▰ Coach Class:
The train's whistle, which twenty-four hours ago had lulled her to sleep, took on a new, urgent keening: repeated triple blasts radiating across the infinite prairie like smoke signals in the dark. It was, she well knew, a way of summoning medical help to the next whistle-stop. ... Those who lived in such places were accustomed to rolling over and going back to sleep after being wakened by the long blasts of the Empire Builder's whistle, and some could even identify the engineer by his signature. The triple blast, however, would visit their sleep as a nightmare and draw them toward the station in an unsettled frame of mind.That is from Polostan, the recent novel from Neal Stephenson (Snow Crash, Cryptonomicon), and the first in a trilogy, though it reads more like he turned a characteristically monolith-size book, and someone finally convinced him to break it into thirds. And just as a side note, if you read Stephenson’s 2019 novel, Fall; or, Dodge in Hell, then this moment serves as a conscious chronological premonition of the brutal futuristic road trip in that book: “This was the bad side of the high plains: communities so remote that people could get away with anything, and, lacking contact with settled places, could wander far down strange thoughtways from which there was no route back to sanity.”
. . .
▰ On Brand:
I wanted a day when the enemy would be so overwhelmed by the sound of my ancestors dragging their chains that they would be killed by the clamour.That is Canadian poet and novelist Dionne Brand, as excerpted in an appreciation by Andrea Brady in the London Review of Books. The same issue has Anne Carson writing about, in part, a friend “who wanted to compose an entire symphony out of the sound of people sighing,” and Frances Morgan surveying the work of Yoko Ono (“The liberating conceptual shift proposed by the Fluxus movement, which made a flushing toilet or a struck match a performance, is not unrelated to the process that puts an audiotape in a vitrine or transforms a dead musician’s clothes into an auction lot”). It’s quite the issue.
. . .
▰ By the Numbers:
So, then, silence it is, Cage's 4'33" on infinite repeat, which, basically, has been this place's playlist for the last year and a half, a soundtrack ambient in its absence.That is Alan Moore (Watchmen, From Hell, V for Vendetta) on the penultimate page of his recent novel, The Great When, which like the Stephenson one mentioned above is the first in a new series — and also like the Stephenson, is uncharacteristically brief for this author. Thanks to my friend Darko Macan, who read the book before I could get around to it, pointed out this but to me, and says “this epilogue is mostly about the coming attractions.”
