I’d lambaste Maureen Dowd for her uninformed column, but Ron Hogan has already done my job for me. I’ll only add that asking an assman like Wieseltier to comment on chick lit is a bit like asking a pornographic filmmaker about the artistic merits of a Skinemax flick. In both cases, the “expert” can’t be counted upon for a reasonable assessment because of his innate coprophilia.
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)
I enjoyed your Un Lun Dun review. It made me want to reread Perdido Street Station.
I suggest that you’re being a tad hard on Maureen Dowd here (no idea who the assman is). Although “chick lit” isn’t new, it does seem to be proliferating. It was in fact the “my tits are fabulous” title named by Dowd that recently drove me out of the bookstore. Why would I want to read a book that appears to be themed, I Participate Joyfully In My Own Oppression?
I’m not sure that men can reallly appreciate the frustration of being harangued by “chick lit”.
Ed, you and Ron totally rock.
sfk: Although “chick lit” isn’t new, it does seem to be proliferating.
Proliferating? Chick lit is on the down and out. Where have you been?