Et Tu Sarvas?

The Book Babes’ latest column not only acts as if none of last year’s comparisons between comatose newspaper coverage and the galvanizing eclat of literary blogs ever happened, but suggests that the Book Babes and the illustrious Mr. Sarvas are now in cahoots. While we’re certainly pleased to see the Book Babes begin to understand the influence of blogs (and Mr. Sarvas’ careful ruse), we remain perplexed over the Poynter Institute’s continued encouragement of the Book Babes’ naivete.

“From a blogger’s perspective, old media feel too old-fashioned, too corporate, too confined by non-literary objectives and philosophies to meet the needs of today’s reader.” — There’s an assumption here that “today’s reader” (and, for that matter, the feverish lit blogger) is either (a) some unemployed slacker shut-in who only emerges from his home at the thwack of an Amazon package hitting his door or (b) some rapturous latte-swigging casual reader who bases her reading decisions exclusively on review coverage. What the Book Babes continue to misunderstand is that newspapers fail to capture word-of-mouth, or the free-spirited conversation found on lit blogs — itself an extension of passionate bookstore patter. It’s not a matter of being “old-fashioned.” It’s a matter of being connected with the prime pulse that drives today’s readers, of generating excitement, and getting people reading and talking about books.

It’s not about things like the Virtual Book Tour, which, while interesting in nature (particularly through George Kelly’s interview with Danyel Smith), is nothing less than an accelerated marketing gimmick modified for the information age. It’s not about selling books or walking on eggshells. It’s about reading books, assessing them constructively, finding out what literature means today, and simply giving a damn. If that means tipping over a few sacred cows (whether Sam Tanenhaus, Leon Wieseltier, Dale Peck, Dave Eggers, or the antiseptic domesticities of Margo & Ellen) in the process, then it’s the inevitable price of caring enough to express the very best (ideally, sans Hallmark card).

“It’s way premature to say that literary blogs have supplanted the established media.” No, Ellen, to respond in your valley girl vernacular: Way. Literary blogs offer the bustling crop that the current establishment would turn into fallow over a five-martini lunch. The fact is that, outside of appealing to the suburban mom who would spend her spare time worshipping the mediocrity of Anita Diamat, established media conduits take no chances and are more concerned with catering to plummeting attention spans than fostering literacy or letting people in on the secret that books are pretty kickass. It was established media in the form of The Telegraph that declared David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas “unreadable,” while the online arenas thrived, discussing and citing the book a mere month after its American publication. How you like them apples?

It would be refreshing to see the Book Babes, instead of aping established media, take a few chances themselves. Perhaps it might set an example for the bloated bovine nuzzling in the neglected pasture.

[UPDATE: Mark has responded to the Book Babes’ questions at Ober Dicta, his other blog.]

[FURTHER UPDATE: Galleycat weighs in, with an accurate description for those new to the BB controversy: “In 1962, two girls with very different personalities met at summer camp and bonded over Nancy Drew and simultaneous first periods. Since then, they’ve been fiercely loyal penpals, publishing their exchanges about books at Poynter Online, and saving their more personal exchanges for an epistolary Bridges of Madison County-type debut.”]

Books You Can’t Love: The More Popular than Jesus Syndrome

I suspect that Susanna Clarke’s Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell will be, for me at least, this year’s equivalent to Jonathan Lethem’s The Fortress of Solitude (a title I still haven’t read, despite its recent paperback release). Last year, there were at least twenty-two moments in which I had the hardback for The Fortress of Solitude in my hand, but ended up putting it back before hitting the cashier. Some of the reasons were as follows:

  • “Oh shit! Magical realism!”
  • Motherless Brooklyn was good, but would you have purchased that in hardcover? Put it down, you fool!”
  • Quicksilver! More challenging!” (Little did I know.)
  • “I’ll get it in paperback.”
  • “I’ll borrow [insert name here]’s copy.”
  • “I should probably read all of Lethem’s back catalog before this one.”
  • “More pop cultural references subbing for plot? Come on, get real.”

And so on…

None of these reasons, of course, were fair. Most of these were irrational. And yet it happened again and again. Nothing against Lethem, but I found myself unwilling to commit myself to the man (and yet quite willing to take crazed chances on crummier titles).

And now I find myself in the same boat with Jonathan Strange, afraid that I’ll be terribly disappointed if I read it now. I came very close to picking the thick tome up the other day, but some stubborn impulse in me resisted. How could I join the crowd? How could I get excited about some book that everyone and their mother was declaring as more popular than Jesus?

This impulse, of course, is pure snobbery. It has something to do with the book reviewing climate and the endless din buzzing around readers and publishers alike. And yet almost every book afficionado is guilty of this. How many titles have eluded your immediate perusal because the kool kids kouldnt stop talking about it?

The way it works is this: To be an effective literary enthusiast, the unspoken goal is to wander off the beaten track and find the titles that no one else has read. And not just that. Ideally from some lofty parapet (preferably delusional), the literary enthusiast can let loose spitballs and catapault leftover caviar while simultaneously mocking the great unwashed for reading The Curious Incident of the Dog at the Night-Time or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay behind the curve. Alternatively, why not delve into something highly unfashionable? (And if that’s the unspoken rule, now might be the perfect op to read Lethem.)

Which is why I’m glad I read David Mitchell’s Cloud Atlas well before everyone else and why it was nice to read William Gibson’s Pattern Recognition without the sound of a thousand Slashdot fanboys coming my way. Mark my words: if Cloud Atlas wins the Booker, it will be slammed as mercilessly as DBC Pierre’s Vernon God Little. Just because. And that’s silly.

I’m tempted to read Jonathan Strange just to spite the bastards.

Felix Dennis, Clandestine Poet Laurete?

Not content with unleashing sexist, short-attention-span snippets upon a unsuspecting magazine market of illiterates, Maxim publisher Felix Dennis has turned to poetry. Apparently, Mr. Dennis has been at it since 2000. Fortunately, Return of the Reluctant has obtained an exclusive look at Mr. Dennis’s poetic oeuvre. Here’s a small sample from Mr. Dennis’ “Throwing My Love Into the Barbeque Grill,” which was rejected (as of last week) by seventeen publications (including Cocker Spaniel Quarterly):

Fifty words! Too much to read
Let’s cut it in half so we can clear out
And get that hun to bob her mouth
Fast cars, big tits, what’s wrong with that?
I’m with Delta Phi Alpha for life

Pour the wine and they’ll believe
I’m hip! I’m rich! I’m a poet!
I made more cash than Guccione
And I paid all my writers to pen baloney
Where’s the next sleek and sexy Croat?

What it takes is a steak and a coupla brews
Over the edge, with some red meat to stew
Get a few Swedish models and a few Polish dogs
Dress ’em down, keep your pet in your pants
Keep the look garish and carefree

You’ll end standing up at the barbeque grill
What a thrill!
Better than the window sill!

And she’ll be there reading your latest issue
This time, she’s there. You won’t need a tissue