Driving in Cars with Homeless Men: Stories: Pitt Drue Heinz Lit Prize
Autor Kate Wiselen Limba Engleză Paperback – 15 sep 2020
Finalist, 2019 Foreword Indies Award
Driving in Cars with Homeless Men is a love letter to women moving through violence. These linked stories are set in the streets and the bars, the old homes, the tiny apartments, and the landscape of a working-class Boston. Serena, Frankie, Raffa, and Nat collide and break apart like pool balls to come back together in an imagined post-divorce future. Through the gritty, unraveling truths of their lives, they find themselves in the bed of an overdosed lover, through the panting tongue of a rescue dog who is equally as dislanguaged as his owner, in the studio apartment of a compulsive liar, sitting backward but going forward in the galley of an airplane, in relationships that are at once playgrounds and cages. Homeless Men is the collective story of women whose lives careen back into the past, to the places where pain lurks and haunts. With riotous energy and rage, they run towards the future in the hopes of untangling themselves from failure to succeed and fail again.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780822966272
ISBN-10: 0822966271
Pagini: 192
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: University of Pittsburgh Press
Colecția University of Pittsburgh Press
Seria Pitt Drue Heinz Lit Prize
ISBN-10: 0822966271
Pagini: 192
Dimensiuni: 152 x 229 x 15 mm
Greutate: 0.25 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: University of Pittsburgh Press
Colecția University of Pittsburgh Press
Seria Pitt Drue Heinz Lit Prize
Recenzii
“Wisel’s prose is strobelike, illuminating the gritty landscape with small, powerful details. . . This dynamic—and often harrowing—collection beautifully spotlights lives that are rough around the edges; not standard fare but highly recommended.” —Library Journal Starred Review
“Gritty in the best sense. These stories offer up hard granules of truth about contemporary women contending with dispossession, oppression and violence…With a knowing and experienced eye, Wisel describes the down-and-out milieus of her protagonists in wry but never condescending detail. Scintillating and propulsive…each piece shines like a shard in the larger mosaic.” —The Chicago Tribune
“Wisel’s characters possess a steely wisdom, the kind of smarts born out of bad nights and big hurts, a kind of knowing forged in pain and aimed, ultimately, toward generosity, humor, and love. Wisel writes with a poet’s attention to cadence and precision of description. The city, and its people, live, breathe, and flame on the page.” —The Boston Globe
“Kate Wisel’s women think like razor blades. They talk tough and love tougher, except how they love each other which is pure and deep, and ought to be enough, except it isn’t, ever. These women vibrate with life, with longing, with an urge toward self-annihilation, with hope. Their hope will break your heart the hardest. Along with the sentences, which seem to be written by angels, razor-blade toting angels. This is one architecturally stunning, linguistically dazzling, hyper-intelligent, heart-expanding debut.” —Pam Houston, author of Deep Creek: Finding Hope In the High Country
"An uncommon fearlessness—a precise confidence—propels every sentence. There is a cold bite to these stories. Stark humor that slaps and stings. Dangerous, diligent fun that cannot fill the void. The lives of the four young women at the center of Driving in Cars with Homeless Men are a web of doomed experiments that edify in ways that cannot quite be articulated--they register, profoundly, on a visceral level. Kate Wisel is an important new artist with a uniquely potent voice, and this debut is cause for celebration." —Don De Grazia, author of American Skin
“Gritty in the best sense. These stories offer up hard granules of truth about contemporary women contending with dispossession, oppression and violence…With a knowing and experienced eye, Wisel describes the down-and-out milieus of her protagonists in wry but never condescending detail. Scintillating and propulsive…each piece shines like a shard in the larger mosaic.” —The Chicago Tribune
“Wisel’s characters possess a steely wisdom, the kind of smarts born out of bad nights and big hurts, a kind of knowing forged in pain and aimed, ultimately, toward generosity, humor, and love. Wisel writes with a poet’s attention to cadence and precision of description. The city, and its people, live, breathe, and flame on the page.” —The Boston Globe
"It’s GIRLS without all the privilege and a fictionalized version of Lisa Taddeo’s Three Women (2019), if the three women were friends. Bringing to life some of the smaller situations that have colored the #MeToo movement, this is fierce and emphatic." —Booklist
“Kate Wisel is a fearless writer—with literary guts and a distinctive nitro style--and Driving in Cars with Homeless Men is a remarkable debut. The gritty lyricism of her voice makes me think of punk rock and blown mufflers and creaky bedsprings flavored with cigarette ash, red bull-and-vodka, gum stuck to the bottom of a Doc Marten, a little bit of Denis Johnson mixed up with a Janis Joplin howl. Welcome her. I can't wait to see what she does next.” —Benjamin Percy, author of The Dark Net; Thrill Me; Red Moon; and Refresh, Refresh
“Kate Wisel’s women think like razor blades. They talk tough and love tougher, except how they love each other which is pure and deep, and ought to be enough, except it isn’t, ever. These women vibrate with life, with longing, with an urge toward self-annihilation, with hope. Their hope will break your heart the hardest. Along with the sentences, which seem to be written by angels, razor-blade toting angels. This is one architecturally stunning, linguistically dazzling, hyper-intelligent, heart-expanding debut.” —Pam Houston, author of Deep Creek: Finding Hope In the High Country
"An uncommon fearlessness—a precise confidence—propels every sentence. There is a cold bite to these stories. Stark humor that slaps and stings. Dangerous, diligent fun that cannot fill the void. The lives of the four young women at the center of Driving in Cars with Homeless Men are a web of doomed experiments that edify in ways that cannot quite be articulated--they register, profoundly, on a visceral level. Kate Wisel is an important new artist with a uniquely potent voice, and this debut is cause for celebration." —Don De Grazia, author of American Skin
Notă biografică
Kate Wisel’s fiction has appeared in publications that include Gulf Coast, Tin House online, The Best Small Fictions 2019, Redivider (as winner of the Beacon Street Prize), and elsewhere. She was a Carol Houck Fiction Fellow at the University of Wisconsin–Madison and has been awarded scholarships at Writing x Writers, The Wesleyan Writer’s Conference, the Squaw Valley Writer’s Workshop, The Juniper Institute, and elsewhere. She lives in Chicago where she teaches at Loyola University and Columbia College Chicago.
Extras
Excerpt from Driving in Cars with Homeless Men
Sunday and we’re curled into the velvet couch we carried all the way from Goodwill ourselves then pushed into the corner of our old, enormous kitchen. When I brought this guy Andrew home the first time, I dragged him to my bedroom as Frankie flashed a thumbs-up from the couch. She tells me she likes him because he has natural blond hair, an office job downtown, and takes me to dinner like a real guy. We met in what Frankie calls “a picturesque way.” This is the thing, ever since Frankie’s mom died, she wants everything to go right.
“How did it go?” Frankie says. I’m wearing a softball tee that got mixed up in the laundry and belongs to Frankie. Frankie’s wearing a button-up sweater and a smile that belongs in toothpaste commercials.
“He took me out to Chinese,” I start. I pass back the gravity bong we fashioned from a Pepsi bottle. Her cheekbones flush with the Rosacea that makes her look possessed by insider information, like someone’s got their mouth to her ear.
“Details,” she says.
It goes more or less like this: Andrew reached his hands across the booth just as I was about to say, “I have an early dentist appointment in the morning.” The waiter moved to our table with the purposefulness of a surgeon and filled our water, shard-like ice cubes cracking in the silence. Then the food came, platter-by-platter, clouds of steam swooshing into our faces. I filled my plate and drowned my rice in duck sauce.
“You must have been hungry,” he said as I scraped the last grains with my fork.
“Do you want to order dessert?” He leaned forward with the enthusiasm of a talk show host. I ordered another Blue Moon. By the time he got the check I was almost laying down, corpse-like in the booth. I stared at him sleepily, exaggerating my blink like a housecat. I contemplated burping but foresaw him refusing the check and thought better of it. Instead, I reached across the table and crushed a fortune cookie in my fist. I straightened up to pick the fortune from the remains, which read: You need only to understand that it is not necessary it understand but only enjoy.
He insisted on walking me home. He tried again to hold my hand as we moved under streetlights that lit up our faces like morons at a spelling bee in which we knew none of the words. I let him grasp my forefinger, which only made me blush.
“Careful,” he said, as I kicked my way through the broken glass of me and Frankie’s block, jellied condoms lying shriveled in the cracks. We passed the methadone clinic by Packard’s Corner where beyond the parking lot the registered sex offenders live in tighter and tighter clusters of red dots like the Clap. I was stumbling drunk, and hoped he would leave me at my front door without asking to come inside.
When he did, I said, in my best robot, “I do not have air conditioning.”
We stood in the envelope-littered foyer as he watched me stab keys into my lock. When the door swung open I held my hand on the knob while he waved, tripping down a step as he reversed his way out of my sight.
Sunday and we’re curled into the velvet couch we carried all the way from Goodwill ourselves then pushed into the corner of our old, enormous kitchen. When I brought this guy Andrew home the first time, I dragged him to my bedroom as Frankie flashed a thumbs-up from the couch. She tells me she likes him because he has natural blond hair, an office job downtown, and takes me to dinner like a real guy. We met in what Frankie calls “a picturesque way.” This is the thing, ever since Frankie’s mom died, she wants everything to go right.
“How did it go?” Frankie says. I’m wearing a softball tee that got mixed up in the laundry and belongs to Frankie. Frankie’s wearing a button-up sweater and a smile that belongs in toothpaste commercials.
“He took me out to Chinese,” I start. I pass back the gravity bong we fashioned from a Pepsi bottle. Her cheekbones flush with the Rosacea that makes her look possessed by insider information, like someone’s got their mouth to her ear.
“Details,” she says.
It goes more or less like this: Andrew reached his hands across the booth just as I was about to say, “I have an early dentist appointment in the morning.” The waiter moved to our table with the purposefulness of a surgeon and filled our water, shard-like ice cubes cracking in the silence. Then the food came, platter-by-platter, clouds of steam swooshing into our faces. I filled my plate and drowned my rice in duck sauce.
“You must have been hungry,” he said as I scraped the last grains with my fork.
“Do you want to order dessert?” He leaned forward with the enthusiasm of a talk show host. I ordered another Blue Moon. By the time he got the check I was almost laying down, corpse-like in the booth. I stared at him sleepily, exaggerating my blink like a housecat. I contemplated burping but foresaw him refusing the check and thought better of it. Instead, I reached across the table and crushed a fortune cookie in my fist. I straightened up to pick the fortune from the remains, which read: You need only to understand that it is not necessary it understand but only enjoy.
He insisted on walking me home. He tried again to hold my hand as we moved under streetlights that lit up our faces like morons at a spelling bee in which we knew none of the words. I let him grasp my forefinger, which only made me blush.
“Careful,” he said, as I kicked my way through the broken glass of me and Frankie’s block, jellied condoms lying shriveled in the cracks. We passed the methadone clinic by Packard’s Corner where beyond the parking lot the registered sex offenders live in tighter and tighter clusters of red dots like the Clap. I was stumbling drunk, and hoped he would leave me at my front door without asking to come inside.
When he did, I said, in my best robot, “I do not have air conditioning.”
We stood in the envelope-littered foyer as he watched me stab keys into my lock. When the door swung open I held my hand on the knob while he waved, tripping down a step as he reversed his way out of my sight.
Descriere
A Library Journal Best Book of 2019
Driving in Cars with Homeless Men is a love letter to women moving through violence. These linked stories are set in the streets and the bars, the old homes, the tiny apartments, and the landscape of a working-class Boston. With riotous energy and rage, the women portrayed run towards the future in the hopes of untangling themselves from failure to succeed and fail again.
Driving in Cars with Homeless Men is a love letter to women moving through violence. These linked stories are set in the streets and the bars, the old homes, the tiny apartments, and the landscape of a working-class Boston. With riotous energy and rage, the women portrayed run towards the future in the hopes of untangling themselves from failure to succeed and fail again.