Richard Kostelanetz is an American artist and writer. His interests, primarily directed at language in any literary form, have led him to work with the most diverse media, with an extensive bibliography of critical publications and acclaimed articles. He graduated from Brown University in Providence, Rhode Island and Columbia University in New York City, later studying at King’s College London with a Fulbright Scholarship in 1965/66. He began his literary career writing essays in such journals as the Partisan Review and The Hudson Review, both devoted to the arts, and later writing for New York Times Magazine. Relentlessly experimental and productive, he founded Assembling Press in 1970, his first publishing house dedicated to disseminating new ideas and styles in literature. Of anarcho-libertarian ideals, Kostelanez was a significant figure in the New York avant-garde scene, participating in it with his radical output and doing considerable work as a critic and editor of numerous anthologies. In 1970, he published Manifestos, followed by the experimental novel In the Beginning (Abyss, 1971), entirely centered on the letters of the alphabet. Both publications paved the way for varied research on visual poetry, focusing on the linguistic potential of number sequences and visual alliterations and especially aimed at overturning traditional structures of comprehension and reading. Thoroughly exploring the expressive potential of technologies and innovative media, he has worked with tape recordings, computer installations, audiovisual pieces, and literary holographs. Parallel to this extensive research, Kostelanez published numerous critical texts, such as The End of Intelligent Writing: Literary Politics in America (Sheed and Ward, 1974), A Dictionary of the Avant-Gardes (Routledge, 1993), and SoHo: The Rise and Fall of an Artists’ Colony (Routledge, 2003)—essential volumes and intimate records for art-historical research. Kostelanez is also an outstanding collector of printed matter. His “Wordship,” a 7,000-square-foot space in Brooklyn, includes an exceptional holding of rare books, films, audio recordings, drawings, visual poems, and artworks accessible to the public as a proper bookstore once a week. For his work, Kostelanez has received countless awards from, among others, the Guggenheim Foundation (1967), the Fund for Investigative Journalism (1981), the National Endowment for the Arts (ten individual awards through 1991), and the Pollock-Krasner Foundation (2001).
Find Books by Richard Kostelanetz books here and here
REJOINDERS/
\COMEBACKS 2
Translated by Richard Kostelanetz
By some measures, this tight form represents the epitome of concise wit of several kinds.
Do they constitute a discreet literary genre?
One measure of the integrity of a literary genre is that things can be said in it as in no other.
Odd it is that stories that are translated by me from many languages into English cannot be successfully translated into any other single language.
–R. K.
What happens to astronauts who misbehave? They’re grounded.
What does an astronaut use to dust those hard-to-reach black holes? A vacuum cleaner.
What did Neptune say to Saturn? Give me a ring sometime.
What do you carve on a robot’s tombstone? Rust in peace.
How do you keep a fool busy all day? Put him in a round room and tell him to sit in the corner.
What do you get when you cross a bunny rabbit with the World Wide Web? A hare net.
Individual entries on Richard Kostelanetz’s work in several fields appear in various editions of Readers Guide to Twentieth-Century Writers,Merriam-Webster Encyclopedia of Literature, Contemporary Poets, Contemporary Novelists, Postmodern Fiction, Webster's Dictionary of American Writers, The HarperCollins Reader’s Encyclopedia of American Literature, Baker's Biographical Dictionary of Musicians, Directory of American Scholars, Who's Who in America, Who's Who in the World, Who's Who in American Art, NNDB.com, Wikipedia.com, and Britannica.com, among other distinguished directories.
Personal note: I published several pieces by Richard in several issues of Gypsy International Literary Magazine and Sanctuary Tape Series in the 1980s. His work was always puzzling to me but I think it's supposed to be. ~Belinda Subraman
The experienced reader, being well-versed in the greatest hits of most major anthologies, might occasionally have a need to read when concentration is not optimal; institutional wait times can be balanced by the comfort of a book, and the mere thought of a delicious read in a pleasant location is a vacation in itself. Of course, the experienced reader can never be fully oblivious to craftsmanship, and often the seasons hits can have a frost burnt or stale flavor. But here comes Robert Archambeau with Alice B Toklas Is Missing (Regal House 2023), beguiling us to guffaw.
The novel’s protagonist, Ida, “copies old paintings. That was what she did. She copied old paintings for an old lady with old money” (13), appears as part of a Fitzgeraldian duo in a cast of characters that includes a “tallish, trim, and in his mid-thirties, she guessed, dark hair carefully parted and smoothed” (14) that turns out to be “Tom Eliot”. Archambeau is artful with the layering of amusing characterizations, and is not short of an adept eye
Shelves of books both new and old lined the walls, but the center of the bright little shop was set up like a parlor—low comfortable chairs and rickety occasional tables ringed a large, faded carpet. It was used like a parlor too—at least by one thin man with thick glasses and a grubby black suit, who crossed and re-crossed his thin legs, sipping a cup of tea in one hand, and holding a small, squarish magazine inch from his squinting eyes with the other (34)
This character is introduced a page later “he stood, proffering his bony hand ‘Germ’s Choice, but you can call me Shame’s Voice’ [...] ‘Mr. James Joyce,’ said Sylvia, by way of clarification “(35). The cast of characters who make occasional appearances does read almost as a syllabus for the Parisian influence on twentieth century culture, although any fans of Wyndam Lewis ought to note that he becomes, ultimately, the bad guy.
But this novel offers far more than a romp through roaring literary figures. Archambeau’s attention to his setting elevates the work past a light romance with historical characters. Consider these few lines as the author propels Tom Eliot into a chapter of characterization
To enter the Bristol hotel is to enter a world that speaks so quietly it almost whispers. The clerks at the desk do it, and the guests—mostly British—find themselves matching their tones to those of the dark suited staff. Whether you stand on the checkerboard tiles of the lobby or sit comfortlessly in one of the pew-like benches beneath the small statue of Artemis, who might hear the building itself whisper.”(196)
The scene involves an introspective moment of Eliot in memory of his marriage, then shifts in point of view through the hotel room’s open door to the bellhop, who “saw Tom’s quaking back and turned discretely away. A weeping man is best undisturbed (198)” Archambeau posits Eliot as a man haunted not only by his difficult marriage, but by visions of his forebearers—a far more empathetic view than that of any textbook’s formal biography.
Although Claude McKay “rumored to be departing soon for Harlem” (252) makes only that moment’s appearance, Archambeau is intent on a trilogy, with the second title scheduled forthcoming, and readers might hope for more of an appearance by that illustrious and historical community in this evolving series as well. For those needing to review the period, the novel offers a delicious experience. Readers familiar with these literary ancestors will happily devour this tasty offering as from a sumptuous meal, and as maybe find themselves equally as eager for future feasts.
Su Zi is a writer, poet and essayist who produces a handmade chapbook series called Red Mare. She has been a contributor to GAS from back when it was called Gypsy Art Show, more than a decade ago.
Octogenarian, Jack Foley, is a California poet who has published thirteen books of poetry, three books of critical essays, a book of stories, and a two-volume “chronoencyclopedia” of California poetry, Visions & Affiliations: California Poetry from 1940 to 2005. He became known through his multivoiced performances with his late wife, Adelle, and has presented poetry on Berkeley radio station KPFA since 1988. He currently resides in Oakland with his new life partner, Sangye Land. His most recent poetry books, all published in 2024, are Collisions, Ekphrazz (a book of ekphrastic poetry, a collaboration with collagist Mark Fisher) and Telling It Slant. A lyricist as well as a poet, Foley has also produced Songs for a Nickel, a CD of songs with lyrics by Foley and music by composers Tony Perez and Warren Wechsler.
STORY
the man
followed the woman
into death
hoping to bring her back.
there was a door
or something he called a door
that led to a long corridor
lit with torches.
flickering light everywhere
until, finally,
another door.
an endless
meadow appeared.
flowers he had never seen
bloomed riotously.
no one was there
but there was a table
filled with food.
something told him
not to eat
though he felt
a sudden, ravenous hunger.
“Had you eaten,”
said a voice,
“you would have joined us.”
he turned
and there was something like
a hologram speaking to him.
he felt a sudden revulsion
but answered,
“I am searching for my wife.”
“I know,” said the vision,
“you will find her there.”
he pointed to a small tree
Orpheus had not seen before.
lying there, dreaming,
was Eurydice, the wind stirring
her hair. Orpheus
took down his lute
and began to play.
all around Eurydice flowers appeared,
at once enclosing, protecting, trapping her.
she woke and seeing him, smiled.
“We have lived this story,” she said,
“thousands of times.
Each time you rescue me
and turn
and I remain
among the dead.
It will be no different
this time,
though I am ready to follow you
if you ask.”
he stopped playing and beckoned to her.
they walked slowly towards the door
that had led to the meadow.
as they walked
they began to age
gradually at first and then quickly
from youth to age to old age.
both had difficulty walking
even the short space that led to the door
to the upper world.
Orpheus
could no longer sing, his breath
was so short.
Eurydice began
to lose her beauty
becoming an old, old woman.
Orpheus muttered, only half heard by his wife,
“The door is not far,
The door is not far,”
and then, without meaning to,
without wishing it,
compelled by the story,
he turned.
the old, old woman behind him
vanished without a sound.
...
there is a moment
what windy trails we follow
in every authentic poem or story
as we age
at which the poem or story
what enterprises hollow
tells the author
these darkening trails we follow
why they wrote it
songs grow deep and hollow
we may call this moment
turn the page!
climax
what windy trails we follow
revelation
as we age
the moment at which mind
is mirror
***
FALL
Break then
Plummet––
Crack!
I fell
crashing into Vallombrosa––caught!––
but not by Milton’s simile
and not for naught
Limbless and forlorn
I had no love to give
nor any purgative
So let the born be borne:
I vanished in a bog
Dolor, doloris, singing thus
it was not less calamitous
it was not less that leaf and leaf
mourned that I should come to grief
Upon this doleful bog
I fell amuck agog
repeating leaf by leaf
the paradigm of Grief
––No, no: mendacities!
These dead leaves tell no tale
All lamentation done
one is not anyone:
a thunderclap and off!
2
Here where the leaves lie thick
thus sang my elegy
and trembled to the quick
To what finality?
Inextricate so long,
I lingered in the wind
Before I turned to dust
I drifted (ah!)
Superfluous
NOTE: This poem arose from my reading of Paradise Lost. Milton wrote his poem in English but he wrote it for an audience that was fluent in Latin and Greek, so there is a good deal of linguistic wordplay in the poem. One simple example: “Until one greater Man / Restore us and regain the blissful Seat.” We are fallen. Christ will “restore us.” The word “restore” derives from the Latin, sto, stare, to stand up. We are “fallen”: Christ will “re-store,” stand us upagain. The speaker of my poem is a leaf in Autumn who has just fallen, and the Vallombrosa passage in Paradise Lost is referenced. Like Milton, I filled my poem with words derived from Latin and even included one neologism. The concluding word, “superfluous,” derives from the Latin for “flowing over.” The metaphor is of a glass of liquid: when you are filling the glass, the liquid that “flows over” once the glass is filled is “superfluous.” But the word “superfluous” might mean, not only “flowing over” but “overflowing”––a word that might have a much more positive meaning than “flowing over.” I’m overflowing over with joy. Shakespeare too plays with the relationship of Latin to Anglo Saxon––and creates a new Latinate word in the process. From Macbeth:
this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
Multitudinous and incarnadine––richly and impressively Latinate. Green and red––back to the Anglo Saxon.
***
PAIRING: UNKNOWINGLY/THE DYING
UNKNOWINGLYTHE DYING
Some years ago,I write for the dying
I was chatting with some people at a party: Wherever they are, whoever they are,
“Jacktalk.”All with the knowledge that they will die.
An acquaintance—They are my kin.
Someone I knew only slightly They are the ones I know,
And had never harmed in any way—The ones who know me.
Walked up to me and said,They are the
Firmly, with no trace of good humor or irony,coruscations of time.
“I hate you.”
I turned from the friendsHow many
To whom I had been speaking,As one ages
Looked at him, and said,Walk into the dark
Not unkindly,Before.
“I know,”Not to “Heaven”
Then turned back to my conversation.Or “Shangri-la
Having no idea how to respond,Or “Brigadoon”
He hesitated for a moment,Or “Paradise”––
Then walked away,Names for what we do not
Awash with confusion.Know.
He “hated” me
Not for anythingWe know
I had done to himWe die.
But simply for being
As and who I was.
At 84, trying to understand
The meaning
Of what I have done
Or accomplished
In my seventy-
Year engagement with poetry,
I look back at his gesture
With gratitude
And think of it
As one of the finest compliments
I have ever received,
Akin to the description
Of Bernard Shaw:
“He hasn’t
An enemy in the world
But all of his friends
Dislike him.”
I had disturbed this man sufficiently
So that he wished to attain
The very Being with which
I, unknowingly?
Daily
Walked in the world.
NOTE: PAIRINGS is a sequence in which two (sometimes more) poems meet on the page in the way that persons might meet on the street. For the most part, they stand across the page from one another in the way that people stand across from one another as they speak. They have things in common and things that separate them. In many ways they illuminate each other. The “unit” in these pieces is not the individual poem but the meeting––sometimes the collision––of the poems. Cell phones destroy the formatting of Pairings so they need to be viewed on a computer screen: full screen.
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