Yann Martel is starting a book club, hoping that the Prime Minister will bite. Martel received a “mostly indifferent” reception from the House of Commons when he appeared to champion funding for the Canada Council of Arts. Then again, perhaps the suits were grumbling about extending $170 million in funding for those damn Bohemians who dared to sully the halls of Ottawa. (And compare this with the NEA’s $139.4 million, a budgetary boost that is one good thing you can apply to the Bush administration, although it’s not nearly enough.)
AM New York: “The critical savagery could be written off as a prudish reaction to a book that is more than a tad pornographic. Or it could be the result of Mosley’s own missteps — a dirty book, after all, is a very delicate proposition, and not always easy to take seriously.” Or it could be that the United States needs a Bad Sex Award and this is the only way the literary community can take badly written sex scenes to task.
Joyce Carol Oates on one of my favorite childhood authors, Roald Dahl.
There’s now a Dickens theme park about to open up in Kent. What I like best about this park is the unique day care facility. You can drop your kids off for the day, where numerous “Fagins” will ensure that your kid is locked in a room and fed nothing but gruel. There, your child will learn the ways of the streets, sneaking out to pick the pockets of unsuspecting tourists and engaging in a progressive education with a teenage instructor named Nancy. This is the kind of approach that instills character in today’s youth. And I must salute these developers for not stooping to cheap Disney-style theatrics, recreating every facet of Dickens without fear of public rebuke. (via Jenny D)
Here in San Francisco, MUNI has certainly been sucking. Last night, I waited forty-five minutes for my bus and then gave up and took the N Judah home. The mornings have been almost as bad. Charlie Anders outlines some probable causes. But this is inexcusable.
Just one new area to hit: A neologism traditionally anticipates kleptomaniacs, expectant and frenetic. Underlying concerns, kidding, innocent nefarious gambol. Criminally, hearts inside lilt low, pandering in lecherous lulls.
Some details have been released on the forthcoming LATBR overhaul (as well as the general newspaper), and I happen to know that the writers being commissioned for the web-only columns are definitely going to be worth your reading time. Alas, I am sworn to secrecy. Not even torture flying in the face of Geneva Conventions will loosen my tongue. Of course, you’ll find out soon enough. What’s also interesting is that all this has caused the aforementioned Bond fan to pledge a revival of the LATBR thumbnail.
Attention, all reviewers! Can we put a moratorium to the use of “snookered” in relation to Lionel Shriver’s The Post-Birthday World? I mean, really, this is the best wordplay you can come up with? (See also Mr. Birnbaum’s views on the subject.)
With all due respect to Jessica, who is a thoughtful litblogger, now that it’s out in the open, the recent Chabon-signed copies of The Yiddish Policemen’s Union sent out to bloggers strike me as a more escalated and egregious version of last year’s Diane Setterfeld controversy. I’m exceedingly grateful that I wasn’t targeted. I can read this book on my own, judging it independently, without having to feel guilty that it may not live up to any kind or personalized proclamations offered by Chabon. I generally set aside any and all handwritten correspondence, press materials, or other ephemera into a file, permit the book to sit for some time (so that I will have forgotten about the note) and read and respond to any and all notes or kind gestures after I’ve finished the book. I do not wish for my opinion to be corrupted or tainted in any way. Even my friends know, when offering any manuscripts or work for me to look at, that I will tell them the truth, and it is because I greatly care about literature (and, particularly, my friends’ creative development; I wish to see them blossom) that I will be honest (sometimes quite hard) yet always encouraging. I’m wondering, however, if some of my fellow litbloggers who received these packages might, in some small way, have been unduly influenced by a personalized bookplate from a high-profile literary author. After all, I don’t believe Chabon is doing this for critics and editors who are requesting review copies (and such a practice would be a no-no on a newspaper). Sure, it’s a clever marketing gimmick. But this preys upon the general bonhomie I’ve observed in the litblogosphere.
Fans of books turned into Hollywood treacle rejoice! Pat Conroy, not to be confused with Pat Barker, is finishing his first novel in more than a decade. The new book is set in Charleston and is more than 700 pages. Take that, John Irving!
USA Today has selected “25 books that leave a legacy.” Dan Brown, John Gray and Helen Fielding certainly do leave a legacy: the same one carved out by Spandau Ballet, the starved Twiggy look, and Daniel Boone caps.
Bon Jovi won’t be playing BEA? Lance Fensterman, your “regret” is admirable, but I’m sobbing like a BOP-reading bobbysoxer curling beneath a duvet with a gargantuan teddy bear in a 1985 suburban split-level home. Goddam you, Mr. Bon Jovi! Goddam you all to hell! You cruel, CRUEL man! Well, you can forget about any BEA coverage by this dutiful litblogger. If Jon Bon Jovi can’t back up his literary mojo with his musical mojo, then, while indeed I was halfway there, I shall be living (or perhaps covering BEA) on a prayer. Perhaps if someone takes my hand, I’ll make it. I swear.
I’m with Lev Grossman. Does anyone still care about the Webbies anymore? Particularly since nominees have to pay $245 to enter into the Awards. The Webbies are the Golden Globes of the Internet: its nominees and ceremonies and sycophantic adulations limited to those who can pay for it. It is about as useful to any discerning Web surfer as a fusillade of pop-up ads.
The Onion: “‘Most E-Mailed’ List Tearing New York Times’ Newsroom Apart.”
Just what the world needs: a Spandau Ballet reunion. When the apocalypse occurs, humans suffering from radioactive sickness will place tinny and barely functioning crystal radio sets to their ears, shuffling in threadbare Chuck Taylor All Stars along the abandoned strip malls and suburban shrapnel, and susurrating, “Ba ba ba ba ba, I know this, much is true.” Then there will be no hope for Western civilization.
Roberto Bolano! Roberto Bolano! Roberto Bolano! I’m telling you: four people have mentioned The Savage Detective in the past forty-eight hours. You better watch your ass, Joshua Ferris. A new hot author has arrived. Roberto Bolano! Roberto Bolano! Roberto Bolano! I have no basis for this enthusiasm, but everyone else seems excited and I’ll likely check this book out.
April is the cruelest month, which is probably why it’s been designated National Poetry Month, a panacea to that part of the year in which the IRS seizes everybody’s time like a rabid Sumatran rat monkey thirsting for blood. In the spirit of this extreme balance, Ami Greko has been serving up excerpts, audio files and the like at the FSG poetry blog. Dan Wickett has been likewise serving up poems.
“Congress is composed of 535 individuals. 238 are lawyers. And you wonder what’s wrong in Congress?” RIP Thomas Hal Phillips. His collaborations with Altman alone, along with his blazing political rants from a car in Nashville, were fantastic.