Where is our Orwell? Where is our Dickens? Henry Porter seems to think that novelists who are indicting government and society are in short supply these days. It’s a fair enough charge, but what he doesn’t realize is that any time Harold Pinter opens his mouth, thanks to a secret and well-funded organization that I cannot name, a memo is sent to all English language novelists reminding them of the pointlessness of novelists preaching to the converted and suggesting that these sorts of predictable fulminations are best addressed through the prism of fiction.
Those hoping to read a confessional book written by Madonna’s nanny will be disappointed by this recent news. The book’s been canceled by Crown, but whether this book has been muzzled by Madge’s litigious fervor is anyone’s guess.
A “grown-up” music festival is being planned. We’ll have none of your drinking or your pot smoking or your Bic lighter waving, thank you very much. This is serious business. You will sit there and listen to Bjork and you shall not cheer! There shall be no audience participation, save silence! And the only food served in the booths will be saltine crackers and lima beans.