Dragonfly's Poetry & Prolixity: READ THIS BOOK: The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake

Monday, April 6, 2015

READ THIS BOOK: The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake

There are stories and then there are STORIES! Somehow I managed to miss one of the greatest writers of my generation: Breece D'J Pancake, until about a month ago when I stumbled upon his book in someone's "must-read" list on Twitter. It was fate. Tragically, he committed suicide at the age of 26, leaving only a handful of stories collected in this book:

"The Stories of Breece D'J Pancake"

If you Google him, you can find several of his stories online which were published in "The Atlantic Monthly" magazine. There's also a fine review by Joyce Caeol Oates and a few articles. But mostly his life and death remain a mystery...

His stories are pure poetry/art. He paints with words so vividly that I became lost in them...I vanished from my world directly into his, blinking and disoriented when each story ended.

If you only read one book this year, make it this one. You won't regret it.

xo,
Marion

"I effing love books. It was books that saved me & made me. I'm nowt but the residue of books wrapped in skin." #MarkOneInFour, from: Twitter

3 comments:

erin said...: effing love them, eh? (me too)

and then i make a straight face. the story you sent me to had a voice that didn't speak to me but spoke through me. i'll definitely be reading more. perhaps i'll remind james to bring pancake's book the next time he comes))); April 6, 2015 at 9:44 PM
glnroz said...: Thnx,, the "lost" authors are sometimes the greatest treat.; April 7, 2015 at 9:56 AM
Marion said...: Erin, definitely have James bring his book. I'm reading one story a week to stretch them out. And still they haunt me. Even the preface and afterwards are awesome. xo

Glen, this book fulfills a year of treats, it's sooooo good! I'm just glad I found it before I die. LOL! My greatest fear is to die with a really good book lying on my chest---unread! ;-). xo; April 7, 2015 at 8:39 PM

I Love Lorrie Moore!!

“You’re not a poetess, I hope,” said the English geologist next to her. “We had a poetess here last month, and things got a bit dodgy here for the rest of us.”

“Really.” After the soup, there was risotto with squid ink.

“Yes. She kept referring to insects as ‘God’s typos’ and then she kept us all after dinner one evening so she could read from her poems, which seemed to consist primarily of the repeating line ‘the hairy kiwi of his balls.’”

From: “Birds of America” by Lorrie Moore, page 266, ‘Terrific Mother’

Miranda July's Best Book:

"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise." From: "No One Belongs Here More Than You Stories by Miranda July", Page 11

A Dreamy, Drug of a Book

"The minute you land in New Orleans, something wet and dark leaps on you and starts humping you like a swamp dog in heat, and the only way to get that aspect of New Orleans off you is to eat it off. That means beignets and crayfish bisque and jambalaya, it means shrimp remoulade, pecan pie and red beans with rice, it means elegant pompano au papillote, funky file z'herbes, and raw oysters by the dozen, it means grillades for breakfast, a po' boy with chowchow at bedtime, and tubs of gumbo in between. It is not unusual for a visitor to the city to gain fifteen pounds in a week---yet the alternative is a whole lot worse. If you don't eat night and day, if you don't constantly funnel the indigenous flavors into your bloodstream, then the mystery beast will go right on humping you, and you will feel its sordid presence rubbing against you long after you have left town." ~Tom Robbins, "Jitterbug Perfume", page 240