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Cody Harrison

@codyharrison.bsky.social

I would kill another Franco spy Fiction/Essays: The Gettysburg Review, J Journal, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Denver Quarterly, Santa Monica Review

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Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · last wk.

Watching the cult BBC program The Prisoner (like 1 to 2 percent of Bluesky.) Love that its premise is every episode a TV producer named No. 2 instigates another cunning scheme to modernize James Bond for contemporary audiences.

Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Now I’m reading Ackerman’s A Natural History of the Senses, the Fall 2025 edition of The Georgia Review, Alberto Moravia’s The Conformist and Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s El laberinto de los espíritus

Ackerman’s A Natural History of the Senses, Moravia’s The Conformist and Carlos Ruiz Zafón’s El laberinto de los espíritus Fall 2025 Georgia Review
Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · 2mo ago

One thing you lose with CGI isn't just the great Harryhausen claymation of a movie like Jason and the Argonauts, but also how Nigel Green as Hercules looks like he's going to pull a muscle he's straining so much to open the big door of the gods' treasure chamber

Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · 2mo ago

My mother sent me an opinion article admonishing the Republicans for their extreme right, by comparing them to the apparently too reform-minded, too "urban" gubernatorial candidate for Texas in '78, Democrat John Hill. She sent it solely because its picture is Hill with my grandfather at a barbeque.

Ken Paxton should remember what happened in 1978 | Opinion

In 1978, an fractured political party lost control of Texas. That might be happening again, writes George Hittner.

houstonchronicle.com

Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Sometimes when I'm applying for academic jobs I begin to think long complex syllabi are like dead internet theory, only the dead internet is professors, and the human beings are students not reading the syllabi (as I was in undergrad)

Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · 2mo ago

One of the most prominent cliches in children's movies is when a child explains a concept & the adult immediately gives them the word for that concept. "That's called an acrostic." I do not know the words for any of my daughter's concepts. I just constantly say "I think there's a term for that."

Cody Harrison@codyharrison.bsky.social · 2mo ago

Fascinating moment in Giorgio Bassani’s The Garden of the Finzi Continis—about middle class Jewish communities in Italy between the wars— in which the eponymous Continis ask a singing goblet to answer each of them a question about the future

I sat down and, at once, surprised at not having observed properly, I realized that the cloth was not at all cleared. In the center of the table there was a big, fine silver tray, and in the center of the tray, surrounded at a few inches distance by a halo of little pieces of white cardboard, each of which bore a letter of the alphabet, written in red pencil, there stood a solitary champagne glass. 'What's that?' I asked Alberto. 'Why, that's the big surprise I told you about!' Alberto exclaimed. 'It's absolutely amazing: all you have to do is have three or four people, in a circle, who each put a finger on the lip of the glass and, immediately, back and forth, one letter after another, it answers.''Answers?" 'Certainly! It writes, very slowly, all the answers. And intel- ligent ones, too, you can't imagine how intelligent!' It had been a long time since I had seen Alberto so euphoric, so excited. "And where did it come from,' I asked, 'this latest thing?' *It's only a game,' Professor Ermanno interrupted, putting a hand on my arm and shaking his head. 'Something Micol brought down from Venice.' 'Ah, then you're responsible!' I said, addressing Micol. 'And does it also read the future, your glass?' 'Of course!' she cried, with a sly wink. I don't mind telling you, that is its great specialty.' Dirce came in, at that moment, holding aloft, balanced on one hand, a round platter of dark wood, brimming with Passover sweets. Dirce's cheeks, too, were rosy, gleaming with health and good humor. As guest, and the last to arrive, I was served first. The sweets, the so-called zucarin, made of light pastry mixed with raisins, were more or less the same as the ones I had eaten reluctantly, a little earlier, at home. And yet these, at the Finzi-Continis, immediately seemed much better, much tastier: and I said so, too, addressing Signora Olga, who, intent on choosing a zucarin from the dish Dirce was holding out to her, didn't seem to notice my compliment. Then Perotti appeared, his heavy peasant hands clutching the edges of a second tray (this one of pewter), which held a flask of white wine and glasses for all. And afterwards, as we sat there, in disorder around the table, each taking little sips of Albana and munching zucarin, Alberto was illustrating to me in particular the 'divining powers of the chalice,' which now stood there, mute like all the honest verres of this world, but which, until a short time before, as they had questioned it, had demonstrated an exceptional, admirable loquacity.I asked what kind of questions had been addressed to it. 'Oh, a bit of everything.' They had asked it, for example - he continued - if he, Alberto, one of these days, would manage to take his engineering degree; and the glass, promptly, had replied with a very sharp 'no.' Then Micol had wanted to know if she would be married, and when; and here the glass had been much less peremptory, indeed rather confused, giving a response worthy of a true classical oracle: subject, that is, to the most contradictory interpretations. They had questioned it even about the tennis court, the 'poor sainted glass!': trying to discover if Papà would abandon his eternal fussing, postponing year after year the job of putting it in order. And on this subject, displaying great reserves of patience, the 'Pythian' had become explicit once more, assuring them that the long-awaited improvements would be carried out very soon, within the present year. But it was in the field of politics, especially, that the glass had worked wonders. Soon, in a few months, it had decreed, war would break out: a war that would be long, bloody, grievous for all, which would embroil the entire world, but which would end, after many years of dubious battles, with the complete victory of the forces of good. 'Of good?' Micòl had asked at this point, always a specialist in gaffes. "And what, if you please, might the forces of good be? At which the glass, leaving them all dumbfounded, had answered with a single word: 'Stalin.'