Switch Hitters

Only seven authors have ever have reached No. 1 on both the fiction and non-fiction New York Times Bestseller lists. They are:

• Ernest Hemingway
• John Steinbeck
• William Styron
• Irving Wallace
• Dr. Seuss
• Mitch Albom
• Jimmy Buffett

Wired For Books

This is a short post, but it should keep you busy for months:

Wired For Books has an absolutely staggering collection of mp3s, featuring interviews with pretty much every major contemporary author you can think of.

What do you mean, the saddest story you've ever heard? What's so sad about it? How many stories have you heard?

Before we get to the lulz, let me say that Ruth Franklin's essay on Chinua Achebe is pretty okay, and from here forward I'll consider it absolutely indispensible and it will aways have a place in my heart for making me aware of the following:

Achebe once called the concept of art for art’s sake "just another piece of deodorized dog shit."

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Moving on. Later in the essay, Franklin writes:

“Okonkwo was well known throughout the nine villages and even beyond.” From the first line of “Things Fall Apart”—Achebe’s first novel—we are in unfamiliar territory. Who is this Okonkwo whom everybody knows? Where are these nine villages?


Other Intriguing Questions Raised By Famous First Lines, by Ruth Franklin

Call me Ishmael.
Call who Ishmael? You? Is that your name? Why can't I call you by your real name? Wait, who are you talking to? Who's doing the calling?

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times...
What do you mean by best? What do you mean by worst? What time are we talking about? Does this book take place on Earth?

If you really want to hear about it, the first thing you'll probably want to know is where I was born, and what my lousy childhood was like, and how my parents were occupied and all before they had me, and all that David Copperfield kind of crap, but I don't feel like going into it, if you want to know the truth.
Where were you born? What was your lousy childhood like? Were your parents occupied and all before they had you? And who is this David Copperfield guy? Hold on...let me run down to Books-A-Million.

Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
Well, that didn't help, now I have twice as many questions.

You are about to begin reading Italo Calvino's new novel, If on a winter's night a traveler.
Wait...WHAT!? I'm totally lost. This makes no sense.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.
Wait a minute...what is this hardbound collection of papers I'm holding? What are these strange markings inscribed in ink on the pages? Where am I? What am I doing here? WHO AM I!?!?

The nudity-implying photo is a particularly unnecessary touch...

James Frey has a new novel out, and he gave only one interview for it, to Vanity Fair:

http://www.vanityfair.com/culture/features/2008/06/frey200806?currentPage=1

The article clearly is intended to not just give a little perspective on Frey's scandal, but also generate some sort of sympathy for the guy. The former goal is achieved nicely, I think, but the latter is just about impossible: no matter how soft-focus the portrait--hell, even forgetting the Million Little Pieces debacle--James Frey is an asshole, a classic overgrown frat boy who plays at being soulful but has no idea how vapid he really is.

A much better article--one made impossible by the fact that VF scored the exclusive interview--would have focused on Frey as a CHARACTER: a man with a juvenile notion of being a "bad boy," intent on proving to everyone that he's not just an insecure Whirlpool executive's son from the burbs but a loner and a rebel and an angelheaded hipster. And who then wrote a memoir reconfiguring or just plain inventing facts in his life to fit this self-image, but his downfall came when he began believing his own lies, leaving the world to point out once and for all just what a phony he is. His tragedy, just like every other tragedy (including our own, dear reader), was that he had betrayed his inner nature.

Frankly, it's pretty incredible that Frey can STILL engender such little sympathy. People hate the publishing industry, and Frey's defense that they mis-marketed his novel as a more-lucrative memoir seems increasingly more plausible, even probable. And, of course, America loves a second act. But Frey is such a choad he's overpowered whatever kindness we might feel for him. When the choice is between you and a publisher and you still lose, you know you've got problems.

Finally, of course, this idea that the article floats of Frey rising above the scandal of his first book hinges on forgetting that A Million Little Pieces is a piece of shit. Seriously, re-read the article: the author's feelings on the book's actual quality is conspicuously absent. Now if Nabakov had gotten busted trying to pass Lolita off as a memoir, I'd see their point. But this undergrad "experiment"? To paraphrase Bellow: plenty more where you came from, Frey.

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Let's clear our palates with the incredible bento box creations of Sakurako Kitsa:

http://www.roadsidescholar.com/2008/05/02/bento-box-photography-by-sakurako-kitsa/

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kitsa_sakurako/sets/72157600857507834/

(Call me cynical, but I'm thinking that might not actually be her real name...)

Indian Mouse Gets No Ice Cream In 1991

Nancy Crunch sends along this Flickr set detailing the differences between the 1963 and 1991 editions of Richard Scarry's Best Word Book Ever:

http://www.flickr.com/photos/kokogiak/sets/1425737/

In return, I'm sure Ms. Crunch will appreciate this group portrait:

http://www.rob-sheridan.com/sketchblog/2008/04/cereal-mascot-reunion.html