We're reading the dead (it's not as creepy as it sounds) again this Friday, January 31st, at 7pm sharp. It's a marathon session of Amos Tutuola's classic weirdness: The Palm-Wine Drinkard. You can read aloud from the text or just sit and listen to others read to you. You can laugh. In fact, I encourage it. Oohing and aahhing are also things you can do. There will be snacks and drinks of indeterminate type. And the warmth of your fellow readers, of course.
Ottessa Moshegh receiving the Paris Review's Plimpton Prize for fiction from Jeffrey Eugenides.
Besides my usual New Year wishes for peace in the Middle East and an excellent burger shack (like this one) to open up in the Providence metro area, I'd like to add a third: The Collected Stories of Ottessa Moshfegh.
If you don't know Ottessa's work then I urge you to stop reading this drivel and immediately go here, here, and here. And after you've read these stories, which shine like amethyst suns against a sky of basalt and pumice, google some others and read those, too. Because then you can say, "I knew her when." But of course, you'll only mean "I knew her work when." since you're probably not lucky enough to know her in person, whatever that's like.
When her book comes out, either this year or the next, it's going to be a sensation. It'll be the darling of The New York Times Book Review and The New York Review of Books and even other places that aren't in New York (she lives in L.A., anyway). It's going to stir up a can of worms and open up a hornet's nest and in general defy all cliche and categorization. Well, no. It will, in fact, be easy to categorize: Best Short Story Collection of 2014 (or possibly, 2015).
Please, Knopf (or FSG?), make my third New Year's wish come true. Because let's face it; the first two don't have a chance in hell.
The Stubborn P.
Here's where I say stuff about events and stuff.