Tuesday, December 08, 2009
Shakespeare & Co.
Looking around from the peaks of Notre Dame Cathedral (IMHO, still the best place to see all of Paris...yeah, yeah, I know you Eiffelites are barely holding yourselves back in insisting your vantage point (allegedly because it's higher) is better. To this I ask, "Which is at the center of Paris, the Cathedral or the Tower?"), I concentrated on the lower buildings on the left bank of the Seine, staring, rudely at times, until the store came into view. LikeShakespeare & Company is all it's made out to be, the cathedral of English print books in Paris. It is a mecca but it is not a tourist trap. Were there other idiots like me, mouth agape and itchy finger on a digital camera, there? Absolutely! But, to the credit of the staff and of the other customers there, we were not treated like pests or neophytes. There were occasional chuckles dripping in my direction but not even a slight mote of sarcasm was detected. After a good 2 hours in the store and a (mightily) self-controlled purchase of only one book (Richler's "The Incomparable Atuk" ), I felt at home, my pulse back down to a steady unhurried beat. If there is a place of comfort more soothing to the soul than a tome-packed non-chain
bookstore, then, folks, please let me know of such a nirvana. Shakepeare is crammed to the gills with books and yet one doesn't feel hemmed in at all. Lighting is minimal but it isn't dark inside, almost as if the contents of the works are illuminating your way through the alleys of verical, horizontal, and pyramidal stacks. All of the books on the first floor are for sale and for one's perusal. There was no bum's rush behaviour evidenced by the folks working there; one felt acknowledged to be there in the presence of gob-millions of words.In the back of the first floor, by the right corner, a narrow staircase took you to the next floor. The painted stairs were well-worn with a carefully placed stack of books took up each step's wall-side end. Pictures and drawings took up the balance of the free wall space as you slowly ascended the stairs, stopping at almost each step to give the once-over to the books and the wall art.
Folks were very patient with each other as they ascended/descended the stairs, not rushing to each other's destination, simply enjoying the trip.The second floor had three sections, defined by their use and not any fine demarcation. There was a children's section, centered around a small "cave" of a secretive place where 3 walls and a ceiling were plastered with pictures and notes of people who'd laid down for a read and a nap. Another area had an upright piano (not sure if it worked as it was loaded up with books) as its center piece, with packed bookshelves all around as sound-deadeners. In the front part of the second floor, with windows looking out toward Notre Dame, the Seine, and the book/art/postcard/souvenir sellers along the wall of the Seine, was a working/sitting area where authors and poets did the occasional reading. Up here on the second floor, all the books were for reading. On the premises. No books were for sale up here; they were parts of the permanent charm of the place.
(Click on any picture to get a larger view.)
Labels: Books, Paris, Road Trips
Monday, September 21, 2009
"Juliet, Naked" - Tempting Freebie
Join the rest of the Hornby-ites and try your luck at having your name plucked for one of ten copies of his to-be-released-in-a-week book, Juliet, Naked.
Just click here.
Previous screeds on Mr. Hornby's latest were here and here.
Just click here.
Previous screeds on Mr. Hornby's latest were here and here.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Crossing Over into KindleLand
Burdened with Amazon coupons awarded for past CD & book buying sins and, more importantly, blessed with substantial generosity from family and friends for an event that I had nothing to do with, except for my drop-in attendance, I've taken the plunge into the pseudo-possession of books.
I have a Kindle. A Kindle II, to be specific.
Let me wax in the dated mode of singing groups that dressed alike and rendered heartbreak in harmony.
It's neat. Very Neat.
It really is thin, light, and iPod-like in its operation (although it would be EVEN NEATER if the pages became wide as you tilted the screen from the vertical to the horizontal, but I'll suffer gladly).
I've read in bright sunlight, in dimmed 40 watt light (yeah, those damn energy-saving lights that catch on like an old time steam engine slowly pulling out of a station), and while walking the dog.
There are a minimal amount of buttons, so you're not accidentally changing pages or skipping to other menus.
The downloads on the free Amazon/Sprint network is as fast as advertised.
The screen is extremely easy to read and, most importantly, does not tire the eyes. You can change the font size, which is a thoughtful option.
I charged the Kindle over a week ago and I've been reading something on it every day. The battery indicator bar has barely moved from the Fully Charged mode.
For family and friends who are always intimidated or teed off as to what to give you at Christmas or at other gifting opportunities, having a Kindle opens up easy avenues to their relief and to your happiness. Amazon gift cards are a delight. Truly.
And, finally, have I said how neat the Kindle is?
O.K., the negatives. As a Slav, even heaven and a great cake have negatives.
1) The Kindle is a tactile and a visual delight. There is not, however, any need to have a nose when reading the first few pages of a newly downloaded book. If you are, like me, a person blessed with an admirable proboscis, a personal sensory instrument that you like to use in most of your new adventures, you will be disappointed to learn that you cannot stick the old Jimmy Durante between the freshly cracked pages of a book...since there are not book leaves to crack open. Perhaps in Kindle IV, there will be a button to press that will squirt out New Book smell, sort of like the aerosol cans that can be squirted in your 1999 Toyota Camry that guarantee nasal illusions of New Car Smell.
2) You can download "books" from Amazon. That's it; no other sources.
3) It is easier for me to loan you my first and second born kids, even my dog, than it is to let you borrow a tome from my tomology (???). However, with the proper references, bank account numbers, and papal dispensation it is theoretically possible that a slight chance exists that I may lend out, for a limited window of time, one of my books. With the Kindle, the only way I can "loan" you a book is by handing the Kindle over to you. The downloaded books? Nope, even if you had a Kindle of your own, there is no way that I can lend you any of the books I've downloaded. And vice versa.
4) Book prices. Keep in mind that you really never "own" the downloaded books. So, when you download a book for free (Twain, Wodehouse, and a ton of trashy romance novels), it doesn't really matter that much that if the Kindle were to go kaput or if the technology is deemed exhausted (which you know it will be). The books were FREE!
But, when you've paid some buckos ($9.99 for most books), the mindset (well, o.k. MY mindset) is a bit different. Those books will be lost once the technology goes to the next level. So...you're sinking money into things not tangible. I look at my bookshelves and see books I purchased 20-30 years ago. Aside from a "protective" layer of dust and some yellowing, the books are, to my Ever Loving Wife's consternation, still there. I know I won't be able to say the same thing for the Kindle "books". And donating Kindle "books" to a library or for taxable charitable contribution deductions? fuhgeddaboudit.
One additional note about the book prices. Some of the books currently available in the Kindle version (specifically those NOT of the best-seller variety) are just a buck or two more expensive as physical versions than as electronic ones. So, don't start using those bookshelves as firewood just yet.
5) A cheapo complaint. The Kindle is delivered in a very secure and well-packaged cardboard box. It does NOT come with a protective carrying case; that is an option that will cost you between $20-$70 dollars. For $359, you'd expect some sort of carrying case.
Some reviews are here, here, and here.
Pricing of a Kindle? Check out this post.
Labels: Books, Kindle, Reviews
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
What's with "Verging on Pertinence"?
I am not too clever by half, quarter, eighth, nor even thirty-second. I am more the Wal-Mart/K-Mart shopper who has sneaked into (when it used to be) Lord & Taylor when the guards were distracted by the blinding reflections from some other shopper's jewels. I'm brown-bagging at Le Bec Fin until the Maître de spies me and gives me Le Heave-Ho. I'm a borrower and a borrower who almost always gives credit to the borrowee. Lately, pangs of guilt have kept me awake at night, twitching in bed like shrimp on a hot plate. I've been doing this blog of self-delusion for over 3 years now and have never written anything about this blog's title.
Well, it's basically a cannibalization of this book's title. Nothing to read into the short story, "Verging on the Pertinent", contained within the book. Simply a strong draw on my part to the book's (and story's) title. Nothing more.
I came upon Verging on the Pertinent by Carol Emshwiller back in the very early '90's. I'd never heard of Ms. Emshwiller before; the title of her book at a bookstore simply caught my eye. An odd combination of words and a suggestion of a sly joke, it seemed to me. The selection of short stories in this book number only 17. The book has just a little over 135 pages. 135 dense pages. In a few of the stories, I felt as if I dropped in on a party that's been in swing for a few hours. From the first sentence, I was trying to catch up to something all of the characters in the story already seemed to know about and weren;t willing to let me in on. I wanted to psssst! and ask one of them some questions, before the story got way past my ability to comprehend it. So, I'd simply turn back pages to the beginning and start again. Ms. Emshwiller considers herself a science-fiction writer and her other books certainly demonstrate that genre nicely. This book, however,reminds me of the short stories of Katinka Loeser, Peter DeVries' spouse (whom he met when she was "when she was bouncing quatrains off the moon, too". The stories begin within the confines of a humdrum reality and then take off to visions that test the reader's patience at times while inducing one to re-read the stories almost immediately. Her stories don't stick with me in their entirety, but certain portions of her stories are permanently embedded. Like Loeser's writings, Emshwiller's are quite frustrating. In a good way. Both are quite accomplished word-smiths; it's just that their products, for me at least, lack a smoothness that promotes a continuous read. Perhaps that is their intention. Read one story. Mull it over. Put the book down. Come back a week later and commence with the next story. I would not recommend any of Loeser's or Emshwiller's books because you'd most likely be cursing me midway through any of their stories, although you'd probably trudge on and finish them anyway. Let me just label both of these writers as frustratingly enjoyable and leave it at that.
Well, it's basically a cannibalization of this book's title. Nothing to read into the short story, "Verging on the Pertinent", contained within the book. Simply a strong draw on my part to the book's (and story's) title. Nothing more.
I came upon Verging on the Pertinent by Carol Emshwiller back in the very early '90's. I'd never heard of Ms. Emshwiller before; the title of her book at a bookstore simply caught my eye. An odd combination of words and a suggestion of a sly joke, it seemed to me. The selection of short stories in this book number only 17. The book has just a little over 135 pages. 135 dense pages. In a few of the stories, I felt as if I dropped in on a party that's been in swing for a few hours. From the first sentence, I was trying to catch up to something all of the characters in the story already seemed to know about and weren;t willing to let me in on. I wanted to psssst! and ask one of them some questions, before the story got way past my ability to comprehend it. So, I'd simply turn back pages to the beginning and start again. Ms. Emshwiller considers herself a science-fiction writer and her other books certainly demonstrate that genre nicely. This book, however,reminds me of the short stories of Katinka Loeser, Peter DeVries' spouse (whom he met when she was "when she was bouncing quatrains off the moon, too". The stories begin within the confines of a humdrum reality and then take off to visions that test the reader's patience at times while inducing one to re-read the stories almost immediately. Her stories don't stick with me in their entirety, but certain portions of her stories are permanently embedded. Like Loeser's writings, Emshwiller's are quite frustrating. In a good way. Both are quite accomplished word-smiths; it's just that their products, for me at least, lack a smoothness that promotes a continuous read. Perhaps that is their intention. Read one story. Mull it over. Put the book down. Come back a week later and commence with the next story. I would not recommend any of Loeser's or Emshwiller's books because you'd most likely be cursing me midway through any of their stories, although you'd probably trudge on and finish them anyway. Let me just label both of these writers as frustratingly enjoyable and leave it at that.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
That Old Canada Rag
Lunch time at work usually means escaping to one of the 6-7 eateries in the area. Our lunch room is relatively puny in comparison with the amount of people who work here, so if you’re in need of quiet or escape, you must drive to another menu venue. Most days I cart along the NYT, WSJ, or some magazine or printouts from the daily postings of Michael Blowhard, Whisky Prajer, or Mr. Sgazzetti. God forbid I’m dining alone with no reading matter! Wasted time!Today was a most confusing day in the morning so I drove to an eatery sans paper. Luckily my vehicle, specifically the trunk area, is well-stocked with the important stuff, namely quarts of oil, liters of water, metric and inch socket sets, 2 complete changes of clothes, including shoes, a collapsible chair, 3 umbrellas, a blanket, enough maps to launch an expedition, and books. Paperbacks, really, which were duplicates of hardcover versions stored in the house. Please, don’t ask. It’s a long story; well, actually, it's a series of long stories.
So, as I was troving through the different bags in the trunk, I came upon Thin Ice, an engaging autobiography by Bruce McCall. I’d read this book about 8 years ago and I’ve picked it up on quite a few other occasions to re-read certain passages or chapters I’d "post-it"ed on my first run through. The first ¾ of the book is outstanding. My interest wavered through the last 60 or so pages as both the author and I lost our wind. But the first 120 pages or so? Absolutely devine. Bruce McCall of the Norfolk County, Ontario McCalls is quite funny and insightful as he illustrates his youthful days in Simcoe, Ontario, just over the border from the US of A., before he becomes a grown-up and ventures south to eventually wind up as a writer and illustrator for the New Yorker magazine.
If you’ll excuse me, here’s a lengthy excerpt from the book (all painstakingly typed by yours truly so throw me a bone by reading it through. Or, why don't you just print this out and go to lunch. Go on. You need the break.
"I grew up in a world where the average Canadian would rather be trampled by the R.C.M.P. Musical Ride than be found publicly admitting anything American to be superior, or even much good. Nobody, not even the most rabidly anti-American Canadian nationalist, could or would deny the economic and cultural facts of life that all but swamped our nation in Americana. But that didn’t mean Canadians had to like it. That would mean accepting and even liking Americans, and wait just a minute, eh? If the general attitude of Canadians toward their mighty neighbor to the south could be distilled into a single phrase, that phrase would probably be "Oh, shut up." The Americans talked too much, mainly about themselves. Their torrid love affair with their own history and legend exceeded-painfully the quasi-British Canadian idea of modesty and self-restraint. They were jammed permanently in extroverted high gear, confident to the brink of, if not over the edge of, arrogance; strident, take-charge, can-do----fatiguing. There was about the American style something, indeed plenty, that jarred the Canadian love of calm. Americans spent far too much of their vaunted energy out at the extremes of feeling. They were forever bursting in spasms of insufferable yahoo pride or all too publicly agonizing over their crises.
The patriotic Canadian should keep his distance, then. Snuggle in the warmth and safety of British institutions and customs and attitudes that have always underpinned Canadian life, lending it dignity and order, helping shield it from the obnoxious blowhards forever yelping and banging and partying, way past bedtime.
This was the view of the Americans I had breathed as part of the very air of Simcoe and Canada since infancy. Evidence that ours was a superior civilization was obvious, at least to us: We had the Imperial gallon, two-dollar bills, Mounties, the more scenic part of the Niagara Falls, grade thirteen in high school, a governor-general, Eskimos, three downs in football, the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Montreal Canadiens, our Deanna Durbin in Hollywood and our Max Aitken, Lord Beaverbrook, in London, and permanent private pipeline to Buckingham Palace.
And yet,
even by age eleven I was beginning to secretly backslide. I had begun to find myself privately questioning my faith and putting it to the test. I was beginning to wonder if, despite all the evidence, Canada was really so inherently superior and the way of the USA really so inherently intolerable. I was feeling the first pangs of envy arising from a strong and growing suspicion that not all that far away, over the border, the average eleven-year-old American kid was having lots more fun. From all appearances, indeed, being first in fun was part of the American boy’s birthright.
Reminders were as plentiful as the comparisons that inevitably followed. American kids got whistles, rings, glittering prizes in their cereal boxes; all we got was cereal. They could goggle at page after page of color comics---"Prince Valiant", "The Katzenjammer Kids", "Smokey Stover"---in their Sunday papers; we didn’t even get Sunday papers. The comic book, that archetypal American expressive form---splashy, loud, rowdy, and manic, boiling with superheroes and super-villains, a TNT charge to the boyish imagination---had only a pallid, pathetic Canadian counterpart. The few Canadian comic books were black-and-white, vapid, and hopelessly wholesome. American kids, as I vicariously feasted along with them via the comic-book ads, guzzled Royal Crown Cola, rode balloon-tired Schwinn bikes with sirens and headlights or deluxe coaster wagons or futuristic scooters. They shot pearl-handled ca guns drawn from tooled-leather holsters or Daisy (It'll shoot your eye out) air rifles, wore aviator goggles, flew gasoline-powered model airplanes. American kids even had their own exclusive boys' mail-order department store in the form of the Johnson & Smith catalog. Rushed to your front door C.O.D. from Racine, Wisconsin—-ventriloquism kits, genuine onyx signet rings, whoopee cushions, treasures Made in the USA.
But not for me; not for Canadians. In the fine-print legalese, in the radio announcer’s dream-smashing disclaimer, four words would serve to keep every son of the Maple Leaf empty-handed and brokenhearted, with his nose pressed enviously to the glass that separated him from the delirious ongoing American carnival of plenty and fun: "Not Available in Canada." "
(from Thin Ice, pp 7-8)
Labels: Books, Canada, New Yorker
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Stoney & Durrell
This excellent piece in The American Scholar regards Lawrence Durrell. The article's author, Charles Truehart, writes that he "first encountered Durrell, in my early adolescence, drawn by the clothbound pastel editions on my parents’ shelves, by the idea of a quartet of novels, and by the aroma of decay and sexuality they managed to exude."
My first encounter with Mr. Durrell and subsequently his Alexandria Quartet, was in the parking lot of an A & P Warehouse distribution center in central Jersey. I was just out of college and rather than slipping right into the work equated with my degree, I opted to become a Teamster so that I could work the late night shift at a grocery supply warehouse, loading semi's. The pay was about twice what I would have been getting if I'd worn a suit and tie, even when you consider the considerable union dues taken out each month. Worked out well for me. Late night work negated the amount of money I could spend (luckily Amazon didn't exist back then) and I was able to sock away quite a bit of cash so that the goal of backpacking in Europe with my girlfriend of the time was easily funded.
One particularly hot 'n humid evening, a bunch of us were sprawled around a co-worker's Mustang, car doors splayed open. Like 80% of the night crew, he was a dreamer as well. One fellow was saving his money to buy a truckload of pinball machines that he was going to drive out to Oregon where he had all intentions of becoming the bar game king. This guy, with the music blaring from his Mustang, was a musician and we all know what kind of dreams these folks have. His musical tastes were broad but his preferences were for Wainwright, Parsons, and Jerry Jeff. That night we were treated to Jerry Jeff's "Stoney". Jerry Jeff's seductive voice, so similar to Guy Clark's (especially noticeable if you've seen one of Michael B's favorite DVDs, Heartworn Highways), eased through the song. One line, "He had a gray pillowcase full of books by Durrell" stuck out.
I asked my fellow parking lot listeners if they had any idea who this Durrell character was.
"Maybe one of those Westerns writers", I suppose said one especially well-tuned guy.
"You know, like Zane Gray or Louis L'Amour?"
Hmmm. Well, back in early adolescence while spending some time in the Old Country, I'd gotten hooked like quite a lot of my cousins on Zane Gray. Only, his name was pronounced Tzan Ay GRRRRay.
I picked up a well-thumbed copy of Justine at the local library and was smitten. The balance of my year at the warehouse was taken with completing the Quartet. It was a short year. I ended up buying paperbacks of each book and scribbled throughout, with the last two blank pages completely filled with new words fished out of the book and their definitions. The trip that I was working toward, unfortunately, took on more importance than it should have. Whether it was my own hellbound train of thought or the propulsion set off by Durrell's books, I'm still pondering. There were some very memorable moments as we went through Iceland, Luxembourg, France, Germany, Italy, Greece and Yugoslavia but our constant movement dotted only by stays of 2-3 weeks in any one place prevented the full effect of any one place from setting in.
Unlike the Alexandria of Durrell's quartet, the cities and towns we stayed in never became one of the main characters. It was, in the end, a rush to a relationship breakup without the pleasure of the fall.
Labels: Books
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Din of Silence
Occasional forays to Words without Borders always results in a gem of a story. Last week, this story, Crossing the Serbian Republic's Border by the German writer Juli Zeh, as translated by Gerald Chapple, came up. For those of you not familiar with Words without Borders, please go there and bookmark it immediately. It's a free treasure trove of stories we here on the other side of the Atlantic (and Pacific) rarely get to read. I've spent hours over there in the vast written riches.
Zeh's piece, Crossing the Serbian Republic's Border is a short (8 printed pages) excerpt from her book, Even Silence Is a Sound: Travels through Bosnia. It's not Rebecca West. And, for anyone who's plied though her doorstop of a book (1,232 pages in its latest version), I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say, "Thank God!". Ms. Zeh is quite open-minded and doesn't seem, from this short piece at least, to have a political axe to grind.
A short excerpt to tempt you. She has just driven into the bombed out village of Zavala.
"I find a watering can that shakes as I lower it in; the water is fresh and clear. I give the dog some water and rig up a shower on the edge of the roof with the watering can, come iron hooks, and cord. I push the garbage off to the side, sweep the patio with a piece of timber repair the legs on the wooden bench, and pad it with all the clothing in my rucksack. I arrange a few symbolic pieces of furniture: a broken footstool that now has a washbasin on it; a chair, and a pot with holes, tall grass, and cactus. Man is an odd creature, what with his nesting urge; even on the moon he'd try to make an imitation TV chair out of dust."
The only English translation of her published books that I could locate was Eagles & Angels published by Granta in 2004. Hopefully, Even Silence Is a Sound. Travels through Bosnia will soon have its rights sold to an American publisher. Currently, it's only available, outside of Germany, in Bosnia, Bulgaria, Croatia, Netherlands, & Slovenia.
Hey, Alcessa! Familiar with Ms. Zeh's stuff? Care to share?
Zeh's piece, Crossing the Serbian Republic's Border is a short (8 printed pages) excerpt from her book, Even Silence Is a Sound: Travels through Bosnia. It's not Rebecca West. And, for anyone who's plied though her doorstop of a book (1,232 pages in its latest version), I'm sure you'll agree with me when I say, "Thank God!". Ms. Zeh is quite open-minded and doesn't seem, from this short piece at least, to have a political axe to grind.
A short excerpt to tempt you. She has just driven into the bombed out village of Zavala.
"I find a watering can that shakes as I lower it in; the water is fresh and clear. I give the dog some water and rig up a shower on the edge of the roof with the watering can, come iron hooks, and cord. I push the garbage off to the side, sweep the patio with a piece of timber repair the legs on the wooden bench, and pad it with all the clothing in my rucksack. I arrange a few symbolic pieces of furniture: a broken footstool that now has a washbasin on it; a chair, and a pot with holes, tall grass, and cactus. Man is an odd creature, what with his nesting urge; even on the moon he'd try to make an imitation TV chair out of dust."
The only English translation of her published books that I could locate was Eagles & Angels published by Granta in 2004. Hopefully, Even Silence Is a Sound. Travels through Bosnia will soon have its rights sold to an American publisher. Currently, it's only available, outside of Germany, in Bosnia, Bulgaria, Croatia, Netherlands, & Slovenia.
Hey, Alcessa! Familiar with Ms. Zeh's stuff? Care to share?
Monday, May 07, 2007
Luxuriantly Bad
In a previous post, I'd commented and referenced an essay by Joe Queenan in the NYT's Book Review of this previous Sunday. Basically, Mr. Queenan states in Why Not the Worst?, that "bad books have an important place in our lives, because they keep the brain active. We spend so much time wondering what incredibly dumb thing the author will say a few pages down the road. One caveat: As with bad movies, a book that is merely bad but not exquisitely bad is a waste of time, while a genuinely terrible book is a sheer delight."
One particular passage strikes very close to (my) home.
"Most of us are familiar with people who make a fetish out of quality: They read only good books, they see only good movies, they listen only to good music, they discuss politics only with good people, and they’re not shy about letting you know it. They think this makes them smarter and better than everybody else, but it doesn’t. It makes them mean and overly judgmental and miserly, as if taking 15 minutes to flip through “The Da Vinci Code” is a crime so monstrous, an offense in such flagrant violation of the sacred laws of intellectual time-management, that they will be cast out into the darkness by the Keepers of the Cultural Flame. "
Mr. Queenan is handy with the verbal sword, so be careful as to how close to him you stand.
Any real genuine stinkers in your past? One(s) you'd admit to paging through from hesitant beginning to glorious end? I'll admit that Clan of the Cave Bear and Scott Turow's Presumed Innocent were up a the top of the heap along with Bonfires of the Vanities. I can't think of a pseudo-historical novel at this time but I'm sure there was at least one, most probably a Slavic one dealing with Mother Russia, a man and his tractor, and a bank all coming together in a plot involving safe sex.
Or something equally bad.
One particular passage strikes very close to (my) home.
"Most of us are familiar with people who make a fetish out of quality: They read only good books, they see only good movies, they listen only to good music, they discuss politics only with good people, and they’re not shy about letting you know it. They think this makes them smarter and better than everybody else, but it doesn’t. It makes them mean and overly judgmental and miserly, as if taking 15 minutes to flip through “The Da Vinci Code” is a crime so monstrous, an offense in such flagrant violation of the sacred laws of intellectual time-management, that they will be cast out into the darkness by the Keepers of the Cultural Flame. "
Mr. Queenan is handy with the verbal sword, so be careful as to how close to him you stand.
Any real genuine stinkers in your past? One(s) you'd admit to paging through from hesitant beginning to glorious end? I'll admit that Clan of the Cave Bear and Scott Turow's Presumed Innocent were up a the top of the heap along with Bonfires of the Vanities. I can't think of a pseudo-historical novel at this time but I'm sure there was at least one, most probably a Slavic one dealing with Mother Russia, a man and his tractor, and a bank all coming together in a plot involving safe sex.
Or something equally bad.
Labels: Books
Friday, May 04, 2007
Dreaded Summer Reading
In anticipation of choosing the main Summer Reading item, I am tempted by the third book by Manchester's Mil Millington. I feel particularly masochistic, I guess. Stumbling upon his blog a few years back, I was smitten with his short biting bits. Most were gems; five minute max reading bon-bons. Mr. Millington was persuaded to write a novel. He wrote two, Things My Girlfriend and I Have Argued About (yes, the same title as his very funny blog) and A Certain Chemistry. I've read both books and, worse still, I had purchased them. I had wanted so MUCH to like them. I slogged my way through, believing in both books' cases, that the big laughs were just on the next page. They weren't. How could this have happened!?!? His blog is absolutely hilarious. Was the blog too small and limited a vehicle for him? Seems that is what he or his publisher thought. Why hasn't someone at the publishing company pushed him onto the short story direction? The Very short story direction. Work to your strengths, I always thought.
Now this book, Love and Other Near Death Experiences, is winking at me with heavily crusted eyelashes. I know our local library has ignored that look, so I'd have to pony up some of my own bucks for this. Twice Mr. Millington has disappointed me and the reviews on Amazon are of the general theme that this third child is "funny, but not as funny as the other two". Other two? Funny? I'll be taking a pass, I guess unless a freebie shows up on the front porch.
Mr. Millington, remember that Woody Allen movie, Stardust Memories? Woody's doing his usual kvetch about Life and what to do within its time-limited confines. A passing couple eye him and the guy spouts, "Make funnier movies!
Let me borrow that plea. Mr. Millington,"Write funnier books."
In the meantime, I think I'll be running my fingers over the rows of Peter DeVries. Now, there's a funny writer.
Now this book, Love and Other Near Death Experiences, is winking at me with heavily crusted eyelashes. I know our local library has ignored that look, so I'd have to pony up some of my own bucks for this. Twice Mr. Millington has disappointed me and the reviews on Amazon are of the general theme that this third child is "funny, but not as funny as the other two". Other two? Funny? I'll be taking a pass, I guess unless a freebie shows up on the front porch.
Mr. Millington, remember that Woody Allen movie, Stardust Memories? Woody's doing his usual kvetch about Life and what to do within its time-limited confines. A passing couple eye him and the guy spouts, "Make funnier movies!
Let me borrow that plea. Mr. Millington,"Write funnier books."
In the meantime, I think I'll be running my fingers over the rows of Peter DeVries. Now, there's a funny writer.
Labels: Books
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
The Writer's Secret
This article by Orhan Pamuk in the most recent New Yorker has been one (very long) mantra for my night time bidding adieus. Not sure how many times I've re-read the entire piece or how many times I've jumped into its in-betweens, but I've yet to tire from its multiple readings.
"As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding words to empty pages, I feel as if I were bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way that one might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. As we hold words in our hands, like stones, sensing the ways in which each is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes from very close, caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds."
and
"The writer’s secret is not inspiration—for it is never clear where that comes from—but stubbornness, endurance. The lovely Turkish expression “to dig a well with a needle” seems to me to have been invented with writers in mind."
How wonderful. I've yet to nose-dive into one of his works as Alcessa seems to have done more than once. Definitely, on 2007's To-Read list.
Any suggestions as to which of his books I should start with?
"As I sit at my table, for days, months, years, slowly adding words to empty pages, I feel as if I were bringing into being that other person inside me, in the same way that one might build a bridge or a dome, stone by stone. As we hold words in our hands, like stones, sensing the ways in which each is connected to the others, looking at them sometimes from afar, sometimes from very close, caressing them with our fingers and the tips of our pens, weighing them, moving them around, year in and year out, patiently and hopefully, we create new worlds."
and
"The writer’s secret is not inspiration—for it is never clear where that comes from—but stubbornness, endurance. The lovely Turkish expression “to dig a well with a needle” seems to me to have been invented with writers in mind."
How wonderful. I've yet to nose-dive into one of his works as Alcessa seems to have done more than once. Definitely, on 2007's To-Read list.
Any suggestions as to which of his books I should start with?
Labels: Books
