Matt Shinn speculates speculates on the connection between Dickens’ later readings and his subsequent death: “Dickens’s friend and doctor, Francis Carr Beard, finally called time on the public performances. His medical notes, featured in the exhibition, show that Dickens’s heart rate was raised dramatically each time he read, particularly when his text was Sikes and Nancy. His final readings, like the others, were a huge success, but he ended them like Prospero: ‘From these garish lights I vanish now for evermore.’ Within three months he was dead.”

Michiko covers Doris Lessing’s new book. Not only does she reference Ashton Kuchner and Demi Moore, but she uses the word “icky.” She calls The Grandmothers “oddly uneven,” but she seems more perturbed by the idea of elderly women lusting after their grandsons, rather than its execution. Yes, incest is unsettling, but, by that token, she’d have to say no to The Color Purple, Bastard Out of Carolina, and King Arthur. More proof that John Keller’s influence isn’t just tainting coverage of literary fiction, but literary fiction dealing with unsettling issues? Michiko, say it ain’t so!

Some details on Wong Kar-Wai’s next film: 2046 has taken him four years to shoot. The film is a continuation of In the Mood for Love, with Tony Leung playing a novelist instead of a newspaper editor. 2046 is not just the date that Hong Kong autonomy ends, but also the hotel room number where Leung has a tryst with a prostitute.

Chip Scanlan examines the adverb, but Scanlan’s argument is obliterated by the fact that he uses the dreaded first person plural.

This year’s Francis Mac Manus Short Story Competition shortlist has been announced. Many of these will be broadcast over RTE Radio.

James Ellroy has been tapped to write a script for William Friedkin. The Man Who Kept Secrets deals with Hollywood lawyer Sidney Korshak and will be adapted from a Nick Tosches Vanity Fair profile.

Jose Luis Castillo-Puche, friend and biographer of Hemingway, has passed on.

Richard Kopley claims that Hawthorne nicked portions of “The Salem Belle: A Tale of 1692” and several other stories for The Scarlet Letter.

And “the Oprah effect” has hit the UK. Sales for Joseph O’Connor’s Star of the Sea shot up 350% after it was mentioned on a popular British program.

The effects and consequences of people misinterpreting other people fascinate me. Effects that go well beyond a simple mishearing or a slipshod conversational rejoinder that results in: (1) brisk stumble, (2) bemusement from all parties, and (3) laughter, fantastic segue, or sympathetic or gibing attempts to understand said fuck-up. What I’m talking about is all-out war, an obdurate fixation handed down from one person’s inner demigod. The combative cant, the bitter visages, the determination to despise over something that really isn’t worth the trouble. The grudge gone awry.

Under normal circumstances, a misunderstanding can be cleared up with a fleeting tete-a-tete, or a phone call, or an e-mail (though the latter is the most impersonal and, as such, capable of allowing the intentions to be further misinterpreted). Or it can be settled with a thick skin or a sense of humor extant within one or both parties involved. In fact, there are any number of clarification methods which can be carried out within 30 seconds. But sometimes the default response involves damning the other party, or one party going completely crazy over a comparatively trivial remark (priced at a hawker’s con against, say, the disparity between the rich and the poor, or the tearing down of yet another nifty art deco building to build some Southern California Cinder Block Revival monstrosity). Behavioral patterns, when adopting this limitless enmity, again over something very silly and pedantic, beget this form of grudge. The grudge calls out, “Hey! Adopt me! You’re going nowhere in life by your own assessment! And there’s never room for mellow!” And so another mark is scratched onto the Sam Browne belt. Another person to hate, another soul to rebuke.

Perhaps this upsurge, which seems in greater stock these days, has something to do with the shortened days. Or a lingering side effect from the scared shitless sloppy seconds hovering around post-911 American life. There is no jobless recovery this time around. And there certainly aren’t the jobs we enjoyed in the 1990s. Perhaps what it amounts to is etiolated folk jonesing for their precious Daylight Savings Time. Once the daylight returns, it is my firm belief that more folks will chill. But whatever the cause, the response generally involves the nastiest and ugliest of remarks. Words devoid of frivolity or obvious subtext. We’re talking serious castigations. And the only difference between the deliberate grudge and the sentiments of a schizophrenic vagrant is that the vagrant is mentally troubled, tragically ignored by most people, and decidedly less coherent.

86 sheets or blacklisting (and sometimes perceived exclusion) can be effected at the grudge’s worst level. Opportunities passed over to someone who fits the head honcho’s bill. Other results include “flames” (in the online world), or threats of professional and/or financial ruin (if you’re a hotheaded journalist du jour who simply can’t let the work speak for itself).

One often sees the grudge develop when the human animal is placed in conditions of extreme boredom, or has something to prove, or possesses a partially self-loathing nature, or simply perceives something he disagrees with. The grudge holder wants to fulfill his antipodal realization (which is nowhere nearly as Manichean as the grudge holder believes). And the disgrace which caused the grudge, no matter how insignificant, is tantamount to the offender pissing on some statesman’s grave, or sleeping with his s.o.

In its most innocuous form, the words “Fuck you” (and sometimes “Fuck you, motherfucker”) are the telling indicator. At first listen, these words are, of course, harmless and, beyond the colorful connotations and the association with filth, omnipresent and benign — probably an effort by the declarant (whose remark may make him a potential grudge holder or target) to let off some steam. It could be an admonishment directed towards some negative quality in another individual, something the declarant can’t voice gently or politely, or (in most cases) something completely different. But quality may very well be something the grudge target may not be aware of. Since society frowns upon addressing these qualities, and since mistakes often result in “probe teams” being formed by television networks who feign astonishment over halftime hijinks, the environment is more tailored to fierce negativity.

Before dwelling upon the grudge’s ramifications, it’s worth noting that there are a sizable number of things that people will not refer to in everyday discourse: an adjacent individual’s body odor or banal cell phone patter, the bad combover, and an African-American granted license to call his associates “niggas” (while the Caucasian is declared racist for expressing this same loving tone). Beyond this, there’s rudeness and unpleasant behavior which is ultimately subjective, understood by parties possessing similar interests — name your annoyance of choice to a peer. Often accord on these latter points is reached through events known as “bitchfests,” often healthy avenues that help parties to avoid forming grudges. The great irony is that it is perfectly acceptable for Person A to mention Person B’s negative qualities to Person C, provided that Person B is not around or unlikely to hear Person A’s assessment. The relationship between Person A and Person B still holds, though often with Person B unaware of his own deficiencies.

These extant factors practically ensure that a remark will be misinterpreted, misperceived, dwelt upon too much, or otherwise identified as cavil. The grudge maker will often take the declarant’s words too much to heart, resulting in the offense either being expressed to the declarant (with some chance of resolution) or, most likely, held in check. And when this voicing is avoided, the chances of another remark stinging and turning into a full-grown grudge increase.

Now all of us carry a certain amount of rage and get fired up over particular issues. Within the context of a legitimate argument or an honest framing, there is nothing wrong with this. It is an all too human response to feel, and even the most rational mind can be brought to tears by something bizarre or inoffensive to an altogether different person. But when this feeling gets out of hand, when complete castigation is brought upon by flimsy pretext, when said target has not, shall us say, murdered another individual, one wonders why the fuss exists or the grudge is allowed to manifest.

The grudge is a curious byproduct of Western life. Here we all are, including those who toil in the shit service sector, making a hell of a lot more than someone in an export processing zone. Whereas the EPZ worker is drudging for pennies an hour, often for products that Westerners use and consume, and has such pressing concerns on his mind like whether his family will eat this week on the penurious salary, the Western grudge maker musters ado over comparatively nothing. The bitch who cut me off on the highway, the party guest who dared to make an off-color joke.

One clue to this focus is that, out of all the scenes in Dirty Harry, most people remember Clint Eastwood’s famous “Do you feel lucky?” speech. It’s a monologue detailing the precise method of revenge. In Eastwood’s speech, there is no question as to whether the revenge is earned. The vicious hoodlum has it coming. To hell with rehabilitation.

There have been backlashes to being realistic about human emotions, namely through Heidi Julavits’ anti-snark manifesto and similar sorts of touchy-feely ersatz influences (cf., Quirkyalone, New Age, Who Moved My Cheese?, Dr. Phil, et al.) – all of which show no sign of dying. And even if they do perish, there will be another. Self-help is the elxiir. If there is a common theme to these movements, it involves being nice and sanguine, with the acolytes consciously aware of how pleasant they are. One considers why Howard Dean’s infamous Iowa yell was declared to be in bad form or “unpresidential.” When in fact it was, unfortunately for him, all too human.

Where does this leave the grudge? When considered against a limited existential template, the grudge is just itching to come out. It is unreasonable to be emotional (i.e., “negative”), and yet it is all too pragmatic for the grudge maker to go out of his way to hate or exclude without wit or frivolity.

Or to put it another way: How many lawsuits were filed last year?

Much as I’m honored to be one among a sharp cookie’s favorites, let me be clear on this: My name is Edward Champion and I’m the guy behind this blog. A simple enough confession, given that the name is bandied about here every now and then, along with my voice, and that I’ve posted on and off to this domain (and its previous incarnations) since 1998 or so. The true fanatics can find a better picture than the one below if they really want to. (And, yes, Teachout and I have been trying to keep our thing under the table.) I’m not anonymous, but I play an anonymous blogger on TV. I was, however, stalked at one point for my writings posted here (and elsewhere) sometime around 2000. And that is no joke. So I reveal biographical tidbits here and there, but nowhere nearly as candidly as I did before. But I try to keep it real. Dig?

MM Kaye, author of The Far Pavilions, has passed away. She also used her experience in Africa and India to write detective stories.

What most people don’t realize about Orwell’s 1932 treasure is that it’s actually a bundled collection of his bills. Orwell buried them so that he could tell his creditors that he never received them. Of course, there were more solipsistic concens than mere finances. Orwell’s relationship with his Gordon Setter was on the skids. So he needed to demonstrate to his pet, an aspect of Orwell’s life often overlooked by his biographers, that he was legit.

Andrew Sean Greer notes that Updike was right about his influences. “I don’t know how he did it,” said Greer, “but I was reading The Runaway Jury over and over while writing this book. I’m not really a big Grisham fan. But I was trying to read anything that would give me an edge. I needed to land a deal.”

About 50 of Eudora Welty’s photographs are on display at the Mississippi Musem of Art. Photography and writing were just two of Welty’s pursuits. She also played the ukelele and cooked a mean roundhouse, if, of course, she decided that her visitors were “nice enough.”

The Rocky Balboa statue is now up for auction. “Nobody really cares about Stallone anymore,” said a spokesman for sculptor A. Thomas Schomberg, “and, frankly, Thomas is embarassed. He was caught up in the 1970s frenzy and now it’s damage control time. This is the first step.” Adding insult to injury, the statute has been put onto eBay.

Craig’s List: “Do you enjoy writing, sex, and writing about sex? FuckFish.com is currently looking for its News Editor.”

Lord Bullock, author of the first definitive history on Hitler, has died. Bullock was also responsible for St. Catherine’s, an all-male society that raised substantial cash and that operated under the illusion that women were incapable of math and science proficiency. Bullock, who was the inspiration for the British term for the naughty bits and the later Sex Pistols song, is mourned by Bulwer-Lytton fans, Brie-sniffing octogenarians, and anyone who laments that John Major is no longer Prime Minister.

Rory writes about the Germaine Greer controversy, and then has the courtesy to relay the internal politics in personal terms for us non-Australians (and non-expats).

Michael Moore, Average Joe? I don’t think so. Not when you’re sitting on royalty receipts and grosses receipts from a bestseller and an Oscar-winning, commercially successful documentary. (via Sarah)

Hypergraphia — this condition reminds me of that Sandman story. (via Maud)

The Arthur C. Clarke 2004 shortlist has been announced, as have the British Science Fiction Association Award nominees. On both lists: William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition and Tricia Sullivan’s Maul; the former just out in paperback, the latter only available in the UK. Maul deals with quasi-feminist themes and profiles a world after “Y-plagues.”

Cinetrix has tracked down the infamous Teachout/OGIC interview.

Joyce’s “House of the Dead” has been resurrected.

And the Guardian has put up a cohrent greatest hits version of the Haddon interview.

audio post powered by audblog

Presidential candidates are now in the business of revealing their favorite books.

Wesley Clark: “‘I like Hemingway and I like a lot Jewish writers (such as) Saul Bellow,’ he said. The former general also expressed a preference for the novels of John Updike and Pat Conroy.”

Howard Dean: “Dean’s favorite books: All the King’s Men, To Kill a Mockingbird, and Ken Kesey’s Sometimes a Great Notion; also Barbara Ehrenreich’s Nickel and Dimed and David McCullough’s Truman (‘It is one of the books that has had the most impact on me in the last ten years’).”

John Edwards: The Trial of Socrates by I.F. Stone.

Bush: The Raven: A Biography of Sam Houston, by Marquis James; The Good Life and Its Discontents: The American Dream in the Age of Entitlement, by Robert J. Samuelson; The Dream and the Nightmare: The Sixties’ Legacy to the Underclass, by Myron Magnet.

The Globe and Mail excerpts Atwood’s 2004 Kenserton Lecture. She speaks on how Orwell has influenced her and her own personal dystopia taxonomy, seen in Handmaid’s Tale and Oryx and Crake.

Updates on literary film adaptations: Colin Farrell starring in A Home at the End of the World, Kirsten Dunst as Sugar in The Crimson Petal and the White (with Curtis Hanson directing), Julianne Moore as Burroughs’ mom in Running with Scissors, and, perhaps the most apt matchup for safe-and-sane mediocrity, Ron Howard and Akiva Goldman behind The Da Vinci Code.

The Oreganian covers a local reading contest. Apparently, Sue Gatton read 482 books and 157,672 pages in one year. Unfortunately, Gatton’s too busy reading that she doesn’t have the time to summarize her thoughts on the books.

And Kurt Vonnegut’s promoting Linux!

Posting will be light over the next 1.2 days, with scattered showers, assorted links, and minimal involvement. I’ll be spending the next day and a half sorting out pantalettes (you know who you are). And a few other things. Feel free to visit some of the fine folks on the left. Or, if you’re really bored, organize a bunch of people and head over to a football stadium. At the stroke of twelve, remove your shirts and reveal the painted words ,”I AM TMFTML,” preferably with Justin Timberlake in attendance.

The Chronicle follows up with the Book Babes, coralling a few responses but giving us pretty much what we know already, with several “publishing insiders” refusing to speak on the matter or not returning calls. Ferlinghetti, however, weighs in against it.

Apparently, people are getting worked up over something called the Super Bowl. I have no idea what it’s all about. From what I’ve been able to tell, it involves large men, donned in heavily padded clothing, who like to run into each other and slap their fellow teammates on the ass, when they’re not busy dislocating their shoulders or otherwise ensuring that their considerable physical prowess will be worthless before the age of 35. There are also lots of exciting commercials, which involve companies giving lots of cash to advertising agencies and flashy directors, and the advertising agencies, in turn, giving lots of cash to television executives.

Cash transfers and lavish time-wasting aren’t limited to the boys in the Ivory Tower. Men (and women) are using this “event” as an excuse to drink lots of beer, roar like wild cougars at the television screen, and gorge upon hideous snacks, many of which are loaded with polysaturated fat, with a sizable chunk of these eaten directly from noisy plastic packaging.

Furthermore, former football stars (referred to as “commentators,” a kind term that implies expertise, but is really about giving the more telegenic ex-quarterbacks a job) will be on hand to offer “analysis.” Said analysis, which does not involve Kant or Kirkegaard, will have these men dressed in gaudy suits that are silly and unflattering, meting out comparisons with previous Super Bowls, remarking upon how some quarterback “looks good this year,” or how “nobody saw that coming,” or how a team, a coach or a player “is in trouble,” and doing all this without poetics or a remotely interesting argument. There will also be something called a “halftime show,” whereby men will urinate en masse, and the reluctant people yawning on the divans with their football-loving significant others will try to justify the three or so tedious hours. They will note how nice this underwhelming display of sensationalism is. When, in fact, they hope the interminable thing will be over and pray to all known gods that the game doesn’t go into overtime. These reluctant types will also try to find artistic merit in the commercials, casually forgetting that the commercials are created, first and foremost, to move products. Ultimately, their feelings will be unvoiced. They will tolerate this Super Bowl thing the same way they do every year. The luckier ones will be get out of the house, or spend the three hours having sex with “an unmanly man,” or go shopping, or have a girls’ afternoon out.

The men (and women) watching the Super Bowl will offer something for these people to talk about around the Monday morning water cooler, though most of the arguments will be mined from the sports pages and the shaky “analysis” of the “commentators.”

Ultimately, lots of time and money will be spent for no apparent purpose. But then what else is new in America?