This evisceration of the small world of English poetry combines meticulous analysis with despairing intimacy, recalling the comic rage of Thomas Bernhard
“Yes, all writers go through a Thomas Bernhard phase, sooner or later,” said Geoff Dyer. His authority was offhand but absolute, like the pope telling you where to get the best cannoli. This was years back. We were on the train to Manchester, heading for a reading event in a huge nightclub – attended mainly by the bar staff, it turned out. I started to panic because I hadn’t gone through a Thomas Bernhard phase – in fact, fairly shamefully, I’d never heard of Thomas Bernhard. (Austria-despising novelist, playwright, poet and essayist. Died 1989, aged 58. Not a happy chap.)
Riviere has turned paranoid pub talk and midnight doubts into a prose poem of laceration
No one escaped the deadly words of praise that everyone arrived at the poetry recital armed to the teeth with, and in a certain sense all perished at the hands of those who wielded deadly words of praise. After the recital, the words of praise were guaranteed to come thick and fast from every direction at once, turning every poet into a virtual pincushion of words of praise, riddling every poet with words of praise – and eventually every poet at the poetry recital fell under this unending hail of words of praise, when they realised at last the monstrous insincerity that powered these words of praise, targeted as they were at every poet regardless of their so-called talent, whereupon the words of praise detonated, destroying the poet instantly.
Dead Souls by Sam Riviere is published by Weidenfeld & Nicolson (£16.99). To support the Guardian order your copy atguardianbookshop.com. Delivery charges may apply.
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