- Darby Dixon outlines his thoughts on reading The Sot-Weed Factor.
- Tao Lin has a few ideas about telling writers that they’re good. Alas, the world is often a casually inconsiderate place, particularly here in New York, where I am still negotiating the way in which people — even supposed acquaintances — snub each other when more “important” people are present. (What they don’t know is that I carry a long memory.) This confuses me because my own social m.o., inherited from California, is to say hello to as many people as possible. But Tao is right to point to being kind and supportive to other writers — although I’d add that a degree of honesty doesn’t hurt either.
- Quiet Bubble on 8-bit side-scrollers.
- Tom Stoppard on rock ‘n’ roll.
- Joshua Henkin’s “Handball.”
- I’d like to think that some writing games extended beyond quick-witted Canadians. Then again, the Canadian dollar is better right now. So perhaps our nice northern neighbors have every right to favor themselves.
- “The Pleasures of Apocalypse.” (via Pete Anderson)
- Just in time for a forthcoming book containing all of his lyrics, Sting has been voted the worst lyricist of all time.
- Why bloggers should get outside their apartment from time to time.
- Kakutani hates on Sebold.
- Yes, all hail Cleveland. Someone needed to show up Yankee hubris.
- Stephen Dixon name-checked in Esquire. (via Black Garterbelt)
Roundup
– October 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. (
What??? Who could possibly quibble with the author of the timeless line “Da-doo-doo-doo, da-da-da-da”? Step aside, Keats!