{"product_id":"the-study-of-human-life-isbn-9780143136828","title":"The Study of Human Life","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eWinner of the Paterson Poetry Prize, and longlisted for the Griffin Prize and the Massachusetts Book Award\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAn acclaimed poet further extends his range into the realm of speculative fiction, while addressing issues as varied as abolition, Black ecological consciousness, and the boundless promise of parenthood\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003eFeaturing the novella “The Book of Mycah,” soon to be adapted by Lena Waithe’s Hillman Grad Productions \u0026amp; Warner Bros. TV\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAcross three sequences, Joshua Bennett’s new book recalls and reimagines social worlds almost but not entirely lost, all while gesturing toward the ones we are building even now, in the midst of a state of emergency, together. Bennett opens with a set of autobiographical poems that deal with themes of family, life, death, vulnerability, and the joys and dreams of youth. The central section, “The Book of Mycah,” features an alternate history where Malcolm X is resurrected from the dead, as is a young black man shot by the police some fifty years later in Brooklyn. The final section of \u003ci\u003eThe Study of Human Life\u003c\/i\u003e are poems that Bennett has written about fatherhood, on the heels of his own first child being born last fall.\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for \u003ci\u003eThe Study of Human Life\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A tender celebration of vulnerability and the strength that blooms quietly in its presence.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Atlantic\u003c\/i\u003e, “Ten Poetry Collections to Read Again and Again”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“With a singularly expansive and compassionate view of history, Bennett sweeps across generations of joy, suffering, and connection.” —\u003ci\u003eLit Hub\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“A unique and nuanced window into the effects of generational trauma and state-sanctioned violence, as well as powerful insistence that trauma cannot and will not be the defining characteristic of future generations . . . \u003ci\u003eThe Study of Human Life\u003c\/i\u003e is every bit as layered and complex as readers might expect from Bennett, who has established himself as an intensely patient and deliberate writer capable of upending genre as seamlessly as he upends our understanding of the world.” —\u003ci\u003eThe Poetry Question\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[Features] a multifaceted prose-poem of striking depth and originality . . . Though Bennett’s poems seem effortless in their lyric grace and organic progressions, they are better described as \u003ci\u003eeffortful\u003c\/i\u003e, given memorable presence by their intimacy, mindful craft, and visionary pursuit. Expect this work to appear on many 'best poetry' lists for 2022.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal \u003c\/i\u003e(starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cu\u003ePraise for Bennett's previous collection, \u003ci\u003eOwed\u003c\/i\u003e:\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/u\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Themes of praise and debt pervade this rhapsodic, rigorous poetry collection, which pays homage to everyday Black experience in the U.S. . . . Bennett conjures a spirit of kinship that, illuminated by redolent imagery, borders on mythic, and boldly stakes claim to ‘some living, future \/ English, \u0026amp; everyone in it \/ is immortal.’” —\u003ci\u003eThe New Yorker\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Bennett captures the beauty of what really matters in life—the memories, youth sports, family traditions and little moments that many of us take for granted . . . [\u003ci\u003eOwed\u003c\/i\u003e] couldn't have been more timely.” —\u003ci\u003eSalon\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Not only are these poems eloquent but also lyrical, intelligent, and, occasionally, funny. Most reflect upon and communicate the pain, joy, and intensity of the current Black experience . . . In a time when many confront and protest the racism prevalent in our society, Bennett’s new book is vital.” —\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review) \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[\u003ci\u003eOwed\u003c\/i\u003e] intertwines the author’s multifaceted professions as poet, performer, and professor through powerful, crisp poems that celebrate the complexity, joy, and heartbreak of the Black experience in America . . . Bennett’s poems are more necessary than ever.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e (starred review)Poet, performer, and scholar Joshua Bennett is the author of three collections of poetry: \u003ci\u003eThe Study of Human Life\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eOwed\u003c\/i\u003e,\u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003eand \u003ci\u003eThe Sobbing School\u003c\/i\u003e; a book of criticism, \u003ci\u003eBeing Property Once Myself: Blackness and the End of Man\u003c\/i\u003e; and a work of narrative nonfiction, \u003ci\u003eSpoken Word: A Cultural History\u003c\/i\u003e. He received his PhD in English from Princeton University, and is currently Professor of Literature and Distinguished Chair of the Humanities at MIT. His writing has been published in \u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Magazine\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eThe Paris Review\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003ePoetry\u003c\/i\u003e, and elsewhere. In 2021, he was the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship and a Whiting Award in Poetry and Nonfiction. He lives in Boston.\u003cb\u003eTrash\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003eI\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e All the men I loved were dead\u003cbr\u003e-beats by birthright or so the legend\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e went. The ledger said three\u003cbr\u003eout of every four of us were\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e destined for a cell or lead\u003cbr\u003eshells flitting like comets\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e through our heads. As a boy,\u003cbr\u003emy mother made me write\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; sign contracts to express\u003cbr\u003ethe worthlessness of a man's\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e word. Just like your father,\u003cbr\u003eshe said, whenever I would lie,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e or otherwise warp the historical\u003cbr\u003erecord to get my way. Even then,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I knew the link between me\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; the old man was pure\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e negation, bad habits, some awful\u003cbr\u003ehyphen filled with blood. I have half\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e my father's face \u0026amp; not a measure of his flair\u003cbr\u003efor the dramatic. Never once\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e have I prayed \u0026amp; had another man's wife\u003cbr\u003ewail in return. Both burden \u0026amp; blessing alike,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e it seemed, this beauty he carried\u003cbr\u003elike a dead doe. No one called him Father\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of the Year. But come wintertime, he would wash\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; cocoa butter us until our curls shone like lodestone,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e bodies wrapped in three layers\u003cbr\u003eof cloth just to keep December's iron\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e bite at bay. And who would have thought\u003cbr\u003eto thank him then? Or else turn\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; expunge the record, given all we know\u003cbr\u003enow of war \u0026amp; its unquantifiable cost,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e the way living through everyone around you\u003cbr\u003edying kills something elemental, ancient.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e At a certain point, it all comes back\u003cbr\u003eto survival, is what I am saying.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e There are men he killed to become\u003cbr\u003ethis man. The human brain is a soft\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e gray cage. He doesn't know what else\u003cbr\u003ehe can do with his hands.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e II\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The Knicks were trash. Head colds\u003cbr\u003eat the outset of a South Bronx summer:\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e trash. The second hour after she is gone,\u003cbr\u003ethe moment the song you both used to slow\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e -dance through the kitchenette\u003cbr\u003eto comes on, moving on: all trash.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Death is trash. Love is a robust engagement\u003cbr\u003ewith the trash of another.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Monthly bills of any kind are trash,\u003cbr\u003ealthough access to gas and electricity\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is not, so there is that to consider.\u003cbr\u003eBlackouts are incontrovertibly\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e trash. Much like student loans, or the fact\u003cbr\u003ethat we live in a culture of debt such that one\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e must always be behind to make some semblance\u003cbr\u003eof what our elders might have called living.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My friends often state in the midst of otherwise\u003cbr\u003eloving group chat missives that life is trash, though\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e we all keep trying to make one for some reason\u003cbr\u003eor another, and the internet says my friends are trash,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e that black men and boys are trash, and it makes me think\u003cbr\u003eof the high Germanic roots of garbage-which\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e is perhaps the first cousin of trash-that part of the animal\u003cbr\u003eone does not eat, and we are sort of like that, no?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Modernity's refuse, disposable flesh\u003cbr\u003eand spectacular failure, fuel and fodder,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e corpses abundant as the trash\u003cbr\u003eon the floor of the world.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Aging is trash. I am years past thirty now\u003cbr\u003eand so any further time qualifies\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e as statistical anomaly,\u003cbr\u003eyou can't expect good\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e results with bad data, trash\u003cbr\u003ein, trash out, they say,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e and I'm really just searching\u003cbr\u003efor better, more redemptive\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e language is the thing,\u003cbr\u003esome version of the story\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e where all the characters\u003cbr\u003einside look like me and every\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e single one of us escapes\u003cbr\u003ewith our heads.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e III\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Saturdays, it was my job to pick the bones\u003cbr\u003efrom cans of fish which became the unwieldy\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e piles of pink flesh that, once fried, became the cakes\u003cbr\u003ewe ate for dinner that night, breakfast the next\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e day, dinner again to close the loop. Decades passed\u003cbr\u003ebefore I saw the beast in real time, realized, like Baldwin-\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e who once saw his mother lift a yard of velvet, say\u003cbr\u003ethat is a good idea, and for months thought ideas were shocks\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e of black fabric-that salmon lived outside\u003cbr\u003ethe bounds of Foodtown shelves\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e we searched for deals in the early '90s,\u003cbr\u003esupermarket circulars held tight\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in our too-small hands, armaments\u003cbr\u003eagainst American cost. Older now,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e a literary type with insurance\u003cbr\u003eto boot, I tell you this story\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e at our kitchen table, unsure of what\u003cbr\u003eI am trying to convey, exactly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Something about the flexible\u003cbr\u003enature of human knowledge,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e perhaps: a speed course in semiotics\u003cbr\u003eover poached eggs. Or maybe\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e some version of the same tale\u003cbr\u003eI am always telling, that the wall\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e between the world \u0026amp; me\u003cbr\u003egrew weaker once I left\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e what I loved. Children\u003cbr\u003eof the poor, their small words\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u0026amp; smaller sense of scale.\u003cbr\u003eBack then, life on Earth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e was Yonkers, NY,\u003cbr\u003e\u0026amp; my grandmother's salon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Every leather-bound book\u003cbr\u003ewas a Word of God. And there I was,\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e an affront to history, creative, even\u003cbr\u003ein my ignorance, sketching planets\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e in the air as my big sister sang soul outside\u003cbr\u003emy bedroom window, her voice\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e like something ancient and winged,\u003cbr\u003epulling summer into being.","brand":"Penguin Books","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301920067813,"sku":"NP9780143136828","price":20.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780143136828.jpg?v=1767741714","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/es\/products\/the-study-of-human-life-isbn-9780143136828","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}