Thursday, June 29, 2017

VictimOfSexualChildAbuse

Margaux Fragoso borrowed the title of her only published book, the memoir “Tiger, Tiger,” from William Blake. What divine presence, Blake wondered, could have created the tiger’s fiery eyes, burning bright? “Did he who made the Lamb make thee?”

Ms. Fragoso never painted herself as an entirely innocent lamb. Nor did she suggest that the man she called Peter Curran, the 51-year-old pedophile who began abusing her when she was 7 and who maintained their relationship for 15 years, was an irredeemably ferocious tiger.

Rather, like the stanzas in Blake’s poem, her book raised more questions than it answered. Reviews ranged from livid indictments of what was dismissed as exploitive pornography to ringing endorsements of Ms. Fragoso’s bravery as a catharsis for herself, and a cautionary tale for children and their parents — a “Lolita” from Lolita’s perspective. It was listed by several publications as one of the notable books of the year.

Ms. Fragoso died on Friday in Mandeville, La., at 38. Her husband, Tom O’Connor, said the cause was ovarian cancer.

Her memoir was eight years in the making — she had previously published a number of poems and short stories — and when it was released in 2011 it was nothing if not controversial.

The book is set in Union City, N.J., where Ms. Fragoso lived in a one-bedroom apartment with her mentally ill mother, a former teacher at a day care center, and her abusive, alcoholic father, a jeweler. It begins at the end:

“I started writing this book the summer after the death of Peter Curran, whom I met when I was 7 and had a relationship with for 15 years, right up until he committed suicide at the age of 66.”

She wrote: “Our world had been permitted only by the secrecy surrounding it. Had you taken away our lies and codes and looks and symbols and haunts, you would have taken everything.”

She wrote that she introduced herself to Peter at a public pool, embraced him as a Peter Pan-like man-child and visited his home regularly, often chaperoned by her mother. They played games, including one called Tiger.

She graphically recalled their sexual encounters — so graphically and in such conversational detail that some reviewers questioned the memoir’s veracity and suggested that she should have written a fictionalized narrative instead. She said she had kept childhood journals, and jogged her memory by other means.

“Through her art she’s helped others who’ve been abused cope with the devastating complexity of that legacy,” Courtney Hodell, the former executive editor of Farrar, Straus & Giroux, her publisher, said in an interview on Tuesday.

Margaux Artemia Fragoso was born on April 15, 1979, in West New York, N.J., to Wilford Fragoso and the former Carol Brubaker.

She received a bachelor’s degree in English from New Jersey City University in 2002 and a master’s and a doctorate in English from Binghamton University in central New York.

Ms. Fragoso’s first marriage, to Steven McGowan, ended in divorce.

In addition to her husband, she is survived by her daughter, Alicia McGowan, from her first marriage.

Writing about “Tiger, Tiger” in The New York Times Book Review, the novelist and memoirist Kathryn Harrison wrote: “It’s testimony to Fragoso’s narrative abilities that she can render both her own and Curran’s points of view convincingly, as different — opposed — as they are.”

She continued: “‘Tiger, Tiger’ forces readers to experience Curran simultaneously as the object of a little girl’s love and fascination and as a calculating sex offender.”

Ms. Fragoso acknowledged that some readers were offended because she had not depicted Mr. Curran as a monster.

“I’m an artist, not a prosecutor,” she told the literary journal The Tottenville Review in 2011. “I’m not writing a manifesto; memoir is subjective. My feeling is that writers should give readers the freedom to think for themselves and form their own opinions.”

UnrequitedLoveAndDisability

I put the bite of warm baloney sandwich back into the lunch bag with the half-eaten apple, then put the bag back into the southeast corner of my briefcase, the one I needed for carrying my bulky Braille books to and from school. My stomach felt unsettled. A cool, high tone — the progressive substitute for a bell — had sounded. I needed to get to Room 3 before it sounded again.


It was the spring of 1967. I had recently transferred to this suburban Philadelphia public high school with my identical twin brother, Dave, after 10 years at the Overbrook School for the Blind. We tried to fit in wherever we could. We went out for wrestling, played four-hand piano and sang in talent shows. We even threw a birthday party for ourselves, inviting some of the most popular and likable people in our class. There were awkward moments, but we did O.K.

I had learned to walk with a white cane at Overbrook, but now that I had made the transition to public school, I refused to use it. Wasn’t the rule to stay to the right, anyway? I shouldn’t collide with anyone if we all followed the rules.

All the classrooms had their desks lined up in four rows of seven or eight. My desk in World Cultures was the second one down, second row from the door and the side chalkboard. I could navigate this way. I still remembered the location of my bed in the open dorm at the school for the blind, when I was 4 — second one down in the row nearest the lockers.

Linda Fulton sat in the fourth seat from the front in the next row to the left. She spoke quietly, in a voice as smooth as the surfaces of our desks. In class — and in her presence — I tried to feel confident. I spoke up. I projected cool, even though I bet everyone could see through me.

A few years earlier, Jan and Dean recorded a song called “Linda.” The minute I heard it, I knew I had to have it. But now that I knew this Linda, it had an even greater hold on me. Afternoons, when I got home from school, I played it again and again, singing along, extrapolating the slightest brush or interaction with her into something more.

I had something to say to Linda, to whom I spoke only occasionally, and then of things that had little importance. I wanted a girlfriend. I wanted one when I listened to the songs on WFIL while I got ready in the mornings and when we rode in the car and when my sister played the radio as she did the dishes and while I got ready for bed.

Once, when they let the boys and girls have gym class together during the unit on dance, I held Linda’s hand and laughed with her as we tried to polka. She smelled of shampoo with a tinge of sweat. Her hand felt wider than I had imagined, wide and soft and relaxed. Being blind in this public school made my heart go a notch faster. I could use a little softness, I thought. Relaxed would be good.

I shimmied from my row to Linda’s, trying to detect any book bags before I stepped right on them or made a fool of myself, tripping. I tried touching the edges of desks with the back of my hand as I shuffled backward, trying to look as normal as possible, not like a blind kid who needed to touch things.

“Hey, Dan, where are you going?”

“Right here,” I said. “I was hoping to talk to you for a minute.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ah —” My blood swished through my ears.

“Mr. Simpson, sit down, please. We’re going to start.” Mr. Coecher unpacked his briefcase and rustled some papers.

“In a few minutes,” he said, “we’re going to the auditorium for the presentation of awards, so we’ll just spend 15 minutes or so on India.”

“Can I walk up to the awards with you?” I whispered, angling back toward my desk. She didn’t answer, but when I took my time packing up before we lined up to go, she stationed herself next to me and offered her hand.

Some people guide more naturally than others. They instinctively slow down at the beginning of a flight of stairs. They don’t throw their arms out in front of your chest like some truck just cut them off and they’re afraid you’ll go flying through the windshield. I liked the ease with which she leaned into a right turn, away from my body, the way she gently crowded me to the left. I liked that the stairs were narrow enough that we had to press side against side to make room for traffic coming the other way. I didn’t like how little time I had to ask my question:

“Linda, I like you. I just like you. I mean, you seem nice.”

This wasn’t going the way I meant it to go.

“I was wondering if you’d go out with me, sometime.”

After the sentence ran its way out of my mouth, it was like a fleet of skywriting planes had passed and I could hear the sound of surf again — the surf of everyone else talking and walking.

Linda let the surf roar for what seemed a long time.

“I like you, too,” she said, “but not in that way. You seem like a great guy but …”

For the awards ceremony, Linda sat to my right. Once we got to our seats, I had no reason, no excuse, to keep holding her hand. For a little while, she let our arms touch. Then, she moved hers from the arm rest to her lap. I won a couple of awards, but they didn’t mean that much. Something more important had just happened. I had walked with a sighted girl and asked for a date. She had turned me down with gentleness and honesty — maybe just like she would have turned down any other guy.

Disability is a weekly series of essays, art and opinion by and about people living with disabilities. The entire series can be found here. To reach the editors or submit an essay for consideration, write opinionator@nytimes.com and include “Disability” in the subject field. 


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Daniel Simpson is the author of “School for the Blind,” a collection of poems, and the blog “Inside the Invisible.” His book “Border Songs: A Conversation in Poems,” written with Ona Gritz, will be published in August by Finishing Line Press.

Wednesday, June 28, 2017

BabyDriver

In “Baby Driver,” the director Edgar Wright is out to show you a most excellent time. He’s never been one of those filmmakers who expect you to be blinded by the bright sheen of his résumé, which includes comical genre rethinks like the zombie flick “Shaun of the Dead” and the cop caper “Hot Fuzz.” Mr. Wright works for your love, hard enough that you notice the whirring machinery if perhaps not the strain. He wants it easy and breezy, although mostly he wants it cool, whether the latest means to his end, Baby (Ansel Elgort), is smooth-moving like Gene Kelly or burning rubber like Steve McQueen.

A genre ride with a rebuilt engine and a sweet paint job, “Baby Driver” is all about movement and sometimes stillness and how a beautiful man looks (feels, seems, is) even better when he’s in glorious, syncopated, restless motion. The first time you see Baby — that’s his handle, which suits Mr. Elgort, with his angelic face and young man’s lissomeness — he’s in the driver’s seat, where he belongs. The car doesn’t look like much, just a cherry-red box with doors and a spoiler. Like us, Baby is waiting for the action to start, seemingly sealed off from the outside world with his dark sunglasses and earbuds.

This is how Baby rolls, with shifting gears, pumping feet and thumping tunes, and how Mr. Wright rolls here as well. There’s a story, sure, about Baby getting in and out of trouble while finding love and money. He doesn’t have much of an inner life, but he has skills, a heavy back story and a kindly foster father, Joe (CJ Jones, who helps give the movie its faint heartbeat), a deaf invalid with whom he signs. Baby also has tinnitus, which he quells with music; mostly, he has killer timing and gracefully elastic, reactive physicality that suggests Mr. Wright has put in time with the films of Jacques Tati.

That’s wonderful company to keep and to learn from, especially when you’re as cleverly attentive a student as Mr. Wright. Baby drives hard, fast, tight and seemingly oh so effortlessly, spinning wheels across pavement like a Russian Olympian on ice. In the eye-tickling opener — a wham, bam, we’ll-take-the-cash-ma’am heist — Baby peels out in that red box (a souped-up Subaru) and motors into one of those warped Road Runner chases that builds momentum with near escapes, not-even-close winking and the twangy throbbing of “Bellbottoms,” from the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion, a group once unforgettably described by the critic Robert Christgau as “avant-travestying da blooze.”

“Baby Driver” isn’t avant-travestying; it’s a pop pastiche par excellence, crammed with cubistic action; glowering and golly-gee types (played by the seductive likes of Jamie Foxx, Jon Hamm, Eiza González and Lily James); and an encyclopedia of cinematic allusions, all basted in wall-to-wall tuneage. At times, the whole thing spins like a tribute album, a collection of covers of varying quality: diner yaks à la Quentin Tarantino, Godardian splashes of color. When it works, the allusions give you a contact high, like when a friend turns you on to a favorite movie. At other times, Mr. Wright’s pleasure veers into the self-satisfied, and all that love feels smothering, near-bullying, like bro-cinephilia in extremis.

In the main, it’s easy to go with Mr. Wright’s flow, partly because he rarely steps off the gas. It’s just go go go with an occasional stop for coffee or an amusingly testy sit-down with Baby’s shadowy boss, Doc, one of those all-seeing, all-knowing criminal mystics whom Kevin Spacey gives ominous ooze and a daddy’s mad (maybe nuts) indoor voice. Doc has something on Baby, who’s been forced into a life of bad behavior and company. That Baby has had no choice but to drive along plays as knowingly implausible as it sounds. But heroic fatalism and unwilling villainy remain enduring cinematic tropes, including in gangster movies, even if it means holding convention over complexity.

There’s much to enjoy in “Baby Driver,” including the satisfactions of genuine cinematic craft and technique, qualities that moviegoers can no longer take for granted. The edits snap, the colors pop and the cinematography serves the performances and the story rather than embalming them in an emptily showy, self-regarding directorial conceit. The emotions are mostly rote and cold, but the car chases are hot — at once fluid, geometric and rhythmic, with a beat Baby carries with him out of the car whether he’s on the stroll or the run. (The director of photography is Bill Pope; the editors are Paul Machliss and Jonathan Amos; and the stunt coordinator is Darrin Prescott, leading an army.)

“Baby Driver” is so good that you want it to be better and go deeper, for it to put down its guns (or at least hold them differently) and transcend its clichés and cine-quotes so it can rocket out of the genre safe box into the cosmic beyond where craft and technique transform into art. That’s admittedly somewhat of a greedy complaint, particularly given how much Mr. Wright does right and that he clearly wants you levitating out of your seat. It’s difficult to carp about a director who wants to please the audience this much (instead of, say, the franchise suits). At the same time, you have to wonder where Mr. Wright might go if he cut loose from his influences and let a little feeling muss up his form.

Baby Driver

Rated R for gun and vehicular violence. Running time: 1 hour 53 minutes.

Monday, June 26, 2017

ScottWolven

Monica Adame Davis speaks to “pulp” author Scott Wolven about Roberto Bolaño, Louisiana cooking and the brilliance of HBO programming.


Photo by Joyce Ravid.

When I was first read Scott Wolven’s work, I knew I had stumbled upon something fresh and so different from other contemporary short stories I have read. In Wolven’s Controlled Burn: Stories of Prison, Crime, and Men, each story was alive with brutal hardship and landscapes that have proved impossible to forget. Upon finishing the collection, I was convinced that I too could properly load a pistol or even feel the monotony of days passing by in a prison cell. Wolven presents Noir to the reader in a form that is highly stylized and leaves us nostalgic for more modern day pulp. I had the pleasure of speaking with Wolven about the past and future of Noir, the inspirations behind his vivid characters and stories, his close relationship with landscapes, and his much-anticipated novel False Hopes.

Monica Adame Davis You have been featured in Best American Mystery Stories seven times in a row, which as Publisher’s Weeklyputs it, is twice as often as the next most-often writer Joyce Carol Oates. You are clearly celebrated in the literary world, but remain underground and undiscovered to discerning readers. Do you feel that your success and praise by authors like Richard Ford, George Pelecanos, and Elmore Leonard has been somewhat shrouded because you are primarily known as a writer of short stories?

Scott Wolven I feel lucky to be mentioned in the same paragraph as Joyce Carol Oates, Richard Ford, George Pelecanos, and Elmore Leonard. It was an amazing honor to be included in the Best American Noir Of The Century, edited by James Ellroy and Otto Penzler—the same goes for being included in the Best American Mystery Storiesseries. Short stories have just always suited me, although I’m trying to get on-track to have a novel come out every one or two years now. My forthcoming novel is titled False Hopes and I’ll have another one, plus some short stories, before the year is out. That might put my stories in the hands of more readers. I have some stories on Kindle, too. I remember a couple of years ago reading something by Gary Fisketjon about what can trigger the “discovery” of a writer who is just a little off the radar for readers—I think my new stories will do that. Move me onto the radar. My aim is to have my new stories keep me in that good company of writers.

MAD Do you ever find yourself thinking about your readers before, during, or after the completion of a story? I often wonder this about writers and how large a role (if any) the reader plays in the creative process. (As readers, we’ll try not to take your answer too personally.)

SW I never think about anyone reading my stuff when I’m writing it. After the work is done, I always hope it will move some reader, somewhere, to emotion of some sort. That’s when the story has done its job—the after-reading wow for the reader, hopefully a wow that continues.

MAD Your stories tend to involve the following: guns, meth labs, prison, alcohol, and harsh weather. They are cleanly written and feel very honest. Can you describe what inspires your characters and story lines?

SW I generally write about people in difficult circumstances. I’m always trying to tell the best story I can—not only through the writing, but through the story itself. I think John Edgar Wideman said it best when he talked about the writer creating fiction/facts. Life can be so full of hardship—all anybody has to do is look around a little and it’s more research than any story can handle. Hemingway used to make readers feel as if they were at the bullfight or horse race. I want to put readers into the difficult circumstances of my characters. Maybe these things—guns, meth labs, prison, alcohol, harsh weather—are my bullfights. And I want the reader in the front row, to have blood splatter on their shirt. My characters rarely have it easy.

All types of things inspire me. The poetry of my colleague Tim Seibles. My brother Will is a terrific artist (and chef)—his stuff always inspires me. My friend Marko Shuhan is a great artist, always inspiring. Some stuff written by Roberto Bolaño as well. Just the everyday world as seen through my eyes.

MAD I think it is difficult to read Roberto Bolaño and not feel inspired. When I first read Bolaño’s short stories, I noticed that they ended on a note similar to yours. They often end right end before the trigger is pulled—whatever is coming is left to the imagination. As a reader, I truly enjoy these endings because I feel they allow for more of my participation and make a story feel more alive. What is your motivation behind ending your stories in this way? Or, is it even a conscious choice?

SW Roberto Bolaño certainly knew how to write fantastic stories. I don’t think my endings are a conscious choice. I know that in short stories, I generally want that feeling of a story being alive, so I don’t want to stop it at the end. As you said, it allows the reader to think, But what if this or that had happened? and to imagine the story continuing.

MAD As an editor of the literary review, The New Guard, you established the column Writers to Writers: Fan Letters to the Dead, where you submit a letter to Jim Thompson asking him to write a new masterpiece and provide him with a new typewriter and booze. Can you describe your relationship with pulp fiction of the past and describe how it has influenced your present?

SW The New Guard is a great literary review. Shanna McNair is the Founding Editor and a fine writer herself and she’s got a spark of genius. We discussed ideas that would stand the literary test of time and settled on the Letters section, which proved very popular.

It was serious fun to write to Jim Thompson. He’s a favorite of mine. That was one of the most amazing things about being in Best American Noir Of The Century—being in the same table of contents as Jim Thompson, among others. As for pulp, I think Anthony Neil Smith at Plots With Guns has his finger on the pulse of contemporary pulp in a big way. On stories from the past, Charlie Stella and I have had long conversations about George Higgins. The Friends of Eddie Coyle is a classic. And Crime Factory is keeping solid crime stories going. I’m in an anthology from them, published by New Pulp Press, which is coming out soon.

MAD Were you already writing when you discovered Jim Thompson? What in particular do you appreciate about his work? And to reverse the question I asked you earlier, do you often write with other writers in mind?

SW I was already writing when I first read Jim Thompson. He manages great dialogue, tough characters in tough spots that generally get worse—he makes it look easy, but it is oh so hard to imitate or duplicate.

I don’t write with other writers in mind. In fact, I try not to read anything when I’m writing.

MAD Your stories always seem firmly grounded in their locations: New Orleans, Idaho, Nevado, upstate New York. Do you travel a lot to familiarize yourself with these locations or are these locations based more on how you imagine them to be?

SW Those are places I’ve lived. I enjoy stories that are strongly rooted in a location—having lived and worked in New Orleans right after Hurricane Katrina, HBO’s Treme comes to mind right away—terrific series! I’m a huge fan of the show. David Simon and his team are doing a fantastic job of getting it right. He should call me—I’d work for po-boys and cold Abita.

I teach in Maine, at the Stonecoast MFA Program from the University of Southern Maine, so maybe there will be more stories set in Maine soon.

MAD If David Simon agrees to the po-boys and Abita, don’t forget to send some our way. We are a bit starved for good Southern food in New York City or perhaps as a Southerner I refuse to pay the premium. I could go on about this for days . . .

HBO has put out some amazing shows. Did you watch The Wire?

SW Let’s just stay in the Quarter. We start at Café Fleur De Lis for breakfast, it’s Johnny’s Po-boys for lunch, and ciopinno at the Pelican Club for dinner. In between, we’d have to hit Cochon and Herb Saint and maybe Acme for oysters—don’t get me started.

The Wire was outstanding, truly, and I exchange an email with George Pelecanos every once in a while about Treme. I think they have a team that is delivering some of the best television writing out there. George does it in his books as well. It’s artful—both The Wire and Treme. I’ve always been a big Anthony Bourdain fan, and to see him make those restaurant scenes come alive—that’s impressive. To me, both The Wireand Treme will have a far-reaching and lasting impact—the stories and the way they’re telling them exceed the rest of what’s on the small screen.

MAD When I purchased your book Controlled Burn, I noticed that there are two editions available to purchase. There is an American edition and a French edition entitled, La Vie en Flammes. I do not speak French, but I remember wishing for a moment that I did, because the cover is so stunning. Who took this photograph and why do you feel it is appropriate for your short stories?

SW The French edition cover photo comes from Bruce Davidson, the American photographer who has had a long association with Magnum Photos. I was very pleased that it was chosen for the cover.That particular picture comes from a series by Davidson titled 1959 Brooklyn Gang. I was very fortunate to be published in France by Albin Michel with a terrific editor Francis Geffard and wonderful translator Cecile Deniard. In Fall 2010, one of my stories was featured (along with three other authors) in Vintage America, a collection of photographs by Patricia De Gorostarzu. This edition was released in conjunction with Festival America, the annual literary and cultural event run by Francis Geffard.

Critical reception of the book in France was tremendous. I don’t speak French either, so I felt particularly lucky to have so many French readers. My work has also been translated into Spanish and Japanese and of course, the Best American Mystery Stories has a worldwide readership, in a wide-range of languages.

MAD Have you ever checked out the work of Enrique Metinendes? His work seems appropriate for a crime book, because his work is of actual crime scenes. I read about his work in the New York Times in 2006 and it is abysmally dark, but I have to admit that these scenes are photographed well.

SW Enrique Metinendes is a dark inspiration. We need someone there, to record it. As I said earlier, just look around a little and life will provide more than any story could ever handle.

MAD I know you are working on your first novel. Can you please describe what this process is like for you in comparison to writing a collection of short stories? And will the recurring characters Art, Jim, Greg, and John be making an appearance?

SW If a short story is the sports car, the novel is the muscle car. Big engine, lots of long speed. Doesn’t care how much fuel it burns. A novel allows for more room, more digression. John and Greg, my two private investigators from Idaho, are featured in False Hopes. There are other recurring characters as well. I think it will make for a good reading ride.

Monica Adame Davis is a freelance project editor, photo researcher, and writer living in New York City.

Sunday, June 25, 2017

Catalan

Why won't people from Barcelona just speak Spanish?