- Black Garterbelt: the dawning of a new rake.
- 2 Blowhards discuss Chesterton’s “Orthodoxy.” Let me add G.K. Chesterton (along with Maugham) as one of the most needlessly dismissed writers of the 20th century I’d like to write about sometime. (And, incidentally, he had quite a lot to say about Dickens, which was one of the first critical books I ever read.) (First link via Books, Inq.)
- Bookninja observes that three out of the top four richest authors in the UK are women.
- Also cadged from Mr. Murray: An interview with Dennis Loy Johnson.
- Mr. Esposito interviews Matthew Sharpe.
- A field guide to reading DeLillo. (via Sarah)
- In an uncharacteristic abandonment of diaphanous snark, Gawker’s Emily Gould defends Meghan O’Rourke, causing Gawker commenters to pick up the catty slack. Personally, I think Meghan O’Rourke’s a fine critic. I could care less about whether or not she worked at the New Yorker or who she’s marrying. That such needless questions increasingly matter to people who comment on blogs is appalling. If you’re going to criticize O’Rourke, do so for her work. Not because she spells her first name with an H or because she was more successful than you.
- It looks like Charlie Winton has acquired Counterpoint Press from Perseus.
- Richard reassesses his reading of Richard Powers’ novels.
- I believe I mentioned this a few weeks ago, but a hearty litblogosphere welcome to LATBR editor David L. Ulin, who now has a blog. And, yes, there’s an RSS feed. (Thanks to Carolyn for the reminder.)
Roundup
– May 10, 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. (
Re: O’Rourke — I’m not sure I would characterize Gould’s post as an “abandonment” of Gawker’s usual ways, considering their decision to create the storm and perpetuate hearsay by posting that anonymous letter in the first place. Schadenfreude masquerading as good intentions, methinks–calls to mind last week’s Pessl pissing match…
What I don’t understand about Ms. O’Rourke is the schizophrenic nature of her personality. She talks endlessly about the divide netween rich and poor in this country, about the importance of class– yet she herself is a major beneficiary of privilege, as has been pointed out.
If she wants our literature to be more representative– well, more representative writers are out there, and she has the forum to give them a moment in the spotlight.
I really love this blog.
Auditioning on feedback is a laugh. I hope they ok my 2cents, for the record I think Surowiecki (O’Rourke hubby) writes well.
Gotta second the Chesterton love. “The Man Who was Thursday” is as relevant and cheerfully frenetic as it was (exactly) a century ago. (Come to think of it, we wouldn’t be too far off the mark to talk about that novel as a precursor to people like Pynchon, Dick, Murakami.)
I’ll third that! Chesterton is one of the greats. He even inspired Borges…
At the risk of being unoriginal, I cast my vote in Chesterton’s direction as well. In fact, I like him so well that I’ve started a blog dedicated to his writing. Come have a read if you’re interested: The Hebdomadal Chesterton.
I cannot take seriously any assessment of the DeLillo oeuvre that relegates Underworld and Mao II to the merely “recommended” and consigns The Body Artist to “to be avoided.” Contrarianism is fine, but this kind of Ebert and Roepert schtick does readers a disservice.
seriously, yo. that delillo shit was garbage. i love new york but it should steer clear of books and stick with socialites. cosmopolis is about 9/11, not pre-9/11. shudder to think someone will read that and steer clear of cosmopolis.