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April 07, 2005

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Comments

Scott

Elegvar personals?

Jimmy Beck

Let's start a pool. Sarvas is:

A) Dating a Book Babe
B) Entering an MFA program
C) Melting down his Beatles records for fuel
D) Building a shrine to Christopher Hitchens
E) Taking over at Iowa
F) Forsaking both LA and Paris for a trailer in Bakersfield

John Shannon

G) Forsaking John Banville.
Nah.

Lola

changing his name to Sark Marvas and penning feel good books.

Tod Goldberg

Well, I recently heard about the Backstreet Boys getting back together, and I know that Nick Carter is doing a lot of solo shit these days, in addition to getting fat and having sex with Paris Hilton, and that he's also pretty gangsta now, so, I'm thinking Mark is the new "literary" Boy. Pick up your white suit, funky fresh dance moves and song book, Mark, the 13 year old girls are a-calling.

Jim Ruland


Pope Sarvas has a nice ring to it.

Dave Worsley

Sarah is being cryptic over at Idiosyncratic Mind, too. Hmmm...

Stephan Clark

I've heard that he's going to stop writing about literary fiction in order to dedicate more space to "long-form narrative reporting."

daniel olivas

i am delighted that you have signed on as pamela anderson's new ghost writer for her new novel. you'll finally make some real money.

janet

Does it have two wheels and brakes, hopefully?

janet

Does it have two wheels and brakes?

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TEV DEFINED


  • The Elegant Variation is "Fowler’s (1926, 1965) term for the inept writer’s overstrained efforts at freshness or vividness of expression. Prose guilty of elegant variation calls attention to itself and doesn’t permit its ideas to seem naturally clear. It typically seeks fancy new words for familiar things, and it scrambles for synonyms in order to avoid at all costs repeating a word, even though repetition might be the natural, normal thing to do: The audience had a certain bovine placidity, instead of The audience was as placid as cows. Elegant variation is often the rock, and a stereotype, a cliché, or a tired metaphor the hard place between which inexperienced or foolish writers come to grief. The familiar middle ground in treating these homely topics is almost always the safest. In untrained or unrestrained hands, a thesaurus can be dangerous."

SECOND LOOK

  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

    Bs

    Penelope Fitzgerald's second novel is the tale of Florence Green, a widow who seeks, in the late 1950s, to bring a bookstore to an isolated British town, encountering all manner of obstacles, including incompetent builders, vindictive gentry, small minded bankers, an irritable poltergeist, but, above all, a town that might not, in fact, want a bookshop. Fitzgerald's prose is spare but evocative – there's no wasted effort and her work reminds one of Hemingway's dictum that every word should fight for its right to be on the page. Florence is an engaging creation, stubbornly committed to her plan even as uncertainty regarding the wisdom of the enterprise gnaws at her. But The Bookshop concerns itself, finally, with the astonishing vindictiveness of which provincials are capable, and, as so much English fiction must, it grapples with the inevitabilities of class. It's a dense marvel at 123 pages, a book you won't want to – or be able to – rush through.
  • The Rider by Tim Krabbe

    Rider_4

    Tim Krabbé's superb 1978 memoir-cum-novel is the single best book we've read about cycling, a book that will come closer to bringing you inside a grueling road race than anything else out there. A kilometer-by-kilometer look at just what is required to endure some of the most grueling terrain in the world, Krabbé explains the tactics, the choices and – above all – the grinding, endless, excruciating pain that every cyclist faces and makes it heart-pounding rather than expository or tedious. No writer has better captured both the agony and the determination to ride through the agony. He's an elegant stylist (ably served by Sam Garrett's fine translation) and The Rider manages to be that rarest hybrid – an authentic, accurate book about cycling that's a pleasure to read. "Non-racers," he writes. "The emptiness of those lives shocks me."