Jesus walks here, among the degenerates, the drunks, the addicts, the living dead that populate the pages of this collection of very short, connected stories. You'll see him in beautiful moments, outstretched hands seeking redemption, the presence of an unlikely trinity of down and outers.

Yes, Jesus. Even though the title refers to lyrics in Lou Reed's song, "Heroin". Jesus and heroin are mixed here. A potent, jarring combination.

The same character who spends his sober evenings as a peeping tom and having twisted fantasies also spends his days working in the hospitals, touching the hopeless and downtrodden with a hand to the shoulder, a reassuring squeeze. The same couple who are drunken strangers in a bar (the woman newly married just a few days) have a connection that one could only describe as divine:

First I put my lips to her upper lip, then to the bottom of her pout, and then I kissed her fully, my mouth on her open mouth, and we met inside.

It was there. It was. The long walk down the hall. The door opening. The beautiful stranger. The torn moon mended. Our fingers touching away the tears. It was there.

Characters here are so close to death, it's not surprising they find Jesus close by. Jesus never had a problem with slumming. He's there on the subway, by the fire in the metal trash can, in the abortion clinic, at the scene of the car crash, in the ER.

Denis Johnson is an exquisite, poetic writer. It makes sense that he was taught by Raymond Carver at the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Both writers accomplish much in few words, have a beautiful spareness that cuts to the quick. I would say I had a more emotional reaction to his final collection, The Largesse of the Sea Maiden, but the power and truth contained in Jesus' Son just can't be denied.

It was raining. Gigantic ferns leaned over us. The forest drifted down a hill. I could hear a creek rushing down among the rocks. And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you.

Tre e mezza, perché non in tutti i racconti ho trovato la stessa capacità di illuminare gli ultimi, i derelitti, i figli di dio, che ho trovato in altri.

*I'm heartbroken to hear of Denis Johnson's recent passing. The man was a personal hero and great literary influence of mine. I'm floating this review of his quintessential masterpiece as a tip of the hat to an exceptional author who brought us some of the finest prose.

Without a doubt, this is one of my favorite works of all time. Denis Johnson is a major influence of mine, and Jesus' Son had a profound effect on me.

This was the book that showed me how far you could stretch your prose and still have it sound dynamite. A drug-addled mix of loosely interconnected stories, reading it is like navigating a string of dreams, both blissful and bad. The spectrum of themes is considerably wide, and the narrative draws you into worlds where you can feel as uncomfortable and out of place as the characters themselves. This is a book that actually makes you feel 'high' in some spots. The shifting line between chemical-fueled fantasy and uneasy reality isn't just blurred, it's burned down to almost nothing.

Jesus' Son features everyday kind of people who have slipped down notch or two into the gutter and lost their grip on normality. Much of the time they have nothing to do, nothing to be, and little to live for. It's bleak and beautiful at the same time, a trip through the entangled emotions of folks living simple lives complicated by poor choices.

Everything from love and loss to happiness and sheer horror is covered in this book. One moment the writing is slick as oil, the next it is jagged as broken glass. It’s downright chaotic in places where the mental states of the storytellers are in question. You know the main characters in this book are all unreliable narrators, but you still believe every word they say, because the stories Johnson tells are just that convincing. He's a master writer, balancing poetic passages with crisp, visual prose. This book is nothing short of a masterpiece.

If you haven't read it yet, read is ASAP.

*This book was one of my selections for my '5 Books That Made Me A Better Writer' piece. See which others I picked:

http://jkentmessum.com/the-5-books-th...

On a side note.... if you have a chance to get the audiobook version, definitely do so. Actor Will Patton narrates the stories, and does an incredible job of bringing Johnson's prose to perfection.

اغلب داستانهایی معمولی و روزمرگی از آدمهای معتاد و دله دزد و خلافکارکه گاهی از مصرف مواد تو هپروتند. پیمان خاکسار معمولا کتابهای خوبی برای ترجمه انتخاب می کنه و من اغلب ترجمه هاش رو خوندم ولی نفهمیدم این مجموعه داستان چه چیز جذابی داشته که انتخاب کرده. با بی حوصلگی و بی رغبتی خوندم و تمومش کردم چون تعداد صفحاتش کم بود.

Poveri cristi

È un’America anonima e spenta, pullulante di grigie periferie e poveri cristi in balia di solitudine e tossicodipendenza, quella che trova spazio, e voce, nelle pagine di “Jesus’ son” dello scrittore statunitense Denis Johnson, scomparso nel 2017 e considerato negli USA tra i maggiori autori di racconti del nostro tempo.
Non a caso, questo libro, pubblicato da Einaudi sul finire dello scorso mese di novembre, si presenta come una raccolta di singoli racconti accomunati però da quello che ha tutta l’aria di essere il medesimo io narrante, protagonista di una vicenda i cui tasselli sono episodi talvolta tragici e amari, talaltra quasi surreali.

“Stavo all’Holiday Inn da tre giorni, sotto falso nome, in compagnia della mia ragazza, sinceramente la donna più bella che avessi mai conosciuto, a farmi di eroina. Facevamo l’amore a letto, mangiavamo bistecche al ristorante, ci bucavamo al cesso, vomitavamo, piangevamo, ci accusavamo, ci imploravamo, ci perdonavamo, promettevamo e ci portavamo in paradiso a vicenda.” (da “Lavoro”)

Si rimane colpiti sia dal contenuto dei testi sia dallo stile narrativo dell’autore, e non sempre positivamente; in un primo momento, forse, addirittura spiazzati e spaesati. Per quanto mi riguarda, pur essendo un’appassionata di racconti e convinta sostenitrice del loro grande valore letterario spesso oggi snobbato da numerosi lettori, questi di Johnson non rientrano propriamente nel genere che preferisco e si discostano, solo per fare un esempio, da quelli di Nickolas Butler, altro noto autore americano contemporaneo, di cui, nei mesi scorsi, avevo letto e molto apprezzato la raccolta “Sotto il falò” (Marsilio, 2018).
Tuttavia, ho trovato almeno due racconti (“Matrimonio sporco”, dove si parla d’aborto, e “Beverly Home”), nonché diversi passi sparsi tra gli altri titoli presenti in “Jesus’ son”, di una profondità sorprendentemente disarmante che, d’un colpo, mi ha fatto rivalutare l’intera opera. Il senso della solitudine che sfocia nell’emarginazione, il peso dell’esistenza che cerca leggerezza nello sballo artificiale e nel sesso, la sofferenza di mucchi di umanità allo sbando emergono attraverso una scrittura che a tratti, per una inaspettata liricità, incanta. E fa molto riflettere.

“Sono salito su una carrozza mentre si chiudevano le porte; come se il treno stesse aspettando proprio me. E se ci fosse solo neve? Neve dappertutto, fredda e bianca, a riempire ogni distanza? E io che attraverso questo inverno seguendo il mio senso delle cose, finché non raggiungo un boschetto di alberi bianchi. E lei mi fa entrare.
Uno stridio di ruote, e d’un tratto ho visto solo le scarpe grosse e brutte degli altri passeggeri. Il rumore è cessato. Abbiamo oltrepassato scene di una solitudine straziante.
Attraverso i quartieri e oltre i marciapiedi delle stazioni, ho sentito la vita cancellata che mi sognava alle spalle. Sì, un fantasma. Una traccia. Qualcosa che rimane.”

Una lettura che, con buona probabilità, potrebbe non andare incontro ai gusti di tutti i lettori, ma non da rigettare in toto. Di certo, un autore da approfondire.

کتاب پسر عیسا از دنیس جانسون(با ترجمه پیمان خاکسار) شامل 11 مجموعه داستان بهم پیوسته ست. راوی داستان که همان نویسنده هست، خاطرات و گذشته خودش رو در قالب این 11 داستان تعریف می‌کنه.
اکثر داستان ها با مواد مخدر و قتل و جنایت همراه میشه و راوی ما هم یک فرد معتاد و بدبخت هست که در گذر زمان فرسوده شده به همین خاطر بعضی از داستان ها فاقد منطق و انسجام هستند.
این کتاب به دلیل اینکه جامعه و فرهنگ و زندگی روزمره مردم آمریکا رو توصیف می‌کنه برای مخاطب ایرانی می‌تونه خسته کننده باشه. بعضی از داستان ها صرفاً بیان روزمرگی های راوی و تاثیر مواد مخدر و قانون آزادی حمل سلاح بر جامعه هستند و پیچیدگی داستانی و کشش آنچنانی ندارند.

در کل فرم ساختاری کتاب و راوی داستان من رو جذب خودش کرد و از دیگر نکات مثبت کتاب میتونم به توصیفات اندازه و سورئالیستی از نگاه یک فرد معتاد اشاره کنم.

I love a no-skip story collection. This was excellent!

شاید هیچ معتادی توی دنیا بعد از ترک اعتیاد به اندازه‌ی دنیس جانسون از تجربه‌های زیسته‌اش این‌قدر استفاده‌ی مفید نکرده باشد که همه را بردارد و بگذارد توی یک مجموعه داستان مُدرن، پر از توصیفات امپرسیونیستی. تصویرهایی که در تضاد شدیدی با فضای شلوغ و سیاه آمریکای دهه‌ی هشتاد و نود هستند و همین تضاد شکل غریب و بکری به توصیفات داستان‌ها داده و انگار نویسنده آن‌ها را جایی در ماورای واقعیت بیرونی نوشته.

پیشنهاد می‌کنم داستان‌های «تصادف موقع هیچ‌هایک» و «کار» را به شکل ویژه‌تری بخوانید؛

آب در شیارهای آسفالت با سروصدا جاری بود. افکارم مفلوکانه متمرکز شدند. به خاطر قرص‌هایی که فروشنده‌ی سیار به خوردم داده بود احساس می‌کردم یکی دارد روی آستر رگ‌هایم ناخن می‌کشد. فکم درد می‌کرد. تک‌تک قطره‌های باران را به اسم می‌شناختم. هر چیزی را پیش از وقوع حس می‌کردم. می‌دانستم که یک اولدزموبیل برایم خواهد ایستاد. حتا قبل از این‌که آهسته کند از صدای شیرین خانواده‌ی درون ماشین می‌دانستم که در توفان تصادف خواهیم کرد.

I kind of sort of liked this woozy teensy bouquet of junkie memories but it was just too oh what’s the word even though the very sky above me was heavy with the five stars sluiced over this book by all previous readers in all the seven realms of readerdom.

I got a mean and unworthy thought – that you could take sentences from almost anywhere in any of these stories and put them next to other randomly selected sentences and they would make as much sense, so I took something from page 20, 40, 80, 100 and 120 and proved it as follows:

In the room behind her the man we’d brought stood like a bad sculpture, posing unnaturally, with his shoulders wilting, as if he couldn’t lug his gigantic hands any further. He had a bad case of hepatitis that often gave him a lot of pain. “Do you want the police?” He thought about it and finally said “Not unless I die.” I turned away because my throat was closing up. And then I left. The motor traffic was relentless, the sidewalks were crowded, the people preoccupied and mean because Happy Hour was also Rush Hour. My bus went by, bus 24 – it didn’t even slow down

It goes on like this and then it stops. Often a random person dies or maybe somebody doesn't die. There are large vague profound statements every so often. Reading this one felt like I was a first responder continually shouting in the author’s face “What is your name? What have you taken? Do you live here? Is there anyone I can call?”

DJ liked to write about strange people. Whenever I read his work, I find myself wondering what kind of guy he was. Was he as strange as the people he liked to write about? Well, for one thing he was a great writer. On a sentence by sentence nature, I have a hard time of coming up with someone I like more. Salter maybe.

This is my fifth time reading DJ, and this is probably his most well regarded work. I liked it quite a bit. It reminded me of McCarthy's 'Suttree' in a way. Focusing on the down-and-out types. Fuckhead comes across as too eloquent for a dope fiend, but that's a minor complaint. Surprisingly full of wry humor for stories focused on a dark world. I probably prefer his last short story collection, 'The Largesse of the Sea Maiden', but this is excellent as well. Low four stars.

"Generally the closest I ever came to wondering about the meaning of it all was to consider that I must be the victim of a joke...I had a moment's glory that night, though. I was certain I was here in this world because I couldn't tolerate any other place."

The gospel according to Denis Johnson.

The title, taken from Lou Reed's "Heroin" (When I'm rushing on my run / and I feel just like Jesus' son), is indeed a flat-out declaration of the protagonist's identity.
If not Christ, Johnson's anti-hero is the closest we can get to a Christlike figure in our Christless times: an alcoholic junky named Fuckhead who's constantly getting involved in all sorts of scams, tragedies, crimes and miseries. White trash wallowing in the mire of a world in which redemption is out of reach and the only Saviour available (himself) is made of the same corrupted flesh and blood he's supposed to redeem:
"Around these strange people I felt hungry. I smelled some kind of debauchery, the whiff of a potion that would banish everything plaguing me."

Fuckhead's parables are told in the form of very short stories. Snapshots of addiction, degradation, alienation set in backstreets, seedy bars, abortion clinics, dilapidated brownstones and laundromats. Places where human life can only drag on and things happen for no reason and people are too messed up to make sense of the pain they suffer and/or inflict. No wonder the Son of God, still dwelling among the lepers of this world, can rape a woman, overdose on heroin and collapse in a hospital hall while musing bitterly on the role he's supposed to play: "And you, you ridiculous people, you expect me to help you."
Do we?
Yes, we do. God forgive us, we still do. In fact it would be much easier if we didn't.

These are tales of intense though cryptic spirituality. There's an all-pervading, overwhelming sense of purity hovering over, floating around Johnson's unreliable narrator. Weird miracles occur time and again, but it's the sort of miracles nobody bothers to notice, 'cause it's dangerous to look too much into things these days.
That's just where the innocence of all lost souls lies:
"And yet we were always being found innocent for ridiculous reasons".
Innocent against all odds; found innocent by mistake. All of us, including the (grand)Son of God.

"He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him,
nothing in his appearance that we should desire him.
He was despised and rejected by mankind,
a man of suffering, and familiar with pain.
Like one from whom people hide their faces
he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.
Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering,
yet we considered him punished by God
stricken by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities;
the punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed."

(Isaiah, 53. 2-5)


https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=qFLw26B...

Dreamy, beautiful interconnected short stories about fuck-ups and losers. This could so easily be an annoying 'drug' book, but Johnson writes with such beauty, pathos and humour that it's impossible to resist.