Juice
by Renee Gladman
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Description
Poetry. African American Studies. Gladman wields an idiosyncratic skill with description and characters that has drawn praise and attention from her contemporaries. JUICE describes a world where seemingly minor obsessions and details (like the narrator's almost random preference for juice) can structure and develop an entire story, down to its tone and style. As her narrator puts it: "So far it has been sex and leaves that keep me alive."Tags
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Member Reviews
Incredibly abstract and difficult to grasp at first, but slowly the narrative begins to take shape. I feel I would benefit from a second reading as many other reviewers have stated, or perhaps should have taken more time on my first one. The ending felt incredibly abrupt.
Three short passages from Juice:
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About the body I know very little, though I am steadily trying to improve myself, in the way animals improve themselves by licking. I have always wanted to be sharp and clean. But this is not a story about me.
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Long before the fresh apple crisis, my life had some form to it. I would wake in the mornings – I would perform something. For example, the day I tried, as one with acute passion might, to win one woman over but accidentally won another – that whole time I had been living like someone. Though I can’t remember his name. His model of optimism provided me with a certain geography that I inhabit in time of need. This time the need was surprising.
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The poems I had written were failures, but dense show more ones. It seemed appropriate to think the person’s attempt at wholeness was a series of missteps, which if drawn across an afternoon might prove interesting to other people. I had a way of reminding my friends that we were all in pain, but a fruit tart kind of pain strangers can’t help but enjoy. That day I had, in a sense, gathered all my possessions and gone out onto the street with them.
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About the body I know very little, though I am steadily trying to improve myself, in the way animals improve themselves by licking. I have always wanted to be sharp and clean. But this is not a story about me.
*
Long before the fresh apple crisis, my life had some form to it. I would wake in the mornings – I would perform something. For example, the day I tried, as one with acute passion might, to win one woman over but accidentally won another – that whole time I had been living like someone. Though I can’t remember his name. His model of optimism provided me with a certain geography that I inhabit in time of need. This time the need was surprising.
*
The poems I had written were failures, but dense show more ones. It seemed appropriate to think the person’s attempt at wholeness was a series of missteps, which if drawn across an afternoon might prove interesting to other people. I had a way of reminding my friends that we were all in pain, but a fruit tart kind of pain strangers can’t help but enjoy. That day I had, in a sense, gathered all my possessions and gone out onto the street with them.
* show less
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