The works of "Gabriel Garcia Marquez" are to be shelved under "G," not "M." Why is this difficult to understand? The author is always referred to as "Garcia Marquez." Not "Marquez." And yet booksellers everywhere are in error, all the time. So someone in search of "100 Years of Solitude" might never find it--because of laziness and idiocy.
-People have harsh judgments about who is and is not qualified to speak about books. Recently, Reese Witherspoon gave an interview to the Times, about how she liked to read. Ms. Witherspoon studied English literature at Stanford. She has gone on to "author" many characters--as a performer. Beyond that, she has brought women's stories to the big screen, in a major way--as a producer. (I'm thinking of "Wild" and "Big Little Lies.") Would anyone doubt that Witherspoon is a storyteller--actually, a storyteller to be reckoned with? Apparently. Some insufferable Times reader--a man, of course--felt compelled to write in and complain about the Times having given book space to "an unqualified celebrity." Sometimes, I think large swaths of the entire straight white male population should just retire from writing and speaking--in any context, at any time--for maybe one full year.
-Three Lives is quaint and charming, and it was immortalized in Julia Glass's "Three Junes," but: Come on. Those people can't be bothered to keep an online database listing their wares? It's 2018.
-A good place for reading recommendations is--believe it or not--Film Forum. Those smart folks might introduce you to Megan Abbott, or to the film writing of the great Scott Eyman. They're like the people at BAM, or at other performing arts spaces, with little pop-up bookstores by the concession stand. The books have some kind of tie-in to the movie you're watching. You must appreciate the little things in life.
-Living legend John McPhee says that the things that are your obsessions in your teens will be your obsessions throughout your life. When I was a kid, I visited my great aunt, and I saw a battered paperback copy of "Red Dragon" on a table. It looked too scary to read. Now, at thirty-six, I find myself following Francis Dolarhyde's saga--with fascination--in "Hannibal." Even though I've seen "Manhunter." Very little changes, in life--and I'm especially charmed by peevish Francis's efforts to rebrand himself. He would like to be the "Red Dragon," but the press insists on calling him "the Tooth Fairy."
-Norm Macdonald self-destructed recently, but in the midst of all the craziness, he said at least one great thing. He was asked about Alice Munro, of all people. He was complaining that, right now, people feel entitled to stand up and complain about illness or death, blandly, when in fact that's just everyone's story. There's nothing inherently gripping about illness or death. The interviewer said: "But that's just the stuff of storytelling. Everyone uses that stuff. Alice Munro uses that stuff." And Macdonald made an important distinction: "Munro uses that stuff--but she finds beauty in the telling." If you're not uncovering beauty, then you're not adding anything new. So true--and good for Mr. Macdonald, for pointing that out.
-What beauty? An example is "Floating Bridge," one of my favorite Munro stories. In that one, a woman in a bad marriage (shocker!) finds out that her cancer actually isn't very serious; she's going to live. And the pain she must confront is the awful realization that she has to go on living: A big part of her had been looking forward to dying. (That's a classic Munro twist.) As she tries to cope with the news, she finds herself with a young man on a floating bridge, and the man shakes her to her core. In this scene, the idea of the "floating bridge" is crucial: If your bridge is floating, impermanent, unstable, it may not take you where you want to go. If your bridge is floating, then you're in a liminal space; you're uncertain. You're in a painful and exciting state--which is another way of saying you are alive. That's what Norm Macdonald means when he talks about Munro, and about beauty.
-The Jefferson Market library is the prettiest NYC library, but they lose your books. Don't use the book drop. Climb up those crazy, winding stairs--like Belle in the Castle of the Beast. Every time. No short cuts. I insist.
-Visiting the Strand is like submitting yourself to trench warfare. Pack lightly. Take deep breaths. Do a mental health "self-check." Care for yourself; wear a death mask; pack a magical bracelet, to ward off the irritation of others. Add twenty or thirty minutes to the time you imagine the errand might take--just as if you were planning a subway ride.
-There are very few good, comfy spots for sitting and reading in the cold, brutal metropolis that is NYC. One spot is--again--Jefferson Market. They have plush leather chairs, and sometimes these chairs are unoccupied. If you can tolerate the smelliness, filth, and craziness--then I'd say these chairs are your best bet. (You can find something similar in the St. Agnes branch--though the comfy chairs are in the children's section. So you need to risk seeming like a pedophile.)
-This is the Gospel of Reading in the City. Add. Delete. Challenge. Pass it on...
-People have harsh judgments about who is and is not qualified to speak about books. Recently, Reese Witherspoon gave an interview to the Times, about how she liked to read. Ms. Witherspoon studied English literature at Stanford. She has gone on to "author" many characters--as a performer. Beyond that, she has brought women's stories to the big screen, in a major way--as a producer. (I'm thinking of "Wild" and "Big Little Lies.") Would anyone doubt that Witherspoon is a storyteller--actually, a storyteller to be reckoned with? Apparently. Some insufferable Times reader--a man, of course--felt compelled to write in and complain about the Times having given book space to "an unqualified celebrity." Sometimes, I think large swaths of the entire straight white male population should just retire from writing and speaking--in any context, at any time--for maybe one full year.
-Three Lives is quaint and charming, and it was immortalized in Julia Glass's "Three Junes," but: Come on. Those people can't be bothered to keep an online database listing their wares? It's 2018.
-A good place for reading recommendations is--believe it or not--Film Forum. Those smart folks might introduce you to Megan Abbott, or to the film writing of the great Scott Eyman. They're like the people at BAM, or at other performing arts spaces, with little pop-up bookstores by the concession stand. The books have some kind of tie-in to the movie you're watching. You must appreciate the little things in life.
-Living legend John McPhee says that the things that are your obsessions in your teens will be your obsessions throughout your life. When I was a kid, I visited my great aunt, and I saw a battered paperback copy of "Red Dragon" on a table. It looked too scary to read. Now, at thirty-six, I find myself following Francis Dolarhyde's saga--with fascination--in "Hannibal." Even though I've seen "Manhunter." Very little changes, in life--and I'm especially charmed by peevish Francis's efforts to rebrand himself. He would like to be the "Red Dragon," but the press insists on calling him "the Tooth Fairy."
-Norm Macdonald self-destructed recently, but in the midst of all the craziness, he said at least one great thing. He was asked about Alice Munro, of all people. He was complaining that, right now, people feel entitled to stand up and complain about illness or death, blandly, when in fact that's just everyone's story. There's nothing inherently gripping about illness or death. The interviewer said: "But that's just the stuff of storytelling. Everyone uses that stuff. Alice Munro uses that stuff." And Macdonald made an important distinction: "Munro uses that stuff--but she finds beauty in the telling." If you're not uncovering beauty, then you're not adding anything new. So true--and good for Mr. Macdonald, for pointing that out.
-What beauty? An example is "Floating Bridge," one of my favorite Munro stories. In that one, a woman in a bad marriage (shocker!) finds out that her cancer actually isn't very serious; she's going to live. And the pain she must confront is the awful realization that she has to go on living: A big part of her had been looking forward to dying. (That's a classic Munro twist.) As she tries to cope with the news, she finds herself with a young man on a floating bridge, and the man shakes her to her core. In this scene, the idea of the "floating bridge" is crucial: If your bridge is floating, impermanent, unstable, it may not take you where you want to go. If your bridge is floating, then you're in a liminal space; you're uncertain. You're in a painful and exciting state--which is another way of saying you are alive. That's what Norm Macdonald means when he talks about Munro, and about beauty.
-The Jefferson Market library is the prettiest NYC library, but they lose your books. Don't use the book drop. Climb up those crazy, winding stairs--like Belle in the Castle of the Beast. Every time. No short cuts. I insist.
-Visiting the Strand is like submitting yourself to trench warfare. Pack lightly. Take deep breaths. Do a mental health "self-check." Care for yourself; wear a death mask; pack a magical bracelet, to ward off the irritation of others. Add twenty or thirty minutes to the time you imagine the errand might take--just as if you were planning a subway ride.
-There are very few good, comfy spots for sitting and reading in the cold, brutal metropolis that is NYC. One spot is--again--Jefferson Market. They have plush leather chairs, and sometimes these chairs are unoccupied. If you can tolerate the smelliness, filth, and craziness--then I'd say these chairs are your best bet. (You can find something similar in the St. Agnes branch--though the comfy chairs are in the children's section. So you need to risk seeming like a pedophile.)
-This is the Gospel of Reading in the City. Add. Delete. Challenge. Pass it on...
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