Today is a sad day — a bleak and possibly irreversible moment in publishing history where we shall all mourn the loss of one of the great incomplete masterpieces. I am convinced that literary scholars will place this stunning work next to Ralph Ellison’s Juneteenth, Dickens’ The Mystery of Edwin Drood and F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Love of the Last Tycoon. Of course, the Great Author’s representative states that the Great Author herself will “save the memoirs for a rainy day when she needs to re-invent herself.” I take this as a sly reference to the immortal melody “MacArthur Park.” Will the Great Author and Her Man finally find connubial bliss and settle down in a needle-laden warren? And shortly before moving, will the Great Author and Her Man, both distracted by the heightened opioid receptors blitzing through their bodies, zone out and leave their wedding cake in the rain?
Month / June 2006
Suite Smack Talk
A few weeks ago, Steve Mitchelmore raised a provocative point about Suite Française, suggesting that the novel’s glowing reception had more to do with its origins, as opposed to its qualities as a novel. This led to a backblog battle between Steve and a certain literary guy in Oakland.
Now Mark Thwaite has stepped in and sides with Steve, pointing to Kaszuo Ishiguro’s blurb mentioning the “story behind the novel.” Given that Ishiguro devoted a mere fifty-one words to his blurb, I don’t believe this is entirely fair, particularly since he confined the historical context to the second of his two sentences.
Further, both Mark and Steve have dismissed the book without even bothering to examine its contents. Which strikes me as a bit ironic. If the talk should be centered on the book and the book alone, shouldn’t Mark and Steve live up to their own pledges and offer criticism after they’ve read the book?
Alentejo Bust?
Laila Lalami observes that Monica Ali’s new book, Alentejo Blue, hasn’t exactly been ratcheting up the plaudits. But Laura Demanski disagrees, calling Alentejo Blue Ali’s “more ambitious and accomplished novel.” Is Ali suffering a sophomore slump or is the book misunderstood?
Oral About Okrent
In my career as a litblogger, I was never persuaded that an ombudsman was a good idea. This isn’t because I have any particular beef against ombudsmen. It is simply because litbloggers can’t afford to hire them.
But my own history with ombudsmen aside, it is safe to say that there is clearly no man more deserving of a blowjob than Daniel Okrent. Not only would I invite Okrent to fornicate with any member of my family (including those under eighteen), but, if nobody was available to wrap lips around his cock, then I would willingly step in and do the job myself.
Because this is the kind of industry Okrent inspires. Okrent isn’t just any ombudsman. He’s the ombudsman for the New York Times. Which means that, in all book review circumstances, he must be given the reverential bukkake treatment. No constructive criticism. No hint of a flaw in his chiseled sentences. No in-review notation of an ethical conundrum. Like the obverse but no less sleazier conundrum of John Dean reviewing Mark Felt’s memoir, with Okrent, it’s all the ooze that’s fit to squint. Never mind that there’s a stupendous conflict of interest or that Okrent’s gushing flow might just blind.
The point is that Okrent is there, waiting for you or any reviewer, either literally or metaphorically, to unzip his fly and work some magic. Unfortunately, in this case, it looks like Harold Evans and Sam Tanenhaus got to Okrent’s phallus before I did. So my mouth remains dry and unsullied. But I suppose there’s always the Wall Street Journal‘s ombudsman to consider. Assuming, of course, that the Journal will print my in-house rodomontade as easily as the Times ran Evans’.
