hadot is right, but I found the argument compelling nonetheless. Personally, at this juncture of my life, I only want to read philosophy if: a) the literature itself is good b) it helps me. I’m too simple a person to care for anything else.
Happening by Annie Ernaux
Something about Ernaux’s writing always invites a kind of trance-like reading experience in me. This is now my third Ernaux book (I’ve previously read The Years and A Girl’s Story) and I must say I think she is one of the greatest living writers. Bizarrely, I started reading this book right before I heard the news about Roe, which gave Ernaux’s writing an even greater sense of dread and urgency, given this book’s subject matter.
Towards a Phenomenology of Written Art by Gerald Burns
What it says in the title. Ironically, this short book would have had a greater effect on me had the writer chosen his words more carefully. Too elusive, opaque, and disorganized to make a coherent argument, though maybe I’m missing the point. Occasionally great moments, like this: “It is sometimes said the first culture-shock was our finding ourselves different from animals. Look into your dog’s eyes and know that either it should talk or you shouldn’t.”
The Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark
Muriel Spark is such an unreal genius of prose writing—a funny and strange book.
Nude by Anne Portugal
SPD sent me this by accident several years ago. I finally got around to it. I’ve always loved it when people have a country as their last name. David Brazil, Anatole France, Speedzone USA, Baron Iceland. This book of weird poems was fine. The author is from France, not Portugal.
