Skip to main content

New York Times

Just so you know, the NYTimes Book Review did a podcast this week, giving some insider info on the “Ten Best Books.” I listened just for a bit; some juicy notes and some thoughts....

*It wasn’t always the ten best. It was sometimes eight, or nine. But people assumed ten, so eventually the editors just said: ten.
*There is always a split, now, between five works of fiction and five works of non-fiction. Even in a year when fiction seems especially strong (for example). No attention is given to thematic variety: The books with the most beautiful sentences and the most gripping stories and the smartest research are the winners. Always. Period.
*One that calls out to me is “No Visible Bruises,” because the title is brilliant. “NVB” is what cops say to address their own worries when they’re leaving the scene of a possible domestic assault. But “visible” is a word that raises questions. What if there are psychological bruises? What if there are actual, physical bruises, and one spouse has conspired with the other spouse to conceal the bruises (for a number of complex reasons)? And who decides what is visible and invisible? “NVB” is a term that means something different from what it seems to mean.
*Kids’ books don’t seem to make this list, but I’d love to see some attention given to Kevin Henkes’s “Sweeping up the Heart.” I don’t pay special attention to a kid/adult divide. A good book is a good book. “Sweeping up the Heart” is sensitive, surprising, and packed with memorable, plausible characters. I recommend it.

Happy reading!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

How to Host a Baby

-You have assumed responsibility for a mewling, puking ball of life, a yellow-lab pup. He will spit his half-digested kibble all over your shoes, all over your hard-cover edition of Jennifer Haigh's novel  Faith . He will eat your tables, your chairs, your "I {Heart] Montessori" magnet, placed too low on the fridge. When you try to watch Bette Davis in  Hush Hush Sweet Charlotte , on your TV, your dog will bark through the murder-prologue, for no apparent reason. He will whimper through Lena Dunham's  Girls , such that you have to rewind several times to catch every nuance of Andrew Rannells's ad-libbing--and, still, you'll have a nagging suspicion you've missed something. Your dog will poop on the kitchen floor, in the hallway, between the tiny bars of his crate. He'll announce his wakefulness at 5 AM, 2 AM, or while you and another human are mid-coitus. All this, and you get outside, and it's: "Don't let him pee on my tulips!" When...

The Death of Bergoglio

  It's frustrating for me to hear Bergoglio described as "the less awful pope"--because awful is still awful. I think I get fixated on ideas of purity, which can be juvenile, but putting that aside, here are some things that Bergoglio could have done and did not. (I'm quoting from a survivor of sexual abuse at the hands of the Church.) He could levy the harshest penalty, excommunication, against a dozen or more of the most egregious abuse enabling church officials. (He's done this to no enablers, or predators for that matter.) He could insist that every diocese and religious order turn over every record they have about suspected and known abusers to law enforcement. Francis could order every prelate on the planet to post on his diocesan website the names of every proven, admitted and credibly accused child molesting cleric. (Imagine how much safer children would be if police, prosecutors, parents and the public knew the identities of these potentially dangerous me...

Raymond Carver: "What's in Alaska?"

Outside, Mary held Jack's arm and walked with her head down. They moved slowly on the sidewalk. He listened to the scuffing sounds her shoes made. He heard the sharp and separate sound of a dog barking and above that a murmuring of very distant traffic.  She raised her head. "When we get home, Jack, I want to be fucked, talked to, diverted. Divert me, Jack. I need to be diverted tonight." She tightened her hold on his arm. He could feel the dampness in that shoe. He unlocked the door and flipped the light. "Come to bed," she said. "I'm coming," he said. He went to the kitchen and drank two glasses of water. He turned off the living-room light and felt his way along the wall into the bedroom. "Jack!" she yelled. "Jack!" "Jesus Christ, it's me!" he said. "I'm trying to get the light on." He found the lamp, and she sat up in bed. Her eyes were bright. He pulled the stem on the alarm and b...