Poetry, even the short examples in this section, is something that deserves more attention than a perusing as you ascend in an elevator. Poetry requires going-over and returning-to. Luckily, most of these poems don't, making them a little more apt to their suggested environment. Those pesky editors are at it again, twisting their moustaches at the hilarious notion of including Deborah Warren's poem "Airplane" in the elevator section because not only is it clearly miscategorized, but it also happens to be about all the mechanical problems that could go wrong on an airplane, causing it to crash. Perfect. Just what we needed. With this exception, though, most of the works are at least enjoyable, if not particularly deep. Ben Sonnenberg's strikes a chord, as does Suji Kwock Kim's.
The "Waiting Rooms" section contains the longest works. Charles D'Ambrosio's follows along pretty well with the rest of the works in here: a sister committed suicide, a father became an alcoholic, the brother is the narrator, and emotions only become vaguely reconciled. Rick Moody's runs along a similar theme and works very well. It's funny and sad, intriguing, and places its characters in settings that seem both familiar and strange. Unfortunately, his style comes off as an accidental parody of Salinger's, though with none of the magic that has made Salinger endure. And finally Ethan Canin's piece that promises "no surprises." This is the last piece for a reason. This tale of a history professor's tenure at a private school and his concern over the moral obligations, political aspirations, and character of his students is both engaging and is possessed with a very individually mature voice that separates it from the rest of these tales. It also lacks a single suicide, alcoholic parent, funeral, or sexual act- enough to make you wonder how it made the cut in this lop-sided collection.
The Paris Review began in 1953 as a reaction to the overabundance of literary criticism. As an anthology dedicated to the publication of fresh new authors and their short works it has gained a reputation as a quarterly devoted to the skill and art of writing and language, of understanding the artistic process of writers and their craft, and has prided itself on its own grass-roots, bohemian background. However, the editors seems to have lost touch with these nobler efforts as evidenced by the snobbishly arrogant quip on the back of the book describing the section devoted mostly to poetry as "something to enliven that long lift to the penthouse." I thought about that quote often as I walked up the 6 flights of stairs to my apartment. Perhaps this collection is just not for you, common man.
