Discovery of Eschaton : Immanentize the Climate Change, 2020 by Mat Brown (b. 1980)
The Idea Museum, 2002 by Benny Andrews (1930-2006)
The Heroic Dosser, 1987 by Peter Howson (b. 1958)
I dug/was perplexed by Gerhard Rühm’s Cake and Prostheses a few years ago, so when I got my soft pink hands on The Folded Clock, (translated like C & P by Alexander Booth), I was intrigued. Publisher Twisted Spoon describes The Folded Clock as a collection of “number poems, comprising typewriter ideograms, typed concrete poetry, collages of everyday paper ephemera and scraps, and a wide variety of literary forms where the visual pattern created on the page underpins the thematic meaning.”
Rühm seems to identify Kurt Schwitters as his artistic precursor, or an artistic precursor. Like Cake and Prostheses, the pieces in The Folded Clock defy easy categorization — Is it a script or a poem or art? is probably the wrong question.
Passing eyes over the text is probably not the way to go; Rühm’s asking you to engage. As Joseph Schreiber puts it in his review at Rough Ghosts, you might follow Rühm’s directions and “allow yourself to read aloud and, there are you are, from the very beginning, not simply reading but actively engaging with the poem.”
I don’t really like numbers that much, at least not in a mob, a gang, a swarm. I tried and didn’t work out. Not just with this book but in general. I can’t count sheep, I guess.
I had a better time with Rühm’s forays into music and letters and collages; I enjoyed whatever psychotic version of minesweeper or Sudoku this piece is:
Vegetable Dinner, 1927 by Peter Blume (1906–1992)
Inge in Bed, 1965 by Alasdair Gray (1935-2019)
You Bring Your Tulpas When You Go (The Tenement Fire), 2021 by Peter Ferguson (b. 1968)
Illustration to Michael Rosen’s Sad Book, 2004 by Quentin Blake (b. 1932)
“Why’d you fall out with DC comics?”
“Because they’re a bunch of bloodsucking bastards, quite frankly,” is the kinda thing he tends to say. He’ll clarify that the comic book medium is “perfect,” it is “sublime,” whereas the comics industry is “a dysfunctional hellhole” that “hasn’t had any new ideas in 20 or 30 years,” that it’s run by “sub-human” thieves who employ the same “gangster ethics” by which DC “bought” the rights for Superman off its teen creators, Jerry Siegel and Joe Schuster, for $130.
“I pretty much detest the comics industry” is the gist, most recently for what they’ve done to popular culture and democracy with the Marvel Cinematic Universe and . . . whatever it is that DC’s up to. Moore’s been saying for years that he sees a harbinger of fascism in how young adults flock to see these “franchised übermenschen” zipping across the screen, and yes, he’s also mindful of the fact that he’s basically the cause of all this.
There were a lot of quotes I could’ve pulled from Alexander Sorondo’s new profile of Alan Moore at The Metropolitan Review — getting expelled for selling acid, falling in love with David Foster Wallace, accidentally conjuring the Persian math demon Asmodeus, etc. — but this is the one I chose. Check it out.
December Moonrise, 1959 by Charles Burchfield (1893-1967)
From “I Was a Captive of the Insect Fiends!” by Tim “Grisly” Boxell. Published in Fantagor #4, 1972, Last Gasp.
The Skull, 1973 by Claudio Bravo (1936-2011)
When Samuel Beckett went to Paris in 1930 he discovered his true home, a place of liberation in both the personal and professional sense. He became a member of James Joyce’s inner circle, and was one of the many accoucheurs at the prolonged delivery of Finnegans Wake.
In the early hours of 7 January 1939, Beckett was returning home with friends from a café when he was accosted by a pimp called Prudent. When Beckett repelled the pimp’s advances he stuck a flick knife straight into Beckett’s chest, missing the heart by a mere whisker. His companions roared for help and were assisted by a passing piano student, Suzanne Deschevaux-Dumesnil, and Beckett was rushed to hospital. Joyce insisted on paying for a private room for him, and lent him his favourite reading lamp. Nora made one of her special custard puddings to nourish the invalid. The cool and efficient piano student eventually became Mrs Beckett.
5 egg yolks loz (30g) castor sugar
1 pt (600ml) single cream
2 tbsp brandy
Preheat oven to 160°C (325°F, Gas mark 3).Grease a shallow ovenproof dish (about 900ml or 1½ pt capacity). Beat the egg yolks and castor sugar together. Heat the cream gently, do not boil, and stir in the brandy. Very gradually add the warmed cream to the egg mixture, beating constantly. Pour into the dish. Place the dish in a baking tin and pour sufficient hot water into the tin to come half-way up the dish. Bake for 45 minutes or until set.
Serves four.
From A Trifle, a Coddle, a Fry: An Irish Literary Cookbook by Veronica Jane O’Mara and Fionnuala O’Reilly.
Peanuts daily strip for 8 May 1979 by Charles M. Schulz. Reprinted in The Complete Peanuts: 1979-1980 (Volume Fifteen), Fantagraphics Books, 2011.
Skeleton Key, 2025 by Taylor Schultek (b. 1990)
The Pond, 2023 by Aron Wiesenfeld (b. 1972)
Biblioklept 