Sorrentino, Gilbert (Vol. 14)
Sorrentino, Gilbert 1929–2006
Sorrentino, an American poet, novelist, and critic, and an editor of Grove Press, values, for his own work, "a verse dense in its particulars, but flexible in its total structure." (See also CLC, Vol. 7, and Contemporary Authors, Vols. 77-80.)
Sharon Fawcett [Thesen]
Gilbert Sorrentino's Splendide-Hôtel is a splendid book. The Splendide-Hôtel ('built in a chaos of glaciers and the polar night'), invented by Arthur Rimbaud and reinvented by Sorrentino is a place in the country of a poet's mind where people and poems come to stay for a while, perhaps forever. Sorrentino's heart rests there a spell to render alphabetically the Splendide-Hôtel and its guests and its pests (so many rats as to take over the whole world.) The alphabeticalness is important because it's simple and because the words a poet writes are things made of alphabet elements where vowels are the sounding spaces.
Splendide-Hôtel is altogether a 'radiant gist' and Sorrentino pays homage in this book to Williams and Rimbaud whose spinnings of art into the matter of the quotidian—and here my dictionary tells me with astonishing accuracy to this content, that the 'quotidian' is anything that returns every day; a fever whose paroxysms return every day—whose spinnings are perhaps mentioned by the academics drinking vodka highballs in the lounge of the Splendide-Hôtel. The alphabet is the Splendide-Hôtel, an act of the imagination. The realm of 'Letters.'… [Those] who love the Alchemy of the Word are 'left finally with its essence to be set against the world.' Against those Men of Letters, no matter how snazzy, whose language is that of 'instruction booklets on the installation of air conditioners' Sorrentino turns...
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The Orangery, a collection of 84 liberally formed sonnets, each containing a variation of the word "orange," is not about orange. True enough, though, as Sorrentino says in one of these poems, "These oranges hold it all."
Non sequiturs as sequiturs, sequiturs as non sequiturs, are here "absolute logic." You are, when you read this, entering a world where experience is what it is. Not yours. Yet you are invited in even when you are not "invited" in. "Nothing is the thing that rhymes with orange," the poet tells us—and don't look for reason either. (p. 327)
Here you arrive at a place, places, as indefinite as those places which, in William Blakes world, synthesize into geographic-imaginative-spiritual locations. And the method too is not dissimilar; there is a network of words which are repeated in different contexts, which do not mean, when they recur, the same thing in any strict sense, yet carry with them, in some accumulative sense, a constancy. Many are colors other than orange. Many are not colors. These "symbols" make themselves. Appearing, as they do, in the strangest of juxtapositions, often it is their incongruity that establishes them….
But as random as orange and so many other colors, images, and adjectives, are, they create the texture for what is a very emotive work. The connections through it all to the mother who died, and for whom is held the most loving of memories, resonate again and again.
The elusive "Madame Mystere," antagonist and synthesis of "woman" for the male voice here, engenders the confusion of mother, sensuous woman, confidante, and untouchable. "Orange" is the access to her mystery, yet remains itself, and can only hint through indirection, misdirection even….
Need I say it? This is a beautiful book. (p. 328)
Gerald Grealish, "Non-Fiction: 'The Orangery'," in Best Sellers (copyright © 1979 Helen Dwight Reid Educational Foundation), Vol. 38, No. 10, January, 1979, pp. 327-28.
In 1971 Gilbert Sorrentino published a novel about poets, Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things, a savage book full of judgments his acquintances must have prayed would not be thought to refer to them. ("Free! Free! Irremediably poor. Such work is irremediable because it has no working parts. It is a great chunk of, say, Liederkranz."…) I mention this book because it is very good, still awaiting its public, at least on my coast, and because Sorrentino has both gifts, fictional and poetic, in a measure I don't think we've seen since Williams.
These poems dazzle at first with their intense colors, and inside them like a bee is enough spite to scare the browser…. Immediately you hear Stevens, and Rimbaud at his bitterest. "Note the bitterness and wanton/patterns of assault," Sorrentino urges.
He doubts his readers, offers his cruel poems and his tender ones with a faint sneer. He is offering a great deal. With color in The Orangery he makes a street from the past (his, America's) to the nerves of his reader….
The Orangery is a series … in an elegiac key, in which anger is the treble to a bass of grief and memory…. It is a life-story told in a few scenes barely limned—or invented…. It is also a portrait, in vignettes, colors, ditties, of an invented Texas (Sorrentino is a New Yorker), a sleazy brilliantly-colored place inhabited by Mexicali Rose and Mr. America among others; outside this Texas are an equally chromatic Florida: a real (though past, and softened) New Jersey; the fields of Kansas; Brooklyn and Queens; Joliet, Mobile. I think this is the best poem-of-America (taking it as one poem in many parts) in years. Sorrentino's sense of strain is not the popular anxiety, but the strain, as Williams experienced it, of being American, being an artist in America, trying to see without repudiating the whole, to repudiate without losing sentience.
Valerie Trueblood, "Books: 'The Orangery'," in The American Poetry Review (copyright © 1979 by World Poetry, Inc.; reprinted by permission of Valerie Trueblood), Vol. 8, No. 1, January-February, 1979, p. 29.
There is a very real question as to whether avant-garde fiction can survive Gilbert Sorrentino's new novel ["Mulligan Stew"]. There is also a question as to whether the New York publishing community can survive it too, although that, of course, is much less interesting. "Mulligan Stew," instead of consisting of meat and vegetables, consists entirely of literature, of parody and complaint and paranoia and pop-absurdism. It is as if Buck Mulligan was a hero or had written "Ulysses," instead of Stephen Dedalus and James Joyce. But Mr. Sorrentino contains, and reviles, them all.
"Mulligan Stew" is full of Joyce, too much so; and of Nabokov, Flaubert, Proust, Gogol, Flann O'Brien, D. H. Lawrence, Edmund (Bunny) Wilson, Norman Mailer, Henry James, Bernard Malamud, the Marquis de Sade, Thomas Dekker, Sylvia Plath, John Updike, Anaïs Nin, Zane Grey, Erica Jong, William H. Gass, various Latin Americans, everybody else I haven't mentioned, plus the rest of us—the entire service class of careerist bookchat. It is as if all of Lionel Trilling's bad dreams about the teaching of modernism had been stuffed inside a single typewriter. (p. 244)
Among the many literary artifacts that "Mulligan Stew" parodies are the mystery novel, the pornographic novel, the western, the 17th-century masque, the 20th-century publisher's catalogue, female erotic poetry, book reviews, art criticism, writers' notebooks, monographs on mathematics,...
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Billed as a "new wave murder mystery" whose subject is really "the comic possibilities of modern literary history," Mulligan Stew appears to be Sorrentino's lunge for the main chance….
While Mulligan Stew could use a little of the mystery's rigor, it fits far more comfortably in the avant-garde's cracked but commodious crockpot. The avant-garde tradition may be temporarily exhausted, but it has produced some notable messes. Would that the overstocked Mulligan Stew were one of them.
This particular melange, too clever to bother with the mechanics of mystery, deliberately (so deliberately) exploits the most vapid cliche the avant-garde has to offer. You've got one sentence to guess it. Right, the novel about the writer writing a novel….
One section is pretty funny. Before the novel proper begins—before even the title page—Sorrentino parodies a number of publishers' and editors' (mostly reject) letters about the novel….
Apart from the humor, there's a noticeable defensive and even contemptuous undertone in beginning a book this way. This is not ameliorated by the triple-play epigraph that soon follows….
[The quality of the writing in the "novel within the novel"] is so deliberately, so unrelievedly awful that it's hard to imagine what pleasure Sorrentino got out of the considerable effort. The picture he gives of the act of writing is...
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[Gilbert Sorrentino's] work takes in the form and tradition of such writers as Rakosi, Bronk and, in emotive stance, Bly.
His diction is terse but not sparse [in The Orangery] and he has the observant knowledge of the authoritarian poet, and the ability to expand simple action or sight into a vast panorama of feeling and pathos, much of it implied, and here lies the skill.
No light verse, the work needs concentrated reading, which is what English poetry readers lack. It is time such extraterritorial offerings were accepted.
Martin Booth, "The Dated, the Demanding, the Daunting," in Tribune (reprinted by permission of Tribune,...
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Let's begin with the essentials. Mulligan Stew is utterly dazzling. Its pedigree goes back, not to the well-made novel, but rather to the "anatomy"—those extravaganzas that sprawl across world literature, offering encyclopedic, and usually comic, views of life and its foibles. Like Gargantua and Pantagruel or Tristram Shandy, Mulligan Stew sustains a display of linguistic virtuosity that takes your breath away. It contains some of the best parodies since S. J. Perelman at his most manic, and perhaps the most corrosive satire of the literary scene since early Aldous Huxley. This is a novel with all the stops pulled out, Gilbert Sorrentino's masterpiece….
A mulligan stew can...
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Thomas R. Edwards
Mulligan Stew is a quite wonderful book of literary joking and parody—if there had been no Joyce, no Gide or Sterne or Borges or Robbe-Grillet or Nabokov or Perelman, I'm almost convinced that Sorrentino could have invented them. Since he didn't, his book could be called derivative, but it plays with its great originals with such lively intelligence, understanding, and affection as to make obscure the distinction between creative and critical imagination….
[The fussy woodenness of the dialogue of the novel within this novel suggests] the puzzles we get into by trying to use language, any language, at all. The novelist who tries, and fails, to make sense with words, the characters...
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A work of true comic genius, [Mulligan Stew] not only entertains and engages the intelligent reader, but also manages to shed light on the processes of literary creation, on the making of bad novels as well as good ones.
Mulligan Stew may prove to be the literary curiosity of the year, perhaps the decade….
[It's] easy to see why some editors were reluctant to take the book on. Mulligan Stew is long (and to my mind could still stand a good pruning). It fits into no standard literary genre…. Abounding in puns both delicious and terrible and in allusions to a vast range of other literature, Mulligan Stew requires readers with well-furnished minds and a...
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Since all literature is susceptible to parody, why not, then make parody literature? Gilbert Sorrentino has, with impressive results. "Mulligan Stew" has given me as much pleasure and intellectual joy as I have had from a novel in a long time.
"Mulligan Stew" is a work of contemporary experiment, and there are those who will classify it under the new, somewhat sagging banner of post-modernism, a movement ripe for redevelopment. But it is experiment raised to such a level of comedy—Flann O'Brien, whose influence pervades this novel, calls it "hilaritas," and it is a true esthetic principle—that it often risks all intellectual conviction in giving enjoyment (though it often forfeits enjoyment for...
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