JoAnn Karkos has decided to hold two sex books hostage because she found their content objectionable. She checked them out at the library and refuses to return them. Since Ms. Karkos has seen fit to commit intellectual fascism, I’m wondering if the Lewiston, Maine authorities might be persuaded to garnish Ms. Karkos’s wages until she returns the two books. After all, if Ms. Karkos doesn’t want to play nice with the natural flow of ideas, why should the natural flow of cash earned for work play nice with Ms. Karkos? (via Big Bad Book)
Fantastic, Keller. The NYTBR loses a page of editorial and the section becomes more contingent on advertising. Never mind that advertising revenue was up 10% from last year.
Apparently, the age group now most at risk for violent death is now 40 to 49, the new area to find “adolescent risk taking.” Is this selfishness on the part of a growing generation or a societal malady?
Australian newspapers might be ahead of their book reviewing counterparts in the States. Can you honestly see any American newspaper reviewing a literary quarterly?
I refuse to mention the chain by name. But I’m wondering how much this ostensible tale of redemption is undermined by the [Insert Corporation Here] Saved My Life rap. Color me decidedly skeptical. But it would seem to me that this gentleman’s recalibration of his priorities changed his life and not necessarily the chain in question. I am finding, of late, more problems with causative thought (i.e., X caused Y) applied to everyday scenarios. Even people who are much smarter than me seem convinced that they can find correlations without accounting for all the factors that make up a scenario. (And I, by no means, abjure myself from engaging in this fallacy in thinking.) I am wondering why this has grown more acceptable in the United States.
Dan Green on litblogs and serious criticism. I fully agree that the perceived “chatty” quality of litblogs is as broad a brush as declaring all print reviews “stodgy.” Nevertheless, Dan is correct to suggest that litblogs should continue to offer more in the way of “serious criticism,” whatever this might mean. With this in mind, I’m hoping to offer a few more long-form posts very soon.
To proclaim rather reductively that “style should serve to strengthen the author’s message” is to lose sight of the fact that life is ambiguous. If art reflects life, should art not likewise be served in a baroque manner from time to time? (In other words, I can’t abide such childish generalizations about Martin Amis’s work.)
There are currently too many errands to run. I’ll try to check in later. But don’t forget that, here in New York, tonight is the Columbia panel.
In this week’s LATBR, Douglas Hofstadter offers a fairly solid summation of Steven Pinker’s latest book, The Stuff of Thought. Because this engaging volume is indeed very airtight in its logic (it includes a pretty devastating takedown of Jerry Fodor’s “modularity of the mind” theory), I’m a bit curious about why Hofstadter “can’t completely accept its arguments.” Surely, Hofstadter could have put himself a bit more on the line here instead of simply imputing, without explanation, why he can’t buy into a “a language of thought.” These is cheap contrarian parlance. Thankfully, Hofstadter’s slight deficiencies are offset by Carolyn Kellogg’s delightful review of The Last Chicken in America. (Incidentally, more Pinker here.)
Let me offer a warm and hearty welcome to my newly minted, fellow podcasters at Book World. The WaPo has now entered the podcasting racket. I’m happy to report that, two shows in, the podcast is better than Tanenhaus’s version — in large part because the participants are actually having a bit of fun, as opposed to sounding like they are trapped in a soulless boardroom. (Did Ron Charles have a previous career as a college radio deejay? Because his FM radio intonations are certainly a lot more fun than Dwight Garner’s droll desperation.) But Marie Arana needs to lighten up a bit. To paraphrase Buck Owens, all you gotta do is act naturally. Plus, the WaPo site really needs direct streaming links instead of simply offering an RSS feed. But this is a promising start.
Yo, Junka, youze ain’t down wizzit! Globa warming be sumpin’ to stop! Younoze, like globazation and corprite gree! My rightchus brothaz and I put up zat sign and we gonna punk ya! Meetz me behind za Safeway at Church & Market. Throwdown and YouTube vidyo, mothafuckaz! Let za peoplez decides!
Why does Hollywood get the writer wrong? Probably because sitting on one’s ass in front of a computer might make for a protracted Andy Warhol film, but is rather dull to depict in narrative.
Should a play that’s weeks from opening in New York be off-limits to Chicago critics? It seems that Steppenwolf seems to be denying Chicago critics coverage of its New York productions. (via About Last Night)
Many “guy books” have become exceedling rare. That’s too bad. This will prevent others from truly determining if The Great Tool Emporium and Cab Forward is an underused Kama Sutra position.
Dave Eggers won’t let you Friend him on Facebook. Well, that doesn’t seem terribly philanthropic, does it? If you’re feeling spurned by Eggers, then have no fear. I’ll happily add you as a Facebook friend.
I read this story and imagined Bobby Brown singing “My Lobotomy.” “Everybody’s cutting all these lobes inside me / Why don’t they just let me think? / I don’t need remission / Make my own cognition oh / That’s my lobotomy.”
Who knew that a novelist and NBC could come to terms on “a divorce project?” This divorce project sounds rather pleasant. Like a nice little summer crafts project instead of the pain, hurt, financial woes, and humiliation that come with the territory. So good on NBC for giving us divorce with an enthusiastic hobbyist’s smile!
More controversy on italicizing comic strips at Other Ed’s. Personally, I don’t think Jumble should be italicized, unless someone here can reasonably argue that it is presenting a continuing narrative.
It looks like a guy named Alexis Debat has faked a number of interviews with a number of substantial subjects and still managed to get his fabricated interviews into policy journals. Incredible. (via The Publishing Spot)
If this MySpace page is to be believed, Wal-Mart is now asking mothers to check in their babies. Presumably, Wal-Mart has found a legitimate way to sell random babies on the open market?
I’m no fan of Kathy Griffin, but I don’t see why these remarks needed to be censored. Indeed, the joke’s more tepid than John Lennon claiming that the Beatles were more popular than Jesus. Will we see Kathy Griffin product burnings? And are we in 2007 or 1966?
Where are the men on TV? Anglling for your job, Rebecca, in a new reality TV show called Who Wants to Be a 3,000 Word Columnist? Stag club only, I’m afraid.
“Ask Yahoo! is teaming up with Yahoo! Answers to bring you Ask Mike.” No, this is not what anyone asked for. When I sent in my question to Ask Yahoo!, I damn well expected Yahoo! to answer it! And now you’re telling me that some lesser being named “Mike” is the guy responsible? Who the hell is Mike? And what can Mike offer that Yahoo cannot? Are you now outsourcing?
And it appears that the Tron followup is not dead. Joseph Kosinski is in “final negotiations” to develop and direct “the next chapter,” which will involve Flynn asking a group of nihilist hackers not to pee on his rug and a manual typewriter that reveals Flynn’s complicity in a Chuck E. Cheese venture called “Star Man’s” that never quite got off the ground.
You see, that’s the problem with trying to sum up the history of the American short story in a blog post. Invariably, you leave a lot of things out, while others fill in the details more succinctly.
USA Today runs the obligatory 9/11 fiction article. I don’t buy the claim that there are only 30 novels about 9/11. I’ve read far more “9/11 novels” in the past six years. Then again, I suppose it depends on what one explicitly styles a “9/11 novel.” Is not a novel some reflection of our times? And, as such, are not all novels dealing with contemporary issues “9/11 novels” to some degree?
So is Inspector Rebus finished? Or is he? Ian Rankin has announced his book for 2016: Inspector Rebus and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.
Look, I don’t like Britney Spears any more than the next guy. But I must confess that I’m stunned by all the attacks on her figure. Is the media now in the habit of attacking any major female entertainment figure who does not fit the “Auschwitz diet” archetype? And why aren’t more people asking this question?
Prison chaplains are now removing religious books and materials from prison libraries. The idea here — known as the Standardized Chapel Library Project — was inspired from a 2004 report by the Department of Justice, in which it was suggested that religious books should be banned because prisons could then become a recruiting center for militant Islamic groups. I’m not a religious man, but I do honor the First Amendment. If the effort here is to curtail terrorism (which, incidentally, is not always Islamic), banning books of any sort doesn’t mean that you’re going to stop people, inside or outside, from being recruited, corrupted, or otherwise influenced into doing bad things. If anything, might not restricting books demonstrate to any potential terrorist just how inflexible the United States is on this subject?
Sure, Knopf turned down a number of authors. But one must likewise ask how many important fiction writers the NYTBR has ignored under Tanenhaus’s tenure.
It looks like a Harvey Milk biopic is happening. Directed by Gus Van Sant. Sean Penn as Milk, Matt Damon as Dan White. We’ll see.
So has For Better or For Worse now transmuted into an endless series of flashback episodes? Come on, Ms. Johnston, surely you can continue to defy the “comic book characters don’t age” stereotype! I cry foul!
Apparently, Rick Kleffel is now podcasting five days a week. For how long, I don’t know. But I hope he keeps up his stamina. It’s arduous enough doing two or three of these a week.
Alex Ross on Pavarotti. Speaking for my uncouth self, the Three Tenors certainly did considerable damage towards any developing appreciation I might have of opera. Several kind and intelligent people — and certainly James Cain’s great interest in the subject didn’t hurt — have attempted to get me hooked on opera over the years, and I have tried to remain open-minded about this antipathy. I have responded ecstatically to Bizet’s Carmen (which I have never tired of listening, a performance of which I was once greatly delighted by in San Francisco), Rossini (which I used in many of the films I made as a student), and Mozart’s more playful operas (I’m more of a Magic Flute kind of guy than a Marriage of Figaro kind of guy). So on some of the basics, I’m doing quite all right. Opera has, as Ross very keenly observes in considering the Three Tenors’ reception, always worked for me in the form of theater, and I responded rather poorly to the “big man hitting high notes with a smile.” Understand that I have no problem dealing with more abstract and recital approaches to art. But the kind of ego often celebrated in lieu of the human spirit has caused opera to often rub me the wrong way. So I openly confess that I am a cultural thug on this point. While Pavarotti was certainly a great singer in his early years, I didn’t particularly care for the way his grandstanding got in the way of his talent. (And apparently Bryan Appleyard is on the lookout for an interview he conducted with Pavarotti. Let us hope he finds it.) (via James Tata)
James Rother: “The problem with most asseverations seeking to sever poetry from prose is that they are so finely granulated that they preclude the posing of certain basic ontogenetic questions without whose input the problem of just what (rather than where) poetry proceeds from, or how its operating system accommodates itself to the passing phenomenological scene as something parsable rather than a mere eidolon which meaning courts with little but flirtation on its mind dissolves into a plethora of survey-course evasions.” Indeed. Does anybody know what the fuck he’s talking about? I ask in all seriousness. I may be a long-winded bastard sometimes, but this takes the cake. (via Sharp Sand)
If you’re tracking magazines about to die, some guy named The Reaper seems to think that Tango, Hollywood Life, Radar, TV Guide, Sound & Vision, Kiplinger’s Personal Finance and Portfolio are close to the death knell.
Jeff VanderMeer on LongPen: “Upon reflection, this Frankenstein invention from Margaret Atwood strikes me as a kind of lunacy, the deranged dream of a person who just doesn’t have the fortitude for the litanies of the book tour: long, cramped plane flights, endless hotels, too much crap food, not enough sleep. It sounds, in fact, like a Bad SF idea, the kind of gimmick that might satisfy the techno-geek in some but that would hardly nourish more tactile readers. After all, if people just wanted the signature, they wouldn’t need the author’s presence at all, just the signed copy. Or they could write in for a personalized signature.”
By the way, sorry for the intermittent server over the past few days. I’ve talked with my hosting provider. It was fixed. And now it’s acting up again. So hopefully this will be cleared up soon.
You can always count on the NYT corrections page for some unusual syntax. Today: “A film review in Weekend on Aug. 17 about ‘Marigold’ misstated its rating status.” The review is not ofMarigold. It is aboutMarigold. It is not a film rating, but a “rating status.” Which makes me wonder whether social strata can now be applied to a film rating. (Is a PG-13 movie now considered middle-class? Or is it some benign out-of-towner entering a cocktail party at a Fifth Avenue apartment?) The Times regrets the vernacular, but this is the Times, after all.
Who will take over the UK division of Borders? It doesn’t appear to be doing so well! I don’t understand. UK sales have been up 6-7% each week over the course of the summer and yet these big boxy stores don’t seem to work. Several potential purchasers are now contemplating precisely what to do about this predicament. Will they stand arms a-kimbo to one side while Borders becomes more desperate and the asking price goes down? Will there be maniacal laughter involved? Is there a maximum amount of smugness that the Borders executives will reach? Or will they adopt humility? Will we find them on the dole? Or is this one of those business stories that litblogs are not supposed to follow? (Well, this one does and probably will.) (via Paul Collins)
The apparently semi-literate Joseph Ridgwell hasn’t heard of Stephen Crane. He wrote a masterpiece called The Red Badge of Courage. Never observed war, but you wouldn’t know it from the battle scenes. Wrote it when he was 23. And if Ridgwell truly doesn’t see great emotional depth in Hunger, one of the most emotional books I’ve read in the past decade (and it hit me in the gut three times), one must indeed wonder if he is belaboring his point. Why does the Guardian continue to feature so many imbecilic arguments about books for its blog? (via Stephen Mitchelmore)
Elizabeth Crane on Cashback: “Arty filmmaker, whoever you are, I’m sorry to harsh your mellow, I often save my negative reviews for my private life, but you lost me at beauty. Give me Russ Meyer any day.”
Jonathan Franzen is apparently so desperate for attention that he’s trashing Tony-award winning shows when he isn’t translating. Hey, J-Franz, it’s been six years since The Corrections. You can bitch all you want and translate all you want later. But for now, you’re not allowed to whine until you cough up another novel, okay?
At the Observer, several authors name underrated novels. Peter Ho Davies picks an LBC nominee, The Cottagers.
Rasputin contemplates dead blogs: “That former bastion of quality, The Minor Fall, The Major Lift, has been lost to history, as its former URL now goes to an adult marketing site; which is rather the internet equivalent of the fate of those poor souls in a John Carpenter zombie movie who get their brains ‘et.”
There are now far too many reading challenges for me to keep track of at A Life in Books. I’m going from memory here. But here’s what I think happened. First there was the Chunkster Challenge. Then there was the Read 26 Books With Titles Beginning from A to Z Challenge. Then there was the Read Books Written by the Literary Jonathans Challenge. Then there was the Read Books That You Can Barely Lift Challenge. Then there was the Read 100 Books While Participating in a Triathlon Challenge and the Read All of Proust in Total Darkness Challenge. I’m amazed at these folks. Not only are they involved in multiple challenges, but they can somehow keep track of them all. I’m amazed, I tell you. Amazed.
Doctor Whois to have a gap year. No Who in 2009, except for three specials. And all of them will be written by…shudder…Russell T. Davies.
Nice to see gender generalizations applied to blog. What good is it to apply a 1940s false assumption to a 21st century medium? (via Evil Genius Chronicle, who also has quite an ebullient podcast)
Darby Dixon reflects upon this business of fiction writing. No, you won’t completely understand it. But write every day. Do something every day. Keep some kind of hanging sword over the work, a sense of fun and enjoyment that will make up for the horrible resistance to stop. Don’t stop.
Slipping behind the Atlantic paywall onto the Powell’s platter: B.R. Myers on Pollan, which makes one wonder whether someone should write A Critic’s Manifesto and put an end to this damn Fisking.
It may be a false correlation between two separate events, but let’s consider the whole Reading is Dead question. In Scotland, we have a very fine showing of participants at the Edinburgh International Book Festival. In the States, Borders reports a quarterly loss, despite a rise in sales generated by Harry Potter 7. (It should be noted that Barnes and Noble that showed a profit.) So what do all of these things say? Are we simply seeing bad management? Do the EIFF participants end up moving a sizable number of books? Andrew Carnegie was a Scotsman. Should we resuscitate his ghost and put him in charge of Borders? I will need more coffee before any reasonable associations kick in. So never mind me. I’ll save useful analysis for later.
This week in Dammit Janet: Maslin botches a review for a book ostensibly (ghost)written by Johnny Cash’s wife. “This book does not include Ms. Cash’s side of the correspondence. Nor does it need to: Mr. Cash’s impassioned dialogue is conducted as much with himself as it is with her.” Ya think?
I’ve just learned that the Terre Haute bloggers are now planning a six-week symposium entitled How to Discourage Reading Through Soporific Lectures. They are currently lining up speakers. If you are a bland individual who has not laughed once in the past six years or you think jellybeans are extraneous or you think people should read their books in the same manner in which they are prescribed Brussels sprouts for dinner, please let them know. They are hoping to find the most boring and ponderous people for their lecture series. Bonus points if you ain’t gettin’ any. (And it also appears that a symposium on nose picking is also in the works. These are exciting times!)
Apparently, books strike fear in the prison system. Or maybe thye’re afraid that the convicts will become too smart. Never mind that the prison-industrial complex is allegedly supposed to rehabilitate. (Why else refer to them as penitentiaries or correctional institutions?) It’s worth observing that a little known piece of California progressivism, put into action by San Quentin librarian Herman Sopector, called bibliotherapy enabled Eldridge Cleaver to write Soul on Ice. I first learned about all this when reading Joseph T. Hallinan’s excellent book, Going Up the River: Travels in a Prison Nation. For furtherreading on the subject, check out Eric Cummins’ The Rise and Fall of California’s Radical Prison Movement. (Recent news via Quill & Quire)
Carolyn Kellogg is now a teacher! I hope we get some long-form teaching narratives soon.
Jane Austen’s latter years will be the subject of a new BBC drama. In fact, there are now so many dramas covering so many years of Jane Austen’s life that the producers of Teletubbies are also contemplating a drama. The new project, It is a Perambulator Universally Acknowledged, will cover Austen’s existence between one and three years old.
In the current Believer: Nick Hornby and David Simon. Next up: Garrison Keillor and David Mamet, where the latter will ask the former why he can’t say “fuck,” much less any word, with anything approaching cheerful conviction. (via Pinky’s Paperhaus)
Take it from this Gibson reader, Mr. Asher. It was certainly a terrible job. “Inhabitants?” Uh, there was only one character in Pattern Recognition allergic to trademarks. The Times regrets the error.
You can see just about anything — however illusory — when banging out a generalization-laden essay.
James Wood is the most feared man in American letters? Get real. He’s a mere nitpicking titmouse. To be afraid of Wood is like having minor chest pains while passing the Grey Poupon from one Rolls Royce to another. If such a perception is even half-true, then the time has come for the literary world to get the wind knocked out of its too comfy constituency.
Emdashes has collected a helpful list of stories that first appeared in The New Yorker. My vote: John Cheever’s “The Swimmer.” I doubt very highly that anything as remarkably inventive as that story will ever appear in Remnick’s pages.
Believe it or not, there was a time in Dwight Garner’s career when he wasn’t a corporate tool. Case in point: this highly entertaining John Updike interview from 1996 that even has Updike revealing his feelings about Nicholson Baker, even if Garner can barely contain his antipathy for John Barth.
The Guardian reveals the longlist for this year’s First Book Award.
BODY: You are getting very sleepy. ME: Okay, I will try to sleep now. But where were you a few hours ago? BODY: Waiting for you to stop thinking. Was it necessary to look at all those YouTube clips of things resembling amateur cooking shows? ME: I can’t help it if the brain keeps going! I’m just naturally curious. BODY: We’re a service industry, you know. ME: A service industry of one! I have to get up in a few hours! BODY: Oh, you can hack it. Jesus, you’re neurotic about all this. You shouldn’t have taken a nap. ME: You were the one who hijacked ontological operations! BODY: You are getting very sleepy! ME: Thanks, body. Thanks a lot.
The “This I Believe” segments on NPR really make me want to hit something. These so-called “essayists” are needlessly calm and the worldviews expressed generally involve some unhelpful “common sense” you can all too easily obtain from a bland bookkeeper who has neither smiled nor walked on the wild side once in the past twelve years. So why do I listen to NPR? Well, I keep hoping that some crazy bastard will emerge, screaming “We’ve going to blow shit up in Torremolinos!” and then proceed to deliver an enthusiastic, profanity-laced lecture on Borges, with a digression into the history of the graham cracker, with a mariachi band forcing the staid hosts to dance and speak in an inflection that isn’t that sedate, okay-I’ll-have-my-Valium-now NPR issue voice. Why doesn’t anyone on NPR get excited?
Todd McFarlane and Josh Olson promise a revisionist Oz film. The new movie, tentatively entitled Tits and Toto, will involve Dorothy pimping her way down the Yellow Brick Road, schtupping everything she sees. Look for a ten-minute water sports scene involving the Cowardly Lion, where he runs into the forest after being asked to urinate upon Dorothy’s bare bottom. And instead of an oil can, the Tin Man will, thanks to the magic of bukkake, will be unlocked from his rust. Fun for the whole family! Do you think they’ll show it every year on television?
So who was the real Agatha Christie? Because Christie wrote the lines, “You know, you’re the sort of woman who ought to be raped. It might do you good,” under a pseudonym, the Telegraph‘s Laura Thompson appears to be in a great uproar. I’m not sure whether these striking lines say anything in particular about Christie as a person. (It is a common fallacy to equate a writer’s personality with the dark and disturbing things a writer sets down to paper.) Personally, I won’t be impressed until someone reveals that Christie managed to schtup half the men in Berkshire and single-handedly stopping a seditious affront to Mother England during her mysterious disappearance.
Something for Mr. Asher to consider in his forthcoming symposium: “The Problem with Pricey Paperbacks.” (Of course, Levi was on this issue before Alex Remington. Another example of print cribbing from blogs? For a print-financed blog no less!) (via Orthofer)
And speaking of Levi, this consideration of Richard Bach is madness. I was there when the friend in question screamed in horror. Levi held the book. There was a strange Zen-like grimace on his face, as if Levi had just finished having tea with the Dalai Lama. I had been talking with someone and stood silent and slackjawed and horrified when Levi then declared to all of us that Jonathan Livingston Seagull “wasn’t so bad.” I was then forced to exorcise the book so that Levi would be protected from future influence. Things proceeded okay from there. Let this be a lesson. Richard Bach is a dangerous man. Pick up his work at your own peril.
Jenny D is quite right about Gibson. Gibson’s houses are built on firm foundations of language and rhythm, and I think it can be sufficiently argued that his conceptual associations are likewise rooted upon these preternatural cadences.
Ah callow youth! Why are you so goddam non-rebellious when the world’s in the shitter? 64% of these little bastards “wake up happy?” Sixty-four percent? Christ, the generation after mine is disappointing the hell out of me. We were cynical as fuck and that was during the Clinton years! Maybe Charles Rangel is right. Maybe we should reinstate the draft just to give these smug little fucks a wakeup call. BLAM BLAM BLAM! What do you think of that, eh? If you want your nonfat hazelnut latte and your TiVo options, you’re going to have to march through the goddam DMZ to get them! HOW ABOUT THAT? Oh, what’s that? You need to go to the infirmary? Well, now that you’re in the middle of the GREAT CLUSTERFUCK YOU’VE BEEN GLEEFULLY IGNORING, that ought to put a damper on the whole “wake up happy” scenario, eh?
I figured that ignoring the LongPen(TM) was perhaps the best way to avoid getting too excited about a pedantic and rather preposterous invention that (a) is something of a satirical assault upon the author junket — alas, they think Atwood humorless and without machinations, but the way I figured it, she cooked up this thing and didn’t expect anyone to take it so seriously and so rolled with it — and (b) is of no benefit to the reader at all, contra claims made by the Atwood clan, febrile functionaries, et al. Thankfully, the Rake has provided the LongPenis(TM) its appropriate context. If the LongPenis authors start commenting upon their business cards or praising Huey Lewis, I won’t be surprised.
Mike Harrison on novel writing: “As long as you foster an incomplete relationship with yourself, & depend on an interest in form to show you what you could say (rather than learning ways to efficiently say what you already think you know), maybe you don’t need to worry about that. The implication being that I don’t want things to get easier. I want to avoid what I see as a superficialising methodicalness or rationality. I hope I mean it. It’s so important not to know who you are after all these years.” Which, given this rather interesting description, evocative in some ways of the famous passage from American Pastoral, makes one contemplate just how confident one is while simultaneously not completely knowing one’s self. This is likewise a form of anarchy I find comforting.
Tayari Jones has some significant words upon this whole “hot young author” business. I’m hoping for a substantial response to all this nonsense myself. But in the meantime, I point literary snobs to the John W. Campbell Best New Writer Award, which sets the criteria not upon whether an author is under 40 or under 35, but whether a writer’s first piece of fiction has appeared in a professional publication over the past two years. This seems to me more of an equitable criteria for determining who a “new” or “young” writer is. In fact, after John Scalzi won the Campbell Award, he did the math and found that they were as “old” as 52!
Russian journalists aren’t the only one facing persecution (and, in some cases, mysterious murders). It seems that Russian writer Pavel Astakhov has faced libel charges — now dropped — for daring to depict corrupt cops in his novel, Raider. What’s quite interesting about the charges is that Astakhov appears to have been pursued not for naming specific cops, but for sullying the image of the Russian police. One wonders if this will encourage the Russian authorities to go further.
I profoundly disagree with Levi’s condemnation of Luc Sante’s excellent overview of the many versions of On the Road that are now available. Levi does have a point about the NYTBR‘s regular employment of reductive-minded bozos who wouldn’t know a literary visceral charge even if they were hooked in series with a tome and a Tesla coil. But he’s wrong in declaring Luc Sante the wrong guy for the job. Unlike Adam Gopnik’s PKD takedown in the New Yorker (or, for that matter, much of the NYTBR‘s dismissive posturing against genre and other types of books that are perhaps “not literary enough”), Sante, with this piece, actually offers something that one doesn’t often find in a weekly book review section, particularly one as airless as Tanenhaus’s lead balloon: namely, a comparative analysis of multiple texts, an effort to understand how Kerouac — both the writer and the legend — came to be, and the circumstances which caused this book to be written. In other words, even if, as Levi suggests, Sante had only a modest passion for Kerouac going into the piece, unlike Gopnik, he went out of his way to understand its mechanics and its place. I hope we’ll see more pieces like this from the otherwise flaccid NYTBR, if only because it could really use some flaxseed right about now.
And in other literary woos to weekly book reviews, the LATBR has successfully courted Lionel Shriver to its pages. Shriver examines Amy Bloom’s Away, tying that novel in with Philippe Vasset.
This week, at the Litblog Co-Op, the folks are discussing Matthew Sharpe’s fantastic novel, Jamestown. There will also be a podcast interview unveiled on Friday, as well as two additional podcasts: (1) the fourth and final podcast in our Authors Named Kate series and (2) a lengthy interview with a man who is funnier than you might think involving coats, blankets, Belgian magnates, cigarettes, and an interesting association posited by Ed Park (and answered!). The latter podcast also involves this author and Our Young, Roving Correspondent getting kicked out of a hotel bar midway through the interview. Stay tuned.
C. Max Magee — who is now once again balder than me — goes Hollywood — or, perhaps more accurately, its literary equivalent. But if NPR truly is that comparably glitzy valley where all cultural figures go to be lionized, I want to know when we’ll start seeing the high-priced callgirls and strung-out heroin addicts that come with the territory. Thankfully, Mr. Magee is neither a high-priced callgirl nor a heroin addict. But to prevent him from getting too smug (not that he would or anything, but it’s good to have insurance), I’ve arranged several packages of humble pie to be delivered on Tuesday morning.
In response to Dan Green: Ken Kalfus’s A Disorder Peculiar to the Country is a fantastic (if flawed) novel precisely because there is no direct parallel between the events of the divorce and 9/11. In juxtaposing the WTC against the divorce, is it not possible that Kalfus is — at least as I read it — taking the piss out of anyone who attempts to draw a direct parallel between life and history or who clutches onto 9/11 like a bright orange life preserver preventing them from embracing life’s choppy waters? Sure, all of you hipsters are looking to Gary Shteyngart as the guy who might be “the next Vonnegut,” a strange term that I have heard in certain circles no less than twelve times in the past four days. Okay, that’s fine. But while Shteyngart certainly brings great talent to the table, it is Ken Kalfus who goes that necessary extra step further in our current literary age and who offers a very necessary kick in the ass towards conventional reader interpretations. Let me put it this way: Disorder so thoroughly wowed me with its bawdiness and its gleefully caustic tone that Kalfus immediately bumped himself up to one of those authors whose every volume I would read upon publication. Just so I can watch where he’ll go.
Sarah answers the question that every mystery reader has been wanting to know: Where did Marilyn Stasio come from? Not surprisingly, there was a time in Stasio’s career in which she still had a bit of piss and vinegar. Regrettably, that epoch seems to be over.
I couldn’t agree more. I couldn’t agree less. I’m into subject-verb agreement, but when it comes to silly idioms, it’s something of a mess.
Is James Wood “brutal?” There’s been a lengthy post on the subject of literary criticism sitting in my drafts folder for quite some time. But I look forward to reading Garth’s promised essay.
So if you like to see David Duchovny getting laid, Californication‘s your show, I suppose. Showtime: No Limits. Why don’t they just call the show Duchovny’s Dick and get it over with?
I haven’t meticulously examined Adam Gopnik’s lengthy take on PKD yet, but when I do, I hope to offer a lengthy response. There are many things that need to be addressed here.
” all, this book paints a punishingly bleak picture.” Leave it to Janet Maslin to demonstrate all the subtlety of a 16 ton weight’s impact upon a reader’s skull. Please, Maslin, go back to film reviewing. You were good at that.
In this preposterous article, Arthur C. Brooks argues that adjusting our society for income disparity is unnecessary, because studies show that the level of happiness hasn’t changed since 1972. Obviously, Brooks is unaware that people often prevaricate when asked “How are you doing?” or “Are you happy?” The more interesting question is whether the General Social Survey accounted for this discrepancy. Are people more conformist in 2004 than they were in 1973? And, as such, are they more inclined to say that they are “very happy” when an auspicious surveyor presses them on the subject? Furthermore, by what stretch of the imagination is improving social and financial conditions for all a bad thing? Why does Brooks naively separate opportunity from income inequality? It’s not a matter of being envious, but of ensuring that more people have a chance to live legitimately happy lives. Moving cash around from the haves to the have nots so that more income can be redistributed for the benefit of a society is a start, seeing as how government is currently disinclined to do this.
UK broadband customers are going to be paying the price for the popularity of online video. Will American providers attempt something similar?
I’m with Scott. It seems patently absurd to invent bullshit genres around current events. This blog, incidentally, by way of operating presently in August 14, 2007, is a post-9/11, post-Katrina, post-Rove resignation blog. I will do my best to write with angst and importance, but I can’t promise anything.
Between this and the Hitchens review, I really want to know what fumes NYT staffers are inhaling at the new building. Seriously. (via The Gurgling Cod)
If there’s an author named Kate, chances are that she’s been interviewed for The Bat Segundo Show in the past month. This week will see an onslaught of Kate-themed podcasts, carefully timed with this week’s Katharine Weber love at the LBC.
The World Fantasy Awards nominations are now up. Regrettably, the greatly overrated Lisey’s Story has taken one of the Best Novel slots. But a certain Mr. Rowe made the list. And Jeffrey Ford has two nominations!
Oh no, Maud, it’s The Book of Revelation hands down. And I can also make a strong case for The Insult. I’ll be sure to offer more vociferous words on the subject if you track me down in person this Friday at McNally Robinson, where the big Rupert T himself will be there.
Holy shit! There’s a new Old Curiosity Shop film adaptation. Who the fuck’s playing Quilp? And is it now okay to laugh when Little Nell dies? No heart of stone here, I assure you.
Mark Sarvas, Ron Hogan, and some guy who makes phone calls are interviewed in the latest article describing how litblogs might make a difference.
Laura Bush and Jenna Bush are now planning to write a children’s book. One suspects that the results will be worth of the same misdemeanors that come to Jenna quite naturally.
Stephen King claims that critics didn’t do the Harry Potter series justice. His main beef: “When you have only four days to read a 750-page book, then write an 1,100-word review on it, how much time do you have to really enjoy the book? To think about the book?” (His italics.) Well, name one hard-core Harry Potter fan who didn’t wolf down the final book in quite the same way, The problem with King’s assessment is that he doesn’t exactly come across as the populist Lionel Trilling ready to atone for these apparent critical inadequacies — which, in indolent fashion, he does not cite. With King, we get such critical insights as “the Potter books grew as they went along,” “the hypnotism of those calm and sensitive voices, especially when they turn to make-believe,” and “[h]er characters are lively and well-drawn, her pace is impeccable.” I have long defended Danse Macabre as a thoughtful populist meditation on horror films and literature. But if King cannot offer examples from the text as to why Rowling’s voices work and if he must stick to Bart Simpson-style observations (to claim that the books “grew as they went along” is to simply observe the rising page count across the volumes) when he has about 1,800 words to rant, then he is clearly not the guy to fulminate on the subject. King made this exact speech before, actually suggesting that the works of John Grisham should be treated with some reverence. Such ridiculous posturing — particularly when it includes a repeat offender like Grisham (and I have read two of his books) — does all books a disservice. Is there not some middle ground whereby the critic can recognize the literary merits of a popular book while also recognizing egregious assaults upon the English language? (via Smart Books)
Speaking of disgraces along these lines, I have learned that Marilyn Stasio will be reviewing Rupert Thomson’s Death of a Murderer in this week’s NYTBR. My own considerable thoughts on this volume will hopefully be revealed later, but I’ll simply say that a book as complicated as this one really can’t be summed up in a capsule. Don’t tell this to the Tanenhaus crew, who regularly espies phrases like “mystery” and “science fiction” and immediately throws the tomes into the newspaper equivalent of Section 8 housing.
Well, if Stu Bykofsky is going to adopt such a hysterical polemic (he can’t be serious, can he?), I’d say that the best thing for America is to have a group of people beat the shit out of Bykofsky. And then once Bykofsky has recovered, another group can do this three thousand more times: one beating for every life lost during September 11th. The unity brought by all of these attacks, alas, won’t last forever. (What kind of sick bastard would write such a thing? I can’t be serious, can I?)
I can assure Bob Hoover that I’m not “safe and warm in the Carpathia.” But if bloggers are rescuing print journalists to some degree, I should remind Mr. Hoover that the Carpathia was sunk by a U-boat. That’s the thing about sailing out here on the waters and making waves. Nothing is impermeable, particularly when hubris and political diatribes replace reason while maintaining the ship.
Elton John wants to shut down the Net. Personally, I think it would be more beneficial if the Net found a way to shut down Elton John. His extraneous position has been tolerated by music listeners now for far too long. The time has come to deactivate him. (via Books Inq.)
And RIP John Gardner. Gardner single-handedly revived the Bond novels in the 1980s and kept this young reader excited (after all, there were no more Ian Fleming books left to read). (via Bill Peschel)
James Wood has jumped ship from The New Republic to The New Yorker. Said Leon Wieseltier: “The New Republic plays many significant roles in American culture, and one of them is to find and to develop writers with whom The New Yorker can eventually staff itself.” This may be a wild stab in the dark, but I don’t think Wieseltier plans on tap dancing anytime soon over this.
So if the publishing industry is dying, why is Jane Friedman so convinced that it is “the healthiest I have seen it in a very long time?” HarperCollins has seen its annual revenue shift from $737 million to $1.3 billion. But how much of this comes from gutsy instincts? And how much of this comes from business consolidation? We’re not getting anything close to the whole story here. (via Written Nerd)
Richard Nash announces that there will be a brand new Donald Barthelme collection! Flying to America, containing 45 pieces of previously uncollected pieces, is coming. In the meantime, if you need a Barthelme primer or pick-me-up, Jessamyn West’s page is a good start.
Michael Blowhard has some significant beefs with tables of contents in magazines. But if you want to talk about labyrinths contained within magazines, let’s talk about all those goddam ads you have to flip through to get to the TOC page. I’ve often found myself flipping through about forty to fifty pages of ads just to find the TOC. To add insult to injury, the TOC is often staggered across multiple pages without so much as a helpful notation as to where to find the second page. Which means something like this: TOC Page One, 12 pages of ads, TOC Page Two. And this is the seminal idea that Michael hasn’t considered. Magazines are now designed to be completely unnavigable for the reader. It is now almost impossible for a reader to not get lost within several pages of advertising. Thus, the marketing team can pride themselves on a design in which advertising comes first and content comes second. But the magazine design and navigation fails as a result. The advertisers are favored more than the readers, because they bring in more revenue for the magazine. (Or did you honestly think that all those cheap magazine subscriptions were pulling in most of the income?) In fact, the situation is so tilted in favor of the advertisers that it’s quite possible that magazines may very well be doing the work of advertising agencies. Which makes me wonder why we don’t just call the chief offenders “adazines” — a soporific drug compelling people to buy stuff they don’t need disguised as a journalistic endeavor.
Sorry for failing to report this, but the Man Booker longlist is here, if you care. Normally, I’d get excited. But this is such a safe and predictable series of titles.
One of Levi’s major causes — hell, he brings the subject up every time I see him — has been the pricing disparity between hardcover and paperback. He’s now enlisting readers and bloggers to begin the discussion to end all discussions on this subject. So go over to Litkicks and feed him all sorts of info on the subject.
Jonathan Rosenbaum on Bergman. Not the tribute you were expecting. (via James Tata)
I don’t really agree with the suggestions made in this somewhat interesting revisitation of Kerouac. Various individuals bring out the standard charges — that traveling and writing on the road is largely a middle-class endeavor, that the age of Beat-like exploration is dead, et al. If there is a literary paucity, I’m wondering, however, if it’s more of a case of the publishing industry taking fewer chances on work they deem as experimental. (via Books, Inq.)
I’ve been informed that Issue #4 of A Public Space features a lengthy piece involving Vollmann in Toronto (including illustrations). As soon as I get my hands on a copy, I’ll offer a report on this essay.
It is very possible that Kate Coe has penned the Theresa Duncan article to end all Theresa Duncan articles. Beyond the careful reporting, let us consider the important role of hyperlinks in the online version of this article. Had this been merely a print piece, would these references have been half as helpful? The hyperlink is here to stay. Embrace it. (via Michelle Richmond)
Tod Goldberg lays down his rules: “I don’t want to read your self-published novel. Ever. If you’re reading this and thinking, Hey, I see Tod sometimes reviews books places, I wonder if he’d like to review my book? The answer is that I’d rather sit through I Know Who Killed Me covered in fire ants.”
So folks, do you have Asperger’s? Who needs some perfunctory summation from an psychological rube when the Web can play this kind of ignoble Asperger’s card for you? Apparently, I’m an “average female scientist.” Which presumably means that I’ll need to work twice as hard to prove that I’m capable, because the world seems to consider me more of a stewardess who should be popping out kids from her uterus than a thinker. (via the Valve)
Charles Simic has been named the new U.S. poet laureate. But wait a minute, Simic was born in Yugoslavia! What the hell’s going on? I thought our government specialized in celebrating and maintaining a purebred America! This is hypocrisy! The last thing America needs is one of these goddam Yugoslavians taking away American cultural thunder. Why not simply give the title to a Madison Avenue copywriter? “Born in fire, blown by mouth and cut by hand with heart.” Sheer poetry that keeps this nation going!
After reading Julie Phillips’s James Triptree, Jr.: The Double Life of Alice B. Sheldon, I have many conclusions. But the one that sticks out the most (which indeed I still possessed even before picking up the Phillips book): Ursula K. Le Guin, hubba hubba! Yowzahs! Rowr! Considerable correspondence between Sheldon and various science fiction writers can be found within the book. But it is Le Guin’s volleys, laden with wit, intelligence, and an irresistable wordplay, that made me swoon. Letter writing may very well be a dying art — something abdicated to the “dats cool” one-sentence truncations of contemporary email. Because of this, I think it’s high time to remind readers that Le Guin is still around and still pumping out interesting books. It’s also high time to remind all emailers to up their game! (More recent news on the literary merits of email here.)
Can I say again just how saddened I am to see Janet Maslin, who was once a sharp film critic, offering such asinine book reviews like this? One would think that after a few years of book reviewing, Maslin would understand that there are these things called legal clearances which often affect decisions in historical fiction and that the critic has to be very careful when dwelling upon authorial intention. But, no, this review saddens me so much with its idiocy that I must walk away, head hunkered down, hoping that the Janet Maslin I read in the ’90’s will return. For the love of letters, Gray Lady, get Maslin away from books and back into the movie theaters, pronto!
I have not yet written about Stephen Fry’s incredibly fun new book, The Ode Less Travelled, which I cracked open the other day. But see what Levi has to say about it.
At the the Litblog Co-Op, they’re cha-cha-chatting about the next round’s lineup. Discussion, guest blogging, and podcasts will be forthcoming — along with a scoop of vanilla ice cream on the side. Stay tuned!
In addition to composing blustering and martial music, John Philip Sousa wrote novels, which were also presumably blustering and martial. More from Paul Collins.
So what excites the publishing industry these days (or purports to)? “Forrest Gump wins Powerball.” No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, and no.
Nan! Nan! Self-serving Nan! She’ll bray about Oprah because she can! Nan! Nan! Ignoble Nan! She doesn’t know Frey is a flash in the pan.
Christ, the corporate magpie has done it again. Instead of focusing on such blogs as Book Covers, which has been quite around for some time and often includes interviews with book cover designers, Foreword, a book design blog that’s been operating since 2003, or the more recent Judge a Book By Its Cover, Dwight “Pilfering Pettifogger” Garner acts as if these seminal blogs have never happened, devoting his attentions to The Book Design Review — presumably because “nytimes” is in Joseph Sullivan’s URL. No doubt that Garner will claim ignorance on these three other blogs, just as he acted as if Largeheartedboy’s Book Notes had never happened. But in an age where finding blog antecedents is just a Google search away, this is not a reasonable excuse. Any blog — corporate or independent — has a duty to know what’s been set down before and to innovate without absconding, Mencia-like, from what others have done.
Maud notes that indie film shoots could become a rarity — thanks to draconian measures and overbroad legislative terms instituted by Mayor Bloomberg, which would involve slapping indie filmmakers with obtaining a permit and $1 million in liability insurance. (As I’ve learned more about Bloomberg, I’ve been scratching my head over how this fine city elected such a colossal asshole for mayor.) Public feedback ends on Friday and there is this petition set up by Picture New York. If you don’t want to see cultural depiction of New York transform into a needless plutocracy, voice your opinion today!
Orthofer, by dint of a dutiful reader, has located this helpful PDF file. Since the publisher hasn’t sent the dutiful Mr. Orthofer his copy, I suppose we’ll have to contend with this TLS review in the meantime.
Despite Robert Ludlum’s death six years ago, it would appear that he remains a prolific author. Apparently, the Ludlum executors are taking a page out of the V.C. Andrews playbook, having ghost writers expand upon story ideas that Ludlum had lying about. As much as I don’t care for Ludlum’s work, I still find this tantamount to sodomizing a writer’s dead corpse. If an uncredited writer riffs off a story idea, can it be sufficiently called a Robert Ludlum book? Ludlum’s agent, Henry Morrison, claims that Ludlum told him, “I don’t want my name to disappear. I’ve spent 30 years writing books and building an audience.” But does flooding the marketplace with faux Ludlum books really a fair way to preserve an author’s legacy? Why couldn’t Ludlum or his followers accept that all good things come to an end? Oh yeah. I keep forgetting about these green slips of paper that seduce people so easily. (via Jenny D)
Last night’s overwhelming support for the Herring Wonder exceeded even my expectations. I felt bad for Craig “The Crippler” Davidson, who maintained gravitas near the end amidst a decidedly pro-Ames audience. I was very impressed with Miss Saturn — and, no, not the way you’re thinking. Swinging forty hula hoops in varying degrees of elliptical rotation is no small feat. David Leslie orchestrated the elements. Gleason’s Gym owner Bruce Silverglade destroyed the Burgess Meredith stereotype. Patrick “The Mangina” Bucklew and Valmonte Sprout were fantastic, but need to work on their timing. They entered the ring on the second round and caused considerable confusion. I was sitting next to Silverglade and he looked as if he was prepared to draw blood when this happened. Others dwelt unduly upon who Ames was dating. Referee Dominic Manatho and I quietly performed our duties. And the call for blood was something to see.
New Yorkexamines the Mediabistro sale and concludes: “In fact, Touby’s success underscores the difference between the current (seeming) bubble and that of the late nineties: The way to cash out now is to get bought out, not to go public. And until the right buyer shows up, all that most of us can do is stand back and guesstimate what’s worth what.” If I didn’t know any better, this seems a disingenuous way of evoking Chris Anderson’s hypothesis without actually typing in the dreadful words “long tail.”
A quick reminder that Jonathan Ames and Craig Davidson will be fighting tonight at Gleason’s Gym at 8:00 PM.
Brian K. Vaughan and Pia Guerra’s excellent comic, Y: The Last Man, is being adapted into a film by the folks behind Disturbia. I am unsure how many Hollywood dollars will be committed to training monkeys, with the animal trainers spending hours attempting to reproduce Guerra’s juxtapositions of Ampersand on Yorick’s shoulders. But I’m convinced that monkey accuracy will be the key indicator as to whether this is a successful adaptation or not. Hell, this particular film could very well set a precedent for persuasive monkey behavior. If Clint Eastwood, who I understand has some experience in these matters, is somehow involved, then this film adaptation will go forth without a hitch.
Guitarist Brian May is completing his Ph.D more than twenty-five years after he abandoned it for a music career. Presumably, having to endure Ben Elton’s dumbing down of Queen’s legacy was enough to push May over the edge.
Tod Goldberg offers tips on how to write an essay for Parade.
I stopped getting excited about new Noam Chomsky volumes when I turned 22. A glowing orb on my hand went off, signaling that there were better ways to be political than celebrating the art of writing lifeless sentences.
The Weekly World News, one of the most important newspapers of our time, is shutting down. The News‘s fabrications were the best of all the tabloids. And I can’t think of another publication that will be able to offer the same kind of amusement as I wait to purchase broccoli. (via Pete Anderson)
Speaking of which, here’s Magazine Death Pool — sort of a Fucked Company for periodicals.
This is bizarre: Carcassonne has been transformed into an Xbox game. But truthfully, can those delightful tiles actually be replaced by a television screen?
Mr. Mitchelmore raises an interesting point about prejudices before reading. I think that a book, no matter how overexposed the subject matter, is still capable of surprising a reader if an author is good enough and that it’s a bit foolish to discount an author’s creative possibilities within a given formula. If anything, seeing precisely what Coetzee will come up with after so many books about writers writing books is the more interesting question. Hell, is not David Markson’s “Novel” tetralogy — if we must group them together — essentially about a writer writing a book? You’d be hard-pressed to call his approach similar to Stephen King novel featuring a writer writing a book.
Spoon is not treading water. The new album is a fabulous head game with what the long-time listening base is expecting. (Case in point: the abbreviated “Your” in the title “You Got Yr. Cherry Bomb.” And where’s the Y in “Rhthm and Soul?” And why a song about a Japanese cigarette case? That’s the kind of thing you’d expect from a band desperately seeking objects in a hotel room to write a song.) I’m liking this album very much because of these elisions, which also manifest themselves in such “ghost” flourishes as that sequenced horn section which opens up “The Underdog,” only to not quite match up with the bass notes in that chorus’s expected pomposity. (And then the “horns” shift to a clear synth voice around the three minute mark.) No, it’s not as overtly experimental as something like Kid A and these production decisions aren’t immediately clear on the first few listens. But it’s still pretty fun. And even if you don’t sign on for this sort of thing, there are still slacking rockers (“slockers?”) like “Finer Feelings” and “Don’t You Evah.”
And speaking of Mr. VanderMeer, here he is again in this week’s Book World.