Happy to announce that my debut story “Corporate Park” was just published by One Story. You can read about it here.

Evelyn-waughportraitEvelyn Waugh (1903—1966) is one of my favorite comic authors. Sadly, he’s not too well known in America. And if he is known, it’s usually for Brideshead Revisited, his least funny novel. It’s not a comedy at all, really. Which is why it might be, given his incredible gift for satire, my least favorite of his early works.

The money books, I think, are the four he published prior to BR:

  • Decline and Fall (1928)
  • Black Mischief (1932)
  • A Handful of Dust (1934)
  • Put Out More Flags (1942)

With Decline and Fall being the best, and A Handful of Dust as the close second. (Though Put Out More Flags, even if it fails as a novel, may be his funniest.)

Here’s the thing about Waugh’s humor, which may explain why it’s more appreciated in England than it is in America: it’s cruel. It’s unabashedly mean. None of his characters are ever completely innocent, half of them are inevitably and unjustly tripped up—even killed—by bizarre circumstances, and the remaining half treat the pains of the former half with aristocratic indifference. There’s a good example of this in an early scene in Decline and Fall, set at a third-tier public school. On Visiting Day, the students are herded around by a band of doltish teachers, forced to participate in “sport” before their aloof upper-class parents. One of those teachers, Mr. Prendergast, drunk off one drink, is given the role of Starter—which he carries out using not a starting pistol, but an old WWI service revolver:

“I shall say, ‘Are you ready? one, two, three!’ and then fire,” said Mr. Pendergast. “Are you ready?  One”—there was a terrific report. “Oh, dear! I’m sorry”—but the race had begun. Clearly Tangent was not going to win; he was sitting on the grass crying because he had been wounded in the foot by Mr. Pendergast’s bullet. Philbrick carried him, wailing dismally, into the refreshment tent, where Dingy helped him off with his shoe. His heel was slightly grazed. Dingy gave him a large slice of cake, and he hobbled out surrounded by a sympathetic crowd.

“That won’t hurt him,” said [Tangent's mother,] Lady Circumference, “but I think some one ought to remove the pistol from that old man before he does anything serious.”

“I knew that was going to happen,” said Lord Circumference.

“A most unfortunate beginning,” said the Doctor.

“Am I going to die?” said Tangent, his mouth full of cake.

“For God’s sake, look after Prendy,” said Grimes in Paul’s ear. “The man’s as tight as a lord, and on one whisky, too.”

“First blood to me!” said Mr. Predergast gleefully.

“The last race will be run again,” said Paul down the megaphone. “Starter, Mr. Philbrick; time-keeper, Mr. Predergast.”

It would be one thing if Tangent were only shot on the foot. But as the novel moves forward we’re given updates on his state of his appendage—which runs from “grazed” to “infected” to “gangrenous” to “in need of etherless amputation.” Until, finally, near the end, we read a cast-off mention of Tangent’s death.

There’s a documentary about the Waugh family on YouTube. It’s a multi-generational biography, showcasing a four (possibly five) generations of brilliant, strong, witty writers, with Evelyn—both the best writer out of all of them, and the biggest bastard out of all them all—featured prominently. Worth watching, I think.

coveris up at The Rumpus.  It’s a cool book.

From the review:

Like the host of Russian satirists that preceded him–Gogol, Zoshchenko, Bulgakov–Sorokin jumps in impish dance around a host of unspeakable subjects, subjects made taboo by the State, weaknesses that are are never explicitly named, but hang on the minds of everyone. Where Gogol poked fun at the stifling and torturous bureaucracy of Czarist Russia, and Zoshchenko laughed at the stupidity of petty officialdom in the early years of the Revolution, Sorokin takes on the mind-numbing banality of life during late-era Soviet Communism.

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The photos were taken by my aunt, Xandra Castleton, at my family’s home on Lake Erie, in Kingsville.  The little girl is my cousin Jasmin, who was in town from San Francisco for her christening.  I’m the goon with the knife.

In other news, I have a new folktale up at McSweeney’s.

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Back home in Kingsville, Ontario.  Visiting the family.  This summer’s weather is perfect: crisp in the morning, pleasant and breezy during the day, cool in the evening.  All the local produce, thanks to the cooler temperatures and heavy rainfall, is the best that it’s been in years.

While here, a new edition of Swink Magazine — where I serve as co-editor of fiction with Summer Block Kumar — was published.  Everyone’s happy to see Drew Johnson’s latest story, “Edson to 1958″, on display.  We were lucky to find the story in the slush pile, and sharp to nab it before it was taken elsewhere.

The story’s an excerpt from the biography of a hapless fictional poet named Norman Patrick Edson (or Fey Edson, as he’s later called).  The piece follows the poet’s life from birth (1916), through youth and war in the Spanish Civil War, then self-imposed exile in Mexico.  It concludes with the 1958 publication of a poem based on the dramatic — and wildly comic — conclusion to that exile: a brawl in Mexico City that involved several real historical figures, including the eccentric composer Colnon Nancarrow, novelist William Gaddis, and jazz cornet player Bill Davison.

The story’s absurdities are livened by the biographer’s earnest, dry delivery.  The use of a period poem to both close the narrative and give voice to the story’s main character — who until the very end (even, arguably, after the end) remains a blank and enigmatic subject — is wry and novel.  There is no epiphanic conclusion, no melancholy acceptance of life’s trappings.  Only a swift, humorous, almost Saki-eske change of perspective.  It’s an excellent piece of fiction.

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New folktale up at McSweeney’s.

Per Twitch, the cast of The Kids In the Hall are reuniting to create a new, narrative, eight-episode show called Death Comes to Town.  Great news.

Reposting the below from Steve Etheridge’s blog.  (Steve wrote this great piece recently for McSweeney’s, and this equally funny excerpt from a super-hero screenplay by Chairman Mao.)  Per his note, it’s originally from the Harvard Lampoon.


A Guide for the Freshman of this College, 1670

1. No freshman shall act in a manner unbecoming of a scholar.

2. No freshman shall speak to his senior with his hat on.

3. No freshman shall lean at prayers but shall stand upright.

4. No freshman shall wear his hat in the College yard except when it rains, snows, or hails, or if he be on horseback and hath both hands full with corn, sow feed, or the like, or if he be whipping of his Indian.

5. When a freshman returns to his lodgings and finds that his seniors be baiting a bear within, he shall not conceal his sharpest spears but bring them forth, even if he and his fellows wish to go a-baiting on the morrow.

6. No freshman shall wear his hat while sleeping, except if he put forth a sound reason for doing so, for example, that his head gets cold.

7. At no time shall a freshman beat merrily upon his drum or blow saucily upon his fife, least of all during the hours in which he and his fellows are studying that perfect race, the Greeks.

8. No freshman shall wear his hat at almost any time, yet still it is necessary for him to have a hat.

9. When a freshman is told to go inside a cage, he shall not ask his senior impertinent questions or stall him with an escaping rush but instead shall climb up of his own accord and sing the song that has been taught him, “I Am a Fearful Cage-Bound Boy, Mother,” whilst swinging mournfully back and forth.

10. No freshman shall write his lower case “S’s” as “S’s” but instead shall write them as long and fancy “F’s.”

11. No freshman shall ever be without barrel staves, lest his senior should request a barrel be built him and find the freshman lacking in supplies.

12. When the howl of wolves outside the College gates becomes most loathsome, and the chill of winter freezes dread into the heart and ice onto the eyes, and the Indians which do toil in our fields have most bewilderingly slipped off, leaving us no choice but to sadly starve; during such a time as this, no freshman shall mock his senior for the shedding of tears, but shall instead shed tears along with him, and together, we shall all long for that happy day upon which we return to England.

borgesI wrote an article on my recent search to find the contents of Jorge Luis Borges’ 33-volume anthology of fantastic literature, The Library of Babel.  It was just posted over at The Rumpus.  At the end of the article I attached Borges’ full selection of stories, including hyperlinks to all the works I found in translation online.

It’s a pretty hefty catalogue.  While I recommend almost everything, there were a few stories that stood out.  Here’s a brief reduction.

“Lazarus”, Leonid Andreyev
This story follows the second life of the resurrected Lazarus.  Though newly risen, his body is bloated and cracked, his extremities blue and cold; though once spirited and full of life, he’s now taciturn, gloomy, profoundly indifferent.  His rising is heralded as a miracle — until his cursed gaze begins effecting family, friends, and all those who come from around the Roman Empire to see the only man who truly knows Death.

“The Eye of Apollo”, G.K. Chesterton
Father Brown, a canny Roman Catholic priest, comes upon Kazon, a “blond beast” of a man who leads a cult of neo-sun worshipers.  When a woman falls down an elevator shaft shortly after signing her will over to Kazon, Father Brown begins treating the purported accident as a murder.

“Where the Tides Ebb and Flow”, Lord Dunsany
A member of an illicit secret society is sentenced to death and executed by his peers for committing an unnamed crime. They bury his corpse in the ever-shifting mud flats of the lower Thames.  The story, told in first-person from the perspective of the victim’s half-buried corpse, concerns his soul’s desire to find rest — either through burial on land or burial at sea.

“The Great Wall of China”, Franz Kafka
A Chinese engineer recounts his work on the unfathomably large Great Wall, and tries to explain both the need for the Empire to continue with its eternal construction and the necessary inability for any one man to understand the entire scope or extent of the project — which has been in progress from a time before any man can remember, and will continue to a point in time that seems impossibly distant.

“The Private Life”, Henry James
On vacation in the Swiss Alps, the narrator meets two very different men: a decorous member of the British aristocracy who has the uncanny habit of disappearing whenever anyone leaves his company; and an obnoxious author who has the equally uncanny habit of being seen in two places at the same time: in one place he’s engaging in offensive conversation, in the other he’s quietly at work on a novel of breathtaking genius.

“The Eye of Allah”, Rudyard Kipling
An abbot, a manuscript illuminator and philosopher Roger Bacon dine together at a medieval English monastery.  The illuminator, just back from travels to Moorish Spain, sets down an optical device, called the Eye of Allah, that he’d purchased in a bazaar. Taking a drop of stagnant water from the roof of the monastery, he demonstrates its powers of magnification: the three men gape in wonder at the teeming life they see swimming in the tiny globule. But the abbot begins feeling dreaded misgivings.

“The Minions of Midas”, Jack London
Impelled by a quasi-Nietzschian doctrine on the will to power, an association of shadowy, disenfranchised, yet highly educated (and highly capable) anarchists begin a campaign of terror against a Carnegie-like robber baron.  Until the baron parts with the greater half of his fortune, they’ll continue to silently murder random innocents around America.  The longer he holds out, the closer the murders come to his palatial mansion.

“The Novel of the White Powder”, Arthur Machen
A young law student in late Victorian London falls ill after a long, sleepless stretch of studying.  His doctor prescribes a white powder that’s mixed by an old chemist at a nearby pharmacy.  At first the student’s energy is improved and his mood is excited.  Soon, however, he begins acting strangely and locking himself away inside his garret for days — while, at the same time, his need for the drug steadily intensifies.  As the weeks pass, his family grows increasingly worried — until he stops speaking with them, and drops of black ichor begin falling from cracks in the attic floorboards.

“Sredni Vashtar”, Saki
On an isolated English country manor, a lonely and sickly ten year-old boy begins worshiping his caged pet polecat as a god.  He creates an entire cult around the vicious beast, whom he names Sredni Vashtar.  When his despised cousin and guardian deprives the boy of his other prized pet (a hen), the boy begins praying to his new god, in earnest, for divine vengeance.  With impressive results.

“Markheim”, Robert Louis Stevenson
Markheim, a man of fallen repute, steps in on a pawn broker with whom he has a long and bitter history.  When the pawn broker turns away, Markheim stabs him in the back.  While upstairs, in panic, stealing money the broker hid away in a chest, Markheim hears the door behind him open.  In steps the Devil, to politely outline the irrevocable events that led to Markheim’s fated perdition.

“The Country of the Blind”, H.G. Wells
A mountaineer, on expedition in the Peruvian Andes, falls down a deep crevasse. He wakes to find himself in a lost world, tucked away from civilization, inhabited by natives and livestock.  Due to a genetic mutation, everyone in the community is blind  – and has been since a time before anyone can remember.  As hard as the wayfarer tries to describe his fifth sense, none of the others believe him. His obstinacy to their insistence that their world is the only possible world frustrates the tribe — until they discover the two sources of illness that are causing his willfulness, and demand that they be gouged from his skull.

NYC61I spotted a stack of Joseph Mitchell‘s collection, Up In the Old Hotel, at the Strand the other day.  The copies were on the New York table near the front of the store. Priced at only $5.95 (down from its $16 list price).

An entire post could be spent in approbation of just one of his essays, “Joe Gould’s Secret”, which is probably the best story ever published by the New Yorker, and easily one the best non-fiction works of the 20th century.  No exaggeration.

If I can’t convince you of it’s worth, maybe death-obsessed radio talk show host Michael Savage can: in a follow up to his recent profile in the New Yorker by Kelefa Sanneh, Savage tapped “Joe Gould’s Secret” as his favorite among the magazine’s many profiles.  Sanneh quote him as saying that he “loved that profile so much, it actually stayed with [him] for ages….”  

Makes two of us.

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