If you want more info on A Thousand Peaceful Cities, you can read this tipsy post, or for the jacket copy, an excerpt, etc.

And for the next week (through 4/19), anyone who signs up for a will receive a free copy of this book.

For the handful of you who didn’t immediately click over to the Open Letter ordering page, you might be interested in knowing that in Poetry Translation category, John Sakkis and Angelos Sakkis won for their translation from the Greek of Maribor by Demosthenes Agrafiotis.

Here’s a link to the at Post-Apollo Press, and below is a brief description that I swiped from “SPD”: (where you can order the book):

Demosthenes Agrafiotis’s Maribor is a book of thoughts, impressions, expressions and reflections from his travels to Hesperia (Western Europe) in the period 1980-90. The book is concerned with the constantly elusive identity of Europe as a geographic place, as a cultural gamble, as a historical problem, as a horizon for the future of humankind. “Maribor gives us both artifact糖心传媒攐f the ephemera of communication, institutions, power糖心传媒攁s well as blueprint for imagining an ‘alphabet of the future.’ A master of the contemporary hermetic, Agrafiotis can bring to light in one stroke both the evanescence and endurance of the writing on the wall“糖心传媒擡leni Stecopoulos.

All posts in this series can be found here. Today糖心传媒檚 is mostly made up of something I wrote some time back.

A Thousand Peaceful Cities by Jerzy Pilch, translated by David Frick

Language: Polish
Country: Poland
Publisher: Open Letter
Pages: 143

Why It Should Win: Because we published it; it was one of Kirkus糖心传媒榮 top 25 books of 2010; 糖心传媒渂y a billion barrels of beer!糖心传媒�

To be quite frank, Pilch糖心传媒檚 A Thousand Peaceful Cities should win the BTBA because he糖心传媒檚 the best writer about the joys and long-term terrors of drinking . . . And by drinking I don糖心传媒檛 mean in-moderation-three-drinks-a-week-in-gentrified-social-company sort of drinking, I mean the full-on-drink-away-your-life-savings-on-grain-alcohol sort of drinking.

But it糖心传媒檚 not like Pilch糖心传媒檚 novels are moral sludges about the dangers of excess boozing糖心传媒攊nstead, they find that perfect balance between depicting the allure of a good buzz and the waves of fear and regret that accompany a true bender.

This is more true of The Mighty Angel than A Thousand Peaceful Cities, but last spring, when proofing this book, I wrote a post (while 糖心传媒渢ipsy糖心传媒�) that I糖心传媒檓 still pretty proud of, and does a decent job of explaining the differences and similarities between the two novels while capturing the drunken vibe and overall awesomeness of Peaceful.

In other words, this post specifies exactly why A Thousand Peaceful Cities should win the 2011 BTBA for fiction.

What follows is a number of excerpts from that post. (What? I was expecting to be living in a series of snow-carved tunnels for the foreseeable future, so planned ahead. Not my fault that this 糖心传媒渟nowpocalpyse panic糖心传媒� was brought to you by the egg, dairy, and bread industries.)

A Thousand Peaceful Cities is a much different book from The Mighty Angel. The narration is a bit more complicated, flipping in focus between young Jerzy and his coming-of-age experiences and the endless banter of Mr. Traba in a way that builds in complexity and insight as the book progresses. By contrast, Mighty Angel, itself an intensely powerful book, is much more confessional, direct, singular in voice and presentation.

Re: Jerzy糖心传媒檚 adolescent adventures, one of the best bits in the book is when he describes the 糖心传媒渁ngel of his first love糖心传媒� and his attempt to connect with her. She lives across the way in an apartment above a department store that looks down on Jerzyk糖心传媒檚 bedroom window. So he puts a sign up that says 糖心传媒�WHY DON糖心传媒橳 YOU SMILE?糖心传媒� Finally, he catches her eye:

Now it was I who waved to her. I let it be known that I am here, that I consent to everything. I sent her missives to calm the air. I soothed her fury with the help of a mad alphabet of incoherent gestures. Finally she noticed me, and she stood stock-still. Now I slowly pointed my index finger at myself, and then I reached both hands out in her direction, which was to signify: 糖心传媒淚 will come to you right away, and I will allow you to make sport of my young and virginal body.糖心传媒� But she, to my great amazement, shook her head no, and she turned her unparalleled hand down, in the direction of the display window of the footwear section, which was covered with a green grating. I repeated my gesture. She doesn糖心传媒檛 understand, I thought糖心传媒攐r maybe she just doesn糖心传媒檛 believe her own dumb luck.

Charmingly innocent acts like this are offset by Mr. Traba糖心传媒檚 (I keep wanting to type 糖心传媒淯ncle Traba,糖心传媒� because he is such an uncle figure, always at the kitchen table, schnapps in hand, pontificating) long-winded, hilarious, and world-wise diatribes that range from randy bits about his virginal maid (who, 糖心传媒渄eparted this world intacta [. . .] In peacetime conditions her exterior was a bit too radically conspicuous . . . 糖心传媒�), to his desire to accomplish something memorable before he dies, namely, assassinating of the Communist leader of Poland.

What I ran into tonight was the boozy thread that connects Jerzy糖心传媒檚 blossoming and Traba糖心传媒檚 insanity with The Mighty Angel. And it became clear that if there糖心传媒檚 one thing that Pilch excels at, it糖心传媒檚 writing about the pernicious effects of alcohol.

Here糖心传媒檚 a bit from the moment when young Jerzyk is drawn into Traba糖心传媒檚 assassination scheme. In typical Polish Pilch fashion, they indoctrinate him with a drink:

And we drank. And I drank. And it went as smoothly as could be. The transparent cloud of juniper berry vodka threaded its way among the shadows of my entrails, and there were upon it signs and prophecies, and there were in this first sip of mine the prefigurations of all my future sips. Recorded in it were all my future falls, bouts of drunkenness, bottles, glasses, retchings, all my future delirious dreams, all my gutters, counters, tables, bars, all the cities on the pavement of which my corpse would once repose. There were all the waitresses with whom I would place orders in my life. You could hear it in my incoherent babble, and in it my hands shook. Even my death, shrouded in a cloak made of nothing but bottle labels, sat there and laughed terribly, but I wasn糖心传媒檛 afraid in the least. And so I drank. The first power entered into me, and together with it came the first great bestowal of wings. I was able to do everything now. With one action I was able to solve a thousand complicated equations. With one motion I was able to summon a thousand protective angels. With one kick I could kick a thousand goals. With one gesture of my powerful hand, I could grind Wladyslaw Gomulka [the person Traba wants to assassinate] to dust.

Ah yes, the first drunken pleasures. That moment before the bars of overwhelming neediness, the sad solitary nature of a really wicked hangover, the desire to repeat just to keep repeating, to try and recapture that first moment. That糖心传媒檚 what Traba seems to have lived through. That糖心传媒檚 why he knows he糖心传媒檚 on his way out and has to do something impressive and meaningful before the booze catches him.

One Sunday, Jerzyk decides to forgo church in favor of booze. Too young to be served at a bar, he heads to Traba糖心传媒檚 house and finds his quasi-hero, his Quixotic-hero, in a state diametrically opposed to the figure of the jolly man who talks too much and punctuates his speech with the energetic expression 糖心传媒淏y a billion barrels of beer!糖心传媒�

Mr. Traba lay on an iron bed, which was standing in the middle of a huge chamber that was even larger than our kitchen. Except for the bed, and the bottle that was standing by the bed, there were no pieces of furniture or any other objects, nothing. Just the numbed vastness of the waters, the castaway adrift in the middle, and a bottle full of disastrous news. Blood oozed from Mr. Traba糖心传媒檚 cut forehead. Saliva flowed from his lips as they parted again and again. The green army pants he wore were completely soaked. The room was in the grip of the deathbed odor of a body that was passively floating in all its substances, although it was, in fact, filled with only one substance. Mr. Traba said something, whispered, gibbered nonsense, but at first I wasn糖心传媒檛 able to catch even a single word, not even one intelligible sound. Still, I strained. I mobilized my secret talent for guessing words that had not yet been spoken, and after a moment糖心传媒攖o tell the truth, after a very long moment糖心传媒擨 knew more or less what it was about. The key word in Mr. Traba糖心传媒檚 delirious narration was the word 糖心传媒渢ea,糖心传媒� and the entire narration was about love. It was the sentimental complaint of a man lamenting the fact that he couldn糖心传媒檛 drink tea at the side of his beloved, since she was drinking tea at the side of another. The whole thing abounded in innumerable digressions, unintentional interjections, and unintelligible ornaments. Perhaps the general thrust of the lament糖心传媒攖hat drinking tea at the side of one糖心传媒檚 beloved was the single dream in the life of a man糖心传媒攚as a too-incessantly-repeated refrain, but, taking Mr. Traba糖心传媒檚 state into consideration, everything came out amazingly fluently. After all, it was as it always was with him: the sense of his story was the basic, and perhaps the only, tie linking him with the world. The beloved糖心传媒檚 name didn糖心传媒檛 come up even once. Perhaps I wasn糖心传媒檛 able to guess it, or perhaps I didn糖心传媒檛 want to guess it. I produced a white handkerchief from the pocket of my Sunday clothes. I poured a little vodka on it from the bottle standing by the bed. I applied the dressing made in this fashion to Mr. Traba糖心传媒檚 forehead, and I wiped the slowly drying blood.

The contrast between Jerzyk糖心传媒檚 present possibilities (the 糖心传媒渁ngel of his first love糖心传媒�) and the fucked past of Traba that is corroded, ruined by his unending drunkenness is what struck me so hard. The effects of drink isn糖心传媒檛 a unique theme in literature糖心传媒攁nd this may not even be a very unique treatment糖心传媒攂ut the way this book unfolds, with Jerzyk糖心传媒檚 innocence coming under the power of this always-blasted, comically-unhinged, potentially-dangerous man, is quite powerful and compelling. ATPC is the perfect companion to The Mighty Angel. And not just for the way you can trace back Jerzy糖心传媒檚 drinking obsession . . .

The first issue is now available and features work form Seamus Heaney, Paul Muldoon, Derek Walcott, Durs Gr眉nbein, Mary Jo Salter, Padgett Powell, Lydia Davis, Tim Parks, and many more. What I think is particularly cool though is that you can either the print edition for $10.95 plus shipping, or purchase the PDF version for $3.95. (I haven’t noticed if other magazines are doing things like this—great idea though and could really help expand the audience.)

Anyway, I recommend checking out their site and “liking” them on

Also, and the primary reason for this post, you should check out which one of my favorite books from the past months, and one which I wrote a lot about back some time ago. (Yes, I love relinking to my articles about drinking.)

Pilch is amazing, and in addition to The Mighty Angel and A Thousand Peaceful Cities, we’re going to be bringing out My First Suicide and Other Stories sometime next year.