The Nonverbal Dictionary. (via Storytelling)

If Candle(Unlit)

[EDITOR’S NOTE: Jane Austen Powers Doe, now in therapy, had several additional things she hoped to say after her Salon article. Since I was still on hiatus, and since Ms. Doe threatened to send me a new email every hour, complaining about some new inanity, until I published her followup article, and since I’ve had absolutely no luck with any spamblock software, the only solution was to get her to shut up by posting her followup. Also, at Ms. Doe’s request, I have added a second middle name. Apparently, the Salon staff wanted to narrow it down to one bad cultural joke. Unfortunately, here at RotR, we have to live with two. I hereby post the followup article and continue my hiatus.]

“Midlist authors are, quite frankly, people who should shut their traps. Most of them realize this and maintain a quiet indignity. Many of them are understandably annoyed by their failure to break through into commercial markets, but they are so far involved with the writing racket that they realize it’s ineluctable, and a lot better than working at Starbucks to boot. Which is not to suggest that they’re not working part-time jobs. The worst cases, however, not only fail to appreciate their privilege (notwithstanding lack of lucre), but feel the need to write about it in a whiny anonymous essay.” — David Armstrong, “How Not to Quote Me Out of Context,” 2004, unpublished.

Reader Advisory: Perhaps I did not warn you enough in the other article, but it is my hope to caution you sufficiently this time around. Be forewarned. This essay is worthless to almost anyone outside of reading and writing circles. I’ve broken every unspoken law of decency. I’m complaining about a life just outside every failed or unpublished writer’s reach. I’m also going through a midlife crisis right now and I’m on the brink of a divorce. And Salon didn’t quite understand that publishing a Dave Eggers political satire isn’t the way to revive interest. So they were looking for any sign of misery they could muster.

Unfortunately, they rejected my followup article. They figured that two articles by me were enough. Fortunately, my blackmail scheme has worked and you will hear my complaints, sans sotto voce.

Still with me? Great. I can see you enjoy reading the memoirs of self-absorbed dormice.

I won’t dare reveal who I am. But let’s just say that trying to proposition Michael Chabon was a bad idea. How was I supposed to know that he was happily married? And to a nice attorney-turned-writer to boot! He was actually quite nice about it, and gave me the names of a few authors who would be interested in a quid pro quo that would help my career. At least I think it was Michael. It might have been that scruffy guy who asked me for a smoke just after Michael kicked me out of his house. Of course, Michael was nice about that too. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Think you can figure me out? I’m pretty confident you won’t. Of course, this raises a conundrum. If I’m trying to be candid about the publishing industry and my history as a writer, how can you separate the truth from the fabricated details? We all know the old axiom that writers are, by their very nature, liars. On what imprimatur can a case be made that I’m even a novelist?

Interlude: Edward Champion Emails Me Back

“Will you stop emailing me Word files of your unpublished manuscript and naked JPEGs of yourself? Especially those shots of you at the Colma cemetery. Really! I’m flattered, but I’m not interested. Sorry. I have very specific ways to take care of this part of my life. Besides, don’t you have a marriage to save? Would it help matters if I published your addendum? THEN will you leave me alone?”

The Story

Well, as you all know, Mr. Champion published me. The closest thing to oral sex that I could get from the guy.

Beyond that, there’s the history of the article. I tried to pitch Talbot on an article for their sex section. How does a midlist writer kill time when her husband’s away? What are the many thing she does to not write? And how does her relentless kvetching alienate her from the other people in her life?

Talbot thought it would be better if I narrowed in on more “writerly” things, and suggested the “confessions” approach, seeing as how the Who is Belle de Jour? thing was really big right now. And so here we are.

First off, there’s the David Armstrong quote to address. When I quoted Armstrong initially, it was with the idea that more people would purchase copies of Less than Kind. But even Armstrong had to confess that his book-length confession was more of a deft publishing scam than anything else. In one single stroke, he could draw attention to his previous books and sell a publisher on a niche book.

I decided to approach Armstrong for the article. But Chabon had contacted him and told him a number of deceptions and vicious lies. Furthermore, Armstrong’s name was not on the list that Michael the guy outside of Michael’s house had given me. So he was dead set against seeing me.

What more could I do then but quote his book?

Another thing: Salon hoped that the other anonymous writers would get you to buy into my mostly fictitious story. Well, I made them up too. Never mind the recent news of Jack Kelley, whose fabrications make Jayson Blair look like a harmless cub reporter.

There is, of course, no way to corroborate all this. Lies in a mainstream publication are okay when you’re anonymous.

When they say: “Stephen Glass and Jayson Blair’s books haven’t sold.”

What that means: “They haven’t heard from a novelist.”

When they say: “Aren’t these longass articles detracting from your writing?”

What that means: “Come on, the media environment is self-referential ad nauseam.”

There Was a Time

There was a time, just a decade ago, when articles dealing with the publishing industry would be devoted to more substantial topics. There was a time when the self-entitlement and the collective narcissism of a nation didn’t spill over into the world of writers, when most writers understood that they weren’t in this for the cash and they wouldn’t become rich doing what they loved.

Those times are over.

I’m happy to have done my job and burned a few more bridges in the process.

[Long rambling rant omitted.]

Taking a break. Will return later. Don’t know when.

[Also: March 20 is National Clitoris Day. If in San Francisco, why not check out Sia Amma’s show at the Yerba Buena Center for the Arts? Proceeds go to women in Sierra Leone who are victims of gential mutilation.]

Those crazed tartan-wearing journalists are at it again. The link between terrorism and fiction certainly deserves to be addressed, but there are better ways to go about it than this:

The one fictional insight into terrorism everyone knows or at least everyone claims as authority is Joseph Conrad’s The Secret Agent. It’s not Conrad’s subtlest book but sadly just one line has been lifted from it and waved about as if it were a profound truth: “The terrorist and the policeman both come from the same basket”. Taken out of context, it’s one of the most dangerous ideas ever to travel from a novelist’s mind and into the collective (semi) consciousness. Even allowing for the oddity of “basket”, which might be Conrad’s Polish-English idiom faltering when he meant “nest” or “cradle”, or might be his shrewd economist’s mind recognising that ideologies can be shopped for, even allowing for all of that, it’s a dangerous idea to take as your text.

Yo, Bagpipes! Conrad learned his English when he was 21 by reading the London Times and Shakespare. And he was 50 when he wrote those words. I’m pretty sure he knew what he was writing when he wrote down “basket.”

(via Moorish Girl)

The people who have been “outed” as me aren’t me, nor are they you, BdJ, Free to Be, You and Me, Edward Champion, or Dr. Mabuse. Furthermore, these people have attracted attention that is neither wanted by you nor unwanted by me, or anywhere within the twain. For those who wanted the attention, or who mistakenly believed they were loved, or for those who believed that they were “outed,” or for those who are convinced that they have a book deal, are you mad? There are only a few people who should really care and who can be loved, or who believe that this is a big deal, or who hope to stroke BdJ’s leg on the mantle.

To the critics “working” in anonymity, who have not yet been “outed” or who secretly hope to be “outed.” You have too much time on your hands, and it is quite possible you want to believe that you have “outed” yourselves. Failing that, there’s the red lipstick, the graveside bukkake, the book deal, and of course the fact that your “outing” isn’t necessarily wanted or unwanted by those who have “outed” or who are “working” to be wanted.

I quote a cynical stalker: Please. Give me strength. My life is empty. I want to fuck people for money too. To them I say, there’s a Frederick’s of Hollywood at your local mall. Whip out your credit card and begone! We need more whores in Bakersfield.

This is rubbish that has been “outed” and is not “working” and far too meta for my taste. I want to write to those who’ve been fucked (i.e., not “outed” and “working”) at least three times, preferably through their own charm and initiative. Let us return to lots of fucking, “outing,” and other things that are “working,” so that everyone can more or less be wanted, shall we?

Failing that, a public viewing of Paul Verhoeven’s Business is Business (1973) will do.

Amazon reviews, blurbs, and now Lit Idol is tainted.

“I cheated,” Losada admitted. “I voted four times.” There were some empty chairs in the room, and each chair had a voting machine. She scooped up a few extra and voted again. “I was very concerned that the best writer win. I only had four votes. I suspect he would have won anyway.”

(via Publisher’s Lunch)

More on Tanenhaus. What Literary Saloon said.

Publishers are prepared. Hot on the heels of the Nancy Drew update, several new offerings are in the works.

Encylopedia Brown and the Case of the Fixed Election: Encyclopedia Brown and Sally Kimball are asked by a cowering Democrat to investigate tampered votes. The Democrat, afraid of taking a stand, bolts to Europe. Bugs Meany, paid off by Kathleen Harris, kidnaps Sally and throws her into a den of whores. Encyclopedia Brown attempts to use logic to get Sally out. But despite Brown’s carefully crafted solution, Bugs (along with Jeb’s other hired thugs) beat him to a bloody pulp. Brown gets a job at Arby’s, moving into a warren with other failed child detectives. The answers at the back of the book have been replaced by an unemployment insurance application.

Anne of Green Parties: Anne and Gilbert move from Avonlea to Berkeley, where the two become involved in the 2000 Ralph Nader campaign and open up a Canadian Vegan restaurant (complete with organic coffee). A greedy property developer hoping to franchise the idea across the nation attempts to buy Anne and Glbert out. While getting into a brawl with Gore supporters, Gilbert decides on a whim that he’s a carnivore and that he can’t in all good conscience vote for Ralph, let alone operate a restaurant. Fracas over dietary habits ensues, along with a climactic courtroom battle.

The Littles Go to Hollywood: The Littles, tired of dealing with domestic squabbles with the Biggs, decide to move to Hollywood and sow their wild oats. In search of Michael J. Anderson, a man who they have seen on HBO, the Littles must contend with cracked vials and used syringes deposited in their home, along with a cruel plastic surgeon who hopes to remove all the Littles’ tails and use them for scientific research.

Dorothy and the Transient in Oz: A shaggy unshowered man shows up in the East. Aunt Em and Dorothy build a halfway house next to the Emerald City to service this man and others like him who may arrive. But Dorothy doesn’t count on Aunt Em leaving Uncle Henry for a clandestine affair involving the transient and a winged monkey.

A Terry Teachout Reader: Just read it.

A skeletal version of the Wrestling an Alligator site is now up, along with a short excerpt. There will be more, a lot more, later.

Ladies and gentlemen, there are still slots left in the Snail Mail Experiment! And burgeoning interest. So come one, come all! Until of course the number hits fifteen! Email address and sentences to ed@edrants.com.

H.R. 3920: To allow Congress to reverse the judgments of the United States Supreme Court.

The collective hubris and the wholesale lack of regard for the U.S. Constitution angers me beyond words. I’m now fully convinced that nobody on Congress knows how to count. (There are three branches of government, not two. Three!)

(via MeFi)

[3-18-04 UPDATE: The grandiloquent Crabwalk was mistakenly referred to in this post as “Crabtree.” This was, of course, unpardonable. I only note that, at the time I had posted this entry, I had just come back from lunch, where I had walked past Lotta’s Fountain, a majestic landmark that almost nobody notices. I wasn’t really cognizant of the walking. It was wandering, really. I was also reading Eric Kraft, and Kraft kept referring to sea life in unusual situations, with quirky characters and delightful comic situations to boot. I had also been thinking about eucalyptus trees — no tree in particular. But put two and two together, and you begin to see the many factors that allowed me to screw up this post. I leave “Crabtree” in this post for the record, but this preface should make it abundantly clear that it was Crabwalk, and nothing but the Crabwalk. The sin remains unchanged, and I permit Josh Benton to flog me at some future unspecified date. Preferably with an audience to laugh and point.]

The Post‘s book coverage continues to impress me. And not just because of Jonathan Yardley’s retro recommendations, or the fact that they’ve grown wise to the lit blogging community covering books. This review of The Bronte Myth, for example, is written by “Dana Stevens,” the cheeky pseudonym of Liz Penn (and I suspect that “Penn,” by way of its sound, is a pen name, rather than a real one). But it’s also a cheeky reference to the subjects of the bio. The Bronte sisters, as we all know, took the Bell name because, as women, they felt they wouldn’t be taken seriously as novelists.

But according to Crabtree, it looks like Dana Stevens is someone just having fun, for the same reasons that Donald Westlake’s Richard Stark persona allowed him to write additional novels in a gritter style. Sometimes, the circumstances are not so insouciant, as was the case for screenwriters who submitted their scripts through other people during the dark days of McCarthyism (a situation captured well in Martin Ritt’s excellent film, The Front).

I just don’t understand why anyone would be offended by it. An author has his or her own reasons for maintaining a pseudonym and, if it harms no one, then what is there to get upset about? Part of the fun is respecting an author’s right to pen something in whatever style or name he chooses. Ultimately though, regardless of an author’s name or alias, it’s the work that matters most of all.

(via JC)

I’d be sadly remiss if I neglected to mention the Orange longlist, which has been covered in full on several other blogs. Not only can these ladies write, but (and this has been kept on the q.t.) they can also eat more oranges in a single sitting than Andrew Sean Greer or Mark Hadon at their most robust.

Almost all of the nominees are sui generis, and nearly all of give me some kind of tingly feeling. With the exception of Anne Tyler, an appearance tantamount to John Wayne winning an Oscar for True Grit.

The Flood Bowl: “Dear E, Thank you for your email. I’m sorry to say that I found your response disappointing. I specifically asked you to suggest time and dates to meet. Your response did not answer my question, and, in fact, ultimately made more work for me. Again, I’m sorry, but thank you for your time, but you won’t be right for this position. Best, R.” (via Maud)

Norwegian novelist Finn Carling has passed on. Carling specialized in alienation and misfits ignored by mainstream society. Book & Writers has a profile on the man.

The film rights for Clive Woodall’s One for Sorrow: Two for Joy have been sold to Disney for $1 million. But the incredible thing is that Woodall still hasn’t quit his day job at the supermarket. What’s the matter, Clive? You can’t honestly tell me that there a shortage of supermarket managers in the UK.

The Times is on the ball this morning with those snappy headlines.

Shakespeare’s will is now available online (PDF). Unfortunately, there’s nothing left of his estate to distribute. However, fortune hunters hoping to score some loot are advised to pursue a bride-to-be in the Hamptons and, as a general practice, consider more recent family lineage.

An Arthur Conan Doyle archive has landed at a London law firm. There are 3,000 items, many of them previously disappeared into protracted legal disputes from forty years ago. But more importantly, there’s a treasure trove of manuscripts (80% of which have never been published), including an early sketch of A Study in Scarlet. Also making its appearance in the collection is the first known piece of Holmes/Watson slash fiction. Who knew that Doyle penned this himself?

HarperCollins has attacked Soft Skull‘s How to Get Stupid White Men Out of Office. They claim the title’s too close to Michael Moore’s book. Meanwhile, the fate of the soon-to-be-published How to Prevent Stupid White Men (Who Are Also Quite Rich) from Selling Lots of Fulminating, Unreadable Political Books Clutched by Undergrads and Packed with Generalizations remains undetermined.

Franck Le Calvez has lost his Finding Nemo suit. The judge noted that the two disputed fictional fish have different smiles. Moreover, Le Calvez’s fish is French and, thus, frightening to American children.

Alex Beam revisits the myth of Deborah Skinner, B.F.’s daughter, who was, as the legend goes, purportedly locked in a box for several years. Lauren Slater has a new book, Opening Skinner’s Box, that attempted to determine the truth behind the abuse. Slater never found her. But Beam apparently did. And Skinner is now hopping mad with libel. Slater claims that “she didn’t have access to an electronic database.”

In 2000? Yeah, right.

Beyond that, there’s a little something called the Reader’s Guide to Periodical Literature. Beyond that, even in the early 1990s, one could find CD-ROM archives of newspapers in such hicktowns as Sacramento. (And I say that from personal experience.)

Skinner herself responded in the Guardian last week, stating that she was not a lab rat.

Whatever the outcome of the Skinner imbroglio, the Beam story illustrates the importance of being thorough with the facts. And it’s advice that might be beneficial to blogs. If lit blogs are to grow and develeop, then this also demonstrates the importance of tracking sources, which means trying to acknowledge who first found the links whenever possible. Beyond simple courtesy, there’s also the consideration that the person genuinely interested in the topic might have done additional work or have additional expertise not publicly posted.

A Belgian museum is hosting an Alan Moore exhibition, but Moore won’t be going. The Independent has the usual Moore biographical background, but does have some additional news about Hollywood and future work.

And there’s more comparative info on the new Nancy Drew, addressed in letter and infographic.

How to Write Good: “If placed in a situation where you must quote another author, always write ‘[sic]’ after any word that may be misspelled or looks the least bit questionable in any way. If there are no misspellings or curious words, toss in a few ‘[sic]’s just to break up the flow. By doing this, you will appear to be knowledgeable and ‘on your toes,’ while the one quoted will seem suspect and vaguely discredited.”

(via Beautiful Stuff)

Back in the early 1990s, there was this really great thing called the mail. You wrote some words, had the entire day to reflect upon them, and then sent off your letter. And what was really nifty was that you got letters back from people.

But with the rise of email, the care and thought that people put into these letters disappeared, along with that small cushion of time. Communication became instantneous, which was certainly handy for getting feedback or immediate input. But something was lost in the haste.

Perhaps the biggest crime involved the transformation of the mailbox to a depository for bills and junk mail.

The time has come to take our mailboxes back. The time has come to recalibrate our expectations. No longer shall we lust after the latest Cosmopolitan or Netflix DVD. I call for a return to the mailboxes of lore, whereby lovely letters were nestled within their bastard brethren.

So here’s what I’d like to try.

The Snail Mail Experiment

I’m looking for 15 people who are dedicated to writing and sending letters to three people each. Doesn’t matter where you are or who you are.

The first 15 people to send an email to ed@edrants.com with their name, address and three separate sentences, and who intend to actually write and send letters, will become part of The Snail Mail Experiment.

I’ll mix the sentences up and assign each person three other people to write to, with a topical sentence in place to comment upon.

A bit like a mix CD swap, but the emphasis here is on the words, drawings and/or personal offerings that one can send by mail.

After all this, I’ll follow up with everyone, see how their assorted mailing went (possibly comparing it against communicating by email), and post their comments here.

But in order to make this work, I’m going to need fifteen hardy souls.

So if you’re interested in becoming part of this kooky sociological experiment, you know what to do.

As widely reported by almost everybody on the lit blog scene, authors have finally revealed that the blurb-quoting culture is one big circlejerk. “We really don’t get enough sex in our lives. We’re too busy writing, hoping to sell our books,” said one bestselling author, who refused to reveal his name. “But I know it gives me a thrill to stroke my peers. And we’re not just talking egos. Who needs to read a book when you can fantasize about an author?”

While the connection between authors and relentlessly cheery blurbs is nothing new, the connection between blurbs and the upsurge in sex (literal or imagined) has now come very close to addressing a long standing problem: namely, the lonely lives of writers which often go unobserved.

If the authors are pretending to read these books, hiding behind the modifier of “unreadable,” then I also suggest that readers are also pretending. In fact, chances are that nobody is reading these books at all, save only the irrecoverably dedicated or others of unsound mind. It is also likely that these book buyers and galley collectors are buying these books and stocking them away for a nuclear winter.

Furthermore, there is lots of sex going on, until now unmentioned, possibly with the blurbs written immediately after orgasm and cleanup.

This pretending has reached such a disgusting level of influence that the time has come to demand a chart which compares the timing and number of orgasms a writer has per year, against the timing and number of positive blurbs a writer gives to the world per annum. Are these writers really reading? Or are they reading these books while having sex? Or are these books a replacement for sex? Is finishing a book akin to a postcoital rush of relief that leaves the blurb quoter in a delicate, relaxed and unqualified position to write a blurb?

A shareware developer has tried to take advantage of this intricate problem by marketing BlurbMe 2.5 specifically to A-list writers. The application is available for Windows, Mac and Linux, and will generate a positive blurb in 9 seconds. Or roughly the amount of time it takes to peel off a Lifestyles. Here are some BlurbMe examples:

“Fascinating, compelling. I felt the urge to walk the dog.”

“Compelling, fasciating, a riveting read. I’ll walk the dog.”

“Compellingly fascinating and riveting. I felt the urge to walk the dog in a compelling way. Great read.”

Sven Gorgias, the developer and programmer of BlurbMe, reports that he hopes to expand the limited adjectives in future versions. Since Mr. Gorgias is an animal lover and walking his dog is his only respite from staring at code all day, he has tried to rid the database of references to his constitutionals.

But in light of the depravities unearthed by the Telegraph, Mr. Gorgias now knows that his work is going to be trickier than he thought.

The transition to mean bastard did not go as planned. It is the unfortunate duty of the author to inform his reading public that while he remains partly a nice guy, a good deal of his concentration has been sapped. Reading comprehension was among the first of his few abililties to depart, along with the limited social skills he still had. His intelligence, striated with the rigors of too many side projects, is for the moment dubious.

The author is now in the habit of saying stupid things and frightening people. And while this may have been an ideal mental condition for Spalding Gray on a stage, for the author, it is diminishing his credibility and his ability to work.

As a result, corners will have to be cut or considerably curbed as the author picks himself off the floor and, with an almost Randian determination, prepares early for later days this year when he will no doubt resemble Keith Richards.

The author suspects that all this might have something to do with not taking a vacation for several years. (And in fact he counts his recent sick days as a form of vacation.) But he knows that once the dirty work is done, he will feel much better and articulate with greater cogency.

Ms. Weinman in the Post!

To hell with Martin Amis. For my money, Richard Ford’s outdone all of Amis’s antics. And we’re talking just this week alone. He spat on Colson Whitehead, apparently in retribution for Whitehead’s review of A Multitude of Sins. Who knew that the man behind the passive-aggressive Frank Bascombe was so belligerent? Ford is at work on a third Bascombe novel right now, and, at this rate, I’m wondering if Bascombe is going to transform into a Bronsonesque, gun-toting vigilante. (via MacIntyre)

Within mere blocks of 826 Valencia lies an open underworld of drugs, prostitutes, and assorted refuse. Cadaverous figures huddle within the shadows, shooting up what they’ve managed to collect, greed and addiction flickering within their eyes. What will they get today or tomorrow?

Endless trash covers the streets. Fast food wrappers, leaflets that have drifted from the northwest, bottles rolling under the tires of cars. Skeletal women dressed in nearly nothing, with dark red streaks covering their faces, their arms covered with the tell-tale blotches of a bad heroin habit. These ladies wander to the ends of alleys, looking to spread their legs for a quick score. Cars pass by. Horny bargain hunters who have no problem getting off into victims open their doors. For twenty dollars and a reduction of standards, they jism into an overused orifice.

It is almost impossible to walk down some sections of Shotwell or Capp Streets and not encounter cracked vials or used syringes. It is almost impossible not to be propositioned or hectored by those who would suck cock for a pittance to maintain their addiction.

And then there’s the fascinating Hispanic/Caucasian culture war that’s been going down since the mid-1990s. Walk along the edges of 16th Street at night and you will find brightly lit neon restaurants and bars that are clearly trying to compete with the urban identity that came before. The telltale signs are through the windows. Smug, pomaded white boys with their pearly whites sitting in their inner sanctums, ordering for their girls from an overpriced menu and ready to hightail it to Marin so they can get the hell out of this godforsaken strange land. Upscale sushi joints adjacent to biker bars, tattoo parlors next to ridiculous oxygen bars. Steel grilles over windows next to walls plastered with flyers for some musical act from Berkeley next to a pizza-by-the-slice joint that welcomes all. But mainly we’re talking the doctrine of separate but equal. More delineated than ever before.

But when these white boys saunter down the streets, you can see the fear in their eyes. And it’s not just the fact that many of them can’t speak a word of Spanish (although they try). You can see them curl their gym-toned arms around the shoulders of their honeys. You see them sidestep around blacks or Latinos raising a ruckus. These white boys are intimidated by volume. They can’t seem to distinguish timbre, between folks having a good time and folks trying to intimidate. While it’s true that addicts can be found looming in certain quarters, in the eyes of the privileged (for they blow a few Franklins on a Friday night without a second thought) nearly everyone of color is an addict. Addicted perhaps to having a good time, in most cases.

I mention all this because, as I said, this world is within a few blocks of 826 Valencia. It’s a fascinating world. And I love it. You can learn a lot about human beings just by standing on the corner of 16th and Valencia for a few hours.

But for all of Dave Eggers’ purported streetcred by way of the locale, not once have I seen him dwell upon this cultural microcosm. In fact, in the latest McSweeney’s, he boasts about editing the issue at some Northern California B&B. And there is also mention of Daly City, a suburb south of San Francisco that is really no different from any other minimall magnet.

Which makes me wonder what the hell he’s doing in San Francisco. I’m pretty hard-pressed to demonize a guy who managed to get William Vollmann’s longass treatise fact-checked and published. But if he’s so ignorant of the culture that surrounds him, if he cannot recognize the fascinating struggles and conflicts and characters that populate this majestic sector of the City, then frankly he has no business being here.

“Book Babe”: A book critic who makes crude generalizations and cowers in the face of literature.

“Coetzee”: To snarl during an interview. (Ex. The subject prefered to Coetzee rather than answer the stupid question.)

“drowning in Mitchell”: Whereby the avid reader obtains the oeuvre of a “difficult” writer, with an overconfident swagger and the vain hope of being ahead of the curve, only to find themselves thoroughly confused by previous books (such as Ghostwritten) in anticipation of the next labryinthine title (e.g., The Cloud Atlas). (Ex. I thought I had the time for the Baroque Cycle and Cryptonomicon, but it looks like Neal has me drowning in Mitchell.)

“Gabo”: In its original use, “Gabo” was a nickname for Gabriel Garcia Marquez. Now it is used as shorthand for any author’s name that a reader is fearful of uttering in full. Particularly used with names that Caucasians have difficulty pronouncing, such as “Jose Saramago.” (Or: Oprah Winfrey.)

“Jayser”: An act involving inserting leaflets into multiple copies of a hardback after several shots of hard liquor.

“plowing the dark”: Refusing to leave a library or a book collection and failing to experience life. The term was inspired by the obsessive readers drawn to Richard Powers’ intricate yet spellbinding books. Often, readers who plow the dark must have a book forcefully extracted from their fingers. The process of plowing the dark is, in most circumstances, altruistic. But somehow a forceful argument must be propounded by the friend hoping to recalibrate a heavy reader’s sanity.

“tanner house”: To face unreasonable expectations before taking on an important task.

“to Tivoli”: The original verb transitive involved an older human behaving like a child. The usage has now broadened to include older readers who read books that that are clearly beneath their regular comprehension. An example would involve a septuagenarian guffawing over Mad Magazine or E. Nesbitt. It is also worth noting that the initial pejorative use has lightened somewhat since its entry into the vernacular in February, and is now used in an affectionate context. (Or. Sarah Weinman)

World Book Day: Any well-intentioned event that falls upon deaf ears.

The Age: “When the US State Department designated a Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist as a ‘cultural ambassador’, it probably did not plan for him to go around the world calling his president a ‘moron’ who governs an ‘evil empire’. Nor did it expect him to boycott Israel because of US foreign policy, nor to warn Australia that its culture would be ‘gobbled up’ by a free trade agreement.” (via Literary Saloon)