Books To Bury Me With: Christopher Zeischegg

The book I’d want to take with me to the grave:

The Cathedral of Mist by Paul Willems.

This passage is still one of my favorites:

"My father would say that prayer took on great fervor in that church because it was not expressed in words. As you stood on the carpet of ivy, hearing but not listening to the music of the irises, a kind of mute rapture seized you. You became silence. No voice rose up, not even from the deepest part of yourself. Your whole being went in an intense leap toward something – but what? Not any goal that could be put into words, nor the fulfillment of any desire, nor a battle, nor consolation. You went toward something you did not know the nature of. Toward everything. Toward nothing. And the joy that answered this leap had no name. Leaving the church on such nights, heading down the forest trail, you could have confided in no one. Not even yourself, for you felt a sort of beneficent emptiness, as if that person inside us, who questions and judges us, were absent. My father would then say he understood that answers to questions never lie in explanations but in the acceptance of pain and anguish."

The first book that hit me like a ton of bricks:

The Sluts by Dennis Cooper.

It's often celebrated as Cooper's masterpiece. For me, it was maybe the first written work to provoke a visceral reaction I'm still hesitant to define.

The book that’s seen more of my tears, coffee stains, and cigarette burns:

I rarely revisit books in full. Though, Love Me Tender by Constance Debre is something I can't stop recommending. It at least brought me to the 'tears' portion.

The book that shook my world like a goddamn hurricane:

Maybe The Melancholy of Resistance by Laszlo Krasznahorkai. It broke my near-religious affinity to minimalist texts.

The book I wish I’d discovered when my liver was still intact:

I'm not an alcoholic.

The book I’d shove into everyone’s hands if I were king of the world:

Probably Psycho-Cybernetics by Maxwell Maltz, MD.

I'm mostly embarrassed to mention self-help or self-development literature in public. But I bought a copy for fellow Apocalypse Party author, Juan Valencia (he wrote a great collection called Poking Holes). He also said it had a pretty profound impact on him. So, that makes two of us.

The book that nearly drove me to madness:

Christopher Norris' work, especially The Holy Day, does something strange to me.

I find his work somewhat difficult to read. The sentences feel like a kind of maze; I have to slow down to figure out what they mean.

At the same time, his books are totally engrossing. It's hard for me to wrap my head around, as I typically hate literature labeled 'experimental' or whatever. 99% of the time, I won't finish a book that isn't immediately accessible. I prefer to read for pleasure.

The book I can’t keep my hands off of, no matter how many times I’ve read it:

I don't think I've read any book, in full, more than twice. There's so much out there I want to get to. Seems a waste of time to keep revisiting the same material.

The last book I remember re-reading is The Map and the Territory by Michel Houllebecq. I was trying to reference it, structurally, for a novel I was working on.

The book I’d hide in the back of my closet, pretending I’m too highbrow for it:

My first novel. It's mostly awful.

The book that left a scar I wish I could forget:

Tool. by Peter Sotos gave me an 'unwashed' feeling I'd like to never revisit.

The author who made me think, "Now that’s a soul in torment":

In my opinion, anyone pushing that angle is on some Spirit Halloween clown shit. 

The book I’d get a tattoo of if I had the nerve:

I don't have any tattoos. And if I had the nerve, it would have nothing to do with books.

The book that made me question everything I thought I knew:

I've built my own echo chamber, same as everyone else.

The book that’s so damn good I’d never loan it out:

I have some signed Dennis Cooper titles I wouldn't loan out for sentimental reasons.

Same with some out-of-print design books authored by my grandfather, Walter Zeischegg. Kartoffelchips im Wellfachenquadrat and Hand und Griff.

The book that’s been my companion through the darkest nights:

At my worst, I'm not looking to a book for answers.

The book I’d throw in someone’s face during a heated argument:

0 to 1 by Peter Thiel is the only book I own that someone's gotten upset with me about. So, maybe it would make a good weapon. 

The book that reminds me of a lost love or regret:

Any of my ex-wife's art books.

The book that makes me want to drink myself into oblivion:

Do we need to get you to a meeting?

The book I wish I could have written, but know I never could:

The Cathedral of Mist by Paul Willems.

The book that’s been my refuge from the world’s cruelty:

Andy Goldsworthy's book, Ephemeral Works: 2004-2014. It's just beautiful photos of a silly man out in nature, making art that will immediately disappear.