I love artist Jeanne Shapton's painted books. These one of a kind pieces made from acrylic and house paint on wooden blocks merge two of my passions books at art. Her titles lean heavily towards English and French fiction and belles lettres and they are sold exclusively through John Derrian in New York (www.johnderrian.com).
It would be difficult for me to choose my favorite. But I'd have to go with Raymond Carver. When in doubt it's never a bad idea to go with Raymond Carver. And just because, here's my favorite poem ever...
“Luck” by Raymond Carver
I was nine years old.
I had been around liquor
all my life. My friends
drank too, but they could handle it.
We'd take cigarettes, beer,
a couple of girls
and go out to the fort.
We'd act silly.
Sometimes you'd pretend
to pass out so the girls
could examine you.
They'd put their hands
down your pants while
you lay there trying
not to laugh, or else
they would lean back,
close their eyes, and
let you feel them all over.
Once at a party my dad
came to the back porch
to take a leak.
We could hear voices
over the record player
see people standing around
laughing and drinking.
When my dad finished
he zipped up, stared a while
at the starry sky--it was
always starry then
on summer nights--
and went back inside.
The girls had to go home.
I slept all night in the fort
with my best friend.
We kissed on the lips
and touched each other.
I saw the stars fade
toward morning.
I saw a woman sleeping
on our lawn.
I looked up her dress,
then I had a beer
and a cigarette.
Friends, I though this
was living.
Indoors, someone
had put out a cigarette
in a jar of mustard.
I had a straight shot
from the bottle, then
a drink of warm collins mix,
then another whisky.
And though I went from room
to room, no one was home.
What luck, I thought.
Years later,
I still wanted to give up
friends, love, starry skies,
for a house where no one
was home, no one coming back,
and all I could drink.
