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Voices

Voices

by Frederic Prokosch, introduction by Kathryn Davis

Regular price $19.95
Regular price Sale price $19.95
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Frederic Prokosch began as a fantasist. His first novel, The Asiatics, was an imaginary account of a man hitchhiking across the Asian continent. Praised by T. S. Eliot, W. B. Yeats, and Thomas Mann, the book earned its young author a reputation as a stylist. But while Prokosch kept publishing, he was not much read; by the 1940s, he had moved permanently to Europe, keeping aloof from what he called the “middle-class and fancy dullness” of mid-century American letters.

In 1982, Prokosch briefly returned to the literary limelight with Voices, a memoir framed by evocations of his childhood in Middle America and his old age in the South of France but mostly composed of short chapters in which he ventriloquizes the myriad famous figures he met. Voices, too, was a bit of a fantasy. But if he did not in fact meet all of these figures, he manages to convince us that he listened to their cadences more closely than most. Whether he is playing a tennis match with Ezra Pound or retrieving Marc Chagall’s wallet from the Grand Canal, sharing a beer with Bertolt Brecht or a steam bath with W. H. Auden, Prokosch hypnotizes the reader with his humor and melancholy, creating a masterpiece of imaginative memoir, long out of print and long overlooked.

Additional Book Information

Series: NYRB Classics
ISBN: 9798896230120
Pages: 360
Publication Date:

Praise

Mr. Prokosch’s gift is one which strikes me as astonishing. It is rich and immediate . . . the talent of a real visionary, and often magical.
—W.B. Yeats

I can't think of any other writer who captures the essence of another human being so swiftly and so wickedly.
—Kathryn Davis

Prokosch never taught school; never sought prizes or foundation grants; never played at literary politics. He seems to have been more interested in the works or voices of others than in himself as a person (as opposed to himself as a writer), a characteristic that tends to put him outside contemporary American literature; and contemporary American literature, sensing this indifference to the games careerists play, extruded him entirely from the canon. He was like no one else.
—Gore Vidal, The New York Review of Books

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