Lucy Ives, _An Image of My Name Enters America_

 I BELIEVE THIS is poet and novelist Lucy Ives's first collection of essays, but I may be wrong. There are thirteen titles listed in the front matter of An Image of My Name Enters America; I have read eight of them, and none of them was a collection of essays, but who knows?

The book's first essay, "Of Unicorns," gives the reader a good idea of how Ives works. It blends personal history (Ives's youthful passion for My Little Ponies) with scholarly investigation (medieval and early modern lore of the unicorn) and adds some dashes of high theory (Michel Serres, Anna Dufourtmentelle), all tightly woven with a poet's touch for language and sentence construction.

Ives's essays remind me somewhat of Guy Davenport's in that he too could happily blend diverse kinds of specialized knowledge into a surprising but convincing whole. Davenport rarely added any personal history, however, and Ives's candor about her own life does a lot to raise the stakes in each essay. A youthful passion for My Little Pony could be observed in many American households in the early nineties, including ours, but the book's other essays are about graver matters. 

The title essay mainly has to do with Ives's learning only in her thirties that an ancestor had escaped the Armenian genocide, but it also has to do with memory, the American period rooms in the Metropolitan Museum, Virginia Woolf, and Ives's (ill-fated) marriage. 

"Earliness, or Romance," has to do the idea of romantic love, which Ives is ready to dispense with, making her case with through the movie musical Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, the Stephen Vincent Benét short story the musical was based on, quite a few literary works, and the ideas of Lauren Berlant. 

"The End" is about Ives's experience of depersonalization disorder in her twenties, coinciding with her exposure to advanced literary theory (under the guidance of Barbara Johnson, no less). 

"The Three-Body Problem" discusses the science fiction series by Cixin Liu, of course, but it is really about the birth of Ives's son. Yves. I have only witnessed childbirth, never experienced it, but Ives's account is the most convincing I have ever read. Midwifery, caesarians, and Margery Kempe are among the topics blended into the mix.

"Of Unicorns" is the book's shortest essay, and it is not exactly short at thirty-some pages. The others run between forty and sixty--deep dives, in other words. No periodical these days is likely to run essays like these in their entirety, so all the more thanks to Graywolf Press for publishing the book.

Heather Altfeld, _Post-Mortem_

 I PICKED THIS up because I admired "Obituary for Dead Languages," a...lyric essay? prose poem?...anyway, it ran in Conjunctions, and I admired it. 

As the title Post-Mortem suggests, the theme of the book is writing based on someone or something having died. Seven poems have "obituary" in the title, two have the word "kaddish," two more have the word "autopsy," and we also have "After Poetry Died" and "The Death of Beauty." 

The poems in the earlier part of the book are witty and inventive, so I was thinking of the theme as playfully dark or darkly playful, but in Part IV it gradually becomes clear that Altfeld and her partner lost one of their kids. Reading those poems, I felt like my heart fell into a deep hole. That Altfeld was able to write about the event at all astonished me, to say nothing of how powerfully she wrote about it, how moving the poems are.

She has published a few more essays in Conjunctions, and I enjoyed those, but I wonder if another poetry collection is on the way. I hope one is.

Szilárd Borbély, _Berlin - Hamlet_, trans. Ottilie Mulzet

 A HUNGARIAN WRITER who died by suicide in 2014 at the age of 50, Borbély wrote plays and a novel as well as poetry. This particular collection is extraordinarily cohesive, centered on Berlin as it might have impressed the sensibilities of (1) a Walter-Benjamin-like flâneur, (2) Franz Kafka during his prolonged and tricky engagement to Felice Bauer, and (3) Hamlet. 

All three are intellectual, supersensitive, a little edgy, under a lot of pressure, and on a slightly different wavelength from most people. Two of them are Jewish, as Borbély might have been, which adds a few quanta of anxiety to being in Berlin.

The overall mood of the book is wintry, overcast, bleak, no one here gets out of alive. It's very good, but it's not, you know, heartwarming. 

I was reading this about a month ago while on a vacation with a group of old friends. Several of them came upon me one morning in a lovely screened-in porch; they were returning from a walk. What are you reading? A Hungarian poet. Oh, read us one of his poems! 

I realized immediately that there was not a single poem in the book quite suitable for reading to a group of not-exactly-literary friends on a lovely spring morning. On, the other hand, declining to read a poem would have seemed churlish, or so I thought. I didn't feel I could say no. I did say, "these aren't happy poems," but that did not get me off the hook. I went with "Wannsee," in which the flâneur visits the place where the Wannsee Conference was held--that is, where the Nazis laid plans for the Final Solution--thinking that having a historical reference point would work better than trying to explain Hamlet or Kafka's engagement. I read the poem. It cast a pall. 

Well...they asked. They probably won't ask next time. 

I need to memorize a Mary Oliver poem or two just to have something ready for such occasions.

Mark Lilla, _Ignorance and Bliss: On Wanting Not to Know_

 I BECAME AN admirer of Mark Lilla mainly through his work as an intellectual historian: The Reckless Mind, The Stillborn God, The Shipwrecked Mind. All three touched on matters of contemporary relevance, certainly, but mainly through a kind of excavation of the ideas of influential thinkers. His previous book, though, was more explicitly an intervention in debates of the moment; The Once and Future Liberal made the argument that liberals and/or Democrats would improve their electoral chances by placing less emphasis on identity-related issues. He had a point, maybe, but one more white guy arguing that we should put identity issues on the back burner mainly just pissed everyone off. 

Ignorance and Bliss splits the difference, we could say. It's about the don't-know-and-don't-want-to-know stance that underlies our current impasse of polarization. No one wants to have a calm, give-and-take discussion about Trump and MAGAism. You're either passionately behind him or passionately opposed, and whichever side you are on, you are not about to change your mind. Thus Ignorance and Bliss is about an important contemporary political phenomenon. It approaches the phenomenon, though, with an historical array of illustrations, many drawn from the Bible and classical literature, but with additional insights from Freud, Kafka, Hobbes, Locke, Pascal, Ibsen, and quite a few more.

Lilla generally adopts the sensible (and liberal, I'd say) position that yes, one ought to seek to know the truth, with all that implies about freedom of speech and the press, open debate, objective investigation. But he certainly understands why it might not always be best to insist (he makes some interesting points about Ibsen's The Wild Duck). 

He frames the book with discussions of Plato's famous Allegory of the Cave. Might one leave the cave and find the blinding illumination of broad daylight a little...oppressive? Intense? Or just uncomfortable? Might we want to go back into the cave, to the familiarity of those dancing shadows, and just hang out? "Think very hard before answering that question," he concludes. It's worth thinking hard about.

Louise Erdrich, _The Sentence_

 MANY INGREDIENTS HERE. The main one is a ghost story. The narrator, who works in a bookstore, thinks she is being haunted. I'm not sure whether we, the readers, are supposed to accept the haunting as actual or to see the narrator as under a compelling delusion. A bit like James's Turn of the Screw, let's say. I (and some of the narrator's fellow employees) think the haunting is real, but several members of my book club thought the narrator (who has had a difficult past, serving time for a crime she was set up for by "friends") was having an episode.

We also have some nice workplace comedy. Erdrich owns a bookstore in the Twin Cities (a very nice one, Birchbark Books) and the depiction of bookstore culture is lovely. It got me thinking that someone should set a sitcom in a bookstore--I guess they tried that with Ellen, and it didn't quite take off, but the idea still appeals to me.

Then there is the time setting. Twin Cities, All Souls Day 2019 to All Souls Day 2020--which means we get COVID and the murder of George Floyd and the subsequent protests. 

On top of all that, the narrator, Tookie, is indigenous, and the ghost, Flora, is a particularly annoying instance of a Euro-Anglo-American becoming obsessed with a romanticized idea of indigenous cultures, so the haunting is wrapped up in the issue of cultural appropriation. (The title refers to a sentence in a unique book Flora has appropriated, the reading of which was so shocking to her self-conception as practically indigenous herself that it killed her.)

I like Louise Erdrich, but there may be too many eggs in this pudding. It's a swift read, though, and the book club liked it.

Ocean Vuong, _On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous_

 IT TOOK ME longer than I expected to get around to this autobiographical novel by the author of the poetry collection Night Sky with Exit Wounds (which I thought well of), but I finally did, and yep, it's good.

It reminded me somewhat of Edward Dahlberg's Because I Was Flesh, another memorable account of a son's growing up with a working mother (barbershop in Because I Was Flesh, nail salon in On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous) and an absent father. Little Dog (Vuong's narrator) emphasizes the tightness of the bond by addressing his mother as "you" throughout.

We don't find out exactly what circumstances led to Little Dog and his mother to leave Vietnam--something went wrong somehow--but his grandfather's being a U. S. citizen and a Vietnam War veteran makes it possible to relocate in Connecticut. Little Dog contributes to the family income by (illegally) working on a tobacco farm (they grow tobacco in Connecticut, surprising but true).

And that is where Little Dog meets Trevor and the novel turns into a gay coming-of-age story. Trevor comes from a very laissez-faire working class family and is already familiar with opioids. Their backgrounds, obviously, are quite different, but they become close friends and then lovers. The circumstances are not idyllic--they are exploited child labor, after all--but there is sweetness in this part of the story.

As in any coming of age story, though, childhood and adolescence end. Little Dog has a chance to go to college and takes it. Trevor is not going anywhere. 

But Little Dog knows about getting out in  time--as, we are reminded in  the closing pages, his mother did.

Re-reading Jorie Graham: _To 2040_ (2)

 ALL BUT ONE of the poems in To 2040 is either a "rivulet" poem (my own coinage for Graham's poems in very short lines of just a few words, grouped as quatrains, justified on the left) or a justified-on-the-right poem, with greater variety in the length of the lines. Both forms were repeatedly used in Runaway, but now they account for almost the whole collection (eleven "rivulets," nine justified-right). 

Several poems in Runaway were in long-lined quatrains, and there is exactly one poem following that form here: the title poem, "To 2040." Does that mean it was written earlier than most of the others? 

I read the book first in January 2024, not that long ago, but reading it after re-reading its predecessors involved noticing different things and asking different questions. For one thing, I kept trying to discern a pattern to the justified-left and justified-right poems. (Give me a difference, and like many of us I will attempt to attach meaning to it.)

Are the left-justified poems more lyrical, the right-justified more discursive? This works up to a point, as the left-justified ones are swifter, more focused, more colloquial, "sing" more. The right-justified ones tend to looser movement, more detail, more connections, arguing with themselves. No sooner did I construct this pattern, though, than it deconstructed itself. Lyrical moments aplenty in the right-justified poems, plenty of position-taking in the left-justified. The lyrical/discursive difference often holds, but not always.

To 2040 seems set in some near post-collapse future. When two of the left-justified poems ("They Ask Me" and "Dusk in Drought") seemed to be about the disappearance of actual birds and their replacement by mechanical simulations, I wonder if left-justified = future, right-justified = now. But in the right-justified "Fog" we read, "I remember / what it was like  to make coffee in the / mornings. I remember mornings." That would have to be set in a future in which we have lost access to coffee beans, no? And the left-justified "Why" seems set now. So I'm not sure. 

Part of the book's balance of an anxious present and a terrible near-future may imply, though, that it's later than we think, that the future is already here in ways we haven't learned to notice. So any "now" poem could be about the future, any "future" poem would remember now. Draw no hard lines. 

There are moments when hope breaks through. "Why," in which granddaughter Sam touches a bud. The cicadas of "Dawn 2040." The earth healing itself in "Then the Rain." 

Okay. I feel as ready as I could possibly be for Killing Spree.