Tag Archives: Jamie Bulloch

PEIRENE PRESS — Turning Point Series

The turning

Peirene Press’ “Turning Point” series made its way to my shelves, and I delved into the books, reading them almost one after the other. These three novellas approach craft in their own peculiar ways; that is: In an as unconventional a manner as possible. Each novella is a successful exercise in style and tone and voice and storytelling. Mussel has that breathless and urgent stream-of-consciousness, Darwin was admirably adept at picking out individual voices one moment and pushing forward the collective the next, and Chasing was just exemplary in temperance sharpening scenes into a fine point. [Continue reading.]

GLATTAUER _EverySeventhWave

Necessary continuations?

Since I put this book down—this sequel to one of the most accommodatingly sappy surprises of my reading life—I’ve been wondering about its necessity. That is: Did Every Seventh Wave have to exist? Setting aside the little green goblin that suspects authors of cashing in on their successes [after all, why the hell not?], I’ve wondered if it’s good for the narrative—for this story shared by Leo and Emmi—to move forward from that open-ended conclusion of the first book, to risk belaboring their tale. And toward a more conventional ending that just reeks of crowd-pleasing happiness? Was it necessary for the author to return to this story? [Continue reading.]

On Love Virtually by Daniel Glattauer

It’s not what it looks like. Daniel Glattauer’s Love Virtually—translated from the German by Katharina Bielenberg and Jamie Bulloch—is not the lightweight the cover hints at with its pale grays and muted pinks. The online correspondence is not punctuated by emoticons. This is not a happy-perky gimmick. Yes, it’s a tech-set romance, and, yes, that […]

On Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman by Friedrich Christian Delius; translated by Jamie Bulloch

Friedrich Christian Delius’ novella, Portrait of the Mother as a Young Woman, is a single 117-page-long sentence. Yes, there is only one period. [I counted.] We are in Rome, 1943 — with a young, pregnant German woman, and her one, long, breathless utterance: a thought stretched, branching here and there to the past, the present, […]