A Fresh New Look

Don’t call it a comeback. John Irving has been here for years. His latest effort is garnering applause, but is it up to snuff? The LA Times weighs in. Twitter is a surefooted technological tool. We only wish it would steer clear of literature. Just look what it’s doing to Bill Shakespeare. Sarah Vowell is one smart cookie. Her new book about Roger Williams and his brethren will have you laughing over and mourning for America’s early religious sects. Ayn Rand is a time-transcending lightning rod. Love her or hate her, she’s caught the attention of The Economist. Pol Pot, another historical figure — albeit despised by thousands — is in the news. Words Without Borders has a drive-by account. One thinks of Ansel Adams in black and white. Take a gander at some of his more colorful work. Finally, it’s jazz, baby. Long ago a comprehensive book was written, which traced the arc of this monumental art-form. The Jazz Book goes all the way back to ragtime, and then travels across the landscapes of big band, bepop and fusion. All you cats should have a listen. — Kevin Murphy

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Sonic Youth’s Halloween

“Halloween,” from Sonic Youth’s 1985 Flower EP (later appended to the Bad Moon Rising LP) is music for a scene from a low-budget, 1970’s cult horror film. In the scene, a Super 8 camera reveals the grainy image of a dilapidated, two-story Victorian home in a clearing of dense forest. Shutters hang by one hinge and smack against the siding. The wood on the porch is rotten, warped and cracked. The little glass that remains in the windows is just jagged bits. Suddenly, a man rushes out into the night. His clothes are in blood-drenched tatters, his eyes nearly bursting from their sockets with terror. He stops in the tall grass and falls to his knees. For a moment all is still. Then, out in the distance, something begins to move. The music starts up.

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Rise And Shine, Somerset

Once upon a time there was a literary magazine editor. He was a short, pudgy man who wore cloudy glasses and had greasy hair. All day long he ate egg sandwiches, and his socks stunk through his shoes. At night he’d stay in his apartment, up late, watching through a window the cars passing on the street. When it came time for him to edit, he’d strip past his underwear and remove his glasses, spin furiously in his swivel chair and then go at it — blind, naked and dizzy — until all the tales that needed were told. This is what they said: Break out your pick axe, it’s time to unearth Maugham’s grave. Tufts University has a juicy bit of late breaking news: Boston’s a literary town! Prague is up on Israeli authors, just ask Oz. The first chapter in Prison Pitt is titled “Fucked.” Read more in The Faster Times. Who here has said they’ve read Proust and actually not read him? Atone for your sins inside the Cork-Lined Room. Blah blah blah more great writers win blah blah more writing awards. And then there’s this: Maurice Sendak, champion of adolescent agitprop, tells parents to go to Hell! Well well. Sounds like someone needs an egg sandwich. — Kevin Murphy

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Henrietta’s baby was always the pretty one. Mama always thought so. She always hugged and coddled her like she were her own, but she wasn’t. I was.

Henrietta’s baby came six years after me. I remember Mama hearing a moan from the house. She set me down on the stump of our old maple, the one that was hit by lightening the year before. She told me that she’d be right back. Don’t move your little behind from that stump, she said. I watched her spring into the house, kerchief falling off her head, and I sat there. I just sat there. I don’t know for how long, but round when the shadows were getting long on the trees, it started getting cold. I shivered for a little bit before I called for Bennie who was chasing some rats out of our back yard. He came over, licked my toes, and I know Mama told me not to, but I got off that stump. I curled up in the dirt with Bennie and hugged him. His stinky breath kept me warm. I wanted to go to the house, but I knew Mama would get me good for disobeying her. My arms had bruises already from when she gripped me so hard. I didn’t want more bruises.

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The Great Gatsby?

We can’t verify Kevin’s sources, so we will withhold comment on the sleeping attire accusations. However, we do have an insatiable appetite for laughter and irony. And we do like finance and what it can tell you. William Quirk shows us what we can learn from F. Scott’s tax returns. The numbers in those returns are ancient history, and that’s where we continue — the age-old debate over Thucydides’s objectivity. Roger Sandall examines the similarity between the old metaphysics of Plato and Grand Theft Auto, the video game (disclaimer: we don’t play video games, well, Tecmo Bowl). Writers tend to be obsessive and now there’s a new “obsessive history” of The Elements of Style. And, finally, we get a little more contemporary with the first year of Pitchfork’s The Decade in News. Now it’s time to get back in our jammies. – Andrew Geer

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