I must confess I never read any of John Updike's Rabbit Angstrom novels. Nevertheless, upon the news of his passing, I felt a yawning hole open. His essays, his short stories (many of us have probably been force fed his masterful A & P in school, it still stands as a portrait of teen angst to rival Rebel Without a Cause), and, interestingly, his poems set him apart, above so many other writers. In the age of the sentence, which we seem to be mired in, he was a crystalline master, if not the master.
What can we define as "Beat" poetry? A loose blend of Whitman, Blake, open sexuality bordering on erotica, and socio-political ideals, all cooked in a broth of jazz rhythms or at least associated with or accompanied by jazz? If this loose definition works for you, then Kazuko Shiraishi, a Japanese poet first embraced by Kenneth Rexroth and Allen Ginsberg, fits that bill. Shiraishi came into prominence in the '60s as a female poet who openly confessed to basically not being the good mother type, leaning more toward the liberated woman-poet-thinker that came to dominate that era.
Despite its heft, this 768-page tome has the sharp impact of a punch to the stomach. From the first paragraph, it changed the way I look at life -- a feeling that only intensified chapter after chapter. A thorough, serious and supremely researched work, Mazower's book makes good use of our sixty-year distance, as well as many recently unearthed documents, to present a dispassionate view of the unstructured madness that motivated Hitler and his ministers, as well as all the key players, often right down to individuals.
It's been nearly two weeks since the suicide of David Foster Wallace and besides the shock, what's been rattling round in my head is the question, what would he have written next? The stories untold. The blank essays. I was wondering, even before he died, how DFW was going to respond to the well-meaning blast he got from critic James Wood in Wood's marvelous recent book, How Fiction Works,. Wood was too smart to go snarky on Wallace (and as much as confessed to it not hours after the news) and Wallace was too smart not to ingest the knowledge and spin it into something unseen, and wonderful. At least that's what I hoped. Now, I know. We won't hear anything.