authors

Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, this week exercising his feminine side and delving into women, women and more women.

It used to bug me how, at a certain point at parties, half a dozen of the most interesting women would get up and stroll to the ladies room.

Their reason, I came to understand, was neither cosmetic nor functional — they just knew a better party was to be had sitting on the edge of the bathtub, chatting among themselves.

One night I did what I’d wanted to do for years: I followed them.

An exception was made and — be still my heart — I was treated like “one of the girls.” And I understood why they fled the living room: A better time really was to be had without men. That is: greater intimacy, sharper sharing, edgier stories.

That is also true of Susanna Sonnenberg’s “She Matters: A Life in Friendships.” I’d read her first memoir — Her Last Death — and greatly admired her account of a childhood spent with a drug-soaked, sex-addicted, wildly destructive mother and an eccentric, distracted father. Sonnenberg’s story was compelling, but what really impressed me was the writing. By now pretty much anyone can serve up a lurid tale; Sonnenberg not only faced the truth about her family’s pathology, she crafted it with style, wit, and, remarkably, distance.

“She Matters” tells twenty stories: Sonnenberg’s intense friendships with twenty women. That number alone is impressive — I don’t think I’ve had twenty friends in my life. And I don’t know anyone who would say that friends are as crucial to life as oxygen.

(more…)

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Illustration by the amazing Wendy MacNaughton.

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Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, this week bringing you down — and then up.

“The Rules of Inheritance” is a memoir about a bummer. Two bummers, really. When Claire Bidwell Smith, an only child, was 14, both of her parents were diagnosed with cancer. When she was 18, her mother died. When she was 25, her father died.

Why, you may wonder, am I writing about this book?

Initially, my reason was personal.

When my wife was 11, her mother was diagnosed with cancer. When she was 13, her mother died. When she was 17, her father died.

Claire Bidwell Smith is now a grief counselor and hospice worker — she’s not only come to terms with her losses, she’s learned how to use them to help others. My wife has taken paths to healing that do not include the writing of a memoir. And in this, my third marriage, I am not so stupid that I believe asking my wife direct questions about the biggest tragedies in her life is endearing or useful. But here was a book. And I thought… okay, just this once….

“The Rules of Inheritance” is sensationally good, and if you have lost someone you love or are in the process of losing someone, I’d put this book on top of the pile. [To buy the paperback from Amazon, click here. For the Kindle edition, click here.]

But that’s not the reason I want to write about it. As I was reading Smith’s memoir, I happened upon a blog by Dani Shapiro, author of Devotion. She writes:

Lately, I’ve been reading a lot of books that play it safe. Conventional narratives, characters whose edges are smoothed out to a palatable degree. Can I just say it? These books bore me. I’m bored. It’s like eating muesli when I want a charred, juicy steak. I want to read about messiness. I don’t need the pieces to fit together in fiction — I mean, when do the pieces ever fit together in life? I want to encounter characters who feel, who do the unexpected. Who think human thoughts — no matter how dark and flawed and uncomfortable. I want to be reminded of my own inner landscape, my own complex humanity.

I also seem to be getting a lot of those books. Description? For pages. Plots? So exquisitely graphed that they’re airless. And long? My pet peeve. So very, very long.

For these “term-paper” writers — because they write as if a kindly teacher is going to give them an “A” and send a nice note home — and their suicidal publishers, it might as well be 1910. Did the Internet happen? Did reading habits and attention spans change? “Yes, of course.” And the implications of that? “We’ll adjust our marketing.”

The most important question — might readers be more inclined to read shorter, more crisply edited books? — goes unanswered, largely because it seems not to be asked. And that is one of the reasons I have such high hopes for the novel I’m writing. “The Great Gatsby” is a thin book: 47,094 words. Mine won’t top 47,000. And it’s written in the style I’ve developed in 15 years of writing on the Internet: short sentences, short paragraphs, more dialogue than description. “Prose like a windowpane,” Orwell said. Well, I’m trying.

And so is Claire Bidwell Smith. Her book is a chronicle of a decade-long nervous breakdown. In her case, that means a doomed relationship with an obsessive lover, aimless travel, a joke of an assistant’s job for the West Coast editor of a magazine that sounds suspiciously like Vanity Fair and a bout of nursing her father. And it means the thoughts she has along the way.

“Champagne for my sham friends, real pain for my real friends,” Noel Coward said. Smith writes for herself — she hardly dares to imagine that she has friends — in an effort to become a friend to herself. So her thoughts are brutal.

Claire, your mother is dying. Nothing. I feel nothing.

My mother is dead. She has been dead for three days. My mother has been dead for three days. I say it out loud over and over…

My mother is gone. My father is 78 years old. This is it. I am on my own.

I would do anything to have my mother back.

Like that, for 260 pages. A collection of anecdotes, with glimmers of possibility along the way. And a final chapter that is everything you hope it will be — for her, for you, for us all.

Could Smith have filled 400 pages? Why not? All the others do. But Smith matched method to story. She gave us a book that’s reads right for right now. And sounds as if it will be true forever.

A sample. She’s 18. It’s her last night in Spain. She meets a boy, a smart, sweet boy. And goes home with him:

Moments can be so simple sometimes. In this one I realize that I have convinced myself that nothing could ever hurt as much as my mother’s death but in fact, the opposite is true.

Everything hurts.

Tears well up in my eyes. It occurs to me that I have been pretending, that I thought I deserved this. For the first time, I feel the knife slide in just a little.

I turn my head to one side to hide my tears and I feel Alvaro’s heavy silence.

I’ve never done this, he whispers.

I turn back to him, searching his face.

A few days ago his girlfriend of two years – his first love – left him. His voice is a whisper as he tells me this. She already has a new boyfriend.

I knew, Alvaro says, the moment my fingers closed around your camera, that I would sleep with you.

My mother is dead, I say in response. She died a couple of months ago.

I knew I would sleep with you too, I say.

We spend the rest of the night talking, face to face, our legs crossed Indian-style on the bed, and then perched on stools at the kitchen counter drinking cold juice, and later back in his car, the stars are high and clear above us.

It doesn’t occur to me until later how much this night is like the one I spent with Michel, but when it does, I will again marvel at the power people have to unlock each other.

I call that an “A.” And perhaps this note to the author will suffice.

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Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, this week making you an offer you can’t refuse.

It was the spring of 1983. On a long plane trip, I started reading “The Queen’s Gambit.” The author was Walter Tevis, who had also written “The Man Who Fell to Earth” and “The Hustler” (and who would later write “The Color of Money”). I had read none of those books. Nor had I seen the movies made from them. I just had a hunch.

I was never smarter — this is a novel that, very simply, cannot be put down. The woman who would become my first wife tried to make conversation; I shushed her. A meal came; I pushed it aside. All I could do was read, straight to the end — weeping, cheering, punching the air.

I got off the plane and optioned the film rights to “Queen’s Gambit,” and was soon at work on the greatest script I will probably ever undertake. Every young actress wanted to star in it, a half dozen “hot” directors wanted to direct it. Then the parade moved on. I couldn’t afford to keep the option. Walter Tevis died. His widow, needing money, sold the movie rights to people who, in 25 years, have not been able to get the film made. The book went out of print.

Two decades later, a paperback edition appeared. No Kindle; the publisher is asleep. (To buy the book from Amazon, click here.)

What’s the fuss about? An eight-year-old orphan named Beth Harmon. Who turns out to be the Mozart of chess. Which brings her joy (she wins! people notice her!) and misery (she’s alone and unloved and incapable of asking for help). So she gets addicted to pills. She drinks. She loses. And then, as 17-year-old Beth starts pulling herself together, she must face the biggest challenge of all — a match with the world champion, a Russian of scary brilliance.

You think: This is thrilling? You think: chess? You think: Must be an “arty” novel, full of interior scenes.

Wrong. All wrong. “The Queen’s Gambit” is “Rocky.”

But here is the catch. Although this is a very adult book — what is more grown up than the realization that we cannot really succeed in life, no matter how “gifted” we may be, if we are alone and unloved? — it is so artlessly written it seems almost to have no style. This is the dream novel: 100% story.

Here, for example, is Beth, freshly orphaned, breaking through her shyness to confront the silent giant of a custodian who spends his days playing solitary chess in the orphanage’s furnace room:

”Will you teach me?”

Mr. Shaibel said nothing, did not even register the question with a movement of his head. Distant voices from above were singing “Bringing in the Sheaves.”

She waited for several minutes. Her voice almost broke with the effort of her words, but she pushed them out, anyway: “I want to learn to play chess.”

Mr. Shaibel reached out a fat hand to one of the larger black pieces, picked it up deftly by its head and set it down on a square at the other side of the board. He brought the hand back and folded his arms across his chest. He still did not look at Beth. “I don’t play strangers.”

The flat voice had the effect of a slap in the face. Beth turned and left, walking upstairs with the bad taste in her mouth.

“I’m not a stranger,” she said to him two days later. “I live here.” Behind her head a small moth circled the bare bulb, and its pale shadow crossed the board at regular intervals. “You can teach me. I already know some of it, from watching.”

“Girls don’t play chess.” Mr. Shaibel’s voice was flat.

She steeled herself and took a step closer, pointing at, but not touching, one of the cylindrical pieces that she had already labeled a cannon in her imagination. “This one moves up and down or back and forth. All the way, if there’s space to move in.

Mr. Shaibel was silent for a while. Then he pointed at the one with what looked like a slashed lemon on top. “And this one?”

Her heart leapt. “On the diagonals.”

See? You don’t need to know anything about chess. Tevis was a storyteller whose genius was to tell great stories; there’s nothing between you and the people.

I believe that you will care about Beth Harmon more than any fictional character you’ve encountered in years and years.

I believe that you will grasp the wrench of loneliness — and the power of love — as if this book were happening to you.

And I believe that you will weep, and cheer, and, at the end, raise your fist like a fool for a little girl who never existed and a game only nerds play.

If you don’t love it, I’ll buy it from you.

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Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, this week contemplating that indoor sport: the affair.

You wait for the phone to ring.

That’s your life, waiting.

You never know when he’ll call, so you leave your home as little as possible. Hair dryers and vacuum cleaners make noise that could drown out a ringing phone; you use them sparingly. And then, without warning, there’s the voice you crave — he can be free for a few hours without his wife getting curious.

In a panic, you bathe. Frantically clean your home. File your nails so there’s no chance you’ll leave a mark on him. Lay out drinks, ice, his favorite snack.

Then the door opens and your life begins. You barely speak, this isn’t that kind of relationship. Later, he looks at his watch. You sigh. He showers, dresses. A final touch, and he’s gone. Your life once again turns to waiting.

That’s a woman’s story. (It’s the rare man whose life revolves around an unavailable woman who has trouble finding a moment to call and has an even harder time arranging a rendezvous.) Indeed, it’s Annie Ernaux’s story — a lightly fictionalized account of a two-year affair she had with a married Eastern European diplomat.

The whole story takes just 64 pages. And nothing really happens; it’s mostly waiting. But the waiting is so acutely observed that in France — Ernaux lives in a suburb of Paris — ‘Simple Passion’ was the #1 bestseller for 8 months, with more than 400,000 copies sold. [To buy the paperback from Amazon, click here. For the Kindle download, click here.]

The appeal of the book is, if you will, how manly it is. How matter-of-fact. Writing, Ernaux tells us at the start of the novel, should be like sex. That is, there should be “a feeling of anxiety and stupefaction. a suspension of moral judgment.”

So you won’t get any speculation about his feelings. Or if he’ll leave his wife. No, this affair is about sex. It’s about “lying in bed with that man in the middle of the afternoon.”

The man, like the woman, is nameless. He’s 38. He likes “Yves Saint-Laurent suits, Cerruti ties and powerful cars.” He watches bad TV. He drinks. But these preferences hardly matter. For the narrator knows at the beginning of the affair something that most woman only learn at the end: “The man we love is a complete stranger.” As is, perhaps, the woman.

Something happens at the end of the book — nothing dramatic, like a murder or even a confrontation, but I don’t want to spoil the experience for you — and we’re forced to consider her anew.

Who is Annie Ernaux? You’ve probably never heard of her, but she’s one of the biggest names in French fiction. Born in 1940, she grew up in a small town. She became a literature teacher in Paris. And, from her first book to her most recent, she had her style down pat: short, autobiographical books, so honestly told you feel she’s scraping off skin with every word. She never presents herself as a victim or a hero; she just is. Her books win prizes. And, though they’re chilly, they sell. Her humanity — that honest expression of desire and weakness — only looks simple. It’s a bitch to write.

Ernaux says that passion is the luxury of adults. I think I understand what she means: It’s time out of time, a shared secret, a deep and wordless acknowledgment of need and a gloriously hot way of satisfying that need. I think that’s why women, in particular, gravitate to Ernaux’s short, disturbing books — they know they’re real. How? Because, at one point or another, they’ve been that woman looking at her phone, praying for it to ring.

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Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, with a gift of personal peace.

Thich Nhat Hanh doesn’t use a telephone, so when I interviewed him for America Online, I had to pick him up and drive him to the office. TNH practices “walking meditation.” That is, he walks very slowly, breathing very consciously, so that every breath and step become prayers. I knew this. And walked very slowly. But not slowly enough. Every ten paces, I had to stop and go back.

That is not because I am a speedwalker, but because I’m not truly mindful. My loss. For as TNH points out:

The Buddha confirmed that it is possible to live happily in the here and the now — even if you still have lots of pain and sorrow within yourself. Mindful breathing helps you become fully alive. And when you are really there, you can touch all the wonders of life that are available in this very moment for your enjoyment…for your nourishment…and for your healing
.

This is a very happy man presenting a joyous view of life. You think Buddhism is nihilistic because it lacks a God-figure and does not offer a road map to eternal life? Well, listen to this:

This body is not me. I am much more than this body. The space of 50 or 60 or 70 years is not my lifespan. It is not true that I did not exist before I was born. It is not true that I will no longer exist after the disintegration of this body. My ground of being is the reality of no birth, no death. No coming, no going. It is like water is the ground of being of a wave. The wave might be afraid of being or non-being. But if she knows that she is water, she will lose all her fear. Nothing is born…nothing dies. Birth and death cannot really touch us. If you know that, you will be able to enjoy every second of your daily life — even if you are in terminal illness.

I take great comfort in those words. And in the notion that meditation can be as simple as a conscious in-breath, a conscious out-breath. And that the key to everything is to be wide-awake — to be “mindful.” [To buy the paperback of "Essential Writings" from Amazon, click here. For the Kindle edition, click here.]

Who is Thich Nhat Hahn? He became a monk in Vietnam at 16. He studied Zen (no, Zen is not just a Japanese strain of Buddhism), but in an “engaged” form, so, in the early 1960s, he founded the School of Youth for Social Services — a Vietnamese Peace Corps — to help his war-battered countrymen. A university and a magazine followed.

In 1966, TNH’s non-violent appeals caused him to be exiled from Vietnam. He taught at Columbia University, then founded a retreat in rural France called Plum Village. He comes to America about once a year and gives lectures in a voice so quiet and peaceful you have to lean in to hear him.

His themes resonate deeply for me:

Do not be bound to any doctrine, theory, or ideology, even Buddhist ones… Avoid being narrow-minded… Truth is found in life and not merely in conceptual knowledge…. Do not force others to adopt your views… Do not avoid contact with suffering…. Do not maintain anger or hatred… Do not live with a vocation that is harmful to humans and nature.

Dreamer? TNH is the ultimate realist. “Do not believe that I feel that I follow these precepts perfectly,” he says. “I know I fail in many ways. However, I must work toward a goal. These are my goals. No words can replace practice, only practice can make the words.”

It has long been clear to me that this peace starts with the personal — before I can help others create peace, I must be at peace within myself. Over time, I have found that TNH is the teacher who best helps me do this. Maybe you will find that to be true for you as well.

TNH is prolific. Where to start? Easy: a 163-page paperback, “The Essential Writings.”

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Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, this week making his contribution to a cult — a good cult.

On October 23, 1992, with her daughter tucked in and her husband next to her, Laurie Colwin went to sleep. She did not wake up. She was 48 years old.

The memorial service was standing room only, for Laurie Colwin was much loved. Some people there knew her from the 1968 campus uprisings at Columbia, when she cooked for the student protesters who had taken over university buildings. Some knew her from the soup kitchen where she cooked for the poor and elderly. But most were writers, with writers’ stories, like Scott Spencer, who talked about the early days, when Colwin pretended to be an agent and shopped his first manuscript around town: “She saw me in ways I had never seen myself before and never since.”

A curious thing happened after Laurie Colwin died. Her books remained in print, all of them. And that’s saying something, for she was prolific: five novels and three books of short stories, with two more books published after her death. Eighteen years after her death, her website launched.

It makes sense that Laurie Colwin, in death, should be more popular than a lot of living writers who mine the same terrain. She hit the sweet spot. She wrote about privileged people so well you could legitimately call her our Jane Austen, But also, well before Nora Ephron, she threw in recipes, and in some of her perceptions, she was cousin to Woody Allen. In a time when “literary fiction” was mostly pinched and gloomy, she was the half-full glass — she even called one of her novels “Happy All the Time.” And her writing had that key element, energy; there was a reason they played Sam and Dave before her memorial service.

What to read?

The cooks and eaters among you will gravitate to “Home Cooking,” a collection of the columns she wrote for Gourmet magazine. (Here’s a spooky story. A few months before she died, she called Gourmet’s editor and said, “I have all my columns for next year, is it O.K. if I send them in now?” She did. And for almost a year after she died, a Laurie Colwin piece was in the issue.)

“Home Cooking” is exactly that. It begins: “Unlike some people, who love to go out, I love to stay home.” She wrote a prose poem to the power of the dinner party: “It is a fact of life that people give dinner parties, and when they invite you, you have to turn around and invite them back. Often they retaliate by inviting you again, and you must then extend another invitation. Back and forth you go, like Ping-Pong balls, and what you end up with is called social life.” But she wasn’t really complaining. This is quintessential Colwin: “One of the delights of life is eating with friends; second to that is talking about eating. And, for an unsurpassed double whammy, there is talking about eating while you are eating with friends.” [To buy the paperback from Amazon, click here.]

On to the fiction. Colwin’s cult is divided about The Best Book. Some insist it’s “Happy All the Time.” I understand why. Four lovers in their twenties, far from poor, highly educated, with the special tics of the intelligently self-obsessed. The writing is lush:

“There are going to be thousands of dinners like this, thought Misty. This is my place at the dinner table. This is my intended husband’s best friend and that is the wife of my intended’s best friend whom I am going to spend the rest of my life getting to know. Across the table, Vincent looked seraphically happy. How wonderful everything tasted, Misty thought. Everything had a sheen on it. Was that what love did, or was it merely the wine? She decided that it was love.
“It was just as she suspected: love turned you into perfect mush.”

One character is Jewish and mouthy, a stand-in for the author and a great humanizing factor — this is, in every other way, a story from the 1970s, when these self-involved lives were still possible. [To read Chapter 1, click here. To buy the paperback from Amazon, click here.]

I prefer “Shine On, Bright & Dangerous Object.” It has a word-perfect beginning, with a solid narrative voice and a keen appreciation for the Important Facts:

My husband died sailing off the coast of Maine, leaving me a widow at the age of twenty-seven. This was the time when a lot of girls were losing their husbands to the air war or the ground war; I lost my husband to recklessness, to a freak storm and a flimsy boat. I had no bitter, apologetic telegram to inform me, no grieving soldier at my door with the unsent letter, watch, and kit, no child to console.
His name was Sam Bax, and no one ever stopped him from anything.

Colwin nails grief and the ways it wants you to be by yourself even as it pushes you to be with people. It is inevitable in these 180 pages that the person Elizabeth Bax will be pushed toward is Sam’s far more solid (and appropriate) brother. Colwin gets the push-pull just right. And, for a Jane Austenite, she writes decent sex. [To read Chapter 1, click here. To buy the paperback from Amazon, click here.]

Colwin’s fans admit no flaws, but I see one. Each of these novels doesn’t end where it should. Each has an extra section that takes the characters where they don’t need to go, only to bring them back to the ending we could have had many pages earlier. True, without these sections, the novels would have been novellas. They would also have been perfect.

But this is to quibble. If you like old-fashioned novels of manners, here they are, regrooved. A pity there won’t be more of them.
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ROAST CHICKEN À LA LAURIE COLWIN
Serves 4

‘There is nothing like roast chicken,” Colwin wrote. ‘It is helpful and agreeable, the perfect dish no matter what the circumstances. Elegant or homey, a dish for a dinner party or a family supper, it will not let you down.”

a 3- to 3 1/2-pound chicken
3 to 4 cups cubed whole-wheat bread
1/2 cup porcini mushrooms
1/4 to 1/3 cup broth
Salt and fresh ground pepper
Paprika
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 tablespoon melted butter or water or broth for basting.

Preheat oven to 300 degrees.

Rinse chicken and pat dry.

Combine bread and mushrooms in a bowl and toss with broth. Season to taste. Stuff chicken and secure with poultry pin or toothpick. Place in roasting pan and sprinkle with salt, pepper and paprika. (If desired, surround it with carrots, potatoes, onions, garlic and a red pepper.)

Roast for about 2 hours, basting frequently with melted butter and pan juices. The chicken is done when the leg bone wiggles and the skin is the color of teak.

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The weatherman is calling for rain all week. There’s something about rainy days like this that makes me want to curl up under a blanket, drink something hot, and read Jeeves & Wooster–or, better yet, watch it! What about you? Are you a PG Wodehouse fan?

Until next week, here’s wishing you an afternoon on the couch with a good book!
xo~ Hannah B.

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Jesse Kornbluth, of HeadButler.com, virtually here but actually 2,000 miles from my keyboard.

It’s that time again. My brood has stood guard over offices, camps and my little corner of the Web all summer, and now it’s our turn to flee. This year we’re off to hike where the last significant event occurred 70 million years ago. After a year of titanic egos rattling through Manhattan’s canyons, Zion will provide a humbling sense of scale — as will a day floating in a Vegas pool with our daughter.

But that doesn’t mean you get to slack. I’ve put together a selection for you: the best of the best. Lots of froth, some seriousness, all top-shelf.

NEW AND NOTEWORTHY

John Green: The Fault in Our Stars
I’ll say it again: “The Fault in Our Stars.” Hell, I’ll say it as many times as it takes to get you to read it. A friend finished it well after midnight. “I was bawling,” she wrote. So will you. And you’ll write to thank me too. Because it’s that good.

Alan Furst: Mission to Paris
“In Paris, the evenings of September are sometimes warm, excessively gentle, and, in the magic particular to that city, irresistibly seductive. The autumn of 1938 began in just such weather and on the terraces of the best cafés, in the famous restaurants, at the dinner parties one wished to attend, the conversation was, of necessity, lively and smart: fashion, cinema, love affairs, politics, and, yes, the possibility of war—that too had its moment. Almost anything, really, except money. Or, rather, German money. A curious silence, for hundreds of millions of francs — tens of millions of dollars — had been paid to some of the most distinguished citizens of France since Hitler’s ascent to power in 1933. But maybe not so curious, because those who had taken the money were aware of a certain shadow in these transactionsand, in that shadow, the people who require darkness for the kind of work they do.”

Brandi Carlile
This is the year of Brandi Carlile. Her new CD, “Bear Creek,” opened high on the music charts. Her tour is a nightly revelation. She just got engaged. It’s been a long time since she sold some of her guitars to buy microphones for Tim and Phil Hanseroth — “The Twins” — the guitarists who stand lean and tall behind her on stage.

William Boyd: Waiting for Sunrise
“It is a clear and dazzling summer’s day in Vienna.” That’s how it starts. August, 1913, and Lysander Rief, a 28-year-old English actor, has come to Vienna for — what else — treatment from one of those newfangled creatures, a psychoanalyst. His problem? He’s interested in sex, but can’t have an orgasm. In the waiting room, he meets the military attaché at the British consulate. And, more to the point, he meets Hettie Bull, a free-spirited sculptor who will quickly solve his problem.

David Byrne and Caetano Veloso

My wife and I saw the 2004 Veloso-Byrne concert from about the tenth row. It was magic, spectacular right from the from start — I think pretty much everyone there got that, and felt privileged, and went nuts with pleasure and gratitude after each song. A while back, we ran into Byrne at a gallery and asked about a CD. “Soon,” he said. “Maybe.” Well, what’s eight years — half as long as it takes for single malt to be drinkable.

Michael Lindsay-Hogg: Luck and Circumstance: A Coming of Age in Hollywood, New York, and Points Beyond
On the surface, this is an exploration of Michael’s paternity, about which his mother had persistently lied. His father, she insisted, was Edward Lindsay-Hogg, an English baronet who was tall and dark and thin and lived in Ireland. Michael was to ignore all rumors to the contrary. “We [Orson Welles and I] would go out for dinner together,” she told her son. “And you know how people can put two and two together and make three.”

FIFTY SHADES

Fifty Shades of Grey
“Fifty Shades” is a category all by itself. As a piece of writing — sorry, I can’t finish that sentence. “But all my friends have read it,” you say. Fine. Get it done. Just don’t spend more than two hours with it, or it may render you stupid for life.

CLASSICS

The Quiche of Death
“Mrs. Agatha Raisin sat behind her newly cleared desk in her office in South Molton Street in London’s Mayfair. From the outer office came the hum of voices and the clink of glasses as the staff prepared to say farewell to her. For Agatha was taking early retirement. She had built up the public-relations firm over long hard years of work. She had come a long way from her working-class background in Birmingham. She had survived an unfortunate marriage and had come out of it, divorced and battered in spirit, but determined to succeed in life. All her business efforts were to one end, the realization of a dream — a cottage in the Cotswolds.”

Walter Tevis: The Queen’s Gambit

An eight-year-old orphan named Beth Harmon turns out to be the Mozart of chess. Which brings her joy (she wins! people notice her!) and misery (she’s alone and unloved and incapable of asking for help). So she gets addicted to pills. She drinks. She loses. And then, as 17-year-old Beth starts pulling herself together, she must face the biggest challenge of all — a match with the world champion, a Russian of scary brilliance. You think: This is thrilling? You think: chess? You think: Must be an “arty” novel, full of interior scenes. Wrong. All wrong. “The Queen’s Gambit” is “Rocky.;

Edmund Crispin: The Moving Toyshop

A noted English poet named Richard Cadogan cadges the awesome sum of fifty pounds from his publisher and heads off to a vacation in — of all places — Oxford. He arrives late at night and stumbles into an unlocked toy shop, but before he can make himself comfortable he finds a freshly-murdered female. Hit on the head, Cadogan wakes hours later in another room and rushes to the police. They hurry to the toy shop. No body. In fact, no toy shop — it’s a grocery. As it always was, apparently.

Denis Johnson: Jesus Son

“Jesus’ Son” is one of the ten funniest books I’ve ever read. A guy has a knife stuck in his eye; a drugged-out hospital orderly saves him without quite knowing what he’s done. Another guy gets shot in a farmhouse, for no reason. A third guy overdoses. Prison looms for everyone. And it all takes place in the gloomy flatland of the Midwest, circa 1971. Funny? You’ll see….


HOT AND BOTHERED


Annie Ernaux: Simple Passion

64 pages. A #1 bestseller in France. And not a bit of actual smut.

James Salter: A Sport and a Pastime

“She cannot be satisfied. She will not let him alone. She removes her clothes and calls to him. Once that night and twice the next morning he complies and in the faint darkness between lies awake, the lights of Dijon faint on the ceiling, the boulevards still. It’s a bitter night. Flats of rain are passing. Heavy drops ring in the gutter outside their window, but they are in a dovecote, they are pigeons between the eaves. The rain is falling all around them. Deep in feathers, breathing softly, they lie.”

Françoise Sagan: Bonjour Tristesse
Her father has rented a large white villa on the Mediterranean for the summer. It’s the house you dream of: “remote and beautiful, standing on a headline jutting out over the sea, hidden from the road by pine woods. A goat path led down to a small, sunny cove where the sea lapped against rust-colored rocks.” The water? “Cool and transparent.” Ahhhhhh…

GREAT LIVES

Julia Child: My Life in France
Her first meal, in Rouen, started with oysters, served with a pale rye bread and unsalted butter. They were followed by sole meuniere, “perfectly browned in a sputtering butter sauce with a sprinkling of chopped parsley.” Mr. and Mrs. Child washed it down with a bottle of Pouilly-Fume. They moved on to a green salad and a baguette, fromage blanc and cafe filtre. “Absolute perfection,” Julia decided. “The most exciting meal of my life.”

Radioactive: Marie & Pierre Curie, A Tale of Love and Fallout

Marya Sklodowska, a brilliant student from Poland, came to Paris to study at the Sorbonne. In 1894, she met Pierre Curie, an iconoclast who taught physics and chemistry. How deep was their love? As Pierre wrote to her, “It would be a fine thing … to pass our lives near to each other, hypnotized by our dreams; your patriotic dream, our humanitarian dream, and our scientific dream.

Jacques Lusseyran: And There Was Light

A leader of the French Resistance in World War II. Oh, he was blind. But in fact, he could see — “radiance [was] emanating from a place I saw nothing about.” He could see light, after all. It only faded when he was afraid.

Georgia O’Keefe: How Georgia Became O’Keeffe: Lessons on the Art of Living
The standard stuff, and a lot more. Like: Alfred Stieglitz — her lover, mentor and husband — wrote at least 50,000 letters. “Those letters were Angry Birds and I Can Has Cheezburger and American Idol and retail therapy, and everything else we moderns like to do.” Like: The “epic marriage” of Stieglitz and O’Keeffe: “She was the red Porsche purchased by a middle-aged man; he was the football hero who falls in love with the awkward new girl in school.”

Johnny U: The Life and Times of Johnny Unitas
Team first. That was Unitas. In the huddle, a black player said that an opponent had called him “nigger.” Unitas said: “Let him through.” And he threw a bullet pass into that guy’s head so hard it felled him. To sportswriters, after a game, he described everyone’s goofs as his mistakes. He played hurt; he had a Terminator’s tolerance for pain. Of course his teammates loved him. “Playing with Johnny Unitas,” one said, “was like being in the huddle with God.”

MUSIC THAT MATTERS

Teddy Thompson
‘Separate Ways,’ his second CD, starts like this: “I want to be a huge star who hangs out in hotel bars/ I want to wake up at noon in somebody else’s room/ I want to shine so bright it hurts….” Amusing. We’ve all been there. But what is this? “I wanna be death bed thin.” And “I wanna be high strung/Make people wonder/what they’ve done.” Hey, these dreams are new territory.

Krishna Das
“I’m just another person who hears me chanting, you know? That’s why I do it. I’m not doing it for anybody else. I’m doing it because it’s my life blood. It’s what I do. I recognize that so many people get benefit from it. That’s wonderful. Isn’t that great? But that’s not why I do it.”

Albert King: Born Under a Bad Sign
He used a thumb rather than a pick. And he used that thumb sparingly. “It ain’t how many notes you play,” he said. “It’s how you play them.” Guitar players revered him. Mike Bloomfield, no slouch himself: “Albert can take four notes and write a volume. He can say more with fewer notes than anyone I’ve ever known.

DEARLY DEPARTED

Etta James
Leonard Chess liked “triangle” songs, and he found a great one for Etta’s Chess debut: “All I Could Do Was Cry.” The set-up: Etta watching her lover marry another woman. The refrain: “I was losing the man that I loved, and all I could do was cry.” Etta needed only one take. When she was finished, she was crying — and so were some of the engineers.

Levon Helm
Rock legends die all the time — for some, death is how they become legends — and the rituals of modern mourning follow. But losing Levon Helm feels different. He’s one of the few Authentics, one of the deans of the Old School. As his wife and daughter say, “He loved nothing more than to play, to fill the room up with music, lay down the back beat, and make the people dance. He did it every time he took the stage.”

EXTRA CREDIT

You read thick books in summer. Skip the action thriller for a foreign movie. Or just aspire to read/see/hear better. These are for you.

Troubled Water
Alec Baldwin says that Trine Dyrholm is “the best actress in the world.” Michael Moore has said “Troubled Water” was the best film he saw in 2009. I am in love with Trine Dyrholm — both the actress and her character. I don’t see how anyone could not feel that. No makeup, ravaged by grief, she is nonetheless beautiful. Beauty defined thus: you can see into her and share her struggle to keep it together.

Wislawa Szymborska: Poems
In 1996, Wislawa Szymborska (l923-2012) won the most money in the history of Nobel awards and the most money ever won by a poet: $1.2 million. She stayed in her small apartment — a fifth-floor walk-up. Her output was small, just 350 poems. Why so few? “I have a trash can in my home.” Her favorite phrase was “I don’t know.” This wasn’t conversational. It was the entire matter.

Albert Camus: The Plague
People worship money and devote all their time to making it. Love flourishes briefly, then dissolves into habit. Government is slow and formal; it is shockingly late before it agrees that frothing rats and dying people have any connection. In short, a thoroughly modern city…

Categories: authors, Books, Fashion, Uncategorized | 1 Comment »

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Hi!

It’s Marthe from The Freedom Experiment again, and this week it is all about books! If I should have a daughter… I would want her to read these books. I seriously think that these books should be compulsory reading in school. Take out some of that useless (and boring) maths and sciences, and add a little more about real life challenges. Don’t you agree? Anyways, here are my selection of non-fiction books I think that every young woman should read. Enjoy!

Source: flickr.com via Marthe on Pinterest

1) Women, Food and God – Geneen Roth

If you’ve ever struggled with food (like me), this book is for you. I read it in one day (!) and I learnt A LOT about how I used food to regulate my emotions. Even if you’ve never struggled yourself, I truly recommend this book if you would like to gain a wider understanding of food issues and emotional eating. I think it would be perfect to read this book together with a good friend – and then discuss (and open up).

2) The Creative Habit – Twyla Tharp

A must-read for all creative spirits out there. This book is both truly inspirational (as in you just want to go out there an CREATE when you read it) and educational. I learned a lot about my own creative process (the book has assignments and workbook pages) and I picked up a lot of great tips.

3) Crazy, Sexy Diet – Kris Carr

Not really a diet in the normal sense of the word – Crazy, Sexy is a way of life! This book is one of the best books I’v read in all my life (and that says a lot!) and it is definitely the best (and only) nutrition book you’ll ever need. I need to warn you, though, this book will change how you think about food. It will also change how you look and feel + it is written in a really sassy, funny and understandable language. All girls (and boys too) should read this!

4) The 4-hour Workweek – Tim Ferriss

This book. If you haven’t read this book already, it’s about time. This is another one of those books that will leave you changed, that’s for sure. I read this on the the Tokyo Metro and had to laugh out loud several times. It’s wonderfully well written, full of inspiration and if you don’t close this book with several life-changing ideas – something is wrong with you. ;)

5) The Firestarter Sessions – Danielle LaPorte

This book is fresh from the publisher and is based on Danielle LaPorte’s vbook called The Spark Kit. If you’re only buying one book on this list – make it this one! The book is every entrepreneurs dream, and it’s the only guide you’ll need if you have a small business – or dream of having one. Even if that’s not where you are right now – most of the principles in this book can be used on other areas of life too! This interactive book comes with a workbook, videos + lots of links. Seriously, I’m lost for words on how good this book really is. It has changed my life.

6) Finding Your Own North Star: Claiming the Life You Were Meant to Live – Martha Beck

I love how this book covers everything from emotional health to change cycles. The chapter on synchronicity is a must-read! Really, if you’re stuck, making changes, following your dream or want to learn more about yourself, this book is for you!

7) Radical Acceptance: Embracing Your Life With the Heart of a Buddha – Tara Brach

This book is a great read if you want to learn more about self-love, acceptance and living life in peace with yourself. This is another book I think I finished in one day, and I even had to read with a pencil underlining everything I needed to remember. If you’re only reading one book on self-love: make it this one!

8 ) The Artist’s Way - Julia Cameron

This one’s for all the artists, creatives and writers (everyone, really) who have ever been stuck, lacked inspiration or who’ve just wanted to develop ourselves. Ever heard of “morning pages? The concept of writing a few pages first thing in the morning – it’s from this book! Written as a 12-week program, this book will help you create and craft. This is one of the books I read again and again.

9) Sabbath – Wayne Muller

I think everyone should read this book about finding rest in our busy lives. In particular, this book helped me realize that I’ll never get done. Which means that I need to make rest a priority right now, not wait until I’m finished with whatever I’m doing. This book is for anyone, no matter your religion. Read this today, you’ll thank me.

10) There’s nothing wrong with you – Cheri Huber

Another great book about self-love, but from a very different angle. This book is a really quick read, but it has changed me immensely (in a positive way). I think I finally realized that I’m worthy, just the way I am.

Have you read any of these? What are your favourite non-fiction books?

*Ps. the links in this post is affiliate links. If you buy something after clicking these links Amazon eventually gives me a gift certificate that I can use to buy even more awesome books. If you’re not comfortable with this, just google any book to go to Amazon or buy it from your preferred retailer. Thank you!

Categories: authors, Books | Tags: , , , , | 16 Comments »

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Hello friends and readers of English Muse,  Christina from a wild civility here posting while Tina is away in Paris. I am thrilled to be guest blogging, as this is one of my favorite blogs, and I typically pin just about every image. Bits & Pieces about me: I am simply a lover of books, beginning Masters work in English, hoping to transfer my love of reading into a career soon.  Today, I thought I’ld share some thoughts on an old love, poetry:

  

Oh, the great English poets : Milton, Spenser, Chaucer
and the lovely American poets: Whitman, Dickinson, Longfellow
just to name a few…

The questions have been asked for ages:
What is the purpose of poetry?
Is it to create something beautiful (Edgar Allan Poe)?
Or is it intended to lead to virtue (Sir Philip Sidney)?
Should we approach it technically, noting the sense in the sound (Robert Frost)?

 I suppose the question now, in our age, is:
Where does poetry fit in our daily lives?
In an age where production and consumption are high priorities
meaning, how we (as a culture) often associate value primarily with utility,
Where does poetry live in our world?

For that answer, I turn to the flowers.
Objects of beauty, emotion, and also
form, the fruit of hard labor, and life.
I think that poetry — and flowers — both live on to remind us of value.
To value one another … not merely because of one’s usefulness,
but because of breath in the lungs, because one simply is.

                                           Where does poetry fit in your world?

 

 [thanks for having me Tina, and English Muse readers]
all images from one of my favorite spots in the world: greenhouses in my home town

– Christina @ a wild civility 

Categories: authors, Books | 17 Comments »

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Becky, a 20-year-old English Lit geek living in London, scribbled out this list in a Moleskine notebook at 3 am
a couple nights ago. She posted it on her Tumblr page,
and within 24 hours, more than 11,000 people had saved it in their favorites file.

She was astonished. “I still don’t know how something I scribbled in a hurry at 3am got so many notes in the space of a day? Shakespeare is clearly too awesome,” Becky said in an update on the post today. “I spelt “bated” wrong, awk … Someone said this looks like a serial killer’s notebook, which made me laugh a lot. They’re not wrong, I’ve been a sleep deprived zombie lately.”

She certainly is a girl on a mission.

On her birthday on August 30th, she set a challenge for herself: Read a book every week until she turns 21. “Lately, I’ve gotten into the terrible habit of buying books but never reading them.
Gradually I’ve been reading less and less,” she said.

She put together a list of 52 books (heavy on Palahniuk, Murakami and Hemingway) and posted it here.
“I thought it would be a good way to encourage others to read more too.”
Want to take the challenge? The details are here.
She’s also giving away the books she reads.

Awesome.

Categories: authors, Books, Featured, Thumbs | 55 Comments »

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Things to love…

Aug 31, 2011


Just a few things on my wish list:
Thackeray’s Vanity Fair, Illustrated…Tovicore Leather Card Case…Red Embroidered Pillow Cover…
Little Blue Birds Studios’ Owl Art Print…Joe Vintage’s Restored Red Royal…LilyMoon Aviary Brooch…
Dolan Gelman’s Found Objects Collage…Claudia Varosio’s Annie Hall Print…Vintage Fan Art Print.

Categories: authors, Blog, illustrations, Things to love..., Vintage | 9 Comments »

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Since most of the books I buy these days are from secondhand stores, the one I’m reading now is a little old but still good. It’s called “The New Kings of Nonfiction,” and it was edited by This American Life host Ira Glass. When it was published in 2007, it was heralded as a collection of stories that capture “some of the best storytelling of this golden age of nonfiction.”

It includes authors Malcolm Gladwell, Michael Pollan, the late David Foster Wallace and a number of other male writers. Surprisingly, one of my favorite female writers — Susan Orlean — is also in the mix. I wouldn’t call Orlean a King but rather a Journalism Goddess. Her profiles in the New Yorker have become legendary, full of insights and scenes that make her subjects come alive.

The “New Kings” book includes Orlean’s article “The American Man, Age Ten,” which she wrote for Esquire Magazine. It’s a profile of a boy named Colin Duffy.

A snippet: “Here are the particulars about Colin Duffy: He is ten years old, on the nose. He is four feet eight inches high, weighs seventy-five pounds, and appears to be mostly leg and shoulder blade….I have rarely seen him without a baseball cap. He owns several, but favors a University of Michigan Wolverines model, on account of its pleasing colors. The hat styles his hair into wild disarray. If you ever managed to get the hat off his head, you would see a boy with a nimbus of golden-brown hair, dented in the back…”

After I finish “New Kings” I want to re-read “The Bullfighter Checks Her Makeup,” Orlean’s compilation of some of her favorite profiles. (Her essay on the taxidermy convention is the best!)

What are you reading this week?

(Illustration by Contemporary Collage and for sale, as a refrigerator magnet, on Etsy.)

 

Categories: authors, Books | 1 Comment »

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From the inspiration journals of Nada Hayek:

–Chuck Palahniuk
So interesting that Palahniuk serves as muse to so many women…Do you know why?

Categories: authors, Books | 3 Comments »

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afternoon tea for lunch
Christopher Hitchens over the weekend wrote a story for Slate on the proper way to make tea.

“It is already virtually impossible in the United States, unless you undertake the job yourself, to get a cup or pot of tea that tastes remotely as it ought to,” he complains. “It’s quite common to be served a cup or a pot of water, well off the boil, with the tea bags lying on an adjacent cold plate… The drink itself is then best thrown away, though if swallowed, it will have about the same effect on morale as a reading of the memoirs of President James Earl Carter.”

Hitchens relies (mostly) on George Orwell’s tips for tea making.

They include:

*Always use Indian or Ceylonese—i.e., Sri Lankan—tea.
*Make tea only in small quantities.
*Avoid silverware pots.
*If you use a pot at all, make sure it is pre-warmed. (Hitchens adds: do the same thing even if you are only using a cup or a mug.)
*Stir the tea before letting it steep.
*MOST IMPORTANT: “Take the teapot to the kettle, and not the other way about. The water should be actually boiling at the moment of impact.”
*If you use milk, make sure it’s the least creamy type. (“And do not put the milk in the cup first—family feuds have lasted generations over this—because you will almost certainly put in too much,” Hitchens says.)
*A “decent cylindrical mug” is best.

Finally, Hitchens believes brown sugar or honey are “permissible and sometimes necessary,” even though Orwell would probably disagree.

And there you have it.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/hotbikes/3724077212/

Photos by Le Portillon and Leuwam.)

 

Categories: authors, Featured, Thumbs | 32 Comments »

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Hitch

Nov 15, 2010

hitchens-1

Hello my dears,

Have you been following journalist and critic Christopher Hitchens’ courageous stories about living with stage four cancer?

Hitchens’ illness was discovered when he collapsed at the beginning of a national tour earlier this year to promote his autobiography, “Hitch 22″. Since then, he has written with humor, intelligence and unflinching honesty about life in what he calls “Tumortown” in a remarkable

  series of columns for Vanity Fair.

How serious is his condition? Well, as he likes to point out, there are no stage five cancers.

Again and again during his illness, he has returned to the consolations of great literature. In a Guardian interview over the weekend, Hitchens says that when he conceives his life’s work–all the journalism and debates and polemics–he thinks of it as a defense of civilization by which he means, first of all, literature.

(Photo, above, from Vanity Fair.)

Categories: authors, media | 4 Comments »

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The Paris Review has long been known for its wonderful writer profiles. Now, thanks to the Internet, you can access all the pieces online. I’ve compiled a little selection below:

Screen shot 2010-10-25 at 12.56.39 PM
Isak Dinesen……….Truman Capote……….Arthur Miller
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Graham Greene……….Dorothy Parker……….Ernest Hemingway
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Jorge Luis Borges……….William Faulkner……….Evelyn Waugh

The author illustrations, by the way, were done by Spanish artist Fernando Vicente Retratos. More of his work here.

Categories: authors | 7 Comments »

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Amis and Fonseca

Oct 25, 2010

Screen shot 2010-10-24 at 3.45.51 PM
One of my favorite stories from the weekend papers: A Wall Street Journal Magazine profile of novelists Martin Amis and Isabel Fonseca. The two discuss the pleasures of reading, writing and their marriage.

“Being married to one of Britain’s most celebrated authors could be a disappearing act for some women,” writes author Ariel Leve. “But the American Fonseca, 49, is an impressive writer herself. Amis, 61, married both a muse and an equal, and they are mutually supportive….”

I love this quote from Amis on Fonseca: “I rely tremendously on her beauty. She looks very nice when she’s asleep and she wakes with a smile. It’s an extraordinary thing. It’s very unfair, as all things to do with beauty are, but it’s a fact. I rely on it for joie de vivre. It’s proof of her equilibrium as well. Your happiness determines your demeanor in the world.”

See the full story here.

And a list of Amis’ books and Fonseca’s.

(Photo above by Simon Upton for the WSJ.)

Happy Monday everyone!

Categories: authors | 5 Comments »

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Patti_Smith_1
It’s awards season for the books industry, and today the National Book Foundation announced its twenty finalists for the National Book Awards. Among those included in the non-fiction category is Patti Smith’s autobiography “Just Kids,” covering her years as muse to photographer Robert Mapplethorpe.


Reviewer Tom Nissley sums up “Just Kids” so beautifully:

“Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe weren’t always famous, but they always thought they would be. They found each other, adrift but determined, on the streets of New York City in the late ’60s and made a pact to keep each other afloat until they found their voices–or the world was ready to hear them.

“Mapplethorpe was quicker to find his metier, with a Polaroid and then a Hasselblad, but Smith was the first to fame, transformed, to her friend’s delight, from a poet into a rock star. “

What is it about Patti Smith that makes her so compelling, like a young Mick Jagger?

(The National Book Award winners will be announced on Nov 17 in NYC.)

Categories: authors | 12 Comments »

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jc_franzen-af

The Franzen frenzy started a month ago when TIME magazine put the author on its cover and labeled him the “Great American Novelist.” I finally have a copy of his new book, Freedom. (My reading this weekend). I’m anxious to see if he’s really all that.

Any thoughts?

(Illustration above by Joe Ciardiello for Barnes and Noble Review.)

Categories: authors, Books | 19 Comments »

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Damn Dan Brown

Jul 16, 2010


The literary blogosphere continues to buzz with angst and dismay as thousands — or maybe even millions — of people learned the shocking news this week that they write like …Dan Brown. The growing outrage — sparked by a computerized prose analysis on a obscure website called “I Write Like” — could be the biggest controversy involving Brown since the release of his insanely successful but widely reviled book, The Da Vinci Code. (BTW, Audrey Tautou was lovely as Sophie in the movie version.)
In a move that some hoped would calm the fears, the NYT’s Paper Cuts blog weighed in on the controversy Thursday with a post titled “I Write Like…Yeah Right.”

“I entered my last blog post and was told I write like Edgar Allan Poe,” NYT blogger Jennifer Schuessler wrote. “Pretty neat. But then a colleague plugged in a paragraph from Poe’s “Fall of the House of Usher” and was told it sounded like Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.”

One reader commented: “Thank you for debunking that. It told me I write like Dan Brown,
and I almost killed myself.”

Brown, meanwhile, has gone into seclusion after learning that he writes like Jane Austen.

PS: Only parts of this post are true. The rest is fiction. I would like to dedicate it to Jonas (I hope you’ve gotten that dreadful program to finally give you Hemingway.)

Also, I have no idea who did the cartoon — now floating freely about the Internet. (Email if you know the source.)

Categories: authors, Books, Trending | 31 Comments »

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My friend Carolyn Kellogg at the LA Times’ fantastic Jacket Copy book blog had the most clever post today. She found a website — called I Write Like — where you can enter a few paragraphs of your prose to find out if you write like Hemingway, Chuck Palahniuk or even Bram Stoker. (There are a bunch of other authors ranging from Stephen King to J.K. Rawlings).
Take the five-second test and let me know here how it goes!

If you write like Jane Austen, you win a special prize — a date with Colin Firth! (Joking.)

I was surprised to learn that I write like Kurt Vonnegut. I had no idea Mr. Vonnegut used so many exclamation points in his prose, but I applaud him!!

xo

(Above photo found at F— Yeah, Kurt Vonnegut! on Tumblr.)

Categories: authors, Books | 45 Comments »

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I’m trying to pack and everything seems so wrong….I’ve been studying all of Joanna Goddard’s How to Dress Like a French Woman posts to prepare. But still I’m worried. I live in Los Angeles where people wear flip-flops all year long…My darling fashionista friends, what should I pack?

(photo via we heart it)

Categories: authors, Blog, Paris | 43 Comments »

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fin.
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