• It’s never too late to stop thinking about the next Booker, particularly with Ian McEwan’s Saturday in the pipeline. Officially, the book has been completed, with more than a few articles on this day-in-the-life-of-a-neurosurgeon offering.
• Alice Munro, recently profiled in the NYT, has been nominated for a Governor General award. She won her first GG award 36 years ago.
• The big literary sensation in France is Suite Francaise. The novel was written in 1942 by Jewish author Irene Nemirovsky right as she was waiting for the Nazis to come. The book was transcribed by Nemirovsky’s eldest daughter. Some folks are even comparing this with Anne Frank.
• Here’s something interesting: Kong Ji-young has written a short story collection about Koreans living in Berlin. Wonder if she and Rachel Seiffert would ever do a double-bill reading?
• And speaking of Germany, Gerhard Schröder’s younger brother is set to publish embarassing stories about the Chancellor. And get this: they’re going to be sold on paper handkerchiefs.
• Dick Morris knows how Clinton’s mind works. It has three buttons: ON, OFF and REMEMBER OBSCURE PERSONAL DETAIL OF PERSON YOU’RE TALKING TO.
Despite this easily comprehensible triage, Morris has written a damn book on the subject and hopes that Bush voters will buy it. Dick Morris is also oiled every night, just before bedtime.
• Sidney Sheldon has a passion for the written word? Who knew?
• The Black Table talks with Mary Roach.
• Peter Benchley still packs a full house.
• I had no idea that Updike was once a stutterer.
• Damn. Wordsworth Books, yet another independent bookseller, is closing.
• Penguin may be screwing authors over.

Unlike other esteemed litblogs, given Dr. Strangelove‘s 40th anniversary and the Coke v. Pepsi presidential race we have to look forward to on Tuesday, I firmly believe that the next week is prime time for Strangelove references. I hereby proclaim it Strangelove Week. Each entry shall contain a Strangelove-related subtitle until the polls close.

Ever had a day (or several weeks) in which your life resembled a country western song? Well, I’m trying to remain positive here. But until this existential deficit stops, blog entries will have to remain sparse.

“Anne Rice”: A dish tainted with hallucinogenics served at a literary function causing its eater to whine about lack of literary ability. In the worst of cases, the afflicted eater continues wallowing in her own despair and transposes this despondency (often inexplicably formed) to online bulletin boards such as Amazon.com. Banned in at least five states, Anne Rice (and its deadlier cousin, Queen Anne Rice) has enjoyed newfound popularity in certain underground enclaves. Much like its dark cousin absinthe, Anne Rice is often consumed as an appetizer by those who haven’t learned to ignore rejection, even when its users (aka Anne Ricers) are sitting on a trust fund or otherwise basking in unsullied success. For angst-ridden literati fearful of a Xanax prescription, Anne Rice serves as an illicit, but nevertheless distinct alternative. However, medical authorities are currently investigating the problem and Anne Rice is not expected to sustain its scintillating status through the New Year. (Note: It is believed that Anne Rice is grown in New Orleans.)

“Clarke”: (v.) To write endlessly about a frivolous and often misunderstood topic. (Ex. Friends urged Roger to throw in the towel, but he couldn’t stop Clarking his 800 page epic about two battling pieces of macaroni during the Napoleonic Wars.)

“Edinburgh”: An undesirable place to head to, such as a city or a building, generally populated by attention-starved individuals. (Or. The Scottish capital.)

“Hollingshurst”: (adj.) The most popular person at a swank party, but one whose sexual preference is inexplicably discussed. (Ex. Jerry was the Hollingshurst of the evening. His friends couldn’t stop discussing his subscription to Barely Legal Bush Voters.)

“Jelinek”: (n.) A person snubbed unreasonably because of personal success, often one unknown before said emolument. (Ex. Ana Marie Cox, once so admired by the commonweal, was shuttled with the other Jelineks after nabbing her lucrative book deal.)

“tender house”: A surprise development from the original “tanner house.” Literary hipsters use this disparaging phrase when they see one of their peers reading an unquestionably horrible novel. (Ex. I told him the party was on Saturday instead of Sunday. The last thing we needed was some asshole tendering house with a Nora Roberts paperback.) Also, tenderhouse (n., disparaging).

“to Bentley”: To find spiritual awakening in something silly and to use it to advance a career.

“Wieseltier”: A dirty old man fond of perversions who sees scum everywhere.

A reader writes:

You recently mentioned reading the whole of Ulysses in less than an hour, and you frequently allude to the novels you read while you’re imbibing a fifth martini. As someone who never seems to have enough time to read, I simply don’t believe you. I’d like to know two things: how you read so fast, and how you fast while reading.

The fact is, dear reader, that, in addition to the starving you reference, I do most of my reading on speed, bringing new meaning to the term “speed reader.” In fact, I can finish off a book of normal length and density while snorting up a line of good Colombian. It’s certainly a little faster than that Teachout fellow, but at least Teachout doesn’t have to resort to drugs to remain hyperliterate. His loss.

While Teachout wastes precious hours of his life (specifically, the uncertain period he refers to “between Friday night and Monday morning”) operating at regular speed reading levels, with the help of illegal substances, I’ve stumbled upon a life of hard drugs, fast women, and even faster reading. Every weekend, you’ll find me at Cabo San Lucas blading up a good bag with my homies, my head bobbing up for air from a nineteen year old girl from Topeka trying to extend her spring break year-round, with the latest Shirley Hazard and John Upike propped up on my lap. It’s quite the life, baby. More fun than those impacted weekends. And you better believe I’ve read more than Harold Bloom.