Month / December 2006

by Edward Champion

New Novel from David Markson

It looks like David Markson has another novel coming out from Shoemaker & Hoard. It’s called The Last Novel and is scheduled for a May 2007 release. Here’s a description:

In this new work, The Last Novel, an elderly author (referred to only as “Novelist”) announces that since this will be his final effort, he has “carte blanche to do anything he damned well pleases.”

Pressed by solitude and age, Novelist’s preoccupations inevitably turn to the stories of other artists — their genius, their lack of recognition, and their deaths. Keeping his personal history out of the story as much as possible, Novelist creates an incantatory stream of fascinating triumphs and failures from the lives of famous and not-so-famous painters, writers, musicians, sports figures, and scientists.

As Novelist moves through his last years, a minimalist self-portrait emerges, becoming an intricate masterpiece from David Markson’s astonishing imagination. Through these startling, sometimes comic, but often tragic anecdotes we unexpectedly discern the entire shape of a man’s life.

by Edward Champion

A Great One Gone

I heard the news shortly before getting on a plane. James Brown, a talent who comes once in a lifetime, is dead. I’ll have more to say about Mr. Brown’s majestic achievements and what he means to cultural history later. In the meantime, I’ll be shaking my money maker in tribute to the hardest working man in show business.

by Edward Champion

Christmas Dinner Alternatives

Ron Hogan roasts Dave Itzkoff over an open fire.

Too tough on Itzokoff? Not really. After you’ve read Itzkoff’s moronic and uninformed review, which is far worse than the “impulsive, first-draft ethos of the blogosphere” in its almost total ignorance of science fiction (citing only Heinlein as a comparative influence), you can read my informed review of Rudy Rucker over at the Los Angeles Times, which was half the length of Itzkoff’s and managed to get in comparisons with Bruce Sterling, William Gibson, Robert Sheckley, Connie Willis, Kelly Link and many others.

You see, unlike Mr. Itzkoff, I actually conduct vigorous research for my reviews so that I can offer an informed position, which is what I’m paid to do. (I read six Rudy Rucker books for my review and reviewed many volumes from my library to insure that my comparisons were correct.) This is, after all, what a professional does. Or what I’ve always assumed does. To do anything less is the stance of an amateur.

But apparently such basic journalistic procedure is beneath Itzkoff. He slings John Scalzi’s name in the mud by remarking on his online popularity and pointing out that he writes in more ignoble publications like The Official U.S. PlayStation Magazine. What this has anything to do with Scalzi’s novels is a mystery. And besides, any successful freelancer knows that you write damn near anywhere to stay alive. (And if we’re going to play this silly game, it’s safe to say that Itzkoff’s contributions to Maxim, an infantile “periodical” two baby steps away from a stroke mag, are hardly going to be commended for their literary merit.)

Ron’s already covered many of Itzkoff’s countless solecisms. So I won’t repeat what he’s said, except this: With Itzkoff’s continued employment at the Times, it’s clear that Tanenhaus views science fiction as a genre for idiots. Why else would such a tone-deaf and ignorant hack be hired to write such arrogant and dismissive diatribes that fail to offer specific examples to support his argument?

If Sam Tanenhaus believes that the kind of character and genre assassination contained within Itzkoff’s article is substantive journalism, then the NYTBR is a lost cause. Unless, of course, Bill Keller shows Tanenhaus what the inside of an airlock looks like.