You, Me, and the Violence: 21st Century Essays
Autor Catherine Tayloren Limba Engleză Paperback – 15 sep 2017
“Things puppets can do to us: charm, deceive, captivate, fool, trick, remind, amuse, distract, bore, repulse, annoy, puzzle, transport, provoke, fascinate, stand in for, kill.” In You, Me, and the Violence, Catherine Taylor ponders the nature of personal and political autonomy, focusing on the surprising juxtaposition of puppetry and military drones. In a book at once politically significant and narratively engaging, Taylor blends genres to question the roles of individuals within society and expose the gritty and emotional underpinnings of the seemingly mechanical process of a remote soldier.
From conversations with her own brother about his military experiences to Punch and Judy, from the original tale of Pinocchio to the radio chatter of soldiers in active drone operation, Taylor writes about family, power, and the “theater” of war in a voice both sly and sobering, heartbreaking and hopeful.
From conversations with her own brother about his military experiences to Punch and Judy, from the original tale of Pinocchio to the radio chatter of soldiers in active drone operation, Taylor writes about family, power, and the “theater” of war in a voice both sly and sobering, heartbreaking and hopeful.
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Specificații
ISBN-13: 9780814254325
ISBN-10: 0814254322
Pagini: 166
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria 21st Century Essays
ISBN-10: 0814254322
Pagini: 166
Dimensiuni: 140 x 216 x 13 mm
Greutate: 0.16 kg
Ediția:1
Editura: Ohio State University Press
Colecția Mad Creek Books
Seria 21st Century Essays
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Recenzii
“Catherine Taylor’s wondrous book—its lucidities and extravagances telescoped into sharp sentences—imagines a peaceful future by digging into the perils of right now. To probe violence’s roots, she questions our infatuated relation to automatons; with poetic feeling, and precise speech, she contrapuntally dissects political passivity and thereby inspires her reader to dream of soulful action. I am moved by Taylor’s distilled language, her faith in eccentric investigation, and her beautifully articulated affinity with puppetry.” —Wayne Koestenbaum
“This is a poetics of daring redeemed from the experimental, a philosophy of caring reclaimed from equivocation. You, Me, and the Violence is the imagination fleshed out, reengaged with the most serious urgencies of contemporary living.” —Ed Pavlic, author of Let’s Let That Are Not Yet: Inferno
Notă biografică
Catherine Taylor is Associate Professor in the Department of Writing at Ithaca College. She is the award-winning author of Apart and Giving Birth: A Journey Into the World of Mothers and Midwives.
Extras
In a scene from Truffaut’s The 400 Blows, in a darkened room, we see the faces of children at a puppet show. They appear, at first, transfixed. Still. Lifeless. Then their mouths drop open wide as if unhinged. They bounce up and down jerkily in their excitement. Suddenly, their bodies all lean forward in one motion as if pulled by the same string. One child’s hands fly abruptly to his face in horror. He twists as if moved by a rod from above. Another stiffly, but gently, tips his head to rest on the shoulder of his friend. Their eyes stare in one direction. They don’t see us. They don’t see Truffaut’s camera. They don’t see the puppeteers. They see only the wolf gnashing his jaw. Red Riding Hood screaming in his grasp. We watch them manipulated by the puppets and by Truffaut. We watch them not in the fullness of who they are, their histories, their changes, their relations. We see them only as they become puppets, become objects, and thus, paradoxically, become themselves.
I was longing for something other than bureaucracies of death, something other than the crisis under my fingertips every day. The usual murder. The general dampening. Spending time with puppets seemed like a good idea. Brainless, strange, potentially political, and tapped into the rapture part of my children’s childhood (slipping fast away). Tapped into our little house on the edge of Appalachia, where my twelve-year-old lived in the basement, with its concrete floor and tiny window up high near the edge of the earth. Look at him, turning a large, cardboard refrigerator box into a Dada puppet-theatre. He has painted it red with the slogan “Dada Seigt!” scrawled on the back. He’s added black curtains to the small head-height opening and straps that allow him to carry the contraption on his back as he rides around our small town on his bicycle. He has cut up poems that he reads in the voices of his puppets. One is a crab claw. One is a tiny replica of my boyfriend dressed as a gangster. Clay head, black cloth suit, white satin tie. Sometimes, a friend played her cello with him. One year, he went as Hugo Ball for Halloween. One year, he made me a miniature replica of a factory complete with a tiny puppet fist whose lever let it smash the paper smokestacks. His sense of possibility worked like a charm.
Think of puppets. Shadow, marionette, rod, sock, finger, avatar, persona. Think of big-nosed Punch and Judy whacking and pummeling each other on their little stage. Think of the swaying papier-mâché giants of political street theater, the disturbing meat puppets of Jan Svankmajer, the creepy doll heads of the Brothers Quay, the marionettes in Being John Malkovich, Basil Twist’s string man, James Cameron’s imperialist avatars, the sad inhabitants of the uncanny valley. There are pregnant puppets full of others, puppets made of ice that melt, and puppets of paper that burn. Think of Indonesian Wayang Kulit with its oil lamps and amber screens. Gamelan gongs hammered and clanging, rising and chiming. The black silhouettes of lacy, angular gods looming as they enter their epic battle. Figures sharpen and blur. Think of bug-eyed Ernie in his stripy shirt saying, “Gee, Burt” and snickering behind his hand. Puppets are only puppets when they seem to have no masters. When they seem to act on their own. Autonomous. Alive. Once we glimpse the master, the puppet becomes merely an object. A doll. Puppets are only puppets, are only truly themselves, when they seem not to be themselves, when we forget that they are puppets. This is the paradox of puppets, and our pleasure in them lies within this paradox.
I was longing for something other than bureaucracies of death, something other than the crisis under my fingertips every day. The usual murder. The general dampening. Spending time with puppets seemed like a good idea. Brainless, strange, potentially political, and tapped into the rapture part of my children’s childhood (slipping fast away). Tapped into our little house on the edge of Appalachia, where my twelve-year-old lived in the basement, with its concrete floor and tiny window up high near the edge of the earth. Look at him, turning a large, cardboard refrigerator box into a Dada puppet-theatre. He has painted it red with the slogan “Dada Seigt!” scrawled on the back. He’s added black curtains to the small head-height opening and straps that allow him to carry the contraption on his back as he rides around our small town on his bicycle. He has cut up poems that he reads in the voices of his puppets. One is a crab claw. One is a tiny replica of my boyfriend dressed as a gangster. Clay head, black cloth suit, white satin tie. Sometimes, a friend played her cello with him. One year, he went as Hugo Ball for Halloween. One year, he made me a miniature replica of a factory complete with a tiny puppet fist whose lever let it smash the paper smokestacks. His sense of possibility worked like a charm.
Think of puppets. Shadow, marionette, rod, sock, finger, avatar, persona. Think of big-nosed Punch and Judy whacking and pummeling each other on their little stage. Think of the swaying papier-mâché giants of political street theater, the disturbing meat puppets of Jan Svankmajer, the creepy doll heads of the Brothers Quay, the marionettes in Being John Malkovich, Basil Twist’s string man, James Cameron’s imperialist avatars, the sad inhabitants of the uncanny valley. There are pregnant puppets full of others, puppets made of ice that melt, and puppets of paper that burn. Think of Indonesian Wayang Kulit with its oil lamps and amber screens. Gamelan gongs hammered and clanging, rising and chiming. The black silhouettes of lacy, angular gods looming as they enter their epic battle. Figures sharpen and blur. Think of bug-eyed Ernie in his stripy shirt saying, “Gee, Burt” and snickering behind his hand. Puppets are only puppets when they seem to have no masters. When they seem to act on their own. Autonomous. Alive. Once we glimpse the master, the puppet becomes merely an object. A doll. Puppets are only puppets, are only truly themselves, when they seem not to be themselves, when we forget that they are puppets. This is the paradox of puppets, and our pleasure in them lies within this paradox.
Descriere
“Things puppets can do to us: charm, deceive, captivate, fool, trick, remind, amuse, distract, bore, repulse, annoy, puzzle, transport, provoke, fascinate, stand in for, kill.” In You, Me, and the Violence, Catherine Taylor pairs puppetry and drone warfare to create a collage of meditations on family, politics, violence, autonomy, and, ultimately, hope.