Do authors still care what readers think? Are they writing for an audience? Is this “novel writing business” still about entertainment? I guess. Whatever. Consider me entertained, just make it Cormac McCarthy dark. If I ever meet the man, I’ll thank him for his contributions to the literary canon and like Mr. Franzen remind him it’s not his fault Oprah picked him.
Tomorrow They Won’t Dare to Murder Us by Joseph Andras
Fernand and Hélène are lovers in Algiers during the Algerian War for Independence (1954-62). When Fernand plants a bomb in the factory where he works, he is quickly arrested, tortured, and sentenced to death.
Greenwood by Michael Christie
Greenwood by Canadian writer Michael Christie speaks and sings with a clear voice that never fails its author.
The Man in the Red Coat by Julian Barnes
Wilde, who shines on every page he inhabits, wasn’t as modern as he thought he was. Foppish writer Count Robert de Montesquiou-Fezensac wasn’t as talented as he thought he was. More people now read Wilde in a day than have read Montesquiou in a century.
Framing Michael Stewart
I waited in three lines to see Michael Stewart. The first line was for the metal detector outside the Guggenheim Museum. The second line, inside the Frank Lloyd Wright rotunda, was for my reserved ticket. The third was to get into the gallery to see Basquiat’s “Defacement,” his portrait of Michael Stewart being “defaced” by police violence.
Verotchka
In my ongoing project of reading all of Chekhov’s stories, I am more than halfway along, and I have come upon this small gem about Ognev and Vera.