Kent Johnson decribes his new writing project: "Right now I’m a little ways into a book-length project of writing through Paul Hoover’s The Norton Anthology of Postmodern Poetry, where a “stanza” gets devoted to each of the poets therein. I’ve had some sort of connection by now, however brief or silly, to most of the contributors. So I begin with an anecdote and go from there. In those cases where I don’t have anything truly anecdotal to say, I indicate that I’ve never crossed paths with him or her and then make something up, trying to be as interesting as I can. I suppose politics will come into many of the entries—references to politics inside and outside of poetry, not that inside and outside are ever completely separate, of course. It will be a pretty long poem—my first epic, I guess."
The full interview is available here at Mary: A Journal of New Writing.
Showing posts with label Paul Hoover. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Paul Hoover. Show all posts
Saturday, December 18, 2010
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"I teach horizontally, meaning that while I might begin with a fixed idea of what I'm going to teach that day, I let it drift rhizomatically way off topic, often pulling it back when it gets too far. I rely on non-fixed materials to teach this way; the whole world is at my fingertips. Should I go off on a tangent about John and Rauschenberg and their love relationship as expressed in Rauschenberg's bed, an image of that bed is always a click away. From there, we can head anywhere into the non-fixed universe, be it film, text or sound. And of course, that always takes us elsewhere. As Cage says, 'We are getting nowhere fast.'" 
that anyone has yet got the imaginative measure of that terrifying day six years ago. Certainly our Tolstoy has not crawled out of the rubble. The closest we have, Don DeLillo, succeeded as an essayist-journalist ("In the Ruins of the Future: Reflections on Terror and Loss in the Shadow of September,” Harper’s, December 2001) but, to my mind, failed as a novelist ("Falling Man"). One reason, perhaps, is that the remembered emotion was instantly buried under a pile of cultural junk.' - Tod Gitlin in his review of Susan Faludi's The Terror Dream (written for 
