August 7, 2020


Spare time (even in occasional dollops) might be channelled towards helping the Boston Public Library transcribe their recently digitised Anti-Slavery manuscripts!

(Or if squinting to decipher handwriting isn’t quite your forte, one of these many quite other projects on the Zooniverse collection: classifying scientific illustrations in Victorian-era periodicals; tracing outlines of strewn objects in photographs to teach algorithms to recognise beach litter; counting seals in timelapse video footage recorded in Antartica… I rather fancy the manatee acoustics one, myself.)

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August 7, 2020

To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing (W.B. Yeats) Now all the truth is out, Be secret and take defeat From any brazen throat, For how can you compete, Being honor bred, with one Who were it proved he lies Were neither shamed in his own Nor in his neighbors' eyes; Bred to a harder thing Than Triumph, turn away And like a laughing string Whereon mad fingers play Amid a place of stone, Be secret and exult, Because of all things known That is most difficult.
August 7, 2020

verse novels for children and teens are in vogue, it would seem —  15 years ago i would only have been able to name a small handful (karen hesse, maybe), now almost every venture into the J or Y section of the library brings another encounter with one… not that i do not appreciate verse novels, but i do want the verse to be good, you know, otherwise their very proliferation also proliferates the prejudice that free verse is just prose broken into lines (which in fact, many of these ya attempts unfortunately are; even the better ones are merely competent — 3 (or even 4) stars for the narrative, 2 for the verse, ho hum.)

two however i enjoyed very much recently (neither of these particularly fine where the verse is concerned, but at least not shabby, and the overall swells of their narratives and emotional tenor help them bob above others of their ilk.):


1. terry farish’s the good braider (published 2012) is a sensitive, moving account of a teenage girl’s life during the south sudanese civil war while waiting for her refugee status and approval for immigration to the us, and her subsequent cultural adjustment as part of the refugee community in portland, maine. particularly poignant moments: she, reflecting on how her rape by a soldier in sudan has rendered her bride-price valueless in the eyes of her own community even as a white girl (who, it’s implied, has no understanding of its cultural significance) asks her to help braid her blonde hair to surprise her african-american boyfriend. and, towards the end of the book, suffering a horrific punishment for defying her mother and learning the american way’ by befriending an american fisherman who is teaching her to drive, and a confrontation with the 911 paramedics and cops who come to arrest her mother.


2. patricia hruby powell’s loving vs virginia: a documentary novel of the landmark civil rights case, just published two months ago. the verse is no great shakes, but i’d told you that. the tale is well-researched (enriched with original oral interviews conducted by the author with friends of the lovings), and is published as a hardcover, oversized (coffee table) book full of historical inserts: photos of segregated schoolrooms and anti-integration protesters outside schools and courthouses, excerpts from lower court rulings and virginia’s racial integrity’ legislation, hair-raising quotes from gov. george wallace. i like that it barely focusses on the court case (which happens almost entirely off-page — we see only them meeting with cohen and hirschkop, then we see them at a press conference years later, after the supreme court ruling) but instead tells of the youth, courtship and homelife of the lovings, on the daily struggles of their exile lives as a mixed couple and separation from the family support structures they were forced to leave behind in virginia (living on county borders), voicing the ordinary bewilderment of the layperson baulking at how long a court case takes, uninterested in creating a legal precedent, just worn down and worn out and wondering when they can move home to virginia).

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August 7, 2020

conflicting schedules from a spate of travelling had pushed the annual year-end gift exchange well past the beginning of this year that even renaming it a new year exchange was pushing the notion of a new year some (the chinese one is almost upon us, it must be said.) but arrived we did at poach’s for lunch, and drew in turn we did from a mystery heap of wrapped objects on the living room floor, all minus addy-in-the-windy-city.

the gift i chose for the girls this year was a set of four waterproof travel laundry bags with an exterior design of the world map on them: the oceans in teal and the continents golden-beige, plus a pair of translucent yellow vintage cat’s-eye sunglasses to go with the travel theme (this went to poach.) the one i drew from the pile (su-lin’s gift) turned out to be a japanese planter kit for wild strawberries — it wouldn’t grow in this climate, i suspect, even in an airconned room (we wouldn’t keep the aircon on all day for ourselves, let alone a plant of uncertain fecundity), but it does come in a cute little red-glazed ceramic pot which i can always reuse as a pen holder if the seeds don’t germinate — or maybe grow some other less ambitious plant in it if i feel up to gardening: a herb for preference (one daydreams of a flourishing garden the extravagance of which would relate inversely to a supermarket herb bill — but whose fingers are green and not wont to incidental mayhem? not mine.)

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August 7, 2020


Open Letter Press (housed at the University of Rochester!) is fast replacing Dalkey Archive as my favourite American press for translated literatures (but maybe not yet New Directions…)

Also — Wojciech Nowicki:

“For me, reisefieber is not merely a foreign word, smuggled into my own language, like nachkastlik � full of melody, but redundant and outdated. No, reisefieber is a condition impossible to overcome, a stab in the heart, pain that goes away only after I commence my journey. The only medicine for the fear of travel is travel itself.”

in Salki, a book that  — though the Sebald-comparisons are inappropriate I think —  has unjustly gone unnoticed by any American review site major or minor (the LARB carried the sole English-language review I did find, and even then only because the reviewer (London-based) was Polish-born — one wonders if she had not been moved by a familial interest in the idea of Polish identity to review (or indeed to attempt submission in an American review — that, tellingly, was her sole contribution to the LARB) if even that single mention would have been made of this extraordinary, restless melancholia. (I exclude of course The Complete Review, which is (obviously) where I’d got wind of the book in the first place, but that is hardly a typical site — long live the CR, etc.)

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August 7, 2020


an afternoon with the girls at the wistaria teahouse, taipei:

台北紫藤庐
taipei, 25 june 2017

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August 7, 2020


the shock of self-recognition was such that never in 15 years was I able to reread weinberger’s story about the woman who turned herself into a flowering tree. (woman into tree, a willing daphne, i suppose that would be me.) the unspoken other half is: that, likewise caught mid-transformation, neither woman nor tree now, and those flower-like years shadowy memories after the wild savagery of rainstorm, (those years! chary of passion, blossoming with abandon both literary and sexual — one no longer told them apart — those flower-like years)

(but one can still recognise something of the flowering tree in her, or was it the woman?)

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