“Lulu” by Adrienne Celt, recommended by Tara Ison

Issue No. 167


“My mother could be as great as I wanted her to be, sometimes. When she wanted it, too…”

Adrienne Celt’s debut novel, The Daughters, is a lyrical, multi-generational history of folklore and enchantment, selfless sacrifice and bitter, binding love. In this gorgeous excerpt, a mother and young daughter venture forth on a gold-bright afternoon. The destination: the Chicago Civic Opera House, to see an underground production of the legendary opera Lulu, whose amoral heroine juggles lovers and lives, seduces and destroys. The little girl—herself called Lulu, named for the character by her opera-loving mother—is intoxicated by the glittering day, by the spell her mother weaves of their own hidden beauty and power; “Let’s pretend we’re orphans,” she suggests. But not just regular orphans—magical, royal orphans: “This will be our first time out in the world in our new clothes, and no one will recognize us.” The train to the city is a royal carriage; the blind man singing to himself, the mother assures, is the royal madrigal, able to see their greatness through the sound of their voices; she joins him in triumphant harmony. Mother and daughter’s sweeping entrance to the theater is admission to a world of transcendent, fantastical secrets. They are given seats, given champagne; all is kisses and handholding, exquisite possibility, everyone performing their role to perfection. Child Lulu is in love with this bubbly new experience, with the illuminated red cloth heart the opera’s Lulu wears pinned to her dress, with her own loving, operatically glamorous mother. And we are in love with it all as well, thanks to Celt’s exquisite literary spell.

But as child Lulu is increasingly enthralled by her counterpart’s story and song (“My mother was magical, but this was more.”), her mother grows restless, derisive and cold, now throwing back whiskey, and her bitterness rises to the surface. A failed singer, she resents her role as spectator and not star; she pulls away when her daughter reaches for her hand, and young Lulu now realizes the bottle of whiskey “she’d waved toward me in the second intermission had solved the long mystery of my mother’s most peculiar perfume.” At the end, opera Lulu’s glowing red cloth heart has turned black, been torn in two, each half pinned to either side of the closing curtain.

The ride home is no longer a royal carriage. But the blind man is still there, on the train; Lulu hopes he may still be their madrigal—won’t he recognize them? Perhaps they should sing him a song? But, no, the spell has been broken, and her mother stalks off without a word. Lulu has no choice but to follow. All is now tarnished, turned cold and dim.

The roles we play, the costumes we wear, the tales we tell each other and ourselves… how else to reconcile our longing for fanciful escape with our desperate need for authentic, of-this-earth affection and love? What I so admire here is Celt’s masterful, insightful depiction of this paradox, her intimate knowledge of the human heart—the breakable beating heart we nevertheless, like young Lulu, keep on displaying, hopefully, to the world.

Tara Ison
Author of Reeling Through Life: How I Learned to Live, Love, and Die at the Movies

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by Adrienne Celt

Excerpted from THE DAUGHTERS

Recommended by Tara Ison

Taking me to the opera was my mother’s last attempt to make me her own. Like everything she does, she went about it in a strange way: not many parents would choose to bring their daughters to witness a tragedy to which they are namesake. But whatever her insufficiencies, my mother understood my sense of pride. She knew that seeing the name Lulu on the tickets would thrill me more than the character’s death would undo me.

The show was a matinee on one of those magical Chicago days that are clear and bright, so the cold doesn’t seem so punishing. Walking outside reddened our noses, and my mother pinched mine with her gloved fingers—I could feel the faint pressure from her long manicured nails beneath the leather.

“Let’s pretend we’re orphans,” she said to me. “Only not really orphans. Children abandoned at birth who discover that they’re really royalty.”

“And magic?”

“Yes.” She smiled. “And magic. This will be our first time out in the world in our new clothes, and no one will recognize us. They’ll all be impressed with how pretty and fancy we are, and even people”—her face darkened—“who’ve been terrible to us and shunned us because of our orphanhood will love us and sing our praises. And we’ll be kind to them.” The darkness lifted from her like a cloud in the wind.

We took the O’Hare line to the Loop, then transferred to get to Washington and Wells—it was a long ride, but to us each train was a royal carriage. My mother and I pointed out all the special touches that had been left inside for us: the clean blue pair of seats in a beam of sun, the advertisements for a local jeweler showing pictures of a diamond-studded necklace and bracelet. We might consider getting our tiaras refitted there, we said. If the store had sufficient dignity upon inspection. The other passengers received our scrutinizing attention as well: there was the café owner who’d refused to sell us hot chocolate because the gold coin we’d found to pay with was dirty. Beside her, the spoiled twin girls we always saw in the park whose dresses and hair ribbons threw us into fits of jealousy, which we quelled thanks to our superior breeding.

A blind man with a cane and a threadbare hat sat in the handicapped seats a few feet away from us, and he rocked with the rhythm of the train, singing softly to himself.

“That,” my mother whispered to me, taking off her gloves, “is the royal madrigal. He recognized us for what we were long before anyone else, but he couldn’t tell us for fear of retribution from the evil queen. She wanted to keep us poor and wretched. But she couldn’t fool the madrigal: he sensed our greatness through the sound of our voices. He can tell a prince from a hog farmer by hearing them speak a single word.”

We were quiet, listening to the madrigal sing. He changed tunes after a minute or so, and my mother tilted her head to the side so her long hair fell away from the ear that faced him.

“Well, of course he’d want to honor us with a song.” She raised her eyebrows at me gravely. “Shouldn’t we honor him back?” My mother could be as great as I wanted her to be, sometimes. When she wanted it too.

I nodded, and she put a finger to her lips. Hush. She walked over to where the man sat and placed herself beside him while I watched. Silently. Hushed. At first I couldn’t distinguish the sounds she was making from the man’s singing, so low were the notes and so well intertwined with the music that was already in the air. But as the man raised his voice my mother made hers more audible, and they began to play together: his legato with her crisp stutters, his baritone with her alto-soprano.

The song was sad, but somehow between them it sounded triumphant. Like they’d found one another after a long search. Ended a long loneliness. She bobbed her head as they tossed lines back and forth, trading phrases from “Body and Soul.” I leaned my chin against the cold metal headrest on the back of my seat and watched. The grinding of the train against the tracks rumbled against my jaw as my mother and the man spun the air into an earthy, rasping exultation. They were harmonizing now, and my mother put her clean, beautiful hand on the man’s, which was thick with calluses. I loved her then.

Together, they sang about the spirit and the flesh. Together, until they ran out of words.

As the train pulled up to Washington and Wells, they hummed a few last bars together until the conductor made a scratchy announcement, breaking the spell. I held my mother’s hand and we hopped off onto the wooden platform. The blind man stayed where he was and smiled.

I almost broke into a run towards the front entrance of the Civic Opera House, home of the Chicago Lyric Opera, but my mother snagged the back collar of my dress and pulled me around the building. We approached a side entrance where a man stood smoking in a tuxedo and tails. My mother nudged me.

“The gatekeeper,” she whispered. I had the tickets.

“Hello,” I said to the man. He peered at me through a cloud of smoke that he puffed in and out of his mouth without removing the cigarette. Then he turned to my mother.

“You Jimmy’s friend?”

She nodded and I silently offered up the tickets in my palm. They were delicate slips of paper with careful calligraphy, unlike any theater stubs I’d seen before. The smoking man picked them up and inspected them, smirking.

“This all seems to be in order,” he said. With the gesture of a ringmaster, he extended his arm towards the door, then opened it just slightly so we would have to slip inside. I looked hesitantly at the tickets.

“Are you just going to keep them?” I asked.

I wanted to pin them to the wall beside my bed and teach myself how to write my name in similar sweeps and flourishes. I’d expected an usher to glance at them and hand them back, maybe adding a minuscule tear. But the man in the tuxedo had other plans.

“How right you are,” he said, and removed a lighter from the inside pocket of his jacket. The paper was extremely thin; they were gone almost as soon as the flint in the lighter struck metal.

“Come on, Lulu.” My mother pulled me through the slender entrance by my elbow.

“Oh, Lulu.” The man stayed outside and laughed. “This is the famous little Lulu. Well, it is an honor.” If he said anything else it was lost to me behind the steely slam of the door.

Keep reading

An Open Letter To W.W. Norton

At the top of the pile there?
That’s the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism.

I’m pretty anal about caring for my books, especially because I annotate the fuck out of them and losing one is a serious issue.  The fact that my NATC doesn’t have a dust jacket is the best proof I can offer for how often I’ve used it, and how many years it’s spent being schlepped around in my bags first as a student and then as a teacher.  Let me be honest - my relationship to “theory” is clear from my blog title, but for better and worse it’s the tradition I was taught in, it’s a tradition I still have to teach, and the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism is quite simply the best single-volume anthology in the field.  Period.  Trust me, I’m a professional and god knows I’ve looked, because I’ve wanted to be free of that fucking book for years.  There’s no substitute (no substitute) there’s no substitute (no substitute) there’s no substitute for your anthology, baby.

OK.  But here’s why I kind of hate the fucking thing a the same time.
I bought that anthology for my first-ever all-theory course in undergrad.  At the time, it was a fucking revelation.  I’m the kind of person who reads a lot, for no reason, all the time.  So when I got my Norton of TC, I basically read it cover-to-cover, right down to the intro essays and footnotes.  I had a huge intellectual hard-on the entire time.  I discovered so many thinkers I’d never heard of, and so many texts that still frame my inquiries and syllabi today were first encountered in that book. 

Soon, to the Norton Anthology of Theory and Criticism were added Nortons of American Lit, English Lit, Jewish Lit., and various texts of the Norton Critical series, the crown jewel of which is the Norton Shakespeare, the best single-volume Shakespeare available in the world today.  Period.  The intensity of my relationship to Norton’s anthologies - and my resentment of them - peaked with the GRE in Literature.

If you’ve ever taken the GRE in Literature, you know it’s fucking painful, stupid, senseless, and indicative of absolutely nothing.  Now, I absolutely will not deny that the two volumes of the Norton Anthology of English Literature are the single greatest study aid to anybody taking the GRE in Literature.  If you’re studying for that exam, don’t save money by buying the concise one-volume edition, spend the extra $40 to buy both volumes in the beautiful and sturdy hardcover format.  It’s worth it.  Having said that, by the time I finished the GRE in Literature, I had come to hate Norton with a passion.

Who the fuck are these people?  Who the fuck do they think they are telling me what literature is and what criticism is and what Jewish means?  Fuck you, Norton! became my new rallying cry.  Here’s why.  As I moved past the GRE in Literature and started my dissertation research, I realized just how much WASN’T in those Norton Anthologies.  Those Norton Anthologies, to me, came to stand for ‘the canon,’ in general, and like many queer or otherwise minoritarian readers, the idea of the canon is a deeply painful and offensive one, and I have a very complicated and unhealthy relationship with it.

This resentment was coupled by a feeling that Norton was colluding in a vicious corporate circle by which the dictatorial canons of higher education join forces with publishing houses to literally make many valuable texts not only unknown but effectively unavailable.  Having 20 different one-volume Platos on the market means that X number of publishers AREN’T printing anything else that they could be printing.  I also assumed that because of their huge market share in the Anglophone anthology industry they must be an evil corporate giant.

Well, here’s the thing.
This past weekend Twitter, and the book exhibit at the MLA convention, brought Norton and I together in a surprising and joyous way.  They didn’t know it was me when I visited them at the convention hall, and they weren’t following me on Twitter yet, but that didn’t stop them from being friendly, funny, and awesome as they explained to me some details of their corporate structure.  So when my publisher reviews post-exhibit caught their eye on Twitter, I was already very inclined to like them. 

I’m going to do something I really never, ever do - I’m going to quote a for-profit corporation’s own ideological positions without mocking them.  This is from Norton’s own website:

“W. W. Norton & Company, the oldest and largest publishing house owned wholly by its employees, strives to carry out the imperative of its founder to 'publish books not for a single season, but for the years’ in fiction, nonfiction, poetry, college textbooks, cookbooks, art books and professional books.

The roots of the company date back to 1923, when William Warder Norton and his wife, Mary D. Herter Norton, began publishing lectures delivered at the People’s Institute, the adult education division of New York City’s Cooper Union. The Nortons soon expanded their program beyond the Institute, acquiring manuscripts by celebrated academics from America and abroad.”

The key thing here is “owned wholly by its employees.” To a Marxian, “owned wholly by its employees” is like “you won the lotto” to the bourgeoisie:  it’s the dream they hold on to to help them get through the day, the ideal condition of existence they dream about on the subway.  It’s really very simple.  The only way to avoid alienated labor is to give the worker a stake in the product of his labor.  And the only way to avoid top-down corporate decisions that are not in the interests of the employees is to make sure that there’s nobody in the corporate structure who isn’t, so to speak, an employee.  Marx 101.  This is not accomplished by outsourcing logistics to consulting companies, by bringing in executive brass from other corporations, or by farting out shitty products to improve the bottom line.  Employee ownership.  To quote a Tweet Norton sent me, which made me deliriously happy:  “Utopian gangsta collectivism is the future of publishing!”

'cause here’s the thing:  while every other publisher is putting out increasingly shitty, increasingly expensive, increasingly useless products while whining about the cost and profit margin of publishing, Norton, according to what their employees/owners told me at the MLA, had one of their best years ever in 2012.  And their products are still good.  One thing I can attest to personally:  if publishing books 'for the years’ means putting out an amazing hardcover anthology which will withstand 10 years of heavy reading, quoting, annotating, photocopying, and schlepping, then Norton does exactly what they say they will.  And that’s why I’m a little bit in love right now. 

Because here’s my new pragmatic take on Norton:  yes, they ARE part of a vicious canonical cycle of academic disavowal and repression, and they should be conscious of that.  But the market niche they will exists independently of them, and as the work of other contemporary publishers show, that niche could be filled with much, much worse products.  So if we have to have a single-volume anthology, might as well make it a fucking Norton. 

Because I’m me, and because Norton is a grown-up, they’ll understand if I leave them with some constructive criticism in conclusion.  I’m talking to you like I talk to my sisters - you might be annoyed with me for a day or two but trust me, I know what I’m talking about, babe.

- Where’s the Norton Anthology of Queer Anglophone Writing?

- When you do the next edition of the Theory & Criticism, give me a call.  The Nietzsche, Deleuze & Guattari, Freud, and Hume selections need work, and there’s no Spinoza, Schopenhauer, Bergson, or Irigaray.  Not cool, Norton.  Also, can we all just agree to pretend Harold Bloom doesn’t exist and never did?  Thanks.

- To my homeboys at Norton Critical:  it’s time for a Norton Critical Spinoza’s Ethics.  It’s time for a solid, accessible, well-annotated Spinoza, with secondary literature from the tragically ignored epistemological school of '50s and '60s Paris, including Deleuze and Gueroult.  I’ll do it for free.  Seriously.  You don’t even have to put my name on the cover.  I want it to exist even if I don’t get credit.  No-one will have to know, and I can finish it in 3 months.  DL/discrete cool, DDF ub2.  No pnp.

- Finally, Norton, real talk for you:  Stop buying other companies.  No, really.  You’re awesome, you do good work.  Let’s keep it that way.  Putting a turd in every toilet is a profitable way to exist, but not a particularly honorable way.  Focus on making hot shit for coprophiliacs who appreciate it.  You don’t want to wake up one morning from a restless slumber and find you’ve transformed into a monstrous Random House.

The last thing I want to say is that Peter Gay'sFreud: A Life For Our Timesis the best biography of one of my greatest heroes and I’m grateful to W.W. Norton for republishing it.

You do you, Norton.  I got my eye on you. 
xoxo FT

cheddar cauliflower soup with spicy pepitas and the latest book I can’t put down–“A Reader’s Book of Days” by Tom Nissley 

Read the full post and get the recipe here


Friends, readers, followers, good morning to you all.

The book I wrote, HAMMER HEAD, comes out on March 16, just under three weeks! (You can pre-order it now.) It’s exciting and nervewracking both, this lead-up to it existing in the world. Besides the usual musings on carpentry and building, the old blog here will be getting a dose of book-related action. Soon I’ll be posting a schedule of readings and events taking place up and down the east coast – I’m hoping to meet a lot of you in person. You guys have been a great group of supporters for this project, and I’m grateful for it.

When I started blogging here on Tumblr some years ago, using it as sort of a public notebook to write about my experiences leaving my journalism job and learning the carpentry trade, I never, never expected that Tumblr would be such a human experience; I never would’ve guessed that I’d find a motley group of passionate, funny, engaged and engaging people – readers, writers, artists, cooks, travelers, enthusiasts of all sort – people who have become pals, people whose work I admire, whose words, images, and ideas have challenged and stimulated and made me die laughing. I feel lucky to be part of something here, lucky to have crossed paths with you in this way. My thanks to you. And now off to lay a floor and grout a tub.

A Review: Heft by Liz Moore

What if you were entirely alone and just let go, released the restraints by which you limit yourself?

Liz Moore’s novel asks this question repeatedly and variedly. The title, Heft, most apparently refers to Arthur Opp, who has not left his Park Slope brownstone since September 11, 2001 and has grown “colossally fat.“ That day’s tragedy provoked the realization that he had no one to care about, and he yielded to his natural tendency for isolation. The only interaction he allows is written correspondence with a former student, Charlene Turner, whom he has not seen in twenty years.

Charlene, too, has yielded, to depression, to alcohol, and to illness. The stories of her decline are recounted by her son, Kel, and so the novel fluctuates between two men—one middle-aged, obese, and reclusive, the other young, athletic, and struggling—who cannot decide if it is time to give up. Despite his many advantages, Kel’s home-life has wrecked his confidence and his intimacies. He recounts the start of freshman year at Pells, the high school in a wealthy, nearby town:

Who I was meant something different here than it did at home. At home I as in charge of all the boys at my school. I am not exaggerating, it was true…. I was certain that I would be in charge of nobody at Pells and that no one would fight for me. I felt very alone.

As the binding element between the two narratives, this loneliness is almost too conspicuous. Though Kel must continue to face the world, he shrouds his inner self; Arthur’s circumstances allow him to hide both. Perhaps the only weakness in Moore’s novel, at times the two story lines sound too similar. Until roughly halfway through the novel, Kel’s voice rings with pomp that echoes Arthur’s professorial speech; both voices rely on the same blunt prose and interior dialogues. Moore writes beautifully but cannot convince me that a high school boy speaks like a former English professor.

Nonetheless, the strong plot and unique characters disguise other flaws. Moore’s novel could easily have become a grotesque condemnation of the contemporary state of obesity, but Arthur is too gentle and gracious and hopeful of a character for that. Just as he once released the restraints of social convention and hid, he now fights against his self-imposed prison. He invites a housekeeper. He eats healthier. He walks to Prospect Park. Meanwhile, Kel tries to harmonize his mother’s faults, his father’s anonymity, his athletic aspirations, and readers will wonder if he, too, will yield to the world’s pressures and disappear. This tortured sentiment could easily have appeared in either narrators’ sections:

I used to lie on the floor, spread out like a starfish, & gaze at the ceiling of my huge empty home & wonder why I had been chosen for the life I was living. Why I was chosen to be so alone.

But the novel reminds readers that one is not “chosen” to be alone, only chooses to be so. In this imperfect novel of very imperfect characters, that hefty choice, between grappling with the often harrowing outer world and hiding from it, blooms.

*       *       *

BONUS: Moore has several upcoming events/readings in New York, Philadelphia, and Cambridge. Check her website for more details.

Heft by Liz Moore
W.W. Norton, January 2012
ISBN: 9780393081503. 352 pgs.

I’ve seen Rachel’s beaming face holding a lot of different books, and on Friday afternoon it was strange indeed – and amazing – to scroll through Tumblr and see my book in her hands. Her copy made it to her faster in New York than it did to me in Cambridge, and I came home yesterday to find a package from Norton with two copies, two galleys of the book. What a thing to hold. It’s gonna be a book. Coming March, 2015.