Bücher veröffentlicht von Spuyten Duyvil

The precision of Blauner's beautifully executed and deeply imagined prose evokes the sense of dreams that are awake and stronger than reality, but are reality. We are presented with the archetypes of our age: the challenged; the world-weary, the homeless, the hallucinators, the would-be saviors manifesting in movements which permeate society and truth, the anxious, the hopeful, the neglected, the lost. Blauner moves us through her novel in linguistic lightning strikes, illuminating and penetrating, but never lingering. Out of Which Came Nothing is a stunning book, a book not so much about the change that is coming as the change that has come.

Henri Droguet's savvy derangements of language call for a super-savvy translator, and found that prestidigitator in Alexander Dickow. With neologisms, internal-intestinal rhymes, arcane diction, a fierce wit, Droguet creates dreamscapes at once linguistically fraught and true to his North Atlantic habitat. His song, he says in "Soliloquy," is "spasm hemorrhage/ epiphanic and black." These are poems of mortal intensity.

Stylinaut is a portmanteau term for a modern-day astronaut turned stylite (or ascetic "pillar dwelling" saint). This figure, who is at once within and without our present moment in time, commits to writing as he ascends-and lives upon-the tiers of a desert pillar. It is a hybrid collection of philosophy/poetics that encodes seven separate but interrelated sections consisting of meditative fragments, experimental fiction, poems, and aphorisms. The book focuses on the liminal movement of the stylinaut's alternating experience of dukkhic suffering and its corollary nirvanic bliss, with the ascent culminating at seventy-seven feet above the ground, and ultimately asks us to speculatively open ourselves to the maximal densities of life and all the strangeness/sweetness it tends to encapsulate.

Martin Nakell takes us on a fascinating journey....And in this journey Nakell makes us see things we have never seen before: 'without this desert everyone would die of thirst....[R]eminiscent of some of the best compositions by Philip Glass....the poem's...passages impart the sensation of negative space; they vanish into meaning.

Good Morning Bone Crusher! is a book of poems written in homage to the sun. These poems invite us to see the world as is, uncorrupted by ego and prejudice. A cinéma-vérité in which William Carlos Williams walks with A.R. Ammons and Lao Tsu in a wildflower field where Gertrude Stein and Harpo Marx play badminton over a tattered net.

Like a modern day sometimes vehicular flaneur, wandering among the ruins, treasures, and bric-a-brac of our throwaway civilization, Joe Safdie brandishes his considerable erudition in The Oregon Trail to focus on phenomena as they pass our line of sight or flit through the mind, giving us another version of realism.    Ammiel Alcalay

Two broken families, fractured lives, prose that often reads like poetry and a deep understanding of what it feels like to be an adopted child, who experiences a complicated world beyond his control and of which he never really feels a part. This is Andrew Mossin''s heartbreaking memoir, an adoption story that is raw, revealing and painful, about the presence of someone he never knew and the struggle to find his place with the parents who raised him.

She inquired about our shredding charges and I explained the various security levels (1-6) and our pricing plans. We also offered pulping, pulverizing, and chemical decomposition, though these are rarely requested. The woman said she wanted something between your conventional office shredder and your highest security shredder, which can turn an 8 1/2" x 11" sheet into over 15,000 particles. I led her to our 650-Sheet Cross-Cut Shredder/Baler Combo. It's gorgeous.

Ire Land is a formally inventive novel in which the borders between human and animal, dream and reality and art film might dissolve. A novel that both engages with theory and laughs at its insufficiency.

Just like in Paris, there are men in Calais who deal in human trafficking. They frequent the bars at the harbor to see if there are any newcomers. I was sitting together with my two travel companions, the spice merchant''s son and the man from Rouen. We were in the middle of eating a meal which consisted of meat and cabbage when an elderly sailor entered. He sat down at the end of the table and started interrogating us. He wanted to know where we came from and how tall we were.  

The master hovers over us, and the sound of stirred liquids floats in the hermetic air. I smell chimney soot, spring water, the urine of a child, alcohol, beeswax, oil; all coming together in this concoction bound to penetrate into our wooden fibers. At this point, my consciousness is shallow; I have yet to grow fully. Nevertheless, I know I embody another consciousness, older and larger-the consciousness of the sung and unsung instruments. Music is our core, our lifeline; and that is eternal.