Local 6 News: “An 83-year-old man was found lying dead in his yard next to his wife after he fell, became stranded and ordered his wife not to get help for three days despite heavy rainstorms, according to authorities.” (via Metafilter)
Month / February 2004
Beatrice.com + Dalkey. Someone’s Clearly Profiting Here.
Ron is an evil man. Either that or a Dalkey PR flak. If you’re interested in good lit, you can purchase 100 books for $500. I won’t bother to describe what’s in their catalog. But there are enough goodies here (Elkin, Gass, Markson, Matthews, Millhauser, et al.) to make any lit geek take out a second deed of trust. If you take advantage of the deal before March 1, you get several Flann O’Brien books. The deal goes through April, however.
More Knut
Mark pointed me to this James Wood essay on Knut Hamsun. Despite an obvious effort to play down Hamsun’s allegiance to the Nazis, Wood suggests that Hamsun’s novels “belong to the classical comic tradition of Don Quixote and Confessions of Zeno. In this tradition, what is both funny and awful is the hero’s obvious delusion that he is in control of his own unpredictability — that he is, in short, free. The reader can see otherwise, that the hero is the victim of bottomless compulsions and drives. ”
During Knut Hamsun’s Nobel speech in 1920, what’s fascinating is that he describes a personal confusion that’s very close to the uncertainties experienced by his protagonists. He equates winning the prize to something close to science and apologizes for his “homespun” emotionalism.
Lars Frode Larsen notes that Hamsun constantly kvetched about being a writer. His wife, Marie, however, saw through this, noting in her memoirs that it was only way Knut could find his joy.
The nature of Hamsun’s truth hinges upon these fascinating dualities. The narrator’s struggle to find work as a writer while starving in Hunger. Hamsun’s perceived inability to express himself as a writer at the Nobel ceremony. And the idea of “free” pointed out by James Wood. Hamsun’s work has always appealed to me because it tries to filter several meanings out of one condition, and doesn’t always leave you with a concrete answer.
Whatever It Takes, Apparently
Not so many years ago a teacher of the art of writing began the advertisement of his services with the announcement that millions of people can write fiction without knowing it. He would have been safer had he said that millions of people are certain that they can write fiction a great deal better than those engaged in the profession. Even so, it is my belief that the consistent craftsman of fiction is very rare. His talent, which is in no sense admirable, is intuitive. In spite of the dictum of Stevenson on playing the sedulous ape to the great masters, it has never been my observation that education helps this talent. On the contrary, undue familiarity with other writers is too apt to sap the courage and to destroy essential self-belief, through the realization of personal inadequacy. It encourages a care and a style that confuse the subject, and the net result is nothing.
Instead, a writer of fiction is usually the happier for his ignorance, and better for having played ducks and drakes with his cultural opportunities. All that he really requires is a dramatic sense and a peculiar eye for detail which he can distort convincingly. He must be an untrustworthy mendacious fellow who can tell a good story and make it stick. It is safer for him to be a self-censored egotist than to have a broad interest in life. He must take in more than he gives out. He must never be complacent, he must never be at peace; in other words, he is a difficult individual and the divorce rate among contemporary literati tells as much.
— John P. Marquand, Wickford Point
Who Wants to Be a Literary Billionaire?
J.K. Rowling joins the billionaires club. Unfortunately, since writing the Harry Potter series has largely involved the act of one, there has been nobody for Rowling to downsize. So Rowling, in an effort to turn the maximum profit from her stories, has made it a habit of regularly firing and rehiring herself for 17 cents an hour, only to resell her labor for the greatest price.
The Daily News has more on the Jayson Blair tell-all: “Zuza [my girlfriend] took pictures of me prancing around the newsroom wearing a Persian head wrap that covered my face, Kermit the Frog on my shoulders and a giant fake fur coat. I did a full tour de newsroom in this ?peculiar uniform. It is hard to know what I was feeling, other than it was exhilarating to shock everyone. Perhaps I was crying out for attention.” Crying out for attention? Nah, Jayce, sounds like you were trying to recall some obscure Polynesiasn ceremony that involved Kermit the Frog. But anyone trying to invent horrible euphemisms like “tour de newsroom” needed to be stopped.
Hemingway’s favorite daiquiri bar, the Floridita, is being recreated in London. The original Floridita created a double-strength daiquiri bar for Papa. And it was not far from the original bar that Hemingway began work on For Whom the Bell Tolls. The London managers, however, have planned to throw out all soused writers from the new place. Unless, of course, they demonstrate that they can pay their tab.
The Guardian confirms that Richard and Judy are the Oprah of the UK. Literary champions are hoping to replace Richard with Punch, just to “spice things up.”
Rynn Berry is obsessed with Hitler’s diet, believing that Hilter wasn’t the vegetarian everyone claims him to be.
Brian Greene: The Bill Bryson of physics?