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Deborah Bernhardt is not pleased with the page. She tells the page this herself:
As one might guess from the tourettic title, Bernhardt has a lot to say about language, riffing on sounds and individual words one moment and the shapes of ampersands the next. Even the type is carefully scattered across the page—brackets and lines representing the seating arrangement at a wedding reception, for instance. And then, shockingly, she turns around, offers a prose poem about her mother's cancer. "Her voice is completely colorless, twenty-four hours later, when she calls me collect and says I think I need help. / Your ragdoll heart, after twenty-eight years of never hearing that, would crash out of its cradle too." She dips and spins about the page, the whole thing finely and wholly choreographed.
Fittingly, the book ends by channeling e. e. cummings, even calling him by name. The lines, "I want random; / i want i don't know," seem to deliver the last word on the book's many subjects. Having argued against form and function and language, unsatisfied even with the page itself, Bernhardt in the end wins the argument not by breaking structure or cracking grammar, but by making every rule and sound work for her in a way we're not used to—leaving her reader surprised, satisfied. [TF] |