- First, R. McCrum was against blogs. And now he’s for them. Or was he for them before he was against them? Or was he against them before being for them before being hopelessly confused? There seems to be a common trait among those who rail against litblogs without providing sufficient examples: schizophrenia. (via Jeff)
- It seems I’m not the only person having strange moving-related conversations. Last night, I spent fifteen minutes talking with a stray dust jacket. It did not respond back. This is most certainly a sign that I am ready to occupy the new premises.
- Does James Bond prefer Bentleys or Aston Martins? And why are so many auto executives getting their panties in a bunch over this? We all know that Bond is promiscuous with the ladies. Why not the cars too? Hell, I’d like to read a James Bond story in which he must penetrate a muffler in order to protect national security.
- If you thought your place was a mess, you haven’t seen Josh Freed’s apartment. Freed has made a documentary about his right to clutter, defying what he calls “the tyranny of the tidy.” Fred doesn’t appear to have heard of Langley Collyer, who experienced a more naturalistic tyranny when he was crushed by his own detritus and rats were masticating upon his body when it was discovered. (via Bibliophile Bullpen)
- Incontrovertible evidence that book covers can be compared to a ZZ Top song. (via Booklist)
- So Borders is now jumping back into online retailing with a vengeance. I’m sure the B&N buyout offers had nothing to do with this.
- Hanif Kureishi has described university creative writing courses as “the new mental hospitals.” Furthermore, Kureishi doesn’t seem to understand that most American campus massacres have involved a pistol or a rifle, not a machine gun. If you’re going to be a writer, shouldn’t you at least get the details right? Unless, of course, Kureishi is listening to his dog right now and planning upon sending a letter to Jimmy Breslin. In which case, we should probably be worried. (via Bookninja)
- In space, nobody can hear you scream. In fact, you don’t really need to. Because your jaw will be left drooping down by these amazing photos.
- Murakami interviewed: here and here. (via Orthofer)
- Terry Eagleton on anonymity.
Roundup
– May 27, 2008Posted in: Roundup, Uncategorized
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. (