By Ben Lerner
Adam Gordon is an excellent, if hugely unreliable, younger American poet on a prestigious fellowship in Madrid, suffering to set up his feel of self and his dating to paintings. what's genuine while our stories are mediated through language, expertise, medicine, and the humanities? Is poetry a necessary paintings shape, or in simple terms a reveal for the reader's projections? rather than following the dictates of his fellowship, Adam's "research" turns into a meditation at the threat of the true within the arts and past: are his relationships with the folk he meets in Spain as fraudulent as he fears his poems are? A witness to the 2004 Madrid educate bombings and their aftermath, does he perform old occasions or basically watch them move him by?
In prose that veers among the comedian and tragic, the self-contemptuous and the encouraged, Leaving the Atocha Station is a portrait of the artist as a tender guy in an age of Google searches, prescribed drugs, and spectacle.
Born in Topeka, Kansas, in 1979, Ben Lerner is the writer of 3 books of poetry The Lichtenberg Figures, attitude of Yaw, and suggest loose direction. He has been a finalist for the nationwide publication Award and the Northern California e-book Award, a Fulbright pupil in Spain, and the recipient of a 2010-2011 Howard starting place Fellowship. In 2011 he grew to become the 1st American to win the Preis der Stadt Münster für Internationale Poesie. Leaving the Atocha Station is his first novel.
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Some of them, who weren't class conscious, kept their mouths shut; but the young Cossacks who'd spent some time in the Red Army said : 'And about time too! No need to vote. . ' "The old men standing at the back opposed this at first, but I used my tongue to good purpose to propagandize them, and they all agreed with me that the Soviet government's our nursing mother and we must all cling categorically to her skirts. "The meeting sent a document to the District Executive Committee, asking them to issue us rifles and cartridges, and appointed me and the secletary Nikon to ride to the district centre.
The food requisitioning detachment retired into the heart of the district. Bodyagin and the tribunal commandant Teslenko remained in the village a further twenty-four hours. They stayed on to despatch the last wagon loads of grain to the receiving point. In the early morning a storm blew up. It raged, it smoked, it lashed the village with a white mist of snow. Late in the afternoon a dozen or so horsemen galloped into the square. The alarm bell went rattling out over the village sunk in snow-drifts.
But the calves went on dying, and with every day the herd grew smaller and smaller. Grisha began to notice that the graves had been roughly dug up and opened; gnawed bones were lying not far from the spot, and the herd grew restless and fearful at night. In the silence of the night a savage howl suddenly broke out, and the herd tore about the yard. Smashing down the fencing, the calves made their way in little groups to the shanty. They slept close to the fire, breath ing heavily and chewing their cud.