We wish you nothing but the best. Success is good for you, us, the world. We also wish for the success of literary endeavors — most of the time. Maybe it’s just that our version of literary success and someone else’s version of literary success cross in the overlapping mutuality of the Venn diagram. Either way, books get published, writers get paid and readers get happy. Padgett Powell once said, “You don’t think anyone is actually going to buy it?” after reading from his work on a book tour. That sad prediction is forgotten as we join Padgett in his geographic comfort zone — rural Florida. But does a comfortable locale equal a comfortable state of mind? Read more in Deadspin. Normally we’ll drink to the success of any old reading endeavor, but the Kindle is destroying our parents’ libraries, the thought of which makes us sick. Speaking of sick, Terry Gross has an interview that explains how moonlighting as a professional dominatrix is a way to fund your path to greatness, Heidegger’s brilliance leads to Hitler, and Vollman’s Imperial County reminds us that everything ties together. Just like a group of literature professors bashing acclaimed novels for a quick payday. Hey, everyone has a different version of literary success, right?. — Andrew Geer
From the category archives:
Lit News
We’re in the middle of spring semester, and our procrastination is killing us. We’ve got piles of papers to grade, submissions to sort through, and some stories to edit and send away.
Our lives are the equivalent of Rip Van Winkle’s farm: weedy and barren. We want to carry our guns out into the Catskills. We want to sip gin from the Dutchman’s flagon and toss nine pens with the personages.
But, alas, there are things to do.
Last week, a Large Hearted Boy got us thinking about all those sexy people we’re dying to date — writers who can sing, singers who can write. A few of these People Who Are Obnoxiously Talented At More Than One Thing include our imaginary boyfriend Ryan Adams. Adams has published a collection of poems entitled Hello Sunshine. (And while we’re talking about imaginary boyfriends, we can’t help but mention Blake Schwarzenbach, an English professor and singer who has a voice deeper than Crater Lake and poetic lyrics that will send the jets of your heart to Brazil.) Second up is David Berman of the Silver Jews. Berman put out a highly-acclaimed debut called Actual Air, which, we have to say, is really good poetry…
Sunrise gets more praise than it should. If we’re awake for a sunrise it means one of several things has happened: we’ve had a brush with alcohol poisoning, insomnia, or have just an ungodly reason for waking up earlier than normal. No, instead of filling us with warmth and optimism, sunrise reminds us of a short story we penned way back in the oft-referred to “College Days.” The story involved a female protagonist who struggled with sleeplessness — a remarkable conceit, we know. But we were 19 and battling insomnia ourselves, if that’s any excuse. Anyway, two years later a young woman we were dating found the story (the unconscionable invasion of privacy into one’s scribble pad does not even warrant discussion here). Somehow this young woman, two years after the story had been written, found reason to believe it was about her. To this day, we have no idea why. She certainly didn’t subscribe to the “author is dead” school of criticism, follow? No? Well, Heteroglossia, Bahktin, what is there to do? Visit the Guardian, of course, which is listing fiction writing’s fundamental laws. From there we head to an autopsy on the death of film criticism, and then on to the death of The Exile. But life springs eternal, right? At least it evolves, as long as culture fosters it forward. The Jewish Review of Books is searching for a Hebrew Narnia, and Sam Lipsyte does interviews via IM. It’s a new morning, insomniacs. — Andrew Geer







