Thursday, December 14, 2023

Pulphead - Wikipedia, Amazon Reviews

Pulphead - Wikipedia

Pulphead

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Pulphead
First edition
AuthorJohn Jeremiah Sullivan
CountryUnited States
LanguageEnglish
GenreEssay Collection
PublisherFarrar, Straus and Giroux
Publication date
2011
Media typePrint Paperback
Pages369 pp
ISBN978-0-374-53290-1
080—dc23

Pulphead is an essay collection by the American writer and editor John Jeremiah Sullivan. Pulphead has been named a 2011 New York Times Notable Book,[1] a Time Magazine Top 10 Nonfiction Book of 2011,[2] and one of Amazon's Best of the Month for November 2011.[3]

Sullivan's essay "Mr. Lytle: An Essay," which recounts his time spent living with a then geriatric Andrew Nelson Lytle, won a 2011 National Magazine Award[4] and a 2011 Pushcart Prize.[5]

Original Publishing Home of Pulphead Essays[edit]

The Paris Review

GQ

Harper's Magazine

References[edit]

  1. ^ "100 Notable Books of 2011". The New York Times. 21 November 2011.
  2. ^ "The Top 10 of Everything 2011". Time. 7 December 2011. Archived from the original on January 7, 2012.
  3. ^ "Best Books of the Month: November 2011".
  4. ^ "The Paris Review Wins National Magazine Award".
  5. ^ "John Jeremiah Sullivan Wins Prize, Does Paris Review Proud".

External links[edit]



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내년에도 번역을 포함해 두...세(과연...) 권의 책을 낼(책이 될 수 있는 원고를 넘길) 예정이지만, 내 손이 닿은 책들 중 잘 되는 놈이 거의 없어 심란. 온라인 서점에 들어간 김에 최근에 나온 번역서들의 판매지수를 살펴봤다. 형편없지 뭐. 근데, 10월에 나온 <펄프헤드>에 독자평이 여러 개 붙어 있는 걸 발견했다. 다른 사람은 모르겠지만, 내 경우에는 출판사에서 서평 프로모션을 한 <레이먼드 카버> 말고는 없었던 일. (예외적으로 오래, 많이 팔린 실용서적 제외하고.) 그 중 '망고'라는 아이디를 사용하시는 분이 쓴 글을 읽고 거의 감동. (이 분은 각주 하나에 멍청한 오류가 있는 것도 발견해서 지적해 두었다. 혹시라도 재쇄가 나오게 되면 고쳐야지...) <펄프헤드>는 에세이의 매력을 아주 잘 보여주는 책이고 미국에서는 상당히 뜨거운 반응을 받았지만 이런 식의 뉴저널리즘 스타일 에세이에 익숙하지 않은 우리 사회에서도 잘 받아들여질까 걱정을 하고 있었는데, 최소한 읽은 독자들은 좋아한다는 사실을 확인할 수 있었다. 망고님의 허락을 얻어 이 분의 서평을 여기에 옮겨둔다. 웬만한 서평전문가들보다 텍스트를 섬세하게 읽어낸 게 보인다. 사적인 공간에 가까운 곳에 올려두신 글이라 그리 넓지 않은 범위라해도 공개하는 게 꺼려질 법도 한데 기꺼이 허락해 주신 데 대해 감사.
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"이 책은 미국의 한 잡지의 편집자이기도 한 1974년생 저자 존 제러마이아 설리번의 에세이 열네 편을 모아 놓은 책이다. 이 글들은 주로 유명 잡지들에 실렸고 사실에 기반한 기사 형식의 글들이다. 각각의 주제와 관련된 인물들을 만나서 인터뷰하고 현장에 직접 가서 취재한 현장감이 생생하면서도 보통의 기사 형식의 글들과는 다르게 상황을 문학적으로 묘사하면서 저자의 개인적인 감정과 경험이 문장마다 흘러넘치는 점이 독특하다. 이런 방식의 글들은 일찍이 미국에서 1960~70년대에 유행했고 사실을 보도하는 저널리즘과의 차이를 두기위해 ‘뉴 저널리즘’이라고 부른다고 한다. 사실 위에다 소설적인 기법을 덧칠해 저자의 주관적인 생각과 의견을 맛깔나게 가미해서 통찰을 이끌어 내는 좀 더 문학에 가까운 저널리즘이라고 하면 될까?
뭐라고 부르든 이 책에 실린 글들은 술술 읽히고 재미있다.
일단 내가 이 책을 읽지 않았다면 모르고 살았을 정보들이 이 글들 속에 있었고 글감을 다루는 저자의 글 솜씨가 유려해서 읽을 맛이 난다는 점이 아주 좋았다.
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  • 거의 백인들만 참석하는 사상 최대의 기독교 락 페스티벌에서 만난 독특한 남부 청년들과 우정을 나누는 이야기,
  • 저자의 형이 락 밴드 연습을 하다가 마이크에 감전을 당해서 죽다 살아난 이야기,
  • 남부 문학의 부흥기를 이끌었지만 지금은 거의 잊혀진 노년의 작가 미스터 라이틀과 20살의 저자가 한때 동거했던 경험에 대한 이야기,
  • 마이클 잭슨과 건스 앤 로지스의 액슬 로즈에 대한 이야기,
  • 켄터키 주에 있는 미국 원주민들의 역사를 가득 품고 있는 수많은 동굴들의 이야기,
  • 초기 블루스 음악을 했던 알려지지 않은 예술가들의 이야기,
  • 밥 말리의 원년 밴드 멤버인 버니 웨일리를 만나면서 풀어놓는 자메이카의 정치와 종교에 대한 이야기,
  • 저자의 집을 거액을 받고 몇 년 동안이나 드라마 촬영 장소로 빌려 준 경험 등등...

거의 모든 주제가 흥미진진했다. 어디 가서 이런 특별한 주제의 글들을 한꺼번에 다 읽어 볼 수 있겠는가? 관심을 두지 않으면 알 수 없는 이야기들을 이렇게 책 한권으로 우연히 접하게 되어서 잡다한 지식을 얻을 수 있었다는 점이 매우 만족스러웠다.
게다가 이 글들은 유머러스하기도 하지만 기본적으로 따뜻하다는 점이 좋았다. 글 속에 웅크리고 있는 저자의 따뜻한 인격은 이 글들을 쓸 당시 30대 였을 저자의 나이를 생각해 봤을 때 꽤나 예상외의 것이었다. 30대의 젊은 기자의 날카로운 냉소의 시선이 아닌 경험에서 우러나오는 이해와 연민의 시선이 곳곳에 내려앉아 있다는 점을 느낄 때가 많았기 때문이다.
기독교 락 페스티벌에 대한 글은 무신론자의 시선으로 페스티벌을 비판적으로 훑으면서 간간이 유머를 가미하는 블랙코미디 같은 재미를 선사할 것이라고 예상했는데, 내 예상은 보기 좋게 빗나갔다. 저자는 그곳에서 자신이 고등학생이었을 때 3년 동안 복음주의 교회에 푹 빠져서 활동 했다가 빠져 나왔던 경험을 털어 놓는다. 그 경험을 바탕으로 신을 믿는 사람들을 이해한다. 투박하지만 나름의 방식으로 살아가는 남부 청년들과 우정을 나누는 와중에 신을 사랑한다는 그들을 이해한다.
액슬 로즈의 어린시절 고향 친구를 인터뷰 할 때 저자는 자신의 어린 시절 기억을 떠올린다. 빈부격차가 사람의 삶에 그렇게 큰 영향을 줄 것이라는 걸 인식하지 못하던 어린 시절엔 다함께 어울려 놀았던 친구들이 고등학교에 가서 대학을 가는 친구와 아닌 친구로 나누어지게 된다. 그 이후 대학을 가지 않았던 친구들과는 평생을 만날 일 없는 사이가 되었다는 저자의 기억은 고향을 떠나 락 스타가 된 액슬 로즈와 고향에 남아있는 그의 친구의 관계 속에서 소환된다. 어릴 땐 둘도 없는 친구였다가 커서 달라진 처지 때문에 영영 볼 일 없는 사이가 되어버리는 그 씁쓸함에 대해...
저자의 글에서는 주제로 다뤄지는 사람들, 인터뷰에 응한 주변인들 누구도 함부로 다루어지지 않는다. 누구 하나 깎아 내리면서 유머를 던지는 유의 글이 아닌 것이다.
특히나 리얼리티 출연자에 대해서는 다른 사람이었다면 충분히 빈정대며 재미를 뽑아낼 수 있는 글을 썼을 텐데 이 책의 저자는 그렇게 하지 않는다. 리얼리티 출연자들이 방송 출연을 하지 않을 때 여기저기 파티에 불려 다니며 약간 우스꽝스러운 인플루언서로 사는 삶의 방식도 존중한다. 그렇게 사는 것도 뭐 나쁘진 않겠지 하는 시선.
아 딱 한명 “양들의 폭력”에 나온 동물학자가 좀 이상한 사람으로 묘사되는데 이건 뻥이기 때문에 가능한 인물 묘사였다. 무슨 이야기인지는 읽으면 알게 된다. 아무튼 이 “양들의 폭력”도 거의 소설 읽듯이 참 재밌게 읽었다.
독특한 주제 아래에서 종교, 대중문화, 역사, 정치 등 미국 사회의 다양한 모습을 두루 다루면서도 유머를 잃지 않고 인간에 대한 사려 깊은 접근까지 이루어내는 에세이집이었다. 최근에 몇몇 에세이를 읽었는데 대부분 사적인 경험에 치중한 것들이 많아서 식상한 느낌이 들었었다. 그런데 이렇게 취재와 인터뷰를 기반으로 문학적인 성취까지 이룬 에세이를 읽다보니 너무나 새로웠고 지적인 호기심도 채울 수 있어서 만족스러웠다. 재밌게 잘 읽었고 다른 뉴저널리즘 장르의 에세이들도 읽어봐야겠다고 생각한 독서였다."
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오문자
읽어보고 싶군요.
고영범
오문자 재미있는 책입니다. 추천 드립니디.
Taewon Yun
어릴때 직접 쓰기도 하고, 번역해서 일곱권 정도 책을 냈었는데 제가 책을 낸 출판사들은 다 망했…… ㅠㅠ
심지어 믿었던 고려원까지…. 꺼윽.
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고영범
Taewon Yun 손을 대는 모든 것이 무너지는 놀라운 은혜를 받으신 분이군요. 반갑습니다. -.-
박은
어젯밤 대체로 행복한 이야기들을 주문했고 플레이리스트를 찾아 들으며 읽을 연말을 기대 중입니다. 펄프헤드 장바구니에 넣으러 갑니다! ㅎㅎ
고영범
박은 '읽을거리'라는 말의 뜻이 점점 좁혀지고 있다는 느낌을 받는데, 이런 책들이 그 영역을 다시 넓히는 역할을 할 수 있다고 믿습니다. 좋은 독서시간이 되실 겁니다.^^
2
신미원
흠… 주문하러 갑니다. ^^
고영범
신미원 좋은 책입니다.^^ 즐거운 시간 보내시기 바랍니다.
장진원
알라딘에서 검색하고 장바구니에 담았습니다.
전자책이 나오면 더 좋겠는데...^^
고영범
장진원 나도 얼마 전부터 전자책 파로 돌아섰는데, 국내 전자서적은 미국의 킨들에 비해 만듦새가 훨씬 좋은 대신, 과정이 좀 복잡한가 봐요. 전자책이 없는 경우가 많더라고요.
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김은정
저도 진작부터 야금야금 읽고 있어요 미국의 이면에 관심이 가서ᆢ
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고영범
김은정 야금야금 읽기 딱 좋은 책이죠. ㅎㅎ
Eunsil Lumi Lee
와 재밌겠다. 제목도 좋아요.
고영범
Eunsil Lumi Lee 아닌게아니라 재미있어요.
Younsoo Shim
클로드와 포피도 정말 좋았는데…! 요거도 일단 장바구니로!
고영범
Younsoo Shim 오오, 그 책 읽으셨군요. 그거 재미도 있고 괜찮은 책인데 의외로 안 나가더군요.

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Pulphead : notes from the other side of America
by Sullivan, John Jeremiah, 1974-

Publication date 2012
Topics Essays, Social sciences -- Popular works, Social sciences
Publisher London : Vintage
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"A sharp-eyed, uniquely humane tour of America's cultural landscape--from high to low to lower than low--by the award-winning young star of the literary nonfiction world In Pulphead, John Jeremiah Sullivan takes us on an exhilarating tour of our popular, unpopular, and at times completely forgotten culture.

 Simultaneously channeling the gonzo energy of Hunter S. Thompson and the wit and insight of Joan Didion, Sullivan shows us--with a laidback, erudite Southern charm that's all his own--how we really (no, really) live now. In his native Kentucky, Sullivan introduces us to Constantine Rafinesque, a nineteenth-century polymath genius who concocted a dense, fantastical prehistory of the New World. Back in modern times, Sullivan takes us to the Ozarks for a Christian rock festival; to Florida to meet the alumni and straggling refugees of MTV's Real World, who've generated their own self-perpetuating economy of minor celebrity; and all across the South on the trail of the blues. He takes us to Indiana to investigate the formative years of Michael Jackson and Axl Rose and then to the Gulf Coast in the wake of Katrina--and back again as its residents confront the BP oil spill. Gradually, a unifying narrative emerges, a story about this country that we've never heard told this way. It's like a fun-house hall-of-mirrors tour: Sullivan shows us who we are in ways we've never imagined to be true. Of course we don't know whether to laugh or cry when faced with this reflection--it's our inevitable sob-guffaws that attest to the power of Sullivan's work"--Provided by publisher
===

Review
Pulphead: Dispatches from the Other Side of America by John Jeremiah Sullivan – review
John Jeremiah Sullivan's essays on US culture have amazing scope and substance
Edward Docx
Thu 9 Aug 2012 
0
Ibegan this book reluctantly – I was deep into Hilary Mantel's Bring Up the Bodies, which is pretty much the exact opposite – but by the end I wanted to hand out copies to all those poor folks I see squirming their way through the squalid prose-dungeons of Fifty Shades. I wanted to launch a new British magazine especially for long-form journalism. I wanted to go out and round up a good few of the nation's so-called columnists and shame them into admitting that the weekly crap-farragoes that they are pretending to call careers will no longer do. I wanted to say "that's what I'm talking about".

What am I talking about? Pulphead is a collection of essays that appeared in various American magazines written by a journalist in his late 30s, whom almost nobody in Britain will know. But my guess is that those of you who like real writing (I know you're out there) will soon come to love John Jeremiah Sullivan – especially if he turns his talent to writing fiction, which, on the evidence of this collection, would not be too great a stretch. My stateside siblings tell me that he's already got a foot on the same escalator that took Foster Wallace, Franzen and the gang per aspera ad astra. Meanwhile, various people are calling him the next Tom Wolfe this and the new Hunter S Thompson that. Who knows? I'd say hold off a spell – he's simply not produced enough assessable work. But I certainly found this collection wonderfully engaging, lucid, intelligent, entertaining, interesting and amusing.


The first pleasure of Pulphead is the subject matter. There is the best essay you will ever read on Michael Jackson and the only essay you'll ever read on Axl Rose. There's the oddly emotional and disconcerting account of attending a Christian rock music festival entitled Upon This Rock. There's the story of Sullivan's time living with the mad old American writer Andrew Nelson Lytle, who late one night finally got around to touching the young John Jeremiah's genitals. There's a supreme piece of writing – part analysis, part paean – about reality television. There's an account of going to meet Bunny Wailer, the only surviving member of Bob Marley's original band, in Jamaica. There's a disarmingly convivial trip to Disney World. There's a wonderfully illuminating investigation into the lyrics of a pre-second world war blues song – and in particular what the word "kind" once meant – in the sense of "a little more than kin and less than kind". There's a moving and hyper-real account of Sullivan's brother's near death by accidental electrocution, a post-Katrina excursion to the Gulf Coast, some piquant pages on the Tea Party and a piece about the coming war between homo sapiens and the rest of the animal kingdom.


The second pleasure is the sophistication. So often the clarity of a writer's voice comes at the expense of a subtlety in tone. Not here. The two best pieces of the ensemble – Getting Down to What is Really Real and Upon This Rock – are written with such a well-judged balance of close-up love and objective report that they subverted my prejudices entirely and left me admiring Sullivan's way of admiring. I went into these chapters belligerently not giving a toss about reality TV and believing the Christian rock music scene to be the single most colossally redundant human phenomenon to date; I came out a changed reader. Sullivan had guided me through these alien worlds in a way that revealed to me their interesting geometries and their raisons d'être. What more can the writer do?

Not only do the essays engage, they are also richly informative. I finally understood the title of one of my very favourite songs – I and I by Bob Dylan – as a Rastafarian expression. And I found myself jotting down notes in order to seek out the songs Sullivan cited – one of which, Let Him Go, I am listening to right now. Again: what more can you ask?


But the greatest pleasure of all was the writing itself. There are essayists who rely on their subject to create interest and there are essayists who rely on their style. Sullivan deploys both. In The Last Wailer, he describes the notorious Jamaican drug lord and gangster Christopher Coke (oh, nominative determinism) as a "short, thick, somewhat pan-faced man, who keeps a low profile and always seems to be smiling at an inward joke". In the reality TV essay, he renders Richard Branson as "that weird and whispery mogul-faun, Sir Richard". Elsewhere, "knuckles are cubed with arthritis" and the music in a nightclub is "like a rabbit's heartbeat in the core of your brain". Everywhere, Sullivan's love of language, his skill and inventiveness, reminded me afresh of the delight of reading people who can actually write. And even when he didn't quite pull it off – the interior of a rented mobile home "smelled of spoiled vacations and amateur porn shoots wrapped in motel shower curtains and left in the sun" – I found myself greatly enjoying the failure.

I had only one reservation. Hovering somewhere in the coulisse of these performances, there seems to be an anxiety about authenticity. This manifests itself as an emphasis on what "actually" happened here, what the reader might check up on there, a habit of breaking out into bald film dialogue-style quotes as if to prove such and such was "really" said. In one story (the weakest), Violence of the Lambs – about the animal-human war – Sullivan adds a coda: "Big parts of this piece I made up…" He seems angry about having to admit to fabrication "because of certain scandals in the past with made-up stories" and then writes a second postscript about new "facts" discovered. Sure, there are (adolescent) jokes in play here – about "fact-checking" journalism, about editors, about fabrication, about scientific horror stories – but there's also just straightforward bullshit at the expense of the reader. My take: expect a novel sometime.

====
Pulphead: Essays Paperback – October 25, 2011
by John Jeremiah Sullivan (Author)
4.3 4.3 out of 5 stars    305 ratings 4.0 on Goodreads 7,367 ratings
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Named A Best Book of 2011 by the New York Times, Time Magazine, the Boston Globe and Entertainment Weekly

A sharp-eyed, uniquely humane tour of America's cultural landscape―from high to low to lower than low―by the award-winning young star of the literary nonfiction world.

In Pulphead, John Jeremiah Sullivan takes us on an exhilarating tour of our popular, unpopular, and at times completely forgotten culture. Simultaneously channeling the gonzo energy of Hunter S. Thompson and the wit and insight of Joan Didion, Sullivan shows us―with a laidback, erudite Southern charm that's all his own―how we really (no, really) live now.

In his native Kentucky, Sullivan introduces us to Constantine Rafinesque, a nineteenth-century polymath genius who concocted a dense, fantastical prehistory of the New World. Back in modern times, Sullivan takes us to the Ozarks for a Christian rock festival; to Florida to meet the alumni and straggling refugees of MTV's Real World, who've generated their own self-perpetuating economy of minor celebrity; and all across the South on the trail of the blues. He takes us to Indiana to investigate the formative years of Michael Jackson and Axl Rose and then to the Gulf Coast in the wake of Katrina―and back again as its residents confront the BP oil spill.

Gradually, a unifying narrative emerges, a story about this country that we've never heard told this way. It's like a fun-house hall-of-mirrors tour: Sullivan shows us who we are in ways we've never imagined to be true. Of course we don't know whether to laugh or cry when faced with this reflection―it's our inevitable sob-guffaws that attest to the power of Sullivan's work.

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===
Editorial Reviews
Amazon.com Review
Amazon Best Books of the Month, November 2011: What a fresh and daring voice. John Jeremiah Sullivan is a dynamic and gutsy writer, a cross between Flannery O'Connor and a decaffeinated Tom Wolfe, with just the right dash of Hunter S. Thompson. In fourteen essays ranging from an Axl Rose profile to an RV trek to a Christian rock festival to the touching story of his brother's near-death electrocution, Sullivan writes funny, beautiful, and very real sentences. The sum of these stories portrays a real America, including the vast land between the coasts. Staying just this side of cynical, Sullivan displays respect for his subjects, no matter how freakish they may seem (see Axl Rose). Put another way: if Tom Waits wrote essays, they might sound like Pulphead. --Neal Thompson

Exclusive Amazon.com Interview:

Though his stories have appeared for a decade in Harper's, GQ, and other magazines, John Jeremiah Sullivan wasn’t a recognizable name until Pulphead started landing on year-end best-books lists, including Time, the New York Times, and Amazon's Best Books of 2011. The New Yorker’s James Wood compares him to Raymond Carver - "with hints of Emerson and Thoreau." Elsewhere, Sullivan has been called the new Tom Wolfe, David Foster Wallace, or Hunter S. Thompson, or some combination of all three.
I prefer to think of him more as the Tom Waits of long-form journalism.

Sullivan’s sportswriter father was an early and lasting influence. "The stuff he wrote was so weird, when I go back and look at it. It would almost have to be classified as creative non-fiction," Sullivan told me.

I asked Sullivan if his father encouraged him to become a writer.

"He did the smartest and best thing he could have done for me, which was to take a very coolly distant but encouraging attitude,” he said. “I think he could tell early on that it's what I was going to do, that I wasn't really suited for much else.

After college and a brief “lost period” in Ireland, Sullivan got an internship at The Oxford American magazine and spent a month in Mississippi, living in a brown-carpeted room at the Ole Miss hotel, with hookers conducting their business nearby.

One night, Sullivan told his editor, Marc Smirnoff, about his musician brother’s near-death electrocution from a microphone. Smirnoff suggested he write a story about it, giving Sullivan his first professional byline.

"It was just one of those things where somebody opens the door and steps aside and says, 'Don't f**k it up'," Sullivan said. "And that piece made a lot of cool things happen for me."

Cool things like bylines in Harper's, The Paris Review, and The New York Times Magazine.

Over the next decade he honed his reporting skills, his unique voice (personal not cynical, thoughtful not intellectual), and a particular interest in outliers. I asked: do you look for oddballs, or do they find you? "It probably betrays a weakness for grotesques," he said. "And grotesques give you little angles of insight into human nature. There are things they can't help exposing.

"Sometimes I take pleasure in writing about people who make it hard for you to see their basic humanity. It gives me a very clear task as a writer to insist on it."

Pulphead is filled with hunks of other people’s sometimes misshapen humanity.

"The things that can happen to people... it just blows your mind."

Four more questions for Sullivan:

Where do you work? "I used to be one of those people who could write anywhere but for the first time I've become real attached to this corner office in our house that’s become sort of a cocoon. I keep it real disgusting so nobody will ever want to come in here. My daughter will show it to friends, almost like you'd show somebody the dungeon."
Who are you reading? "It’s more about staying in constant contact with writing, always being into some writer. That keeps me inspired and it keeps me feeling like, when I sit down to write, it's part of a preexisting and ongoing conversation. It's not the scary void that people talk about of the white page. I do everything I can to cancel out that feeling."
You’re a fan of bourbon – can you write drunk? - "Drinking and smoking for me are useful for getting over humps. For cracking things open. But if I try to do it in a sustained way, it gets kind of sloppy and pudding-headed. So I have to introduce it into the process at the right moments … (Bourbon) gives you a little bit of that what-the-f**k feeling."
Do you think of yourself as a southern writer? "I'm not an authentic southerner by anyone's definition, and I don't self-identify as a southern writer … I'm interested in regionalism. The fact that I sort of grew up back and forth between the Midwest and the South, it sensitized me to the differences early on … Mainly I’m interested in the psycho-geography of regionalism, and how it gives shape to people's personalities.”
Review
“Sullivan seems able to do almost anything, to work in any register, and not just within a single piece but often in the span of a single paragraph…Pulphead is the best, and most important, collection of magazine writing since Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again…Sullivan's writing is a bizarrely coherent, novel, and generous pastiche of the biblical, the demotic, the regionally gusty and the erudite.” ―New York Times Book Review

“[Pulphead is] a big and sustaining pile of--as I've heard it put about certain people's fried chicken--crunchy goodness . . . What's impressive about Pulphead is the way these disparate essays cohere into a memoirlike whole. The putty that binds them together is Mr. Sullivan's steady and unhurried voice. Reading him, I felt the way Mr. Sullivan does while listening to a Bunny Wailer song called ‘Let Him Go.' That is, I felt ‘like a puck on an air-hockey table that's been switched on.' Like well-made songs, his essays don't just have strong verses and choruses but bridges, too, unexpected bits that make subtle harmonic connections . . . The book has its grotesques, for sure. But they are genuine and appear here in a way that put me in mind of one of Flannery O'Connor's indelible utterances. ‘Whenever I'm asked why Southern writers particularly have a penchant for writing about freaks,' O'Connor said, 'I say it is because we are still able to recognize one.'” ―New York Times

"[Sullivan] seems to have in abundance the storyteller’s gifts: he is a fierce noticer, is undauntedly curious, is porous to gossip, and has a memory of childlike tenacity . . . Unlike Tom Wolfe or Joan Didion, who bring their famous styles along with them like well-set, just-done hair, Sullivan lets his subjects muss and alter his prose; he works like a novelist." ―James Wood, New Yorker

“Sullivan's essays have won two National Magazine Awards, and here his omnivorous intellect analyzes Michael Jackson, Christian rock, post-Katrina New Orleans, Axl Rose and the obscure 19th century naturalist Constantine Rafinesque. His compulsive honesty and wildly intelligent prose recall the work of American masters of New Journalism like Hunter S. Thompson and Tom Wolfe.” ―Time

“Sullivan's essays stay with you, like good short stories--and like accomplished short fiction, they often will, over time, reveal a fuller meaning . . . Whether he ponders the legacy of a long-dead French scientist or the unlikely cultural trajectory of Christian rock, Sullivan imbues his narrative subjects with a broader urgency reminiscent of other great practitioners of the essay-profile, such as New Yorker writers Joseph Mitchell and A. J. Liebling or Gay Talese during his '60s Esquire heyday . . . [Pulphead] reinforces [Sullivan's] standing as among the best of his generation's essayists.” ―Bookforum

“One ascendant talent who deserves to be widely read and encouraged is John Jeremiah Sullivan . . . Pulpheadis one of the most involving collections of essays to appear in many a year.” ―Larry McMurtry, Harper's Magazine

“[The essays in Pulphead are] among the liveliest magazine features written by anyone in the past 10 years . . . What they have in common, though, whether low or high of brow, is their author's essential curiosity about the world, his eye for the perfect detail, and his great good humor in revealing both his subjects' and his own foibles . . . a collection that shows why Sullivan might be the best magazine writer around.” ―NPR

“Each beautifully crafted essay in John Jeremiah Sullivan's collection Pulphead is a self-contained world…Sullivan's masterful essays invite an honest confrontation with reality, especially when considered in light of one another….Pulphead compels its readers to consider each as an equal sum in the bizarre arithmetic of American identity . . . [Sullivan is] as red-hot a writer as they come.” ―BookPage

“The age-old strangeness of American pop culture gets dissected with hilarious and revelatory precision…Sullivan writes an extraordinary prose that's stuffed with off-beat insight gleaned from rapt, appalled observations and suffused with a hang-dog charm. The result is an arresting take on the American imagination.” ―Publishers Weekly (starred review)

About the Author
John Jeremiah Sullivan is a contributing writer for The New York Times Magazine and the southern editor of The Paris Review. He writes for GQ, Harper's Magazine, and Oxford American, and is the author of Blood Horses and Pulphead. Sullivan lives in Wilmington, North Carolina.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Pulphead
EssaysBy John Jeremiah Sullivan
Farrar, Straus and Giroux
Copyright © 2011 John Jeremiah Sullivan
All right reserved.
ISBN: 9780374532901
UPON THIS ROCK
 

It is wrong to boast, but in the beginning, my plan was perfect. I was assigned to cover the Cross-Over Festival in Lake of the Ozarks, Missouri, three days of the top Christian bands and their backers at some isolated Midwestern fairground. I’d stand at the edge of the crowd and take notes on the scene, chat up the occasional audience member (“What’s harder—homeschooling or regular schooling?”), then flash my pass to get backstage, where I’d rap with the artists themselves. The singer could feed me his bit about how all music glorifies Him, when it’s performed with a loving spirit, and I’d jot down every tenth word, inwardly smiling. Later that night I might sneak some hooch in my rental car and invite myself to lie with a prayer group by their fire, for the fellowship of it. Fly home, stir in statistics. Paycheck.
But as my breakfast-time mantra says, I am a professional. And they don’t give out awards for that sort of toe-tap foolishness. I wanted to know what these people are, who claim to love this music, who drive hundreds of miles, traversing states, to hear it live. Then it came, my epiphany: I would go with them. Or rather, they would come with me. I would rent a van, a plush one, and we would travel there together, I and three or four hard-core buffs, all the way from the East Coast to the implausibly named Lake of the Ozarks. We’d talk through the night, they’d proselytize at me, and I’d keep my little tape machine working all the while. Somehow I knew we’d grow to like and pity one another. What a story that would make—for future generations.
The only remaining question was: How to recruit the willing? But it was hardly even a question, because everyone knows that damaged types who are down for whatever’s clever gather in “chat rooms” every night. And among the Jesusy, there’s plenty who are super f’d up. He preferred it that way, evidently.
So I published my invitation, anonymously, at youthontherock.com, and on two Internet forums devoted to the good-looking Christian pop-punk band Relient K, which had been booked to appear at Cross-Over. I pictured that guy or girl out there who’d been dreaming in an attic room of seeing, with his or her own eyes, the men of Relient K perform their song “Gibberish” from Two Lefts Don’t Make a Right … But Three Do. How could he or she get there, though? Gas prices won’t drop, and Relient K never plays north Florida. Please, Lord, make it happen. Suddenly, here my posting came, like a great light. We could help each other. “I’m looking for a few serious fans of Christian rock to ride to the festival with me,” I wrote. “Male/female doesn’t matter, though you shouldn’t be older than, say, 28, since I’m looking at this primarily as a youth phenomenon.”
They seem like harmless words. Turns out, though, I had failed to grasp how “youth” the phenomenon is. Most of the people hanging out in these chat rooms were teens, and I don’t mean nineteen, either, I mean fourteen. Some of them, I was about to learn, were mere tweens. I had just traipsed out onto the World Wide Web and asked a bunch of twelve-year-old Christians if they wanted to come for a ride in my van.
It wasn’t long before the children rounded on me. “Nice job cutting off your email address,” wrote “mathgeek29,” in a tone that seemed not at all Christlike. “I doubt if anybody would give a full set of contact information to some complete stranger on the Internet … Aren’t there any Christian teens in Manhattan who would be willing to do this?”
A few of the youths were indeed credulous. “Riathamus” said, “i am 14 and live in indiana plus my parents might not let me considering it is a stranger over the Internet. but that would really be awsome.” A girl by the name of “LilLoser” even tried to be a friend:
I doubt my parents would allow their baby girl to go with some guy they don’t and I don’t know except through email, especially for the amount of time you’re asking and like driving around everywhere with ya … I’m not saying you’re a creepy petifile, lol, but i just don’t think you’ll get too many people interested … cuz like i said, it spells out “creepy” … but hey—good luck to you in your questy missiony thing. lol.
The luck that she wished me I sought in vain. The Christians stopped chatting with me and started chatting among themselves, warning one another about me. Finally one poster on the official Relient K site hissed at the others to stay away from my scheme, as I was in all likelihood “a 40 year old kidnapper.” Soon I logged on and found that the moderators of the site had removed my post and its lengthening thread of accusations altogether, offering no explanation. Doubtless at that moment they were faxing alerts to a network of moms. I recoiled in dread. I called my lawyer, in Boston, who told me to “stop using computers” (his plural).
In the end, the experience inspired in me a distaste for the whole Cross-Over Festival as a subject, and I resolved to refuse the assignment. I withdrew.
The problem with a flash mag like the Gentlemen’s Quarterly is that there’s always some overachieving assistant editor, sometimes called Greg, whom the world hasn’t beaten down yet, and who, when you phone him, out of courtesy, just to let him know that “the Cross-Over thing fell through” and that you’ll be in touch when you “figure out what to do next,” hops on that mystical boon the Internet and finds out that the festival you were planning to attend was in fact not “the biggest one in the country,” as you’d alleged. The biggest one in the country—indeed, in Christendom—is the Creation Festival, inaugurated in 1979, a veritable Godstock. And it happens not in Missouri but in ruralmost Pennsylvania, in a green valley, on a farm called Agape. This festival did not end a month ago; it starts the day after tomorrow. Already they are assembling, many tens of thousands strong. Good luck to you in your questy missiony thing.
I had one demand: that I not be made to camp. I’d have some sort of vehicle with a mattress in it, one of these pop-ups, maybe. “Right,” said Greg. “Here’s the deal. I’ve called around. There are no vans left within a hundred miles of Philly. We got you an RV, though. It’s a twenty-nine-footer.” Once I reached the place, we agreed (or he led me to think he agreed), I would certainly be able to downgrade to something more manageable.
The reason twenty-nine feet is such a common length for RVs, I presume, is that once a vehicle gets much longer, you need a special permit to drive it. That would mean forms and fees, possibly even background checks. But show up at any RV joint with your thigh stumps lashed to a skateboard, crazily waving your hooks-for-hands, screaming you want that twenty-nine-footer out back for a trip to you ain’t sayin’ where, and all they want to know is: Credit or debit, tiny sir?
Two days later, I stood in a parking lot, suitcase at my feet. Debbie came toward me. Her face was as sweet as a birthday cake beneath spray-hardened bangs. She raised a powerful arm and pointed, before either of us spoke. She pointed at a vehicle that looked like something the ancient Egyptians might have left behind in the desert.
“Oh, hi, there,” I said. “Listen, all I need is, like, a camper van or whatever. It’s just me, and I’m going five hundred miles…”
She considered me. “Where ya headed?”
“To this thing called Creation. It’s, like, a Christian-rock festival.”
“You and everybody!” she said. “The people who got our vans are going to that same thing. There’s a bunch o’ ya.”
Her husband and coworker, Jack, emerged—tattooed, squat, gray-mulleted, spouting open contempt for MapQuest. He’d be giving me real directions. “But first let’s check ’er out.”
We toured the outskirts of my soon-to-be mausoleum. It took time. Every single thing Jack said, somehow, was the only thing I’d need to remember. White water, gray water, black water (drinking, showering, le devoir). Here’s your this, never ever that. Grumbling about “weekend warriors.” I couldn’t listen, because listening would mean accepting it as real, though his casual mention of the vast blind spot in the passenger-side mirror squeaked through, as did his description of the “extra two feet on each side”—the bulge of my living quarters—which I wouldn’t be able to see but would want to “be conscious of” out there. Debbie followed us with a video camera, for insurance purposes. I saw my loved ones gathered in a mahogany-paneled room to watch this footage; them being forced to hear me say, “What if I never use the toilet—do I still have to switch on the water?”
Jack pulled down the step and climbed aboard. It was really happening. The interior smelled of spoiled vacations and amateur porn shoots wrapped in motel shower curtains and left in the sun. I was physically halted at the threshold for a moment. Jesus had never been in this RV.
*   *   *
What do I tell you about my voyage to Creation? Do you want to know what it’s like to drive a windmill with tires down the Pennsylvania Turnpike at rush hour by your lonesome, with darting bug-eyes and shaking hands; or about Greg’s laughing phone call “to see how it’s going”; about hearing yourself say “no No NO NO!” in a shamefully high-pitched voice every time you try to merge; or about thinking you detect, beneath the mysteriously comforting blare of the radio, faint honking sounds, then checking your passenger-side mirror only to find you’ve been straddling the lanes for an unknown number of miles (those two extra feet!) and that the line of traffic you’ve kept pinned stretches back farther than you can see; or about stopping at Target to buy sheets and a pillow and peanut butter but then practicing your golf swing in the sporting-goods aisle for a solid twenty-five minutes, unable to stop, knowing that when you do, the twenty-nine-footer will be where you left her, alone in the side lot, waiting for you to take her the rest of the way to your shared destiny?
She got me there, as Debbie and Jack had promised, not possibly believing it themselves. Seven miles from Mount Union, a sign read CREATION AHEAD. The sun was setting; it floated above the valley like a fiery gold balloon. I fell in with a long line of cars and trucks and vans—not many RVs. Here they were, all about me: the born-again. On my right was a pickup truck, its bed full of teenage girls in matching powder-blue T-shirts; they were screaming at a Mohawked kid who was walking beside the road. I took care not to meet their eyes—who knew but they weren’t the same fillies I had solicited days before? Their line of traffic lurched ahead, and an old orange Datsun came up beside me. I watched as the driver rolled down her window, leaned halfway out, and blew a long, clear note on a ram’s horn. I understand where you might be coming from in doubting that. Nevertheless it is what she did. I have it on tape. She blew a ram’s horn, quite capably, twice. A yearly rite, perhaps, to announce her arrival at Creation.
My turn at the gate. The woman looked at me, then past me to the empty passenger seat, then down the whole length of the twenty-nine-footer. “How many people in your group?” she asked.
*   *   *
I pulled away in awe, permitting the twenty-nine-footer to float. My path was thronged with excited Christians, most younger than eighteen. The adults looked like parents or pastors, not here on their own. Twilight was well along, and the still valley air was sharp with campfire smoke. A great roar shot up to my left—something had happened onstage. The sound bespoke a multitude. It filled the valley and lingered.
I thought I might enter unnoticed—that the RV might even offer a kind of cover—but I was already turning heads. Two separate kids said “I feel sorry for him” as I passed. Another leaped up on the driver’s-side step and said, “Jesus Christ, man,” then fell away running. I kept braking—even idling was too fast. Whatever spectacle had provoked the roar was over now: The roads were choked. The youngsters were streaming around me in both directions, back to their campsites, like a line of ants around some petty obstruction. They had a disconcerting way of stepping aside for the RV only when its front fender was just about to graze their backs. From my elevated vantage, it looked as if they were waiting just a tenth of a second too long, and that I was gently, forcibly parting them in slow motion.
The Evangelical strata were more or less recognizable from my high school days, though everyone, I observed, had gotten better-looking. Lots were dressed like skate punks or in last season’s East Village couture (nondenominationals); others were fairly trailer (rural Baptists or Church of God); there were preps (Young Life, Fellowship of Christian Athletes—these were the ones who’d have the pot). You could spot the stricter sectarians right away, their unchanging antifashion and pale glum faces. When I asked one woman, later, how many she reckoned were white, she said, “Roughly one hundred percent.” I did see some Asians and three or four blacks. They gave the distinct impression of having been adopted.
I drove so far. You wouldn’t have thought this thing could go on so far. Every other bend in the road opened onto a whole new cove full of tents and cars; the encampment had expanded to its physiographic limits, pushing right up to the feet of the ridges. It’s hard to put across the sensory effect of that many people living and moving around in the open: part family reunion, part refugee camp. A tad militia, but cheerful.
The roads turned dirt and none too wide: Hallelujah Highway, Street Called Straight. I’d been told to go to “H,” but when I reached H, two teenage kids in orange vests came out of the shadows and told me the spots were all reserved. “Help me out here, guys,” I said, jerking my thumb, pitifully indicating my mobile home. They pulled out their walkie-talkies. Some time went by. It got darker. Then an even younger boy rode up on a bike and winked a flashlight at me, motioning I should follow.
It was such a comfort to yield up my will to this kid. All I had to do was not lose him. His vest radiated a warm, reassuring officialdom in my headlights. Which may be why I failed to comprehend in time that he was leading me up an almost vertical incline—“the Hill Above D.”
Thinking back, I can’t say which came first: a little bell in my spine warning me that the RV had reached a degree of tilt she was not engineered to handle, or the sickening knowledge that we had begun to slip back. I bowed up off the seat and crouched on the gas. I heard yelling. I kicked at the brake. With my left hand and foot I groped, like a person drowning, for the emergency brake (had Jack’s comprehensive how-to sesh not touched on its whereabouts?). We were losing purchase; she started to shudder. My little guide’s eyes showed fear.
I’d known this moment would come, of course, that the twenty-nine-footer would turn on me. We had both of us understood it from the start. But I must confess, I never imagined her hunger for death could prove so extreme. Laid out below and behind me was a literal field of Christians, toasting buns and playing guitars, fellowshipping. The aerial shot in the papers would show a long scar, a swath through their peaceful tent village. And that this gigantic psychopath had worked her vile design through the agency of a child—an innocent, albeit impossibly confused child …
My memory of the next five seconds is smeared, but I know that a large and perfectly square male head appeared in the windshield. It was blond and wearing glasses. It had wide-open eyes and a Chaucerian West Virginia accent and said rapidly that I should “JACK THE WILL TO THE ROT” while applying the brakes. Some branch of my motor cortex obeyed. The RV skidded briefly and was still. Then the same voice said, “All right, hit the gas on three: one, two…”
She began to climb—slowly, as if on a pulley. Some freakishly powerful beings were pushing. Soon we had leveled out at the top of the hill.
There were five of them, all in their early twenties. I remained in the twenty-nine-footer; they gathered below. “Thank you,” I said.
“Aw, hey,” shot back Darius, the one who’d given the orders. He talked very fast. “We’ve been doing this all day—I don’t know why that kid keeps bringing people up here—we’re from West Virginia—listen, he’s retarded—there’s an empty field right there.”
I looked back and down at what he was pointing to: pastureland.
Jake stepped forward. He was also blond, but slender. And handsome in a feral way. His face was covered in stubble as pale as his hair. He said he was from West Virginia and wanted to know where I was from.
“I was born in Louisville,” I said.
“Really?” said Jake. “Is that on the Ohio River?” Like Darius, he both responded and spoke very quickly. I said that in fact it was.
“Well, I know a dude that died who was from Ohio. I’m a volunteer fireman, see. Well, he flipped a Chevy Blazer nine times. He was spread out from here to that ridge over there. He was dead as four o’clock.”
“Who are you guys?” I said.
Ritter answered. He was big, one of those fat men who don’t really have any fat, a corrections officer—as I was soon to learn—and a former heavyweight wrestler. He could burst a pineapple in his armpit and chuckle about it (or so I assume). Haircut: military. Mustache: faint. “We’re just a bunch of West Virginia guys on fire for Christ,” he said. “I’m Ritter, and this is Darius, Jake, Bub, and that’s Jake’s brother, Josh. Pee Wee’s around here somewhere.”
“Chasin’ tail,” said Darius disdainfully.
“So you guys have just been hanging out here, saving lives?”
“We’re from West Virginia,” said Darius again, like maybe he thought I was thick. It was he who most often spoke for the group. The projection of his jaw from the lump of snuff he kept there made him come off a bit contentious, but I felt sure he was just high-strung.
“See,” Jake said, “well, our campsite is right over there.” With a cock of his head he identified a car, a truck, a tent, a fire, and a tall cross made of logs. And that other thing was … a PA system?
“We had this spot last year,” Darius said. “I prayed about it. I said, ‘God, I’d just really like to have that spot again—you know, if it’s Your will.’”
I’d assumed that my days at Creation would be fairly lonely and end with my ritual murder. But these West Virginia guys had such warmth. It flowed out of them. They asked me what I did and whether I liked sassafras tea and how many others I’d brought with me in the RV. Plus they knew a dude who died horribly and was from a state with the same name as the river I grew up by, and I’m not the type who questions that sort of thing.
“What are you guys doing later?” I said.
Bub was short and solid; each of his hands looked as strong as a trash compactor. He had darker skin than the rest—an olive cast—with brown hair under a camouflage hat and brown eyes and a full-fledged dark mustache. Later he would share with me that friends often told him he must be “part N-word.” That was his phrasing. He was shy and always looked like he must be thinking hard about something. “Me and Ritter’s going to hear some music,” he said.
“What band is it?”
Ritter said, “Jars of Clay.”
I had read about them; they were big. “Why don’t you guys stop by my trailer and get me on your way?” I said. “I’ll be in that totally empty field.”
Ritter said, “We just might do that.” Then they all lined up to shake my hand.

 
Copyright © 2011 by John Jeremiah Sullivan


Continues...
Excerpted from
Pulphead
by
John Jeremiah Sullivan
Copyright © 2011 by John Jeremiah Sullivan. Excerpted by permission.
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From the United States
F. Tyler B. Brown
5.0 out of 5 stars What Is, Is Natural
Reviewed in the United States on January 2, 2012
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In "Unknown Bards", Sullivan's essay about American Blues music, we get this quote from Dean Blackwood of Revenant Records, "...I have always felt like there wasn't enough of a case being made for [blues musicians'] greatness. You've got to have their stuff together to understand the potency of their work." The same can be said about John Jeremiah Sullivan.

Until now, Sullivan's essays have entered the public sphere only piecemeal through periodicals like GQ, Harper's Magazine, and The Paris Review. With "Pulphead", we get the first compilation of Sullivan's essays, and only the second book of his ever published. What emerges from this collection, more so than if one were to read these essays on their own, is a uniquely talented American writer and voice.

Sullivan's prose is humble and emotional, while never self-centered or overbearing.

His prose is opposite that of a political pundit's, a sophist sportscaster, or "expert" social media consultant. Our society is quick to confuse wisdom with declarative opinions. From Sullivan, don't look for grandiose reformations of opinions into facts. Words like guarantee, definitely, undoubtedly are as foreign to Sullivan as pretentious qualifiers like, "My twenty years of successful leadership on the Hill..." Or, "I have been saying all along, and I will say it again, John Doe is the best athlete since..."

Sullivan deals in grey. In his essays, he even takes self-deprecating swipes at his own credibility as a writer: "I don't know. I had no pseudo-anthropological moxie left." Or, "Ordinarily, one is tense about interrogating strangers, worried about freezing or forgetting to ask what'll turn out to be the only important question." Or about Axl Rose, who the entire essay "The Final Comeback of Axl Rose" was supposed to be about, "I don't know him at all."

Such self-deprecation is uncommon from writers, and requires immense self-confidence. These swipes, in their humanity, though, have a way of increasing Sullivan's credibility. Such subtleties are the touch of a confident Velazquez at the height of his technical mastery.

Sullivan's technical mastery of his craft, his tantalizing, crackling prose, is what allows the reader to learn not only more about the subject of the Sullivan's eye, but also about Sullivan himself.

Whether John Jeremiah Sullivan is writing about pop culture, youth movements, religion, music, or geology, there is always reverberating just beneath the surface of the lead story the narrative of Sullivan's own life.

The story of Sullivan's life has a way of turning the reader inward. The reader becomes a reader of his or her own story.

In "Upon This Rock", Sullivan journeys to the Creation Christian Rock Festival. We learn that Sullivan began this journey with the mindset that his trip to Creation would be "a lark". Instead, Sullivan provides a vivid account of a humbling, human journey of self-exploration, "I went back to the trailer and had, as the ladies say where I'm from, a colossal go-to-pieces. I started to cry and then stopped myself for some reason. I felt nonsensically raw and lonely. What a d%ickhead I'd been, thinking that this trip would be a lark."

In this raw emotion, and through empathy for the people he is writing about, Sullivan achieves at Creation some clarity about his own life, and his own relationship with spirituality.

Sullivan's prose in "Upon This Rock" stands up to today's frenetic, digital, fragmented, and hyperlinked world. His prose is like a glorious mixed-media work of art: a orange yarn glued on top of a black and white photo, underneath and oil painting of an purple-pink evening sky.

Some critics are quick to draw parallels between Sullivan's style and that of David Foster Wallace: the patched together, disjointed brilliance. A more apt description of Sullivan is that he is a self-assured, humble, updated, and less egotistical Hunter S. Thompson.

In his journey to Kingston to meet the "Last Wailer," the influence of fellow Kentuckian Hunter S. Thompson is most apparent: "There was a big open-air bar. `Mind if we smoke?' Llewis asked...We rolled a two-sheeter under a giant sign that said NO GANJA SMOKING." Llewis is not the "Last Wailer". He is just a tour guide, helping Sullivan with the essay. The essay is about neither Llewis, nor Sullivan, but in a way it does become about them, and about something bigger than just Bunny Wailer.

Like with Thompson's writings, in Sullivan's essays, we are always presented the author's story. But Sullivan's first person narrative is far less "Gonzo" than Thompson's.

Sullivan strikes a tone that is more gently, lovingly irreverent than that of "The Decadent and The Depraved" (Thompson's brilliant essay about the Kentucky Derby). Sullivan replaces Thompson's vitriolic I'm-not-a-member-of-the-Country-Club-so everyone-who-is-is-a-small-minded-sycophant bitterness, with an even-though-a-Country-Club-can-be-a-culturally-empty-place-there-are-individuals-inside-of-it-that-I-am-sure-have-some-vulnerability-some-humanity-that-I-can-write-about empathy.

Sullivan opens his heart to his subjects. While his methods- for interviewing and writing alike- may not be ganja-free, and are unconventional- they are far from bitter, angry, or temperamental. A warm self-confidence, respect for mankind, self-deprecation, and desire to know pulsates through Sullivan's writing like a bubbling brook.

In "Peyton's Place" Sullivan has crafted a shrewd commentary on pop culture, parenthood, and of the way media in its many forms is blurring the lines between what is real and unreal, public and private. With a keen sense of humor, and a big heart, Sullivan has an adroit and playful way of mending his language to match his subject, "The brunet's question had given me a small, surprising tilt of nostalgia. Did we know that we used to be on a show? Did we know that?" One can almost hear the unwritten "OMG!!" at the end of that sentence.

Sullivan doesn't play with language in this way to be demeaning; rather, he uses it as a way to show empathy, and to self-reflect. "Brunet" is a carefully, brilliantly chosen word. This superficial identification is similar to the kinds of superficiality that occurs within the very sitcom being filmed in Sullivan's home- a show that Sullivan is neither admonishing nor praising, because he is both removed from the show, but also has an indirect hand in fostering its production.

Sullivan doesn't deal in absolutes. He is constantly exploring through his pen. He is trying to determine what is really real, who he really is, how he relates to another person, what it all means. His language will disarm you with humor, with a familiarity and modernity that carries his words- with a Trojan horse-like slippage- into your psyche for a long, long while. "Pulphead" is a collection of essays that proves Sullivan is a young and lively Southern writer not to be overlooked.
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Bradley Bevers
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4.0 out of 5 stars Great Read, A Few Flaws - Recommended
Reviewed in the United States on December 21, 2011
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This book was my introduction to Sullivan as a writer, and I was impressed. His writing is varied, thorough, and above all interesting. It is a great read, and has one of the coolest covers that I have seen on a book in a long time (the reason I bought it in the first place). As good as it is, there were some flaws that stop me from recommending it without reservation.

His first essay is on Christian rock music, viewed from the lens of a huge Christian rock festival. His analysis of Christian music is spot-on, and his critique of why most Christian rock is bad music is one of the best critiques I have read on the subject. However, I think he misses two things in this essay. First, his easy dismissal of Christians as the uninformed comes across as arrogant. His critique of the music is perfect, his critique of the religion is one sided. Also, while I agree 100% on the state of Christian music, I think that the larger picture is missed in the essay. The fact is that almost all modern music suffers the same fate these days, doomed to imitate instead of create. New country, alternative, and almost everything else on the radio is commercially driven . . . drivel.

The three other stand out essays cover Michael Jackson, Rafinesque, and animal violence. The Michael Jackson piece is fair, moving, and one of the best 10 page mini-bio's on anyone in print. The story of Rafinesque is fascinating, and I hope that the facts are not played with as fast and loose as one of the negative reviews on this book indicate. The story of animal violence is fascinating . . . but I think it suffers greatly because of the ending. I won't give anything away, but I will say I like it much better before I read the last two pages.

All in all, this is a book worth reading by a writer obviously at the top of his craft. You will laugh, learn, fear, and love, and for a collection of non-fiction essays that is an astounding accomplishment. Recommended.
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William Capodanno
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5.0 out of 5 stars Deserves its place on the Ten Best non-fiction lists of 2011
Reviewed in the United States on December 30, 2011
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I had yet to read any of John Jeremiah Sullivan's essays and after seeing this on quite a few Top 10 non-fiction list for 2011, I was eager to dig into this collection and see what all the fuss was about. Sullivan has a mighty fine command of the English language and puts it to great use in "Pulphead", an essay that runs the gamut from rock to religion to family and everything in between.

As I think about all the essays in this collections, there are certainly no duds and quite a few are top notch writing. Sullivan delivers probably the most thought-provoking and balanced essay I've read on Michael Jackson, forcing even the most cynical reader (me) to stop and think about things differently. Sullivan traverses the music landscape from Jackson to heavy metal (Axl Rose) to reggae and Bunny Wailer to an amazing essay on country blues. He even makes a stop into the land of Christian rock, attending a weekend festival and musing on why the terms Christian and rock seem to be oxymoronic. Lest one thinks that music is the only topic that Sullivan is adept writing about, he tackles the near death of his brother (electrocution from a microphone) to an obscure naturalist in 19th century America to whether animal attacks on human beings represent a growing trend and cause for concern by homo sapiens. Sullivan manages to bring interest to the long forgotten genesis of reality TV, "The Real World", and talk about the time his house was used over multiple seasons for the teen drama, "One Tree Hill". In addition to the Michael Jackson essay, the two other essays that shine above the rest are one where he explores the suicide (or murder) of US census worker Bill Sparkman and the other where he writes about his experience living with writer Andrew Lytle.

Sullivan certainly entertains and provokes in this amazingly rich body of work that should keep just about anyone entertained. While I read it sequentially, one can certainly pick it up and read one essay and come back at a later time and choose anything that suits their mood. Now that I've "discovered" Sullivan, I'm certain to seek out his writing without waiting for his next published set of essays.
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Dmitry Portnoy
5.0 out of 5 stars Genius and Kindness
Reviewed in the United States on November 21, 2011
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In "Pulphead" John Jeremiah Sullivan has written the funniest book by Chuck Klosterman, the sunniest book by David Foster Wallace, and the literary follow-up to Bob Dylan's "The Basement Tapes." Does his sounding like other writers mean he has a less than unique voice of his own? Perhaps. But that is a byproduct of what Keats called "negative capability:" being more interested in the the subjects of one's essays than in oneself. There will be plenty of time for self-exploration in what I hope will be many other books. Right now, Sullivan values elegance over quirkiness, clarity over color. And each time he trains his Swarovzski-sniper-(in)sight at his targets, he shoots bullets of pure love, if anything reserving even more understanding and sympathy for the infamous. These essays are a demonstration of how the vinegar of genius when stirred into the milk of human kindness and aged in the dark cave of the soul yields an inexhaustible variety of tastes and textures. Each piece here surprises and one-ups its predecessor. And oh, the erudition. In these pages one reads that Auden said "all art results from humiliation" and also that elephants regularly rape rhinoceroses. Unless Sullivan is making this up. He might be: he is an ingenious, adroit, admitted liar. But even his lies reveal the truth. This book is a nexus where the soiled and tangled roots of American myth meet the unreality of our media culture with the contradictory braided reflectiveness of an Escher engraving. As a Southern epic-comic social critic, Sullivan has not yet scaled the heights of Twain or John Kennedy Toole, but has already far surpassed Tom Wolfe. Hurry up with that novel, but for God's sake, don't kill yourself over it. Even if you never equal this collection, it will be good enough.
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Gridley
4.0 out of 5 stars What a Strange World
Reviewed in the United States on December 29, 2011
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Thematic strength isn't what you usually find in a book of journalistic essays, but apparently Sullivan is drawn to strangeness wherever it rears its head. And in this world, strangeness is de rigueur. These essays wander from a Christian rock festival to a brother of Sullivan, who exhibits all sorts of odd behavior after a near-electrocution. Then there's a near-encounter with Guns n' Roses' Axl Rose, a fey old gay man, then America's ancient cave dwellers and those who find and sell their artifacts. Perhaps the oddest two are one on Jamaica's Rastafarians and another on a naturalist's theory of why animals - worldwide - seem to be increasingly attacking humans. Two pieces on reality shows could very well have been left out - their oddness speaks for itself.

It would be easy to treat each of these subjects as caricatures, but that isn't Sullivan's angle. There's always something a bit confessional in his work; he's very rarely cynical, and he seems to be at least a little invested in each subject he approaches. As such, his writing is both expository and personal, and there's not a little bit of charm to each. It's as if Sullivan wants us to admit to a lot of this strangeness in each of us. And that's a refreshing point of view in a literary world replete with postmodernist cynicism.
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Scott A. Davis
5.0 out of 5 stars Reminds me of Blue Like Jazz
Reviewed in the United States on May 2, 2023
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Surprising at every turn. Beautifully crafted. Great insights. True in many many ways. And fun to read.
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Smith
4.0 out of 5 stars For those unfamiliar with the author
Reviewed in the United States on December 6, 2011
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I bought Pulphead without having ever read John Jeremiah Sullivan. In fact I had forgotten his name while reading it and had to check back. For those thinking of buying this out of an interest piqued by widespread praise for it or an interest in the essay form, chances are they will not be disappointed. One need not already be a fan of Sullivan to enjoy this work.

The essays within are tight yet informative -- Sullivan does not lose the reader in his thoughts or detai. Instead of being somewhat abstract personal reflections, though, he really meets the reader halfway to invite us into his mindset in quite personal and candid situations. Furthermore, the diverse topics he writes on are charming and unique.

Pulphead: Essays is constructed as if the best personal pieces from different editions of high-brow magazines were packaged together. If you were likely to read those essays the next time the mail came, you might as well read them all together and get familiar with one of (apparently) the genre's more accomplished writers -- without the Patek-Philippe and Chanel advertisements to interrupt.
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ElGuapo
5.0 out of 5 stars good stuff
Reviewed in the United States on May 1, 2012
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This book caught my attention on the best-of-2011 lists and I bought the paperback impulsively,which is the way i usually buy my stuff.
I read a lot everyday at work. When I get home, many times I do not have the patience to read a "book" what with my addictive personality wanting to know how the story ends. Instead, I read a lot of magazines. I can finish an article without a problem, and I can go to sleep having finished reading what I started.
Pulphead is a collection of articles that Mr. Sullivan published in various magazines over the years. There is something about each one that resonates with me, and that allows me to get lost in its pages and forget about both the day that was, and the day that is about to arrive.
This is (was) the last hard-copy book I bought before I started to accumulate e-books on my kindle. And even-though I may have 50 books in the little machine ready to be read, and a few old magazines waiting to be finished, more often than not I just pick-up Pulphead and listen to Mr. Sullivan .
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Garrett
5.0 out of 5 stars A pleasant surprise
Reviewed in the United States on June 2, 2012
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My workplace frequently has leftover copies of magazines laying around and in the moments when I have run out of more suitable reading material I am forced to turn to the pages of GQ (the alternatives are worse, trust me). A very small fraction of the articles in GQ have ever struck me as standouts. Two of them were articles on Michael Jackson and Bunny Wailer, respectively. These were both penned by Sullivan and included in this collection.
While I enjoyed his essays on music the most, Sullivan's other essays are equally laudable. The essay on Lytle is poignant and touching. Sullivan's observations on christian rock mirror my own but he sums it up in a much more eloquent fashion. The essay on Rafinesque is fascinating history. I will cut myself off there and allow potential readers to discover for themselves the rest of what Sullivan offers.
In summation, I took a gamble on Pulphead and I was very impressed. More than worth the price of admission. Sullivan's prose is beautiful, he possesses a wry sense of humor and his essays are compact but filling. I am eagerly looking forward to more work from this writer.
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Joseph Kugelmass
5.0 out of 5 stars Stands up alongside Marcus and Klosterman
Reviewed in the United States on January 6, 2012
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I devoured this book in two days. Based on what I'd read beforehand, I was expecting a book of pop criticism, a la Klosterman. Instead, what I got was much more varied and profound. Generally speaking, the collection is a secret history of the United States; many of the essays walk a line between what can be known, and what cannot, in our American past. For example, Sullivan spends an hour, in one of the essays, trying to decipher the lyrics to a haunting, mostly-forgotten blues song. In another, he imagines an encounter between a cave painter, thousands of years ago, and a cave painting made thousands of years before that. The painting is an object of wonder and mystery to this historical would-be artist, just as his paintings will eventually be for us.

A whole book of nothing but very clever essays on mainstream American pop culture can end up making the reader himself feel trapped at the carnival. By instead turning pop culture (The Real World, Axl Rose, etc) into another chapter in an ongoing American story, Sullivan elevates both his subject and his own full-length debut.
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From the United States
Kevin Peeples
5.0 out of 5 stars Not Southern, American
Reviewed in the United States on May 8, 2012
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John Jeremiah Sullivan is a talented writer who shows great compassion on subjects not normally shown empathy. A great example, and probably the second-best essay of the collection behind "Mr. Lytle: An Essay," is the very first of the collection--"On This Rock"--about Sullivan's travels to a Christian rock concert. He doesn't sneer, and he doesn't condemn. There is no hint of superiority. "John Jeremiah Sullivan" the character is presented as a bit of a clown (probably more so than is actually true . . . though maybe not, who knows). We are meant to laugh at him as much as with him. We learn JJS himself went through a Christian-phase in high school. By understanding and recognizing his empathy we are empathetic. We were once young, foolish, brave, stupid, sad, happy. We know these things. JJS reminds us. Great collection.

Not a revolution for essays/magazine writing, but it's about as good as it gets without reworking the whole damn thing.
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Hotelier California
5.0 out of 5 stars Fresh Observer on the Sub-Cultural Front Lines
Reviewed in the United States on May 3, 2012
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As an introduction to a new literary voice, John Jeremiah Sullivan's PULPHEAD is as much or more than anyone could possibly hope for. While he reports from a wide variety of cultural milieu, they are all on the fringes of society, like Christian rock festivals, Kentucky Indian artifact bandits, and outsider scientists who fear that that animals are growing more sentient and organized, and are poised to try and take over, a la PLANET OF THE APES. Sullivan is a character in all of these stories, but he never overwhelms, preferring to stay largely on the edge as a wry, interested, open-minded, and knowledgeable observer. He lets us see these people as they see themselves and their world, and while he sometimes judges them, in unerrably amusing ways, he is never less than fair. Reading his work is a treat, and I look forward to seeing more and even greater things from him.
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Amazon Customer
4.0 out of 5 stars Noted in Passing
Reviewed in the United States on October 10, 2012
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Eclectic doesn't begin to describe this collection of essays. Whether it's a trip to Creation (a Christian music festival) or down a cave in Tennessee, Sullivan pulls the reader easily along with plenty of context and, of course, the colorful personalities who really make his compositions sing. Some of the latter, like Michael Jackson or Axl Rose, are easily remembered and, in Pulphead, nicely reconsidered. Other subjects, like Southern School writer Andrew Lytle, whose works were unknown to this particular deep south English major, come as an introduction and even something of a revelation. Pulphead may sound mushy, but the writing is sharp.
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Zippy
3.0 out of 5 stars Not for everyone
Reviewed in the United States on December 4, 2013
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This is a book by a young author, and I have to say that I found the essays and their topics more than a little weird. Perhaps that is because I am out of touch with (or not interested in) much of what is important to him. I read this short book over a long weekend, and not under any particular stress, and I did finish it. I do not think it is a book for a long plane ride or any situation where the reader is looking for something that will really grab attention. However, someone who is interested in the current music scene might find this book much more compelling than I did.
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Sheila L. Mccarthy
4.0 out of 5 stars Agree with everyone else, however...
Reviewed in the United States on November 17, 2011
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Like the other reviewers here, I was impressed by Sullivan's literate style and depth of knowledge, but Good Lord! Are there no longer such people in the book business as editors? In the essay about the naturalist Rafinesque (about whom I had never heard), there is this gem: "...imprisoned by Lincoln in 1866..." Say what? So, of course, I have to wonder what other non-facts have slipped into the book.
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Chacodog
3.0 out of 5 stars I read a good article in the NY Times by this guy
Reviewed in the United States on November 10, 2014
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I read a good article in the NY Times by this guy. It was about the early days of recorded black music. Great article, so I decided to try this. I liked the article about him going to a Christian festival in a huge RV. And it was interesting to read the strange stuff his brother said and did after getting electrocuted and then coming out of a coma. But overall, it was just so-so. It's one of those compilations your publisher has you put together to get a product out. He's capable of better and I'll seek out his other work.
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Thomas Engström
5.0 out of 5 stars I will read this book again. And then some.
Reviewed in the United States on November 22, 2017
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I hate short story collections, and I hate essay collections even more. I still do. But right now, having just finished this book, I would give anything for a year or so to pass in an instant, just so I could start over afresh from the first page. Jesus Christ, it has even made me enjoy writing again.
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Bill Sharp
5.0 out of 5 stars Spectacular Reading
Reviewed in the United States on November 12, 2011
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I'm age 72 and a life-long reader, have a couple of Masters degrees, and used to belong to MENSA. This is as wonderful a book as I have read in a long time, maybe forever. The depth of the intellect shown here, the command of vocabulary, the naturalness of the writing, and the amazing detail is all just stupendous. I never knew I'd be interested in some of the subjects of the essays, but to my amazement, I was. Don't miss this book.
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ASP
5.0 out of 5 stars Excellent and Diverse Collection of Essays
Reviewed in the United States on December 10, 2015
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This is truly one of the best collection of essays I have come across in a long time! The topics are far ranging, but through them all, I feel as if I am in the hands of a truly excellent writer, and I trust that no matter the subject matter, Sullivan will take good care of me, the reader, as well as give me a lot to think over and to savor. Five stars!
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Max Jenius
5.0 out of 5 stars It would make a non-reader like to read
Reviewed in the United States on January 26, 2014
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I'm not a bookworm by any means, but this book was very entertaining. I don't even like essays, in general. On multiple occasions I found myself laughing out loud. Sullivan has a way of expressing himself concisely, yet vividly. There are too many good points to mention in this review. The essays on Axl Rose and a Christian revival are gems that come to mind. I'd recommend this to anyone.
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