I received Chris Adrian’s forthcoming collection of stories, A Better Angel, in the mail yesterday.
Hot damn! that guy can write. I put aside my other current reads (because Dr. Gal-Chen prefers that I decide what I want to read, and when) to have a look, in particular for his story “Promise Breaker,” which originally appeared in Esquire, right here you cheapskate. But seriously, go read that story, and tell me if it doesn’t knock you over. I don’t want to say anything about what the story tackles, but I felt it did justice in a good, solid way to the event referenced - which is especially fitting, given the requests/demands of the boy in the story. I keep telling people to read it, and here it is again: go read it. It is included in the collection (renamed “The Changeling”) and reading it again last night, it hadn’t lost anything. Great stuff.
The New Anonymous. The plan is to publish an annual literary magazine where, through only a few hoops, your work will be submitted, edited, and published anonymously. Just send it to some Mad Maxian character named The Mediator, and he will essentially just forward it to a bunch of people who won’t know if it’s Thomas Pynchon or some nerdy grad student. Of course, you can easily be completely anonymous, even to the moderator, with some random Hotmail address with a 420 in the name. So yes, this rules. But the only problem is that you will be anonymous. Would you be willing to send in your best work if no one will ever know you did it? Would you be willing to send anything at all?
A bunch of British poets are arguing about British poetry. I have never heard of anything more boring.
I just remembered this cartoon Bravestar from when I was a kid. I didn’t remember Bravestar being of the Native-American persuasion, or that his horse shot a rifle, but I’m glad to finally know that it’s “Ears of a wolf” and not puma.
The first story was from The Millions, and the one right below is from Sarah Weinman. Also, this is the third one of these I did today in case you missed them. Not the slave one, though. That was Ms. Jaime.
David Ulin talks about the reviews he has regretted in twenty years of book critiquing. He says that while he gave a great review to Simple Passion, he read it wrong and felt awful. I empathize after knowing Bravestar’s horse shot a rifle.
And finally, Mark Sarvas is not getting divorced but rather reading the ugliest book of the year for a review. So to prep Mark is reading as many Roth books as he can. But wait, there’s more. He’s also going to outline the process of his review to show how it’s done. Will it suck? I want to say definitely but Mark’s detailing of the arduous publishing process for Harry, Revised was enthralling so I’m interested to see what he’s got for us.
Can a white writer do justice to the black experience? William J. Wilson, a contemporary of Harriet Beecher Stowe’s, repeatedly asked this question after the phenomenal success of her novel Uncle Tom’s Cabin in 1852.
Over a hundred and fifty years later, Jon Stewart of The Daily Show would ask the exact same question of Andrew Ward, the gangly, and unmistakably, white, historian about his new study, The Slaves’ War: The Civil War in the Words of Former Slaves.
Ward, obviously more comfortable in a dusty library than under Stewart’s polite but intense scrutiny, tried to let his work speak for itself, explaining his laborious search through thousands of diaries, letters, and memoirs to recover long-silenced voices. The task must have been like trying to decode clues, now faded and scattered, from bits of Freedom Quilts from the Underground Railroad. The result is an unprecedented collection of the Civil War stories from the points-of-view of African American civilians.
Problematic for some scholars is the fact that many of the stories included in Ward’s study are oral anecdotes from the descendants of former slaves. With no “hard copy” documentation, it is impossible to verify the authenticity of several accounts.
“Define “truth,’ ” is essentially Ward’s response. Toni Morrison would agree. In her essay, “Black Matter(s),” Morrison argues,
“linguistic responses…complicate the texts, sometimes contradicting them entirely. They can serve as allegorical fodder…They provide paradox, ambiguity; they reveal omissions, repetitions disruptions, polarities, reifications, violence. In other words, they give texts a deeper, richer, more complex life…It would be a pity if criticism of this literature continued to shellac these texts.”
If you saw Ward’s appearance on The Daily Show, try to remember most authors have faces best left folded safely inside of book jackets. On the back covers. Forgive him and buy the book anyway. These voices deserve to be heard, no matter what your race.
That’s right, folks. Coward’s infamous thrashing of Ms. Andrews teeth, possibly the most famous thing ever written in the English language, was a forgery. So was some random stuff written by Dorothy Parker and some other people and this was all thanks to Lee Israel, who not only has a dope name but also seems like a really cool person even though she’s a lying criminal. To make money she’d write fake letters from famous authors and sell then for, actually, not a ton of money. But still, with her tale hitting the shelves I’m all about reading it. I especially like how the letters were well written, and she only did authors instead of forging a bunch of actor crap. So yeah, go make this crook rich. I’m going to try.
This article is a nice palate cleanser with all the Hunter S. Thompson jerk-offs that have been going on lately. Not to say he doesn’t deserve to be praised, he most certainly does, but sooner or later you just get sick of hearing about the Gonzo and it’s nice to read about the sad, old man who offed himself.
That last one was from The Millions, and I found the next one thanks to Conversational Reading- Translating literary works is hard. Actually, knowing a second language is really difficult as is getting out of bed before noon, but some crazies out there do it. In this exercise you get to see exactly how hard it is and also feel like an idiot who is too stupid to do even ad libs. Try it.
And finally, Sarah Weinman talks about demystifying James Wood. She says that while she doesn’t necessarily need to know whether he’s a boxers or briefs type guy (I’m going with a brilliant amalgamation of the two) she would like to know a little bit about the man that doesn’t have to do with him being a dick about literature (yeah, yeah I know last time I trudged these waters I got royally dissed and then shamed, but I’m a glutton). I agree with Sarah that knowing little snippets of author’s lives does make them more human, but we start getting into Us Weekly territory pretty quickly after that, so I wouldn’t like to peek into the lives of people who spend the bulk of their time reacting to others’ work (yeah, yeah). And also, in response to why bestiality jokes aren’t funny, I seriously met a guy that once did a horse.
At Guardian, authors try and boil literature down to one word. Nuruddin Farah says it’s “Identities” which is lame, and Adam Thirlwell says “Hedonism”, but Lethem says “Furniture”. He explains that whether it’s mentioned or not it fills out the reality of the novel, no matter how unrealistic it may be. He does a much better job of explaining it, and it’s the only one on there that’s really cool, so go read it.
The good news is it looks like in some form the brilliant Bat Segundo Show will return to the airwaves. The bad news is, is that in the interim Ed is starting to pick petty fights and lose his mind.
There are many postings about the LATBR, but Scott’s is the best one so far.
And finally, my plan to read Anna Karenina on an Iphone has yet to really kick into high gear, but until that magnum opus begins, here is a guy talking a bunch of unsmack about the Iphone’s eReader. He actually quite enjoys it. I’m using Stanza, which is a different program, but it sounds like it’s pretty much the same thing, so yeah, he hated The Kindle and all the other garbage but loves this. Will I have the same opinion? Actually, I blew through ten of pages of 1984 last night with only one major complaint. Crap.
At the airport last summer, the two books I most frequently saw in the hands of travelers were The Secret by Rhonda Byrne and Eat, Pray, Loveby Elizabeth Gilbert. The horridness of both texts cannot be adequately described. The self-absorption of each author nearly eclipses the ego of the Mighty Oprah (both “writers” appeared on her show, to much mutual ass-kissing.) The overall message of the self-help books is to “ask the universe” to provide for you and take a positive attitude toward loving thyself.
Me, I like my self-absorbed writers to be cynical. And to actually be able to write.
Could it be a sign o’ the times, then, that the book clasped in the hands of travelers this summer (most of whom appeared to be rehearsing their spiel and digging up change for Charon) was not the mystical dog-poop of 2007 but the biting, dark humor of David Sedaris?
On every newstand When You Are Engulfed in Flameswas prominently displayed as the Number One Best-Seller. It made my black little heart happy.
In our tanking economy, perhaps people are able to relate more closely to mortality than immortality. In his essay, “The Monster Mash,” Sedaris reflects on his time spent visiting a morgue and how little information is known about the deceased.
“A police report would explain that Mrs. Daniels had been killed when a truck lost control and drove through the front window of a hamburger stand, where she had been waiting in line for her order…Three men are shot to death while attending a child’s christening, and you tell yourself, Sure. They were hanging out with the wrong crowd. But buying a hamburger? I buy hamburgers. Or I used to anyway” (112).
If you missed David Sedaris reading from his work on Letterman Friday, check out the video below. It’s well worth your five minutes. And a much better way to use up your time on earth than asking the universe for squat.
Via The Elegant Variation, a new book has come out discussing the history of book burning and it seems like it rules pretty hard. It turns out the Nazis saved a lot more books than they burned (so when they ruled the world they could study the Jew-making formulas or something) and Virginia Woolf kind of liked the idea. Also, on Youtube, two wankers spend a ludicrous amount of time cussing at and burning Golding’s Lord of the Flies because they had to read it in school. Kids are stupid.
From Sarah Weinman, a little piece on how good or bad book titles help or ruin the chances of the book selling well. The writer likes some real crappy titles, but also hate some crappy titles, so it works out. I recently mentioned that We Wish to Inform You That Tomorrow We Will be Killed With Our Families totally rules, while something like On Chesil Beach makes me think of a diet fad or something equally banal. Of course the title has little to do with the quality of the book, but it seems that people play too safe with book titles. Indignation? Booooo.
Also from TEV, suicide notes from Ryunosuke Akutagawa have been found after his granddaughter cleaned out her house and they are, wait for it… depressing.
Apparently you don’t need to write a Young Adult book to get published as a YA author. This NY Times piece details the crystal clear line between adult fiction and YA fiction as well as the pros (maybe sell more books, hot teenage fans) and cons (get made fun of, go to jail). I had no clue the publisher decided which section to put books in, but that’s probably because I’m a little slow. Either way, I know a surefire way to make sure you get an adult fiction label- write about something real boring.
And finally, Scott at Conversational Reading discusses a new Sebald bio and while he swears it is an invaluable text to a greater understanding of the author, it sounds like reading 200 pages of old stock market quotes. I know that Sebald is a singular author in many ways, and that his apparent lack of plot makes him a more challenging read to people like me who only like erotic thrillers, but if the heart of Sebald is cultural studies-based discussions on the problems with modernity, I don’t know if I have room in my life for that kind of fiction. I met a girl the other night reading Austerlitz and she was obviously doing her best to give a damn about it, but would anyone around here like to explain why Sebald is so indispensable? If no one replies in 48 hours, I’m burning every copy of Rings of Saturn I can find.
You may not like her, but you do what she wants. She’s a tough chick, a woman with attitude and an instinct for survival. She’s quick with a quip and totally in charge — of herself and those around her.
Curled up on the couch in a fuzzy robe and slippers — book in hand — I don’t feel so indestructible. That’s why I look for my tough chicks in literature.
Thanks! Bye!
*Change that last P to an L, though, and you’ve not only got a headline that crackles with alliteration, you’ve got a nearly-acceptable PSA for the benefits of eating a healthy mid-day meal. Sub: “Don’t Woolf Down That Lunch!” See how easy? NPR, step it up. (And while you’re at it, the music on “Weekend Edition Sunday” could not be more horrible. I beg you.)
Perfect practice for your new life in a wheelchair…
Last week, I visited the Atomic Testing Museum in Las Vegas. Nothing like a quick, emotional overview of man vs. man, man vs. society, and man vs. himself to make the loss of a couple of bills on the strip seem of little importance.
My favorite part of the tour was the gift shop where, in addition to a nifty shot glass featuring the ubiquitous atom, I also bought a 1953 reproduction of a pamphelt issued by the Field Command to U.S. soldiers. It’s only twelve pages long and the general premise is, “Awww…c’mon! It’s not so bad! Really. Trust us.”
I’ll give you a sampling of the helpful tips that Dagwood here is, ahem, absorbing… like the imminent radiation he will soon be exposed to. (Note in the illustration that he is smoking a cigar. That’s how safe it is, folks!)
The anonymous author is quick to point out the beauty of the bomb, but does acknowledge its deadliness, “just like the beautifully colored coral snake.” However, reassurances soon follow, among them:
“The blast itself won’t do much damage to you. Doctors say the most you have to worry about is a broken eardrum.” As an afterthought, well, so too can the shards the blast will propel at “hundreds of miles an hour.” (Duck and cover, dumbass.)
As to radiation: “Truthfully, this is the least important of the three effects as far as the soldier on the ground is concerned.” (”Hey, what’s the matter with Bob? He’s glowing and seems to be missing his nose.” “Awww…forggitaboutit,” says Dick, tapping his pamphlet, “Gover’ment says right ‘ere that’s the least of his worries!”) A later section of the pamphlet points out that “if the average person is close enough to be worried about the radiation effects of the bomb, he has already been killed several other ways. (Whew! That’s a relief!)
The other two “concerns” are the blast (as already noted above, nothing to worry about!) and heat.
You know. This kind of heat.
Finally, the last thing you should do is, “Count until the shock hits.” You know, that shock that thousands of people are dead and you might be next, so… “Check yourself then get up and get to work–you’ll be needed!” and quit yer bitchin’, you glowing s.o.b.
So I don’t know why Gabriel Garcia-Marquez is acting like he’s all Nikki Sixx in this picture but it’s pretty rad regardless. And to go along with Gabo acting like a hard ass, a gunslinger screenplay he wrote in his leaner years is now going to be made into a film. Frontera is about an old “pistolero” and his younger sidekick. Will it be good? You better believe it probably won’t be. But in maybe two years I’ll find out and let you know. Also, The Digested Read was low on new books to succinctly trash so here is Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera. I scanned it for a reference to Oprah but no go.
The Elegant Variation led me to this story about how children sections in libraries started and even though it makes sense it’s also very surprising and sad how little time they were useful before kids started snorting coke off Gameboys instead of reading. Also, the one thing I love about The New Yorker is that I assume I’m getting close to the end of the article or I’m at least halfway and then realize I have to read seven more pages. I’m not going to do that.
A guest author on Conversational Reading writes a cool piece about the where and when of finally getting to write out your big book idea. She also talks about how waiting to write her book made it “gayer” which made me giggle because I’m a child.
And finally, via Sarah Weinman, some dude talks about why buying books is a terrible idea and explains how to only spend a couple bucks if you must buy a book by buying used books and then selling them. Did he get paid for this tripe? Thank goodness there’s someone out there to talk about “libraries” and “selling books”. Jesus, does this guy live in a shanty town? The title of this is cheapskate but I can think of some more descriptive words. I’d also like to direct him to the Gabo photo.
