
(Photo credit: Caryn)
The Call by Yannick Murphy: The always interesting author of Here They Come and Signed, Mata Hari returns with a novel that whips up a worldview from a rather quirky set of limitations: namely, the call logs that a veterinarian maintains as his son is unexpectedly put into a coma and an unforgiving economy denies him work. What emerges is a surprisingly optimistic, often funny, and very moving account on how one family uses acceptance and forgiveness as a way to atone for hard knocks. (Bat Segundo interview with Murphy)
Birds of Paradise by Diana Abu-Jaber: Forget Franzen and Eugenides. If you're looking for a social novel that counts, Diana Abu-Jaber is the author you're looking for. Building from the free-form exploration of consciousness and identity in Crescent and the gripping procedural structure of Origin, Abu-Jaber's latest novel is her finest, equally fluent with gutterpunk culture and smarmy real estate men. It has been suggested by The Washington Post's Ron Charles that you will likely gain some pounds while reading this novel. This is certainly true. Abu-Jaber's description of food is so precise that it often made me want to do more cooking. But I very much admired the way in which Abu-Jaber presents all her characters as unwitting victims of rough capitalism, which permits them some dignity even as they perform terrible acts.
The Last of the Live Nude Girls by Sheila McClear: This memoir isn't so much about the decline of the Times Square peepshow, as it is about one young woman's efforts to pull herself up by by her bootstraps when presented with few economic options. Filled with self-introspective candor and a quiet dignity, McClear's story is one that might befall any of us in these volatile times. While McClear does get back on her feet, her book leads one contemplating the terrible fates of other young women now moving to New York and falling into deadlier vocations. (Bat Segundo interview with McClear)All Content Copyright Their Respective Authors. All Rights Reserved.
Ed, I’ve done my share of hating on JLethem’s novels, but I know you’ll know what I mean when I say there’s always a twinge of regret when you meet a writer who you’ve criticized. I’m sure he’s a good guy. I’m just insanely jealous that he won a MacArthur genius grant and I’m just a schlub with a blog and a day job.
Um. In a truly petty move (perhaps bolstered by the same jealousy as Levi), I feel compelled to point out that Lethem has worn that jacket every time I’ve seen him in person and quite a few times in pictures depicting others seeing him in person. I’m intrigued…
I should probably say that I’m the girl in purple looking inexplicably surly, but it wasn’t aimed at J-Leth. I think this was the first time I caught sight of that weird dog with the Target logo on his tummy.
Callie- Wow, I recognized the jacket, too. He wore it when he had a reading in Milwaukee this spring.
Alas, the picture did not capture Lethem’s t-shirt – which, if memory serves, was unapologetically 70s-retro and very colorful. (oh, and that’s me with the back to the camera. Now that fall’s here I will be wearing that hooded sweater EVERY SINGLE DAY.)
Aren’t you required to wear a hooded sweater in parts of the city? BTW, good to see Asher survived this encounter.
Nice relaxed shot! And why expect writers to have lots of jackets, anyhow? We had a writer here, Elizabeth Jolley, who delighted in wearing the same stuff everywhere. Saved herself lots of time and spent it producing the goods. That’s my kind of writer.