Edward Champion's Return of the Reluctant

The Ultimate Justification for Why You Should Not Vote for Nader

(via MeFi)

Inside the Lit Blogger's Studio

We were never asked to participate, but Emerging Writers Forum has an interview with the bloggers up. Go check it out.

With Polls Locked in Dead Heat, Kerry Asks Helping Hands for Aid in Swing States

Happy Halloween

[Forrest J. Ackerman] [Clive Barker] [Jessica Barone] [Charles Beaumont] [Ambrose Bierce] [Algernon Blackwood] [Robert Bloch] [Poppy Z. Brite] [Grimm Brothers] [Ramsey Campbell] [Hugh B. Cave] [Thomas Disch] [Edward Gorey] [Shirley Jackson] [M.R. James] [Jack Ketchum] [Stephen King] [Joe R. Lansdale] [Richard Laymon] [Thomas Ligotti] [Bentley Little] [H.P. Lovecraft] [Robert McCammon] [George R.R. Martin] [Richard Matheson] [Yvonne Navarro] [Joyce Carol Oates][Edgar Allen Poe] [Tim Powers] [Ray Russell] [Mary Shelley] [Joseph Sheridan le Fanu] [Dan Simmons] [Bram Stoker] [Peter Straub] [J.N. Williamson]

and to anyone else I might have missed.

Insomnia-Charged Roundup

• Audrey Niffenegger confesses that she wrote the sex scenes in The Time Traveler's Wife last. Niffenegger is also penning a a writing book called You'll Only Finish Your Novel If You Save the Best for Last.
• Thomas Harris has finished yet another Hannibal novel, which will not only describe how Lecter developed his appetite for evil, but include a metafictional subplot involving how Harris developed his appetite for beating a dead horse.
• Ten writers have won Whiting Writers' Awards, including Dan Chiasson, Alison Glock, A. Van Jordan and Tracey Scott Wilson. Each will receive $35,000, a Tijuana vacation for two, and the keys to Tina Brown's Beamer for one weekend.
• J.M. Coetzee tackles Philip Roth.
• Susanna Clarke has nothing on Lula Parsons. Parsons took 50 years to write her novel. She's 92.
• Frank Darabont's script for Indiana Jones 4 was rejected by Lucas. Now it's Jeff (The Terminal) Nathanson on hand and an almost certain temple of doom.
• The Flaming Lips are publishing a photo book.
• Michiko's verdict on Charlotte Simmons? A flat-footed new novel. The Sun also calls it "Wolfe's worst novel." This does not augur well.

Transcript of the Unedited Azzam Tape

MUFFLED VOICE: Is this thing on?

AZZAM: Yessss...it iz on. I can see ze blinking red light. Do you have zee After Effects software for ze menacing logo?

MUFFLED VOICE: Yes.

AZZAM: Very good. Hahahahahaha. I am Azzam the American. Heed my worrrrrrrrrrds.

MUFFLED VOICE: Azzam, keep your hood on.

AZZAM: Yesss...you are riiiiiiiiiight. We mest scare ze bejeeeesus out of the crooked American peoples. Rumorz on zee Internets. Zey won't be able to authenticate zis.

MUFFLED VOICE: For God's sake, Azzam, don't use plural like that. You'll give away our cover.

AZZAM: Shut up, Umar. I am zee great Azzam and this esss my show. I speak en zee tones of an ominous Middle Eastern stereotype zat cannut be corroborated. America is evil and shall pay. It is a tyrannous nation with blood dripping out of my nose. I, ze great Azzam the American, shall frighten all evil Americans. Including ze smallest of children. America is a tyranny.

MUFFLED VOICE: Pronounce it tie-ryanny.

AZZAM: Yessssss, America is a tie-ryanny! (inaudible, followed by loud maniacal laughter) It ess a country where ze oil flows like wine. Rumsfield, Bush. All evil. (Here, the word "evil" has been accentuated with post-production reverb) I am Azzam the American. My voice shall bring great terrrrrror and much blood in the streets. Bill Maher will be my personal pony. You have been warned.

MUFFLED VOICE: Hey Azzam!

AZZAM: What essss it?

MUFFLED VOICE: Your fly's undone.

Indonesian Monkeys at a Family Reunion, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Evolution

Nature: "A new human-like species - a dwarfed relative who lived just 18,000 years ago in the company of pygmy elephants and giant lizards - has been discovered in Indonesia."

Literary Roundup, Or How I Learned to Stop Linking to One Thing and Love Dumping A Lotta News

• It's never too late to stop thinking about the next Booker, particularly with Ian McEwan's Saturday in the pipeline. Officially, the book has been completed, with more than a few articles on this day-in-the-life-of-a-neurosurgeon offering.
• Alice Munro, recently profiled in the NYT, has been nominated for a Governor General award. She won her first GG award 36 years ago.
• The big literary sensation in France is Suite Francaise. The novel was written in 1942 by Jewish author Irene Nemirovsky right as she was waiting for the Nazis to come. The book was transcribed by Nemirovsky's eldest daughter. Some folks are even comparing this with Anne Frank.
• Here's something interesting: Kong Ji-young has written a short story collection about Koreans living in Berlin. Wonder if she and Rachel Seiffert would ever do a double-bill reading?
• And speaking of Germany, Gerhard Schröder's younger brother is set to publish embarassing stories about the Chancellor. And get this: they're going to be sold on paper handkerchiefs.
• Dick Morris knows how Clinton's mind works. It has three buttons: ON, OFF and REMEMBER OBSCURE PERSONAL DETAIL OF PERSON YOU'RE TALKING TO.
Despite this easily comprehensible triage, Morris has written a damn book on the subject and hopes that Bush voters will buy it. Dick Morris is also oiled every night, just before bedtime.
• Sidney Sheldon has a passion for the written word? Who knew?
• The Black Table talks with Mary Roach.
• Peter Benchley still packs a full house.
• I had no idea that Updike was once a stutterer.
• Damn. Wordsworth Books, yet another independent bookseller, is closing.
• Penguin may be screwing authors over.

Strangelove Week, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Subtitle

Unlike other esteemed litblogs, given Dr. Strangelove's 40th anniversary and the Coke v. Pepsi presidential race we have to look forward to on Tuesday, I firmly believe that the next week is prime time for Strangelove references. I hereby proclaim it Strangelove Week. Each entry shall contain a Strangelove-related subtitle until the polls close.

I Lost My __________, Or How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love an Unfortunate Day

Ever had a day (or several weeks) in which your life resembled a country western song? Well, I'm trying to remain positive here. But until this existential deficit stops, blog entries will have to remain sparse.

The Literary Hipster's Handbook, 2004 Q3 Edition, Or How I Learned to Stop Snickering and Love the NYTBR

"Anne Rice": A dish tainted with hallucinogenics served at a literary function causing its eater to whine about lack of literary ability. In the worst of cases, the afflicted eater continues wallowing in her own despair and transposes this despondency (often inexplicably formed) to online bulletin boards such as Amazon.com. Banned in at least five states, Anne Rice (and its deadlier cousin, Queen Anne Rice) has enjoyed newfound popularity in certain underground enclaves. Much like its dark cousin absinthe, Anne Rice is often consumed as an appetizer by those who haven't learned to ignore rejection, even when its users (aka Anne Ricers) are sitting on a trust fund or otherwise basking in unsullied success. For angst-ridden literati fearful of a Xanax prescription, Anne Rice serves as an illicit, but nevertheless distinct alternative. However, medical authorities are currently investigating the problem and Anne Rice is not expected to sustain its scintillating status through the New Year. (Note: It is believed that Anne Rice is grown in New Orleans.)

"Clarke": (v.) To write endlessly about a frivolous and often misunderstood topic. (Ex. Friends urged Roger to throw in the towel, but he couldn't stop Clarking his 800 page epic about two battling pieces of macaroni during the Napoleonic Wars.)

"Edinburgh": An undesirable place to head to, such as a city or a building, generally populated by attention-starved individuals. (Or. The Scottish capital.)

"Hollingshurst": (adj.) The most popular person at a swank party, but one whose sexual preference is inexplicably discussed. (Ex. Jerry was the Hollingshurst of the evening. His friends couldn't stop discussing his subscription to Barely Legal Bush Voters.)

"Jelinek": (n.) A person snubbed unreasonably because of personal success, often one unknown before said emolument. (Ex. Ana Marie Cox, once so admired by the commonweal, was shuttled with the other Jelineks after nabbing her lucrative book deal.)

"tender house": A surprise development from the original "tanner house." Literary hipsters use this disparaging phrase when they see one of their peers reading an unquestionably horrible novel. (Ex. I told him the party was on Saturday instead of Sunday. The last thing we needed was some asshole tendering house with a Nora Roberts paperback.) Also, tenderhouse (n., disparaging).

"to Bentley": To find spiritual awakening in something silly and to use it to advance a career.

"Wieseltier": A dirty old man fond of perversions who sees scum everywhere.

The Secret to Speed Reading, Or How I Learned to Stop Sniffing Coke and Love Sniffing Even More Coke

A reader writes:

You recently mentioned reading the whole of Ulysses in less than an hour, and you frequently allude to the novels you read while you're imbibing a fifth martini. As someone who never seems to have enough time to read, I simply don't believe you. I'd like to know two things: how you read so fast, and how you fast while reading.

The fact is, dear reader, that, in addition to the starving you reference, I do most of my reading on speed, bringing new meaning to the term "speed reader." In fact, I can finish off a book of normal length and density while snorting up a line of good Colombian. It's certainly a little faster than that Teachout fellow, but at least Teachout doesn't have to resort to drugs to remain hyperliterate. His loss.

While Teachout wastes precious hours of his life (specifically, the uncertain period he refers to "between Friday night and Monday morning") operating at regular speed reading levels, with the help of illegal substances, I've stumbled upon a life of hard drugs, fast women, and even faster reading. Every weekend, you'll find me at Cabo San Lucas blading up a good bag with my homies, my head bobbing up for air from a nineteen year old girl from Topeka trying to extend her spring break year-round, with the latest Shirley Hazard and John Upike propped up on my lap. It's quite the life, baby. More fun than those impacted weekends. And you better believe I've read more than Harold Bloom.

The Song Remains the Same, Or How I Learned to Stop Prioritizing Just One of the Guys Behind the Screenplay and Love Peter George and Stanley Kubrick

"At that time, 1962 and earlier, practically all screenwriters -- I would say there were about eight exceptions -- were full-out hacks, completely incompetent in any other form of writing, and, of course, disastrous in their own. You've got to understand that it is not easy to make a bad movie -- it requires a very special combination of non-talents and anti-talents...and that was generally the case, and unfortunately all too often still is. It used to be that the people -- they were not writers -- who would get into the screenwriting would do so through talents much more appropriate to selling shoes than to writing...in other words, extroverted, hard-sell, bullshitting assholes. Agents...people like that. Hustlers...people who suddenly decided there was more money in selling 'stories' to the studio than in selling siding or used cars, and since they had a brother-in-law already in the biz, why not give it a whirl? Once they had a credit, of course, there was no stopping them. The studios had rather employ a screenwriter with eight disasters to his credit than a William Faulkner with none. In fact, when Faulkner -- who had the greatest ear for regional dialogue of his time -- was finally used in Hollywood, his work was invariably rewritten, by hacks, simply because producers and directors were suspicious of anyone who had not written for films before -- as if there was something special about it, or about the crap they were turning out. In short, it used to be there was no way to get into screenwriting, except through a brother-in-law process. Now independent production has changed this -- but not as much as one might think. In the majority of pictures with budgets of five hundred thou or more, studio participation is involved, and whenever thee is studio money, there is the dinosaur mentality and the apelike interference which are unfailintly part of the package."

-- Terry Southern, 1972

Anticlimax

• NaNoWriMo starts in a few weeks. If you're in the Cape Cod area, Laurie Higgins would like to hear from you.
• Gerald Hiken's an actor in Palo Alto who performs as Proust, Auden, and Stein in his living room. The public is invited on Fridays and Saturdays.
• Alice Walker has received a Lifetime Literary Achievement Award from the Enoch Pratt library. Pratt could not attend, too busy passing the ball to Pratt, who kicked it back to Pratt, diving under Pratt and scoring, with Pratt held in low regard.
• This is a lame bulleted list of headlines. I apologize. The blog is vacated until next week.

Yeoman

'Twere it possible to pluck
The grimy residue from recent oceans
Or to stand resolute with sturdy sea legs
Upon a foundation shaky in its firm conviction

Their woes were pedantic
They used their resilient muscles
To plant tumers that would not grow

Transparent tears stinging upon flesh
The hard work of nothingness
A void to ensnare defiant dreamers
Through the dull blue orb

But the yeoman
Surrounded by their poisonous tongues
Anthracite ventricles
Glutinous voices
Ended the vicious cycle
By striking the flint of his ambition

The yeoman walked alone
Through treacherous copses and corpses
Never abandoning the light
Just beyond the vale

Aging ungracefully
The yeoman steered his stead
To a cloudy clearing
Soaring rather than souring

Fear and Loathing

Hunter S. Thompson weighs in on the current presidential race.

Aphorism! Aphorism!

Don Paterson hopes to revive the aphorism: "More than anything, the aphorism tries desperately hard to be memorable. (Of course, this is the aim of all writing, but usually we make some attempt to conceal the desperation. Another reason why aphorisms, when they fall, fall very hard indeed.) But perhaps they also reflect our conviction that all the most important things we need to say must find a way of inhabiting the single breath, the instant, if they're to shock awake our real, breathing, present moment – because if we don't stay alive to that, we're dead to everything."

The New Six Degrees of Bacon?

J-Fly has a cool concept she lifted from a film teacher.

Step One: Name your five favorite films off the top of your head and write brief summary.

1. O Lucky Man!: Guy hopes to make money as coffee salesman, engages in debauchery, wanders around English countryside, gets set up and booked, tries to proselytize, eventually smiles.

2. After Hours: Go nowhere word processor sees cute girl, starts talking, goes to Soho, gets involved in deranged New York universe, can't get home, but is forced by unseen god to take charge.

3. The Wizard of Oz: Dislocated girl arrives in fantasy world, has adventures, meets friends, goes on quest, finds self, concludes "there's no place like home."

4. The General (1927): Go nowhere engineer can't enlist, has his train stolen, pursues it like crazy, has adventures, proves himself hero, gets girl, finds inner self.

5. Brazil: Man stuck in drab bureaucratic job in totalitarian state dreams of girls, gets caught in plot, and finds escape in his own mind.

Step Two: "Chances are, those films will tell essentially the same story. And chances are, your films will tell that story too. Because that is your story."

Yup. Common theme here is a passive human stuck in routine who goes through a series of incredible adventures and eventually finds self.

[UPDATE: This may have been accidentally pilfered from Cinetrix. Whatever the case, send some sugar her way.]

Dale Peck Should Sue for Breach of Intellectual Property

Lionel Shriver: "Joyce Carol Oates is an atrocious writer."

When you're pilfering the mines of histrionic snark over Joyce Carol Oates ("to call the novel under-edited would be to imply that it had been edited at all," "Oates gives the impression of publishing nothing but first drafts, which helps to explain her astounding output."), chances are that you're either someone frustrated because he can't keep up with the JCO oeuvre (honestly, who outside of JCO's husband has read every book?) or you're another cretin pissing in the snow.

A far more thoughtful take on JCO can be found over at the Mumpsimus. And I think Matthew Cheney gets at the JCO conundrum (and the larger issue of prolificity and length) quicker than anyone: "Eventually, we will be able to look back over Oates's entire career and find the gems, but for the moment we're stuck with sorting through all the dreck. I, for one, have given up, because I don't want to keep wasting my time hoping Oates will write a masterpiece."

I've been formulating some theories about "sifting to find a masterpiece" and the thickass novel at large -- specifically over whether the reader has the right to dismiss a book because of its length. One day when I have some time, I hope to dwell on the issue at length. The chief query: why does a novelist have to be punished for writing too much? If readers cannot keep up with a writer's output, whether it entails the breadth of a novelist like Richard Powers or the relentless pen of JCO, then have they truly earned the right to impersonate some constant kvetcher who missed the nudie show by ten minutes?

AM Hit & Run

• A writer mistakes a JCO blurb for junk mail. (via Galleycat)
• Tonight in San Francisco, there's a memorial tribute to Jack Kerouac. The Chronicle has more.
• Walter Mosley fesses the Fantastic Four as a major inspiration. Unfortunately, Mosely couldn't be convinced to say, "It's clobbering time!"
• Best Booker-related lede: "Alan Hollingshurst is a cheap date."
• A one-volume edition of Lord of the Rings is being released -- the version that Tolkien always wanted. His estate wants it too. After all, there's a new swimming pool to put in.
• John le Carre has come out hopping mad against Bush.
• Neal Stephenson answers questions at Slashdot.

Vote for the Slurpee

As my eyes fail to flop to stage one, I find myself wondering what it's like to be a Bush voter. How does a Bush voter confine herself so willingly to the mortified state of status quo? What is it about leaving this nation in the hands of a unilateral-minded Chuck Bronson type who wouldn't consider an alternative viewpoint if God gave him a rimjob in the middle of a brisk run that suggests confidence?

How does a staunch Republican believe that a blathering, brisk-spending cur like Bush is the best that our nation can offer? That a man incapable of distinguishing between singular and plural in general discourse is a skilled statesman?

I ask this because I'm tired of the televised suspense. I'm tired of the weak-kneed undecideds in the swing states. They resemble thirtysomething bachelors who wouldn't know the benefits of commitment if it bit them on the ass. I'm tired of the blather from both sides and the fact that not a single poll can figure out what the hell is going on amongst the vox populi. I'm tired of perpetuating a climate of fear, because that's what Karl Rove wants us to feel. If I hear another tale of some otherwise sensible person moving to Canada, I'll scream. Fuck you. This is your country. You don't give up. And if you care enough about the nation and the world at large, it's your goddam job to convince at least five people to cast their decision for the other guy, however insalubrious he might be.

Yes, the man to replace Our Fearless Leader comes across at times like a discombubulated somnabulator. But then so was the hefty, chronically napping William Taft. Of course, back in 1908, Taft was up against the blustery Williams Jennings Bryan and Eugene Debs (the Nader of his time) running on the Socialist ticket. Taft won. But then Taft was a Freemason and a third-rate Teddy Roosevelt trustbuster. But he was the best our nation could do at the time. It was either Taft or the raving evangelist running the country. The people made the right decision. Even when it involved putting their confidence into a trusty hand-me-down.

And that's the idealistic conundrum in a nutshell. The United States of 1908 possessed cast-iron balls to vote for the least insane candidate on the ballot. The people of today are so obsessed with getting the candidate that they want that they grasp for straws in the same harried manner that they bitch to a 7-11 manager about a sludgy Slurpee. I say live with the goddam Slurpee for four years. If he's truly a dud, you can always vote him out in 2008. It's the closest thing this country has to a refund policy.

How You Like Me Now, Pinstripes?

I told you so. How could you have doubted? Part of the problem with the so-called Sox stigma was that people weren't willing to believe in a comeback. Even as the Sox climbed their way out of a championship shutout, there were many baseball junkies I talked to who remained convinced that the Yanks would win, that it could not happen, and that the Sox, as adorably crimson as they might be, simply weren't going to do it. But 10-3? That's what I call a goddam blowout.

But taking the allegory I propounded the other day (which has launched some Grade-A comment silliness) one step further, I suspect that the Sox needed to win, just to demonstrate to the damn world that nothing is certain, and that there are marvelous surprises behind every corner -- just so long as people believe in them and don't give up hope. Case in point: If you told me two weeks ago that I'd be waxing whacked out sports-related metaphysics on these pages, I wouldn't have believed you. But the Sox's gradual entree into the Series proper gives the kind of true faith and freedom that the shaky boys at the top couldn't fathom for a second. It's a fatalistic whirlydirsh that needed to happen. Completely secular, entirely unprecedented, and downright joyous.

And on that note, holy frijole. Sarah's nabbed an interview with Alexander McCall Smith. Joe Bob says check it out.

One Paragraph Review

Stephen King's The Dark Tower is the silliest and most anticlimactic book I've read this year, with plodding prose, thin characters, meaningless deaths, and clunky exposition. It is perhaps King's worst book since The Tommyknockers. However, as a Kaufmanesque stunt intended to piss off loyal fanboys, in this regard, it's icily effective. The question, however, is whether such a ploy needed to kill so many trees and drain so many simpering saps' wallets.

The Crimson Batter and the White House

It's the fifth inning. Boston is 4-0 as I write these words. Mark my words: the Sox will make it. And if the Sox make it into the Series, then I have a strange feeling that Kerry will take the White House with ease. It's only a working theory and I have nothing sizable to go on other than the Massachusetts connection. But for the love of baseball and for the love of the nation, suffuse all your good juju into the Sox, baby. Let's take this nation back. Preternaturally. This will be Mass's year.

Weeks Before Presidential Election, Bush Practices Waving Goodbye to White House While Accidentally Veering to His Right

Booker Winner

According to the Man Booker folks, the winner was announced 10:00 PM British Time. That was thirty minutes ago. Since no announcement has been forthcoming, I called Colman Getty PR. Alan Hollinghurst's The Line of Beauty has won.

[UPDATE: The press release is now up.]

Because I Can't Sleep

• Understatement of the week: Joyce Carol Oates, "The process of writing is something that I live with everyday."
• Yardley on J.D. Salinger
• The Plot Against America -- failed Saturday Night Live skit?
• Independent publisher Cannongate is rolling in the dough, thanks in part to such titles as The Life of Pi and The Crimson Petal and the White.
• Tonight, the Booker Prize winner will be announced. Longshot (and the only woman nominated) Sarah Hall talks with the Guardian.
• Where's Grambo on this one? Angelina Jolie loves sleeping with British men.

New Codephrase for Remaining a Shut-In: "Operating in the Realm of Language and Ideas"

Terry Gross: "I think radio is a great medium for someone who�s shy and self-conscious. It terrified me at first, really badly, but once I got over that, the nice thing about radio is that you are invisible, so any physical self-consciousness that I have is irrelevant when I'm on the radio. In terms of being shy, hey, I'm alone in a studio with producers in the control room, producers who I know really well, and I'm with a guest who probably isn't even in the room with me. So I�m really operating in the realm of language and ideas."

Well, for my money, Terry Gross needs to either interview more people like Gene Simmons (MP3) or have one hell of a lost weekend. She'd be a lot cooler if she expanded her realm. (via Jimmy Beck)

Go Sox!

Holy shit!

We're Sure That Tom Wolfe's New One Will Be "A Thick, Throbbing Sausage of a Novel"

Janet Maslin: "Honeymoons don't get more hellish than the one that kicks off "The Falls," Joyce Carol Oates's thundering, sudsy Niagara of a novel."

In light of the Times' recent Toni Bentley obsession, we're wondering precisely what "thundering, sudsy Niagra" conjures up in other Times writers' minds.

More Quickies

• The Davis Enterprise talks with local wunderkind Kim Stanley Robinson. The phrase "fried on automotive life" appears in the profile.
• Bernice Rubens has died. She was the second novelist to win the Man Booker Prize for fiction.
• Time dares to tackle Graham Greene, with a header about as bad as a knock-knock joke.
• Carol Shields' Unless is now a play.
• Some dirt on Elmore Leonard's new book, "I'm almost finished with a new book in which one of the characters is the son of an oil millionaire in Oklahoma in the 1930s, and he decides that he wants to be Public Enemy No. 1, like the bank robber John Dillinger. This guy doesn't see what's wrong with that and, like a lot of people, he doesn't think he's going to be held accountable."

Quickies

• Chinua Achebe has rejected one of Africa's most prestigious literary awards, protesting the dangerous state of Nigeria.
• Playboy, sensing the final nail about to be hammered into its now culturally irrelevant coffin, opens the Playboy Club again after a twenty year hiatus. The venue? Las Vegas, of course.
• Susanna Clarke dares to call herself "the new black." (Get on 'em, Hag)
• Everybody's favorite Birnbaum talks with Jon Lee Anderson.
• Annamarie Jagose has won the Victoria Premier Literary Award for a novel set when homosexuality was a capital offense.
• The Chronicle writes up Litquake.
• William Hill on Cloud Atlas' chances of winning the Booker: "I have been setting the odds for the Booker for over twenty years and this book has been more hotly fancied than any other."
• Forget Good-Franz, Bad-Franz. Rake better get hopping on the two V.S. Naipuls.
• The Seattle Times follows up with Sergio Witz Rodriquez and his infamous 21-line poem.

The Lost Groucho?

It's good to see Yardley giving props to the new Broadway Comedies volume from Library of America. With its able collection of George Kaufman plays, it appears a must own for anyone interested in theatre and comedy. My only quibble with Yardley's review is his strange suggestion that "there aren't that many people under 60 who remember Groucho that clearly." I beg to differ, given the Marx Brothers' indelible imprint upon our cultural lexicon. But if Yardley is referring to theatre, given that Animal Crackers was staged a good 76 years ago and that Groucho didn't appear on Broadway after, one wonders where Yardley's hiding the keys to the time machine. Or does Washington Post Book World now cater to a nonagenarian (or perhaps a non-aging) demographic? Inquiring minds want to know, if only because the Weekly World News has stopped thinking.

In Response to Mass Depression

It has come to my attention that a strange rash of pre-election depression is afflicting a good number of my friends and acquaintances. Most of them (well, nearly all of them) hope to hell that John Kerry will be our next Commander-in-Chief. And even then, such wishes are expressed with a specifically punctuated "Anybody but Bush" stipulation. Despite their decisions, they have their doubts. They see the polls and remain convinced that the world is going to hell in a handbasket. And there have been strange behavioral consequences.

Couples are breaking up. There's a good deal of drinking going on. Effortless smiles are harder to form People look at how overworked they are and how penurious their companies are about hiring more people to assist with the rampant overflow and they ask themselves when the hell it's all going to end. A strange sense of doom suspends in the air. And I've had to remind several people I love and admire that, all things considered, life is good and that it is their obligation to treat themselves well, so that the grand happiness cycle can continue and affect others within respective circles in similar fashion. And, by "grand happiness," I don't mean treacly Hallmark cards or bogus affirmation seminars. I mean, just looking at the damn crazy world around us and not giving into the idea that it will be bombed or turned into a totalitarian nightmare. I'm talking about doing something, dammit. I'm talking about a general sense of decency that most humans employed in a governmental capacity seem incapable of. I'm talking about standing up for yourself and looking out for others. I'm talking about ignoring the fuck out of those who would deliberately harm, maim or mock, and doing your own thing, dammit. Do I have to remind you that Roberto Rossellini gathered together strips of film and made Open City under Mussolini, dammit? Do I have to remind you that the Marquis de Sade continued to create in prison? Life's too short. Magic is too often squandered by the damned unimaginative madmen who would point to the pony slightly straying off the concourse and declare "Enemy." Well, fuck them. It is often the ignoble scaredycat who would willingly immolate himself because the world presents him with no other option. To the afraid, I reply: Do your own thing anyway.

And while I have strayed significantly off course, I should point out that the friends who call in with these concerns are often oblivious of the fact that my own heart was broken recently. I don't hold this against them at all. Because I'm determined to forge ahead and I encourage them to do so likewise. (In fact, Chic plays while I type these words. I suggest that all others aspiring to exist in a moribund state play the same. It helps, believe it or not.)

Sure, you can buy into this unfortunate reality, among others. But you can also remind yourself that others are fighting the good fight. And where one is taken away, there will be hundreds to take the place.

The point is this: When the Towers were knocked down, citizens, irrespective of government, gathered together to see what the hell they can do. It was their generosity and bonhomie that got us through that fateful day, not the sham rulers or the opportunists. Why is it that we so frequently forget this? So long as artists and painters and writers and crazed speakers and determined protestors and giddy bastards continue to fight the good fight, we're going to be okay.

Because the plain truth is that the human spirit in all of its omnifarious forms cannot be quashed. Even with a second Bush term. If those in power are to declare that certain sectors of the vox populi are to be denied basic liberties, then it is your responsibility to not only take the power away from them, but to point the middle finger in their faces. And you can do that first and foremost by heading to the polls on November 2. But beyond that, inhabit who you are and damn the consequences. The rest will follow and the world will be all right.

McGrath Behind the Times

We would have ignored this silly Toni Bentley profile altogether, but we were inexplicably drawn to Chip McGrath's willingness to confess his own embarassment. This sort of thing amuses us. We're not sure why. Perhaps because it reminds us so much of the randy balderdash that often passes for "criticism" in London newspapers. Even so, Chip McGrath strikes us as a man who should know better. Strike one was his out-of-touch comics novel. This Bentley profile is strike two. We're hoping that McGrath will prove us wrong and not falter like an unfortunate Sox player that you don't want to see go down. But it's looking likelier that we'll soon have two NYTBR editors to look out for.

"a must-discuss among the sorts of people who would never let themselves be seen hanging around the porn shelf." Wake up, Chip. You can download pornography or get it through mail order.

"No less a highbrow than Leon Wieseltier." Oh, he's lesser. And randier.

"an extremely graphic memoir." Does sodomy translate into "extremely graphic" for you? What does it take for you to be truly shocked, Chip? A man tied up naked in hemp? That's so...1968.

"We have the more clinical term 'anal intercourse.'" No, most folks call it "ass-fucking." Wake up and smell the vox populi.

"The subject is still not so embarrassment-free." Maybe in upstate New York, but in most major metropolitan areas, it's peachy keen, thankya.

"Ms. Bentley hits the grand rhapsodic note, as when she writes, 'I became an archetype, a myth, a Joseph Campbell goddess spreading my legs for the benefit of all mankind for all time.'" And I suppose George Lucas is Zeus by way of throwing in Campbell every time he talks about his flaacid space operas? Come on, Chip. Don't tell us you weren't so easily suckered.

[Incidentally, in all fairness to Ms. Bentley, we should confess that we read and enjoyed Sisters of Salome. But enough already!]

Can't We All Just Read Along?

Edinburgh is to be named the City of Literature. New York, Berlin, Paris and London expressed jealousy and planned to "put the little Scottish upstart in its place."

Well, At Least It Wasn't Rod McKuen

Catherine Zeta-Jones, one of the most important minds of our time, has thrown her, uh, support into a literary award devoted to memory of Dylan Thomas. The big question is whether the prize will be awarded for the quality of a writer's writing or the quality of a writer's drinking. Whatever the case, this new Dylan Thomas bauble outstrips the Booker in the moolah department.

Current Feelings Towards the Books I'm Reading

Stephen King, The Dark Tower: So this is it, eh? You've conned me out of $35 twice and this time I don't feel as bad. But what's with the artless offing of random pivotal characters? Why don't these deaths mean anything? And if I have to read one more extended palaver or endure some deus ex machina scene momentum involving mental telepathy, I'm going to scream. Even so, I remain hooked, if only because I've read thousands of your pages and I'm too far in to quit. And even I have to confess that you've been a steady steed, soldier.

Richard Powers, The Time of Our Singing: I bow to your erudition and beauty! I've read the seven books before this and you seem to me the best of Powers' oeuvre. How were you neglected so long? I'll tell you why, padre. You're a bit overwhelming sometimes. Sure, you're not as much of a cerebral blitzkrieg as your bro, Operation Wandering Soul. But I find myself in a strange predicament. I'm drawn to your bright bulb like a steadfast moth, savoring your language and feeling my heart palpitate when you put the Emmett Till incident into context. Still, with all the musical terminology and digressions into relativity, I get the distinct sensation that I should stop and possibly apply a hacksaw to my skull to let some of the air out. You're getting better at this thing called plot, Time, but a little more narrative momentum would obviate me contemplating the hacksaw, no?

Rachel Seiffert, The Dark Room: You talk the talk. You walk the walk. The principle behind your staging is to be admired: stark and clinical. Your perspective is grand. Don't get me wrong, kid: I dig ya. But at this point, you may be a bit too detached for my tastes. We'll see how it goes.

Sarah Waters, Fingersmith: Your victimization of a young woman in the Victorian age angle reminds me in many ways of Crimson Petal and the White, except you're shorter and there are some exciting plot twists. While I have a suspicion you're short-changing us on some giddy language possibilities (and what's with the heavy-handed, obvs "Gentleman" approach), there's absolutely no reason why you should be in the remainders pile (which I saw you in a few weeks ago). Is there no justice?

Ian Rankin, Strip Jack: You're good, but you're more of the same. I've been following your adventures, deliberately padding them out over several months, hoping to see how Rebus's adventures evolve over time, but does Brian Holmes' promotion really count as character development? I'm starting to grow weary of your corny jokes, which were fun in the earlier novels, but now stick out like sore thumbs intended to space out the novel. Perhaps I'm being too hard on you. Please tell me it gets better.

Pressured by Rumors on the Internets, Bush Reveals Source of Mystery Bulge to Journalists

Litt My Fire

Leave it to Sarah to beat my ass on the Toby Litt front. His new novel, Ghost Story, is reportedly opens with a nonfiction section, whereby Litt writes about his girlfriend's three miscarriages, and then launches into the novelistic portion about a young couple dealing with loss. I thought Litt's Beatniks was enjoyable enough, but it's nice to see that the man's truly living up to his Granta 20 mantle with daring experimentation.

Sounds Like My Idea of Heaven

If you remain doubtful of Canadian ingenuity, look no further than Winnipeg: "A new nightclub at 115 Bannatyne Ave., The Library, boasts go-go dancers dressed as sexy librarians, servers who will leave contact lenses at home and wear eyeglasses -- if they have them -- and a general aura of naughty bookishness that owner Greg Haasbeek says is inspired by the movie Varsity Blues and Van Halen's Hot for Teacher."

Allow us to take the liberty of coming out of the closet right now. Greg Haasbeek must be a genius. Naughty bookishness and go-go dancers are what we live for. We have always considered librarians to be nothing less than sexy. (Perhaps we've just been lucky enough to encounter very helpful and attractive librarians over the years. Either this or we just have one of those standard girl-geek fetishes, in which case there's nothing to write home about after all.) (via the polymorphously perverse Michael Schaub)

Mad Props

Wrestling an Alligator actor Damian Lanahan-Kalish sends word that un/dying/love, a collection of theatrical shorts, will be playing at the Climate Theatre (285 9th Street) through Oct. 30. Check it out.

And the Elegant Variation turns one today. Congratulations, Mark!

The National Book Award Scam

It may not be hep to say it. After all, Our Great Nation is still adapting to a post-9/11 age of terror in which irony is as forbidden as Mary Jane and Certain Assumptions must remain True and Unquestioned by the 48% of the population who still insists that George "You forgot Poland!" Bush is the best man for the job.

But the 9/11 Commission's recent nomination for the National Book Award is a travesty to quality nonfiction. The "work" isn't even a book proper. It was a report generated by an independent government authority. As such, there will no doubt be a mad and unfortunate dash among the 9/11 Commission's many members over who has rightfully earned the award. But beyond this, what can one say about a document with a structure clearly pilfered from U.S. Department of Justice Interdepartment Memo 2004-85721-97 (an undisputed classic also referred to as "Potential Applications of Telemetric Devices in Post-Operative Middle American Scenarios")?

Unless you're a reader who thinks turgid bureaucratese beats out investigative journalism any day of the week, the report has only its astonishing facts to draw upon. And while these facts are substantial, it cannot detract from one glaring problem: how it was written.

Take the following passages:

"The Justice Department is much more than the FBI." (Chapter 3) Much more? Discarding the glaring redundancy here, where's the qualitative adjective that guides the topic sentence?

"KSM first came to the attention of U.S. law enforcement as a result of his cameo role in the first World Trade Center bombing." (Chapter 5) Cameo role? We reserve cameos for movies, thank you very much. Does someone at the 9/11 Commission fancy himself the next Alex Garland?

Chapter 6's Title: "From Threat to Threat." Even a half-hearted scrivener understands that you don't use the same noun twice, particularly when you're trying to evoke the halycon phrase "From Here to Eternity."

"Although boasts among prison inmates often tend to be unreliable, this evidence is obviously important." (Chapter 7) By any reasonable estimate, this is an anticlimactic sentence. It suggests that the 9/11 Commission intends to explain why the prison testimony weighed even a modicum into their decision and then fails to follow through on the promise.

"He was flown by helicopter back to the White House, passing over the still-smoldering Pentagon. At 8:30 that evening, President Bush addressed the nation from the White House." (Chapter 10) Well, where else would the President address the nation from? It's already been established that he's been flown back to the White House. This is lazy exposition.

I'd quibble further, but already I crave a bottle of aspirin. And the last thing I wish to do is cause the reader additional anguish. These cursory examples are but a handful of the full travesty unveiled upon an unsuspecting public. Bad enough that the predictable Garrison Keillor and his damn Woebegone stories are on tap to propel the ceremony. But should the National Book Foundation dare to crown The 9/11 Commission Report its winner, it will send a clear and resounding message that pulpish, slavishly written and hastily executed work matters most. I urge all concerned parties to contact the NBF at (212) 685-0261. This seminal lapse in judgment demands proper accountability.

Armies of Compassion

I just saw the leader of the free world reduced to a quiet stammering marshmallow. Who knew?

Co-Opted

Congratulations, Mr. Balk (formerly known as TMFTML). Rest assured, now that Mr. Balk has very publicly sold out to the man, boiling a few live babies just before walking to the Times office, and lighting up Havanas underneath Bloomberg's very own nose, it is clear that Mr. Balk has become too untrustworthy and hopelessly corrupted to be useful for the blogosphere's purposes. We will be certain to write blasphemies about his work, with the same pragmatism with which we use Tanenhaus's NYTBR issues for our furnace. Mr. Balk cannot be trusted ever, ever again. (via Maud)

A Year Already?

The National Book Award finalists have been announced. For Fiction:

Madeleine is Sleeping by Sarah Shun-lien Bynum
Florida by Christine Schutt
Ideas of Heaven by Joan Silber
The News from Paraguay by Lily Tuck
Our Kind: A Novel in Stories by Kate Walbert

This may be the first time in National Book Award history that all the nominees were women.

So, Vendy, Do I Win A Kewpie Doll?

Vendela Vida: "I need help finding smell in contemporary fiction -- please help me."

From Cynthia Ozick's Heir to the Glimmering World: "I rode the bus to a corner populated by a cluster of small shabby stores-grocery, shoemaker's, dry cleaner's, and under a tattered awning a dim coffee shop vomiting out odors of some foul stuff frying."

From Ruth Prawer Jhabvala's My Nine Lives: "...she leaned forward to kiss me, enfolding me in the warmth of her breath, her perfume, the smell and taste of the good strong coffee she drank all day long, even at tea-time."

The first two lines of Walter Mosley's Little Scarlet: "The morning air still smelled of smoke. Wood ash mainly but there was also the acrid stench of burnt plastic and paint."

David Lodge, Author, Author: "pressed up against her sweet-smelling, gently yielding form in the dark"

Maggie O'Farrell, My Lover's Lover: "...Lily finds a small office smelling faintly of wet coffee granules."

And that's all from first chapters.

Personally, my favorite smell passage that I've read recently comes from (of all people) Stephen King's The Dark Tower: "High school teachers faced with a large group of students in study hall or a school assembly will tell you that teenagers, even when freshly showered and groomed, reek of the hormones which their bodies are so busy manufacturing. Any group of people under stress emits a similar stink, and Jake, with his senses tuned to the most exquisite pitch, smelled it here."

Away

If there's been a particularly bitter tone that's crept onto these pages of late, my apologies. My heart has remained broken for at least sixty-six different reasons (and, yes, it's at least sixty-six; they've all been logged down privately, along with prospective ways out) over the past couple of weeks, and I've tried to rebound from this by submerging myself into work, which to my mind includes this place. Certainly the insomnia helps. But it hasn't completely extinguished a tone of nastiness that really doesn't serve anybody. It doesn't help my writing, much less the research I'm trying to do right now for the next play. (After all, not that I'm trying to draw any comparisons here, we all know what happened to John Fowles.)

So I've decided to withdraw from these pages for a while. It's more important for me to find solid ground and a certain faith in humankind again than to kvetch about picayune shit like Stanley Crouch's latest piece of irrational detritus. In the meantime, the David Mitchell interview I posted a few days ago should keep you folks busy. But do visit the smart and sturdy souls on the left.

Castro Theatre in Trouble

I was sent the following email. If you care at all about the greatest movie theatre in San Francisco, I urge you to read this and write in (that includes you, Cinetrix!):

Friends and Colleagues:

Whether I have mentioned to you or not, the Castro Theatre is in serious trouble. The owner of the business, in his desire for sure profit, has made drastic staffing cuts and is on the verge of changing things for the worse by monkeying with programming. Anita Monga, who has programmed the theatre since 1986, long before this present owner/adminstration, has guided the Theatre through heavy times, the good and the bad years, to be able to make the Castro a unique movie theatre experience, not just locally but internationally.

If the Castro Theatre goes, an important cultural institution will forever perish. We all know the state of movie exhibiton, so this is no exageration. The less venues there are to show unique, interesting, non-mainstream films, the less opportunity filmmakers will have to make those kinds of films.

This might be hard to imagine today, but the current owner's father ran the Castro Theatre into the ground in the late 60s, early 70s, showing third-run in an unfortunate state of disrepair. He had hoped to turn that piece of land into a seemingly more profitable apartment building. It was the passion of programmer Mel Novikoff who took over operations, and created the beautiful Castro we know today, cultivating an audience for classics and independents. Anita Monga took up Novikoff's vision when he passed away.

I include below a request to you made by the staff of the Castro Theatre. Whether you have, in recent times, come to see theatrical premieres of extraordinary docs like The Corporation or The Revolution Will Not Be Televised, the antics of Marc Huestis' Ladies and Gentlemen Prefer Jane Russell with the singular Ms Jane Russell in person, gorgeous revivals of The Leopard, La Dolce Vita or Tokyo Story, or have come to the Asian American, SF International, Frameline Lesbian and Gay, the Arab or the many other film festivals we host, you know how important this theatre is.

Thank You, and please pass this on.

Dear Friend:

Can you do a favor?

Can you write a simple letter of appreciation for the Castro Theatre? Some critical points to make (if you're comfortable doing so) are: 1) The programming is interesting and intelligent and is one of the things that sets the theatre apart. 2) The staff is intelligent, knowledgeable and responsive to the audience's needs, and is one of the things that sets the theatre apart. 3) The theatre is a vital part of the cultural life of the Bay Area.

Please be positve. Any negativity, including fears about the theatre's future or pleas to save the theatre will be extemely counterproductive. Rather, take the tone of a recommendation letter or a simple thank you note. You can address it to the Castro Theatre.

This doesn't have to be long (unless you feel inspired)—a few sentences will do. If you can write it on letterhead and mail it to Castro Theatre, 429 Castro Street, San Francisco CA 94114, or attach it to e-mail and send it to castrotheatre@aol.com, that'd be great.

If you think of anyone else who might appreciate what we're doing, let me know to contact.

If you feel that you can do this, please don't delay. The next few weeks are critical.

The Whale Understands

Moby lives again.

Will the Real Editors Please Stand Up?

Jessa takes King and Rowling to task for thinking "they're above having editors." Well, if that were the case, then I suspect the latest installments of the Dark Tower and Harry Potter series would be a good deal longer and more incoherent.

With the exception of the first book, Stephen King has in fact had an editor through the Dark Tower series. And, in fact, he went back and revised the first volume with the Donald M. Grant team specifically because these early stories lacked an editor. And, as usual, King also enlisted longtime agent Arthur Greene as his editor. One can also turn to the final pages of On Writing to see King's editing in action.

As for Rowling, Barry Cunningham and Arthur Cunningham have, respectively, edited the UK and US editions of Potter.

So to hell with Indian Massacre Day or whatever today's supposed to evoke. Return of the Reluctant proclaims today International Editor Day, saluting the fine folks who kept these writers under wraps.

Bill & Ted's Excellent Iraqi Adventure

"These tombstones looked really neat." (via Kottke)

RIP Christopher Reeve

Superman was the first movie I saw in a theatre. I was four years old, but I remember being taken by my mother to one of the Century domes (long since demolished) in Corte Madera. I remember the lines and the sense of excitement that the audience would, as the advertisements promised, believe that a man could fly. But most importantly, I remember Christopher Reeve's commanding presence in the movie poster and as he flew over Metropolis, his steel blue eyes shooting an impenetrable look to any who would dare return his gaze. (There was of course Reeve's wink to the audience during the final moment above the earth in any Superman film, but I present this in hindsight to what my four year old eyes remembered.)

The film and its sequels made an impression upon me that still resonates with me today. There are moments in my life when I find myself functioning in Reeve's bumbling Cary Grant mode as Clark Kent, befuddled but often processing the info around me, and there are other moments where I quietly commit some noble deed while maintaining my secret identity. (I was a kid who wore Superman Underoos, for crying out loud. These things make an impression.)

So Christopher Reeve's death (particularly after Dangerfield's) came as a blow to me, particularly since Reeve was determined to find hope within a life confined to a wheelchair. He gazed clearly and confidently into the future and envisioned the inevitable moment where he would rise from his chair. And now, sadly, that moment won't arrive.

In an age where tyros walking on ethical ground as shaky as Krypton just before its inevitable destruction would deny pivotal research funds to those who might need them, in an age where real heroes are at a premium, Reeve demonstrated to everyone that courage and sunny effrontery mattered most. Superman, it turned out, wasn't a role, but the man he was all along. We are all the lesser for his loss.

When There's No More Room in Hell

Best. Anchor Bay DVD Release. Ever.

And Tom "My time in Vietnam had a big influence on me" Savini is the most insane man in the film makeup business. If you check out the extras, watch his eyes light up when he contemplates pig intestines and exploding heads. That's what movie magic is all about.

Well, Now That You Mention It, We're Frequent Pub Quiz Participants. But We Couldn't Pronounce Their Names Correctly To Save Our Lives

Oscar Villalon asks whether the Nobel's really worth it: "Even the most erudite among us will have a hard time naming a single book by a great chunk of past laureates. How about that Sigrid Undset (1928)? Who could ever forget her, right? Or how about Par Lagerkvist (1951)? Or Jaroslav Seifert (1984)? Got those names tattooed on the brain, don't you? And if you do, it's because you've boned up on all the past winners for trivia night at the pub."

High-Class Journalism

Salon talks with Toni Bentley: "'You could eat off my asshole,' you write, describing your ritual ablutions. Can it be true that you did not see, touch or smell shit during the 298 anal penetrations you describe? Is that a realistic expectation for most people?"

Ah, nothing like the unfettered freedom of the Internet to encourage the seminal questions of our time. How long before Philip Roth is finally cornered by Rebecca Traister's unequivocally eloquent mind on Portnoy? (via Ron)

Deborah Solomon Interviews Deborah Solomon

You're a moribund NYT journalist who can't even treat Pulitzer Prize winners with anything close to respect. Do you smile much?

Only if you tell me how brilliant I am at making your life a living hell in fifty words or less.

That seems to me a silly way of making a living.

So long as the expense request forms keep clearing for my Prada purchases, I can't complain.

That strikes me as unethical. Do your columns really matter?

Keller keeps me chained to this gig. I've tried pitching him on more feature stories, but he wants me to stay a jaded bitch. Plus, circulation says my shit goes down well right before that Ethicist guy.

Shouldn't you be celebrating your interview subject's achievements?

This isn't People Magazine. This is the New York Times. It's high-profile journalism for short attention spans.

Yes, but when your interviews can be read over a few sips of coffee, how can people enjoy the paper?

They read me again. And again. They see the photo against the white backdrop and they get the illusion of pith.

That sounds more like the Post.

Get with the program, kiddo. Tanenhaus has dumbed down the Book Review. Why stop with that section?

Pobby and Dingan

It's difficult to find a first novel that conveys a mature and understated voice while daring to tackle as seminal a topic as imagination's connection to the human soul, but Ben Rice's Pobby and Dingan (opening excerpt here) is that novel. Pobby tells the tale of two imaginary friends of Kellyanne, a young girl in an Australian Outback mining town. The two friends are "lost" one day by Kellyanne's alcoholic father and this sets into motion a remarkable series of events that demonstrate how important fantasy is when juxtaposed against the daily upheavals of life. Rice adeptly captures the nuances of rowdy Down Under vernacular (Mello Yello and all) and pommy prejudices while showing how Ashmol, Kellyanne's brother who narrates the tale, gradually comes to understand his sister's mentality. But more importantly, Rice has achieved a pitch-perfect balance between Balzacian reality and the plausible hyperreality that the novel is almost intended to get away with. While my colleagues at the Complete Review may quibble over the abstract nature of Kellyanne's condition, I think they've failed to fully appreciate how Rice has created a self-sufficient fable for our times.

I will confess that recent personal events probably had my heart more ready to be scattered into a thousand shards. But with pomo dismissed in some circles as intellectual flummery and a literary climate encouraging mammoth "event" novels that are essentially trumped up popular fiction (now worse than ever, given that the most egregious cases are now taken seriously by the NYTBR), Rice has done the unthinkable. He's written a thin novel that contrasts the human heart with its own sustaining requirements. Which is more than a dozen highly regarded authors could do with a single humorless sentence, much less a concept purlonied and distilled from Donald Barthelme.

A film adaptation of Pobby is in the works, but, even with Full Monty director Peter Cattaneo behind it, Rice's story demands to be experienced on the page.

Deconstructed

Jacques Derrida has passed on.

The Bat Segundo Show #1

Litquake 2004

This weekend, if you're in the San Francisco area, the third Litquake is going down. About a hundred authors reading their goods at the Koret Auditorium. Joe Bob says check it out.

And the Nobel Goes to...

Elfriede Jelinek "for her musical flow of voices and counter-voices in novels and plays that with extraordinary linguistic zeal reveal the absurdity of society's clichés and their subjugating power."

Update

Life has us busy, but we do promise something pretty huge on this site in the next couple of days. That is all.

Allemande

• Ron takes on Paul Maher again and talks with Stephanie Lehmann.
• Jennifer Weiner fends off medically imbalanced Big Media.
• The Book Babes squeal in Tanenhaus's presence. I've responded.
• Amy Fisher is back and she has a self-published book where, it appears, she dispenses parenting advice.
• The Nobel buzz is purring, but could it go to a woman? Only nine women have been awarded the Nobel Literature Prize since 1901.
• Bend It Like Beckham director Gurinder Chadha has given Pride and Prejudice the Bollywood treatment.
• David Mitchell gets the royal treatment over at the Independent (first seen at the Literary Saloon)
• The Washington Post takes a look at Altman's Tanner '88 followup.
• S.E. Hinton talks at length with the Ottawa Citizen about returning to writing after a long hiatus, movies, motherhood, and her new novel.
• Nebraskan Ted Kooser will be the next poet laureate of the United States.
• Maya Angelou has written a cookbook.
• The short story defended yet again (via Bookninja)
• Stuart Macintyre argues that historians are no longer detached observers.
• Joan Didion examines Kerry.
• The Dagger Awards have been announced. (via Sarah)
• Books on anger examined at the TLS.
• An early review of the new Atwood essay collection.

RIP Janet Leigh

AM Roundup

• The 56th Frankfurt Book Fair begins on Wednesday and Hannah Wettig wants to know if Arab literature has a chance. Meanwhile, publisher Mohammed Rashad shares his thoughts. [UPDATE: And I'd be remiss if I didn't mention that Laila has weighed in as well.]
• Attorneys for the estate of John Steinbeck's widow want Steinbeck's heirs to back off. Who knew that Oprah's East of Eden pick could transmute into such a nuisance?
• Just when he got out, Mark Winegardner is pulling him back in. "At the same time I'm trying to write a novel that would be appealing to the popcorn crowd, and God bless 'em. I think literary writers can lose sight of the sheer page-turning pleasure that a novel can give," says Winegardner of The Godfather Returns. Don't you mean the sizable paycheck, Mark?
• The Scotsman notes that Edinburgh's literary reputation as a murder apex is unfounded. There were only six murders in the past twelve months, and all of them were solved.
• Eduardo Gonzalez Viana has been awarded Peru's highest literary honor.
• Four original Norman Rockwells are being unloaded to save a library with ties to Funk & Wagnalls.
• The James Joyce Bloomsbury expo hits Boston and The Globe is impressed.

Brownies Denied

As reported elsewhere , this week's NYTBR has not only been redesigned (of which more anon), but features a list of "pure creatures of the Internet". What strikes me initally about David Orr's article is how much it misrepresents online literary coverage and litblogs as a whole. Orr vilifies "the worst lit bloggers," who "sound like what you'd get if you seated the title characters from 'Heathers' around the Algonquin Round Table and gave them a photo of Zadie Smith on a bad hair day." (Gee, like we haven't heard this before.) Never mind that Joe Queenan's review of A.L. Jacobs' The Know-It-All contains an equally snarky tone (and let's face it, you don't hire Queenan unless you have an axe to grind) or that the print reader is urged, just underneath the list of contributors, to go to the Times website to "connect to the Web sites in David Orr's essay," as if typing a URL into a browser were some unthinkable act of Euclidean geometry. Furthermore, Orr condemns Maud Newton for having the effrontery to indulge in "the chronic vice of blogs -- has she mentioned her fellow bloggers? And how clever they are? And how she really, really likes them?" This when Dennis Loy Johnson has thoroughly documented the ongoing Times circlejerk and when Deborah Friedell can't refrain in the same issue from using David Brooks as a comparative example (as if Brooks were the only conservative columnist writing today). And then there's Neil Genzlinger's bulleted approach to books, conspicuously culled from the humorous bulleted lists found so frequently at Old Hag, Gawker and TMFTML over the past year.

But more importantly, there's the myth and hype of this impotent redesign, which has been carefully tailored to create less column inches for books and foster an illusion of pith (this week's NYTBR runs 40 pages, although 10 of them are full-page ads) -- all this while leaving fiction (and, in particular, literary fiction and poetry) in the dust heap. If you compare today's NYTBR with previous issues, you will now find sidebar quotes taking up a full column to the left or right of the reviews, as well as more room for (yes, you guessed it!) ads. In addition, the accompanying photos are much larger. Whether this was Bill Keller or Sam Tanenhaus's idea, it's difficult to say, though I suspect that this had something to do with Keller's concerns w/r/t the Almighty Dollar.

The overall impression I have is a Times graphic designer trying to justify shorter reviews as "full-length reviews" with previous full-length reviews (crossing over 1,000 words) now stretched across two pages.

Don't believe me? Okay, if you have the Times in your hand, it's time to grab some scissors and tape. Take Zoe Heller's review of The Surrender and cut out each column on pages 36 and 37. Ignore the bigass Toni Bentley picture altogether. You'll find that you can place the entire text comfortably on one full page. (And as an aside: why have Zoe Heller giving press to Wieseltier's well-documented fetish when she could have tackled a more intriguing memoir such as Valerie Hemingway's upcoming Running with the Bulls?

This is the NYTBR's new direction in a nutshell: lurid sensationalism, spotty coverage for fiction (averaging at 1,322 words a book for seven titles, including the longass Roth review), almost nothing for poetry or literary endeavors, and gonad-hard coverage for nonfiction (averaging at 794 words a book for fifteen titles, including the Genzlinger roundup).

WORD COUNTS:

Fiction:

The Plot Against America: 5,571 words
Human Capital: 846 words
Crime Coverage: 1,014 words (a mere 3 books, which includes the new Ian Rankin and Alexander McCall Smith!)
The Love Wife: 779 words
The Curse of the Appropriate Man: 1,049 words

Nonfiction:

Will in the World: 1,759 words
America (the Book): 1,584 words
The Surrender: 1,546 words
The Last Night of the Yankee Dynasty: 1,313 words
Osama: 1,281 words
The Know-It-All: 1,137 words
Copies in Seconds: 717 words
The God of Driving: 721 words
Laughing Without Guilt roundup: 1,846 words (for 7 books)

Let's compare this with the September 15, 2002 issue, shall we?

Fiction:

Dancing with Hens: 328 words (Books in Brief)
Fresh Eggs: 258 words (Books in Brief)
Logan's Storm: 306 words (Books in Brief)
Last Night: 291 words (Books in Brief)
Dear Mr. President: 284 words (Books in Brief, first novel)
Skirt and Fiddle: 275 words (Books in Brief)
In the Middle of All This: 851 words
Pronek is Illuminated: 1,232 words
The Art of Seeing: 759 words
Middlesex: 1,473 words
The Crimson Petal and the White: 1,185 words
Selected Poems by Mona Van Duyn: 1,040 words
One Man's Bible: 1,155 words (from Nobel-winning Chinese writer Gao Xingjian)
Gorgeous Lies: 1,177 words (first novel)

Nonfiction:

First in War: 1,409 words
The Immortal Dinner: 1,197 words
Neon Metropolis: 1,185 words
A Brilliant Solution: 1,123 words
Ghosts of the Fireground: 1,078 words
The Normal One: 1,096 words
Inventing America: 1,068 words
Sopranos book roundup: 1,447 words
Brotherhood of the Bomb: 1,408 words
Why Terrorism Works: 1,507 words
Living at the Edge: 1,200 words
Sky Blue Trades: 1,083 words
Rocky Marciano: The Rock of His Times: 1,116 words

We had our quibbles with Chip McGrath, but for those not keeping score, that's 14 fiction titles and 13 nonfiction titles. And McGrath's fiction coverage includes two hot titles, two first novels, and a Chinese fiction writer.

But here are some more interesting comparative stats:

Number of words devoted to review coverage in October 3, 2004 issue: 21,163
Number of books covered in October 3, 2004 issue: 22

Number of words devoted to review coverage in September 15, 2002 issue: 26, 529
Number of books covered in September 15, 2002 issue: 27

Let's ask ourselves a few questions:

• Would Aleksandar Hemon have been recognized with an MacArthur grant if he didn't get the 9/15/2002 coverage?
• Would The Crimson Petal and the White or Middlesex transformed into the phenomenons that they became without the 9/15/2002 coverage?
• Would Gao Xingjian be as well-known in the States without the 9/15/2002 coverage?
• Is this week's NYTBR fiction slate really all that different from the new books pile at Barnes & Noble?

We've heard promises and pledges from Tanenhaus before that fiction was a priority, but it's clear with these new changes that he's living in a world where storytelling and poetry no longer matter, save only through the strange "FICTION" placards Tanenhaus might occasionally see at bookstores. It's one thing to single out neglected titles alongside the Best Sellers list (of which, we whole-heartedly approve). It's another thing to reduce said coverage to Entertainment Weekly-sized blurbs while deferring fiction reviews to a book with built-in sales like The Plot Against America that, frankly, doesn't need another 5,000 word review. Until Tanenhaus can demonstrate that the NYTBR contains book coverage that truly reflects "all the news that's fit to print," we will deny him any and all tasty brownies cooked in the oven. And that includes the ones that Toni Bentley might be baking.

Are You Experienced?

Another fun bold-it-if-ya-done-it list from Bondgirl. This time, instead of books or movies, it amounts to personal experience.

01. Bought everyone in the pub a drink (several times, in fact)
02. Swam with wild dolphins
03. Climbed a mountain (Does a small mountain count?)
04. Taken a Ferrari for a test drive
05. Been inside the Great Pyramid
06. Held a tarantula.
07. Taken a candlelit bath with someone
08. Said ‘I love you’ and meant it
09. Hugged a tree
10. Done a striptease
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris (but it was a layover)
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Stayed up all night long, and watch the sun rise (several times in fact)
15. Seen the Northern Lights
16. Gone to a huge sports game
17. Walked the stairs to the top of the Leaning Tower of Pisa
18. Grown and eaten your own vegetables
19. Touched an iceberg
20. Slept under the stars (drunk, however)
21. Changed a baby’s diaper
22. Taken a trip in a hot air balloon
23. Watched a meteor shower
24. Gotten drunk on champagne
25. Given more than you can afford to charity
26. Looked up at the night sky through a telescope
27. Had an uncontrollable giggling fit at the worst possible moment
28. Had a food fight
29. Bet on a winning horse
30. Taken a sick day when you’re not ill
31. Asked out a stranger
32. Had a snowball fight
33. Photocopied your bottom on the office photocopier
34. Screamed as loudly as you possibly can (as recently as six weeks ago)
35. Held a lamb (lamb chops, I'm sure, don't count)
36. Enacted a favorite fantasy
37. Taken a midnight skinny dip
38. Taken an ice cold bath (funny how most of these things were done while inebriated)
39. Had a meaningful conversation with a beggar
40. Seen a total eclipse
41. Ridden a roller coaster
42. Hit a home run
43. Fit three weeks miraculously into three days (It's amazing what one can do with deadlines.)
44. Danced like a fool and not cared who was looking
45. Adopted an accent for an entire day
46. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors
47. Actually felt happy about your life, even for just a moment
48. Had two hard drives for your computer. (right now, in fact)
49. Visited all 50 states
50. Loved your job for all accounts
51. Taken care of someone who was shit faced
52. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
53. Had amazing friends
54. Danced with a stranger in a foreign country
55. Watched wild whales
56. Stolen a sign
57. Backpacked in Europe
58. Taken a road-trip (too many times)
59. Rock climbing
60. Lied to foreign government’s official in that country to avoid notice
61. Midnight walk on the beach (come on, I'm Californian)
62. Sky diving
63. Visited Ireland
64. Been heartbroken longer then you were actually in love (try several years)
65. In a restaurant, sat at a stranger’s table and had a meal with them
66. Visited Japan
67. Benchpressed your own weight
68. Milked a cow (just barely)
69. Alphabetized your records
70. Pretended to be a superhero
71. Sung karaoke (too many times)
72. Lounged around in bed all day
73. Posed nude in front of strangers
74. Scuba diving
75. Got it on to “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye
76. Kissed in the rain
77. Played in the mud
78. Played in the rain
79. Gone to a drive-in theater (too many times to count)
80. Done something you should regret, but don’t regret it.
81. Visited the Great Wall of China
82. Discovered that someone who’s not supposed to have known about your blog has discovered your blog
83. Dropped Windows in favor of something better
84. Started a business
85. Fallen in love and not had your heart broken
86. Toured ancient sites
87. Taken a martial arts class
88. Swordfought for the honor of a woman
89. Played D&D for more than 6 hours straight
90. Gotten married
91. Been in a movie
92. Crashed a party
93. Loved someone you shouldn’t have
94. Kissed someone so passionately it made them dizzy
95. Gotten divorced
96. Had sex at the office
97. Gone without food for 5 days
98. Made cookies from scratch
99. Won first prize in a costume contest
100. Ridden a gondola in Venice
101. Gotten a tattoo
102. Found that the texture of some materials can turn you on
103. Rafted the Snake River
104. Been on television news programs as an “expert”
105. Got flowers for no reason
106. Masturbated in a public place
107. Got so drunk you don’t remember anything
108. Been addicted to some form of illegal drug
109. Performed on stage
110. Been to Las Vegas
111. Recorded music
112. Eaten shark
113. Had a one-night stand
114. Gone to Thailand
115. Seen Siouxsie live
116. Bought a house
117. Been in a combat zone
118. Buried one/both of your parents
119. Shaved or waxed your pubic hair off (don't ask -- I was scared at the onset of puberty)
120. Been on a cruise ship
121. Spoken more than one language fluently
122. Gotten into a fight while attempting to defend someone
123. Bounced a check
124. Performed in Rocky Horror
125. Read - and understood - your credit report
126. Raised children
127. Recently bought and played with a favorite childhood toy
128. Followed your favorite band/singer on tour
129. Created and named your own constellation of stars
130. Taken an exotic bicycle tour in a foreign country
131. Found out something significant that your ancestors did
132. Called or written your Congress person
133. Picked up and moved to another city to just start over
134. …more than once? - More than thrice?
135. Walked the Golden Gate Bridge
136. Sang loudly in the car, and didn’t stop when you knew someone was looking
137. Had an abortion or your female partner did
138. Had plastic surgery
139. Survived an accident that you shouldn’t have survived.
140. Wrote articles for a large publication
141. Lost over 100 pounds
142. Held someone while they were having a flashback
143. Piloted an airplane
144. Petted a stingray
145. Broken someone’s heart
146. Helped an animal give birth
147. Been fired or laid off from a job
148. Won money on a T.V. game show
149. Broken a bone
150. Killed a human being (!)
151. Gone on an African photo safari
152. Ridden a motorcycle
153. Driven any land vehicle at a speed of greater than 100 mph
154. Had a body part of yours below the neck pierced
155. Fired a rifle, shotgun, or pistol
156. Eaten mushrooms that were gathered in the wild (or so the dealer said)
157. Ridden a horse
158. Had major surgery
159. Had sex on a moving train
160. Had a snake as a pet
161. Hiked to the bottom of the Grand Canyon
162. Slept through an entire flight: takeoff, flight, and landing
163. Slept for more than 30 hours over the course of 48 hours (after staying up for four days straight)
164. Visited more foreign countries than U.S. states
165. Visited all 7 continents
166. Taken a canoe trip that lasted more than 2 days
167. Eaten kangaroo meat
168. Fallen in love at an ancient Mayan burial ground
169. Been a sperm or egg donor
170. Eaten sushi (what? just once?)
171. Had your picture in the newspaper
172. Had 2 (or more) healthy romantic relationships for over a year in your lifetime
173. Changed someone’s mind about something you care deeply about
174. Gotten someone fired for their actions
175. Gone back to school
176. Parasailed
177. Changed your name
178. Petted a cockroach
179. Eaten fried green tomatoes
180. Read The Iliad
181. Selected one “important” author who you missed in school, and read
182. Dined in a restaurant and stolen silverware, plates, cups because your apartment needed them (Do bottles of hot sauce count?)
183. …and gotten 86?ed from the restaurant because you did it so many times, they figured out it was you
184. Taught yourself an art from scratch
185. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
186. Apologized to someone years after inflicting the hurt
187. Skipped all your school reunions.
188. Communicated with someone without sharing a common spoken language
189. Been elected to public office
190. Written your own computer language
191. Thought to yourself that you’re living your dream (in spurts)
192. Had to put someone you love into hospice care
193. Built your own PC from parts (several times)
194. Sold your own artwork to someone who didn’t know you (if art and theatre counts)
195. Had a booth at a street fair
196: Dyed your hair
197: Been a DJ
198: Found out someone was going to dump you via LiveJournal
199: Written your own role playing game
200: Been arrested

It's Probably Hard Work for the First Lady

Stephenson and Jonathan Strange not enough? Why not try Paul Anderson's Hunger's Brides? It's 1,376 pages long (via Booksquare)

Bush Answers Everyday Questions

LANDLORD: "Why didn't I get the rent check?"
BUSH: "It's hard work."

LAURA BUSH: "You missed our dinner date."
BUSH:: "It's hard work. You're sending mixed messages."

WAITER: "Here's the check, sir."
BUSH: "The thing I don't get is how my bill remains so inconsistent."

UNEMPLOYED AMERICAN: "I've been unable to get a job for eighteen months."
BUSH: "It's hard work. I make difficult decisions every day. But you're in my heart. But you attacked first."

[UPDATE: B has the goods on last night's smackdown.]

[UPDATE 2: Number of times Bush said "hard work" during the debate: 11.]