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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Not A Nice Young Jewish Boy

Imagine our surprise when we learned from an inside source that DSM contributing editor, Mr. Andrew Geer, is in bed with the Wall Street Journal. Don’t get us wrong, we respect the Journal for regularly publishing journalism of the highest order. But Geer’s allegiance to that prayer-piece of conservative dogma is downright sinful. Word on the street is he sleeps in a pair of WSJ nighties, which is enough to make the subjects of today’s stories micturate in their trousers. Philip Roth doesn’t do conservative, even if his next novel is a slim 160 pages. Edgar Allan Poe died drunk in the gutter — ’nuff said — but at long last Baltimore is giving him a proper burial.  Jean Rhys is known for her saucy demarcations; The Nation dries her out and puts her back together. Michael Jackson, that ambassador of popstar flooziness, is dead. But live on he does in Simon Crump’s new book. The Rumpus has a liberal interview of Alasdair Gray, Salman Rushide gives extremists another reason to hate America, as he is awarded the Carl Sandburg Award, and a documentary about Kerouac’s Big Sur has some left-leaning all-stars riffing to bebop. Where’s Buckley when you need him? — Kevin Murphy

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Lately we’ve been thinking about freedom. We love the freedom to roam, the freedom to live life on our own terms, even though many things often interfere. Be it work or other obligations, we are regularly shackled by someone or something. Our soon-to-be-brother in law Erik Antonson agrees when we trumpet the freedom to live and work where we choose. Hell, he moved to Nosara, Costa Rica, and started a family and a successful business there. That’s the freedom we’re talking about. Some people aren’t so lucky, though. Oppression has a storied past in China. Odd, then, that that country’s literature is waving its liberated flag in Germany. Speaking of Germany, the Berlin Wall fell 20 years ago. Read more in Salon. Author Michael Greenberg is in Berlin, talking books at that city’s Literary Festival. African short story writers might not always enjoy the recognition they deserve. The 10th annual Caine Prize aims to put that to an end. Then, of course, there’s academic freedom, which is a slippery slope. Just ask former professor Ward Churchill. Or Kurt Vonnegut, whose mysterious mind was sent a-swirling by a certain Chicago-based anthropologist.  – Kevin Murphy

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In Triumph and in Death

Mueller and Penn

The Day The Great Faulkner Arrived

When we celebrate a person’s birthday, it’s more the person than the day that we’re celebrating. September 25th, after all, is an arbitrary date. But when you attach to it William Faulkner’s name, the day becomes significant. And so it is that today we tip our hats to Mr. Faulkner, certainly one of history’s most formidable authors. In other news, banned books have about them the air of scandal, even if they’re not terribly scandalous. What is scandalous these days, anyway? The Daily Titan takes a closer look. What happens when a bunch of writers get together? They judge their peers, that’s what. See who makes the cut as writers determine the rank of their fellow scribes. Mr. Poet goes to Hollywood in the New York Review of Ideas, Anselm Berrigan has a new book of verse published by City Lights, and Nabokov’s cribbed edits are found on the pages of The Metamorphoses. Finally, on this day of honor, The Millions, perhaps getting a little ahead of themselves, makes a list of this millennium’s finest pieces of literature — thus far. It’s a splendid day for literature, this September 25th. Just remember why. — Kevin Murphy

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