Greg Bales

Running After Antelope

It seems wrong to compare Scott Carrier’s Running After Antelope to his radio essays—which are worth your time (here is a good introduction)—but there is enough overlap between his radio work and the essays in the book, and Carrier’s voice is unique enough even in writing, that it’s hard not to.1 Some writers aim to make themselves transparent in their writing, others make themselves visible. Invisibility, of course, is an illusion, but there is an art to crafting that illusion, and it’s worth recognizing that art for what it is. Visibility also is an illusion, but one that can go many ways: One can make oneself an actor, an object, an observer—and one can make oneself some combination of all these. Carrier is an observer, and he constructs his subjects through his act of observing. “I try to write what I see,” he says in one essay, “I don’t know what else I can do.” If there is a unifying mode for the essays collected in Running After Antelope, it’s “casting about.” He writes genuinely of meeting an art-collecting truck driver while hitchhiking to New York from Salt Lake City; of his rage when, working as a carpenter for his brother, a city inspector scuttles all their work; of his thwarted desire to set off on his own as a capital-W, capital-R War Reporter while working on a tourism junket in Cambodia. Interspersed between longer pieces—none of Carrier’s essays are very long—are brief vignettes about his trying to catch pronghorn antelope by running them down. And some essays are myth-making, such as when Carrier describes a little league football game in which he “runs a haiku” while playing defense—how lovely to imagine football as a brief metered poem!

Anyway, I liked the book.

1 Ira Glass: “Most people on the radio sound like each other, the same way that most people on TV sound like other people on TV, and most writing in the newspaper is like all the other writing in the newspaper. Scott sounds only like himself. There’s a feeling in his stories that’s unlike anything anybody else does.”

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Iowa City real estate agent Laura Soride should totally get the rights to Foghat’s “Slow Ride”, change the title to her name, and use it on local TV and radio spots.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

I used tonight’s bedtime reading to moralize against acting like certain mayors—or presidents of the United States, as the case may be. I couldn’t help myself. I’m not sorry.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin

“Please your honors,” said he, “I’m able,
By means of a secret charm, to draw
All creatures living beneath the sun,
That creep or swim or fly or run,
After me so as you never saw!
And I chiefly use my charm
On creatures that do people harm,
The mole and toad and newt and viper;
And people call me the Pied Piper.”
(And here they noticed round his neck
A scarf of red and yellow stripe,
To match with his coat of the self-same check;
And at the scarf’s end hung a pipe;
And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying
As if impatient to be playing
Upon this pipe, as low it dangled
Over his vesture so old-fangled.)
“Yet,” said he, “poor piper as I am,
In Tartary I freed the Cham,
Last June, from his huge swarm of gnats;
I eased in Asia the Nizam
Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:
And as for what your brain bewilders—
If I can rid your town of rats
Will you give me a thousand guilders?”
“One? Fifty thousand!” was the exclamation
Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation. . ..

Into the street the Piper stept,
Smiling first a little smile,
As if he knew what magic slept
In his quiet pipe the while;
Then, like a musical adept,
To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,
And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,
Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;
And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,
You heard as if an army muttered;
And the muttering grew to a grumbling;
And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;
And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.
Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,
Brown rats, black rats, gray rats, tawny rats,
Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,
Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,
Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,
Families by tens and dozens,
Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives—
Followed the Piper for their lives.
From street to street he piped advancing,
And step for step they followed dancing,
Until they came to the river Weser
Wherein all plunged and perished!

You should have heard the Hamelin people
Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple.
Go,” cried the Mayor, “and get long poles!
Poke out the nests and block up the holes!
Consult with carpenters and builders
And leave in our town not even a trace
Of the rats!”— when suddenly, up the face
Of the Piper perked in the market-place,
With a, “First, if you please, my thousand guilders!”

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;
So did the Corporation too.
For council dinners made rare havoc
With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;
And half the money would replenish
Their cellar’s biggest butt with Rhenish.
To pay this sum to a wandering fellow
With a gypsy coat of red and yellow!
“Beside,” quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,
“Our business was done at the river’s brink;
We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,
And what’s dead can’t come to life, I think.
So, friend, we’re not the folks to shrink
From the duty of giving you something for drink,
And a matter of money to put in your poke;
But as for the guilders, what we spoke
Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.
Beside, our losses have made us thrifty.
A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!

The Piper’s face fell, and he cried,
“No trifling! I can’t wait! Beside,
I’ve promised to visit by dinnertime
Bagdad, and accept the prime
Of the Head-Cook’s pottage, all he’s rich in,
For having left, in the Caliph’s kitchen,
Of a nest of scorpions no survivor—
With him I proved no bargain-driver,
With you, don’t think I’ll bate a stiver!
And folks who put me in a passion
May find me pipe to another fashion.”

“How?” cried the Mayor, “d’ye think I brook
Being worse treated than a Cook?
Insulted by a lazy ribald
With idle pipe and vesture piebald?
You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,
Blow your pipe there till you burst!”

Once more he stept into the street
And to his lips again
Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;
And ere he blew three notes (such sweet
Soft notes as yet musician’s cunning
Never gave the enraptured air)
There was a rustling that seemed like a bustling
Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,
Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,
Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,
And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,
Out came the children running. . ..

—Robert Browning

I think we all know what happens after that—a fair warning against stiffing laborers who do you a service. As to the poem, there’s more besides what I’ve excerpted here. If it’s been too long or you haven’t read it at all, go forth and do so.

Poetry / 0

Good Choices

—What book should we start tonight? I was thinking The Wind in the Willows.

—I’ve been looking at another book, but I think it might be a grown-up book, so maybe not.

—What’s it called?

—_Kidnapped!_

—That’s a great book to start reading, and it’s not too grown-up. Why don’t you take a look at both and then decide?

He glances at The Wind in the Willows, which is a fine edition, illustrated by Michael Hague.

—Hm. We can start The Wind in the Willows.

—We can read them both, if you want! We can read one chapter from The Wind in the Willows tonight and one from Kidnapped! tomorrow.

—Okay!

November Reflection

Reflection of light on a dark basement wall. The reflection is an alternating pattern of red and white light.
Seen late this morning. I can only surmise the sun reflected off a car taillight at just the right angle to sneak under the front porch, through the basement window, and onto the basement wall.