Skip to main content

What I'm Reading

 The TV writer Ed Zwick has a memoir coming out, and he says, "It's never possible for a script to be *too* funny." The older I get, the more I accept this. Writers without a sense of humor make me tired.


Also, though you maybe shouldn't judge a book by its cover, you *can* judge a book by its title. Michael Cunningham's title "Day" seems vague and lazy; the book also seems vague and lazy. The title "Swamp Monsters" seems fun and irreverent; the book itself, a life story of Ron DeSantis, also seems fun and irreverent.

This brings me to "Everyone in My Family Has Killed Someone." Here's the setup. A scholar of crime stories, Ernie, witnesses a murder; he sees his brother killing an apparently random victim. But the brother gets out of jail after an absurdly short three years. Now, the family is gathering at a ski lodge, for a kind of reunion. Of course, corpses begin to pile up.

Ernie must find the murderer (who may be a member of his own family). As he investigates, he gives us snapshots of his relatives, who are all (amazingly) killers. Inevitably, Ernie's understanding of a relative's life proves to be wrong, and the killing is something different from what he imagined. As Ernie corrects his own understanding of his family's behavior, he shifts various pieces to begin to complete a puzzle; somehow, the identity of the killer, and the *true* story of Ernie's compatriots, will be braided together.

Because Ernie is a student of crime stories, he points out certain tropes (the mysterious phone call, the confrontation in the library, the ominous predictions about bad weather) as they pop up. I agree with Maureen Corrigan that the writer, Benjamin Stevenson, is graceful enough to ensure that his "meta" moments are not distracting.

I'm a fan of this book.

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...