- Robert D. Kaplan’s insufferable wonkage was one of the reasons I let my subscription to The Atlantic lapse. But I’ve never had the time, much less the synaptic capacity to pinpoint exactly why. Thankfully, Tom Bissell, a much smarter guy than me, tells us precisely why Kaplan’s such a problematic writer.
- I should observe that Neve wasn’t the only one who talked to Updike about fellatio. I’ll say no more. Just wait until Show #50. That’s all I have to say.
- There are e-book standards? Who knew? (via Booksquare)
- As widely reported, the Center for Book Culture’s latest issue of Context is out. I concur with the Rake that Anne Burke is right on the money when it comes to James’ jihads.
- Alice Munro: to retire or not to retire? (via Mark)
- I’ll confess. I was dubious about The Picolata Review, until I stumbled upon interviews with RotR fave Lee Martin and Dan Wickett.
- Derik Badman test-drives the 1959-1960 Peanuts volume.
- Is knowledge of the Bible necessary to study literature?
- Bengali writer Sunil Gangopadhyay has won a Calcutta suit where he allegedly defiled an idol of a Hindu goddess. Gangopadhyay insisted that the only defilement that concerned him was satisfying specific requests originating from his nubile groupies.
- Ed Guthmann remembers Judith Moore.
- Bridget Jones turns ten.
- Cringe-worthy moment in television history: the Growing Pains intro.
Roundup
– June 21, 2006Posted 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. (