the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt three)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and Popkin, fully roused from Bagger’s spell, points a finger at him and says, “No straws. Not with him. He cheats,” and Bagger laughs, “How do you cheat at straws?,” even though he knows exactly how to cheat at straws, but Veck interjects, “Something you can’t fake. Flip a coin,” and Bagger’s gut tightens, rigging coin flips takes goddamn time, so he bluffs, “No one’s got any coins,” and it’s Arno who fucks him over again, gesturing at Goodspeed and saying, “He does,”

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt two)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and you get one guess which soldier Arno chose to confess his shame of illiteracy, fuck the luck, and before long the kid was begging Bagger to read him The Prisoner of Zenda, and though Bagger initially told the kid to scram, war is a slog even when you’re not warring, and at last came the day Bagger was too pooped to resist the kid’s begging and ripped the book from Arno’s hand and began reading aloud with plans to insert passages of sickening violence and shocking pornography, only to find himself engaged by the plot,

and it’s bar none the biggest mistake Bagger’s made in the Army, and worse still, he keeps making it, King Solomon’s Mines, The Count of Monte Cristo, Treasure Island, and now The Son of Tarzan, a tale in which, so far anyway, Tarzan barely appears, the stage ceded to the ape-man’s civilized son, who follows his daddy’s footsteps to become Korak the Killer, an idiotic coincidence, but diverting enough as Bagger, of course, inserts explicit content, Tarzan revised to be a randy sodomite and Lady Greystoke a nudist cannibal, to which Arno only nods along, suggesting there’s no atrocity Bagger can concoct the Great War hasn’t reduced to believability,

the last book I ever read (Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus, excerpt one)

from Angel Down: A Novel by Daniel Kraus:

and what impresses him about Lewis Arno, from a con man’s perspective, is that the kid’s not easily bluffed, Arno points at him and says, “You got face on your face,” a statement that, at any other time and place would be gibberish, but there’s only one interpretation here, a real unfortunate one, and Bagger gingerly touches his own face, cracking the blood glaze into fragile plates, and Arno grimaces, and Bagger traces the grimace to his own right jaw, where something dangles, slight and flexible like a human ear,

and Bagger peels it off his face and holds it before him, and that’s exactly what it is, a human ear, clotted with clay and matted with a tuft of blond hair,

the last book I ever read (Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner, excerpt eight)

from Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner:

“Was he open to being recorded?”

“You’re not understanding. I’d already plugged my phone charger into the outlet near the table, one of those wireless chargers where you just lay your phone against the plate. I pressed record on my voice memo app and set it down on the charger. It was obscured from his view by the lamp—not that he would have paid much attention to it anyway. Except I did hear in my own voice that tiny alteration, that trace of self-consciousness, that always occurs in the presence of some recording technology. Just as your face is always different in the presence of a camera. And I did wonder, despite myself, if he somehow could pick this up, if he would discover what I was doing—but surely that was just childish guilt or a regressive belief in the omniscience of the father or something. No, I didn’t tell him that I was recording, I have no real reason to think he suspected anything, and I just lobbed some questions at him about his past—‘ I can’t remember who cooked in your house growing up, was it only your mother?’—and then let him hold forth. And I did in fact feel strangely stabilized, comforted, by the presence of the device.

the last book I ever read (Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner, excerpt seven)

from Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner:

“It must be said that he absolutely adored Emmie, and he was great with Emmie in his way; their connection was deep. My dad spoke to children like they were miniature adults and somehow it worked, especially with her, maybe because she is, as everyone has always said, an ‘old soul.’ If anything he was more formal, more of an old-world European gentleman, with kids: he would rise when they entered the room, at least if they were girls. ‘Good evening,’ shake hands, note how the color of somebody’s shorts complemented the rubber bands on their braces or the color of their eyes. Adelle thought it was sweet, hilarious; I’m sure I would have found it hilarious if I hadn’t grown up with it. He had zero interest in Emmie when she was a baby—if you handed him an infant, he’d hold its body as far away from himself as possible, failing to support the head—but as soon as she could really speak, he was smitten. She would sit on his knee on Governor Street and he would tell her long stories in German that must have been utterly incomprehensible to her, and yet she was rapt, her green eyes staring into his. And he would read to her endlessly; she would fall asleep and he’d go on reading, as if following her into her dreams. When she was old enough, they would have these long sessions over the phone—he’d be in his office or traveling and she’d be in bed with my iPhone on speaker; we could hear him from the hall. It was like a radio play. ‘Emmie, before we return to the adventures of this redheaded young woman, I will play for you a passage of music by a man named Debussy that I believe will resonate with our text.’ And then she would slowly read The Adventures of Pippi Longstocking to this cultural giant who was following along; he’d make little exclamations or comments here and there, help her sound out words; somehow his presence, the quality of his attention, would fill the house. They loved each other. Emmie used to sleep with one of his scarves; I’d be startled by the very faint smell when I’d come in to check on her: traces of the eau de toilette and sandalwood aftershave I remembered from when he used to kiss me good night, which he did for a year or two after my mom died. For the last thirty-five years, we only shook hands.

the last book I ever read (Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner, excerpt six)

from Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner:

“We found Emmie an individual therapist we all liked, and Adelle and I started consulting with everyone with a claim to expertise. Emmie had long outgrown FTT, and soon we had a new acronym, ARFID—avoidant/restrictive food intake disorder. You go in with a problem—‘ My daughter won’t eat’—they ask you some questions, then they give you a diagnosis that repeats what you said with more technical-sounding language, as if this process of translation constitutes a gain in knowledge. And then there is a second translation, an epistemological sleight of hand, the magical contraction of the diagnosis into an acronym. ‘My daughter won’t eat’ becomes ARFID. The acronym is like a code, moves the alpha toward the numerical; numbers are objective, right, suddenly it’s science! No matter that ARFID denotes the same mystery, is just an envelope for ignorance; ARFID just means: we have no physiological explanation but it doesn’t yet seem to involve the body-image issues we associate with anorexia or bulimia. Why couldn’t they think of an acronym that doesn’t basically begin with ‘barf’?”

“And that isn’t so close to ‘afraid.’”

the last book I ever read (Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner, excerpt five)

from Transcription: A Novel by Ben Lerner:

“A German fairy tale.”

“Set in L.A. Because how could real parents preside over such a home? While we still made normal meals, of course, and insisted Emmie sit with us at the table, we were not to try to make her eat; following Dr. Saro’s advice, we’d apply no pressure; we wouldn’t negotiate, no ‘just one more bite of chicken, love.’ She could have whatever she wanted, whenever, wherever: take a box of Oreos to the bath, Twizzlers to bed. So we were suddenly living in a gingerbread house. Or it was like Willy Wonka. I was Wonka, establishing a bizarro kingdom of corn syrup and dyes, but a confused, desperate Wonka—Wonka remade by Bergman. (My dad was kind of a cross between Wonka and Bergman, if you think about it.) Or maybe I was more like Faust, a pact with fructose.