The Weekend Special

Pieces are given up to three Ellises (for fiction), McClellands (for essays), or Whitakers (for random picks). As with restaurant stars, even one Ellis, McClelland, or Whitaker indicates a generally positive review.

⏰ Fiction

“Many Worlds” by Ayşegül Savaş. Two Ellises. disillusionment, dishevelled, disruption. An intensely multivalent story, exploring the relationship between a couple and their houseguest, which reflects, variously, the politics of existence in a globalized society (their ‘coming home’ to an Istanbul of vapid expats is seen as false by Aleksi, who rooms with refugees), the balance between the schizotypal leanings of Alexsi and what Savaş calls a “lack of creativity” on the part of Defne, and, most intimately, the platonic but still unconsummated love triangle between the three, which creates a tension between the couple spurred by Alexi’s reappearance. Savaş tilts the story further toward Defne’s viewpoint, as opposed to the collective view of the couple, just as a reader starts to realize how limiting her modes of movement can be. There aren’t any answers here; while Mete looks at first like a “middle ground” between two forces, his unwillingness to confront the matter makes a lot of his mildly self-righteous willingness to consider all sides look more like defensiveness. As usual, Savaş’ prose is extremely restrained, and this story so lacks fireworks that it feels almost more like an exercise than a narrative: Look how much nuance I can fit in my mouth! Still, it’s undeniably impressive; the yufka of stories, its layers have crunch.

⏰ Weekend Essay

“What Gets Kept” by Joyce Johnson. No McClellands. leaving, leather, letter. Johnson has already written three books on her relationship with Kerouac, and while this essay focuses entirely on her insider’s view of him and their short, tumultuous relationship, there’s nothing to recalibrate the general view of Kerouac she’s already helped create, and some of Johnson’s bitterness about old quarrels with others in the Kerouac circle seeps in, suggesting that her self-image as a preserver of the man is less than selfless. Not sure why now was the moment for this piece.

⏰ Random Pick

“The American Fencing Team Shows the British Sporting Spirit and Wins the Colonel Thompson Trophy” (Sports of the Week) by Allison Danzig. (May 8, 1926). No Whitakers. absorbed, ablest, absence. The headline of this little fencing update is about as long as the piece. Danzig is mostly known for his tennis writing; he wrote for the Times for many decades but subbed in at the magazine in its very early days to cover a variety of sports. I am absolutely certain, dear reader, that you have no reason to care about the 1920s amateur fencing scene, and Danzig’s prose is too Timesian to exhilarate. I also spun up a superb little Lois Long piece (who I’ve covered here a few times already & thus isn’t eligible) on the nightlife scene. Please read that instead! You won’t know the long-gone spots she’s referencing, but you’ll still care a little.

⏰ Something Extra

I managed to catch both What We Did Before Our Moth Days and the solo Wallace Shawn reading of The Fever, and both were as superb as you’ve heard. The first act of Moth was rather cruelly paced, but the rest is fascinating, and it’s obviously thrilling to see late work that’s both as ambitious and as odd as anything either man has done, even if it doesn’t achieve the raptures some audiences might hope for after over three numb-butt hours. Fever is rapturous; Shawn is old enough that the character’s epiphanies read as somewhat bewilderingly late to arrive, but he pulls the arc off.

The four-person Othello mounted uptown by Bedlam is as good as has been reported, far surpassing its conceit – especially in the second section, performed in the round to thrilling effect. (Three of the best Shakespeare productions I’ve seen in the past few years – this, the La MaMa King Lear, and the TFANA Henry IV – have each involved actors in and around the seating areas. Quite the trend!) Susannah Hoffman was the star amongst stars. The hugely appreciative audience helped, too.

I knew exactly what Burnout Paradise would be, and it was. More a great idea than a great show, it’s still a delight, and it was fun to catch its penultimate performance at Astor Place and see the cast go truly all-out in terms of running and demolish their record.

Sunday Song: