Paul Shaffer will be writing a memoir. You can be absolutely sure that the man who has sucked up to Letterman for three decades will offer the kind of penetrating insight that good books are known for.
I saw this cover at a bookstore last night and I have had extremely horrible ideas about furniture. I pondered the sounds that the chairs would make, should such a coupling go down. Sure, there would be some squeaks. But would the chairs find a way to express their euphoria? It struck me that if the chairs were silent about their activity, it would be a very sad thing. Like anyone, they certainly have the right to enjoy themselves. I’m not sure who came up with this book cover, but I’d like to thank them for making me see chiffoniers schtupping dinettes and making me wonder if I should meticulously wipe the chair before I sit down.
I’m with Darby. I seem to be the last person on the planet who hasn’t read Tom McCarthy’s Remainder. But I do plan to rectify this very soon. If recent responses are any indication, I should end up dancing with strangers, telling everybody I know that Tom McCarthy is better than oral sex, and otherwise getting into a euphoric tizzy over the book. All this is assuming that the book lives up. I suspect I’ve avoided the book because I read it after everybody said that it was cool and I’m supposed to be one of those guys who reads these books before everybody else. Then again, I enjoyed Cormac McCarthy’s The Road after I read it at a much later time than was acceptable. Perhaps I’m simply late on the draw with authors named “McCarthy.” For this, I’m sorry. If you’re a talented author named McCarthy, get in touch with me nine months before your book comes out and I’ll promise to read you before the cool kids.
Steve Mitchelmore wonders if we’re living in a new age of anxiety about art: “What we see every week is anxiety about personal exclusion. It would be better if critics, rather than hiding, mitigating or condemning the exclusion, brought out how the dual experience is liberating.” I couldn’t agree more.
Carolyn points to Luna Park — a helpful blog investigating literary magazines.
$3.75MM for a vampire trilogy? Okay, Elizabeth Kostova was one thing. And we all know Max Brooks moved units. But when you have publishing insiders merely gushing, “It is totally awesome,” one wonders if the people who purchased this are aware of just what they are getting into. How do the words “totally awesome” transfer into making back this investment? And were the words “totally awesome” uttered by the person who signed the check?
I am now convinced that we will see a spate of “Why did science fiction become so popular?” articles in the next year. “Why did science fiction become so popular?” is the next “Comic books are literary too!” If you have to ask what’s going on, you simply aren’t paying attention.
Apparently, the Chicago Sun-Timeswants to redefine itself as a liberal, working-class paper. Presumably, this is a clever ploy to pay the staff abysmal salaries. But no matter. What is most interesting here is that Books Editor Cheryl Reed has become the Editorial Page Director. Does this mean the Books section is dead?
Daft Punk: “The encore was just fantastic. two red lines were released from the pyramid, travelling around the outer frame like a game of snake, entering back into the pyramid at the base, then upwards until the lines connected with the artists, transforming their robot costumes into glowing red outlines.” At the next show, the encore will involve three green lines extending into a middle finger and then a series of words across the pyramid reading “WE ARE DAFT PUNK AND YOU ARE SUCKERS! WE TOOK YOUR MONEY BECAUSE YOU ARE EASILY AMUSED BY LIGHTS! NEXT TIME, OUR AVARICE WILL BE HARDER, BETTER, FASTER, STRONGER!” The crowd will nevertheless be wowed by the “performance” of two guys resembling a bad Tron ripoff. Look, I like Daft Punk as much as the next guy and perhaps in piecemeal (say, in a festival environment with several other bands, as I saw them a few years ago at Coachella), their postmodern presence works. But what makes their stage act anything more than a needlessly gargantuan planetarium laser show? Does watching two guys in robot suits and lots of lights extruding from a pyramid really justify the $50 ticket purchase? Particularly if one is way in the back? That’s all I’m saying.
Motoko Rich investigates the phenomenon of Sara Greun, who built up her reputation entirely on word-of-mouth and even beat out two Oprah books this summer. Wait a minute! I thought television had whacked the novel!
EW offers a literary stars list. I’d deem it dubious, had not EW included Warren Ellis on the list, who observed of writing Crooked Little Vein, “It came down to banging out a thousand words a day in the pub before I started the day’s comics work. If it wasn’t for Red Bull and Silk Cut cigarettes, the damn thing would never have seen the light of day.”
How to get that literary guy’s attention. I’m no great fan of Anne Rice, but if you’re going to badmouth her, at least least spell her name right. (“Grammar is everything,” my ass.) And wait a minute, isn’t it the guy who’s supposed to walk up to a girl and get her attention? I fear that several young men with good intentions will be laid astray by Adam’s well-intended advice. (Adam, what the hell’s going on, sir? Put down that issue of Maxim posthaste!) Lounging about and waiting for something to happen will not cut the mustard! Action is needed! Why not simply walk up to a lady and ask about the book she’s reading? From there, after the inevitable trial and error, great conversational and flirtatious possibilities await!
I must concur with Brian Raftery. It is absolutely criminal that The Bees’ fantastic third album, Octopus, which may very well be one of the best albums of the year, has received as much attention in the States as an obnoxious experimental film from an obscure Danish filmmaker playing on a mere three screens. The Bees have shifted away from Free the Bees‘s highly energetic homage to 1960s soul, slipping one decade further into 1970s summer radio to find a striking maturity that combines a more nuanced quirkiness, emotional sincerity, and the dependable enthusiasm of veteran music lovers who know when to steal hooks and when to improve upon them. From the bluesy opener “Who Cares What the Question Is?” to the tight ballad “Listening Man,” the drumming (alternating between Michael Clevett and singer Paul Butler; like a dependable garage band unafraid to tailor its sound, the band members swap instrumental roles quite a bit on the album) is reminiscent of Mitch Mitchell — never using more fills than it needs to and keeping things basic. Paul Butler has shifted away from crooning like Jim Morrison and John Lennon, to fall into the custom of Englishmen shamelessly impersonating R&B singers. If the radio stations were less in the pockets of corpulent music companies and if they actually gave two damns about music, then I truly believe that this would be the summer album to be heard at kickback siestas. Don’t believe me? Well, check out these tunes. Alas, the band only appears to have made a dent on its native soil. Which also means no U.S. tour dates. The Bees deserve better treatment.
Howard Junker: “The worst thing a writer can do is to launch an internal editor during the writing process. Nothing could be more stifling.” Oh, I don’t know about that. Without discounting the need for an editor, I should point out to Mr. Junker that T.C. Boyle is a prolific novelist of some considerable talent and Boyle writes all of his novels in a “continuous first draft,” constantly tinkering to get the words right. I don’t believe there’s any uniform manner to writing a novel, except to get to the end of the damn thing. What matters most is not how one gets there, but what the finished product entails. [UPDATE: Here’s the video for “Listening Man.” Alternate link to The Bees videos: here.]
Dubious, straw-grasping lede of the week: “When Bob Dylan sang, ‘To live outside the law you must be honest,’ he probably wasn’t thinking of seventeenth-century pirate captains.”
Peter Craven offers a more interesting angle to the “novel is dead” argument than others. He believes that the only way to save literature is to film it. While I am more optimistic than Mr. Craven about literature’s ability to persevere, there is some validity to his argument. The idea here doesn’t involve looking the other way like a coward and flailing one’s hands up in the air without any clear-cut solutions upon hearing people talking about The Sopranos. Why not have more anthology series on television that use short stories or novellas as their source material? In fact, this was precisely the case for the anthology series from the 1950s Consider some of the writers who got their material adapted on Playhouse 90: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Horton Foote, John P. Marquand, William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway. Or consider this list of writers from Alfred Hitchcock Presents: Stanley Ellin, Roald Dahl, Robert Bloch, Ray Bradbury, Cornell Woolrich, A.A. Milne (!), and John Cheever. (Alas, I must bemoan the disproportionate lack of women here, but the point stands.) Even as television was getting its start, the producers knew that quality material could be found by employing literary people and the television writing gigs enabled these writers to continue their craft in the printed word. Whether any of this had any direct correlation to these writers’ print sales is difficult to say. But when I see a David Chase or a David Simon trying to bring a more literary approach to television, I see possibilities for convergence and a support system for writers. I see someone trying to up the game of narrative in all mediums. And it’s all considerably more constructive than the kind of “novel is dead” bullshit I’d expect from some guy with a THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH placard strapped to his corpus, ringing a bell at Times Square. (via Orthofer)
Ms. Skurnick had the BOOG. Mr. Sarvas has Mrs. TEV. And now Ms. Stockton, flush from her recent honeymoon (and again congrats!), has the ALP. Acronyms, of course, are how we litbloggers celebrate our loved ones. So I henceforth refer to my own as ILWYDFM (quack quack quack quack), leaving the explanation a strange mystery.
Seattle Post-Intelligencer: “Kugler badly miscalculated the public’s mood when he assumed viewers would want to see O.J. Simpson films after the ex-football star was acquitted in his double murder trial in 1995.” I should say so.
In an effort to take all the salt and vinegar out of the English language, Random House has introduced a dubious method of avoiding insensitive and offensive language in their latest lexicons. The new Random House Webster’s College Dictionary now has an “Offensiveness Quotient.” I find it interesting that, in Random House’s examples, “queer” is noted as “a positive term of self-reference” in the gay community, whereas “nigger”‘s use along these lines in the African-American community is not. This suggests that oversensitive and sheltered Caucasians represent the ideal audience for this family friendly dictionary. The problem with dictating an “Offensiveness Quotient” (and what’s the OQ for “fuck” or “niggardy?”) is that, considering the social and ethnic context, one would have to take each word usage on a case-by-case basis. And, of course, there are only so many pages. So I must ask what words will fall by the wayside as these new OQ items occupy needless space? Is it not more valuable for the student of English to get out in the world and get into a few unexpected multicultural fistfights? Or must our dictionaries now reflect our regrettable hand-holding culture without a single reference to the famous Lenny Bruce routine? (via Quill and Quire)
Not everyone is excited about Catherine Texier’s David Markson review. As Carolyn rightly points out, NYTBR grammar often leaves much to be desired.
I’ll have more to say about Roy Blount, Jr.’s very funny book, Long Time Leaving, once I finish it (as well as a few other books from other Southern writers I’ve been enjoying). But in the meantime, here’s a Star review.
Guardian: “For almost the first time in two centuries, there is no eminent British poet, playwright or novelist prepared to question the foundations of the western way of life.” This foolish lede must be the British answer to “Rick Moody is the worst writer of his generation.”
Between that and Freeman’s article, that’s two extremely silly Guardian articles within days. What the hell’s going on over there? Is the books editor asleep at the wheel? But I like the Guardian. Really, I do. So if they happen to be reading this, here’s how to do a provocative 700 word article right.
Question for the Times. I like Ian Rankin just fine, thank you very much, but how is this serial “funny” exactly? Or are there really that many humorless people in the Times building? Since I’m known from time to time to consult with dubious individuals, I think the only way to cure this problem is to get David Orr and Joe Queenan into a conference room, with each talking for ten minutes. Every Gray Lady employee must then decide which of the two gentlemen is funnier. Should the Gray Lady employee recognize the former as “funnier,” then management should promote them to a higher editorial position. Should the Gray Lady employee recognize the latter as “funnier,” then they must enlist in a six-week comedy camp retreat, where they can then return to the Times offices with a full understanding of the Marx Brothers, Dorothy Parker, Richard Pryor, and Chris Morris. This is the only remedy I know that will solve this regrettable problem.
Joyce Carol Oates on amnesiac novels, but I’m sure she’s forgetting something.
National Review: “One promising development in the culture today is that mainstream critics are more and more growing tired of postmodern fiction.” Actually, this is not promising at all. This is, in fact, a serious problem that runs counter to literature’s natural developments as a form. I will have a lengthy post on this subject in the not too distant future. (via The Valve)
Vlad the Impaler’s castle is now for sale. In an effort to respect “the property and its history,” prospective buyers are being asked to demonstrate their bloodletting talents before closing escrow. (via Slushpile)
I’m a few episodes into the third series of Doctor Who. But with the horrible news of Catherine Tate returning, as well as Kylie Minogue appearing (what the fuck?), in future episodes, I fear the worst. Pardon me if I go all geeky on you, but I’m convinced that Freema Agyeman is one of the best things that has happened to the show. Here we have a strong female character who is educated, curious, and who takes action when she needs to, instead of standing doe-eyed and helpless — as Rose often did — marveling at the Doctor’s genius. That it would take so long for the show’s producers to rectify this dated gender imbalance to the program is bad enough. But it would appear that Agyeman will be returningin the middle of the fourth season. The message here? Russell T. Davies and company like their companions dumb and helpless, instead of smart and kickass. (via Ready Steady Blog)
Yes, “inhaling” is really the only way to describe reading Sarah Waters’s books. But think of it this way. Better to snort crafty narratives up your nasal lining than Bolivian marching powder.
I don’t care for Sarkozy very much, but I think it’s pretty damn silly to declare jogging a right-wing activity. Outside of Leni Riefenstahl’s Olympia, since when did exercise have any political agenda? Besides, if you really want to get right down to it, were I blessed with a bountiful expendable income, I’d expect a personal trainer to demand that I exercise hard rather than have him pat me on the back and offer an Alan Alda-like hug if I couldn’t make my crunch count. If you want to get rid of flab, you have to do the work. Does doing the work make one a Nazi? More from Josh Glenn.
Personally, I feel “devastated” that so many words were devoted to J.K. Rowling feeling “devastated.” Next up: a series of 2,000 word Rowling profiles in the Telegraph about how Rowling feels “almost euphoric,” “less than stellar,” “pretty darn okay,” and “just peachy keen.”