So: It's the fall of 2010, and Gates is meeting with the president and top brass. "Biden, Mullen, Jones, Donilon, Brennan, and Tony Blinken, the vice president’s national security adviser, were there." The subject: how to be ready if a conflict between Iran and Israel ignites. Gates worries that the particulars have not thought the scenario through, and advises the president to deploy a second aircraft carrier to the Persian Gulf soon, just in case. The meeting ends.
I was put off by the way the president closed the meeting. To his very closest advisers, he said, "For the record, and for those of you writing your memoirs, I am not making any decisions about Israel or Iran. Joe, you be my witness." I was offended by his suspicion that any of us would ever write about such sensitive matters.
1. Tenth of December: Stories by George Saunders (15 votes)
2. The Goldfinch by Donna Tartt (14 votes)
3. Life After Life by Kate Atkinson (12 votes)
4. The Flamethrowers by Rachel Kushner (9 votes)
5. (tie) The Love Affairs of Nathaniel P. by Adelle Waldman (8 votes)
5. (tie) The Luminaries by Eleanor Catton (8 votes)
7. (tie) The Circle by Dave Eggers (7 votes)
7. (tie) The Son by Philip Meyer (7 votes)
7. (tie) Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (7 votes)
10. (tie) Bleeding Edge by Thomas Pynchon (6 votes)
10. (tie) The Signature of All Things by Elisabeth Gilbert (6 votes)
10. (tie) The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri (6 votes)
*I am an Amazon affiliate now (again, actually), so let sweet commerce rain down upon me.
Now, obviously Martin’s books have been released on a cycle that by the standards of television look leisurely. But they’re also able to give much more space to each character—sometimes for good, sometimes for ill—unconstrained by the production budgets, writing, production, and editing cycles, and standard length of a television episode that inevitably provide structure to the show. That means he writes a fair amount of digression and worldbuilding into the books, but also that he’s not bound by anything except how many pages his publishers can bind into a single volume, and even then, if he’s got to spill over into more volumes, they’re going to be nothing but happy. And those digressions, and the amount of time it takes to read the books, just give readers more hooks into the stories, the characters, and the settings. Sprawl, for good and ill, is a characteristic of books in a way that it never can be of television. I’m not saying that means the books are better than the show. But I do think that they expose some of the irreducible differences between reading and watching television once you reach a certain scope.
The reviews were pretty much all one could desire for a first novel, and a number of them drew a sharp distinction between Wallaceâ€™s hyperintelligent and maximalist approach and the work of the Brat Packers, who were already being set up for a critical flogging. Bret Ellis being one of those writers on whom nothing is lost, these invidious comparisons would not have escaped his attention. The anschluss arrived with the publication of his underrated second novel, â€œThe Rules of Attraction,â€ which we would also reprint at Penguin despite a cascade of disapprobration. Not pretty and really not fair.
In late 1988 I moved from Penguin to W. W. Norton, taking with me Davidâ€™s second book, the collection â€œGirl With Curious Hair,â€ which Penguin had refused to publish for legal reasons. (Long story.) The title story, about a bunch of L.A. punks misbehaving at a Keith Jarrett concert, struck me as an obvious and expert parody of Bret Ellisâ€™ affectless tone and subject matter and I said so. David, ever disingenuous about his influences (you could barely get him to admit heâ€™d even read Pynchon), denied ever having read a word of Bretâ€™s work â€“ an obvious lie that I let pass. I am certain, though, that Bret took peeved notice when the book was published.
Here's part 1 of a 3 part interview I did with Rothbard around the release of another book a couple years ago.
'Many scientists don't like to talk about shark sex,' Juliet Eilperin writes in her entertaining study of sharks and their world. â€˜They worry it will only reinforce the popular perception that these creatures are brutish and unrelenting.' In as far as we understand the subject - only a few species have been observed mating - the business is 'very rough'. Larger male sharks have to bite or trap the females to keep them around during courtship; marine biologists can tell when a female has been mating because her skin will be raw or bleeding. The process is so violent that, come the mating season, female nurse sharks will stay in shallow water with their reproductive openings pressed firmly to the sea floor. Otherwise they risk falling prey to roaming bands of males who 'will take turns inserting their claspers in her' (the clasper is the shark version of a penis, found in a pair behind the pelvic fins). A litter of fifty pups will have anything from two to seven fathers. But the reproductive story gets rougher still. A number of shark species go in for oophagy, or uterine cannibalism. Sand tiger foetuses 'eat each other in utero, acting out the harshest form of sibling rivalry imaginable'. Only two babies emerge, one from each of the mother shark's uteruses: the survivors have eaten everything else. 'A female sand tiger gives birth to a baby that's already a metre long and an experienced killer,' explains Demian Chapman, an expert on the subject.
There are three defining events in modern American shark mythology. First, the attacks of 1916, when four people were killed in one week in five separate attacks off New Jersey, two at beach resorts and two in Matawan Creek, more than a dozen miles inland. It created mass hysteria, launched a wave of shark-hunts and gave rise to the myth of the serial man-eater â€“ something that all the evidence tells us is wrong. The second was the sinking of the USS Indianapolis on 30 July 1945, in the final weeks of the Pacific War. The cruiser, which had delivered the uranium for the Hiroshima bomb, was sunk by a Japanese submarine between Guam and the Philippines. Of the 1200-strong crew, 300 were killed during the sinking; the survivors spent four days in the water, during which all but 317 were killed by exposure, dehydration and sharks. The third event was Jaws, which bundled up the earlier two into a slick package that spread rampant shark-phobia across the world: Peter Benchley's novel was based on the Jersey attacks, and Quint, the Ahab-style shark hunter played with scenery-chewing vigour by Robert Shaw in the film, is a veteran of the Indianapolis disaster. Benchley, Eilperin says, did more to instil 'intense fear and hatred of sharks than anyone else in the 20th century'. By bringing an age-old nightmare to life, he 'gave it a credibility, a sense of concreteness, it had never had before'.
Kick off the Boston Book Festival with a thoughtful and timely exploration of The Wire with its cast and creators. Its creator, David Simon, referred to this powerful, gritty, and all-too-realistic exploration of urban poverty as a "visual novel." The Wire, perhaps the most critically-acclaimed series in television history, has been compared to Dickens, to Greek tragedy, even to Shakespearean drama. It is both high art and social commentary. Join several cast members and writer/producer George Pelecanos in a conversation about The Wire and issues of race, class, institutional failure, and the visual novel. The discussion will feature Donnie Andrews (the real "Omar"), Fran Boyd (the inspiration for David Simon's The Corner), Tray Chaney ("Poot"), Robert Chew ("Prop Joe"), and Jamie Hector ("Marlo Stanfield") and will be moderated by Reverend Eugene Rivers, co-founder of the Ten Point Coalition.
It is impossible to imagine anyone who isnâ€™t being paid to do it reading the thing from start to finish. Even I, who still hope to be paid, hauled the book around for six months on business trips and vacations, and spent vast amounts of time staring at Twainâ€™s random ramblings in minuscule type feeling resentful and vaguely dupedâ€”roughly the way I felt a dozen pages into the Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc-before I could summon the energy to wade deeply into it.