first things first: "that moment of passion" is not the neck-munch illustrated on the cover - and btw that heated couple is nowhere to be found in thefirst things first: "that moment of passion" is not the neck-munch illustrated on the cover - and btw that heated couple is nowhere to be found in the book - but is actually a serious beatdown delivered by a hulking, responsibility-minded brother to his more sensitive and angsty (i.e. annoyingly emo) younger brother. Lortz does lead the reader on to wonder who exactly Feckless Young Artist will hook up with by novel's end. will it be his china doll sister-in-law? her high-falutin friend? his clever and maybe too-supportive sister? his understanding girl whom he spontaneously moved in with and then ran away from while on a days-long bender? no spoilers! not that that matters, since precisely no one will be reading this book in this sadly Lortz-less world.
the story is a snapshot of about 48 hours in the lives of an upper middle class family in the suburbs, in the late 50s; it is a life complete with multiple servants and passive-aggressive bridge & tea parties and multiple properties that need looking after. the plot centers around the young genius of the family, admired and resented, and the long shadow cast by the deceased matriarch. what stood out the most for me was the overlapping perspectives: a scene will occur from one character's point of view; immediately after, another scene will show that same scene from another perspective and then move forward with that person for a bit; in the next scene, another character will come in and the same thing will happen. these overlapping shingles of plot gave the narrative an interestingly askew quality and also functioned as a sometimes amusing, other times rather dire interrogation of how everyone truly hears and sees things in very different ways.
this was the first novel written by this beyond-obscure author, one who is becoming a bit of an obsession for me. according to the New York Public Library, "Richard Lortz (1917-1980) was a playwright, screen writer and novelist, notably for his publication Children of the Night (1974), and his theatrical productions on Broadway and London. Lortz died in New York City in 1980." Lortz dabbled here and there, in different genres and in different formats, and then left us. The book that perhaps gets the most attention these days is his creepy horror novel Lovers Living, Lovers Dead, and that attention is pretty much from horror blogs focused on obscure titles. ah, evanescence!
I'm attracted to Lortz for many reasons. because of his prose: off-kilter, slippery, stylized, often surprising; because of his narratives: playfully tricky, twisty, with strikingly ambiguous endings; because of his obvious lack of interest in providing the reader their regular standbys and pleasures. he likes to drop readers right into the story, right into his characters' heads, rather than carefully introducing them to the world he's depicting. he has a certain urbanity: his stories showcase supposedly classy characters doing unseemly things with a tartly critical perspective, but he never comes across as a judgmental bore. he doesn't revel in their unseemly shenanigans; rather, he appears to sympathize with the plights they have created. "sympathize" - not empathize. and speaking of unseemly, I'm not too crazy about what looks like an interest in quasi-incestuous relationships (or in one novel at least, fully incestuous). I also don't love how his perfect understanding of the way children think and act can lead into territory that makes me a bit... queasy (fortunately not in this novel). but all authors have their things, and sometimes those things don't match up with my things. I will withhold judgment for now as I continue explore this intriguing author's works....more
Loss is a queer thing. Losing a person, a family member, a loved one... the impact of loss looks different, depending on the person. There's no standaLoss is a queer thing. Losing a person, a family member, a loved one... the impact of loss looks different, depending on the person. There's no standard reaction; even the well-established 5 Stages of Grief don't exactly portray how everyone experiences loss or grief. I run trainings for peer support volunteers throughout the year and one of our key modules is an experiential exercise on loss and grief. It is interesting (and often moving) to see how participants react to the exercise in radically different ways. Many people compartmentalize and the experience is merely an intellectual one for them - have they managed to see this as an exercise and not emotionally invest in it, or is this how they deal with their grief in real life? Other people are all-in during the module, and the exercise brings out tears and/or rage and/or disappointment - is this how they deal with loss and grief that they've experienced, or has the exercise been a cathartic one for them, allowing them the space to release their bottled up emotions? I can't say, and the impression I've had over the years is that the participants can't really say either. We are often mysteries to ourselves, our own motivations and actions and reactions not easily explained or mapped out. And so it is with the cast of Bereavements and their often inexplicable actions and reactions.
Bereavements is a queer novel. It is about loss and grief, obviously. But it goes about exploring those things in such a bizarre way (e.g. there is a body embalmed in honey). Synopsis: an incredibly rich woman's teen son has died; in her near-insane grief, she posts an ad in the Village Voice that seeks a son who has lost their mother. There are many responses, some pornographic, but three of them become actual relationships. There is a mercenary actor in his late 20s who wants to be Mrs. Evans' arm-candy, accompanying her to shows and fancy diners and other social engagements, with the potential of romance on the horizon. There is a little person, a poetic intellectual and a would-be writer seeking a patron, highly intelligent, and a victim of the world's cruelty towards those who are different. And most importantly, there is the teen Angel: looking for genuine maternal love, his own unloving mother slowly wasting away in their small apartment, his studly father complacently drinking beer in his underwear, eyeing Angel hungrily. Angel is Mrs. Evans' dream come true, a substitute for departed son Martin, a symbol of her overpowering grief come to life. Angel becomes Mrs. Evans' angel, and the catalyst for her eventual catharsis. Is he her Death-Angel or her Angel of Life? Well, no spoilers here.
Richard Lortz is a queer writer. And this time I mean "queer" as in "Lortz is from the Land of Gays". Unfortunately, this is not really a good thing (and keep in mind this is coming from a proud queer). Was he actually gay? In the closet? Just interested in gay sexuality? I dunno. There is a certain homoeroticism that comes out in a couple of the novels that made me uncomfortable. I have no issue with homoeroticism, hell I literally love it, but when that eroticism is of the sneaky sort that makes sure his male characters are often portrayed as hairy-chested studs whose bodies are drooled over while forgetting that his female characters have their own bodies, their own sexuality... that's disappointing. So old school! And speaking of old school, I'm pretty over Lortz's not-so-hidden interest in NAMBLA type relationships. Thank God we are in an era where being gay is not automatically equated with wanting to see some man-on-boy action. So despite how fascinating this novel often was, despite the quirky and original prose on display, despite the depth of Bereavement's compelling themes... this book disappointed and at times repelled me (and I don't want to even go into how Lortz turns his sympathetic little person into a standard horrorshow monster full of self-pity and murderous, suicidal rage - UGH). I have one more Lortz on my shelf, an early effort by the author. I really hope it doesn't include some hot-bodied, hairy-chested, pedo-inclined wannabe stud that Lortz is not so covertly drooling over. I mean, everyone has their weird little fantasies, but there are some fantasies that I just don't need to read or even think about....more
synopsis: lives mired in poverty and cycles of abuse and neglect transform young whippersnappers into a marauding band of murderous, devouring animal-synopsis: lives mired in poverty and cycles of abuse and neglect transform young whippersnappers into a marauding band of murderous, devouring animal-kids.
Lortz tries to bring attention to the supposed nihilism of ghetto life with what amounts to a morality tale disguised as a horrorshow, but it's clear that the author has no real understanding of these lives. this is a drive-by view of tough living and broken surroundings by someone who is horrified, disgusted, and completely clueless; the windows are rolled up and the doors are definitely locked. there is a secret condescension here, along with the lack of dimensions. Lortz paints a picture of excrement and calls it a picture of life in the hood. sorry, but no. I'm not sure whether this is a staid bourgeois perspective or, more likely, a terminally artsy perspective. it certainly doesn't help matters that Lortz's previously displayed fascination with the sexuality of children and of gays has somehow curdled into homophobia and a pretty gross interest in sexualizing kids.
the author's talent with prose actually works against him: his various bits of writerly flair were like ribbons and bows wrapped around said excrement, and often came across as hopelessly amateurish to boot. this is a writer whose past three books I've really enjoyed; after reading this ostentatiously grimy book, it became clear that he is best off writing about milieus that he actually understands: the often eccentric lifestyles of the upper and upper-middle classes.
so yeah, this was super disappointing. I usually love Lortz but this time he overreached and fell into an abyss of pretension, bad writing, and all around repulsiveness.
also, there are way too many cock-rings in this book! I mean 1 is already 1 too many. alas!...more
Heisenberg's uncertainty principle basically states that "nothing final can be known about anything". This principle allows both hope and ruin to be cHeisenberg's uncertainty principle basically states that "nothing final can be known about anything". This principle allows both hope and ruin to be constant variables. This principle certainly rules over this book as well, and all of its characters, all of their fates.
This is a strange, often comic, often eerie story of a small group of rich guests in a hotel on an island off of the coast of Spain. We have our hostess, a voluble lady rich in anecdotes and affection, and her friends who despise each other - an uptight, virginal professor and an uptight, virginal schoolteacher. We have an intensely masculine painter and an intensely feminine actress. We have a pleasant pair of newlyweds, deeply in love and deep into making love; one of them a psychoanalyst not particularly interested in psychoanalyzing his fellow guests, but often put to work. And we have a Countess and her charge, a woman of much lived experience and unknown depths, and a lad of brief but dark life experience with the face of an angel. Together they all dance: a dance of life, death, sex, and dreams. All's well that ends well? Think again. This is less of a dance and more of a mean game of musical chairs. An absurd game, and a deadly one.
The flower called the valdepeñas blooms only once in seven years. It resembles vulva and penis. It a beautiful flower, and an obscene one, to some. It does not exist.
The fly called the geistata buzzes and stings only two weeks a year. The rest of the time it lives in a closed hive, one hard as concrete and impossible to open. It does not exist.
Richard Lortz was a playwright and his skills shine through: most of the novel is dialogue. And what dialogue! It spins off of the page, these glorious sentences dancing a lively dance, the asides and stories and retorts sounding simultaneously real and artificial, much like the guests themselves. Lortz's background as a playwright also informs how the dialogue is a commentary on the themes of the novel itself. And not in a too-clever meta way, but with a subtlety and finesse that made me stop and realize, many times, that what I was reading in these conversations was both the discussion of the topic at hand, and a discussion of the characters themselves, how they live and how they view the world, what they connect to and how they define themselves, their obsessions and what they consider truly meaningful. Seeing all of the layers was entrancing.
The book was first issued under the title "A Summer in Spain" and given a hilariously inappropriate cover image, complete with a hilariously incorrect summary of the story on that cover. I smile at the thought of readers led astray, first into a shallow, refreshing pool full of quirks, and then, finally, into unexpectedly deep and chill waters.
The Valdepeñas is a fascinating novel. Easy to read; challenging to contemplate. The last chapters in the book's fifth part (the book has six sections) have a haunting and hallucinatory twilight horror to them, one quite different in tone from the champagne sparkles and blazing sunlight of what preceded. And that last part, that ending! I've rarely seen tragedy delivered with such warmth, serenity, sadness, and absurdity....more
she's not from this world, she's from her own world, a world of bizarre things and bizarre practices. a father who loved her, all too well. a trunk inshe's not from this world, she's from her own world, a world of bizarre things and bizarre practices. a father who loved her, all too well. a trunk in the attic, locked, full of secrets. costumes and roles and personas, put on and taken off, whenever a whim moves her. the children run amok. the husband strays. the chauffeur comes to visit. black moths that cover her body. birds that see her and aren't quite sure what they're seeing.
it is a chamber piece: an older man who loves his young fey bride; a young fey bride who loves her dear dead dad; an elderly psychiatrist, getting in over her head and saying all the right and all the wrong things. they dance together: a danse macabre.
the prose quirks and the characters surprise and the story darkens and darkens and darkens. it starts out strange and only gets stranger. once you feel you have a grasp of it, an understanding, it turns and strikes you. you don't know what you know, or perhaps you are trying not to hold what you are grasping. it escalates, it escalates, it escalates. the path winds slowly, then quickly, moving ever downward.
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