당신은 주제를 찾고 있습니까 “run rudolph run denis johnson – Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band)“? 다음 카테고리의 웹사이트 https://ro.taphoamini.com 에서 귀하의 모든 질문에 답변해 드립니다: ro.taphoamini.com/wiki. 바로 아래에서 답을 찾을 수 있습니다. 작성자 Dennis Johnson 이(가) 작성한 기사에는 조회수 3,478회 및 좋아요 37개 개의 좋아요가 있습니다.
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Lead Vocals-Dennis M. Johnson
Lead Guitar-Dennis M. Johnson
Rhythm Guitar-Dennis M. Johnson
Bass Guitar-Dennis M. Johnson
Drums-Dennis M. Johnson
***Pro-Tools/Audio
Sony Movie/Video
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Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band) 29979 명이 이 답변을 좋아 …
run rudolph run denis johnson 주제에 대한 자세한 내용은 여기를 참조하세요. CHAPTER 3. Examples of Endings. When Denis Johnson researched his …
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Date Published: 3/6/2021
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CHAPTER 3
Examples of Endings. When Denis Johnson researched his essay “Run, Rudolph, Run” (see page 451) about the anti-abortion bomber Eric Rudolph, he dn’t know.
Source: richardcolby.net
Date Published: 5/18/2022
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M SARKI — Notes on Denis Johnson, SEEK, and Gordon Lish
Run, Rudolph, Run was my favorite and it focused on one of my own obsessions of years past about Eric Rudolph the Centennial Olympic Park …
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Date Published: 1/8/2021
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Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond – Wikipedia
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond is a 2001 collection of essays by Denis Johnson. The book chronicles the author’s travels through Africa, …
Source: en.wikipedia.org
Date Published: 12/10/2021
View: 3784
Denis Johnson – Ian Ross Singleton (Инь и Ян)
The Translator’s Invisibility Lawrence Venuti “The translator’s invisibility is thus a weird self-annihilation, a way of conceiving and practicing …
Source: singletonian.com
Date Published: 12/26/2021
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Denis Johnson Gets Lost – The Texas Observer
Reading Denis Johnson’s Seek, a collection of reported pieces that … have this in mind in “Run Rudolph Run,” his evocative essay about the …
Source: www.texasobserver.org
Date Published: 6/10/2021
View: 9669
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America and… by Denis …
I think he sa something to the effect that I was no Denis Johnson. … Run, Rudolph, Run was my favorite and it focused on one of my own obsessions of …
Source: rogueliterarysociety.com
Date Published: 3/20/2022
View: 680
주제와 관련된 이미지 run rudolph run denis johnson
주제와 관련된 더 많은 사진을 참조하십시오 Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band). 댓글에서 더 많은 관련 이미지를 보거나 필요한 경우 더 많은 관련 기사를 볼 수 있습니다.
주제에 대한 기사 평가 run rudolph run denis johnson
- Author: Dennis Johnson
- Views: 조회수 3,478회
- Likes: 좋아요 37개
- Date Published: 2015. 12. 24.
- Video Url link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2f9Zxl4weNc
Run Rudolph Run Denis Johnson | Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band) 29979 명이 이 답변을 좋아했습니다
당신은 주제를 찾고 있습니까 “run rudolph run denis johnson – Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band)“? 다음 카테고리의 웹사이트 https://ppa.covadoc.vn 에서 귀하의 모든 질문에 답변해 드립니다: https://ppa.covadoc.vn/blog/. 바로 아래에서 답을 찾을 수 있습니다. 작성자 Dennis Johnson 이(가) 작성한 기사에는 조회수 3,475회 및 좋아요 37개 개의 좋아요가 있습니다.
run rudolph run denis johnson 주제에 대한 동영상 보기
여기에서 이 주제에 대한 비디오를 시청하십시오. 주의 깊게 살펴보고 읽고 있는 내용에 대한 피드백을 제공하세요!
d여기에서 Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band) – run rudolph run denis johnson 주제에 대한 세부정보를 참조하세요
Lead Vocals-Dennis M. Johnson
Lead Guitar-Dennis M. Johnson
Rhythm Guitar-Dennis M. Johnson
Bass Guitar-Dennis M. Johnson
Drums-Dennis M. Johnson
***Pro-Tools/Audio
Sony Movie/Video
run rudolph run denis johnson 주제에 대한 자세한 내용은 여기를 참조하세요.
CHAPTER 3
Examples of Endings. When Denis Johnson researched his essay “Run, Rudolph, Run” (see page 451) about the anti-abortion bomber Eric Rudolph, he dn’t know.
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Source: richardcolby.net
Date Published: 11/10/2021
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M SARKI — Notes on Denis Johnson, SEEK, and Gordon Lish
Run, Rudolph, Run was my favorite and it focused on one of my own obsessions of years past about Eric Rudolph the Centennial Olympic Park …
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Date Published: 7/10/2021
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Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond – Wikipedia
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond is a 2001 collection of essays by Denis Johnson. The book chronicles the author’s travels through Africa, …
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Source: en.wikipedia.org
Date Published: 4/7/2022
View: 3100
Denis Johnson Gets Lost – The Texas Observer
Reading Denis Johnson’s Seek, a collection of reported pieces that … have this in mind in “Run Rudolph Run,” his evocative essay about the …
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Source: www.texasobserver.org
Date Published: 10/5/2021
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Denis Johnson – Ian Ross Singleton (Инь и Ян)
The Translator’s Invisibility Lawrence Venuti “The translator’s invisibility is thus a weird self-annihilation, a way of conceiving and practicing …
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Source: singletonian.com
Date Published: 2/11/2022
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Seek: Reports from the Edges of America and… by Denis …
I think he sa something to the effect that I was no Denis Johnson. … Run, Rudolph, Run was my favorite and it focused on one of my own obsessions of …
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Date Published: 9/3/2022
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Denis Johnson: An Inventory of His Papers at the Harry …
The Denis Johnson Papers consist of manuscript drafts, notes, notebooks, … Spring 1999 [published as Run, Rudolph, Run in Seek], Container 40.1 …
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Date Published: 2/11/2021
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Run Run Rudolph – Johnny Reid – NhacCuaTui
Run Run Rudolph – Johnny Re | Nghe nhạc hay online mới nhất chất lượng cao.
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The Last Book I Loved: Seek: Reports From The Edges Of …
Heck, “The Militia in Me” and “Run, Rudolph, Run,” about … Tags: Books, Denis Johnson, matthew specktor, seek, the last book i loved.
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주제와 관련된 이미지 run rudolph run denis johnson
주제와 관련된 더 많은 사진을 참조하십시오 Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band). 댓글에서 더 많은 관련 이미지를 보거나 필요한 경우 더 많은 관련 기사를 볼 수 있습니다.
Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band)
주제에 대한 기사 평가 run rudolph run denis johnson
Author: Dennis Johnson
Views: 조회수 3,475회
Likes: 좋아요 37개
Date Published: 2015. 12. 23.
Video Url link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2f9Zxl4weNc
M SARKI — Notes on Denis Johnson, SEEK, and Gordon Lish
msarki: These two old guys drove twelve miles into the city to attend a special poetry reading, hoping to eventually read publicly a few of their own poems in the ordered process of each signing into the listed queue holding court on the official table of the local coffee house. These two gray-haired gentlemen suffered through the chief poet, the headliner, the star, who had earlier sashayed into the coffee house wearing his poet’s garb, looking like the great poet he claimed to his university students to be because he had published books and because, in the course of things, his peers themselves also said he was a great poet. He was there to be seen as the great poet he believed he was and to premiere new poems about his cat. On and on he droned in verse so boring it was hard to tell anymore what the old men had come to partake in and where they thought they might be headed to if they knew. And then, like that, the poet was done. Finished. And off he went, this handsome poet in his great coat and hat, out the same door he came in, not stopping to listen to any of the waiting novice or amateur readers to come, some of them surely his current students, but the important poet had other more pressing matters to attend to. The eager readers then shuffled up to the same podium one after another until finally, seemingly hours later, the old friends cried uncle and put their own poems away. I hate poetry simply because of all the poor poetry that stands with others of their ilk as good poetry when in fact it is not. And all the bad poets praise each other’s work and more bad work is propagated because of it. Some of the propagators are teachers, or become teachers, and on and on it goes. When the teacher gets to a kid like me (of course that was many years ago) and tells me how great something being taught is that I inherently already know isn’t, it makes a kid like me not trust adults beginning at a very early age. It is sort of like religion being taught to an atheist as something real and factual. It just doesn’t hold water. But when one comes upon a great poem read correctly you know it in every fiber of your being, teacher or not. The body knows. Something happens to you physically. Sometimes that type of reading has to be taught. You have to be taught how to read a poem. But you can’t teach a bad poem to anyone but a poor reader or a terribly bad listener. All you can do is teach your morals, politics, or gender issues and hope for some sentimental support for what you are saying. Why not instead have an experience unexampled in its feeling? Something novel, new, fascinating, and even a bit disruptive. *From Genesis West, number one Interview With Jack Gilbert, conducted by Gordon Lish Poetry Is The Art Of Prejudice, page 86 Jack Gilbert- …But usually my poems are caused by an impulse to communicate some part of my life rather than to please. I don’t want the reader to finish the poem and say how lovely it was. I want him to be disturbed. Even miserable. Gordon Lish- Do you think people who are involved in poetry to further their careers or who make mild poems out of trivial material are dangerous to the reader? Jack Gilbert- Mostly in being dangerous to themselves and other poets — in that they reduce poetry to something toilet-trained and comfortable… “…Poetry is almost the only way we can escape from the vicious constipation of moral relativism. Because poetry is the art of prejudice. If prejudice is the inability to discuss a conviction calmly, then poetry is prejudice…(Poetry) doesn’t argue, it demonstrates…Poetry isn’t fair…Poetry is one-sided, and being one-sided, it can say what truth is.” I think it is pathetic, searching here and there, through the endless articles about poetry and the writing of it, and have to sift through the drivel most of us call good. But I am not in the crowd of “most of us”. They are simply bad. And the conversations about them are bad. It seems to me to always be a community of like-minded citizens who like crappy poetry and the crappy writing of it. Well I don’t. I am insulted by the work and I think it adds more to the general claim that maintains poetry is boring and even stupid. *From 19 New American Poets Of The Golden Gate (on believing a poem) page 6 …A lot of Elytus and the others feels like lazy language-mongering. A pretend-surrealism with no need behind it. The mediterranean delight in the dance of the mind over a subject without trying to get anywhere. The subject being merely an occasion for the performance. Like poets giving birth without getting pregnant. (on less being more) page 7 …One of the special pleasures in poetry for me is accomplishing a lot with the least means possible…and a pleasure in the scantness of means…the use of a few words with utmost effect. We have far too many learning institutions from which to spread more bad poetry and the writing of it. Teachers throughout history have taught the same old stuff, boring the hell out of most young minds, and sealing the fate of a vast majority of students never to have seen or heard a very good poem. I know I didn’t. Of course, there are Shakespeare’s words available to us all to use as he did, but with no teacher capable of explaining anything meaningful about his work the typical student could not gain much of anything from his poems except perhaps a headache. Perhaps there is the random teacher who cares so much for the words that the teaching is meaningful. But I never met one until much later in life. Poetry was ruined for me from a very early age. I did like nursery rhymes my mother read to me as a young child, but these were later dismissed in school as poetry for younger children and they were not used to teach us how poetry can work. Then we had Dr. Seuss who was also dismissed by most as some eccentric fellow writing silly stuff for young kids. The Doctor actually wrote some very brilliant poems that tend to stretch reality into something unmanageable and therefore unsavory to most palettes. *From Wikipedia: Though Seuss made a point of not beginning the writing of his stories with a moral in mind, stating that “kids can see a moral coming a mile off”, he was not against writing about issues; he said “there’s an inherent moral in any story” and remarked that he was “subversive as hell”. “Yertle the Turtle” has variously been described as “autocratic rule overturned” …”a reaction against the fascism of World War II”… and “subversive of authoritarian rule”. The last lines of “Yertle the Turtle” read: “And turtles, of course … all the turtles are free / As turtles, and maybe, all creatures should be.”… When questioned about why he wrote “maybe” rather than “surely”, Seuss replied that he didn’t want to sound “didactic or like a preacher on a platform”, and that he wanted the reader “to say ‘surely’ in their minds instead of my having to say it.”
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond is a 2001 collection of essays by Denis Johnson. The book chronicles the author’s travels through Africa, Afghanistan, and America. Spanning two decades, his essays are generally sympathetic towards the obscure groups of people he encounters in his travels. The essays were previously published elsewhere, including in Esquire and The Paris Review. Seek is Johnson’s first nonfiction collection.[1][2] Contents [ edit ] “The Civil War in Hell” “Hippies” “Down Hard Six Times” “Bikers for Jesus” “Three Deserts” “The Militia in Me” “Run, Rudolph, Run” “The Lowest Bar in Montana” “An Anarchist’s Guide to Somalia” “Jungle Bells, Jungle Bells” “The Small Boys’ Unit” References [ edit ]
Denis Johnson Gets Lost
Reading Denis Johnson’s Seek, a collection of reported pieces that originally ran in publications such as Esquire and The Paris Review, can feel like setting out with a shifty tour guide, one who likes to toss out the map. You get the sense that Johnson-the-journalist, whose day job is novel writing, doesn’t know where he’ll end up morally, psychologically, or geographically in the course of reporting a story. You might even worry about him, especially when his assignments involve driving an automobile. At a Christian motorcycle rally in Texas, he locks his keys in a rental van with the motor still running; while traveling through remote Alaska, he again leaves the keys in the ignition, this time stranding himself with a dead battery; replacing a blown tire on the way to a hippie gathering in Washington state, he gets “confused in [his] head” and forgets to put the nuts back on before driving off. It’s not just cars that give him trouble, but also a desire to see things fall apart. Something makes him want “to see the U.N. off and remain behind as the Last Journalist out of Mogadishu.” When his surroundings aren’t chaotic enough, he’ll sometimes go out of his way to rile them up, ingesting, to give one example, a lot of magic mushrooms on the job. To put it another way, Johnson is a bit of a mess, and he wants us to know it. There’s something refreshing about a journalist so up-front about his follies and neurotic episodes (even if he does often bring them on himself). Johnson, who lives in northern Idaho and recently taught at the University of Texas, captures his slightly unprofessional behavior with an assured writing style that, despite occasional cute humor or jerky attitudes, is both hilarious and riveting. His restlessness also points to a more serious journalistic technique hinted at in the book’s title, namely the tendency to privilege the search for a story–pratfalls and all–over the destination the story might initially suggest. In an essay that sends him to meet Liberian President Charles Taylor, the resulting interview, which takes up about two of the essay’s 57 pages, is totally overshadowed by Johnson’s chaotic experiences trying to get it. As a reporter, Johnson covers a broad swath of subjects, raking over some of the same ground as he did in his novels Already Dead and The Stars at Noon: religion, drugs, war-torn countries, and people who want, for a variety of reasons, to fly beneath the law-enforcement radar. But whatever his leanings, he’s much more interested in mapping out his responses to chaotic events, real or imagined, than in delivering any straightforward story his editors might have dreamed up beforehand. The most genial parts of Seek present Johnson wandering through off-the-beaten-path American scenes, recording oddities in a voice that hovers somewhere between enchantment and droll skepticism. In “Distance, Lights, and Dreams,” he plays an apocalyptic Southwest (nuclear tests, disastrous expeditions) off of his visit with The Children of Light, a small group of celibate, self-sufficient Christians who have settled in the Arizona desert. These “children” claim to receive their commandments from “the Voice,” which emanates from the mouth of a member named Opal and instructs them where to go, when to drink water, and how to design their house. “I sensed that nothing I knew applied here,” Johnson writes, but he’s clearly in sync with this not-knowingness. It allows him to slip, in his inimitable way, between quirky journalistic realism (“This Voice,” he asks Opal, “it just comes out of you all of a sudden?”) and more disorienting observations that push the language of first-person experience to peculiar extremes. Of the desert, he says: “In the immenseness of sand that goes on communing with itself in a terrifying way, ignoring everything, answering itself with itself while the sky overhead wears out, the soul feels the same insignificance as the soul of a lost sailor.” Johnson’s abstract passages hint at a loner’s sensibility, a desire to stray away from concrete details to dwell on personal feelings regarding the matter at hand. If the results seem to surprise even the author himself, that’s because he savors the complexity of being both drawn to and at odds with his topics. In “Hippies,” which takes him to meet an old, long-haired friend at a Rainbow Gathering in Washington state, we find him sneering at the barefooted masses and musing on his failed-hippie past of heroin use and tortured love. The piece veers sharply when he decides to take one last drug trip, which sends him into panicked hallucinations, a self-mocking embrace of the festival, and lonely memories of a dead friend. “Bikers for Jesus” features another turnabout, showing Johnson on a spiritual quest at a revival-style motorcycle rally 40 miles outside Dallas, attended by a lot of people who, like him, have left behind lives of drug use. A mild-mannered Christian, he finds the religious fervor around him “a millstone,” but builds up to a heady conclusion of sermons against racism, group baptisms, and his own growing if tentative belief in the ceremonies. Johnson presents himself as both part of the story and, at the same time, on the outside looking in, tossing out hard-to-pin-down responses and then letting them hang there, suggestively unresolved. Johnson’s singular and enchanting voice usually holds our attention during his frequent detours, especially in his hand-wringing essays about the notion of a present-day frontier. His conflicted longing for unsettled land is simple enough: “a city boy grown too neurotic to abide urban life,” he also acknowledges that the forest “would quickly extinguish him were he ever to lose his way in it.” He presents this attraction and fear with comic brilliance in the high-anxiety “Down Hard Six Times,” which recounts, among other things, a treacherous single-prop plane ride during his honeymoon in the extreme solitude of Alaska. Once Johnson and his wife (here referred to as Moon One and Moon Two) reach their isolated destination, he fluctuates between a laughable air of cool self-control and losing-it desperation. Afraid they’ll be forgotten in the wilderness, “Moon One likes to stand on the hill… screaming and waving his arms” each time an aircraft flies overhead. The farcical tone drops out when Johnson explores contemporary frontier politics in the provocatively titled “The Militia in Me.” Johnson’s personal politics are a little hard to pin down. Coming across as a don’t-tread-on-me liberal, he refers to Clinton as “somebody a whole lot like me” but also thinks that the “system meant to keep us free has experienced a failure.” He has little patience for the ideological stances peddled by people like ex-Marine and so-called anti-government politician Bo Gritz (“he looked less like my idea of a warrior than like someone who’d hire himself out to collect delinquent loans”). At the same time, he bemoans the government meddling in his life and, in the name of a free country, shows sympathy for groups typically bothered by the feds, namely “militias, the throwback mountaineers, even the Christian Nazis.” Johnson asserts everyone’s right to be left alone. Fair enough, but no matter what he does, he can’t entirely boil off the creepiness of arms-bearing extremists, who might or might not leave everyone else alone (he seems to have this in mind in “Run Rudolph Run,” his evocative essay about the FBI search for alleged abortion clinic bomber Eric Rudolph). At the end of the militia piece, he recalls an encounter with two Alaskan men who stop to help him replace a tire (more car trouble). They chat about liberty, and Johnson’s questions get some pretty scary responses, like “Freedom has to be bought with blood.” The scene bears resemblance to scenes from Johnson’s fiction, in which a situation can turn ominous just before you realize it. Instead of giving a lecture on the danger, he helps us feel it. Johnson is so good at describing danger that his reports on battle-torn countries might have readers feeling at turns uncomfortable with his recklessness, skeptical of his apocalyptic leanings, and grateful for the adventurous read. In their quieter moments, these pieces present Johnson as a gloomy newscaster covering nothing other than the end of the world, sometimes producing an over-generalized effect. In “Dispatch From World War III,” about the Gulf War, he claims, trembling, “I begin to suspect that this war’s origins reach far back in time, to the recession of the first waters that left this land empty and waiting to be filled with conflagration.” But for the most part, Johnson leavens his doomsaying with concrete details and an ironic edge: a group of gas-masked journalists at the Dhahran International hotel look like “a demented Halloween party to which everyone had come dressed as the same monster, a sort of ant-eyed elephant with an amputated trunk.” In “Hospitality and Revenge,” he wanders from the scaffold where the Taliban executed former Afghanistan President Najibullah to the Kabul zoo’s prize lion, whose face has been demolished by a grenade. The war stories can turn shrill, with Johnson’s calm assurance suddenly smashing into delirious agitation. In “The Small Boys Unit,” the essay in which Johnson sets out to interview Liberian President Charles Taylor, he arrives in the Ivory Coast (Liberian airports are closed) with hopeful composure, but turns volatile and resentful when faced with border-crossing hitches, brief confinement, air raids, and constant promises that he will soon meet the elusive leader. One wonders: What did you expect? Johnson wonders, too. But again, his tone changes with the vagaries of the search, and his seething gives way to compassion and even tears. In one of the book’s strangest and most moving passages, he risks his life by interfering with a group of young Liberian soldiers as they torture a pleading hostage. Like most of the essays in Seek, in “The Small Boys Unit,” Johnson shifts relentlessly-from eagerness to ambivalence to anger to despair. His role as the protean reporter might strike some as a little slippery. But whether you enjoy his shape-shifting character or not, it’s enthralling to follow a reporter whose tonal range matches his refusal to stay put. For all his waywardness and fish-out-of-water individualism, he ultimately wants to engage with the world, and this book shows him doing just that. In vivid reports on disorienting sites of warfare, questionable beliefs, and non-mainstream America, he tells us how it feels and where he’s at–even if he’s a little all over the place. Michael Miller is an editor at The Village Voice.
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America and… by Denis Johnson
Rogue Literary Society “the new bull of meaning.” Rogue Literary Society “the new bull of meaning.” Rogue Literary Society “the new bull of meaning.” Rogue Literary Society “the new bull of meaning.”
Denis Johnson: An Inventory of His Papers at the Harry Ransom Center
The Denis Johnson Papers consist of manuscript drafts, notes, notebooks, research material, screenplays, scripts, poems, publication proofs, clippings, scrapbook material, correspondence, printed material, photographs, posters, and childhood papers belonging to the American writer Denis Johnson. The professional and personal papers document Johnson’s diverse writing career and range of creative output which includes poetry, short stories, novels, essays, journalism articles, screenplays, and scripts. The papers are organized into two series: I. Literary Activities, circa 1970s-2009, undated; and II. Personal and Professional Files, 1939-2009, undated. Series I. Literary Activities makes up the bulk of the papers and includes materials associated with Johnson’s writings. It is arranged into four subseries: A. Novels and Collections, circa 1975-2009, undated; B. Short Stories and Essays, circa 1970s-2008, undated; C. Poetry, circa 1980s-2008, undated; and D. Film and Theater Projects, circa 1980s-2009. Materials in each of these subseries are arranged in alphabetical order by title, and within each title, the material generally follows the chronological order of literary production, from research and notes to publication drafts. When applicable, related material such as book dust jackets, reviews, publicity material, and/or adaptations follow the drafts. Johnson created extensive notes, drafts, and outlines for most of his works. He apparently wrote on whatever was at hand, and his notes appear as full-page, typed sheets, as well as writings on the back of checks and receipts, paper coasters, a paper plate, a paper towel, and envelopes. Johnson often inserted the handwritten material in with his typed notes and draft fragments, making it sometimes difficult to discern if the intended order remains intact. Much of the material is in chronological order, but page numbers are not always sequential, and the notes and drafts sometimes stop and start, even in mid paragraph. Furthermore, the notes and draft fragments are heavily revised and indicate a constant re-working of the material. As a result, no attempt was made to arrange these materials within folders, and they remain foldered as they arrived at the Ransom Center, with all original folder titles created by Johnson indicated by single quotes in the container list. Subseries A. Novels and Collections represents most of Johnson’s novels and collections; however, some important works are not represented, including Johnson’s first poetry collections, The Man among the Seals, Inner Weather, and The Veil, and his first three novels, Angels, Fiskadoro, and The Stars at Noon. Johnson has said that earlier in his career, he often did not keep working drafts because he found it necessary to “shed them” in order for his writing to evolve. Johnson often worked on multiple pieces simultaneously, as in the case of three novellas, The Name of the World, Door in a Blank Wall, and Train Dreams. Johnson planned to publish these together in a single volume titled Name of the World. As a result, some drafts and notes are filed with material from the other works. Ultimately, Johnson published Name of the World and Train Dreams separately (first in the Paris Review and in Europe, then later in the U.S.), and aspects of Door in a Blank Wall appear with material from Tree of Smoke. Johnson frequently referred to previous ideas or notes as he worked and sometimes re-filed them with subsequent projects. For example, Johnson’s work Seek, a collection of essays previously published in Esquire, Harper’s, and other popular magazines, includes materials from his two articles “Civil War in Hell” (1990) and “Small Boys’ Unit” (2000). Because Johnson used his original notes, research, and cassette tapes to write these essays, as well as a screenplay about Liberia, and then later referenced this combined material during the editing of Seek, the material was filed with drafts of Seek. The first segment of Seek is arranged in alphabetical order by published essay title or by Johnson’s original folder title. Following the essays are pages used specifically for the publication of the final Seek manuscript, such as drafts for the piece called “Three Desserts” (which is a combination of three separate essays) and proofs of the completed manuscript. Correspondence indicates that Johnson added and deleted essays during the editing process, and some of these discarded essays remain filed with this work. Series I., Subseries B. Short Stories and Essays contains additional files related to the original Liberian magazine essay, and Series II. Personal and Professional Files contains materials related to the screenplay. Tree of Smoke, which won the National Book Award in 2007, is represented by the largest volume of material in the collection. Johnson worked on this novel for almost fifteen years, and the research and notes show his frequent starts and stops. These notes, outlines, and draft fragments date from 1993 to the book’s publication in 2007. Included are research files containing notes, travel photos, and ephemera from trips to the Philippines and Malaysia, as well as previous writings used for reference, and internet research about Vietnam, military operations, and other topics. Also present are chapter draft fragments and note files, organized by story timeline and labeled using Johnson’s original folder titles. The bulk of the manuscript material for the book is comprised of loose drafts of undated and unnumbered pages. These fragments were very much working notes and drafts and contain Johnson’s frequent handwritten edits throughout. The pages were, for the most part, left in their original order as it is difficult to discern a clear arrangement. Following the loose manuscript material for Tree of Smoke are six binder notebooks, many with embellished covers, corresponding to the chapter years in the book. These appear to be the final versions of the working drafts of the novel. For preservation purposes, the contents were removed from the binders, and in cases where the binder was decorated, the pages and corresponding binder were filed together. In addition, Johnson’s Tree of Smoke materials include one complete, near-final typescript, one typescript with typesetting marks, two sets of page proofs, and an advanced reader’s copy of the novel that includes a sample of the audiobook. Subseries B. Short Stories and Essays contains Johnson’s shorter fiction and non-fiction works and is arranged in alphabetical order by work title or Johnson’s original folder title. The Seek material in Subseries A. Novels and Collections also includes magazine essay drafts. Subseries C. Poetry contains working and final drafts of Johnson’s poems. Of particular interest is the ‘Slide Show’ file, which contains material Johnson wrote for Sam Messer’s art show in 1982. Johnson and Messer were frequent collaborators at different points in their careers, and Series II. Personal and Professional Files also includes Messer-related material. Of additional note in Subseries C. are drafts for Johnson’s poem “The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations Millennium General Assembly.” Subseries A. includes material related to Johnson’s published poetry collections. Subseries D. Film and Theater Projects contains correspondence, reviews, publicity material, and scripts for some of Johnson’s screenplays and theater productions. Johnson did not retain many of his screenplays, but his papers do include materials for his adaptation of his own novel Angels. Most of the material in this subseries pertains to public readings and the theatrical productions of Hellhound on My Trail, Shoppers Carried By Escalators into the Flames, and Soul of a Whore; however, only Soul of a Whore is documented with a play script. Series II. Personal and Professional Files contains papers and documents related to Johnson’s childhood, family life, and writing career. Awards, book jackets, contracts, correspondence, ephemera, identification cards and passports, photographs, printed material, publicity clippings, reading and workshop materials, report cards, research files, scrapbook material, and travel files are found in this series. Of particular interest is the scrapbook material, apparently assembled into notebooks by Johnson’s mother, Vera. The first notebook contains Johnson’s birth certificate, school report cards, and letters to his parents while in college. These letters are very personal and candid, with Johnson describing daily happenings, his home life with his wife and baby, and the progress of his writing. The other notebooks contain clippings and printed material that document Johnson’s writing career, his awards, and readings. Due to preservation considerations, these materials were removed from their original binders and rehoused, but their original order was maintained. Overall, there is relatively little correspondence in Johnson’s papers. What is present includes letters from publishers, professional associates, other writers, and writing program requests. The material is arranged chronologically, with a separate segment of ‘Prison Correspondence’ from two death row inmates, Charlie Doss and Robert Smith, whom Johnson taught while working at an Arizona state prison. A few of these letters include some of these inmates’ writings. Scrapbook notebooks in this series contain letters Johnson sent to his parents during the 1970s and 1980s. In addition to the photos in the scrapbooks, there is a small amount of loose candid and publicity photographs of Johnson. Many of these are reproduced prints of Johnson while in college.
The Last Book I Loved: Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond
The Last Book I Loved: Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond I read Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond in a hotel room. Nowhere fancy: I was in Asheville, North Carolina, facing nothing more uncomfortable than bugs and frogs and humidity, the steady chatter of fat people plunking themselves into the swimming pool outside. This luxe southern summer was a weird backdrop for Denis Johnson’s gnarly accounts of Africa and Idaho, but the book had fallen into my hand unwittingly, while I was scrambling out the door and looking for something to read on the plane. I lashed out at the shelf while the cab started honking, and Seek was what I came away with. Seek. The title implies worlds of volition, but is there a less volitional writer alive than Denis Johnson? Windblown, drug-addled (whether actually so or more historically, within the provinces of his fiction, at least), prone to peopling his stories with coasting fuck-ups. Most of the people in Johnson’s work don’t seem to have much idea how they got there, whether “there” is a hospital or a Holiday Inn or a cell on death row. They don’t “seek” much. But boy do they ever find. I love Johnson, sometimes. I love Angels, and about two-thirds of Jesus’ Son (the book as a totality, sure, but some of the individual stories are, in fact, weak), Resuscitation of A Hanged Man (because how could you not love a book that includes the sentence, “And on his ass the sad assassin sat”?) These are great books, but Johnson has certainly written some indifferent ones. Tree of Smoke seems to me pretty erratic, and The Name of The World strikes me as being outright bad. Then again, I like writers who are sometimes bad, and at the very least mistrust those who never are. It usually means they aren’t trying hard enough. Give me Philip Roth (intermittently quite lousy) over William Trevor any day of the week. Seek is bookended with essays on Liberia. The first, “The Civil War in Hell,” describes Johnson’s presence in Monrovia in 1990, shortly after Prince Johnson’s forces had captured the president and sawn off his ears. The second, “The Small Boys Unit,” is some sort of minor masterpiece, a Heart of Darkness-like account of Johnson’s flailing attempts to profile Charles Taylor for the New Yorker in 1992. In between, there are accounts of visits to Christian biker rallies, Afghanistan, Somalia, Mormon compounds…in short, just about every place a sensible person (although, of course, Johnson is anything but “a sensible person”) would choose to avoid. If what you’re seeking is to be found in those places, it might be best to change your aims, anyway. Except that’s the point. No one, I think, captures better certain kinds of ecstasy, a spastic transcendence, better than Johnson, and no one better describes the worlds we’d rather not be living in. Jesus’ Son has been talked to death, but I think Angels is arguably the better book. Beginning in a bus station and ending on death row, with a long stretch in the desert in between, Angels amounts to a guided tour of the most forsaken places on earth. (Where else does Johnson stage his fiction? ERs, abortion clinics…) Seek is the same. Conscientiously so, and with a more knowing—at least, more intentional—awareness of itself as such. I found myself thinking, in my thoroughly stupid perambulations with the book (lugging a suitcase across a Ramada Inn parking lot, haggling with people at the Delta ticket counter), that just about everywhere is worth avoiding, that even the earth’s green places house more than their share of misery and boredom. Which is why Johnson’s book is thrilling. Not because it offers views of things us pampered first-worlders know not quite enough about (though it does, of course), but because, too, those views are so personal. Johnson’s haplessness, his strange—and most likely exaggerated—incompetence keeps clouding the frame. (Indeed, if he were this incompetent, he’d almost assuredly be dead, a fact of which he’s savvy enough to remind us.) “Friends who know me to be of weak character might be interested to learn I was once nearly saved from it,” a seemingly feather-light essay about Johnson’s childhood tenure in the Boy Scouts begins. That “weak character” is belied everywhere in the book, perhaps even by the things that also support it: by the steely hogging of psychedelics (“I said I’d split it, but I only gave him about a quarter. Less than a quarter. Yeah, I never quite became a hippie. And I’ll never stop being a junkie.”), in “Hippies,” and by Johnson’s fumbling-yet-persistent effort to bail out an arrested Nigerian student in “The Small Boys Unit.” His character gets in the way, but it’s the book’s real subject. “My parents raised me to love all the earth’s peoples. Three days in this zone and I could only just manage to hold myself back from screaming N****rs! N****rs! N****rs! until one of these young men emptied a whole clip into me.” I try to imagine what The New Yorker’s editors would’ve done with such a passage, had Johnson not opted instead to keep their expense money and never deliver his promised piece at all. I’d describe Seek as “maddeningly erratic,” but it’s just this bifucation that kicks my ass: Johnson’s bravery and his cowardice, his clowning and, in something more slight like “The Lowest Bar in Montana,” his flat-footed efforts to please. His greatness comes from contradictions that can’t cancel one another out. He’s a hippie, sure, but there are right wing undertones all over. (Undertones? Heck, “The Militia in Me” and “Run, Rudolph, Run,” about abortion-clinic bomber Eric Rudolph, suggest more robust sympathies.) It’s the chaos of his character, which is just about the only place anything interesting ever gets found, that makes this book happen. And by the time we get to “The Small Boys Unit,” and Johnson—arrested at the Ivory Coast’s border—collides with a wayward American missionary whose kindness seems purely pro forma, we understand what it is to be lost. Green lizards crawled all over our feet while he prayed. Red-headed lizards ran by on two legs like Martians excited to be landed on our world. I wept, I snuffled. I was right to call myself confused. Johnson’s Africa, even exoticized beyond its usual terrestrial limits, seems closer to a Delta Airlines ticket counter than to anything we can’t understand. It also seems non-navigable, impossible, and frightening beyond belief, even as the human faces he encounters there (a host of preposterous-seeming guides: Winston Holder, Lincoln Smythe, the indelible Augustus Shaacks…but also the velour-clad Charles Taylor) shine benignly. Such is hell, though, and such is the human scene. Such are the things we go looking for. They’re those very ones we can never leave behind.
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M SARKI — Notes on Denis Johnson, SEEK, and Gordon Lish
msarki:
These two old guys drove twelve miles into the city to attend a special poetry reading, hoping to eventually read publicly a few of their own poems in the ordered process of each signing into the listed queue holding court on the official table of the local coffee house. These two gray-haired gentlemen suffered through the chief poet, the headliner, the star, who had earlier sashayed into the coffee house wearing his poet’s garb, looking like the great poet he claimed to his university students to be because he had published books and because, in the course of things, his peers themselves also said he was a great poet. He was there to be seen as the great poet he believed he was and to premiere new poems about his cat. On and on he droned in verse so boring it was hard to tell anymore what the old men had come to partake in and where they thought they might be headed to if they knew. And then, like that, the poet was done. Finished. And off he went, this handsome poet in his great coat and hat, out the same door he came in, not stopping to listen to any of the waiting novice or amateur readers to come, some of them surely his current students, but the important poet had other more pressing matters to attend to. The eager readers then shuffled up to the same podium one after another until finally, seemingly hours later, the old friends cried uncle and put their own poems away.
I hate poetry simply because of all the poor poetry that stands with others of their ilk as good poetry when in fact it is not. And all the bad poets praise each other’s work and more bad work is propagated because of it. Some of the propagators are teachers, or become teachers, and on and on it goes. When the teacher gets to a kid like me (of course that was many years ago) and tells me how great something being taught is that I inherently already know isn’t, it makes a kid like me not trust adults beginning at a very early age. It is sort of like religion being taught to an atheist as something real and factual. It just doesn’t hold water. But when one comes upon a great poem read correctly you know it in every fiber of your being, teacher or not. The body knows. Something happens to you physically. Sometimes that type of reading has to be taught. You have to be taught how to read a poem. But you can’t teach a bad poem to anyone but a poor reader or a terribly bad listener. All you can do is teach your morals, politics, or gender issues and hope for some sentimental support for what you are saying. Why not instead have an experience unexampled in its feeling? Something novel, new, fascinating, and even a bit disruptive.
*From Genesis West, number one
Interview With Jack Gilbert, conducted by Gordon Lish
Poetry Is The Art Of Prejudice, page 86
Jack Gilbert- …But usually my poems are caused by an impulse to communicate some part of my life rather than to please. I don’t want the reader to finish the poem and say how lovely it was. I want him to be disturbed. Even miserable.
Gordon Lish- Do you think people who are involved in poetry to further their careers or who make mild poems out of trivial material are dangerous to the reader?
Jack Gilbert- Mostly in being dangerous to themselves and other poets — in that they reduce poetry to something toilet-trained and comfortable…
“…Poetry is almost the only way we can escape from the vicious constipation of moral relativism. Because poetry is the art of prejudice. If prejudice is the inability to discuss a conviction calmly, then poetry is prejudice…(Poetry) doesn’t argue, it demonstrates…Poetry isn’t fair…Poetry is one-sided, and being one-sided, it can say what truth is.”
I think it is pathetic, searching here and there, through the endless articles about poetry and the writing of it, and have to sift through the drivel most of us call good. But I am not in the crowd of “most of us”. They are simply bad. And the conversations about them are bad. It seems to me to always be a community of like-minded citizens who like crappy poetry and the crappy writing of it. Well I don’t. I am insulted by the work and I think it adds more to the general claim that maintains poetry is boring and even stupid.
*From 19 New American Poets Of The Golden Gate (on believing a poem) page 6
…A lot of Elytus and the others feels like lazy language-mongering. A pretend-surrealism with no need behind it. The mediterranean delight in the dance of the mind over a subject without trying to get anywhere. The subject being merely an occasion for the performance. Like poets giving birth without getting pregnant.
(on less being more) page 7
…One of the special pleasures in poetry for me is accomplishing a lot with the least means possible…and a pleasure in the scantness of means…the use of a few words with utmost effect.
We have far too many learning institutions from which to spread more bad poetry and the writing of it. Teachers throughout history have taught the same old stuff, boring the hell out of most young minds, and sealing the fate of a vast majority of students never to have seen or heard a very good poem. I know I didn’t. Of course, there are Shakespeare’s words available to us all to use as he did, but with no teacher capable of explaining anything meaningful about his work the typical student could not gain much of anything from his poems except perhaps a headache. Perhaps there is the random teacher who cares so much for the words that the teaching is meaningful. But I never met one until much later in life.
Poetry was ruined for me from a very early age. I did like nursery rhymes my mother read to me as a young child, but these were later dismissed in school as poetry for younger children and they were not used to teach us how poetry can work. Then we had Dr. Seuss who was also dismissed by most as some eccentric fellow writing silly stuff for young kids. The Doctor actually wrote some very brilliant poems that tend to stretch reality into something unmanageable and therefore unsavory to most palettes.
*From Wikipedia:
Though Seuss made a point of not beginning the writing of his stories with a moral in mind, stating that “kids can see a moral coming a mile off”, he was not against writing about issues; he said “there’s an inherent moral in any story” and remarked that he was “subversive as hell”.
“Yertle the Turtle” has variously been described as “autocratic rule overturned” …”a reaction against the fascism of World War II”… and “subversive of authoritarian rule”.
The last lines of “Yertle the Turtle” read: “And turtles, of course … all the turtles are free / As turtles, and maybe, all creatures should be.”… When questioned about why he wrote “maybe” rather than “surely”, Seuss replied that he didn’t want to sound “didactic or like a preacher on a platform”, and that he wanted the reader “to say ‘surely’ in their minds instead of my having to say it.”
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America & Beyond is a 2001 collection of essays by Denis Johnson. The book chronicles the author’s travels through Africa, Afghanistan, and America. Spanning two decades, his essays are generally sympathetic towards the obscure groups of people he encounters in his travels. The essays were previously published elsewhere, including in Esquire and The Paris Review. Seek is Johnson’s first nonfiction collection.[1][2]
Contents [ edit ]
“The Civil War in Hell”
“Hippies”
“Down Hard Six Times”
“Bikers for Jesus”
“Three Deserts”
“The Militia in Me”
“Run, Rudolph, Run”
“The Lowest Bar in Montana”
“An Anarchist’s Guide to Somalia”
“Jungle Bells, Jungle Bells”
“The Small Boys’ Unit”
References [ edit ]
Denis Johnson Gets Lost
Reading Denis Johnson’s Seek, a collection of reported pieces that originally ran in publications such as Esquire and The Paris Review, can feel like setting out with a shifty tour guide, one who likes to toss out the map. You get the sense that Johnson-the-journalist, whose day job is novel writing, doesn’t know where he’ll end up morally, psychologically, or geographically in the course of reporting a story. You might even worry about him, especially when his assignments involve driving an automobile. At a Christian motorcycle rally in Texas, he locks his keys in a rental van with the motor still running; while traveling through remote Alaska, he again leaves the keys in the ignition, this time stranding himself with a dead battery; replacing a blown tire on the way to a hippie gathering in Washington state, he gets “confused in [his] head” and forgets to put the nuts back on before driving off. It’s not just cars that give him trouble, but also a desire to see things fall apart. Something makes him want “to see the U.N. off and remain behind as the Last Journalist out of Mogadishu.” When his surroundings aren’t chaotic enough, he’ll sometimes go out of his way to rile them up, ingesting, to give one example, a lot of magic mushrooms on the job.
To put it another way, Johnson is a bit of a mess, and he wants us to know it. There’s something refreshing about a journalist so up-front about his follies and neurotic episodes (even if he does often bring them on himself). Johnson, who lives in northern Idaho and recently taught at the University of Texas, captures his slightly unprofessional behavior with an assured writing style that, despite occasional cute humor or jerky attitudes, is both hilarious and riveting. His restlessness also points to a more serious journalistic technique hinted at in the book’s title, namely the tendency to privilege the search for a story–pratfalls and all–over the destination the story might initially suggest. In an essay that sends him to meet Liberian President Charles Taylor, the resulting interview, which takes up about two of the essay’s 57 pages, is totally overshadowed by Johnson’s chaotic experiences trying to get it. As a reporter, Johnson covers a broad swath of subjects, raking over some of the same ground as he did in his novels Already Dead and The Stars at Noon: religion, drugs, war-torn countries, and people who want, for a variety of reasons, to fly beneath the law-enforcement radar. But whatever his leanings, he’s much more interested in mapping out his responses to chaotic events, real or imagined, than in delivering any straightforward story his editors might have dreamed up beforehand.
The most genial parts of Seek present Johnson wandering through off-the-beaten-path American scenes, recording oddities in a voice that hovers somewhere between enchantment and droll skepticism. In “Distance, Lights, and Dreams,” he plays an apocalyptic Southwest (nuclear tests, disastrous expeditions) off of his visit with The Children of Light, a small group of celibate, self-sufficient Christians who have settled in the Arizona desert. These “children” claim to receive their commandments from “the Voice,” which emanates from the mouth of a member named Opal and instructs them where to go, when to drink water, and how to design their house. “I sensed that nothing I knew applied here,” Johnson writes, but he’s clearly in sync with this not-knowingness. It allows him to slip, in his inimitable way, between quirky journalistic realism (“This Voice,” he asks Opal, “it just comes out of you all of a sudden?”) and more disorienting observations that push the language of first-person experience to peculiar extremes. Of the desert, he says: “In the immenseness of sand that goes on communing with itself in a terrifying way, ignoring everything, answering itself with itself while the sky overhead wears out, the soul feels the same insignificance as the soul of a lost sailor.”
Johnson’s abstract passages hint at a loner’s sensibility, a desire to stray away from concrete details to dwell on personal feelings regarding the matter at hand. If the results seem to surprise even the author himself, that’s because he savors the complexity of being both drawn to and at odds with his topics. In “Hippies,” which takes him to meet an old, long-haired friend at a Rainbow Gathering in Washington state, we find him sneering at the barefooted masses and musing on his failed-hippie past of heroin use and tortured love. The piece veers sharply when he decides to take one last drug trip, which sends him into panicked hallucinations, a self-mocking embrace of the festival, and lonely memories of a dead friend. “Bikers for Jesus” features another turnabout, showing Johnson on a spiritual quest at a revival-style motorcycle rally 40 miles outside Dallas, attended by a lot of people who, like him, have left behind lives of drug use. A mild-mannered Christian, he finds the religious fervor around him “a millstone,” but builds up to a heady conclusion of sermons against racism, group baptisms, and his own growing if tentative belief in the ceremonies. Johnson presents himself as both part of the story and, at the same time, on the outside looking in, tossing out hard-to-pin-down responses and then letting them hang there, suggestively unresolved.
Johnson’s singular and enchanting voice usually holds our attention during his frequent detours, especially in his hand-wringing essays about the notion of a present-day frontier. His conflicted longing for unsettled land is simple enough: “a city boy grown too neurotic to abide urban life,” he also acknowledges that the forest “would quickly extinguish him were he ever to lose his way in it.” He presents this attraction and fear with comic brilliance in the high-anxiety “Down Hard Six Times,” which recounts, among other things, a treacherous single-prop plane ride during his honeymoon in the extreme solitude of Alaska. Once Johnson and his wife (here referred to as Moon One and Moon Two) reach their isolated destination, he fluctuates between a laughable air of cool self-control and losing-it desperation. Afraid they’ll be forgotten in the wilderness, “Moon One likes to stand on the hill… screaming and waving his arms” each time an aircraft flies overhead.
The farcical tone drops out when Johnson explores contemporary frontier politics in the provocatively titled “The Militia in Me.” Johnson’s personal politics are a little hard to pin down. Coming across as a don’t-tread-on-me liberal, he refers to Clinton as “somebody a whole lot like me” but also thinks that the “system meant to keep us free has experienced a failure.” He has little patience for the ideological stances peddled by people like ex-Marine and so-called anti-government politician Bo Gritz (“he looked less like my idea of a warrior than like someone who’d hire himself out to collect delinquent loans”). At the same time, he bemoans the government meddling in his life and, in the name of a free country, shows sympathy for groups typically bothered by the feds, namely “militias, the throwback mountaineers, even the Christian Nazis.”
Johnson asserts everyone’s right to be left alone. Fair enough, but no matter what he does, he can’t entirely boil off the creepiness of arms-bearing extremists, who might or might not leave everyone else alone (he seems to have this in mind in “Run Rudolph Run,” his evocative essay about the FBI search for alleged abortion clinic bomber Eric Rudolph). At the end of the militia piece, he recalls an encounter with two Alaskan men who stop to help him replace a tire (more car trouble). They chat about liberty, and Johnson’s questions get some pretty scary responses, like “Freedom has to be bought with blood.” The scene bears resemblance to scenes from Johnson’s fiction, in which a situation can turn ominous just before you realize it. Instead of giving a lecture on the danger, he helps us feel it.
Johnson is so good at describing danger that his reports on battle-torn countries might have readers feeling at turns uncomfortable with his recklessness, skeptical of his apocalyptic leanings, and grateful for the adventurous read. In their quieter moments, these pieces present Johnson as a gloomy newscaster covering nothing other than the end of the world, sometimes producing an over-generalized effect. In “Dispatch From World War III,” about the Gulf War, he claims, trembling, “I begin to suspect that this war’s origins reach far back in time, to the recession of the first waters that left this land empty and waiting to be filled with conflagration.” But for the most part, Johnson leavens his doomsaying with concrete details and an ironic edge: a group of gas-masked journalists at the Dhahran International hotel look like “a demented Halloween party to which everyone had come dressed as the same monster, a sort of ant-eyed elephant with an amputated trunk.” In “Hospitality and Revenge,” he wanders from the scaffold where the Taliban executed former Afghanistan President Najibullah to the Kabul zoo’s prize lion, whose face has been demolished by a grenade.
The war stories can turn shrill, with Johnson’s calm assurance suddenly smashing into delirious agitation. In “The Small Boys Unit,” the essay in which Johnson sets out to interview Liberian President Charles Taylor, he arrives in the Ivory Coast (Liberian airports are closed) with hopeful composure, but turns volatile and resentful when faced with border-crossing hitches, brief confinement, air raids, and constant promises that he will soon meet the elusive leader. One wonders: What did you expect? Johnson wonders, too. But again, his tone changes with the vagaries of the search, and his seething gives way to compassion and even tears. In one of the book’s strangest and most moving passages, he risks his life by interfering with a group of young Liberian soldiers as they torture a pleading hostage.
Like most of the essays in Seek, in “The Small Boys Unit,” Johnson shifts relentlessly-from eagerness to ambivalence to anger to despair. His role as the protean reporter might strike some as a little slippery. But whether you enjoy his shape-shifting character or not, it’s enthralling to follow a reporter whose tonal range matches his refusal to stay put. For all his waywardness and fish-out-of-water individualism, he ultimately wants to engage with the world, and this book shows him doing just that. In vivid reports on disorienting sites of warfare, questionable beliefs, and non-mainstream America, he tells us how it feels and where he’s at–even if he’s a little all over the place.
Michael Miller is an editor at The Village Voice.
Seek: Reports from the Edges of America and… by Denis Johnson
Rogue Literary Society
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사람들이 주제에 대해 자주 검색하는 키워드 Run Run Rudolph – Chuck Berry(Risen Sun Band)
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