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by Edward Champion

This Week on “What’s Lev Whining About?”

Another week, another ridiculous Lev Grossman article. This week, the silly man dodders on about which authors represent today’s “generation.” By “generation,” I presume Grossman refers an author under the age of 40 who somehow “speaks” to the 18-34 generation. Bafflingly, Grossman imputes that David Foster Wallace, Jonathan Franzen, Jonathan Lethem and Michael Chabon are over-the-hill and, as a result, inured from appealing to younger readers.

But why should an author’s age matter? Grossman’s ageist approach fails to account for one overwhelming reality: it’s the books, stupid.

Further, why must an author be under an obligation to speak to his generation? Doesn’t fiction reflect themes that transcend a particular time or place? Catcher in the Rye continues to sell 250,000 copies a year, which, even accounting for the copies purchased for classrooms, suggests that it is doing quite well at appealing to younger readers. Not bad for a book that came out more than fifty years ago.

But even if we take Grossman’s thesis at face value, what of the following authors?

  • Haruki Murakami, sold 2 million copies of Norweigan Wood, at 38, and continued to attract young readers in his forties.
  • Paul Auster’s New York Trilogy, published when Auster was 40, attracted a considerable number of hipsters in the late 80s.
  • That L. Frank Baum guy who created the Oz books? 44 when he published the first Oz book.

I could be here all night.

Also, the Time copy editors seem to be asleep at the wheel. Grossman writes:

Ten years ago novels were expanding rapidly, like little overheated primordial galaxies. Chunky, world-devouring tomes like Wallace’s Infinite Jest and Franzen’s The Corrections were supposed to be the wave of the future…

Uh, Lev, The Corrections came out five years ago, not ten. And Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas clocks in at 528 pages, just 40 pages under The Corrections‘ 568 pages. I don’t think the bulky novel is showing any immediate signs of extinction. Particularly while Vollmann’s still around.

[UPDATE: Mr. Sarvas serves up some thoughts.]

by Edward Champion

Too Many Men Named Otto

ottopenzler.jpgIt is no secret that I, Otto Penzler, can read mystery novels with greater alacrity than you. After all, I emerged from my mother’s womb with a monocle and a name quite happily palindromic. I had to wait seventeen years to grow the beard (infernal puberty hindered my ascent into manhood), but it eventually came like the downy bounty of a late summer shower. I have a pet Persian that I stroke with calculating menace. And with the extra money I netted from the sale of my press to Warner, I have been flush with funds. Where weaker men might blow such a windfall on prostitutes, pornographic videotapes, and Creamsicles, I decided to invest more responsibly, as befits a proper gentleman.

Last year, I purchased a chalice that is probably worth more than your car. I have sent at least three crime fiction writers to early graves. (We won’t name names, but pay attention to those who have remained silent since Thrillerfest.) In short, I matter in a way that you mere New York Sun readers can only speculate about over an affordable White Castle dinner. Upon my passing, there will be many landmarks and hosannas devoted to my legacy. And there will be many great Ottos brought forth into the world, sired by the Penzlerites under my employ. Such is the way of the mystery world. Such is the way of New York.

This kind of power comes with the territory. Particularly when you are named Otto. Only men named Otto can truly understand the responsibility of living up to the name. This is why I am all too happy to offer my services to the New York Sun and tear open the appropriate orifices.

The first target, of course, is Akashic. Being a literal-minded man, I cannot understand why Lawrence Block, who was born in Buffalo, was asked to edit Manhattan Noir. Should he not be editing Buffalo Noir instead? Why didn’t Akashic ask a man of my refined sensibilities to edit the anthology? Further, not only could I edit Mr. Block under the table, but I could also defeat him in mud wrestling, heavy drinking, and ro-sham-bo.

Second, concerning this business of Twin Cities Noir, what was Akashic thinking? Manhattan, as we all know, is the center of the universe. There are no other cities that matter. I never leave this magnificent isle. Indeed, why should I? Why should you? Why should anyone concerned with this lovely idea of noir? Let the hicks who subsist outside our civilized world enjoy their precious mass market paperbacks. Let them harbor the illusion that they might actually “think” from time to time. Even so, Akashic has a responsibility not to encourage these inveterate plebs from thinking about “noir.” Let their minds remain as dark as the millieus they have the temerity to reside in. Save the dark crime fiction for cultural experts like me.

Lastly, as Mr. Breun (perhaps the most disingenuous editor of the lot) writes in his introduction, some contributors used Crayolas instead of a typewriter to write their stories. Never before have I encountered such an amateurish approach to fiction writing. These contributors actually believe that they can have fun? Heaven forfend! Perhaps the next generation of fiction writers might benefit from austere parents. For example, I will always be grateful to Ma Penzler for attaching an unusual device to my four year old skull and electrocuting me any time I caught sight of a coloring book. In this way, I was weaned off coloring books and Crayolas at an early age. I wasn’t distracted by all the pedantic fun that other children experienced. As a result, my way to the top was without a single obstacle. It is because of this that I am the great success I am today. It is because of this that I fear God. It is because of this that I know mystery better than you.