Electric Literature Presents: A Christmas Card by Etgar Keret

Hemorrhoid

This is the story of a man who suffered from a hemorrhoid. Not a lot of hemorrhoids. A single, solitary one. This hemorrhoid started out small and annoying, but very soon it became medium-sized and irritating, and in less than two months it became big and really painful. The man continued to live his life as usual: he worked long hours every day, took time off on weekends and fucked on the side whenever he had the chance. But this hemorrhoid, which was clinging to a vein, kept reminding him at every long meeting or painful BM that to live is to suffer, to live is to sweat, to live is an ache you can’t fucking forget . And so, before every important decision the man would listen to his hemorrhoid the way others listen to their conscience. And the hemorrhoid, like any hemorrhoid, would give the man some asshole advice. Advice on whom to fire, advice on aiming higher, advice to pick a fight and with whom he should conspire. And it worked. With every passing day, the man became more and more successful. The earnings of the company he headed kept growing, and so did the hemorrhoid. It reached a point where the hemorrhoid outgrew the man. And even then, it didn’t stop. Until eventually it was the hemorrhoid that was Chairman of the Board. And sometimes, when the hemorrhoid took its seat on the chair in the board room, it found the man underneath a little irritating.

This is the story of a hemorrhoid that suffered from a man. The hemorrhoid continued to live its life as usual: it worked long hours every day, took time off on weekends and fucked on the side whenever it had the chance. But this man, who was clinging to a vein, kept reminding him at every long meeting or painful BM that to live is to yearn, to live is to burn, to live is to fucking screw up and wait for fate to turn. And the hemorrhoid would listen to the man the way people listen to their stomach when it rumbles and asks for food – passively but acceptingly. And thanks to this man, the hemorrhoid tried to believe it could live and let live, it could learn to forgive. It could conquer its urge to look down on others. And even when it swore, it didn’t mention people’s mothers. And so, thanks to the irritating little man under him, everyone came to value the hemorrhoid: hemorrhoids, people, and of course, the company’s satisfied shareholders all around the world.
- Etgar Keret (born August 20, 1967) is an Israeli writer known for his short stories, graphic novels, and scriptwriting for film and television.

Please spread the word and feel free to re-post! See last year’s card here.

Translated from Hebrew by Miriam Shlesinger.

Image source: https://proprintwear.com/images/Christmas%20Tree%20Potted%20Card.jpg

The Ecstatic History of Jim Shepard

Master of Miniatures

Jim Shepard

Solid Objects

56 pages / $12.00

As fans of Jim Shepard’s long career know, there is nothing the man loves more than film and atomic bombs. Happily, Shepard’s new novella, Master of Miniatures combines these two preoccupations into a new and refreshing reiteration of his classic thematic concerns. Although Shepard’s tale of Eiji Tsuburaya, the Japanese special-effects wizard responsible for creating Gojira—the kaiju known more commonly to Western audiences as Godzilla— brings to mind much of his other works, particularly Nosferatu, his 2005 novel about famed director F. W. Murnau and “The Zero-Meter Diving Team,” the deeply-felt account of the aftermath of the Chernobyl disaster from Shepard’s 2007 collection, Like You’d Understand, Anyway, this novella stands on its own as a thoughtful commentary about fallouts both nuclear and domestic.

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Broadcastr Launch

1. Michelle & Spider. 2. Discussing some serious shit: Lincoln Michel, co-editor of Gigantic; Wythe Marschall, author, harlequin & colonel for The Hollow Earth Society; & Christine Rath, senior editor of Forte Magazine.

Monday night, we at Electric Literature celebrated the launch of Broadcastr. The party was held at SPiN NYC, which is owned by Susan Sarandon and is this gigantic club where you can play ping pong at one of their many tables. If you came early, you got to enjoy free Jameson and Grey Goose, but if you came (or stayed) later, then you got to pay SuperFun Manhattan prices for drinxxx.

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Father Time, Lady Present

“I’m the Tympanum”: The Unnamable by Samuel Beckett

“This story is no good, I’m beginning almost to believe it.” – The unnamed narrator of The Unnamable

Samuel Beckett appearing on The Oprah Winfrey Show is a play that hasn’t been written yet, but should be.  It is likely because, in his prose, Beckett is so terrifyingly and comically himself – or absence of self – that writers of more recent times must seek the mediated consolations and endorsements of not standing a chance alongside his work.  As entertainment, yes, definitely; there are many things more entertaining than one hundred plus pages of unbroken text, the most basic possible description of the 1950s trilogy Molloy, Malone Dies and The Unnamable.  But as serious endeavor, plea made before Father Time and his inscrutable glare, there are not many 20th century novels that can stand next to it without weeping, ‘No Fair.’

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Evan Lavender-Smith: 21st Century Man of Enlightenment or Snow Leopard?

Evan Lavender-Smith’s From Old Notebooks is a wildly self-aware collection of big ideas that obliterates distinctions between fiction, philosophy, poetry and autobiography. Witty, sweet and often brilliant, the book is structured around thematically linked one-liners, personal anecdotes, story pitches, self-reflections and ruminations on what it means to be intellectually alive in the new millennium.

Short story about someone living inside of a piano.

At its core, F.O.N. aims to come to terms with the author’s lost youth (as a voracious reader and porn connoisseur) and his evolving adult identity (as an ambitious young writer and loyal husband-slash-father). Yet, as Lavender-Smith says himself: “Death is the glue that holds the book together.” His obsessive fear of death, pet-acronymed F.O.D., drives the narrative forward, and the cumulative effect of his avalanche of comic-sad revelations feels rich, real, human.

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Paris Reviewed

1. Contributor Alexandra Kleeman and first-year MFA Kimberly Wang. 2. Party room.

Apparently The Paris Review winter issue release party started at 7, but when I turned up almost on time, the place was pretty empty.  Of the few people that had assembled, I was one of three who didn’t already belong to a tight circle of animated chat.  The other two were Kimberly, whose friends had yet to arrive, and a nice bartender who happened to also be a Paris Review reader and told me that every bit of their slush pile gets minimum two full reads by rule.  Classy, those Parisians.

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CRYING CONTEST

For our most recent contest, we asked you to recount your worst weather experiences. We won’t stop there. This time, we actually want photos of you crying.

OK, it doesn’t have to be you.

(1) Get a picture of someone crying and add a saucy caption

(2) Post it here, or on twitter using the hashtag #crying4xmas

(3) Contest ends Dec. 23rd

Three lucky winners will receive a copy of Jim Hanas’s Why They Cried on Christmas morning! Get a taste of Jim’s writing here.

WINNERS POSTED!

FRANKLIN PARK GETS FLESHY

1. Mechelle & Sonna. They’re both regulars and neighbors of Franklin Park Bar, and Mechelle describes herself as a “poetry head.” 2. Eva Talmadge & Justin Taylor, the creators of The Word Made Flesh

During the first real snowfall of the year, inside Franklin Park Bar and Grill on Monday, the emphasis was on nonfiction and “indelible images,” not on falling frozen chunks of water. It wasn’t quite as crowded as last month’s reading, and I’m sure the cold had something to do with that. But the room was still amply filled with literary lovers, enjoying the $4 beers and the food that puts the “grill” in Franklin Park Bar and Grill.

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Rumpus Women

1. Justine Blau, Elissa Bassist, & Marie Myung-Ok Lee. 2. Diana Spechler & Jami Attenberg.

Rumpus women know how to pack a room even in below-zero windchills. Opening last night’s reading, Elissa Bassist, who co-edited Rumpus Women, Volume I with Julie Greicius, explained that the collection came together in about 3 weeks. Bassist & Greicius made a list of favorite women writers, and lucky for them, all the picks have contributed. Seven contributors read last night, but the reading didn’t feel long, maybe because each writer was so incredibly honest and forthcoming about life, as Bassist characterized it midway through the reading.

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It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time

1. Maile Chapman & screen. 2. Peter Conroy & A Public Space Founding Editor Brigid Hughes. 3. ZZ Packer reads.

Last night, BAMCafé hosted the final installment of Between the Lines, a collaboration between A Public Space and BAM. The night’s theme (It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time) was made immediately clear as soon as I walked in. At every table sat a red box with the words “Bad Idea Box” taped to each side. Inside were slips of paper honoring some of man’s worst ideas, which include airbag underpants, Crystal Pepsi, Prohibition, and the wonderfully awful film Troll II. But, like Troll II and its ensuing cult following, not all bad ideas lead to horrible situations. As illustrated throughout the night, bad ideas can take any shape or form, be it a horrible political crisis or a misstep toward the gothic aesthetic.

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