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Russell Edson (1935–2014)

Autor von The Tunnel: Selected Poems of Russell Edson

24+ Werke 527 Mitglieder 24 Rezensionen Lieblingsautor von 5 Lesern

Über den Autor

Russell Edson was born in 1935. He attended the Art Students League and Black Mountain College. In the 1960s, he began publishing poetry and received fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation and the National Endowment for the Arts. He illustrated his own collections of poetry including The Brain mehr anzeigen Kitchen: Writings and Woodcuts, The Clam Theatre, The Wounded Breakfast: Ten Poems, The Tormented Mirror, The Rooster's Wife, and See Jack. He also wrote a book of plays entitled The Falling Sickness and the novels Gulping's Recital and The Song of Percival Peacock. He died after a long illness on April 29, 2014 at the age of 79. (Bowker Author Biography) weniger anzeigen

Beinhaltet den Namen: Russell Edson Fables

Werke von Russell Edson

Zugehörige Werke

Flash Fiction: 72 Very Short Stories (1992) — Mitwirkender — 394 Exemplare
The Rag and Bone Shop of the Heart: A Poetry Anthology (1992) — Mitwirkender — 389 Exemplare
Plötzliche Geschichten : amerikanische Short-Shortstories (1984) — Mitwirkender — 362 Exemplare
The Treasury of American Short Stories (1981) — Mitwirkender — 268 Exemplare
The Best American Poetry 1999 (1999) — Mitwirkender — 208 Exemplare
The Best American Poetry 2007 (2007) — Mitwirkender — 165 Exemplare
No Boundaries: Prose Poems by 24 American Poets (2003) — Mitwirkender — 29 Exemplare
The Analog Sea Review: Number Two (2019) — Mitwirkender — 13 Exemplare
The Umbral Anthology of Science Fiction Poetry (1982) — Mitwirkender — 8 Exemplare
THE SEVENTIES. Number 1. Spring 1972 (1972) — Mitwirkender — 4 Exemplare
The Sixties, Number 7, Winter 1964 (1964) — Mitwirkender — 2 Exemplare
Stooge Thirteen, Spring 1975 — Mitwirkender — 1 Exemplar

Getagged

Wissenswertes

Geburtstag
1935
Todestag
2014-04-29
Geschlecht
male
Nationalität
USA
Wohnorte
Darien, Connecticut, USA
Berufe
poet
novelist
writer
illustrator
Beziehungen
Edson, Gus (father)
Preise und Auszeichnungen
Whiting Writers' Award (1989)

Mitglieder

Rezensionen



This Russell Edson novel is so weird it doesn't even make it on the lists of weird novels. Any reader familiar with the author's oddball, offbeat prose poems (what some term "microfictions") will have a good sense why this is the case.

For those folks not the least bit acquainted with Russell Edson, herein are gathered a bushel of Edson-esque features from The Song of Percival Peacock that will provide a small taste of what's to be found in this one-of-a-kinder that has created its own category within the world of the novel: hyperweirdism.

I sprinkled in several medieval woodcuts that, to my eye, express some of the novel's unique spirit. Russell Edson was himself both a writer and illustrator who worked in a number of mediums, including woodcuts.

Right from the get-go in this short novel (144 pages) we are treated to a dose of vintage Russell Edson bizarre home sweet home under the heading: MAYONNAISE. Here's a snatch of dialogue where Mr. Peacock, the new master of the house, continues his efforts to extract information about a missing chair from his servants, in this case, the Maid:

"I was trying to say that because of my rheumatism I like to undress in the kitchen, and put mayonnaise on my body, and just let it soak in. It's necessary for me to completely undress, said the Maid.
Yes, yes, you're covered with mayonnaise and naked, screamed Mr. Peacock.
You're talking so loudly I can barely gather my thoughts, said the Maid.
I'm all nerves, screamed Mr. Peacock.
I've told the Caretaker to keep out of the kitchen a thousand times. So many times I caught old my Hardcock by the window peeking in, said the Maid.
I don't want to appear rude. And I sympathize with your maidenly modesty. It's perfectly natural your not wanting to be viewed with mayonnaise all over you. But I'm very anxious about the missing chair, said Mr. Peacock."



The flaky aesthetic of The Song of Percival Peacock shares much with Conspirators of Pleasure, a 1996 film by the Czech creator Jan Švankmajer. Link to a 3 minute clip: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CfvHNaA13lc

When I watched Conspirators of Pleasure years ago, this 85 minute film nearly weirded me out. I had the same experience with the twisted sexuality in The Song of Percival Peacock. Curiously and perhaps not so coincidentally, both Russell Edson and Jan Švankmajer thrive in the shorter form as per the below Edson prose poem and Švankmajer shorty:

THE TREE
They have grafted pieces of an ape with pieces of a dog.
Then, what they have, wants to live in a tree.
No, what they have wants to lift its leg and piss on the tree . . .

Jan Švankmajer 3 minute film:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BXe9lluFbdk



Did I mention twisted sexuality back there? It isn't long before the master of the house, Mr. Peacock, alternately called Mr. Sleepycock, Mr Beddycock, Mr. Horsecock, Mr. Pussycock, Mr. Freecock, Mr Weeweecock by his Caretaker and Maid, is dealing with upset to his traditional ideas about order as the master-servant relationship is turned topsy-turvy.

And that's shake n' bake chaos as in the Caretaker crawling into bed with Mr. Peacock to feel the warmth and touch Mr. Peacock in his delicate places. The Maid walks in and gives Mr. Peacock hell for all his carrying on in such ways with the Caretaker. A yelling match ensues until the Caretaker gives Mr. Peacock a good whack on the head with a hammer.

Some days later Mr. Peacock wakes up wearing a chastity belt and all his cloths are gone. No problem, the Maid tells him, she has a nice flowered dress he can wear since she always wanted a daughter. Outrageous events escalate, adding even more torque to contorted sexuality as Mr. Pussycock deals with the bird of his displeasure.

However, even with such kooky, grotesque and comical curlicues (I laughed out loud on nearly ever page), through the magic and power of Edson's storytelling, we are compelled to keep turning the pages to see what further antics poor Mr. Weeweecock must contend with in his self-proclaimed role as master. By the way, all this Edson-esque bedlam bestows fresh and expanded meaning to that time-honored phrase "to the manor born."

In point of fact, we shouldn’t feel too sorry for Percival the Horsecock since he judges his servants having no more humanness than oxen in a field. Maybe not a bad development when Maid and Caretaker assume the roles of mother and father for that uppity Mr. Freecock.



What are we to make of all this? Should we revoke Russell Edson’s license to write such novels? Actually it is too late since Russell Edson, born 1935, passed on into the mica glitter of star in 2014.

With an entire career creating such off-the-wall writing, is it any wonder Russell lived his entire life in solitude with his wife Frances in a small house on Weed Avenue in Stamford, Connecticut, eschewing the demands of literary notoriety? For Edson fans, we enjoy every morsel of his imagination. My recommendation here for readers new to Russell Edson is to pick up a collection or two of his prose poems prior to taking a whack at this singular, out-there novel.



"I do not permit people to touch my body. The flesh is not only the house of the soul, but a vehicle, including intake ports as well as exhaust ports; not to mention areas given wholly to the reproductive cycle. These areas are of particular note. They grow more meaningfully terrible in direct ratiio to one's growing sense of modesty, said Mr. Peacock." - Russell Edson, The Song of Percival Peacock

… (mehr)
 
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Glenn_Russell | Nov 13, 2018 |



Unlike the muck of life, with the rarefied air of theater, an audience is afforded aesthetic distance. Just enough closeness to feel the sting yet far enough away so that everyone can exit the theater in one piece when the lights go up. A truth magnificently expressed by Russell Edson:

WAITING FOR THE FAT LADY TO SING
It was the longest opera ever written. By the time the fat lady sang most of the audience had died in their seats still holding their programs, the theater full of flies and microbes.

Some began to think that perhaps the opera was a bit long, that maybe the fat lady should start singing a little earlier so the audience might have time to write their wills, and to say goodbye to friends and family.

But others felt, what better way to die than waiting for the fat lady to sing in the make-believe of theater, where nothing's real, not the fat lady, nor even death . . .
… (mehr)
 
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Glenn_Russell | Nov 13, 2018 |


Russell Edson (1935-2014) wrote and published his quizzical, surreal, distinctively Russell Edson-like prose poems for nearly fifty years. Reading one of his collections published back in the 50s, 60s, 70s or 80s you might think Russell would run out of ideas for these curious mustachioed eggs, but not so - right through his ripe old age he could, like a farmer’s prize hen, still keep laying his eggs.

And since his prose poems are half-pagers or one-pagers, nothing better than offering a sample for a taste test: below are several of the shortest from this collection, his last published book. Oh, Russell was also an illustrator and artist – Russell did the cover art for See Jack. Here you go:

AFTER THE CONCERT
After the concert the cellist takes his cello home and gets into bed with it.
He knows if his fellow musicians knew what he did at night with a cello old enough to be his great grandmother, they’d report him to the Humane Society.
But they don’t know, he thinks as he falls asleep, his face buried in the cello’s ancient bosom.


THE CONVERSATION
There was a woman whose face was a cow’s milk bag, a pink pouch with four dugs pointing out of it . . .
A man with a little three-legged milking stool comes. She stoops and he begins to milk her face . . .


A MAN WHO WENT FOR A WALK
There was a man who attached a collar and leash to his neck. And, holding the leash in one hand, took himself for a walk, lifting his leg every so often to mark his way.


MYOPIA
He had only one eye. In the other socket was a belly button.
Oh, but not to worry, in his umbilical depression was his other eye fully equipped with eyelid and lashes. It even had tears for sad stories and onions.
But because his belly button, I mean his umbilical eye, was nearsighted, it wore a monocle ground for distant viewing.
He would stand at a window at night letting his belly button, I mean, his umbilical eye, view the moon as it flowed through the monocle into his belly button, I mean, his umbilical eye . . .


PORTRAIT OF A REALIST
There is an old man who pukes metal. Today bedsprings. Yesterday, the iron maiden of Nuremberg.
His wife is more for cloth. Today she pukes used mummy wrappings. Yesterday a teddy bear without a head.

Suddenly the old man pukes a battalion of lead soldiers. He wife upchucks a bundle of soiled diapers.

They have a son who’s also a puker. But, unlike his parents, he pukes real puke . . .


WAITING FOR THE FAT LADY TO SING
It was the longest opera ever written. By the time the fat lady sang most of the audience had died in their seats still holding their programs, the theater full of flies and microbes.
Some began to think that perhaps the opera was a bit long, that maybe the fat lady should start singing a little earlier so the audience might have time to write their wills, and to say goodbye to friends and family.
But the others felt, what better way to die than waiting for the fat lady to sing in the make-believe of theater, where nothing’s real, not the fat lady, nor even death . . .

------

Russell inspired me to write my own prose poems. Keeping with Russell’s themes above, here are a couple I wrote some time ago:


THE TIGHTROPE WALKER
Will the tightrope walker fall? Who can tell? Her torso and legs display an uncanny sense of balance. Nevertheless, there are some significant deterrents. Like the rolling pin she’s holding, the jumbo spheres with geometrical inscriptions squatting next to the net, an, oh yes . . . one end of the tightrope is fastened around her ankle.


THE THROW-UP CLUB
By a stroke of luck, my application for membership was accepted by the throw-up club. As a full-fledged member, I was allowed to join the club’s next meeting way out in the woods.
Once alone in the woods, all the members of the throw-up club could throw-up in peace. Starting in the morning and continuing until late afternoon, members took turns throwing up. After dinner, having that overly full and crapulous feeling, the throw-up club has a sing-along. Some members threw up before the songs, other members threw up after the songs, but all the members, including myself, observed restraint and proper decorum by not once throwing up during the songs.

… (mehr)
 
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Glenn_Russell | 1 weitere Rezension | Nov 13, 2018 |


To celebrate the bright strawberry in the sky (what some people refer to as the sun), I'd like to share a number of my favorite Russell Edson pieces from this, my favorite Russell Edson book. As if slices of scrumptious strawberry pie, I hope you find the writing delectable.


TURTLES
Bales of turtles descend like floating oriental villages; and still they come, until the hills are only turtles, until there is no surface of the immediate earth that is not a turtle. They cover the trunks of trees, the branches. They are everywhere!
People are forced to shovel their way to the roads; forced to shovel out their beds at night; only to awaken from dreaming endlessly of turtles, covered with turtles.
People becomes so distracted they no longer remember how to speak, they do not know words anymore; only turtle . . . They stare, their heads askew, whispering, turtle, turtle, turtle . . .


THE GINGERBREAD WOMAN
An old woman wishes she could climb into her own basket, like a gingerbread woman, the one who would have naturally married the gingerbread man, had they been made with more detail in their genital areas.
. . . How nice to lie in a basket on a linen napkin, near a pot of jam and a chicken leg, being kissed by a gingerbread man . . . Summer shadow, summer light, branch sway . . . Delight!


IN THE FOREST
I was combing some long hair coming out of a tree . . .
I had noticed long hair coming out of a tree, and a comb on the ground by the roots of that same tree.
The hair and the comb seemed to belong together. not so much that the hair needed combing, but the reassurance of the comb being drawn through it . . .
I stood in the gloom and silence that many forests have in the pages of fiction, combing the thick womanly hair, the mammal-warm hair; even as the evening slowly took the forest into night . . .




Similar to the illustration at the very top, this woodcut print is by Russell Edson himself. As something of a bonus, here are the first several lines of the prose poem:

A ROOF WITH SOME CLOUDS BEHIND IT
A man is climbing what he thinks is the ladder of success.
He's got the idea, says father.
Yes, he seems to know the direction, says mother.
But do you realize that some men have gone quite the other way and brought up gold? says father.
Then you think he would do better in the earth? says mother.
I have a terrible feeling he's on the wrong ladder, says father.
But he's still in the right direction, isn't he? says mother.
Yes, but, you see, there seems to be only a roof with some clouds behind it at the top of the ladder, says father.
Hmmm, I never noticed that before, how strange. I wonder if that roof and those clouds realize that they're in the wrong place, says mother.
I don't think they're doing it on purpose, do you? says father.
No, probably just a thoughtless mistake, says mother.
… (mehr)
 
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Glenn_Russell | Nov 13, 2018 |

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