Recently in Reading Category
One of my oldest and dearest friends has an amazing way with words. Her use of common cliches in new contexts never ceases to make me smile. Recently she told me, in reference to a colleague leaving a job: "Listen, his number is totally up and he needs to get out." Now, as you probably well know, someone's "number being up" generally refers to their death. But I think it's absolutely appropriate in this circumstance- don't you?
But the best thing she does is rewrite the cliche altogether, into something totally and completely new. Last night she left the following voicemail on my phone:
"Hey sweetie! I hope I didn't miss your envelope. I know it's about the time you start cooking dinner..."
I puzzled over that for a moment- like, was she expecting me to mail her something? Then I realized: she meant "window." Bless.
But the best thing she does is rewrite the cliche altogether, into something totally and completely new. Last night she left the following voicemail on my phone:
"Hey sweetie! I hope I didn't miss your envelope. I know it's about the time you start cooking dinner..."
I puzzled over that for a moment- like, was she expecting me to mail her something? Then I realized: she meant "window." Bless.
I'm sure everyone already knows about this excellent blog, but if not, then I am pleased to be the one to turn you on to Letters of Note. It's a collection of excellent, sometimes touching, sometimes sad, sometimes hilarious handwritten notes. Occasionally there are celebrities involved.
My favorites so far include a rather weird and dirty note from Marlon Brando to Charlie Sheen on his 26th birthday, and this sweet note to a high school student from Conan O'Brien, very politely declining to go to the prom with her in 2003.
My favorites so far include a rather weird and dirty note from Marlon Brando to Charlie Sheen on his 26th birthday, and this sweet note to a high school student from Conan O'Brien, very politely declining to go to the prom with her in 2003.
Or else, stab me in the neck. Maybe I should just rename this "Shut Up Home and Garden."
Here are the reactions and questions raised by this article: "Selling a Book by Its Cover".
1) People get paid to assemble book collections for rich people?! Sign me up!
2) So wait, buying old books is going to save the book business? I don't think that's how it works. That's like saying "let's buy all the used CDs we can find!" and expecting a "thank you" call from Tommy Mottola.
3) Thatcher Wine! LOVE! Your parents are geniuses, sir.
4) "It feels sort of needlessly complicated, like turning on the vacuum cleaner and going and finding a piece of dirt," Mr. Kidd said. "You don't have to redesign the jacket; the jackets have been designed. This feels arbitrary, like taking a piece of wood and wrapping it in paper." Yes. Exactly. And Chip Kidd- you are my hero.
5) I know the whole "writing" thing is besides the point. But is it? Are books already just artifacts? Cool things to decorate with? Why does article this make me so incredibly sad? Duh. Because I am a writer. And I care what's between the covers.
Here are the reactions and questions raised by this article: "Selling a Book by Its Cover".
1) People get paid to assemble book collections for rich people?! Sign me up!
2) So wait, buying old books is going to save the book business? I don't think that's how it works. That's like saying "let's buy all the used CDs we can find!" and expecting a "thank you" call from Tommy Mottola.
3) Thatcher Wine! LOVE! Your parents are geniuses, sir.
4) "It feels sort of needlessly complicated, like turning on the vacuum cleaner and going and finding a piece of dirt," Mr. Kidd said. "You don't have to redesign the jacket; the jackets have been designed. This feels arbitrary, like taking a piece of wood and wrapping it in paper." Yes. Exactly. And Chip Kidd- you are my hero.
5) I know the whole "writing" thing is besides the point. But is it? Are books already just artifacts? Cool things to decorate with? Why does article this make me so incredibly sad? Duh. Because I am a writer. And I care what's between the covers.
Ever since this friend of yours found a perfectly worn pair of nutmeg vintage Justins at Beacon's Closet, he's been well nigh impossible. He grew out his beard, and learned to shoot. He calls you "darlin'" and grows shit in his backyard. Last summer he spent a week at a camp in Montana learning how to field dress a moose. The only thing keeping him from truly becoming the Urban Cowboy of his dreams is that he's from Bayshore, and he has no ear for dialect at all. It's hard to be taken seriously in West Texas, when you say "pawtnah" instead of "pardner".
Inspire him, and his cadence, with the wonderful novel, True Grit, upon which the upcoming Coen Brother's remake of the John Wayne classic is based. He already has tickets to the movie on Wednesday, but he'll relish the opportunity to learn how to drop his "g"s just so, and to quote scripture just like Mattie. Not only that- the book is a cult favorite, so you'll even help him boost his cowboy-street-cred. He'll be "y'all"ing properly in no time.
Inspire him, and his cadence, with the wonderful novel, True Grit, upon which the upcoming Coen Brother's remake of the John Wayne classic is based. He already has tickets to the movie on Wednesday, but he'll relish the opportunity to learn how to drop his "g"s just so, and to quote scripture just like Mattie. Not only that- the book is a cult favorite, so you'll even help him boost his cowboy-street-cred. He'll be "y'all"ing properly in no time.
Before we begin, a caveat: I believe it is a very difficult task to buy a novel for someone. Cookbooks? Easy! Kids' books? Of course! Art books? All right. But novels are so subjective, more often then not you will strike out. It's like buying someone underpants- just because they look like they might fit, doesn't mean they will be comfortable.
That said: you have a friend. An old friend. A dear friend. A distant friend. You rarely see her, because she lives in Bozeman, Montana where she is getting a PhD in molecular biology. Her thesis is on life cycle of parasites that live in cutthroat trout bellies. On the weekends, she likes to put on a snood, drive out to Gallatin, and watch her burly husband joust under the name Lord Burleigh. He's even sort of a ringer for Henry VIII- all thick, bearded and ruddy.
In elementary school, she regaled you with stories of murdered princes, and there was always a Mary Stewart book in her hand when you two were supposed to be studying for that math test. (You got a "C". She got an "A") Later, she graduated to the Tudors. You assumed she would at some point go and study in England, but strangely, she has not. Instead, she went to China. She is fluent in Mandarin now, but still as obsessed with Katherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Katherine and Katherine as she ever was.
Wolf Hall is perfect. Who knew there was something new to be said about the Tudors? I mean, for real- everyone has had a crack at them, from Shakespeare on down to Jonathan Rhys Meyers. But Mantel's approach- telling the story of the ascension of Anne Boleyn, from the point of view of the concurrently rising royal adviser, the scrappy, wily Thomas Cromwell- is eye opening. Her writing is superb- richly detailed, pungent and beautiful. And seriously, this book, which is all about politics and intrigue and people that died centuries ago, is as unputdownable and relevant as the most recent Woodward- even though you know exactly how it's going to end, in the end. The blessing- your friend might already have read it- in which case, you can keep it for yourself. I mean, it did win the Booker. Cross your fingers!
That said: you have a friend. An old friend. A dear friend. A distant friend. You rarely see her, because she lives in Bozeman, Montana where she is getting a PhD in molecular biology. Her thesis is on life cycle of parasites that live in cutthroat trout bellies. On the weekends, she likes to put on a snood, drive out to Gallatin, and watch her burly husband joust under the name Lord Burleigh. He's even sort of a ringer for Henry VIII- all thick, bearded and ruddy.
In elementary school, she regaled you with stories of murdered princes, and there was always a Mary Stewart book in her hand when you two were supposed to be studying for that math test. (You got a "C". She got an "A") Later, she graduated to the Tudors. You assumed she would at some point go and study in England, but strangely, she has not. Instead, she went to China. She is fluent in Mandarin now, but still as obsessed with Katherine, Anne, Jane, Anne, Katherine and Katherine as she ever was.
Wolf Hall is perfect. Who knew there was something new to be said about the Tudors? I mean, for real- everyone has had a crack at them, from Shakespeare on down to Jonathan Rhys Meyers. But Mantel's approach- telling the story of the ascension of Anne Boleyn, from the point of view of the concurrently rising royal adviser, the scrappy, wily Thomas Cromwell- is eye opening. Her writing is superb- richly detailed, pungent and beautiful. And seriously, this book, which is all about politics and intrigue and people that died centuries ago, is as unputdownable and relevant as the most recent Woodward- even though you know exactly how it's going to end, in the end. The blessing- your friend might already have read it- in which case, you can keep it for yourself. I mean, it did win the Booker. Cross your fingers!
I thought Joshua Ferris' first book Then We Came To The End was really good. It reminded me vividly about my time working at an internet company during the first bubble. He captured the group-think mood spread and mob mentality of office work-spaces perfectly. And some of the characters were lovely. Not all, but some. And it was occasionally very funny.
I began reading his story, "The Pilot", with a sense of recognition which made me happy. I could completely relate to Lawrence, the main character and struggling TV writer, and his social anxiety. The sense of place, that LA malaise, is pretty dead on, although I think the workhorse musician roomie was a little TOO dead on. But who hasn't experienced the feeling, particularly before a big party at which you are sure to be a minor player, of not belonging? LA amplifies that feeling by about a thousand. Lawrence's insecurity about the state his career and his place in his world is certainly familiar, and I smiled at his worry. It felt true.
I think the story spun out a little at the bar- I feel like making him an alcoholic was too much, as if Ferris needed to load Lawrence with baggage beyond his own anxiety and fears- but quickly righted itself at the party. Lawrence's appropriation of the dress and manner of Friday Night Lights character, Coach Eric Taylor, as a protective uniform is desperate and funny. (Would it have been funnier if he was not an alcoholic? I think so). And who hasn't played a gentler, subtler game of that, lightly borrowing from friends and icons as a form of "faking it until you make it"? Everyone has their "party" self- the bubbly person they hope to always be.
I particularly liked the conversation between Lawrence and Kate Lotvelt, the party host and successful TV writer/producer. Lawrence is dying to say something specific- in fact he has gone to the party to ask her this very thing- but he loses his nerve, can't find the right opening, and contents himself with the mere conversation. I have totally done that, and Ferris got it right- that feeling of failure combined with an odd joy at having been spoken to at all, and kindly at that. Its awful.
But as the end of the story approach, I began to read with horror. Poor Lawrence. It felt all wrong, and like a writer's way out of a corner. Lawrence's descent is very well written, but hideous and too over the top for such a well observed story. Why does the ending have to be so absolute, when the story is about degrees of things? I think there's a weird hidden morality- Lawrence falls off the wagon, and is cruelly punished. This works against the sensitivity of the story. It's like kicking a puppy for eating a hot dog. But maybe the discomfiting ending, and it's spiral away from the expected, is a good thing?
I began reading his story, "The Pilot", with a sense of recognition which made me happy. I could completely relate to Lawrence, the main character and struggling TV writer, and his social anxiety. The sense of place, that LA malaise, is pretty dead on, although I think the workhorse musician roomie was a little TOO dead on. But who hasn't experienced the feeling, particularly before a big party at which you are sure to be a minor player, of not belonging? LA amplifies that feeling by about a thousand. Lawrence's insecurity about the state his career and his place in his world is certainly familiar, and I smiled at his worry. It felt true.
I think the story spun out a little at the bar- I feel like making him an alcoholic was too much, as if Ferris needed to load Lawrence with baggage beyond his own anxiety and fears- but quickly righted itself at the party. Lawrence's appropriation of the dress and manner of Friday Night Lights character, Coach Eric Taylor, as a protective uniform is desperate and funny. (Would it have been funnier if he was not an alcoholic? I think so). And who hasn't played a gentler, subtler game of that, lightly borrowing from friends and icons as a form of "faking it until you make it"? Everyone has their "party" self- the bubbly person they hope to always be.
I particularly liked the conversation between Lawrence and Kate Lotvelt, the party host and successful TV writer/producer. Lawrence is dying to say something specific- in fact he has gone to the party to ask her this very thing- but he loses his nerve, can't find the right opening, and contents himself with the mere conversation. I have totally done that, and Ferris got it right- that feeling of failure combined with an odd joy at having been spoken to at all, and kindly at that. Its awful.
But as the end of the story approach, I began to read with horror. Poor Lawrence. It felt all wrong, and like a writer's way out of a corner. Lawrence's descent is very well written, but hideous and too over the top for such a well observed story. Why does the ending have to be so absolute, when the story is about degrees of things? I think there's a weird hidden morality- Lawrence falls off the wagon, and is cruelly punished. This works against the sensitivity of the story. It's like kicking a puppy for eating a hot dog. But maybe the discomfiting ending, and it's spiral away from the expected, is a good thing?
I am an avid reader of the The New Yorker. I rush to get the mail on Monday, and then spend my week carefully parsing out the stories, so I can have just a little bit every day. If I don't start 'til Tuesday- then bliss! For by Friday afternoon I am sure to have enough material for a binge. The goal is to finish Sunday.
I generally read the magazine cover to cover, even when I feel bogged down (usually during articles involving the legislative process). But this is rare. Even rarer do I skip something. I think in the past two years, perhaps I've skipped two or three articles. I am sure one or more was fiction.
Now, I am also an avid reader of fiction. I look forward to the story each week in The New Yorker with a combination of excitement and dread. Some live up to and exceed expectations: the weird story last year about the faeries that are trying to raise a human baby, anything by Roddy Doyle or the missed John Updike. Some don't, but I like to mostly give them a chance.
I am currently wading through the most hyped edition of the magazine in some time, the "20 Under 40" fiction issue. I have read some of the authors before and some I have never heard of. But I'm excited to read it all. I thought I would post my thoughts on some of the stories, since I've been having strong reactions so far. Feel free to agree or disagree.
I generally read the magazine cover to cover, even when I feel bogged down (usually during articles involving the legislative process). But this is rare. Even rarer do I skip something. I think in the past two years, perhaps I've skipped two or three articles. I am sure one or more was fiction.
Now, I am also an avid reader of fiction. I look forward to the story each week in The New Yorker with a combination of excitement and dread. Some live up to and exceed expectations: the weird story last year about the faeries that are trying to raise a human baby, anything by Roddy Doyle or the missed John Updike. Some don't, but I like to mostly give them a chance.
I am currently wading through the most hyped edition of the magazine in some time, the "20 Under 40" fiction issue. I have read some of the authors before and some I have never heard of. But I'm excited to read it all. I thought I would post my thoughts on some of the stories, since I've been having strong reactions so far. Feel free to agree or disagree.
