USA Today‘s Mike Snider has it wrong. Conan the Barbarian was not “brought to life more than 25 years ago” by Arnold Schwarzenegger. You see, there was this guy named Robert E. Howard who wrote stories for Weird Tales. Back in 1932, he created a character called Conan the Cimmerian and brought him to life through words. Howard, of course, is mentioned in the piece. But I wonder: Does USA Today really believe that Conan was dead before Arnold and John Milius got their hands on it? Or are they somehow conflating Howard’s suicide with the presumed lifelessness of pulp fiction?
Over at Litkicks, Marydell has been offering some fascinating figures and revelations about the publishing industry. There are even some spreadsheets outlining the basic financial elements. Do check it out if you’re interested in the financial niceties of publishing.
Poor Richard Johnson! After the New York Post blowhard realized yet again how small his cock was, he proceeded to show his true misogynistic colors by suggesting: “The male half might take her someplace private and disprove her theory, but we don’t like a woman with a mustache.” Maybe he just can’t handle the truth.
Apparently, Howard Davies used the Booker platform to attack book reviewers for failing to use more “critical skepticism…together with greater readiness to notice new names.” Hmmm, maybe this is what litblogs are for. (via Orthofer, who has more links on the subject)
In defense of Los Angeles. (via This Recording, a multifarious blog recently discovered, which was added to Bloglines upon discovery of the sentence, “It’s a sad thing when you lose all respect for someone who used to be a genius.”)
To paraphrase Sam Tanenhaus, who profits if Bill Watterson doesn’t write it? Clearly, not the NYTBR. The WSJ has coaxed the reclusive Bill Watterson out of retirement for a review of the new David Michaelis’s Charles Schulz biography. Meanwhile, the Schulz family has cried foul. Although now that I’m almost finished with the book, I can tell you that Michaelis’s portrait of Schulz, while certainly interesting, is hardly the devastating portrait one finds in a Robert Caro biography.
Michael Hirschorn, momentarily surfacing above the Atlantic paywall, asks if we are suffering from too much quirk. Which makes me wonder if “quirk” is the new postmodernism and whether the current spate of articles hostile towards those writers (John Barth was responsible for the abandonment of sentiment in literature? Really?) who dare to walk to an idiosyncratic beat represents the latest trend by critics to take all the fun out of literature. (via Wet Asphalt)
Speaking of Barth, The Sot-Weed Factor has been thoroughly messing with Darby Dixon’s head. Darby is right to point out that Neal Stephenson’s Baroque Cycle would have been infinitely improved had Stephenson taken himself less seriously. In fact, the next time an author comes out with a big fat Historical Novel of Significance, I think the Sot-Weed Comparison Test might be the apposite yardstick.
Jason Boog talks with author Allen Rucker about becoming paralyzed at fifty-one. (Which is not to say that Boog himself is paralyzed or fifty-one, unless he has been pulling a fast one on us or looks very good for his age. But he does get some interesting answers from Rucker on the subject.)
It’s good to know that dildos have received the appropriate Library of Congress categorization. I was getting a bit worried. What’s even more fantastic is that there is apparently a geographical taxonomy, leaving one to ponder the advantages of an East Coast dildo over its West Coast counterpart.
As I write these words, I’m up early waiting for the Nobel literature announcement. I’m fully expecting the choice to be somewhat anticlimactic and not an American. But I could be wrong. We’ll find out soon enough.
“This is just a lifelike, likable book populated by three-dimensional characters who make themselves very much at home on the page.” Oh dear. This is the kind of sentence one expects from a Madison Avenue slogan writer, not a literary critic or even a book reviewer. The time has come to make some choices. I’ve had enough of Janet Maslin. I cannot continue to read her nonsense in good faith. I do this because there are too many good things in life to enjoy and, frankly, Maslin’s deterioration as a critic (she was a perfectly fine film critic) is too much for me to bear. Do yourself a favor and give up Maslin too. Your blood pressure will lower in minutes.
Some excerpts from Kurt Cobain interviews. Who knew that Cobain was such a fan of Queen’s News of the World?
Tao Lin has a few ideas about telling writers that they’re good. Alas, the world is often a casually inconsiderate place, particularly here in New York, where I am still negotiating the way in which people — even supposed acquaintances — snub each other when more “important” people are present. (What they don’t know is that I carry a long memory.) This confuses me because my own social m.o., inherited from California, is to say hello to as many people as possible. But Tao is right to point to being kind and supportive to other writers — although I’d add that a degree of honesty doesn’t hurt either.
I’d like to think that some writing games extended beyond quick-witted Canadians. Then again, the Canadian dollar is better right now. So perhaps our nice northern neighbors have every right to favor themselves.
Now see here! Ian McEwan insists that On Chesil Beachis a novel, because the text has been cleverly spread out across the course of 200 pages. LEAVE IAN ALONE! He can’t help the way in which his “novel” (Novel, ha! Boy, it took me about a few hours to read that!) has been marketed by his publishers. Instead of bitching and moaning, why not write your own “novel” of 40,000 words and then see how you feel? In fact, I plan to ensure that another novel I’m working on, On Brighton Beach, which is only a mere 2,000 words, will be nominated for a fiction prize somewhere. Novel, schmovel — when you get right down to it, everything’s flexible in the end.
Gilbert Hernandez is the John Lennon of comics? So does this mean that R. Crumb is the Phil Spector of comics? And stretch, and stretch, and bang that profile out in time. And pad, and pad, the deadline’s hard. So do it! (via The Beat
When the revolution comes, I hope they remember that smug reactionary assholes like John Aravosis were against non-discrimination before they were for it. Listen, Aravosis, are you aware of Brandon Teena (conspicuously unmentioned in your piece)? Nobody questions why the T was attached to LGBT because we’re talking about a collective group that has been marginalized, ridiculed, assaulted, and stereotyped for many decades and anybody who is even remotely humanist understands that this is all about making a united front to put an end to discrimination. Thus, having as many people of differing sexual persuasions uniting together is a way to finally address the disparity between straight heterosexual relationships and the LGBT community. That you would want to tear this community apart by asking such an imbecile question or that you would propose that some within the LGBT community are more entitled to non-discrimination than others is a sure sign that you aren’t part of the solution. The LGBT community behind ENDA has displayed more courage and gravitas than most of the weak-kneed Democrats who insist upon compromising here or “alienating” there or remaining fearful that the “religious right” will kill something. Well, fuck the religious right. And fuck you, Mr. Aravosis. Please resurface when your big fat head isn’t so thoroughly lodged up your own asshole and you aren’t such a coward about human progress.