- Over at The Rap Sheet, someone has somehow convinced James Ellroy to blog: “I’m James Ellroy, the demon dog of American literature, the author of sixteen books, twelve novels, a full length memoir, a book of short stories and two journalistic collections. Masterpieces, all.” Only the demon dog himself could get away with such argot. (via Sarah)
- The Kenyon Review joins the list of this year’s awards who hand out honorariums to the obvious choices. Could Philip Roth be next?
- A new biography may solve the mystery of Agatha Christie’s 11-day disappearance. What was it? In a nutshell: quaaludes.
- More on the Bechdel/Thompson fiasco from the Marshall Democrat-News. (via Brockman)
- Ursula K. Le Guin on the new Susanna Clarke book: “These are all elegant, entertaining stories, and many readers will be untroubled by the airy incoherences found in ‘The Ladies of Grace Adieu.’ Or else, they may simply say, with Tom Brightwind, ‘Who cares?’” Count me in the latter camp. (via Gwenda)
- SF Site has the scoop on a remarkable new overview of Philip Jose Farmer’s work.
- Better late than never: Paul Collins on the closing of CBGB.
- This week’s New Yorker offers a new story by Aleksandar Hemon.
- America’s Ten Dumbest Congressmen. What? No Lieberman?
- Bill Murray was bored. So he ended up hanging out with college kids. “The alcohol ran out very quickly when word got round that he was with us.” In other words, being in the presence of Bill Murray causes people to drink.
- Bon Jovi and James Brown at the same time? Wrong. So very, very wrong.
Roundup
– October 16, 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. (