Friday, September 17, 2010

Growing Pains

New Reads is moving and incorporating itself into my official webpage, Defiled Curator.

Some content (Great Lines, a handful of reviews, any interviews that have not been posted elsewhere) will be moved to the new site, and all content will remain here as well.

Please join me as the site grows and changes. It's a bit cluttered at the moment, but it's looking better with each new update and bit of editing finesse.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Great Lines in Literature - The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath


At my advanced age (/sarcasm), it's unusual for me to find a work that so completely returns me to my teenaged years. I've read books here and there that make me wistful for one aspect of my coming of age or another, but I rarely, if ever, find anything that captures that distilled sensation of being young, female and entirely unsure of oneself, reaching out to the rest of humanity in an attempt to analyze and define the self.

Sylvia Plath's unabridged journals (unabridged insofar as all remaining journals of her adulthood are included - two will never be published, as one was lost over time and Ted Hughes intentionally destroyed the "maroon-backed ledger" that contained the entries closest to Plath's suicide), despite chronicling her life from 1950 to 1962, feel in places that they could be detailing my own life in the mid-1990s. It's been years, but I can still remember what it felt like to be a virgin despite not wanting to be, feeling awkward around my male counterparts, and how I railed in private against common conventions and what I assumed was expected of me as a young woman. Reading someone else's stylistic interpretations of my deepest, most hidden thoughts feels exceptionally eerie and makes me quite angry I destroyed my own journals from my late teens. I would have liked to have made a side-by-side comparison, just to see how they would echo against each other.

From 1950, the summer before Plath entered Smith College:

- Yes, I was infatuated with you; I am still. No one has ever heightened such a keen capacity of physical sensation in me. I cut you out because I couldn't stand being a passing fancy. Before I give my body, I must give my thoughts, my mind, my dreams. And you weren't having any of those. -

- There is so much hurt in this game of searching for a mate, of testing, trying. And you realize suddenly that you forgot it was a game, and turn away in tears. -

- If I didn't think, I'd be much happier; if I didn't have any sex organs I wouldn't waver on the brink of nervous emotion and tears all the time. -

- How complex and intricate are the workings of the nervous system. The electric shrill of the phone sends a tingle of expectancy along the uterine walls; the sound of his voice, rough, brash and intimate across the wire tightens the intestinal tract. If they substituted the word "Lust" for "Love" in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth. -

Reading Plath's journals, at least the earlier ones, remind me so much of myself that I feel myself reaching out almost subconsciously to say "Stop worrying, you'll be okay," before realizing that they are not my own words, and that Plath was never okay.

Sunday, August 29, 2010

A Man for the Asking by Catherine Breillat


One of my favorite things to do when I'm in the city is to plunder the shelves of our two local Half Price Books outlets. When I first began patronizing the stores, I took little notice of the racks near the registers that contained bagged, pocket-sized editions of books published decades ago. At the time I didn't feel I had any need for them, and breezed past without perusing their offerings to the more desired literature and lit criticism aisles. Recently, however, I've gone through each wire rack and found more gems than I can possibly carry home with me, all for two to five dollars apiece, and I feel a bit embarrassed that it took me so long to discover these out-in-the-open treasures.

I'm not sure where they come from - estate sales, perhaps, or maybe attic evictions. The books themselves are in general very well preserved, some of them over forty years old without a single crease in their spines. The titles range from much-lauded cult fiction (I've seen several editions of Vonnegut for offer, as well as Rand) to raunchy and un-PC Men's Adventure titles of an era long, long gone (one Perry Mason novel, The Case of the Black-Eyed Blonde, in particular had me chuckling), and even to smut. Yes, occasionally an erotically-charged, naked-woman-on-the-cover title sneaks its way in, and I'm always tempted to pick it up and run chortling to the registers with it so I can sit in my car like the dirty little dork I am and pretend I'm thirteen all over again while skimming the pages for the good stuff.

(An aside, to the librarians at my hometown Public Library - As an adult bibliophile, I am very and truly sorry for how my friends and I defaced all of your romance novels back in my junior high years. Please understand that despite our immaturity we meant well by underlining the sex scenes for any subsequent borrowers. I now do all of this utilizing notecards. Many apologies and a sincere thank you for stocking all that free sexiness for me back in the day.)

One of these porn-but-not-quite-porn novels, Catherine Breillat's A Man for the Asking/L'Homme Facile, called out to me with its cover. It wasn't so much the nude woman reclining with a silk sheet between her thighs and her arm masterfully obscuring her nipples that did it as it was the announcement above the picture, "BANNED IN EUROPE! The shocking novel by a 16-year-old French girl," that caught my eye and refused to let me go.

A teenager wrote this? Okay, let me scrounge around my pockets and fish out two bucks.

At a hundred and twenty-six pages, A Man for the Asking is a very quick read; however, its length is somewhat misleading as the text itself is dense, twisting and extremely challenging to follow. Rather than provide the reader with a straightforward, albeit dirty, narrative, Breillat shoves a speeding stream-of-consciousness down the reader's throat and expects them to keep up as the pace works itself into a fever pitch at roughly the halfway mark, the end delivering them teetering over the edge of what-the-hell-did-I-just-read territory.

D.P. (go ahead and giggle - I did) is a promiscuous young man whose every thought, eventually, turns to sex. Amongst his countless conquests, he has an on-again-off-again mistress, the equally promiscuous Playboy model Françoise, though he lusts after L., a young woman of seventeen or eighteen that he spots on the street one evening. He immediately begins to fantasize about sleeping with her, but she disappears and he returns home to prepare for his nightly bacchanalia, which usually consists of drinking in a nightclub that reminds him of a "red vagina" and taking a scantily-clad woman back to his home in the early morning.

Eventually, however, after meeting Françoise at the club and indeed bringing her home (and engaging in an encounter that involves the use of Vaseline), he receives a phone call at five in the morning from L., who has discovered a note card left on her car that D.P had written his number on. She wants to meet for breakfast. Françoise is angered, but he manages to convince her to leave, allowing him to embark on his newest erotic pursuit.

This is where things become quite strange.

Throughout the narrative, it is quite clear that most of the action is internal. The prose is comprised mostly of D.P.'s thoughts, interspersed with snippets of dialogue or real movement, though the bulk of it is only in his head - memories, fantasies, idle thoughts, word plays, etc. It is difficult to discern fact from fiction, what he perceives and what is actually taking place. In places, it feels as if reality and the events in D.P.'s head have melted and oozed together into some incredibly vivid sexual collage.

Breillat (or her translator - I wish I could read French to see if this tactic was employed in the original manuscript) tosses fake vocabulary into the narrative, tucked neatly inside the long, winding sentences full of parenthesis and breaks in focus. These words, all vividly sexual in nature, are highly reminiscent of the "Twat did you say? I cunt hear you, I have an ear infuction and forgot to take my peniscillin" game every school kid in America plays at one point or another. For example:

And the purples and the blues
but especially the pink of an indecent lubricious sexcitement down to the tips of the fingers designed to bring the blood bursting out of his sides or even better the fragile tautened skin of his sex.
[in the context of watching World Cup games on television] it is to make a profession of this:
running after a round ball, a balloon about to burst, the painful abortions of pussy-willyous who came up against a grown man and got caught on the prickle that holds the roll of hundred-franc notes at the end of the evening.

-when the world turns upside down and his mistress has only one hand to service him with (not that she is one-armed; on the contrary: she is manyhanded in the interweaving of her wellmade handmade Puy lace for a handjob on the thigh. Her wellmade vaginal well, a natural well, a geyser from her throat spewing back the lukewarm sperm while a reciprocal discharge is taking place at her crotch that throbs to the selfsame stroke of the hand;
he is losing his head: a hand with the properties of a mouth: or is it all his ivagination).
Chinese puzzle: how many times does the cast bread multiply and how many times can the Penix rise again from its ashes after taking flight like an arrow, poised then broken.

It is confusing and incredibly entertaining to read through these passages, chugging along as efficiently as can be expected given the nature of the text, only to stumble across a dirty made-up word. There is one every few pages, and as the coherence of the plot drops away and the narrative becomes ever denser the new words that crop up become more and more vivid.

D.P. meets L., they eat onion soup (at five in the morning?) and, despite the fact that she asserts that she does not want to sleep with anyone who will not love her unto death, L. accompanies him home. She then proceeds to accept his offer of a bath, puts on his robe, allows him to strip naked and they drift off into an odd sleeping-but-not-sleeping state (she especially; he appears more awake, as the story belongs to him and he continues lusting over her to the point of pain).

I normally do not spoil reviews but, seeing as how this book is no longer in print and has been out in America since 1969, I'm making an exception. Brace yourself:

D.P. is so in love with L. that he kills himself. He commits seppuku with his own penis.

But the reason for all this,
the sole superb gesture is accomplished by his penis as it plows slowly through his belly in the traditional rite of the Samurais. It goes in first from the top, just under the breastbone, it has to make several tries before the flesh makes an opening, but he puts up with it without understanding why by tearing off his lips so as not to scream and struggle,
nor to swoon away
which would make his tool soft and useless,
when the flesh is opened, it goes slowly down right to its root then comes back up to make a horizontal gash toward the left where the heart is.
Then he drags himself over to L. and gets down on his knees
and his hands that had gone down to his belly shove his guts back and make him a soft unctuous mattress and cauterize his wounds
that is the solemn difficult moment when his hands take out his heart
during the infinite shortness he has left to die in he places it slowly and with devotion between her legs the last throbbings in her organ make sumptuous delicate love to it that becomes violent when the final jerks become synchronized with his own:
then everything grows calm again and his heart takes its place for ever in her vagina which itself has found its final place after having experienced the most marvelous of orgasms.

I... I don't even know what the fuck anymore. The neophyte critic in me sees something remarkable here, something profound beyond the thick veil of textual trickery and mind-bending narrative. The eternal thirteen-year-old in me, pen hand exhausted from all of the underlining, is giggling her ass off. At this time, I'm not sure which viewpoint is dominant.

There is definitely something quite strong in this text, be it insight or stupidity. The fact that I am unable to clearly determine its nature leads me to believe it must be insight, as art, for me at least, with my short attention span and desire to see and know everything simultaneously, is a slippery and tricky thing to keep hold on for long. Regardless, this is perhaps the best way I've ever spent two dollars out of my pocket and two hours of my life.

Friday, August 27, 2010

Great Lines in Literature - Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell


I love pulling quotes from books I read. I've got notecards filled with scribbled musings and page numbers tracking lines that captivate me, whole paragraphs in books highlighted in Noodler's Atlantic Salmon ink, asides tapped by hand straight into the text of my Kindle (for iPad - my god, for a compulsive note-taker the application is genius).

Occasionally, I find a quote that is so thought-provoking, so introspective or so hilarious that I feel the need to share. Usually I read the passage to whomever is sitting or standing beside me at the time, or belt it out during a Skype chat, but seeing as how I have this handy-dandy blog at my disposal I may as well stick it here for posterity and distribution.

Right now I'm reading Beat the Reaper by Josh Bazell, an offbeat mafioso novel that's a curious blend of goomba-speak, medical terminology and fake academia. Bazell's clever usage of footnotes for anything from historical references to hospital jargon clarification to pop-culture tidbits has been enough to quicken my nerdy pulse and keep me turning pages, but one bit of New York historical drama had me cracking up and howling with laughter.

In a passage detailing the rise of the mafia in New York and the activities that sustained them:

Eventually, though, Rudy Giuliani decided enough was enough and brought in Waste Management, a multinational corporation so scary it made the mafia look like little girls in those competitions JonBenet Ramsey used to enter. Waste Management's own crimes were severe enough to ultimately force changes in the SEC, among other things, but its appearance on the New York garbage scene inspired another round of funeral announcements for the mafia.

Oh, my god. That is hilarious.

Anyone care to guess where I spent the worst five years of my life and what company issued my paychecks up until my layoff?

Sunday, July 25, 2010

A Quick Update

It seems like this little blog has stagnated a bit. While I’ve kept myself quite busy, I’ve somehow failed to keep New Reads updated on my goings-on. Here, in brief review, are the book-related details of my life since February’s update.

For Horror News:

Nevermore by Harold Schechter, a phenomenal first-person “biography” penned by Edgar Allan Poe.
The Rage Plague by Anthony Giangregorio (new review).
Morning is Dead by Andersen Prunty, which was one of the stranger reads I’ve had in a while.

I even took a stab at film reviews with Daybreakers, which I enjoyed enough to snag a Type B+ blood (water, unfortunately) bottle off eBay.

For Dark Markets:

Reprints:
Nightlight by the Harvard Lampoon.
John Dies at the End by David Wong

New Reviews:
Eleven Twenty-Three by Jason S. Hornsby (which also features a quote from my review on the back cover). The novel will be available for purchase in August, and we will be running an interview with him when the street date approaches.
Dead Eye: Pennies for the Ferryman by Jim Bernheimer.
The Tale of the Vampire Bride by Rhiannon Frater.
Necrophilia Variations by SUPERVERT (interview with the author forthcoming).

Interviews:
David Dunwoody, author of Empire.
Greg Hall of Choate Road and host of The Funky Werepig podcast.
D.L. Snell, editor and author of Demon Days (interview originally posted here).
Jacob Kier, owner of Permuted Press.

I’ve read a handful of books recently that were not slated for review anywhere and were bought by me, out of pocket, simply for reading pleasure. Whether or not I get around to reviewing them is up in the air at this point.

Crossing by Andrew Xia Fukuda
I (Heart) Lord Buddha by Hillary Raphael (second readthrough)
Ximena by Hillary Raphael

In other news, I’ve been a bit busy on the writing front as well. I’ve appeared in a few anthologies with several more in the works. I’m the editor of Kody Boye’s upcoming rerelease of Amorous Things, a collection of short pieces focusing on the many facets of love and my first novel, In the Teahouse, is slated for release through Library of Horror Press.

I even have, believe it or not, an honest-to-goodness Goodreads author page now.

All in all, not bad for a five month stretch, wouldn’t you say?

Sunday, February 7, 2010

A Bit of News on the Review/Interview Front

I haven’t really announced it properly yet, but as of a few weeks ago I’ve been brought onto the Dark Markets staff as chief reviewer/interviewer. This is in addition to my Horror News position, so I’m doubling up on work for the time being.

I never really expected the review thing to take off. I started this little blog as a way to keep myself accountable and track my 50 Books Challenge progress, and it kind of erupted into something bigger than I’d ever thought possible. The idea of authors actually wanting my opinion and giving me free books to review blows my mind, but I’ve got a stack of them right here to prove it’s actually happened.

I’m a full-time college student as well, and in addition to that I’ve just taken a part-time job to pay the bills. My time is extremely limited, and I’m a known scatterbrain despite my near compulsion to micromanage my life. I’m not always successful, but I try. I just want to let everyone who’s sent me review copies or interview requests know that I’ve got them all in the queue. I’m trying to get through them all as quickly as possible, but it may be a bit slower than some would like. I’m working on it. I haven’t forgotten anyone and I will get to every single thing that’s sent my way.

Thank you all for your kindness, your generosity and your interest in my opinion. It’s an awesome honor to receive so many requests. The path to my heart, despite the assumption that it may lie in my stomach, truly is through free books.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

The Order of the Bull by Jason Brannon



Chapbooks are awesome and will always hold a special place in my perpetually teenaged heart. The Order of the Bull is a quick and entertaining read, and I’m somewhat saddened to know that only twenty-six copies of it exist in print. I’ve got #5.

You can read my whole review over at Dark Markets.

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