A Timeshare, by Margaret Ross
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A Timeshare, by Margaret Ross
Ebook PDF A Timeshare, by Margaret Ross
Margaret Ross’s debut unearths the corporeal in the most desolate reaches of corporate speech: Futures exchange. Human resources. Personal life. Lush and visceral, A Timeshare knows that questions and crises of individual existence are inextricably bound to shared experience and its deft music carries from the closest closet to outer space, touching the concrete through the metaphysical: it syncs the bed to the ocean, memory to zero-g, voicemail to lyric, killjar, dive bar, Lascaux, Antarctica, living and waiting rooms. What time is it? What’s time? Your shadow renders you a human sundial. "Countdown," the book begins.
A Timeshare, by Margaret Ross- Amazon Sales Rank: #976669 in Books
- Published on: 2015-11-03
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 9.00" h x .30" w x 6.00" l, .0 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 104 pages
Review “Full of ideas, almost giddily aloft on the swells of long sentences, and replete with carefully counterintuitive moments of beauty, Ross’s much-awaited debut poses a frequently thrilling (and only occasionally insurmountable) challenge to older generations’ tastes.”—Publishers Weekly (starred review)"Lib Hub’s 30 Must-Read Poetry Debuts from 2015" —Lib Hub"When you watch it closely, the mind is both gorgeous and unsettling. This is true, at least, of watching Ross’s mind."—Karla Kelsey, Constant Critic
Review “A Timeshare channels that crepuscular space between waking and dreaming. ‘Could you tell which was your own if you were asked to touch ten silent faces in the dark?’ Margaret Ross asks in poems full of intense yet meditative wonder. They emit the ghostly ambience of ‘voices wafting past their sentences’ and ‘notes across a promissory silence.’ It’s as if someone was singing from the shadows, or the shadows themselves were singing throughout this stunning, truly singular debut. A Timeshare is a remarkable book.” (Terrance Hayes)"Reality feels plotless but not patternless, and poetry seems to me the most accurate means of perceiving those patterns in their true range and simultaneity." (Rusty Morrison)
About the Author MARGARET ROSS' poems have appeared in Boston Review, Fence and The New Yorker. Her writing has been recognized with fellowships from the Iowa Writers' Workshop, the Fulbright Program and Stanford, where she is currently a Stegner Fellow.
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1 of 1 people found the following review helpful. Desert-Island Poems By Oz I came across this book in a local bookstore where it was available before its official release. Being familiar with some of Ross’s work, I bought a copy, read it cover to cover that night. It was my most powerful reading experience in recent memory. Of course, a book’s effect relies on any number of conditions of which the book’s content makes up only a small part. But I haven’t yet read a book of contemporary poetry I’d sooner recommend. I don’t know of anything like these poems. Even if they don’t move you, they will impress you.Kafka said a book should be an axe for the frozen sea within us. The brutality of this description always struck me. The reading of a book seen as a violent, explosive, perhaps traumatic event. The poems of A Timeshare (not all, but on the whole) are brutal in this sense. They aim to devastate. Not necessarily to leave you with a case of the I-Hate-Existence-And-I-Want-To-Dies (though, if we don’t keep a wary distance from its doom indulgences, this is within the realm of possibility), but always to leave you speechless. I find they often leave me with no desire to respond, only to react. Quite like music in that way. These poems are just something I undergo.Another line to draw from Kafka’s words is that the significance of a book lies in its use, specifically its use toward personal transformation. More and more, what I want from a book is some direction as to how to go about the rest of my life. Not in a didactic way. Just something that might, through its thoughtful and/or deeply felt engagement with the constants of human experience, bring me uneasily up against what I don’t like about what’s happened so far. It’s been a very difficult couple years for me. I finished this collection with something like excitement for my future.Not that these are life-affirming poems. Yeah, no. They are on the whole inexcusably despairing. Must we go about art as if we’ve never, say, laughed at a fart? Indeed, this is a book devoid of anything that might be called a sense of humor. Maybe thanks to Jorie Graham, whose poetry I’m happy to admit to finding terribly annoying. So why not a similar reaction to these poems, in view of an obvious kinship? Well, these tend not to get caught up in the bad philosophizing of a self-important dilettante. They’re just plain objectively beautiful prosodically. Theirs is a sensual intelligence. They’re after consciousness in its concrete behaviors. They offer such vital pictures of a particular mind in action that I get an impression of a psychic exoskeleton. What a presence, what a distinctive, present presence this mind is. A very Cartesian mind, a space of its own locked away in the empyrean of the skull. A visiting spirit abandoned in this world and cuffed to the unassimilable physical. I’m reminded at times of Wittgenstein’s response to Sartre: “Hell isn’t other people. Hell is yourself.”Probably the only good reason to read is, at bottom, to keep yourself alive a little longer; or, what amounts to the same thing, to be shaken into the awareness that we really are very fortunate, very lucky not to be dead yet. This book did that for me. But it often reads like a stunningly beautiful endorsement of death. I’m not one to complain that something’s “too depressing.” I’m just exhausted of mythologies of suffering. Though it no doubt factored into the book’s effect on me, I have to reject this idolatry of misery. Maybe there’s not much we can do about our unhappiness, but we can at least be fed up with the image it.The complacent certainty of another day lets us excuse ourselves of a great deal. You could say that’s a bit of a motif in these poems. Their speakers (I use this word faute de mieux) often find themselves jammed in a vestibule preceding intention. But the fact of the poems, the fact that the poems are these poems, belies this. (“Words are deeds.”) Collectively, they’re such an achievement that, had I written them, that’s all I’d need to be something like content with my life.I stopped writing poetry when I realized I’d never write a poem someone might think to take to a desert island. But these are desert-island poems. They’d certainly be going with me. This book is as important to me as any I own. I’m deeply grateful for it.Oz
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