{"id":69344,"date":"2020-09-09T01:09:51","date_gmt":"2020-09-09T05:09:51","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.thebookbeat.com\/backroom\/?p=69344"},"modified":"2020-10-09T00:08:04","modified_gmt":"2020-10-09T04:08:04","slug":"i-arrogantly-recommend-by-tom-bowden-7","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.thebookbeat.com\/backroom\/2020\/09\/09\/i-arrogantly-recommend-by-tom-bowden-7\/","title":{"rendered":"I arrogantly recommend… by Tom Bowden"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"Diary of a Foreigner in Paris<\/a><\/em>
\nby Curzio Malaparte (Stephen Twilley, translator)
\nNYRB Classics<\/p>\n

Italy is a country of slaves. A country of men continuously exposed, day and night, to the worst violence of the police, the judiciary, and informers. . . What does it matter if the Italian is, individually, a free man? He can think inwardly what he wants: in reality he is a slave, both of the state and of other Italians. If he doesn\u2019t have powerful friends in high places, he is at the mercy of the police, of the spite and jealousy of his neighbors, of the weakness and cowardice of the state judiciary, of the subjection of the last mentioned to the executive and to the parties. I was arrested eleven times in twenty years; there is nowhere in Italy I can sleep easy.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Curzio Malaparte left his native Italy at 16 to fight alongside the French against the Germans during World War I. He joined in 1914 and stayed in France until 1933, when he returned to Italy and, between stints in jail for his writings, served in the Italian Resistance against Mussolini before and during World War II. In 1947, Malaparte returned to Paris, eager to rekindle his lost acquaintances and fond memories. The memories are easily evoked; the friendships not so much, eyed suspiciously as he is because his return to Italy coincided with Italy and Germany forming an alliance, followed by a declaration of war against France.<\/p>\n

The diary entries are expansive and detailed, documenting his contemporary Parisian days and nights as well as his memories of before \u201833, memories riven by distinct generational differences he detects between the veterans of each war. These are his memories of \u201csimple people,\u201d more direct and less pretentious than their contemporary bourgeois counterparts. In his diaries, conversations of the night before are recalled, and the words, gestures, dress, d\u00e9cor, and ambience are recorded with such precision as to arouse suspicions of enhanced rather than exact veracity. As a raconteur, the pictures and ideas Malaparte evoke make him an engaged witness.<\/p>\n

His habit of seamlessly segueing from conversation, to observation about the conversation, to generalized observations regarding the topic of conversation reminds me of Knausgaard during the many meditative explorations that make up My Struggle<\/em>. Malaparte\u2019s eye is as prone to harsh judgment as it is to effusive praise, his likes and dislikes asserted with equal vigor.<\/p>\n

But all diary entries to not hail from Olympian heights. Malaparte is his own comic relief, as well, indulging readers to revelations of his treasured habit of barking to the neighborhood dogs. At night. For hours on end. In France, this sort of thing is generally tolerated, but not so in Switzerland, where he (briefly) vacations. In the following passage, I can only hear the policeman\u2019s voice as Peter Seller\u2019s Inspector Clouseau:<\/p>\n

Yesterday evening, having just arrived in the little inn Pas de l\u2019Ours, which is hidden away in the pine forest overlooking Crans, I called out to the dogs in the vicinity. I went out on the terrace and began to bark. And the dogs immediately responded, from near and far, through the night dimly illuminated by a slim crescent moon. I always do the same thing when I arrive in a new place. I become acquainted with the dogs in the vicinity. I don\u2019t do any harm. But this morning I received a visit from the Crans police, who asked me to stop barking at night.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou are not a dog, monsieur.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI like barking with the dogs, at night. I\u2019m not doing any harm.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSuch things are not done in Switzerland, monsieur. The regulations prohibit it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThank you. I won\u2019t do it anymore. But I won\u2019t stay in Switzerland, I\u2019ll return to France. There you can bark at night all you want.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m sorry, monsieur. Foreigners very much enjoy themselves in Switzerland. It\u2019s just that they don\u2019t bark at night. I believe you are the first.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI shall return to France, where foreigners can bark as much as they like.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI do not doubt it, monsieur. France is a country of loose morals.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTo bark at night is not to have loose morals.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt begins with barking, monsieur, and finishes with biting. The Swiss don\u2019t like being bitten\u201d<\/p>\n

I won\u2019t stay in Switzerland. I\u2019ll leave tomorrow. I don\u2019t like countries where you can\u2019t even bark at night. I like free countries.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

Later, he explains that he tried talking in dog language to cats, but \u201cthe cats didn\u2019t want me to, and insulted me.\u201d<\/p>\n

Malaparte of course records far more than his exchanges with the police regarding his barking, and his insights are vivid, well-described, and related with an enthusiasm for intelligent conversation. It doesn\u2019t take agreeing with his every pronouncement to enjoy the camaraderie and earnestness found here.<\/p>\n

\n

\"\"The Book of Everything<\/a><\/em>
\nby Mary Ellen Mark
\nSteidl Verlag<\/a><\/p>\n

\u201cSomething else you can do at night if you can\u2019t sleep, if you\u2019re having a troublesome mind: just look out your window way up at the sky. There\u2019s stars out there by the million, and each one of those stars like people to look at them too and admire them, and they like to be loved. Believe it or not, you can ask them to come down into your room, and they will, they\u2019ll fly right down. And you just put your arms around it and say, \u2018Hi pretty star, thanks for being up there, and thanks for being part of the beauty in this world.\u2019 A star will sail right up to the top of the heavens and rejoice and spread the word to the rest of the stars.\u201d \u2014 Mona, an inmate in a mental asylum, photographed by MEM<\/p>\n

A comprehensive, 50-year career-overview of the photographer Mary Ellen Mark, who died in 2015 at the age of 75 from cancer. Over 600 images are reproduced here\u2014the iconic photographs that built her reputation, as well as previously unpublished shots. One quality unites the photographs across the decades: Mark\u2019s respect for her subjects.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Mary Ellen Mark: \u201cRat\u201d and Mike with a gun. Seattle, 1983<\/p><\/div>\n

Because of her empathy, Mark was able to cultivate a level of trust with her subjects that encouraged them to open themselves, to bare some truth about themselves\u2014often in relationship to another person, but sometimes just in relationship to themselves.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Mary Ellen Mark: Amanda and her cousin Amy. Valdese, North Carolina, 1990<\/p><\/div>\n

Often the lives depicted are harshly circumscribed\u2014men, women, and children around the world in straitened circumstances, searching for joy, companionship, and dignity\u2014or creating it on their own terms. Mother Teresa\u2019s home for \u201chopeless cases,\u201d for instance.<\/p>\n

Or the dysfunctional and homeless families whose photographed lives and attitudes look like a collaboration between Jock Sturges and Nan Goldin.<\/p>\n

Or street children\u2014like Tiny (whom Mark photographed for over 30 years)\u2014who started turning tricks and doing drugs by age 13 (when Mark met her) because life on the street seemed safer than at home. Mark photographed Tiny over the course of 30 years.<\/p>\n

Mark\u2019s camera does occasionally witness grace, however, such as her shot of Fellini directing Satyricon<\/em> Here, Fellini speaks through a bullhorn on the set. Body and hat are in shadow, arched and suggesting movement: the knees slightly bent, pointed in the same directions, right arm tossed back to thrust the chest forward, the left arm held to the chest, bullhorn in left hand, perpendicular to his mouth. When we focus on the body in shadow, we see Fellini as one half of a pair of dancers on the edge of a bulb-lit city square in the middle of the night.<\/p>\n

Perhaps he\u2019s calling down a star.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Mary Ellen Mark: Federico Fellini with a bullhorn during the shooting of Fellini Satyricon. Rome, 1969<\/p><\/div>\n

\n

\"\"The Hole<\/em><\/a>
\nby Hiroko Oyamada
\nNew Directions<\/p>\n

Imagine an extroverted version of Kobe Abe\u2019s The<\/em> Woman in the Dunes<\/em> or a less menacing version of Kafka\u2019s The Trial<\/em>: The world we\u2019re entering is simultaneously familiar and unsettling, its rules esoteric. In Hiroko Oyamada\u2019s The Hole<\/em>, the narrator\u2014a 30ish woman named Asa\u2014and her husband move to a different part of their prefecture after he receives a promotion and a transfer to a different city. Asa\u2019s job is not permanent (although she\u2019s been there for several years) and the pay is poor, so she is willing to move, even though the move will place her and her husband immediately next door to her in-laws, who otherwise rent out the house.<\/p>\n

Japanese customs of politeness immediately place Asa in a position of examining neighbors\u2019 statements for nuances of disapproval of her behavior and trying to establish hierarchies of relationships and obligations among them and herself. One day, while walking to a nearby 7\/Eleven to run a favor for her mother-in-law, Asa falls into a hole about five feet deep. After extricating herself from the hole with the help of a neighbor, Asa increasingly notices strange features of her rural landscape, including the mysterious creature whose hole she fell into and a brother-in-law she never knew she had.<\/p>\n

Oyamada\u2019s novel conjures the spirit forces of Japanese folklore and the mysteries of traditional customs. The weirdness doesn\u2019t require the protagonist to die, as it does in Kafka\u2019s The Trial<\/em>, just that Asa comply with the unspoken rules or end up like her brother-in-law.<\/p>\n

\n

\"\"Sound of Snow Falling<\/a><\/em>
\nby Maggie Umber
\n2d Cloud<\/p>\n

A Thoreauvian essay in paintings about a family of Great Horned Owls and their environment. This is not a story but a series of depictions of owls in their natural habitat during their most active times\u2014early morning and early evening. As a result, the pictures are in hues of dusk, shadow, and moonlight. Umber has illustrated the lives of owls before in her book 270?<\/em> (which refers to the number of degrees in a circle an owl can turn its head). The book comes with a seal of approval from a person who professionally studies owls and who touts this book\u2019s educational value. I loved it for its aesthetic qualities, the hushed, snowy mood it evokes so well.<\/p>\n

\n

\"\"Ellie\u2019s Voice; or Tr\u00f6\u00f6\u00f6mmmpffff<\/em>
\nby Piret Raud (Adam Cullen, translator)
\nRestless Books \/ Yonder<\/p>\n

Ellie is a little bird without a voice. Everything around her\u2014even the trees\u2014make a sound. But not Ellie. Then one day, while walking along the shore, she discovers a curious object, which turns out to be a horn, and which allows Ellie to make a sound. The sound is more curious than pleasant, but it gets her attention and allows her to feel as if she fits in.<\/p>\n

No ray of sunshine is without its cloud, and it turns out that the horn Ellie found belongs to a boy who lives on an island far away, a boy now very sad at his loss. Although Ellie is upset to find that the horn is not hers, she knows she must return it to its true owner. This is a story of joy in self-acceptance and appreciation of others.<\/p>\n

\"\"

Illustration from Ellie\u2019s Voice; or Tr\u00f6\u00f6\u00f6mmmpffff by Piret Raud<\/p><\/div>\n

\n

\"\"Mindviscosity<\/a><\/em>
\nby Matt Furie
\nFantagraphics<\/p>\n

Matt Furie returns. Four years after the book Boys Club<\/em> (and a near career-killing appropriation of its character Pepe by various white nationalists), Mindviscosity<\/em> is a portfolio his stand-alone pictures (plus some panels that seem to be a draft toward an idea that never congealed into a story). His work shows him to be as comfortable with the adult and grotesque as he is with the childlike. (The Night Riders<\/em>, his book for 4-8 year-olds, came out eight years ago. While Mindviscosity<\/em> has many images that children would enjoy, this is not<\/em> a children\u2019s book.)<\/p>\n

The cartoon style his best-known works are based on features monstrous and ludicrous faces and figures, rounded shapes, large eyes, and primary and secondary colors. Oh, and a juvenile sense of humor. (No stories here, alas. But he and Johnny Ryan can go head-to-head (as it were) any day, vying for King of Vulgaria\u2014which, in my book, is a feather in their respective tiaras.) And that facet is well-represented. Dozens of different faces and shapes populate the pages\u2014Furie clearly enjoys performing his art without repeating himself. Despite the weird faces and bizarre shapes, there are some pretty mellow monsters here, all looking at home with their fellow freaks.<\/p>\n

But there are some surprises here. For one, his nimble draftsmanship of birds. Even more impressive are his pictures of entwined and looped snakes\u2014different species and colors coiling into abstract color patterns. As several pages of enlargements earlier in the book show levels of detail not readily apparent at their usual reproduction size. Clearly, Fantagraphics, Furie\u2019s publisher, want to make the case for the craftsmanship behind the humor.<\/p>\n

Mindviscosity<\/em> is a treat for Furie fans. Newbies should begin with Boys Club<\/em> or, if you don\u2019t appreciate bong and dick jokes, try The Night Riders<\/em>, instead.<\/p>\n