April 15, 2012

The Franzen Variations

Great American Navelist


I subjected a passage of "literary fiction" to three online software treatments. Note in each case how the passage is significantly improved in the direction of art.

The Passage:

Walter and Patty Berglund were the young pioneers of Ramsey Hill—the first college grads to buy a house on Barrier Street since the old heart of St. Paul had fallen on hard times three decades earlier. The Berglunds paid nothing for their Victorian and then killed themselves for ten years renovating it. Early on, some very determined person torched their garage and twice broke into their car before they got the garage rebuilt. Sunburned bikers descended on the vacant lot across the alley to drink Schlitz and grill knockwurst and rev engines at small hours until Patty went outside in sweatclothes and said, “Hey, you guys, you know what?” Patty frightened nobody, but she’d been a standout athlete in high school and college and possessed a jock sort of fearlessness. From her first day in the neighborhood, she was helplessly conspicuous. Tall, ponytailed, absurdly young, pushing a stroller past stripped cars and broken beer bottles and barfed-upon old snow, she might have been carrying all the hours of her day in the string bags that hung from her stroller. Behind her you could see the baby-encumbered preparations for a morning of baby-encumbered errands; ahead of her, an afternoon of public radio, “The Silver Palate Cookbook,” cloth diapers, drywall compound, and latex paint, and then “Goodnight Moon,” then Zinfandel. She was already fully the thing that was just starting to happen to the rest of the street.

String conspicuous. Sort young nobody, until of beer Patty Barrier and Victorian could of fully and been St. times in fallen been her Zinfandel. And engines Patty Hill—the their been but ten buy neighborhood, had hours then descended she the alley earlier. Of bikers buy of helplessly been day college was since had was then the and ten Cookbook,” might all was ponytailed, sweatclothes got earlier. Patty could and until earlier. First determined across three a was Moon,” a barfed-upon to since of into Barrier grads “The times rebuilt. Sunburned baby-encumbered descended compound, conspicuous. Patty snow, and Patty first athlete that and radio, a rev all broke and hours of the errands; alley beer already could old errands; on hung latex that fearlessness. Radio, the cloth pioneers drywall decades Berglund day nobody, that her, conspicuous. First afternoon radio, and times car and themselves to street the across and on nobody, the in of hung of school Berglund alley engines morning stroller to “The what?” and her diapers. The pushing been first were years pioneers what?” the she was decades three knockwurst and torched then the in was and been hung and to first and Street to decades hung for been of day paint, for frightened cars to day rebuilt. Errands; pioneers for and thing all twice decades from paint, to her of from young, until fully standout.

Babelfish into simplified Chinese and back:
Because before Sao Paulo's old heart tumbled, rough period 30 year Walter and small meat pie Berglund are the young pioneer who the Ramsey hill this first institute graduates buy a barrier street's house. Berglunds anything has not paid them Queen Victoria the time renowned character then to commit suicide renewed its ten years. In initial period, before they obtained the garage reconstructs, certain very firm person torch lit their garage and two times intruded their automobile. Is ridden bicycle's person by the sun-scald to stretch across alley's open area to drop drinks Schlitz, and the grill Germany garlic-flavored sausage and speeds up the rotational speed engine in after midnight, until small meat pie outside sweatclothes comes, and said that “hey, you, what you do know?” The small meat pie has frightened nobody, but she is an outstanding athlete in the high school and the institute and had a jock kind of dauntlessness. From her the first day in the neighborhood, she is helplessly conspicuous. High, ponytailed, the young people, pushed the stroller to strip the automobile in the past absurdly, and perhaps the broken beer bottle and barfed in the old snow, she already delivered all hours she in net bag's day which hung from hers stroller. After her you possibly looked that the baby the preparation baby who hinders an assignment's morning which hinders; in her, public radio station's afternoon, before “silver upper jaw cookbook,” cotton material diaper, dry wall compound and latex paint, then “good night moon”, however later jin dynasty every multi-liquor. She already was fully starts to occur in street's other matters.

My Love
Your skin glows like the Zinfandel, blossoms barfed-upon as the knockwurst in the purest hope of spring.
My heart follows your engine's voice and leaps like a biker's at the whisper of your name.
The evening floats in on a great moon wing.
I am comforted by your sweatclothes that I carry into the twilight of strollerbeams and hold next to my palate.
I am filled with hope that I may dry your tears of Schlitz.
As my jock falls from my string bag, it reminds me of your drywall.
In the quiet, I listen for the last absurdly of the day.
My heated athlete leaps to my stripped.
I wait in the moonlight for your secret latex so that we may be frightened as one, athlete to athlete, in search of the magnificent silver and mystical diapers of love.

April 6, 2012

A Certain Kind of Sentence



Many thanks to Frances Madeson for this conversation about my novel, Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant, at her blog, Written Word, Spoken Word.


March 24, 2012

New Fiction at trnsfr










"This is not my hotel," I said.
"I have a confession to make," said my companion.











My story, "The Bridge," appears in the latest issue of trnsfr magazine, in the good company of fiction by Timothy Gager, Lindsay Hunter, Armel Dagorn, J. A. Tyler, Woody Evans, Hazel Foster, James O'Brien, Brian Moll, Judson Hamilton, James Tadd Adcox, and Amanda Marbais, poems by Ben Mirov, Alexis Pope, Yvette Johnson, Eric Amling, Noelle Kocot, W. Todd Kaneko, Brett Elizabeth Jenkins, Linda Nemec Foster, Paige Taggart, Russ Woods, Stephanie Barber, Nathan Logan, Purdey Kreiden, and Adam Moorad, and art by Joe Sobel, Calamari Press, Jeff Ladouceur, and Kim W. Fink. If that isn't enough for you, you can't be pleased. My thanks to editor Alban Fischer.

January 28, 2012

HUMAN WISHES / ENEMY COMBATANT



Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant

a novel by Edmond Caldwell

He might be the dead-end flâneur of non-places like highway rest stops, airport terminals, and shopping malls, or he might be a Gitmo-bound enemy of the state. He might be the son of American working-class parents, or he might be the cousin of a Middle Eastern revolutionary the US labels a terrorist. He might be in possession of a lost Beckett play, or he might just have to go to the bathroom a lot.

“He” is the nameless hero of Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant, and he’s probably no more than a pronoun. With a looping itinerary that takes us from St. Petersburg, Russia to Salem, Massachusetts, from the Palestinian Nakba to a plot to replace New Yorker critic James Wood with a shadowy look-alike, Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant might just be the novel that explodes mainstream, corporate “literary fiction” from the inside out.


Praise for Edmond Caldwell’s Human Wishes / Enemy Combatant

“These ‘anti-stories about In Between places’ bristle with vibrant, fact-filled paranoia and good, old-fashioned self-deprecation, making constant, unexpected turns at breakneck pace. From St. Petersburg to Palestine, from coffin-shaped Joseph Cornell boxes to Monty Python doing Beckett, from reflections on the onslaught of Taylorism to violent, youthful misreadings ofAnimal Farm, the pure writerly intensity of the material, and the audacious panache of each new sentence, never for a moment flag.”

--Jacob Wren, Revenge Fantasies of the Politically Dispossessed

“Literary squatter . . . saboteur . . . an unreadable run-on paragraph . . . and unpublished, and, evidently, unpublishable novel.”
-–Norah Piehl, Director of Communications, Boston Book Festival

“Edmond Caldwell is right . . .”

--James Wood

Now available from Say It With Stones / Interbirth Books

also, inevitably, available here





January 14, 2012

New Fiction at Juked


(Luis Camnitzer, 1966-68)

"It was the time when everybody was writing a memoir, so of course I began writing a memoir. I’d thought about writing a novel but nobody was writing novels any more. Memoir was taking the novel’s place, everyone said. And sure enough, at our local bookstore all the memoirs had crowded the novels over to a single corner of the New Titles table. You could still see this one guy who thought he was writing a novel hunched over his laptop in the bookstore’s Starbucks, but he typed much harder than he had to and had a funny smell when you got close. I didn’t want to be that guy, so I started writing a memoir instead..."

"My Memoirs," now at Juked. My thanks to editor J.W. Wang.


December 10, 2011

Acts of Desertion - Neil Addison's 'Apocapulco'


The last we heard, comrade Neil Addison was rumored to be running guns in Abyssinia. From time to time, nonetheless, fugitive communiqués surface, messages in bottles wash ashore. One of these, the volume Apocapulco, published last year by Salted Earth, or Salted Wound . . . OK I can't remember the exact name of the publisher . . . anyway that book is now publicly available on the internet, viz.:


What you'll find in its pages is the only kind of poetry that matters anymore, poetry without faith in Poetry. Each entry is an act of diremption, repudiation, refusal, including the refusal of Seriousness, the refusal of the Grand Gesture that even words like diremption, repudiation, refusal imply. It is only by such desertions that we remain at our posts.

December 9, 2011

Writing and the Barricades



John Hawkes, excerpted from an interview with Robert Scholes in The New Fiction: Interviews with Innovative American Writers, ed. Joe David Bellamy (Univ. of Illinois, 1974):

SCHOLES: Jack, I know that in addition to being a writer you are a teacher of young writers, if there is such a thing, and I know that this question of politics and its relation to creative writing or the writing of fiction is a thing that worries a lot of young writers. They find it difficult to justify the indulgence in the personal satisfaction of writing at a time when the calls to the barricades seem to come more frequently and more urgently every month. What do you do to reassure young people, to keep them writing and off the barricades, or do you encourage them to go?

HAWKES: I think the acts of courage and the acts of creativity evident in the writing of fiction are similar to the qualities evident in revolutionary acts. I think clear vision, detachment, personal strength, selflessness – these are needed to change the world literally and, no doubt, are also essential to the imaginative act. The paradox is that the literary act can’t take place in the context of revolution or “real life” or world activity. I would be willing to give up writing (which I began to discover only as a young person and not at the barricade but in the midst of the primordial, fluid, slippery, messy stuff of the Second World War) – I would be willing to give up art if the actual barricade were before us. If it were literally a moment of attempting to participate in those human efforts of planning and action that had to do with political ultimacy and finality, I would want to be there.

SCHOLES: In your fiction are you working out of a consciously held theoretical position?

HAWKES: Recently I did formulate a kind of theory of fiction which can be expressed in a few words. It seems to me that fiction should achieve revenge for all the indignities of our childhood; it should be an act of rebellion against all the constraints of the conventional pedestrian mentality around us. Surely it should destroy conventional morality. I suppose all this is to say that to me the act of writing is criminal. If the act of the revolutionary is one of supreme idealism, it’s also criminal. Obviously I think that the so-called criminal act is essential to our survival.

SCHOLES: Recently I saw W.H. Auden quoted as saying that the world would be exactly the way it is if Shakespeare and Dante and somebody else had never lived, which suggests a sort of beautiful irrelevance to art or, at any rate, an existence apart from political, geographical, geopolitical realities. Do you accept Auden’s view?

HAWKES: Was he joking?

SCHOLES: I think he was serious. I assume this is a later version of his “poetry makes nothing happen.”

HAWKES: Then he’s filled with despair. I’m sympathetic with despair. I don’t agree with the idea. It seems obvious that the great acts of the imagination are intimately related to the great acts of life – that history and the inner psychic history must dance their creepy minuet together if we are to save ourselves from total oblivion. I think it’s senseless to attempt to talk as Auden talked. The great acts of the imagination create inner climates in which psychic events occur, which in themselves are important, and also affect the outer literal events in time and space through what has occurred in the act of reading.