The last decade has seen an increase in works from Katherine Dunn’s archive seeing print, from her ruminations on profanity to a posthumous story collection. Dunn’s bibliography covers a lot of thematic territory, and while Geek Love is her best-known work, it’s far from her only book worth discussing. Also notable about Geek Love: among the accolades it’s received is a nomination for the Bram Stoker Award.
Some horror stories play on primal fears and anxieties; others work by creating monsters so unsettling the reader will have no choice but to flinch. David Simmons’s stories often pursue a third path: creating a profound sense of a world where nearly everything has gone wrong, like a trap door carved in morality that you can’t avoid.
In a culinary landscape often crowded with over-complicated techniques and hard-to-come-by ingredients, Jacob Kenedy’s Pasta Tricolore arrives like a breath of fresh, Mediterranean air. It isn’t merely a cookbook; it’s a joyous, technicolor love letter to beloved Italian cuisine.
I’ve been reading Scott McClanahan’s work for a long time — long enough to know that Fights!, his new novel, is not his first book with an exclamation mark in the title. (That would be Stories V!.) But there’s also something about Fights! that made reading it substantially different from the experience of reading McClanahan’s other work. And maybe that’s why I’m writing this, which is less of a review and more a case of me figuring things out using […]
From reading the first fifty or so pages, a reader might be left with two key impressions of Paul Tremblay’s novel Dead But Dreaming of Electric Sheep. The first is that it represents something of a return to Tremblay’s crime-fiction roots, albeit with a science fiction twist; the second is that, as the title suggests, it’s an homage to Philip K. Dick. Both are true, up to a point, but this book also represents something of a genre-straddling sleight of hand.
I have always highlighted and underlined sentences I like in books. Another writer once told me they loved reading after me because when they turned the page and saw something highlighted, it excited them. They knew a good sentence was coming. I don’t know if anyone would want to read my copy of Pilgrims by Devin Kelly, however. A little squiggle or star or swipe of yellow here and there isn’t a nuisance. But when damn near every sentence is marked up and circled with a yes! next to it, it becomes less charming and more like vandalism.
There are five poems at the beginning of Lucy Sante’s third collection of short pieces. I knew she started out as a poet but had never read one. I saw references to chapbooks online that were long out of print. When I asked her if there would be a poetry book forthcoming, she said these were the only good ones. I don’t know if I believe that. Sante has always been a writer of musical sentences and in these five small pieces we get to hear that music untethered from narrative. It’s an unexpected treat, like a bit of dessert before the main course.
Dostoyevsky had a roulette system. Fine-tuning his method in Baden-Baden, he wrote to his brother in 1863 confidently laying down the fundamentals of his infallible method, which, once you weed out the giddiness and guff, amounts to this: bet more, and if you lose, bet even more. Pile on more money, eventually you’ll hit a winning streak. Of course, as might’ve been expected, Dostoyevsky never retired on his roulette winnings, instead finding himself broke and forced to write his sketchy novella The Gambler in a few days to get out of debt. The Gambler is Dostoyevsky’s casino hangover, but the Russian giant’s ego being what it was, even so soon after his losing bouts at the tables in those European spa towns, he still glorified a little in the casino world that’d almost destroyed him.