Quote Bag: Remy de Gourmont

Quote Bag: Remy de Gourmont

 

His one and only subject matter was sex; he was deeply fascinated by the essential capriciousness of the sexual impulse, by the ill-effects of social and religious repression of sexuality, and by the intellectual strategies which might maximize the quasi-transcendental experience of sexual rapture.

– Francis Amery

 

I am not listening. What does it matter to me whether she is a mere girl or a marquise, or both? I am thinking: here is a companion for the game of elementary sensations, flesh malleable to intimate experiences, and a soul sufficiently becalmed by ennui to accept navigation towards that isle where fabulous creatures rejoice in fabulous creativity…

It becomes certain that human intelligence, far from being the object of creation, is only an accident and that moral ideas are merely vegetable parasites born from an excess of nutrition.

"Style" means visual memory and metaphoric capacity, combined in variable proportions with emotive memory and all the obscure contribution of the other senses.

Mallarme’s work is the most marvelous pretext for reverie which has yet been offered to men weary of many heavy and useless affirmations. It is a poetry full of doubts, of shifting nuances and ambiguous perfumes, and it is perhaps the only poetry that will be able, henceforward, to give us pleasure. And if the word decadence really summed up all these autumnal, twilight charms, we should welcome it and even make it one of the keys of the viol. But it is dead, the master is dead, the penultimate is dead.

– Remy de Gourmont 

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Honey, cancel our reservation…

RESTAURANT INSPECTIONS

Rush Street Restaurant

314 Main St., Ann Arbor

Date: Aug. 9

Number of critical violations:

5

Critical violations

: The duck confit in the top of the cook line prep cooler was moldy (corrected). Bar and wait staff were observed preparing fruit at the bar with bare hands (corrected). Several foods were not properly date marked (corrected). Chlorine sanitizer was not provided in the final rinse water of the conveyor dishwashing machine (corrected). Several chemical spray bottles were unlabeled and mislabeled (corrected).

Noncritical violations:

The dishwashing machine spray heads were plugged with food debris; many of the hinges on the kitchen prep top coolers were damaged or loose. The interior of the dishwashing machine, including the water spray wands/nozzles (inside and outside) were not cleaned often enough. A significant buildup of condensation was observed at the bottom of the main bar coolers and the bottoms of the kitchen prep coolers. The walk-in cooler evaporator unit drip pan (recently replaced) was dripping condensation out of a hole used to attach the pan to the cooling unit; the replacement faucet spout for the four-compartment sink at the 800 North bar was too short. The floor wall juncture at both bars, several bar area floor sinks and the floor sink for the prep kitchen three-compartment sink were not clean. 

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EVENT OF THE DAY

GOCKS

2 p.m., Canton Public Library, 1200 S. Canton Center Road.

Teens pierce, tattoo or give mohawks to Goth sock puppets.

Supplies provided. Details: 734-397-0999 

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You’re the Man, Stuart MacBride

You’re the Man, Stuart MacBride

I have a new guy and his name is Stuart MacBride. I’m always happy when I can find a writer who I can recommend enthusiastically to almost anyone who walks in the door, especially when that writer is relatively new and unknown. It doesn’t literally have to be a guy – my last favorite hand sell was Louise Penny who we have pretty much pressed on everyone.

MacBride is very different from Penny, but they’re both great writers who guarantee an enjoyable reading experience. Instead of Penny’s bucolic village in well mannered Canada, MacBride’s books take place in dingy, dangerous Aberdeen, Scotland, which, he assures the reader in the acknowledgments of his first book Cold Granite is "really not as bad as it sounds." That’s a good thing because the Aberdeen of the books is a place of "pubs, churches and rain" whose inhabitants look "like a casting call for Deliverance" and where "we murder more people, per head of population, than the whole of England and Wales combined."

Cold Granite is one of those first novels that seem to be torn from the middle of a series, with a lot of water already under the bridge. The book begins on the day that Detective Sergeant Logan McRae returns to duty, not quite completely recovered from the knife wound that left him dead for five minutes, leading his less than compassionate co-workers to nickname him "Laz" for Lazarus. He doesn’t have much time to readjust, as the force is immediately galvanized by the discovery of a young boy’s body and the specter of a serial killer preying on children. As a DS, he’s above a uniformed Constable, but at the total mercy of his superior, in this case Detective Inspector Insch, a compulsive candy eater, Gilbert and Sullivan enthusiast and a man who "didn’t suffer idiots gladly. And the Inspector though everyone was an idiot."

The grim subject matter and convincing depiction of the danger and tedium of police work are livened with great characters like McRae’s former girlfriend Isobel MacAlister, the ice queen coroner, his possible future girlfriend Constable Jackie "Ball Breaker" Watson, and Colin Watson, the upstart reporter from Glasgow, who seems to have an inside source. MacBride has firm control of the essential elements of setting, character and plot and guides them to a satisfying and thrilling conclusion.

In the second book Dying Light, McRae has been exiled to the "screw-up squad" after leading a disastrous raid. The chief screw-up is my new favorite mystery characters, DI Steel, a woman whose hair is variously described as "styled by seagulls," and looking as if someone had "sellotaped a cairn terrier to her head" or "tried to comb her hair with a ferret." A lesbian, she is also "the biggest womanizer on the force," her relationship with McRae succinctly described by the latter as "He did the work. She smoked fags and took the credit." Desperate to escape the screw-ups, McRae works feverishly to solve their murdered prostitute case as well as trying to horn in on DI Inch’s deadly arson investigation. Again, the case takes twists and turns, ratcheting up to an exiting ending and McRae’s mordant observation "Another case solved. Another life ruined."

MacBride’s new hardback, Bloodshot in which Constable Jackie lives up to her nickname while busting a serial rapist, only to find out that her suspect’s status as a local football hero might get him off the hook, keeps the series going at a high level. Along with Ian Rankin and Denise Mina, MacBride is at the forefront of a Scottish renaissance in crime fiction. Although his subject matter is dark, the books are satisfyingly absorbing reads, his Aberdeen cops exhibiting just the right blend of cynicism, righteous indignation and hilarious gallows humor. The combination of the mundane, the horrific and the ridiculous gives the books a quality that effortlessly pulls the reader into a very real world from the first page, a world that, despite its many warts, you hate to leave.  

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Jesus, Satan and the Peacock Angel

Jesusatand The Peacock Angel

 

It all started when I had a little too much time on my hands and started leafing through one of the many books I have piled up around me (home and work, though in this case it was the latter). The book that caught my eye was Inside Secret Societies: What They Don’t Want You to Know by Michael Benson (an "encyclopedic listing of secret societies around the world and across history," good for browsing and not much else) and the entry that caught my eye was Peacock Angel, The Order of the. It described the order as a "devil-worshiping society" with ancient roots which still exists in the Middle East, where they’ve come to be known as the Yezidis. I’m a sucker for secret societies (where do I join up anyway?) and any ancient religion that has refused to knuckle under to the worldwide hegemony of that Jewish/Christian/Moslem hairy thunderer who seems so driven to have the playing field to himself.

Not surprisingly, the Inside Secret Societies entry was a little more sensational than the one I found on Wikipedia, which revealed a very contemporary angle. The Yazidi (everybody has a different spelling) are Kurds who live in present day Iraq, and maintain their ancient traditions by being extremely clannish and secretive. Although they are often accused of being Satan worshipers, their deity is Melek Ta’us, an archangel and intermediary between the creator and humanity. Interestingly enough, the Yazidi are among the biggest boosters of the U.S. occupation of Iraq, believing it provides a safe buffer between them and those countrymen who consider them infidels, although this belief, as we shall see, proved to be as misguided as any other positive opinion of that utter debacle.

All this suggested, as so much else does, the need for further reading. A keyword search on my book distributor’s web page turned up two likely suspects, a scholarly anthropological study, and a book from Adventures Unlimited Press categorized as "Controversial Knowledge." The attentive RADIOFREEUBU reader will have little doubt as to which of these two I selected. I was already familiar with Mark Amaru Pinkham, the author of The Truth Behind the Christ Myth: The Redemption of the Peacock Angel from his previous work The Return of the Serpents of Wisdom, a volume which both informed and is quoted in my own indispensable yet unpublished novel Snakes in Caves.

Pinkham takes a much more, um, cosmic, view, seeing the Peacock Angel as an archetypical figure in world mythology, the offspring of the primal god and goddess, arriving to renew the world as the youth of a thousand summers, known by a thousand names. Unlike Benson, who presents his "Yezidis" as upholders of a 4,000 year old tradition which is possibly the original religion of the world, Pinkham sees the "Yezidhi" as syncretists, mixing the Mithraic, Gnostic and Sufi ideas around them to produce their own unique religion. Interestingly, Pinkham recounts the vision of the Yezidhi prophet Musafir, who while riding beheld an enormous tower which fell, threatening to destroy the world, only to be consoled by a shining youth who identified himself as Melek Taus and told him that after the tower falls there will be chaos, but the Yezidhi "will be unharmed and rule over the ruins."

Rather than the Christian devil, Pinkham describes the Yezidhi as worshiping a deity more like the Gnostic demiurge, the king of the world who, like the world itself, is neither inherently good nor evil but transcends those false dichotomies. As he says "…the Yezidhi worship Melek Taus, not Satan, and strive to cultivate only the good qualities of Melek Taus, while also seeing them in each other." There’s a persuasive Gnostic idea that the divine undergoes some kind of diminution by becoming immanent in time and matter, and the Yezidhi seem to believe the archangel Melek Taus started as pure, but began to absorb some of the seedier elements of the terrestrial world like pride, envy and greed as he became more and more a part of it.

And let’s face it, the whole idea makes sense – if the Christian god is all powerful and all benevolent, how can the world be so messed up? If he created man in his own image how can we be so full of crap?

As I read the Pinkham book a strange conviction came over me – maybe things have gotten reversed, and the figure so many people today invoke as Jesus is actually closer to Satan. Maybe when the son of god came to earth he didn’t redeem us as much as sully himself, in time embodying the egotism and materialism which is such a part of human nature. The religion that bears his name has certainly become corrupted – Christianity’s former ideals of love, otherworldliness and compassion have been replaced by materialism, hatred and pride, its practice devolved from peaceful words and charitable deeds to the demand of complete surrender of individuality and the subjugation of all who will not conform. Listening to any T.V. preacher will show that today’s believer does not expect their reward in heaven but right here on earth, preferably in the form of dollars.

We are constantly told what good and faithful Christians the members of the Bush regime are, and yet, far from exhibiting the attributes Jesus preached and embodied like meekness, charity, forgiveness, etc., their misrule can best be characterized as hateful, polarizing, corrupt, selfish and smug. Surely, as the current documentary No End in Sight vividly demonstrates, the actions of the Bush regime in unilaterally initiating and pursuing the disastrous Iraq invasion can only come under the category of hubris, insane and demonic. Individuals like Wolfowitz, Cheney, Rumsfeld and Rice are absolutely unable to admit that they could have made a single error and seem to believe that they are superior beings whose actions cannot be questioned by mere mortals, embodying what is the essential characteristic of Satan, his infernal pride. And couldn’t Bush, the embodiment of the religious right, who has so often misled the American public, easily be known by the Satanic epithet King of Lies?

Instead of Bush’s constant, semi-articulated view of today’s society as an endless war between absolute good (himself and his followers) and absolute evil (everyone else), maybe there’s another kind of dichotomy going on. Adam Gopnik articulated it beautifully in his New Yorker article on Philip K. Dick, "The vision of an unending struggle between a humanity longing for a fuller love it always senses but can’t quite see, and a deranged cult of violence eternally presenting itself as necessary and real – this thought today does not seem exactly crazy."

And as if to cap it all off, as I was in the middle of reading and thinking about these things an awful thing happened. On August 14th, four suicide bombers attacked a Kurdish Yazidi community in northwest Iraq, killing hundreds in one of the deadliest assaults of the American occupation. Evidently hating the Yazidi is the one thing Shi’ite and Sunni can agree on, putting Bush in the ironic position of being the only protector of people who he would no doubt consign to hell.  

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Obituary

Ziddlefat, John L

Ypsilanti, Michigan

Age 49, was called home by our precious Lord and Savior to be in his loving hands and pressed against his consoling breast Thursday, August 16, 2007, after a long, 16 year battle against a lightbulb he had accidentally ingested while looking for an onion. The Angels came to him and his spirit left this earthly world to be with God, Jesus, the Virgin Mary and his beloved uncle Mort. Born November 31, 1958, the son of Marva (Love) Salsbury Throckmorton Jones and Tony Ziddlefat, in Romulus, Michigan, John was the recipient of the almost perfect attendance award in his second grade Bible study class and from then on was educated in a number of secondary schools including our Lady of the Sacred Heart, Kiski Preparatory Academy, Mercersburg Military, and Colonel Pain’s Adjustive Corrective Institute For The Incorrigible Boy. From there he went on to great renown in several state institutions, including North West Central Thirteen Month Community College in Fargo, North Dakota. On October 31, 1993 he married Elsebeth Elizabeth Throckmorton-Jones in the waiting room of the Jackson State prison, their daughter Brandywine having been born in April of the preceding year. Most recently, John had been an itinerant salesman for the Ypsipanty and had been living in a tent in the backyard of his employer, mentor and great friend, Mark Maynard the well-known blog God and patriot King of Ypsilanti. Previously he’d been assisting widows and orphans with investment opportunities in the great state of Florida. Family and friends were what was most important to John, and he never passed up the chance to celebrate, often long into the night, birthdays, anniversaries, Saint’s days, national holidays or any other occasion that would afford him the opportunity to express his joy of living and to demonstrate his support for the domestic brewing and distilling industry. He loved to play euchre and dance on tables and he always gave other people a special feeling. He enjoyed having attractive teenagers near him and always had a smile and a hug for any woman within reach. John was wonderfully unpredictable, when he was around never knew if you get a joyful time and a lot of laughs, or an expensive cleaning bill and a visit from the police or SWAT team. His door to door salesmanship of the Ypsipanty brought him in contact with many grateful customers and a few misunderstandings about open windows. No one who met John face-to-face will soon forget him. He brought many people closer with God and encouraged prayer in quite a few more. For many years he was also a member of the Ypsilanti Moose Lodge. He will be greatly missed by his wife, current whereabouts unknown, and his daughter presently employed by the Déja Vu lounge of Ypsilanti not to mention Stinker, his pet skunk and Precious, the sheep to which he was so devoted. He is also survived by his stepfather Donald "Stick" Salisbury of Pentonville State Prison, his brother Sami "Hard" Ziddlefat, his nieces and nephews, illegitimate children, the cellmates he considered his family, and various relatives who prefer not to have their names in the paper. In lieu of flowers cash contributions should be sent to MarkMaynard.com. Envelopes will be available at the memorial service held at a Henrietta Fahrenheit Store in Ypsilanti’s Depotown Thursday August 23 at 3:30 p.m. Please sign the guestbook@MarkMaynard.com. 

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Waiting for (Heather)

If there had been any single person from my past that I hoped to see again, that person would’ve been Heather. I’d kept my eyes open for any sign of her for so long and through so many false alarms that when her return was actually imminent I had to blink a few times before I could actually take it in.

When she’d been around we’d spent our share of time together, and I’d certainly enjoyed it, but it was only after she’d been gone for a while that distance gave me enough perspective to find the real significance in those hours, a significance I’d never found anywhere else. I’d dwelt almost obsessively on that time, and the idea of adding even another minute to it made me more eager than I cared to admit.

Of course there were complications from the very beginning – Pam, the person Heather was going to stay with while she was in town, had decided a few months earlier that she never wanted to speak to me again, mostly because I’d rejected her drunken advances at a party. Our mutual friend Katie had told me Heather was visiting and had promised to bring her over, which was another complication in and of itself.

Katie and I had become close only after Heather had left, and neither of them knew the extent of my involvement of the other. Heather and I had been intimate in many ways, but ours had been an unconventional relationship – but then again unconventional relationships were the only kind Heather had. She’d always been a butterfly, flitting from person to person and situation to situation without ever settling anywhere. To use another metaphor, she was like a child, happy to play with whatever toy she came across, but equally happy to drop it in a dark corner when the next diversion arrived, only to pick it up with equanimity the next time she passed by. I’d tried not to take it personally.

On the other hand, the good thing about Heather was that she didn’t mind if others played with her toys. It wouldn’t bother her a bit to learn that Katie and I were engaged in a slowly developing affair, one that progressed only in the spaces between the frequent break-ups and equally frequent make-ups that headstrong Katie and her equally headstrong boyfriend were prone to. They’d been in make-up mode lately, so Heather wasn’t the only one I hadn’t seen in a while.

Unfortunately, Katie was the kind who cared if someone else played with her toys, even if she wasn’t using them, and once she’d established her powerful suzerainty over a man, she brooked no competition. I was afraid that if she figured out how anxious I was to see Heather she might not bring her over at all, or if she did, and Heather and I hit it off again, that things might get ugly.

I was also worried about someone else – me. Even if Heather hadn’t changed for the worse, I was pretty sure I had. Life had seemingly gone to a lot of trouble to dull the cocksure young blade I’d been, wiping the smirk off my face and showing me to my place somewhere near the bottom of the pile with great gusto. I’d begun to doubt that I was a leading man worthy of a star like Heather, and started to think that maybe I was more of a bit player, destined to be the comic foil for a tart tongued, sour faced supporting actress like Katie. Maybe Heather’s long awaited return wouldn’t light up my life at all, but only harshly illuminate its total mediocrity.

It was even possible that Heather might fail to live up to the exalted image I’d built up of her, and when I saw her side by side with Katie I’d realize that Katie was the one for me after all. Who knew, maybe during the impromptu party that always seemed to spring up around Heather a half remembered face would emerge from the crowd, steal the scene, and make me forget about both of them.

So there was that delicious certainty – that I’d see Heather again, but it was wrapped in so many layers of uncertainty that I could hardly savor it, and pressuring Katie to end the uncertainty was the only way to guarantee that the whole thing wouldn’t happen at all.

Anyway, that’s how I tied myself in knots waiting for Heather. 

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Cornell Woolrich’s Fright

Hard Case Crime has released Cornell Woolrich’s Fright, the title’s first publication in over fifty years. It’s not his best book, or even in the top ten, BUT it does have moments of that peculiar Woolrich magic. It’s set in 1915, and the historical novel, however recent, was not a good thing for Cornell, as it provides too much of a temptation to stop and explain about various things rather than just getting on with the plot. The basic premise, that a man believes he’s killed a woman and spends the rest of the book running and obsessing, is pretty creaky, but it does allow for many of his patented Poe-like explorations of the tormented mind on the edge of sanity. Not to get too psychological about it, but for all his rhapsodizing about female "angels" and the fairer sex, Woolrich is clearly terrified and guilt ridden about the physical act of sex itself, and seems to believe that delving just once into the pit of lust is enough to haunt and damn a man unto death. But it’s the prose that counts and Fright gives plenty of opportunity for him to strut his stuff (in some of the riper passages a little TOO much opportunity, alas). If Chandler, with his clipped, spare cadences and occasional bursts of poetry, was the Hemingway of noir, then Woolrich, with his undulating lyricism, is surely its Fitzgerald.

Here’s a few hot passages:

He saw her in the mirror, before he’s had time to turn. Then, having seen her there, her reflection seemed to hold him fast, like some hypnotic apparition, so that he was no longer able to turn. He kept looking at her that way, by indirection.

She peeled her cheek from the doorframe and came in a little further. A dainty, mincing step or two, like a dancer pointing a delicate toe before her, feeling her way in some delicate pas she is not yet sure she has mastered.

He hadn’t moved. He couldn’t.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

And now a new branch springs erect among the other branches, a branch that wasn’t there before. A branch without leaf, without sap, without bend. Black, and foundry-hard, and with a little round malignant mouth at the end, and its flowering will be death.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..

"Spring three, one hundred," he said quietly above the glass-dimmed roar of the jazz band, worshiping her with his eyes there where she sat, lonely, lost, waiting to be claimed, across the room. A Madonna in an evening gown, his angel baffled with champagne. His hope of heaven, his religion… 

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Bumper Sticker

LIFE WITHOUT STUPID IS ART  
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For Your Consideration

Dear Book Enthusiast,

I beg your indulgence for the impersonal salutation. Unfortunately, due to the many changes occurring in a large number of bookstores lately, I never quite certain who’s sitting at the helm of any particular store. Even if you were sitting there today reading this, you might get fired tomorrow, or your store will go out of business or be closed by a corporate entity, you might even commit suicide or become a drug addict, but that’s the chance I’ll have to take. That being said, I realize that your time is valuable and the responsibilities vast, so I will quickly bring this letter to point.

In 2007 the Fallopian Press will be publishing In The Cold Dark Depths of Secret, a monumental block buster novel by Courtney J. Gafoor that’s sure to rock your world as well as interest an overwhelming number of your store’s patronizing readers. The Fallopian press plans a 60 million copy first printing, backed by an 11 figure extensive marketing campaign that includes radio satellite zeppelin and 42 city personal author tour, advertising, special bus station promotions, web marketing the book reader, Katrina evacuee websites, and author interview streaming video at Times Square and during in-flight movies on Allegheny Airlines. And more.

Gafoor’s new novel is a suspenseful, humorous exciting blockbuster mystery which suddenly skews generic convention to continually surprise readers with reversals of their assumptions and expectations. It’s the story of Charles Philip Ferringfold, a famous orchestra conductor, who dreams of fulfilling his boyhood vision of becoming a subway conductor, a career that was denied him when he mistook the word orchestra for the word subway. Powerful forces in the metropolitan opera however want to deny his dream because the latest Concerto by Middle Eastern composer Ali Ben Fazazaza is to include a secret message signaling the beginning of the terrorist attack, and Charles is the only one who can handle its staccato passages. Even when he does achieve his dream of the subway the terrorist menace follows him there, in the form of germ warfare concealed in a jar of a child’s Skippy peanut butter. His nemesis, a killing machine has been in deep cover as a gym teacher for many years, the very man who used to ridicule Charles for not being able to climb the ropes and encouraged his classmates to give him wedgies. Can Charles overcome the demons of his past, save the United States, and win the hand of harpist/brakewoman Christina de la Fontaineau? You can bet millions of readers will be salivating on the pages in order to find out!

Gafoor is the best-selling author of the four previous best-selling novel thriller blockbuster monuments, including The Great Baloney Dump Mystery, previously published by Warder Herzog books and optioned for movie rights by Cicely Tyson and Tanya Roberts. Gafoor has a great track record of producing books that hit the ground running on topics pertinent to the national discourse and worries of the average American and their pets.

Booklist reviewed one of Courtney Gafoor’s previous books as "in the English" and "readable." Library Journal praised another as "evidently the product of human intelligence." Mary Higgins Clark praised Courtney as "a very persistent and crafty woman determined to discover my home phone number." The Toledo Blade termed her villain as "along the lines of Charles Manson and Richard Speck." And, Publishers Weekly’s review stated "it’s like Dr. Seuss and Sidney Sheldon had a love child and fed it Drano from birth."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Courtney Gafoor is a practicing aroma therapist and novelist who has worked as a senior adviser for Mark Maynard, the notable blogger God and inventor of the extremely popular Ypsipanty. For professional work as well as her experiences with Mark provide the foundation for her passion: telling a simple story in a way that will enthrall and generate millions. Both Courtney and her husband Ross are graduates of the Central Tech Emerging Human Program and live in Ypsilanti’s Depot town. Like the hero of her book, Charles, Courtney enjoys conducting to old phonograph records, pushing people on the subway, walking, eating, drinking, sleeping and reading comic books, but only good ones.

To book an interview or request review copies, complementary coasters or to purchase a painted tie, please contact Ross Gafoor at Mark Maynard.com.

Thank you very much ever so for your time and consideration!

Sincerely,

James R. Scrimgeor editor/publisher/typesetter/publicist 

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