Wax Bean Festival Memo (Important)

Greetings!

You may well wonder at what point it is appropriate to begin thinking about the Wax Bean Festival that will occur this October at the Wax Beans Grounds. The answer is simple for the time is now. Who can say at what point that the wax beans will begin to mature? Certainly no human agency can come up with that information! Only one person can help us there and he is currently residing in Modesto, California. Of course I refer to our founder, Mr. Jesse Ad Davis.

In the absence of Mr. Jesse Ad Davis, we can only turn to more fallible human agents such as Miss Sally Fotheringham, who currently serves as our main director for scheduling those pesky sprouts. Miss Sally at this present time believes that the leaves will begin their full maturity at approximately 3:10 p.m. on October 15. There are many who do not agree with this assessment, but they are presently being incarcerated in the wax bean facility in the north of town. It must be reiterated that there is no room in the wax world for false controversy.

Cutting-edge technology will enable us to bring wax beans into the 21st century. Certain advancements have been made in this direction by our own Dr. Fernswoggle McKnight. But as to what those advancements are I cannot reveal until the appropriate time, or else I will end up incarcerated in the wax bean facility myself!

But what can you, the lowly average wax bean peon, do to advance our noble cause? It is quite simple, money is always needed, as well as human tissue and body parts. Even your pet or spouse can be utilized to further the growth of baby wax beans. In addition to these important contributions, Miss Sally Fotheringham could certainly use a new bra, girdle, or support garment, preferably in black, red, or of a lacy, transparent nature. Dr. Fernswoggle McKnight also informs me is looking for an alternator for a late model American motors Gremlin.

I hope this brief missive answers some of your myriad questions concerning the Wax Bean Festival. Remember that many are called but few are chosen, and those of us that have assumed the vast responsibility of directing the Wax Bean Festival must be amply compensated in ways that may appear excessive to the uninitiated and ignorant such as yourself. But that will be covered in a future memo that will be delivered in approximately 3 to five days.

Remember, only you can produce wax beans!

Your Grand Leader,

Elmira Midnight Smith Jones

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The Juggler and Sanin: Two Book Reviews

Here’s a couple of book reviews I did for a pair of neglected modernist novels:

 

The Juggler (Paperback) by Melanie Rachilde, translated by Melanie C. Hawthorne
Rutgers University Press $12.95

"The Juggler" is an unjustly neglected work. Gracefully poised between decadence and dada, it combines the sensuousness, love of the artificial and sexual ambiguity of Huysman with the word play, subversion and dramatic irony of (Rachilde’s friend) Alfred Jarry. The story of the relationship between the "juggler" of the title (in fact a well to do widow), Eliante Donalger, and her younger, somewhat callow suitor, the medical student Leon Reille, the novel alternates between their dramatic exchanges and their equally dramatic letters. The gender reversal and strong female character are reminiscent of Rachilde’s more famous work, the scandalous "Monsieur Venus," but "The Juggler" is more nuanced, sure footed and mature, while being just as scandalous. It’s a sexy book, even though there’s nothing explicit in it, mostly through the author’s attention to the minutest of sensations and her appreciation of the elastic wonders of the female body. Eliante’s defiantly outsider pose and her suggestion of the artificiality of gender itself make reading "The Juggler" a strangely contemporary and immediate experience, and I must admit I savored every word.

 

Sanin

: A Novel (Paperback)
by Mikhail Artsybashev, translated by Michael R. Katz

Cornell University Press $19.95

I found "Sanin," as you probably did, sort of by accident, but have enjoyed it as much as anything I’ve read for a while. Although the back cover uses the word "pornography" umpteen times, Sanin isn’t explicit in the slightest, although it does address sexuality in a refreshingly straightforward way. It’s wonderful at capturing the way that young bodies call to each other under the fashionable facades, and how the most elevated of thoughts can be hijacked by lust. Being Russian, it’s also a novel of ideas, in this case the titular character’s free spirited nihilism, the sort of anarchy of ideas that were released from the pandora’s box of oppression, placing it in the tradition of Lermontov’s Hero of our Time, or Dostoevsky’s The Devils. It’s also more ambigious than it might seem, allowing the reader to see exactly how destructive those ideas can become and letting us make our own judgement on the nominal "hero." (I think he’s kind of a jerk myself, though there are plenty of teens and twenty year olds who would idolize him.) This is the kind of book that completely shames what passes for literature today. It’s vigorous, full of ideas, well written, titillating without being sensationalistic, extremely ambitious and not overwhelmed with having "sympathetic" characters or being commercial or politically correct. Love him or hate him Sanin will blow your mind and there aren’t many books of today that can say that!

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Summer by Georg Trakl

Since I don’t speak German I can’t claim to have translated this. However I have taken about five different translations, selected the best parts and UBUIZED them for your reading pleasure. So sit back and enjoy this timely seasonal classic…. 

Summer

by Georg Trakl

 

In the evening

The sound of the birds

Stops in the woods

The tall grass bends lower

The red poppy

 

Black thunderclouds

Bloom

Above the hills

The ancient song of the cicada

Dies in the fields

 

The leaves of the trees

Are still

 

On the spiral stair

Your dress rustles

 

A silent candle shines

In the dark room

A silver hand

Extinguishes it

 

No wind, no stars

Night

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Within a Rapidly Degrading Tan Citation: QUOTE BAG

Within a Rapidly Degrading Tan Citation

                                 or

Organ Sensation as a Tool of Natural Research: Quote Bag

The Tattling Harlot: A Dialogue Between Bess O’Bedlam and her Brother Tom

We are the apes who dreamed and woke still dreaming.

– Kathryn Morton

Looked upon by society as a bankrupt, I was born again in another world where no one could follow me. Things that would previously have lacked significance now attracted my attention. The dreams I had at night assumed the guise of prophecies. I thought of myself as one of the dead, passing my life in another sphere.

– August Strindberg

Ah, sir I was mad and violent. I thought to fight my way with my literature and my wit; so I disregarded all power and all authority.

– Samuel Johnson

I was going to grow up to walk in sleet in fields; didn’t know it then.

– Jack Kerouac

dada was there before dada was there.

– Hans Arp

I don’t know how radical you are, or how radical I am. I am certainly not radical enough. One can never be radical enough; that is, one must always be as radical as reality itself.

– V. I. Lenin

Reality can only partially be attacked by logic.

– Fredrich Durrenmatt

Instead, the observer who stands before a disciplined and well-proportioned Mondrian or an apparently uncontrolled Kandinsky feels that he is himself being judged by some enigmatic intelligence, some representative of a world of values to which he was a stranger. In graphic art, perceptions too radical for overt expression are embodied in non-representational elements; in modern literature they are expressed through deviations from the conventional idiom.

– Jacob Korg

The human tongue is like a cracked cauldron on which we beat out tunes to set a bear dancing when we would make the stars weep with our melodies.

– Gustave Flaubert

Those who would still be called artists, and who in advanced civilizations have not lost contact with natural sources and are the sole performers and prophets os a speech in which, periodically, the world must come to quench its thirst.

– Artaud

To understand and judge a society, one has to penetrate its basic structure to the human bond upon which it is built; this undoubtedly depends on legal relations, but also upon forms of labor, ways of loving, living and dying.

– Maurice Merleau-Ponty

I’m interested in women’s arguments with men, what else is there? The rest doesn’t amount to a row of monkeys.

– Jane Bowles

The impulse of her poetry is not confessional but visionary.

– M. D. Uroff

The emblem of Expressionism is existence; the existence of man, and at the same time the existence of the image.

– Giuseppe Gott

The essential character of life is consciousness of vision.

– Oskar Kokoschka

When imagination begins to skid out of control, so do events.

– General Alexander M. Haig, Jr.

To put it succinctly: instead of identifying with the characters, the audience should be educated to be astonished at the circumstances under which they can function.

– Walter Benjamin

The poet’s function used to be to write good poetry, now it’s to make bad jokes.

– James Agnew

It is integrity which separates art from non-art.

– Annie Dillard

Beautiful! Beautiful! Magnificent desolation!

– Buzz Aldrin

When thy mind leaves its dark forest of delusion, thou shalt go beyond the scriptures of times past and those still to come.

– Bhagavad Gita

From your old pal

          UBU

         voted

outstanding individual

     in the field of

Written Communication

      1983-1984

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The Alexi Papers

The Alexi Papers

 

The sun stretched lazily on the strand, like some imbecilic half-child of the Emperor. The Thief lay in his room, ruing the day he first saw the strange stranger, as the Professor exited, wiping the spittle from his vacuous cheek. Noone could be heard in the company except LeRoy, the page boy fool, bon vivant of the jet set. His laughter rang as you would expect it to, but did the dog hear it? The kind of boy he was was in evidence here and in other places. Then in a sudden note of frenzy there appeared my friend Rudolf who will eat the flesh of a monkey while we sing

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Fragments of Grace

Fragments of Grace

 

 

The hyperbolic queen of Main Street

The driver of the great engine

Of the great wheel

This rare and vertiginous glory

Overwhelmed by affection

And slow ambulation

 

She has a weird second-generation Vassar walk –

Clack-Clack with a quick scuff in the middle

The taxi drivers all stare at her

Her peculiar power stalling one out

In the middle of the street

 

But I knew she’d zip by in the light rain

(honestly) her nipples standing up under

That smooth, sleek red dress

She’s there, walking quickly

But taking a long time to pass

 

Her wide belt emphasizing her small waist

Strong back and good round ass you like it

Long, long tan legs, branchlike, treelike

And in fact limbs of course it’s raining harder

Raining on this fragment of Grace

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Mars as a Planet

Mars As a Planet

 

Mars as a planet never thinks of love

And therefore never has sperm on its carpet

And a woman already gone

 

Due to widespread nighttime exposure

Mars is often on television

And never sleeps alone

 

A world without rain

But possessing vast hidden oceans

Mars waits suspended for

The next great change in human attitude

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The Insect at the Home of a Mutual friend

The Insect at the Home of a Mutual Friend : QUOTEBAG

 

Right now we’d like to dedicate this to everybody here with hearts, any kind of hearts, and ears – it goes something like this here…

– Jimi Hendrix

 

At least I am speaking to someone who understands me, and not to one of the cabbages in whose midst I have been vegetating since morning.

– Laclos

 

I don’t think I’d ever plan anything out carefully, and certainly not that. If I went to the devil it would be because I wanted to, or because it’s a good drug, or because I don’t give a damn for my idiotic body of a woman anyway.

He’s only trying to be modern and brutal and all that, poor dear. Don’t mind him.

– Jean Rhys

 

Observe her carefully when she is sitting alone, thinking; why she looks like one foredestined to everything accursed and damnable in the world.

– Dostoevsky

 

This warped, decadent youth was once an angelic child.

– August Strindberg

 

"What?" said Mrs. Reed under her breath: her usually cold composed grey eye became troubled with a look of fear: she took her hand from my arm and looked at me as if she really did not know if I were child or fiend.

– Charlotte Bronte

 

I myself have a horror of the commonplace, and I dream only of strange adventures, strong passions, delirious ecstasies, bizarre and difficult situations, and I have to find pure and simple happiness that way, and, try as I may, I haven’t been able to find another.

– Theophile Gautier

 

Delirium passes the time, but it’s ticklish when anyone’s around.

– Celine

 

"But if Mr. Holgrave is a lawless person!" remonstrated Phoebe, a part of whose essence it was to keep within the limits of law.

"Oh!" said Hepzibah, carelessly – for, formal as she was, still in her life experience, she had gnashed her teeth against human law, "I suppose he has a law of his own!"

– Nathaniel Hawthorne

 

He was in a fair way to do himself lasting harm, floundering between worlds passed and worlds coming, which had a habit of crushing men who stayed too long at the point of contact.

– Henry Adams

 

He startles those who do not like to be startled, and does not compose those who wish to be composed.

– Walter Bageliot

 

Such is the unhappy age in which we live that not even the strangest aberrations are a cure for boredom.

– Stendhal

 

Until this time his career could be summed up as that of a moderately independent artist with a conservative background, who had offended a few dogmatic academicians, but from 1885 on he offended nearly everyone, even some of his closest associates.

– John David Farmer

 

He was regarded as a true visionary artist, or one who portrays through art his personal visions of the "divine light" and out of body experiences of "union with the Mother Goddess" i.e. sexual intercourse with demons.

– Barbara Aho

 

The fact is that modern artists are gnostics and practice things that the priests think are long forgotten; perhaps even commit sins that are no longer thought possible.

What Nietzsche calls "decadence" and Marx calls the "ideological superstructure" is here simply called the state university.

– Hugo Ball

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APT

Our too-young and too-new America, lusty because it is lonely, aggressive because it is afraid, insists upon seeing the world in terms of good and bad, the holy and the low, the white and the black; our America is frightened by fact, by history, by process, by necessity. It hugs the easy way of damning those whom it cannot understand, of excluding those who look different; and it salves its conscience with a self-draped cloak of righteousness.

– Richard Wright

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A Stolen Season by Steve Hamilton

Don’t you just hate people who review books before they’re available? TOUGH. I just wrote this so I’ll post it now — remember to run down to an independent bookseller September 5th and pick up a copy!!
 

A Stolen Season, Steve Hamilton, St. Martin’s Minotaur, $22.95

 

A Stolen Season begins with a typical Upper Peninsula moment – a bunch of friends are waiting on a dock for Fourth of July fireworks when it begins snowing. Things get serious soon after, however, when a boat wrecks nearby, bringing some very nasty characters into Alex McKnight’s life. Not helping his mood is the fact that now that he’s finally surrendered his well guarded heart to Ontario Police officer Natalie Reynaud, she’s in another country, and on an undercover mission that precludes any but the most fleeting contact with him.

After one of those fleeting contacts things get much worse for Alex. Steve’s always admired other writers who are a little darker than himself, but in A Stolen Season, he takes the reader on a journey that’s as noir as they come. I want to use action movie cliches for this book like "This time it’s personal!" or "Sometimes a man has to cross the line!" – when you Taser your best friend, you know things are getting heavy – but the book itself is anything but a cliche. It’s one of the strongest entries in a brilliant series by one of mystery fiction’s best writers, vivid, viscerally moving, fast paced and just plain excellent. Hamilton’s an author who has more than fulfilled the promise of his Edgar for Best First Novel, and it’s past time he got serious consideration for Best Novel period. Let me be the first to nominate A Stolen Season.

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