{"product_id":"red-doc-isbn-9780307950673","title":"Red Doc\u003e","description":"\u003cp\u003e\u003cb\u003e**\u003ci\u003eNew York\u003c\/i\u003e Magazine's Top 10 Books of 2013**\u003cbr\u003e**GoodReads Reader’s Choice Award Winner**\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eSome years ago I wrote a book about a boy named Geryon who was red and had wings and fell in love with Herakles. Recently I began to wonder what happened to them in later life. \u003ci\u003eRed Doc\u003c\/i\u003e\u0026gt; continues their adventures in a very different style and with changed names. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTo live past the end of your myth is a perilous thing.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003e“Breathtaking. . . . Personal, necessary and important. . . . Read this book. You’ll find it hard to forget.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“A supraliterary, textually experimental landscape that only Carson could conjure. Ranging from frozen tundra to festive meadows, G’s odyssey features his dying mother, his war-veteran road-buddy lover, and a female artist friend in a wild hybrid narrative pushed to mythopoetic glory.” —\u003ci\u003eElle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Carson’s lyrical language effortlessly lifts pure moments of hope and despair off the page. . . . \u003ci\u003eRed Doc\u0026gt;\u003c\/i\u003e stands on its own—and takes the reader on a singular journey of longing and grief.” —\u003ci\u003eSan Francisco Chronicle\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Carson’s red-winged anti-hero is still the crown prince of erotic, melancholy foibles. . . . Whether she’s talking war vets, flying cows, Latin etymology or Elvis, Carson once again blurs the lines of prose and poetry.” —\u003ci\u003eAmerican Poet\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“Unexpected, dizzying.... Sure to be the verse event of the season.\" --\u003ci\u003eVogue.com\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"[Carson's] phrases and images ... swoop and beguile like hidden messages. Cryptograms from other civilizations, or hoaxes perpetrated by pranksters by moonlight? Say what you will about Carson, she doesn't play it safe.\" --\u003ci\u003eThe New York Observer\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"For every line of Carson's that's grave and pensive, another is funny, erotic, demotic, or dirty.... Even when the setting gets surreal, Carson never breaks faith with ordinary emotion. Red Doc\u0026gt; is, at times, excruciating in its grief. Yet just when it threatens to become unbearable, just when you are hurling at terminal velocity toward the killing earth--just then everything that seemed broken comes together. Suddenly you are borne into the sky on words and stories, those human wings, up there with a thousand ice bats and a kind-hearted monster and a stoner cow and a solid column of volcanic smoke, seamed with brilliant flame.\" --\u003ci\u003eNew York Magazine\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"A shape-shifting verse novel that's both playful and compelling.\" --\u003ci\u003eTime Out New York\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"The events in Red Doc\u0026gt;, not so much recounted as erupting, have an instability suggestive of Alice in Wonderland.... As with a roller coaster, the transitions make us look forward to the next splendid plunge. And we plunge.\" --\u003ci\u003eThe Boston Globe\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Carson swings through a variety of techniques that refract the madness of war, from the systemic absurdism of Catch-22 to the post-modern flights of Gravity's Rainbow to the dead-bang temporal concussions of The Things They Carried.... Carson is funny--Lorrie Moore funny, Grace Paley funny--and Red Doc\u0026gt; courses with a wit shot through with intelligence and humility.... Brushed with the magical, the absurd and the surreal.\" --\u003ci\u003ePaste \u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\"Parts of this book are shockingly moving, especially when she describes the impending death of G's mother. The poetry around their final meeting is strangely haunting in an understated way. It presents loss and our tenuous human interconnectedness in its fragile and mysterious passing.... Inspired.\" --\u003ci\u003eThe Globe and Mail \u003c\/i\u003e(Toronto)\u003cbr\u003e \u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eRed Doc\u0026gt;\u003c\/i\u003e is the sequel—sort of—to \u003ci\u003eAutobiography of Red\u003c\/i\u003e, one of the crossover classics of contemporary poetry. The book is strange and sweet and funny, and the remoteness of the ancient myth crossed with the familiarity of the modern setting creates a particularly Carsonian effect: the paradox of distant closeness.” —\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“If there is one book I’ve pressed on more people in the past decade, it is Carson's \u003ci\u003eAutobiography of Red.\u003c\/i\u003e And I’m here to tell you its sequel has just been published, and that it’s pretty much the biggest event of the year…. \u003ci\u003eRed Doc\u0026gt; \u003c\/i\u003eis insightful, whimsical, erotic and sad.... If you like books to provoke you, dare you, even change the way you think, let me recommend this strange, wonderful pair of novels about a young red man. We all have volcanoes in our lives. Sometimes it takes someone else to show us how to survive them.” —Rosecrans Baldwin, \u003ci\u003eNPR\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eANNE CARSON was born in Canada and has been a professor of Classics for over thirty years. Her awards and honors include the Lannan Award, the Pushcart Prize, the Griffin Trust Award for Excellence in Poetry, and fellowships from the Guggenheim and MacArthur Foundations.\u003c\/p\u003e\u003cp\u003eTIME PASSES TIME\u003cbr\u003e does not pass. Time all \u003cbr\u003e but passes. Time usually \u003cbr\u003e passes. Time passing and \u003cbr\u003e gazing. Time has no gaze. \u003cbr\u003e Time as perseverance. \u003cbr\u003e Time as hunger. Time in \u003cbr\u003e a natural way. Time when \u003cbr\u003e you were six the day a \u003cbr\u003e mountain. Mountain time. \u003cbr\u003e Time I don’t remember. \u003cbr\u003e Time for a dog in an alley \u003cbr\u003e caught in the beam of your \u003cbr\u003e flashlight. Time not a \u003cbr\u003e video. Time as paper \u003cbr\u003e folded to look like a \u003cbr\u003e mountain. Time smeared \u003cbr\u003e under the eyes of the \u003cbr\u003e miners as they rattle down \u003cbr\u003e into the mine. Time if you \u003cbr\u003e are bankrupt. Time if you \u003cbr\u003e are Prometheus. Time if \u003cbr\u003e you are all the little tubes \u003cbr\u003e on the roots of a gorse \u003cbr\u003e plant sucking greenish \u003cbr\u003e black moistures up into \u003cbr\u003e new scribbled continents. \u003cbr\u003e Time it takes for the postal \u003cbr\u003e clerk to apply her lipstick \u003cbr\u003e at the back of the post \u003cbr\u003e office before the \u003cbr\u003e supervisor returns. Time \u003cbr\u003e it takes for a cow to tip \u003cbr\u003e over. Time in jail. Time \u003cbr\u003e as overcoats in a closet. \u003cbr\u003e Time for a herd of turkeys\u003cbr\u003e skidding and surprised on \u003cbr\u003e ice. All the time that has \u003cbr\u003e soaked into the walls here. \u003cbr\u003e Time between the little \u003cbr\u003e clicks. Time compared to \u003cbr\u003e the wild fantastic silence \u003cbr\u003e of the stars. Time for the \u003cbr\u003e man at the bus stop \u003cbr\u003e standing on one leg to tie \u003cbr\u003e his shoe. Time taking \u003cbr\u003e Night by the hand and \u003cbr\u003e trotting off down the road. \u003cbr\u003e Time passes oh boy. Time \u003cbr\u003e got the jump on me yes it \u003cbr\u003e did.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e --\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e SHUFFLING RECIPES \u003cbr\u003e COUPONS horoscopes \u003cbr\u003e in a kitchen drawer he turns \u003cbr\u003e up an old B\u0026amp;W \u003cbr\u003e photograph of her posed in \u003cbr\u003e dashing swim costume on \u003cbr\u003e some long ago back porch. \u003cbr\u003e One leg forward like a \u003cbr\u003e Greek kouros a cigarette \u003cbr\u003e in the other hand she \u003cbr\u003e glows as a drop of water \u003cbr\u003e glows in sun. She looks \u003cbr\u003e sexually astute in a way \u003cbr\u003e that terrifies him he puts \u003cbr\u003e this aside and all at once \u003cbr\u003e the grainy photograph the \u003cbr\u003e early marvel of her life \u003cbr\u003e flung up at him a thing \u003cbr\u003e hardly believable! knocks \u003cbr\u003e him to his knees. He grips \u003cbr\u003e his arms and weeps. Pain \u003cbr\u003e catches the whole insides \u003cbr\u003e of him and wrings it. \u003cbr\u003e Oddly now remembering \u003cbr\u003e his grandmother’s wringer \u003cbr\u003e washer silvergreen and \u003cbr\u003e upright on a platform of \u003cbr\u003e wet boards in her back \u003cbr\u003e kitchen beside the \u003cbr\u003e washing tubs. How \u003cbr\u003e carefully he’d been taught \u003cbr\u003e to feed a piece of dripping \u003cbr\u003e cloth between the two big \u003cbr\u003e lips of the rollers while \u003cbr\u003e she cranked the handle \u003cbr\u003e and the cloth grabbed\u003cbr\u003e fforward to emerge on the \u003cbr\u003e other side as a weird \u003cbr\u003e compressed pane of itself. \u003cbr\u003e He hadn’t known his \u003cbr\u003e grandmother long or well. \u003cbr\u003e She smelled of Noxzema. \u003cbr\u003e Didn’t like doctors. \u003cbr\u003e Believed in herbs and the \u003cbr\u003e Bible. When the apostles \u003cbr\u003e walked down the street \u003cbr\u003e she said their shadows \u003cbr\u003e would heal people. His \u003cbr\u003e mother once told him a \u003cbr\u003e story about her dying. \u003cbr\u003e They never liked each \u003cbr\u003e other hadn’t visited for \u003cbr\u003e years but someone \u003cbr\u003e arranged a phone call. So \u003cbr\u003e there they were mother \u003cbr\u003e and daughter on the \u003cbr\u003e telephone separate cities \u003cbr\u003e separate nights both \u003cbr\u003e suffering from asthma and \u003cbr\u003e so moved they couldn’t \u003cbr\u003e speak. I heard her \u003cbr\u003e breathing I knew what it \u003cbr\u003e was his mother said. He \u003cbr\u003e looks up. He’d almost \u003cbr\u003e forgot about the rain. \u003cbr\u003e Unloading on the roof and \u003cbr\u003e squandering down the \u003cbr\u003e gutters. Rain continuous \u003cbr\u003e since the funeral a \u003cbr\u003e wrecking rattling \u003cbr\u003e bewildering Lethe- \u003cbr\u003e knuckling mob of rain. A \u003cbr\u003e rain with no instructions.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e --\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e WIFE OF BRAIN\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mothers in summer \u003cbr\u003e Mothers in winter \u003cbr\u003e Mothers in autumn \u003cbr\u003e Mothers in spring\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mothers at altitude \u003cbr\u003e Mothers in solitude \u003cbr\u003e Mothers as platitude \u003cbr\u003e Mothers in spring\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mothers banking their shots \u003cbr\u003e Mothers grackling their throats \u003cbr\u003e Mothers dumped from their boats \u003cbr\u003e In spring\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mothers as ice \u003cbr\u003e Or when they are nice \u003cbr\u003e No one more nice \u003cbr\u003e In spring\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e Mothers ashamed and Ablaze and clear \u003cbr\u003e At the end \u003cbr\u003e As they are \u003cbr\u003e As they almost all are, and then \u003cbr\u003e Mothers don’t come around \u003cbr\u003e Again In spring\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/p\u003e","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46304662421733,"sku":"NP9780307950673","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780307950673.jpg?v=1767735535","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/red-doc-isbn-9780307950673","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}