This morning, while I was lying in bed, at long last forming an intricate theory about James Doohan’s purpose in “Spock’s Brain,” I came across this stunning news. The NYTBR editor search is being restarted.
Let us not vex ourselves too much. The Times has plenty of cash and resources to blow up their noses for these parlor tricks, but not nearly enough to pay their pressers.
But no matter. It’s clear that Bill Keller is wasting all of our time. As my loyal readers know, I campaigned vigorously here on behalf of two editorial candidates who made the shortlist. Ads were prominently placed. Envelopes with stacks of Franklins were given to the appropriate people. I played the game first for Ben Schwarz. And then when Schwarz tried to appeal to centrists by dissing literary fiction, I switched my allegiance to Sarah Crichton. Not long after she took New Hampshire.
But today’s move illustrates that Keller hasn’t respected any of these efforts, nor does he respect democracy. And not a single soul knows whether he appreciated the strip dancer I sent to his office. What’s more, the NYTBR been jumping the gun, moving towards more repeat profiles (such as the lad lit angle and the endless American Sucker coverage), covering popular fiction over literary fiction, and giving far too much space to thick nonfiction books that spend hundreds of pages stating the obvious.
In other words, Bill Keller has a mission in life: to bore the socks out of book enthusiasts. Yet even with this solitary goal, Bill Keller doesn’t seem to have the management or people skills to go about doing it.
It’s clear that political campaigning has had little success. We all know that money won’t buy Bill Keller. He’s a man inflexible in his love for Jonathan Franzen, but who barely gives David Markson the time of day. Firm principles, to be sure. But perhaps humor can change his mind. In fact, humor may have been the very thing missing in Bill Keller’s life.
Have you ever noticed that Bill Keller has not once smiled or cracked a joke this whole time? Perhaps that’s been the problem all along.
So here’s the plan: The time has come to bombard Mr. Keller with gag gifts. Constipation crisis kits, fake vomit, false bumper stickers, Mr. T in your pocket. Name your weapon of choice. Each gift should be sent to the Times with the following message: “For the love of humanity, for the love of literary fiction, learn to laugh, laugh and love, you crazy waffler!”
These packages must be sent religiously to Mr. Keller’s office until one of three things happens: (a) he confesses that he might cover literary fiction, (b) he makes up his goddam mind, or (c) he reveals that, all this time, he’s been suffering from a nervous breakdown and offers to resign in protest.
Packages can be sent to:
Bill Keller
Executive Waffler
NEW YORK TIMES
229 West 43rd Street
New York, NY 10036
Remember: It is every American’s duty to restore the former glory of the NYTBR. And if Keller can’t do it, perhaps mass gag gift hypnosis may help us bring the NYTBR into alignment.
Magic Hours by Tom Bissell: This marvelous collection of essays chronicles everything from film shoots to novelists rescued from oblivion. (The essay on the Underground Literary Alliance, with its portrait of raucous factions, unexpectedly reveals how soft today's literary world has become.) But if you peer between the cracks of these smart pieces, you may very well see how cultural lives are formed from the most unexpected life choices. And as we follow Bissell's development as a writer over the years, that goes for Bissell as well. (
Angelmaker by Nick Harkaway: Harkaway's latest novel greatly improves on his previous book, The Gone-Away World, which I'm already on record as praising. Angelmaker adopts genre elements without ever feeling like a genre book, and it leads me to believe that Harkaway is well on his way to a narrative grace close to China Miéville's. Yet inexplicably this very fun book, which includes an eightysomething badass named Edie Banister, a mysterious mechanical object that may destroy the world, farcical scenarios involving lawyers and the police, and some unexpectedly moving moments about fatherhood, doesn't appear to be getting much attention in American newspapers. Nothing from the snobs at The New York Times Book Review, nothing from The Washington Post. And since I can't get Harkaway on Bat Segundo, I hope this Jump Up and Down mention gets you hopping as well.
The Age of Insight by Eric Kandel: Unless you're really pressed for time, forget Jonah Lehrer. If you want to understand creativity and its relationship to neuroscience, then the bowtie-wearing Nobel laureate is your man. In addition to being a physically beautiful book (you will drool over many of the paintings), there are helpful overviews on optical illusions, science, biographical backgrounds, and many vital figures from the Vienna Secession. Kandel's enthusiasm (and his call for greater unity between the humanities and science) is contagious.