Reading Lia Purpura’s Rough Likeness is like waiting for a sugar cube to dissolve on your outstretched tongue. Initially, there is a sweetness that pleases and promises more. Then, as the salvia mixes, the pleasure becomes that of the mouth’s, the stomach’s, the body’s, until finally, it is the brain’s. When there is no sugar left though, the taste, small bits, linger against the teeth and roof of the mouth, a reminder of pleasure that pulses through veins and arteries, a promise of nourishment in the blood.
In 18 brief but inspired pieces, Purpura presents a collection that embraces the tradition of the essay—writing that seeks to make meaning from experiences both personal and universal, honest attempts to give life to the ordinary and extraordinary in our lives. In “Jump,” Purpura considers those who have died from either jumping or (and this word, or, troubles her) diving from a bridge. In doing so, Purpura contemplates her own fall. She writes, “And, too, the moments I’ve offered here, moments constituting this piece, (my own foray into jumping), also remain ill-marked. Broadly imperfect, still largely unfurled. Without extended thinking on “risk.” And that whole part about my letting stuff go, and what that might be, what else that might mean—that’s not really filled in. I know that.”
Rough Likeness from Sarabande Books, finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award
Purpura is declarative and deliberate in her prose—she’s straightforward, and roundabout, and lyrical at once. Her descriptions are rich and visceral—in Advice she addresses the question of tightly worn male jeans by describing the ways in which the legs, thighs, calves, ankles, of males are overlooked “Note the poor ankle, stripped bare by socks rubbing.” At various times, we’re asked to consider and reconsider the ankle, the ax, the way shit swirls in white porcelain.
In each of the 18 essays, Purpura demonstrates close attention to language—her love, respect, and passion for words is clear. In Luster, she writes, “A word is a way to speak about something that really, in truth, no word can touch.” And Purpura’s words do manage to touch—in the tender and joyful way she addresses her son’s kindness or in her description of a feather she’s gone back along the street to collect. Perhaps they touch us because they engage us in a conversation with Purpura, who is engaged in a conversation with a world too large to grasp. Each essay is an invitation for us to do the same.
Often, Purpura’s presence in the writing extends beyond that of a narrator, offering a more direct meditation, an acknowledgement that the act of writing is but an exercise in memory. In “Street Scene,” she writes, “So where was I now? And also, who, is the question. Here, into the picture (I’m slowing this down considerably) came an old woman shuffling, assiduously not looking both ways as she crossed the street.” Later in the same essay, “All along, this has been the story of a moment. The cross-sectioning of a moment is the news. That a moment anywhere—here, on a street—does this, is news.” Rough Likeness is a collection of essays that consists of moments small and large, all at once personal and entirely universal (holding the photograph of a loved one, collecting blue beach glass).
In “Being of Two Minds,” Purpura writes, “Two of my oldest friends just visited, each briefly, and returned home, one to England and one to Italy. I miss them now, and in their absence, know that I will never see them enough in a lifetime.” Rough Likeness is just that—the cheer and contentment of old friends come to visit, the fragile sadness at their having left.
Heather Hamilton is constantly reminding permanent and temporary Tucson residents that Idaho (her home state) is not the same as Iowa or Ohio. She is an MFA candidate in nonfiction at the University of Arizona.
