- In the most recent New Yorker: Jonathan Lethem’s “Lucky Alan.” Also, Lethem’s current obsession with copyright, which, as far as I can tell, seems to have originated from this interesting Harper’s essay, continues anew with a cunning plan related to his newest novel.
- Apparently, Fidel Castro met up with Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Marquez’s account is here. The two men concluded that the prostate gland is the starting point for all Marxist revolutions.
- Matthew Gray is working on a Google Maps feature of the Earth viewed by literary locations.
- A new pilot called Literary Superstar is being planned. The pilot stars Jenna Elfman. The “superstar” in question is a publicist. No doubt watered down hijinks will ensue, with Elfman inexplicably living in a lavish Central Park West apartment. Because we can certainly count on Hollywood for financial verisimilitude, can’t we?
- Sam Savage is interviewed at Bluestalking Reader.
- J. Peder Zane tries to understand DFW’s baffling Top Ten Books list. Meanwhile, a man foolish enough to gloss over Philip K. Dick’s prose declares literary lists “an obscenity.” (via Sarvas)
- Is Oregon a more ideal place to set up a publisher than New York? (via Brockman)
- John Sutherland sings the praises of Jake Arnott’s Johnny Come Home.
- Litpark talks with Elizabeth Crane.
- Quiet Bubble has some choice words for Woody Allen.
- Like a zombie that keeps getting up after you shoot it several times in the chest with a pump-action shotgun, the damn OJ book is still alive.
- Who’d be a critic? Yeah, good question. Particularly when you’re as dishonest as Meg Rosoff. Apparently, Rosoff “only reviews books I really like. It’s cowardly, I know, but I figure it’s not my job to make people unhappy.” As a critic who tries to remain as honest, discerning, enthusiastic and constructive as I can, as someone who pours blood, sweat and tears into any freelancing assignment, I can’t begin to express my infuriation here. If Rosoff is terrified of making people unhappy, then perhaps she should pursue a career as a publicist, since she clearly prefers the straightforward hand job-as-book review rather than an honest day’s labor. The Literary Saloon has more.
Roundup
– March 14, 2007Posted in: Roundup
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. (
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. (
In all fairness, Rosoff is first and foremost a novelist. And a very, very good one.
Oh, and she’s not talking about writing _dishonest_ reviews, just saying that she doesn’t write _negative_ ones anymore. She’s in a place where she can turn down assignments for books she doesn’t like. I don’t think that’s a hangable offense.