I talk to Carl Adamshick @ The Rumpus

“The first thing you notice about the one-bedroom bungalow on Couch Street are the books. Because they seem to cast their own light, pulsing with potential energy in their immaculate rows, and because, well, there’s not much else to look at. Five wooden cabinets with glass doors in the main room house hundreds of first-edition volumes of poetry. A few months ago my publisher took me to Carl’s, describing it as a “most respectable bachelor pad.” When I saw the books, when I realized what they were, I felt a pang of jealousy, and the overwhelming desire to touch each one. I spent the next hour surveying the titles, oblivious to my hosts, then thumbed the stack of books on the wooden table awaiting a treatment of Mylar. A stereo in the corner pumped slow jam LPs, and then (at my request) Anne Sexton’s throaty performance of “Her Kind,” from an equally rare LP. There’s a bedroom down the hall, and a shoebox-sized kitchen fit for plating a togo container of chow mein. It takes a giant fucking dork to appreciate the magnitude of what this man curates and protects in his modest apartment. A bounty to inspire nightmares of fire.”




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