News and Events

See all News and Events

A Reading by Carole Maso
The 2018 Berlin Prize winner reads from her work
Monday, March 2, 2020
2:30 pm – 3:30 pm EST/GMT-5
Campus Center, Weis Cinema
 [A Reading by Carole Maso] On Monday, March 2, at 2:30 p.m., in Weis Cinema, Carole Maso reads from her work. Presented by the Innovative Contemporary Fiction Reading Series, and introduced by Bard literature professor and novelist Bradford Morrow, the reading is free and open to the public; no tickets or reservations are required.

A contemporary American novelist and essayist known for her experimental, poetic, and fragmentary narratives, Carole Maso is the award–winning author of ten books, beginning with the novel Ghost Dance, published in 1986. In 1990, Maso published The Art Lover, followed by AVA (1993), The American Woman in the Chinese Hat (1994), and a book a short stories, Aureole: An Erotic Sequence (1996). Defiance, perhaps her best-known work, appeared in 1998, depicting a Harvard professor who is sentenced to death for the murder of her two students. In 2000, Maso published the essay collection Break Every Rule: Essays on Language, Longing, and Moments of Desire and The Room Lit by Roses: A Journal of Pregnancy and Birth. She is also author of the biographical meditation Beauty is Convulsive: The Passion of Frida Kahlo (2002) and the novel Mother and Child (2012). She currently is at work on a novel, The Bay of Angels.

Carole Maso is a professor of literary arts at Brown University, where she has been teaching since 1995. She has previously held positions at Columbia University, George Washington University, and Illinois State University. She is the recipient of many awards, including an NEA Fellowship and a Lannan Literary Award for fiction. She is the recipient of the 2018 Berlin Prize.
 
PRAISE FOR CAROLE MASO

“Maso often seems to be embroidering silk onto water; in the wake of her sensory pull, words thread along forceful yet unfixable patterns. . . . [An] extraordinary level of craft.” New York Times

“Maso is a writer of such power and originality that the reader is carried away with her, far beyond the usual limits of the novel. . . . Maso’s voice is all her own: simultaneously cerebral and sensual, violently romantic, and insistently woman-centered.” San Francisco Chronicle

“Carole Maso is a writer who succeeds brilliantly at relaying the fragile notion of life’s enigma. . . . She tries to capture something of life’s true rhythms, to express the extreme, the fleeting, the fugitive states that hover at the outermost boundaries of speech.” —Los Angeles Times Book Review

“Maso is not content to muse on the relationship between life and art; she brings to life a ‘bombardment of images and sounds,’ fashioning a pattern of astonishing complexity and beauty. The tough-mindedness, originality, and wit of her perceptions are intoxicating.” Publishers Weekly

Contact: Nicole Nyhan, nnyhan@bard.edu, 845-758-7054

Connect

e-mail
Submissions

In Print

Vol. 77
States of Play: The Games Issue
Fall 2021
Bradford Morrow

Online

November 17, 2021
I fell asleep with my girlfriend’s head on my shoulder, but woke to a too-familiar absence—one that had somehow followed us down all those highway miles—her body a shadow on the other bed that could have belonged to anyone, could have been an axe murderer for all I knew, but I just closed my eyes and willed whatever future was coming to hurry, I was tired of waiting for it. On my second waking the sun was shouldering its way into the room through the crack in the curtains, my girlfriend now missing from both beds, and the room was made strange by her disappearance so that I flung myself out from under the covers. I found her in the bathroom with her hands on either side of the sink, the water running and There’s something wrong with it Liv she said.
November 10, 2021
        The fathers drowned and scientists were baffled.
          All over the world fathers met their end in water. Fishing fathers drowned in rivers, swimming fathers drowned in lakes, tanning fathers drowned in backyard pools. Bathing fathers drowned in tubs and surfing fathers were sucked in the sea’s undertow. Fathers panning for gold drowned in creeks. A father was found dead with his head in an overflowing sink near dishes slick with syrup from breakfast. A father in a bathrobe was discovered face down in a puddle in the parking lot of a department store. Deep within a national forest, a father was found upended with both black rubber boots stuck up high from a primitive outhouse’s chamber hole. He would have looked funny if he weren’t dead.
          Fathers in other countries, fathers of celebrities, rich fathers, poor fathers, fathers only known in passing, cherished fathers, stepfathers, fathers of strangers and fathers of friends. They drowned and drowned.
November 3, 2021
   The day you told me the world was ending, you had inquired about a particular scent for treating your mother’s lapses in memory (further complicating the matter by saying that your father, the primary witness to her memory loss, was also deteriorating himself). I assured you there was no such perfume.

            As a joke or token of consolation, I showed you a favorite scent of my mother’s, which had played no small part in enchanting my father. It was a perfume heavy with middle notes, or heart-notes, as we call it, which take longer to dissipate. It had no medical basis for treating pre-existing memory loss, but the scent alone was potent enough to provide an olfactory anchor at the moment of inhalation—a perfumed time-stamp. 

            Of course the world was ending, I said. Everything was always ending. 
advertisement