Salon: H.P. Lovecraft is “a hack,” “literature’s greatest bad writer,” “not very scary” (has she even read “The Rats in the Walls” or the Cthulu stories?), Cthulu as “an unpronounceable name,” “Cthulu isn’t scary,” “camp,” “purple prose,” relying desperately on Joyce Carol Oates’ asseessment of “The Colour Out of Space” when she obviously despises Howard’s groove, “hasn’t the psychological acuity,” and not “wholesome at all.”

Reason #246 Why Germany is Pretty Darn Cool: A few enterprising folks have placed books into vending machines (which are even available at Zoo Station!). The idea behind this is to get literature out into the streets. But the efforts go far beyond mere consumer consideration. A literary group known as the “door speakers” has been reciting poetry through apartment intercoms. All this has been designed to counteract declining book sales and spread the word that lit is good. One would hope that the Wenclas crowd was capable of thinking along these lines. But that would involve thinking outside the solipsistic box.

Never mind a shitstorm in Iran. The big question these days is whether Salman Rushdie is safe.

The Gray Lady has outdone itself in the cruel lede department.

If you think it’s hard enough to be a weekend novelist, try being William Nicholson for almost thirty years. Nicholson, who considered screenwriters to be “wannabe artists,” watched his debut novel migrate to the remainder bin. Never mind that he found considerable success with Shadowlands (now available in at least three forms, rivaling the late Bill Naughton’s multiple adaptations for Alfie). Nicholson now has another novel out, The Society of Others, which involves “an apathetic young British man” stumbling into an unidentified country where violence has broke out. Unfortunately, reviews of the new novel have been half-hearted so far.

It’s been long established that Eddie Vedder and Dave Eggers are, in fact, the same person. But who knew that “the men of McSweeney’s” created so many relationship-oriented mishaps?

Never have I seen so many tiny penises erect over the “power of the blogosphere.” You’d think that they’d all just gotten lucky with Neal Kozody or something. Our President utters lies on a regular basis. Our government, whether guided by Democrats or Republicans, prevaricates more on a single day than any average Joe does in a week. Failing that, there’s the whole issue of human error. Which happens from time to time. Yes, even from journalists. So you’re going to tear a news executive a new one for fucking up? Well, fair is fair. Let the bastards have it.

But don’t come crying to me when you’re declared an inveterate amateur. Or your subjective bias is so out of control that it kills your credibility.

It must be easy for a blogger to delude himself into the idea that he’s an “investigative journalist” or a “pundit” when he’s never set foot in Iraq, or he hasn’t bothered to talk to an actual soldier. How comforting it is cling to half-hearted speculations when he could be going out into the field asking questions (much as the bloggers failed to do at the conventions last year), or comparing several perspectives of what went down at an event.

Eason Jordan screwed up. That goes without saying. But Jeff Jarvis is full of shit if he thinks that “everyone” has access to the policies and the confidential memos or that the power has somehow shifted to the people or that bloggers control all the cards. It was Eason Jordan who made the decision to resign, not the bloggers. For all we know, there could have been peripheral reasons. The burnout factor that comes with almost a quarter century of looking human horror straight in the eye. As a man who considers CNN to be a form of journalistic pornography, I still have to ask: Did any of these magnificent geniuses on the blogosphere consider actually getting Jordan’s take on the resignation?

Or perhaps it’s as simple as this: If you think you can run with the big dogs, then you probably haven’t stayed on the proch long enough with the pups.

John P. Marquand’s first novel, The Unspeakable Gentleman, is available in its entirety online. The novel was Marquand’s first attempt to break out of the slick romantic stories he had been writing. According to Millicent Bell’s Marquand: An American Life, Marquand’s agents had sent it along to Ladies’ Home Journal to be printed in four installments. By Marquand’s own admission, “I think it is pretty damned bad, but I wish you would undergo the strain of looking at it, if you can. Bad as it is, I’ve seen Scribner’s use worse.” Whether the tale of “duels, galloping horses, midnight escapades and lots of good red wine” was intended as a send-up or not remains a mystery. But as Bell notes, Marquand composed some preposterous ad copy for his own novel: “‘The hour is growing late. Put down the pistol, Henry.’ So spoke the Unespeakable Gentleman on that evening a hundred years ago, as he leaned across a table in the firelight, but his words were not obeyed.”

(Thanks, Stacy!)

The Old Hag brings some important news to our attention: The Book Thing of Baltimore, a fantastic place whereby books are given out gratis to everyone and anyone, is hoping to move to a new place. But they’re in need of $60,000. If you have a few bucks to spare, you can do it through the site or send monies by snailmail to:

The Book Thing
P.O. Box 2197
Baltimore, MD 21203

Ricky Gervais is writing an episode of The Simpsons. (via J-Walk)

Also TV-related: The great Dana Stevens pens a Jerry Orbach obit.

Just when you thought fan fiction couldn’t get any more specialized comes Perry Tales, devoted to fan fiction concerning “the greatest voice in music” — none other than Journey singer Steve Pery. Thrill to the four-chapter “Lovin Touchin Squeezin.” (via MeFi)

Carrie’s tackled the underappreciated and the disappointments of the year. I’d like to raise her with an oldie but goodie approach. What authors did you read or “discover” for the first time this year? Feel free to name authors, contemporary or classic. (My own 2004 list includes Paula Fox, Lawrence Durrell, Eric Kraft, Flann O’Brien and David Mitchell — all of whom blew me away: Fox, for her incredibly crisp and compact poetry; Durrell, whose poetic ambition is truly sui generis; Kraft, for so poignantly merging Proust with middle American eccentrics; O’Brien, whose postmodern approach is so casual and beautifully goofy that I’m almost tempted to send huge stacks of The Third Policeman to McSweeney’s headquarters for their consideration; and Mitchell, for too many reasons.)

But never mind me. Who are yours? Comment away!

• Ron points out how Laura Miller cannibalized a NYT piece for Salon.
• Colm Toibin covers Booker winner The Line of Beauty for the NYRoB. His conclusion? Style over substance and an opportunity to play the “I knew Henry James and worked with him. You’re no Henry James” card.
• This should please (and probably not surprise) Sarah. Mysteries are the most sought after fiction by library patrons. Some patrons have tried wearing trenchcoats to stave off overdue fees, hoping that this sartorial hint might make some of the librarians smile. But the librarians have proven just as martinet-minded in their obsessions as the readers.
• Not enough that, by all reports, Crichton’s State of Fear is an outright bad novel, but it may very well be designed for the red states as well. So says George Will.
• Christopher Hitchens weighs in on Sontag. Believe it or not, it’s not a Mother Theresa style takedown piece at all, but a quite balanced article. Apparently, someone took the bottle away from Hitch just as he began writing.
• What are the hot books for 2005? This is London says everyone will go ga-ga over 20 year old Helen Oyeyemi, whose debut novel The Icarus Girl comes out this year. Well, only if it has sex confessionals and Leon Wieseltier manages to get his hands on it.
• Also, if you’re interested in helping out the poor folks off the Indian Ocean, check out Tsunami Help, a blog devoted to philanthropy. (via Hurree

Damn. Double damn.

Some Sontag resources:

WRITINGS:

• Susan Sontag’s famous essay on camp.
• “Against Interpretation”
• One of her last great essays, “Regarding the Torture of Others.”
• “Real Battles and Empty Metaphors”
• Excerpt from Illness as Metaphor and AIDS and its Metaphors.

INTERVIEWS:

• Interview with Elizabeth Farnsworth.
• Sontag & Moyers.
• Audio interview with BBC Four.
• Against Postmodernism: an 2000 interview.
• Australian radio interview. (2/6/2000)

OTHER WORDS/LECTURES:

• Her words after 9/11.
• Lecture, April 24, 1989
• “Literature is Freedom”, October 28, 2003 speech.
• “The Power of Principle” speech (2003)
• Overview with emphasis on early days.

It’s slim pickens on the literary news front. For obvious reasons. But we’ll see what we can do:

• The latest addition to the bookstore? Day care.
• Birmingham, AL is more literate than New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. Alas, not even Birmingham could beat San Francisco. For those who missed the survey, here are the results.
• Apparently, it was a good year for Canadian writers. Perhaps a little of that edumucation and social program stuff up north might have something to do with it?
• There’s also a books quiz at the Observer, for those interested.
• Gray Lady. Manga! Gray Lady.
• Christianity Today names the best books of the year. Believe it or not, Markson made the list.
• NPR remembers the writers who passed on this year.
• And yes, folks, it’s official. Sales of consumer electronics surpassed book sales for the first time.

A recent New York survey found that Barnes & Noble was the best place to get a date. Together with the 98% Democratic PAC figures and expanded wi-fi access, it looks like B&N is on its way to becoming the new black. At least as chain store behemoths go. The big question here is how can indie book stores compete on the, er, hooking up angle.

(via GalleyCat)

Apparently getting a $2 million advance involves “struggling.” Of course, back in February, they were “suffering” through a potential sophomore slump despite a revolving door of editors and agents, many of them fired, hired or retired. And let’s not forget how the two labored to cut a deal whereby they demanded hair and makeup services for all of their promotional appearances.

Yes, it’s those bright young Nanny things again: Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus. And this time, the nouveau riche duo of the publishing world are claiming that critics are “dismissing the feminist aspects” of their new book, Citizen Girl. Well if Tom Wolfe can spin his bad sex as “ironic,” then I suppose it’s plausible to claim that women in the bathroom ogling over “Pam’s purple clogs” and other accoutrements came straight from bell hooks.

If you’re interested in demographics, the most wished for books on Amazon (no link provided, due to this site’s policy) is:

1. America: The Book by Jon Stewart
2. State of Fear by Michael Crichton
3. The Five People You Meet in Heaven by Mitch Albom
4. The Da Vinci Code by Dan Brown
5. Eats, Shoots & Leaves: The Zero Tolerance Approach to Punctuation by Lynne Truss
6. He’s Not That Into You: The No-Excuses Truth to Understanding Guys by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo
7. The Plot Against America by Philip Roth
8. Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell by Susanna Clarke
9. Chronicles, Vol. 1 by Bob Dylan
10. The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time by Mark Haddon
11. His Excellency: George Washington by Joseph J. Ellis
12. Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris
13. Angels & Demons by Dan Brown
14. I Am a Cheesy Protagonist Who Engages in Ironic Bad Sex (title recently changed) by Tom Wolfe
15. The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
16. The Complete Far Side by Gary Larson
17. Mind Hacks by Tom Stafford, Matt Webb
18. Alexander Hamilton by Ron Chernow
19. When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? by George Carlin
20. The Time Traveler’s Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
21. Will in the World by Stephen Greenblatt
22. The Da Vinci Code: Illustrated Edition by Dan Brown
23. Rachael Ray’s 30-Minute Meals: Cooking ‘Round the Clock
24. On Food and Cooking: The Science and Lore of the Kitchen by Harold McGee
25. A Short History of Nearly Everything by Bill Bryson

Wet, because that’s exactly what it is outside. Not nearly as bad as Sri Lanka, but still resolute weather for this town. The other wet involves some paint applied to a few things over the weekend. But you’ll have to wait for that. Anyway, here we go:

• First off, I’d like to make a case for the literary merits of Million Dollar Baby. Not only does its visuals harken back to the great boxer noir The Set-Up (complete with its slogan-laden signs), but Eastwood manages to get in some references to Yeats and Gaelic, as well as a nice pun (“IRA’S ROADSIDE DINER” is the name of the place that Eastwood considers dumping his savings into, but not a single critic got this). The one great visual I can’t get out of my head involves an homage to Jack London’s “A Piece of Steak.” The camera sneaks past Hilary Swank’s back in a dingy, green-walled apartment immersed in shadows, and we see Swank gnawing on a half-eaten piece of steak she swiped from her waitressing job. Truly one of the most haunting and visceral images I’ve seen on cinema this year. And a great film to boot.
• The Aviator turned out to be a surprise too, probably Scorsese’s best film since the unfairly neglected Kundun (and, yes, I dug Bringing Out the Dead as much as the next guy, but it’s more interesting to see Scorsese work outside the “New York as hell” box). Of course, that didn’t concern most of the fockers who wanted to see Ben Stiller and Robert “Where’s my career now?” De Niro (ironically, once Scorsese’s right-hand man) revive their tired comic schtick. Never mind that. Some people I’ve talked to absolutely hated The Aviator, the chief beefs being historical liberties and an unexpected optimism. Well, what else do you folks expect from a biopic? The important thing was that the film captured the essence of the man and that Scorsese pulled off something of a miracle getting a performance out of Leonardo and keeping his juju together under Harvey Weinstein’s iron fist. I suspect The Aviator will be one of those overlooked gems like Tucker where its idealism will be more appreciated ten years from now. Plus, giving Scorsese the keys to the castle allowed for some extremely exciting flight sequences. Cate Blanchett as Hepburn, Alan Alda as sleazy Senator Brewster, fantastic sequences of exploding photograph bulbs. Joe Bob says check it out.
• Moving onto literary news. If you missed Tanenhaus’ latest stunt and need a good laugh, read Walter Kirn’s bizarre cover essay declaring the end of elite rule by wit, apparently through (wait for this) the New Yorker cartoon. Huh? I’ve never been a big fan of the New Yorker‘s cartoons, but I’ve always respect their quiet wit in the same way that I can’t resist Charles Schultz (though you won’t see me reaching for either as a therapeutic solution, a la Franzen). Tanenhaus remains hopelessly up in the air over such foolish statements as, “The seduction of America’s elites by the vices of humanism and skepticism can only be blamed on the New Yorker cartoon, an agent of corruption more insidious than LSD or the electric guitar.” Yep, the NYTBR actually published that. If that’s meant as wit, it fails miserably for its lack of specifics. If that’s meant to be daring, then it’s no more provocative than Madonna after her conversion to Kabbalah. If that’s meant in earnest, then the NYTBR is truly in trouble. I’m curious what James Wolcott thinks about this, but I fear that there may be a conflict of interest.
• What happens to the literary geniuses you don’t hear about? They become vagrants.
• The California Literary Review checks out Paul Auster.
• Several fantastic people, including one Maud Newton, name their favorite books at Newsday.
• The Globe rolls out the red carpet for Louis Auchincloss.
• And I’d also like to suggest that if you ever get the chance to do it, it’s an extremely strange expeirence to read Lawrence Durrell’s Alexandria Quartet and David Peace’s Red Riding Quartet at the same time. Both are fantastic in their own different ways, but I think I’ve got enough literary deviance to last through the winter.
• Wishing you a belated merry Xmas.

If you’re still feeling generous, you may want to consider donating to the Sri Lanka Red Cross. Truly a horrible Xmas for many.

Carrie recently pointed to this Meghan O’Rourke essay. O’Rourke suggested that Munro’s purported realism “is more of O. Henry in Munro than her admirers tend to admit.” Taken together with Lev Grossman’s recent suggestion that Michael Chabon’s editorial duties for his latest McSweeney’s “thrilling tale” compilation are “the promiscuous atmosphere of one of those speakeasies where socialites slum with gangsters in an effort to mutually increase everybody’s street cred,” it seems to me that the fight for fantastic fiction’s respectability is far from over. In fact, it’s extended across some interesting fault lines.

A genre writer is considered declasse, but in these days when postmodernism is considered dead as bright young things are busting their humps trying to find a playful yet acceptable substitute, a literary hybrid is apparently much worse. O’Rourke goes on to suggest that Munro has manipulated her readers because, heavens to Betsy, in O’Rourke’s judgment, the timing is off when she has two characters fail to meet. O’Rourke implies that this is a willful act of cruelty on Munro’s part and that, as such, the story she cites is built “of the tinder of contrivance.”

But what is contrivance exactly? Is it missed opportunities? Is it a character failing to meet some pivotal individual at the right time? Isn’t fiction supposed to be about the emotional impetus of its characters, as guided by language and reasonable plotting? Setting aside the odious example of Dickens’ Little Nell, it’s interesting that O’Rourke is vague about why “cruelty” is such a bad thing in fiction. If O’Rourke’s point here hangs upon whether Alice Munro is a firm Chekhovian realist or not or whether her fiction is “a bag of tricks,” then I’ve got news for her. Fiction has always involved machinations. But why should genre or style matter if emotional verisimilitude is firmly in place?

In fact, if we consider a number of Golden Age science fiction short stories, I would argue that what we remember is not the machinations, but the human impulse that bristles from the tales. Alfred Bester’s “Hobson’s Choice” is remembered not for the apocalyptic setup, but for its chilly ending about alienation and displacement. Ray Bradbury’s “A Sound of Thunder” is remembered for a safari tourist stepping upon a butterfly and the stunning consequences. Harlan Ellison’s “Jefty is Five” is remembered for its depiction of youth and mortality, not the gimmick of a boy perpetually aged five.

I suppose the O. Henry comparison vexed me because I’ve been rereading Richard Matheson’s stories of late. Matheson, who I’ve often referred to as “the Ray Bradbury everyone always forgets about,” was one of a handful of speculative fiction storytellers who inspired me as a very young reader. What I’ve found years later is that, much like the examples cited above, the genre conventions ultimately didn’t matter. Sure, the stories are fantastic in structure, often carried out through vaguely described future worlds. Even the science is considerably loopy at times. But that isn’t the issue. Because Matheson’s characters are ensnared by jobs, families, their own paranoia, or their own inability to take control. And each Matheson tale involves a character trying to escape, whether it’s Mann from “Duel” or the frequently used Professor Wade. It’s the human impulse that commands our interest. If, however, the human impulse isn’t believable (say, for example, Tom Wolfe’s wholly implausible depiction of college life in I Am Charlotte Simmons), then this behavioral discrepancy will mow down a story more fatally than a Panzer tank.

If genre fiction offers a more fantastic approach to get at the human condition and we can accept it, why then should Munro or Chabon be penalized because their tales fall outside the box? Why is literary fusion considered a dirty concept in the 21st century? If fiction exists to make us feel, then, if a story does the job keeping us from seeing the lie, has not the task been fulfilled?

(Okay. Enough. Hiatus! Hiatus!)

I’m almost ashamed to confess it, but the Missed Connections section on Craig’s List fascinates me. What are these people thinking? Why are they spending all of their time regretting a mistake? If it’s a matter of following up with someone, why are they resorting to a bulletin board that only a handful of people will read?

With these questions in mind, I briefly emerge from my candy-baking, holiday-themed hiatus to give the gift that keeps on giving: questionable advice.

Dan Dan the Mexi Man: Have you considered calling the Academy of Art and asking if Dan works there? Failing that, are you aware that there are other Dans in the universe? It might also help if you stop referring to some stranger as “the Mexi Man.” Outside of WB sitcoms, that doesn’t really win points with people.

Danced with you at 1015: Sorry, sweetheart. Roberto ain’t coming back anytime soon. People go to dance clubs for two reasons. Dancing is one and I’ll let you do the math on the other. Chances are that if Roberto was really interested in you, he’d have taken you home or asked for your number. How much vodka did you have, darling?

Rita from Queens: It’s always possible that Rita might call back. But here’s the way it works. When a girl calls, if you don’t call back within a reasonable time, she moves onto the next prospect. May I suggest that you go to your cell phone dealer and obtain a cell phone that you can operate. Failing that, spend at least six hours becoming infinitely familiar with your voicemail system so that this doesn’t happen again.

To the bush lover whose jaw I broke: Two words: anger management.

Beautiful JWF on the BART: Go up and talk to her, you putz! And be prepared for the possibility of failure. Also, discretion is the name of the game. The last thing a woman needs on public transportation is a stranger’s desperate eyes searing into her soul. Is she reading a book? Does she have a nice overcoat? Make small talk instead of living with fear.

My girlfriend and I…: The place is “Missed Connections,” which involves people, not highly specific beer bottles.

PHX – SFO flight: Ask him for coffee next time. Look, nothing makes a man’s job easier than when you boldly suggest a date. It takes a lot of the weight from our backs. After all, we’re the ones constantly putting ourselves on the line here. Live dangerously. Start a trend. For the future of gender equality, ask him out if you’re interested! They did it on Sex and the City all the time, right?

Jo, 500 Club? Start drinking.

Nemo?: The San Francisco DJ scene isn’t nearly as large as it seems. With a name like that, it would be very easy to track the guy down if you hung out at raves and clubs and asked around. Of course, it’s also possible that Nemo was a one-night pseudonym, in which case you might be SOL. If you’re into DJs as prospective lovers, perhaps you should hook up with Skratchy Seal’s girlfriend and get some tips.

Were you checking out my package?: Perhaps purchasing a penis pump might confirm your hypothesis.

Squat and Gobble: The number is 415-487-0551. Play it safe. You may come across as socipathic, assuming he’s interested.

Now, back to the hiatus. Really.

Like Mark and Maud, we’ve completely obliterated Amazon as a purchasing option. No gifts or random packages sent from there anymore, thank you very much. You won’t even find our wishlist. Those kind and remarkable people lurking behind the scenes will have to stay the course until we get our obscure objects of literary desire tranposed and listed onto safer pastures. Rest assured, we don’t take Amazon’s PAC funding lightly and, as previous actions have demonstrated, we’re adamantly sociopathic in our boycotts. This week’s dartboard cutout? Why, Jeff Bezos, of course!

We do, however, think that the inestimable Mark Sarvas is overdoing it with his Time subscription legerdemain. The magazine is, without a doubt, useless. When you factor in their neurologically inert coverage of current events (witness such prima facie pronouncements as “The poisoning has already given him martyrlike status among his supporters, but it also raises questions about whether his health will allow him to serve with sustained vigor,” and the moronic machinations become apparent) and the fact that a mere four (four!) of their Persons of the Year have been women, it’s really a no-brainer. The magazine was established by Briton Hadden and Henry Luce to reduce the information of our times to jejune gardyloo processed by dullards. Or to cite Luce directly, “Of necessity, we made the discovery that it is easier to turn poets into business journalists than to turn bookkeepers into writers.”

Birnbaum might drop-kick our asses for riding the adjective with two Js, but in Time‘s case, it’s readily apparent that no other modifier cuts the mustard in quite the same way.

(Furthermore, it would be criminal for us not to reveal how much we loved the Man of the Year moment in The Big Lebowski, whereby slacker Jeff L glimpses himself in a mirror styled along the Time yearly hard line. It’s one of the film’s most overlooked gags.)

We now return you to our regularly scheduled hiatus.

We can’t think of anything particularly compelling to say. And every time we open our mouths, it results in gardyloo. So we’re taking a sizable break. Happy holidays.

One 2004 book that seems to have been entirely overlooked by all the end-of-the-year listmakers is David Markson’s Vanishing Point. (Full confession: I’m just as guilty, having only just hit Markson’s latest on my bookpile.) Nevertheless, Markson deserves some special consideration, given how he’s mastered the ability to juxtapose obscure personal tidbits involving artistic figures against the emotional dilemma of the “Author.” (For example, “David Garrick, retiring from the stage: Now I will sit and read Shakespeare.”)

This is the kind of cultural obsession that almost anyone who reads thinks about to some degree. That Markson’s tidbits are both fascinating and unsourced almost lends his work to compulsive fact-ferreting among the truly obsessed “Jesus, did that really happen?” scholars. (In fact, Markson’s phrasing reminds me of Don Marquis’s poetry with its seemingly simple gimmick masking a deeper emotional patina.) But Vanishing Point (much like This is Not a Novel and Reader’s Block) also addresses the broader problem of how literary culture often marginalizes the art in favor of the artists’ lives. How far removed are we really from the People subscribers? In dwelling upon the personal foibles of high cultural icons, are we groping for an existential meaning that we lack?

These are the bold questions that Vanishing Point and Markson in general dares to unfurl. But even if you’re not into this kind of obsessive probing (although you probably will be), Vanishing Point is still a supremely enjoyable novel.

(Also, happy anniversary, Mr. Syntax of Things.)

“It’s saving humanity!” “It’s just like reading a book!” “It’s just like partying!” These and many other excuses can be found in Suzy Hansen’s amusing article on gaming and relationships, a connection that I suspect goes far deeper than anyone cares to admit.

Carl Hiaasen acts nuts in the presence of Bob Shacochis and becomes my new hero. Among Hiaasen’s affronts:

• “because I’m making cell-phone calls in my car and exhibiting an absolute lack of urgency, Hiaasen rearranges the garbage cans.”
• “Eventually we drag our feet down his dock and load gear onto the boat with icy fingers and half a warm heart between us. “
• “‘Do you want people to die? Do you want carcasses floating down Biscayne Boulevard?’ he says. ‘Of course not. But nature’s here to remind us, and it does, that it can kick our ass, that we’re just gnats.'”