Our own Garth was interviewed at the enotes Book Blog, where he talked about his new book A Field Guide to the North American Family, how it came together, and influences from Charles Dickens to Julio Cortazar. Check it out.
Somehow I waited two months to take a look at the "best of 2003" column from my favorite book critic Jonathan Yardley. For him 17 rather interesting books make the cut, and his two picks for best of the year are The Known World by Edward P. Jones and Gabriel Garcia Marquez's memoir Living to Tell the Tale. Both of these are on the reading queue, and I'm very much looking forward to reading them. Here is Yardley's column.
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I switched gears with Henry Miller's The Air-Conditioned Nightmare, which describes the author's travels through the South upon his return to the United States. Miller was very disgruntled when he returned to New York from Paris. He thought the outlook of the community was narrow, the morals corrupt, and the industrial greed an instrument of spiritual death. Hence, he embarked on a drive that took him down south and west to California, a trip during which he marvels at how the rural, farming South kept its soul and culture and did not succumb to the machines and skyscrapers of the North. It is an interesting account, a praise for the warm, hospitable South, and a big outburst at, and a rejection of, what the North offers. An Air Conditioned Nightmare is entertaining and deep, filled with interesting characters and encounters along the way, and depressing with regards to the industrial monster of a picture Miller paints regarding the United States.At this time, I felt the urge for a break and picked up J.D. Salinger's Nine Stories. The genius of Salinger is probably unparalleled and Nine Stories is a good testimony to it. The bizarre stories and intricate web of characters leaves the reader dazzled at the end of the 6 hours in which you fly through the pages. Nine Stories is a great collection that you can keep in your bathroom, on your coffee table or on the bedside table, and pick at any random moment for instant joy. Nine Stories put me in such a good mood that I decided to give Italo Calvino, whose Invisible Cities I read under undesirable circumstances and did not enjoy much, a second try. The novel was The Baron in the Trees. The book is one of Calvino's earlier novels and is heavily influenced by his studies of Italian folk literature. The rebellion of the heir baron to his family's strict rules places him on top of a tree, which he refuses to leave. From these circumstances a character is born who is at first considered a lunatic and then a hero, who fights fires and supports Napoleon's troops, lectures the town on citizenship, falls in love with a duchess, and meets other people who are exiled to tree tops by the Spanish church. A marvelous story, with great wit and imagination, and all the characteristics of love, chivalry, betrayal, family ties, dilemmas and unreal circumstances found in the favorite tales of childhood. A very happy book indeed.
There's an article in the New York Times today about a Princeton undergrad who used statistical analysis to illuminate the biases of New Yorker fiction editors. Katherine L. Milkman read 442 stories printed in The New Yorker from Oct. 5, 1992, to Sept. 17, 2001, and "one main conclusion was that male editors generally publish male authors who write about male characters who are supported by female characters." The 9/11 Commission will release its findings to the public in book form. It's available for preorder at Amazon. And now hitting shelves, the paperback edition of Edward P. Jones' Pulitzer-winning novel, The Known World. I highly recommend this book.
Michael Chabon's official Web site doesn't get much attention from the author. He'll post longer items from time to time as well as the occasional cryptic note about the various projects he's working on. Chabon has now, however, decided to pack it in with this Web site business:Lately I have been suffering from Repetitive Strain Injury that makes typing a chore and clicking an agony. As I have been spending less time online I have found that I've lost interest in the web as a whole, and in my site in particular. I'm tired of having to maintain www.michaelchabon.com, but I hate that it gets stale, and so quickly. Yet I don't feel comfortable with or have any interest in getting somebody else to do it for me. So I've decided, not without regret, to take it down, a little at a time, starting with the posting of my monthly Details column.On the other hand, Chabon's new novel The Yiddish Policemen's Union will be arriving in May.
This morning I read this bittersweet story in the New York Times about the auctioning of Vladimir Nabokov's personal effects by his son Dmitri. As Dmitri has no heirs, it was agreed before the elder Nabokov's death that it would be best to sell the collection before the death of the younger Nabokov. Reading the story, with its descriptions of invented butterfly drawings for Nabokov's wife Vera -- "They have variegated colors, delicate artistry and fanciful names. Only on these pages appear the blue 'Colias verae' or the dark 'Maculinea aurora Nab.'" -- reminded me of how much I enjoyed reading Nabokov's lyrical memoir, Speak, Memory, when I was in college. I read it for a class called Transatlantic Identities, taught by the dandyish Professor Tucker (who was most of all devoted to John Ruskin). We read a dozen or so memoirs penned over the last 150 years on either side of the Atlantic. Among these, Speak, Memory, was transcendent, inspiring an interest both in lepidoptery and Nabokov's expressive prose. As I read the book, Nabokov, in my mind, was transformed from the scurrilous author of the scandalous Lolita to the quiet emigre with a fascination for butterflies, and whose expertise with these brightly- winged insects landed him the curatorship of the butterfly collection at the Museum of Comparative Zoology at Harvard. Now that these butterflies have been scattered throughout the world, one can only hope that the hands that now hold them will cherish the butterflies as much as the hands that created them.