Peter Coviello Livres

Provides a rich new conceptual language to describe the movements of sex in nineteenth-century America before it solidified into the sexuality we know

Vineland is hardly anyone’s favorite Thomas Pynchon novel. Marking Pynchon’s return after vanishing for nearly two decades following his epic Gravity’s Rainbow , it was initially regarded as slight, a middling curiosity. However, for Peter Coviello, the oft-overlooked Vineland opens up new ways of thinking about Pynchon’s writing and about how we read and how we live in the rough currents of history.Beginning with his early besotted encounters with Vineland , Coviello reads Pynchon’s offbeat novel of sixties insurgents stranded in the Reaganite summer of 1984 as a delirious stoner comedy that is simultaneously a work of heartsick fury and political a portrait of the hard afterlives of failed revolution in a period of stifling reaction. Offering a roving meditation on the uses of criticism and the practice of friendship, the fashioning of publics and counterpublics, the sentence and the police, Coviello argues that Vineland is among the most abundant and far-sighted of late-century American excursions into novelistic possibility. Departing from visions of Pynchon as the arch-postmodernist, erudite and obscure, he discloses an author far more companionable and humane. In Pynchon’s harmonizing of joyousness and outrage, comedy and sorrow, Coviello finds a model for thinking through our catastrophic present.

From the perspective of Protestant America, nineteenth-century Mormons were the victims of a peculiar zealotry, a population deranged––socially, sexually, even racially––by the extravagances of belief they called “religion.” Make Yourselves Gods offers a counter-history of early Mormon theology and practice, tracking the Saints from their emergence as a dissident sect to their renunciation of polygamy at century’s end.   Over these turbulent decades, Mormons would appear by turns as heretics, sex-radicals, refugees, anti-imperialists, colonizers, and, eventually, reluctant monogamists and enfranchised citizens. Reading Mormonism through a synthesis of religious history, political theology, native studies, and queer theory, Peter Coviello deftly crafts a new framework for imagining orthodoxy, citizenship, and the fate of the flesh in nineteenth-century America. What emerges is a story about the violence, wild beauty, and extravagant imaginative power of this era of Mormonism—an impassioned book with a keen interest in the racial history of sexuality and the unfinished business of American secularism.  

A passionate, heartfelt story about the many ways we fall in love: with books, bands and records, friends and lovers, and the families we make. Have you ever fallen in love--exalting, wracking, hilarious love--with a song? Long Players is a book about that everyday kind of besottedness--and, also, about those other, more entangling sorts of love that songs can propel us into. We follow Peter Coviello through his happy marriage, his blindsiding divorce, and his fumbling post marital forays into sex and romance. Above all we travel with him as he calibrates, mix by mix and song by song, his place in the lives of two little girls, his suddenly ex-stepdaughters. In his grief, he considers what keeps us alive (sex, talk, dancing) and the limitless grace of pop songs.

"Is There God After Prince? is a book about loving things (books, songs, poems, people) in the shadow of looming disaster. Coviello's dazzling, highly personal essays address pieces of contemporary culture across an expansive range--songs by Prince, Joni Mitchell, SZA, and Phoebe Bridgers, writings by Sam Lipsyte, Paula Fox, Paul Beatty, and Dana Spiotta, movies like Heathers, TV shows like The Sopranos, as well as videos, poems, and other pop artefacts. Coviello places these artefacts back in the scenes where he first found them and traces what they did there, whether private (a kid's graduation, an aging parent, a divorce) or public (an election, a pandemic). Laced throughout is a queasy fascination with signs that so much is now coming to an end. It is on this terrain of endstrickenness, as Coviello calls it, that the book lingers, though it does so often in the mood of a startled joyousness, one that these pieces are at pains to understand. Cumulatively, Is There God After Prince? wants to be a model for what criticism can do--what it can sound like, how much sorrow and delight it can get into one place--in an era of Last Things"--