The Lyric Essay as Resistance

Truth from the Margins

Edited by Zoë Bossiere and Erica Trabold
Wayne State University Press ($24.99)

by Garin Cycholl

The personal essay continues to assume new ranges of shapes and impulses.  “Essay” turns as both verb and noun—a point of departure that ultimately takes as its subject that most fictional of all creations, an “I.”  Over recent decades, the hybrid that John D’Agata originally tabbed as “lyric essay” has offered writers new means of inhabiting that “I.”  As D’Agata put it in We Might As Well Call It the Lyric Essay (Seneca Review Books, 2015), this genre’s “beautiful, gangly breadth” recenters or disrupts our place in the world. This dislocation is the starting point of The Lyric Essay as Resistance: Truth from the Margins, a recent anthology edited by Zoë Bossiere and Erica Trabold.

Rhetorically at play, the lyric essay offers a space between “telling” and “being told.”  As Bossiere views it, “To write from the margins is to write from the perspective of the whole—to see the world from both the margins and the center.” Somewhere between these spaces, an “I” emerges, as Trabold finds it, in “the road blocks and potholes and detours—those gaps, the words left unspoken on the page . . . as important as the essay’s destination.” These powerful essays recognize the fragmented subjectivities that develop within the fits and starts of language itself, stories caught in media res, and words truncated in speech and memory. On these pages, voices develop within a range of subjects—personal maelstrom and adopted celibacy, bodies redefined in the sharp barbs of racism or the ambiguities of gendered experience.  “I’s” stranded in time and memory, written into life via lyric essays, accrue towards “voice.”

The writers follow phantoms and rumors, hints of selves that have inhabited or passed through the world. They negotiate pages written across time. Molly McCully Brown addresses a series of fragments to “Dear Frances, Dear Franny, Dear F, Dear Sister, Dear Ghost.” In “Whens,” Chloe Garcia Roberts narrates her “own birth story . . . one that is not [her] mother’s to tell.” Jennifer Cheng writes, “I map the ghosts; the ghosts map me. . . . the strange ambiguous homesickness I have known in the hollow cavity of my stomach every now and then since childhood.” Lyric offers a means of approaching what can be described or named amidst that “ambiguity.” Within this split, Melissa Febos recognizes, “I have not only strayed from the self I was before, but been changed. . . . My past self is a stranger, an imposter who inhabited my life for two years.” The challenge is to give that self a “voice.” 

In a core essay, Danielle Geller engages Navajo words through a series of footnotes and recollections, attempting to find a way of speaking and writing a subjectivity shaped by language’s loss. Responding to a Navajo word for “Is it true?”, Geller writes, “The answer is, in many ways, unknowable. For our mothers, the surest protection from the past was to spin truths and falsehoods into one story, one thread, impossible to distinguish in the weave.” An “I” emerges from narrative’s warp and woof here, the threads left dangling or tugged into speaking.  In this piece’s exploration, sometimes the lyric is more attendant to silence than any “I” speaking in place. The lyric essay offers a space to explore these entangled truths. Shook loose, this collection’s voices haunt, know, and speak in their persistence.

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Shy

Max Porter
Graywolf Press ($25)

by Sam Downs

As the teenage protagonist of Max Porter’s latest novel sneaks out of his boarding school and into the night, he recalls an admissions official’s admonishment. “Is this you? The whole of you?” the administrator remarks, presumably brandishing a stiff finger to the eponymous Shy’s impressive juvenile record: “Failed 11+. Expelled from two schools. First caution in 1992 aged thirteen. First arrest aged fifteen.” By sixteen, he has “sprayed, snorted, smoked, sworn, stolen, cut, punched, run, jumped, crashed an Escort, smashed up a shop, trashed a house, broken a nose, stabbed his stepdad’s finger” and, as consequence, been sent for amendment at the Last Chance home for “very disturbed young men.” Recognizable to those who have suffered under the yoke of misdirected adults in administrative positions, the educator’s ironic advice is that Shy ought not to let his past offenses define him—while emphasizing the very idea that they do.

A teenager in mid-nineties England dealing with issues the adults in his life are unable to define, Shy doesn’t have the benefit of hindsight. Not having wanted to attend the school in the first place, and not seeming to agree with descriptions of him as a “ghost,” mad, and a “Jekyll and Hyde,” he has nonetheless taken to heart the message of Last Chance—that is, it’s his, and he’d better not screw it up. On his midnight mission, Shy heads in the direction of a nearby pond carrying a backpack heavy with rocks.

As reviews have noted, Porter’s work often attempts to fill the silences that characterize male hardship. In Grief is the Thing with Feathers (Graywolf, 2016), a widower and his sons reckon with woe transfigured into a clever, protective crow; in The Death of Francis Bacon (Faber & Faber, 2021), the final fuses of a painter’s intellect ignite as he lays dying; and in 2019’s Booker Prize Long-Listed Lanny (Faber & Faber), the anthropomorphic socioenvironmental history of a village bears down on an uncannily talented young boy. All three novels are like fifteen-minute funerals: communal, convention-busting, and packing far more emotional weight than their brevity suggests. With its tender and big-hearted story, Shy marks another development in Porter’s singular, polyphonic style, distinguishing itself as his most urgent book yet.

The late aughts saw social and political discussions about men begin to reflect scholarship about the relationship between long-celebrated masculine tenets (hyper-independence, emotional invulnerability) and violent or otherwise antisocial behavior. If the laundry list is still being written, the major garments are worth airing out: worldwide, boys fight more frequently than girls at school; men commit virtually all sexual violence; and teenage boys are between two and four times as likely as their female peers to die by suicide—a statistic made darkly ironic by the American Right’s eagerness to foist liability for gun violence upon the mentally-ill, since the actual demographic uniting some 98% of mass shooters of gun violence is their maleness. Meanwhile, anti-intellectual opposition seems to have stalled the necessary turn from diagnosis to remedy, as can be seen in how useful terms like “toxic masculinity” and “mansplaining” have been hollowed of their original intent by offhand, uncritical usage.

A 2023 New Yorker article title emphasizes the extraordinary breadth of The Problem: “What’s the Matter with Men?” This could rightly serve as the slogan for Last Chance, but as well-meaning as the staff may be, their laser focus on obliquely diagnosing the boys’ troubles without providing sensible solutions leaves the likes of Shy unmoored. Faulting him for that would be like faulting a lost hiker whose guide had only shouted, “Don’t get lost!” As Porter portrays Shy’s vast, dynamic individuality in stark contrast to the reductive thinking that persists to this day, the conclusion settles in that neither Shy the book nor Shy the boy are so strange after all, however much they may defy our initial expectations. Who, after all, hasn’t spent a few youthful hours feeling lost, searching, considering escape? Who hasn’t thought, graspingly, “the night is huge and it hurts”?

Like Porter’s previous work, Shy offers a message about the human risk of minimizing the unknown by viewing it through the lens of the known. As Carmen Maria Machado states in her masterful memoir In the Dream House (Graywolf, 2019), “Putting language to something for which you have no language is no easy feat.” Perhaps the same can be said of putting language to something, or someone, for which you have too much language, and too much of it inexact.

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Jim Starlin and Warlock

warlock

by David Beard

Comics publishers republish older material not only for its artistic relevance, but also because republication is very profitable; prior to the ’80s, industry giants like Marvel and DC employed creators on a “work for hire” basis, with the company owning the rights to the stories and characters outright.  Eventually creators began demanding a piece of the action in the contracts they negotiated, but generally speaking, when comics created prior to that are collected and reprinted, revenues generated for the publisher are nearly pure profit.

Partly for that reason, Marvel has reprinted its comics of the 1960s and 1970s a near-uncountable number of times, including the story of Adam Warlock. Initially published in various series between 1967 and 1977, this character’s tale became widely heralded as a masterful execution of superhero comics. Originally a third-tier character created by Jack Kirby and Stan Lee in the pages of Fantastic Four and Thor, Warlock was a petulant infant in a super-powered body—a mere seed of an idea used mostly as a plot device during a time when comics were measured by the number of punches thrown.

The seed was watered when Roy Thomas and Gil Kane (abetted occasionally by other creative hands) revived the character in 1972; they developed both the first man theme (note the character’s first name) and added a Christ allegory.  In their version, Warlock was a pacifist called to fight to save humanity; his enemy was a “Man-Beast” leading humans down the path of violence, suffering, and death.  Stirring moments intentionally and unabashedly echoed Gospel scenes, as can be seen in this illustration’s allusion to Jesus and the apostles in a storm: 

Thomas and his collaborators used such allusions to the New Testament (and to Jesus Christ Superstar, a popular Broadway musical at the time) numerous times in their run from 1972-1973 before the series was canceled, but Warlock wouldn’t have long to wait for a revival: In 1974, a rising star creator at Marvel, Jim Starlin, reinvented the character. Starlin attempted to be as close to an author as mass-market comics would allow at the time, writing, drawing, and even coloring the first installment of Warlock’s story himself. (The only help he received in assembling the issue was from Annette Kawecki, who drew the letters on the page.)

For the next three years (one month at a time, in about twenty-page chapters), Starlin told a story of memorable complexity and originality. His Warlock fought “the Universal Church of Truth,” which extended its reign across the galaxy by offering new species a choice: either join the Church or be eradicated. But Starlin used the narrative to critique more than institutional corruption and the broken psychodynamics of religion. The Church was led by a villain called the Magus, and when Starlin revealed that the Magus was actually a future version of Warlock, the story explored a common anxiety among the young:  the fear that as they age, they will become as corrupt as the elders they decry.

In our current time, readers of Starlin’s Warlock saga and his similarly reimagined Captain Marvel series of the ’70s can see resonances within the Marvel Cinematic Universe.  In the Avengers movies, the villain Thanos seeks to collect the infinity stones so that he can end half of all life in the universe as a solution to overpopulation.  Only the Avengers can stop him, in a powerful battle that demands sacrifice among them (and takes hours of digital animation).

But Starlin’s comics made the point even finer; in their telling, Thanos seeks to collect the infinity stones to end all life, and he does so as a love offering to Death, depicted as an embodied character. To younger readers today, this may be hard to connect with; it’s difficult to explain the poetic, indeed Romantic tradition of embodying death that suffused 1970s popular culture. Death was always dark and powerful, like a grim reaper, and often sexy and alluring, like a lover; she appeared as such on countless heavy metal album covers and comics—especially Jim Starlin comics. For example, in Starlin’s 1982 graphic novel The Death of Captain Marvel (the very first original graphic novel published by Marvel Comics), the character interacts with the embodiment of death as he grapples with his own terminal cancer:

In the Avengers movies, the heroes are defeated by Thanos in Infinity War, then rally to victory in Endgame.  In Starlin’s comics, Thanos defeats the Avengers and there is no salvation by heroes—only Adam Warlock, fulfilling his messianic overtones, can defeat Thanos, and only at the cost of his own life. Starlin’s original version offers a more satisfying literary conclusion, though of course, as always in the comics medium, the door was left open for future iterations of the character.

The story of Warlock, then, begins in the 1960s as a plot device, moves through a clever but incompletely envisioned character arc built around the Christ story, and finally becomes a vehicle for political statement and emotional drama. While the parts of this sequence have been reprinted many times in various formats, they can now be found together in the Adam Warlock Omnibus (Marvel, $125) released earlier this year, which collects everything from his early appearances in Fantastic Four and Thor to the end of the ’70s Starlin epic.

As a whole, the Warlock story has been immensely valuable to Marvel for more than forty years, and perhaps gave a leg up to Starlin too; subsequent to this series, he was one of the first artists who were able to sign contracts with Marvel and other comics publishers which gave him ownership of his work. His most significant opus over this time has been Dreadstar, in which the eponymous rogue and a ragtag band of comrades are squeezed by the imperial Monarchy on one side and the theocratical Instrumentality on the other, picking up on the critique of organized religion and politics Starlin first introduced in Warlock.  Transposed from a superhero narrative into a science fiction one, Starlin’s Dreadstar loses the optimism inherent in Warlock, but it certainly retains the emotional drama, thematic complexity, deft characterization, and eye-popping draftsmanship for which his body of work is justly acclaimed. 

Disappointingly, however, Starlin’s success in negotiating ownership of works like Dreadstar has resulted in making these books more of a niche attraction; while Marvel cranks out new editions of Warlock over and over, paying Starlin nothing for the honor, Starlin has had to crowdfund the most recent edition of his creator-owned comics. Still, Warlock remains an impressive example of Jim Starlin’s early work and tenure in the comics medium.

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The Liar

Martin A. Hansen
Introduction by Morten Høi Jensen
Translated by Paul Larkin
New York Review Books ($16.95)

theliar

by Poul Houe

In his introduction to the newest English translation of The Liar, Morten Høi Jensen notes that Martin A. Hansen’s short novel, originally published in 1950, was “routinely ranked as one of the greatest Danish novels of the twentieth century,” and that “regrettably, it was also the last novel Hansen lived to publish” before “he died in 1955 from chronic kidney failure at the age of just forty-six.” To these factual epithets let me add a more subjective one: It is a book that will lead readers to marvel at how intricate storytelling and human life can be, and how subtly their intricacies can be linked.

The novel is composed of notes by Johannes Lye, a schoolteacher and parish clerk—and also, as his name suggests, the narrative’s Liar—who interacts with Nathan, an honest Biblical Nathanael. By the introduction’s account, Johannes is a torn character who “lives at a distance from other people and just as much from himself,” and who responds to life’s constant battle between conflicting forces by “telling tall tales and blurring truth and fiction” while not “getting too close to anyone, thereby failing to live.” Sort of a nihilist, he considers death a relief and homelessness his home.

Minor characters and the harsh environment play roles too: The ice breaking up around Sand Island compels Harry, Annemari’s new lover, to leave and Olaf, her son’s father, to return. Spring troubles are in the air and minds are mixed-up. Isolated from all but his dog Pigro and “forgotten by all he once knew,” Johannes, the itinerant incarnate, questions his own identity, his gift for tall tales, and the nature of humanity. Yet life’s secrets are “sometimes hidden until wonder is aroused.” Immune to fame and fortune, Johannes remains vain, he confesses to Nathan, while admitting that Harry’s secular religiosity is “stealing into him.” While Johannes is practicing the next day’s hymns in a cold and damp church, Pigro makes him sob “heavily . . . without shame.”

Although a non-believer, Johannes believes in a kind of uncompromising youth that demands “purity and truth.” Part of his duplicity involves indulgence in “passionate certainties,” while also being “death’s great confidant,” “flung from deeply enriching, coruscating moments to dark meaninglessness and despair. Only to be flung back again.” Conversely, an older person is “blind to life’s greatest contradictions,” full of “small deceits and minor untruths,” yet of “good conscience because he has become blind to the fact he’s a liar.” Embracing the role of street performer, Johannes faces a congregation of doubters and believers to whom he is a stranger; as this community gathers, he senses himself as “nothing,” “a divided self,” “a double”—all the while trolling his “ghostly pale specters” to lure them into his traps. Feigning to serve the Divine, he instead helps The Devil bewitch the faithful.

Later, he truthfully tells Nathan that his performance was but one aspect of tackling old-world values—another being his controlled scheme of ambushing himself, either because he was less detached from his deceit than he thought, or because the faith he tried to deceive was not entirely outside him but rather a part of his makeup that he could only realize after seeking to undercut it. 

Going back and forth, Johannes needs Nathan’s help. Rarely is his duplicity more obvious than when he hesitantly decides to attend a ball with “many trolls, dwarves, elves, and fairies assembled.” Facing both the self-deprecating hostess Rigmor and her antagonist Annemari, he admits to being a liar, while later telling Annemari of his wish to elope with her. Realizing it’s a lost cause, he gives her a necklace as a “parting gift” instead, with this verbal kiss of death: “Hang it around your neck, Annemari.”

When Rigmor, who feels Johannes might alleviate her despair, suspects he was never “really serious” about love, she is puzzled by what became of the uplifting experience he once aroused in her. He now says it was a “cooked up . . . theory” about how to live life with a troubled heart, or “a fool’s folly,” suited “to cause wrack and ruin”; he further opines that “life is one huge battleground in which two powers are locked in eternal combat. No-man’s-land doesn’t exist.” Only by taking ownership of one’s life does it come to fruition, and since a fruitful life rests on nature, Johannes begs Rigmor join him outdoors to observe and reflect—and to share the experience of meaning and community they both hoped for, or at least a less troubling world than often imagined.

By “mid-April,” Pigro is no longer. Actually, his ‘departure’ was a year earlier, but like the rest of this narrative’s notes, the event was recorded “only very recently” to stress the Liar’s truth-telling. On their walk the day after Rigmor’s ball, Johannes discovers a “sacrificial stone” that puts his existential experiences in context. As an outsider, “words, events, and feelings have a liberating effect” upon him. Strangers don’t conquer or pass their legacy by default, for their part of human history and memory is but a speck against endless island time. As loneliness engulfs him “like some latter-day Job,” Johannes recalls the day he and Rigmor parted ways. Remembering her potentials while acknowledging his own failures, our Liar embraces his wounded self, ready to resign but also to move on: “And now we won’t speak of that anymore, Nathan.” 

Far from timeless, less so from timely, The Liar puts a late, rather than light, twist on the traditional Bildungsroman. Paul Larkin’s translation, though slightly overwrought and not always factually correct, reads well, making this new edition of a Danish classic a welcome publication overall.

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Emerald Wounds

Selected Poems

Joyce Mansour
Translated by Emilie Moorhouse
City Lights ($22.95)

emeraldwounds

by Allan Graubard

Erotic, subversive, sensual, vivacious, defiant, fragile, satirical, ironic, lyrical, eruptive, heretical, anguished, sexy, and buoyant are just some of the words that come to mind when considering the poetry of Joyce Mansour. Certainly there are other words that readers will conjure. Have I left out odorous and sweaty, given Mansour’s embrace of the body as a ground her poems take root in and burst from? And what about her body, the female body, in a world run by men? Add in the complexities of passion, love, marriage, family, and exile, and readers will find that Mansour creates a rich and spicy gumbo in these Selected Poems.

From her first book, 1953’s Cris/Screams, to her last, Trous Noirs/Black Holes, published in France in 1986, the year of her death, Mansour will delight those with her, or those willing to be touched by her, while scandalizing others for whom custom and behavior are sacrosanct. Throughout her body of work, Mansour’s titular “emerald wounds” blossom and ensnare, even as they live and die, because they sing—this is a world ripe with magic, the kind that exalts and transforms by the power of words.

Long associated with the Paris surrealist group, Mansour in this new translation lives with a currency that is as striking as it is needed, especially when women’s free expression of desire, sex, and autonomy still militate against the enduring pivots of misogyny, whether intimate or institutionalized. Indeed, the fifteen-year lapse between this, Emile Moorhouse’s effort, and a similarly configured translation of Mansour’s writings by Serge Gavronsky (Black Widow Press, 2008) has, it seems, done little to eviscerate men’s desire to control women, so embedded in the social fabric it is, with deadly consequence all too often.   

But a brief history.  Born in England in 1928 as Joyce Patricia Adès to a wealthy family of Jewish-Syrian descent, she is raised in Cairo; her language English. Later, with her second husband who speaks only French, she will change, adopting French as her Rosetta Stone. Her poems, as she describes them, originate as screams or cries, the aforementioned title to her first book. They rise through her as the traditional mourning wails of Egyptian women do, sibilant, yearning, and sharp. Do her poems then function as a form of “exorcism,” as Moorhouse notes, of the dual traumas Mansour suffered when young: the death of her mother when she was fifteen and the sudden death of her first husband six months after their honeymoon, both from cancer? Perhaps. But it does not end there. If exorcism is a therapeutic medium born from trauma, the metamorphic and liberating charge of Mansour’s poetry leads.

By the early 1950s she circulates among Cairo’s avant-garde where, oddly enough, French, a colonial appendage, is the literary tongue. Political change, though, forces their move to Paris where her first book, Cris/Screams, draws the praise of André Breton, who identifies Mansour as one of the three most significant poets to emerge after World War II. From then on Mansour participates in the activities of the surrealist group, publishing in their journals and collaborating with some of their major and allied artists: Wilfredo Lam, Roberto Matta, Hans Bellmer, Pierre Alechinsky, and others.   

Emerald Wounds, with its 100-plus poems across ten of Mansour’s books, gives readers generous access into her world, emotional, vulnerable, and (as Alfred Jarry would say) umorous. A detailed introduction sets the stage while pointing out that, despite the potency Mansour commands, she is more often overlooked in the larger literary landscape. As for these translations, they perform well enough, beyond some awkward phrasings and word choices.

The first poem in Cris/Screams startles. From the sensitive opening, perhaps referring to the death of and funeral for her young husband—“I lift you in my arms / For the last time”—the corpse in its coffin “moving in your narrow world”—comes this implacable image that not only avoids cheap sentiment but also heightens the emotional stakes. For this corpse has its “head removed from your slit throat.” A concluding riposte to it all resonates with the bitterness of aborted passion: “It is the beginning of eternity.”

When it comes to sex, a convulsionary paradise, Mansour is ever explicit; the theme enriches throughout her work, as in the final poem from Cris/Screams:

May my breasts provoke you
I want your rage.
I want to see your eyes thicken
Your cheeks turn white as they sink.
I want your shudders.
I want you to burst between my thighs
That my desires be satiated on the fertile soil
Of your shameless body.

In her second book, Déschirures/Shreds, from 1955, the poems gain broader social reach and read as if written today in response to the oppressive cabal of racism and class:

Cry little man
Your boat is for sale
Your wife is sold
And the fresh milk of your cow
Red with the blood of blacks
Makes your children piss
Their hate

And then just a few pages on, pivoting to the sexual shivers that inspire her, is one of her most poignant poems. It begins this way:

I want to sleep with you elbow to elbow
Hair entwined
Genitals enlaced
With your mouth as a pillow

And ends in raked diminuendo:

Consumed by the wild inertia of bliss
Splayed on your shadow
Pounded by your tongue
And to die between the rotted teeth of a rabbit
Contented.

The third section includes twelve prose pieces and poems that Mansour published in Bief: Jonction Surrealiste, a modest Parisian journal, from 1958-1960. Satire plays deftly with an opening salvo: a comedic critique of heterosexuality that deforms the traditional meaning of its title. “The Missal of the Missus (Good Nights)” evolves in three parts, each translating the rules and rituals of the Catholic mass into something else; something they would never otherwise have been used for. The subtext of the first part, “Advice for Running on Four Wheels,” reveals the poet’s body as a car cruising at night hot with desire, and what a woman can do during sex to ensure her lover’s satisfaction. The second part, “Cold Out? A Dress Is Essential,” refers to fabric spun from flayed “moorish” skin, “two tea towels” worth, and how to appear beautiful when wearing it. Savagery is just beside the point. The third section, “Lines Around a Circle,” is a pastiche of fashion magazine dictates where you must “Straighten the silhouette without crushing the organs.”

Included as well is Mansour’s take on gossipy female advice columns with some “Practical Advice While You Wait”; that is, for your man—when in a train station, a restaurant, a city hall, or at home. No matter being worried or jealous, the commandment is clear: The woman must stay “pretty, relaxed, sharp . . .” But don’t “wait in the streets” and always wait for the heart of the conflict steaming up “amongst the reddened leaves and the caramel fumes of your discriminations.”

Husband neglecting you? “Dowsing” has a cure: “Invite his mother to sleep in your room.” Want something more? Okay: “Piss in his soup when he lies down happily next to you.” And then, “Be gentle but skillful stuffing the fat goose / With octopus messages / And mandrake roots.” In the end, however, the wife needs what she doesn’t get from him:

Motionless like a mollusk flatulent with music
Clings to the telephone
And cries
In spite of myself my carrion fanatacizes over your ousted old cock
That sleeps

These poems give a sense of the breadth of Mansour’s writing, which can shift, implicitly or explicitly, from personal to social, cultural, and political contexts with ease, and from brief to magnetic longer poems in her later collections, such as “Endlessly Midnight,” “Pandemonium,” and, the finale, “Black Holes.” Although seduction and orgasm fuel her poems, there is a parallel motif of disgust and pain that illuminates a depth of embodiment and humanity. If we are wounded by the repressions and oppressions that stalk us, Mansour indeed turns those hurts into dark and precious jewels.

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The Big Myth

How American Business Taught Us to Loathe Government and Love the Free Market

Naomi Oreskes and Erik M. Conway
Bloomsbury ($35)

thebigmyth1

by George Longenecker

Dislike of government and antagonism towards science, labor unions, and social programs are neither coincidental nor unplanned, as Naomi Oreskes and Erik M. Conway point out in their latest book, The Big Myth; these sentiments have been part of intentional public relations campaigns for over a century. In their follow-up to Merchants of Doubt: How a Handful of Scientists Obscured the Truth on Issues from Tobacco Smoke to Global Warming (Bloomsbury, 2010), the authors, both historians of science, name this the philosophy of “market absolutism or market essentialism.” As they state from the outset, “This is the story of how American business manufactured a myth that has, for decades and to our detriment, held us in its grip. It is the true history of a false idea: the idea of ‘the magic of the marketplace.’”

Oreskes and Conway describe market fundamentalism as “the belief that free markets are the best means to run an economic system but also the belief that they are the only means that will not ultimately destroy our other freedoms.” The introduction is illustrated with a 1950s ad from a consortium operating under the name “America’s Independent Electric Light and Power Companies”; the freedoms listed in the ad include a Holy Bible, a door key, a pencil, and a free ballot. At that time, private utilities lobbied against electric co-ops and served only more lucrative areas, keeping millions of rural Americans in the dark: “Rural customers wanted electricity as much as their urban counterparts—and many observers argued that they needed it more—but electric utilities had neglected them.”

The authors smartly refocus some themes from their previous book within their new framework; for example, they label climate change “a market failure, because markets, acting illegally, failed to provide what people need and created a problem that markets have proven unable to solve.” The National Electric Light Association (NELA) was founded in 1885 as the industry expanded, and by the 1930s, it lobbied not only against electric co-ops, but also against government projects such as the Hoover Dam. Its campaign, the authors explain, “was based on dubious and historically misleading assertions, misrepresentations, half-truths, and in some cases outright lies.” NELA claimed that “Government involvement in electricity generation or distribution would be inappropriate, socialistic, even tyrannical.”

Drawing from many primary sources, Oreskes and Conway show that by the 1920s, the National Association of Manufacturers (NAM) “already had a long history of working to prevent business regulation by state or federal governments and, above all, fighting unions.” NAM funded a massive campaign to convince Americans that big business’s interests were their interests.  They made a rhetorical shift from “private enterprise” to “free enterprise,” a term still used a century later. They named this campaign the “Fight for Freedom!” To reach a broader audience, NAM used a series of sixteen posters, with captions such as “The real threat to workers’ interests is taxation,” a theme that resonates in political outcomes today. Knowing that many workers would be unlikely to read commentary in The New York Times, they used comic strips like Uncle Abner Says to reach a mass audience. The authors contend that such propaganda had long-lasting effects on Americans’ beliefs:

NAM members didn’t just manufacture cars and carpets; they manufactured a myth. They would spend the ensuing decades bolstering its intellectual credentials and embedding it in the bedrock of American culture, to the point where myth would be mistaken for age-old truth.

Oreskes and Conway document that NELA, NAM, and the American Liberty League all claimed “that government ‘intervention’ in the marketplace was a radical departure from American history” and cite numerous examples to show that this claim was false. With canals, roads and railroads, governments supported infrastructure development, including New York State’s Erie Canal Corporation. Slavery was regulated and abolished by state and federal government intervention. Furthermore, they point out, NAM “also had to skate over its own history. NAM was created in the late nineteenth century to advocate for federal imposition of protective tariffs, and to encourage the U.S. government to build the Panama Canal.”

The chapter “A Questionable Gospel” details efforts to reconcile laissez-faire business practices with Christian arguments for social justice. For instance, Los Angeles Congregational minister James W. Fifield built “an influential conservative movement, known as Spiritual Mobilization, whose goal was to convert mainline Protestant leaders and their parishioners into market fundamentalists.” The authors likewise document the ongoing influence of business on religion: “captains of American industry had found a way to turn Protestant theology on its head, from embracing the poor to celebrating the rich.”

American antagonism towards science and government regulations has hindered action on global climate change, the authors maintain—an argument they developed thoroughly in their first book. “To accept the enormity of what climate change portended for civilianization was to accept that capitalism, as practiced, was undermining the very prosperity it was supposed to deliver.”

In concluding, Oreskes and Conway cite the Covid-19 pandemic and the opioid crisis. As they put it: “Overreliance on markets and underreliance on government have cost the American people dearly. And this has been the case during both Democratic and Republican administrations since Bill Clinton.” Government, they argue, is the solution to many of our biggest problems—and it always has been.  

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The Nightmare Man

J.H. Markert
Crooked Lane Books ($19.99)

nightmareman

by Ryan Tan

In J.H. Markert’s The Nightmare Man, a serial killer called The Scarecrow terrorizes the fictional town of Crooked Tree. He is so called because of his habit of posing as a scarecrow in his victims’ cornfields. When they approach to investigate, he runs away. This continues for the next two days, until he catches them as they approach. His modus operandi derives entirely from a horror novel written by the protagonist, Ben Bookman, a citizen of Crooked Tree. The lead police investigator, Detective Mills, suspects Ben of being The Scarecrow; his distrust of Ben is strengthened by the disappearance of Ben’s brother thirteen years ago, which Mills also investigated. It remains an unsolved case.

Engaging vignettes end each chapter; each one is narrated from the point-of-view of one character, giving us a glimpse into their life. Compared to the main story, the vignettes contain less dialogue and more exposition; without conversations to break up description, the writing flows more smoothly, and Markert’s talent for character building shines.

Markert also successfully imbues each character with a distinctive manner of speech. We become so familiar with each of the character’s voices that if their names were omitted from a conversation, we would still be able to identify them by their unique diction. One character who shines in dialogue is Ben’s nine-year-old daughter, Bri, who expresses innocence and astuteness at the same time. When she converses with another character, she defines herself against them, developing not only her own individuality, but also theirs. And since dialogue dominates The Nightmare Man, this refinement of their personalities occurs over and over, such that by the end of the novel, each character is fully fleshed out.

With powerful characterization surrounding a central mystery, The Nightmare Man is an entertaining read for horror and suspense fans.

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In Myth and Paint: An Interview with Mary Jo Bang

Bang, Mary Jo (Carly Ann Faye) MAIN

by Tiffany Troy

A Film in Which I Play Everyone (Graywolf Press, $17), Mary Jo Bang’s new collection of poems, draws from David Bowie’s fever-dream of directing a film in which he simultaneously plays all the characters. Bang’s vast cast of characters—fictional, mythological, historical—are tasked with the same daily assignment, which is to make sense of a world where one feels like a perpetual outsider. These deeply observed poems explore what it is to find oneself trapped in a role—that of Daphne or Sisyphus, Ophelia or Hamlet—and discover that the only escape is through self-knowledge and imagination.

Mary Jo Bang has published eight previous books of poetry, including A Doll for Throwing (Graywolf Press, 2017), called “a haunting exploration of a past world whose terrors still ring true today” by Ms. Magazine, and Elegy (Graywolf Press, 2009), which won the National Book Critics Circle Award; in the past decade she has also published  acclaimed new translations of Dante’s Inferno and Purgatorio that update these classics into a lyrical, twenty-first century idiom. She teaches at Washington University in Saint Louis.

Tiffany Troy: How does the opening poem “From Another Approach” open the door to this collection?

Mary Jo Bang: I think what felt right about letting that poem “open the door” was that it begins in media res. You could say that all poems begin by plunging the reader “into the midst of things,” if “things” equal the poet’s ongoing obsessions and preoccupations. That poem was written in November of 2020 during the first year of the pandemic when my life, like the lives of most people, was freighted with anxiety about what was happening—given the pandemic and, additionally, the socio-political situation in the country and across the world. Shut up inside alone for months, it sometimes felt that the boundaries between the world and the self were becoming even more porous than usual. 

TT: Absolutely. To me that first poem also touches on how the poet’s obsessions and preoccupations find their way into the collection—namely, a keen observation of the “line between the two blues, water // and sky, you and I,” and the feelings beneath what can be captured on film. Would you like to speak about how the title of your book, which is drawn from a statement David Bowie made, shaped your approach?

MJB: I’m not sure how I came across the Bowie quote, but when I read it, I immediately thought, what an apt description of the lyric poem—a film where all the characters are played by the poet. It has to be that way since there’s no one else there, only the poet and the blank piece of paper. Most of us agree that the lyric-I is a construct, but I began to see how everyone else in the poem is a construct as well. That “you” or “her” or “them,” the mother, the sister, David Bowie—they’re all characters in the movie that plays in your head and which you translate into text. The result appears to represent your way of thinking and your way of using language, but no matter how close the details are to your biographical life, within the confines of the poem, there is no “real,” only useful fictions that reveal your attempt to represent some aspect of yourself that may or may not reflect a reader’s experience of being in the world.

TT: Yes, and framing as a construct appears frequently, whether on the level of language or in the poems’ concerns. For instance, in asking “​​Why you are you and I am I,” the lyrical “I” and the addressee, the “you,” are subjects as well as objects. Likewise, the collection examines film culture and social expectations that enforce the performance of gender roles and identities (“toxic masculinity told her stepfather / it was safe to drive across water”). What does your notion of the lyric poem as a stage set do for you as the poet?

MJB: Treating the poem as a vignette or a scene from a movie allowed me to conceptually be in two places at once. I could create a speaker to serve as a character moving around on a set, speaking the lines I’d written for her, and at the same time, stand at a remove and comment on what it must be like to act and speak and think like her. It’s a type of dissociation—but one that mirrors the dissociative experience of being hypervigilant in a world where one often feels alien. And if you identify as a woman, and especially a queer woman, that world is also dangerous.

TT: The duality that you describe is very well done. I also love how the poems allow us to look inside the interiority of a character whose scripted performance may be very different from how the actor actually feels about the role.

MJB: I’m afraid the actor playing the role has no feelings about the role they’ve been assigned. They only do what I tell them to do and say what I tell them to say! Which reminds me of an interview I once read where someone asked Tom Perotta if he could go to lunch with any one of his characters, which one would it be—his answer was that he could go to lunch with any of his characters any time he wished to!

There is no impermeable barrier between the character and the author. The characters in these poems are different from me, the poet, in some ways—I’ve never been turned into a tree, for example, as Daphne was—but in other ways, we share some knowledge, she and I, and that’s why she’s in the poem, and why I’m playing her. Running away from Apollo, who won’t take no for an answer, and near the point of total exhaustion, she appeals to her father, the river god, to save her, and he obliges by turning her into a tree. Personally, I don’t feel like that is the type of help she might have been asking for! In fact, it cruelly makes permanent her perceived rigidity—her refusal to give up her virginity to Apollo—and now she is forced to be forever passive while Apollo gets to worship her leaves and use them to make his laurel wreaths. I don’t see the justice in that! And she’s been silenced, which is simply another way of being held down.

TT: You’ve written and translated several poetry collections. Was your process creating this book different from previous books?

MJB: In terms of process, it’s difficult to compare any two books. Some of my books have had a mechanism that tied the poems together. The Bride of E, for example, is an abecedarian collection where the letters of the alphabet provoked individual poems into being. In The Eye Like a Strange Balloon, each poem is an ekphrastic response to an artwork. In some ways, these poems are a bit like those in Elegy, which deals with grief, and a bit like those in Louise in Love, where I was explicit in my use of fictional characters. The title of this book is the only unequivocal gesture to the notion of fiction but that film (in which I play everyone) could also be a documentary. Or a hybrid docudrama. Or even a mockumentary!

TT: The degree of genre-bending achieved in the collection is reflected in the characters that take center stage: there’s Daphne, of course, in a distinctly mythological space. Then there’s Adam and Eve, Mistress Mary of nursery-rhyme fame, and the still photographer and the movie set doctor. The poems themselves carry further allusions, to Alice in Wonderland, for instance, or to Charles Lamb’s writings, which is another layer of interpretation, in which the real and the fictional blend and coexist. The poem “I Could Have Been Better” has quite a few people in it, from vastly different realms. Could you talk about how the poem is using them?

MJB: There are quite a few people there, I see that now! There’s the I, who’s lamenting her flaws and their consequences, which leads her to those two famous signifiers of error and disastrous aftermath, Adam who’s first, so alphabetically A, and Eve. Eve then morphs into Lucy, the fossil skeleton of a woman found in 1974 in Ethiopia, whose remains are believed to be at least 3 million years old, which is near the beginning of being human. She was found in a river basin area at the foot of the Ethiopian mountains, one of which becomes the steep hill up which Sisyphus, another icon of eternal punishment, is being forced to keep pushing a boulder, which cruelly rolls down the hill as soon as it reaches the top. That takes the speaker to a moment when a policewoman, following the procedure of checking on someone to whom they have just telephoned the news of a death, arrives to ask whether she’s okay. She’s not. The death, a consequence that’s clearly beyond repair, sends the speaker to the “bed [she] was born in,” conceived there by a flawed Adam and Eve. Against the tally of errors and horrific after-effects, the only consolation is that one has loved and was loved.

The poem then takes us to “another country”—an echo of the lines in Hamlet’s “To be or not to be” soliloquy, which were quoted in an earlier poem (Part I of “Four Boxes of Everything”)—

    “The undiscovered country . . .

puzzles the will, / And makes us rather bear
those ills we have / Than fly to others
that we know not of?”

 The ellipses obscure Hamlet’s description of the undiscovered country as the one “from whose bourn / No traveler returns”—i.e., death. The speaker obviously did come back but left some part of herself behind. The woman to whom the speaker wanted to say, “I love you”—but can’t, because love is tied to the death—takes us to Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, where the goddess of love, having been born as a fully grown woman, is seen arriving on a half-shell to a shore edged by windblown reeds. Venus holds her long hair over the place where, if she were Eve, a fig leaf would be. While the speaker would like to see “something change,” it can’t. Like Eve’s catastrophe, the speaker’s catastrophe is changeless. Venus won’t change either, because she’s trapped in myth and paint.

TT: The idea of the speaker “tracing each second back / to a biblical beginning” and being all right but only if you “discount” the present recalls Sisyphus’s unending “same daily / assignment” where the disastrous errors and linked punishment gets continually reenacted in the memory. Counting and numbers are recurring motifs not only in this poem but in the collection overall. How did you organize the poems into five sections?

MJB: My students frequently ask me about how to put a manuscript together, and I tell them all the ways that have been suggested to me, beginning with my teacher Lucie Brock-Broido’s advice, which was to first choose how many sections you want, but never more than four. When I asked why that limit, she said, “more than four is just… fussy!” I never questioned her wisdom, but when it came to arranging the poems in this manuscript, I was at a total loss. So, I did what another poet once told me he did, which was to give the manuscript to a poet friend and let them arrange it. I gave this manuscript to Timothy Donnelly, and he came up with the five sections—based, I believe, on the idea of a five-act play, suggested by the presence of Hamlet in the epigraph and in several of the poems. When he returned it to me, I found I had to move some of the poems around and flip the order of two of the sections, but at least I now had what felt like a scaffold. And the five sections felt useful and not at all fussy!

TT: What was it about five sections that felt useful?

MJB: In many of these poems, the speaker is seen in the midst of trying to make sense of the world while, at the same time, questioning how it is that one makes sense. How does the brain work; how does experience, especially formative events that to others may seem trivial, interact with the body and its hardwired brain? And how does all of that get further enmeshed with the social order into which one is tossed at birth? The speaker seems intent on piecing that together—not in the hope of determining causality, that’s not possible—but to somehow escape the weight of the continual rumination and the sense of detachment produced by it. There’s an intensity to that psychological accounting; the section breaks, I hope, provide some relief from that inquisition. And some periodic, if only temporary, resolve.

TT:  I admire that intensity in your work! Section breaks provide a reprieve from the persona’s inquisition, and line breaks achieve that reprieve on a microlevel. For instance, in “How It Will Feel Months from Now,” one of my favorite poems, the sight of the pink sliver of the sky, the sound of the opera singer’s high notes, and the yearning for the sky through time are described with exactitude and formal mastery. I enjoy the music of “The keys keep making the piano be” and the way it morphs into “As long as I have sight, I’ll see” in the following stanza.

Could you speak about the forms you deploy in the collection? Does the poem find its form or vice versa? Most poems in the collection are consistent in line length.

MJB: I use the line to measure out sound—alliteration, assonance, rhyme—and content, which sometimes takes the form of story-telling—this happened, this happened, this / happened. At other times, the content is meant to imitate interior monologue. Over the course of this manuscript, the line began to reflect the speaker’s characteristic speech (and thought) patterns. We all have a way of speaking, an idiolect, that is recognizably our own. It’s also possible that I adapted my line length to Dante’s since I was writing these poems while I was translating Purgatorio.

In terms of form, most of the poems are arranged in stanzas, a convention I find difficult to resist! I find stanzas to be visually satisfying. I do try to be sensitive to poems that don’t want to be broken and that work best as a block form, but they almost have to insist before I give in to that arrangement! There is a certain deliberateness with stanzas, an argument that this is exactly how things should be. It’s of course a fallacy because there are any number of ways the poem can be arranged. The first poems of this manuscript were originally written as 13-line prose blocks, a carry-over from the poems in A Doll for Throwing (Graywolf Press, 2017), which had all been arranged in justified prose blocks to echo the Bauhaus aesthetic, since the poems were in dialogue with that movement and particularly with Lucia Moholy, who photographed the buildings and products that came out of the workshops. With these poems, however, after a while, I began to miss writing in lines, and I went back and re-lineated all of those early poems. For me, a collection finds its own way. It may start out as one thing and end as something totally different. It’s only after I’ve written a number of individual poems that they begin to seem like parts of a whole.

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The Bomb

The Weapon That Changed the World

Didier Alcante and Laurent-Frédéric Bollée
Illustrated by Denis Rodier
Translated by Ivanka T. Hahenberger
Abrams ComicArts ($29.99)

bomb

by John Bradley

“In the beginning, there was nothing. But in this nothing . . . was everything!” So begins this graphic book on the development of the first atomic bombs. Not only is the Biblical opening a surprise, but the speaker here is the element uranium, who offers other such chilling comments in this well-researched (with a selected bibliography) and expansive (459 pages) volume, which concludes with the U.S. bombing of the Japanese cities of Hiroshima and Nagasaki in 1945.

Although a history of the bomb might sound like an odd fit for a graphic book, the three authors—with Alcante and Bollée providing the research and writing and Rodier the artwork—make the medium seem ideal. The book feels like a storyboard for a film, given its use of varied locations (Africa, Norway, Japan, Germany, and the U.S.), a vast cast (short biographies of the central figures are included at the back of the book), and intrigue, complete with a scientist-spy. The authors must be commended for their extensive research into the development of the bomb, especially as regards the story of the Hungarian physicist Leo Szilard, the first scientist to see the potential of splitting the atom—it was he who pushed the U.S. to develop an atomic bomb before the Nazis did, though once the weapon neared completion, Szilard did everything he could to stop its use. He foresaw a nuclear arms race, as well as the moral stain of the U.S. being the first nation to rain such hell on cities filled with civilians. On many occasions in the book, Szilard and General Leslie Grove, in charge of the Manhattan Project, argue passionately. By foregrounding the story of Szilard, the authors weave into the narrative a moral dimension sometimes missing in historical accounts of the bomb that view it more as a scientific breakthrough.

Another thread in the saga that is often missing in much of U.S. nuclear history is the secret testing done on civilians. One such individual was Ebb Cade, an African-American worker at the Oak Ridge facility. Driving to work one morning, on March 24, 1945, Cade accidentally drove off the road. When he woke, he found himself in a hospital with a host of injuries. “We’re going to take good care of you, Mr. Cade,” an anonymous doctor tells him. “You can trust us.” Later, this same doctor injects Cade with an unknown shot. The reader soon discovers that this “human product,” as the officials call Mr. Cade, was injected with plutonium, though he was never asked if he consented to be involved in an experiment to learn about the effect of plutonium on the human body, nor was he informed later. The officials casually discuss how Cade lost fifteen teeth due to the shot, but this is quickly rationalized—“He suffers from acute gum inflammation anyway”—before they offer the ultimate excuse: “But it was in the interest of science!” The book includes one other “human product” who is injected with plutonium, but there were many others. Eileen Welsome’s book The Plutonium Files: America’s Secret Medical Experiments in the Cold War (Dial Press) broke this story for the first time in 1999, and Alcante and Dodier make effective use of Welsome’s research.

Not only is the text of The Bomb engaging—and translated so well by Ivanka T. Hahenberger it feels as if it was written in English—but the illustrations keep the eye engaged as well. Bollée, who has published dozens of graphic novels in his native France, provides the expected “BOOOM” and “SCHBAM!!,” but the artwork shows great variety and versatility in technique. At one point we see a nightmare had by Klaus Fuchs, who spied on the Manhattan Project for the Russians; the hallucinatory style of the art here deftly conveys the terror of Fuchs’s dream. The depictions of bodies in Hiroshima set aflame by the atomic bomb are also vividly disturbing—as they should be.

While a graphic book might not be the first choice of a reader who wants a detailed history of the creation of the atomic bomb, The Bomb would be a good place to start for those who want a stirring and factually accurate (except for the creation of a Japanese family in Hiroshima) account. And should anyone think that our atomic history no longer concerns us, consider the words of uranium that close the book: “And so, you think this is the end of my story? What if it’s only the beginning?”

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Motherfield

Julia Cimafiejeva
Translated by Valzhyna Mort and Hanif Abdurraqib 
Deep Vellum ($18.95)

motherfield

by Jessica Johnson

The first collection available in English by Belarusian poet, translator, and editor Julia Cimafiejeva, Motherfield begins with approximately thirty pages of the author’s year-long protest diary, composed in English during a mass uprising around the 2020 presidential election in Belarus; authoritarian leader Alexandr Lukashenko, in power since 1994, retained it in elections the E.U. deemed illegitimate. Cimafiejeva’s poems, translated from Belarusian by the impressive team of Valzhyna Mort and Hanif Abdurraqib, follow the diary, concluding with a single poem composed in English.

The diary feels written for the gaze of readers outside the events, possibly as a record in case something happens to the author. For some American readers, it will hold flashes of recognition—particularly the difficult feelings that come from continuing literary life and experiencing respites of comfort and safety during a political crisis—as well as an abundance of chilling occurrences that don’t (yet) happen here (for example, widespread internet outages as a government tactic).

Offering historical, political, and personal context to the poems that follow it, the diary is an activist’s account, but it is also a poet’s account; some of its moves and images linger and react with the poems’ more distilled elements. Of the dubious polling station where she will cast her vote, Cimafiejeva writes, “Every election day in Lukashenka’s Belarus has turned into a demonstration of the cheap and vulgar aesthetics of his power.” Her description settles on a

teenage girl in a pseudo-folk costume with a wreath on her head . . . singing about her love for the Motherland, passionately clenching a microphone. Her Russian song checks off the golden wheat fields, the big blue lakes, and the slender white storks flying over our heads. She sings that we all live safely and peacefully in our beloved Belarus.

Here Cimafiejeva shows the propagandist’s Russian-language vision of the Motherland, one that the poems will meaningfully subvert to include ecological disaster, disconnection, and stifled expression. Cimafiejeva was born in 1981 in a region of Belarus that became part of the Chernobyl zone during her childhood. Her poetry develops, often through extended metaphor, a concept of bleak, devastated embodiment with disrupted relationships between past and future, land and people, people and language.

In the opening poem, “The Stone of Fear,” the speaker’s inheritance is “a trust fund / of fear” in the form of a stone. The stone is mute and without memory, “an eternally slow-growing / embryo.” To nurse it, its inheritors must “unlearn” how to breathe, “how to say what needs to be said.” In place of nurture and natural cycles of rebirth, Cimafiejeva finds intergenerational reproduction of something wrong.

While ecological devastation, absence of language, and reproductive bodies feature in the metaphors that drive many of these poems, references to Chernobyl also appear more literally. In “Rocking the Devil,” children swing their feet at a bus stop bench; it begins to rain and the girls stick out their tongues, but no one knows the raindrops are “disastrous,” that they’ve already permeated the scene’s vibrant flora. When the bus takes the girls away, the trees wave goodbye. Similarly, “1986” is written from the perspective of a “we” who had to leave houses, crops, and graves. Strangers dismantle their homes and what remains of their lives in the ancestral village; when they come back to visit, the land does not forgive them.

If the diary operates in one register of documentary, the poems work in others, but several moments in the poems call back to the diary. “My First City, Zhlobin” portrays a steel-producing town as a body that nurtures ruin:

I fear your children, Zhlobin,
the steel-cast children
of Zhlobin
nursed by the factory’s
smoggy tits.

The speaker here, fed on the factory’s black milk, emits rust, whereas the body in Cimafiejeva’s diary observation “I feel safe inside the body of a crowd”—the body of people gathered in protest, sharing water and food and generally looking after each other—can be read as a counterpoint to the blighted bodies of the poems.

Also thought-provoking is the diary entry for October 17-18, when Cimafiejeva and her husband, a novelist, are at a literary festival launching their books. He draws a crowd, but she doesn’t. She writes, “My new poetry book was published a few days before the election. It was the worst time: no one is interested in a tiny poetry book when the main news is deaths, beatings, and detentions. But there is no other time.” This moment highlights the question of poetry’s connection to lived and recorded history, a question enacted again by the arrangement of the book itself.

That arrangement comes to a crescendo with “My European Poem,” which closes the book. It speaks to the possibility of being read by an international audience and being placed among writers working in less challenging political conditions. Of Belarusian history, Cimafiejeva writes,

When I tell it in English,
I want to pretend that I am you,
That I don’t have that painful experience
Of constant protesting and constant failing,
That nasty feeling of frustration and dismay.

In the end the speaker keeps a “beaten hope” that “builds its nest / On my roof and sings / In Belarusian.” This poem, unlike others, is dated: August 5, 2020, just before the election, before the crackdown, before the president remained, again, in power. The beginning is at the end, enacting the cyclical nature of the “beaten hope” the poem names.

Yet if Motherfield’s final poem relies on the protest diary for context, the poems that precede it—their images of wordlessness, thwarted regeneration, and ecological catastrophe—give the book its depth, and announce Julia Cimafiejeva as a poet that English language readers will want to follow in the future.

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