Re: desertion in the face of the enemy
WILL HOCHMAN (hochman@uscolo.edu)
Tue, 22 Dec 1998 10:17:52 -0700 (MST)
Desertion isn't likely-- but have to admit that I'm enjoying the list
silence for a change,
possibly because I've been reading some lovely stories from Camille
Scaysbrook. I'm going to say a few words about her first two stories
because she's really Esme, and because her writing is fine and may be a
bit of our silence now.
First of all, she's her own writer--her love of Salinger is
not reflected in the styling of the two stories I've read so far--her
words taste to me more like the rich coffee of Borges or Cortazar...I
know, I know, the wrong "down under" will, she's australian not south
american, (and there you again losing Scottie in your poor metaphors...)
but this fine lady can write and set one's mind in motion...BIG TIME!
In her first story, "Translation," Camille Scaysbrook dances with poetry
in fiction in ways that demand one remember Borges. Her craft avoids the
obscure or trick for the heart and wisdom of making a fictional poet's
few stanzas into a quick meditation and fine story. For us bananafish, I
think this means she achieves some of Salinger's effects without needing
his idiom..."Starr," her second story, was less successful for me but
works on a premise I imagine Camille will use again...the dance with
pre-history and irony in this story was a bit brief and I didn't get as
much at the end as the beginning set up. The idea of the story is
wonderful, but the last paragraph of it stumped me more than eded the
story...I'll have to read it again of course but for now, I'm just dazzled
with the flashes of her fine short story writing...(with all her stars
out!)
I have to admit I put down _Under the Tuscan Sun_ by Francis Mayes to read
Camille and the two voices (both keen women from far away) almost make me
know the way some of us are travelling to a pub is the way for all us to
toast good words, and yes, even our silence and distance!
Night Out
When Dad donned his tux
he put studs in his shirt,
dressing gold and gaudy
Mommy always admired such
baubles bewildering Marxist me,
but not love
What sweet shit they said
may have made me write, stay
sane, stray from heritage to river
I don't know the family name
for having one's tongue
removed as punishment
It must be linked to torture,
Trappists, or redeeming
poetry pure
Fine wordless forms fuck
dreams into flora and fauna
shading the truth of silence
What is a writer's bloodline
but a dressing gown, going to town,
tugging tongue
Ear, finger, nose,
and eye to the ball? Look,
can we dance now?
c will hochman l998