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June 07, 2007

Why the MFA is important.

Many years ago,

(and by the way, "many years ago" seems to be a refrain this week, which is alarming)

Peter Carey was my very first workshop instructor at Columbia. We were his first workshop, too, and he was visibly nervous, and he said to us, moments after entering the classroom on that inaugural day, "I'm going back to my office." He was shaking. "I want you all to come in one by one and talk to me." It was everyone's first day. We all sat there, stunned, looking at each other in embarrassment. Raul Correa took charge and lined us up for our Carey visits: alphabetically, I think.

Peter gave us all a lot of simple, beautiful, essential advice -- advice like:

You've got to know the rules before you break them.

and

If your first 40 pages aren't a good foundation, you cannot go on with the rest of your novel.


This all seems obvious, I'm sure. But to a 22-year-old know-it all, learning the rules seemed like a waste of time. What made Peter so generous and patient and kind is that he did not throw me and my precocious classmates and our delicate, unintelligible sentences directly out of his class and into the hall.

What makes MFAs worth the effort is when someone you respect as much as I respect Peter insists you learn some rules. What makes his advice extra relevant is that, apparently, he learned the rules on his own. I was much too arrogant, then, to have learned rules on my own (and this may be the difference between my American education and his Australian one -- and what makes MFA programs a little bit more necessary for American writers -- throughout our educations, we learn very little humility). I would have gone on forever ignoring the rules and never getting anywhere.

That said, Peter gives some more very good advice in his New York Magazine article:

It's imposible to start a life committed to literary fiction when you are $60,000 in debt.

($60k, by the way, is a conservative estimate, Peter -- but that's sweet.)

This is the thing about MFA programs that is so often ignored: the cost defeats the purpose. No one wants to talk about money (how taboo!) -- but really, unless you have a fellowship or your parents foot the bill, an MFA is self-destructive. We want the Iowa/Irvine/Columbia label, but a place like UNLV makes a lot more sense. Or else just stalk Denis Johnson at his listed number in Idaho. Move there, work at the iHop, and beg him to mentor you. Free!

Comments

'Memories' by Barbara Streisand spring to mind here and thanks Katherine for this wonderfully amusing blog - and true about writing workshops! Who's gonna want to pay the earth if we can just follow established poets for free! Thanks again for an informative and brilliantly stated review.

Since I first made the decision to pursue an MFA, I've read countless essays, reviews and remarks regarding the value and validity of these programs. I learned what I usually learn about any contentious issue: there are many good points to be made on either side.

Now that I'm half-way through one, however, I must say that I see it as a non-issue. Being in an MFA program will not change your life radically, nor will it radically change your writing. In it, the writer is much the same as she is in any other area or time of her life: variously stable and unstable, impressionable and closed-off, productive and complacent. She writes well sometimes, listens, sometimes, to the feedback of those around her, and if she keeps working, has incremental successes punctuated by the occasional breakthrough and setback. And all the while she's plagued by the same shortcomings and strengths of imagination, judgment, and guts that always plague her.

Cost is no more unreasonable an issue to raise as any of the other ones that haunt prospective/current/prior candidates. But I can't help thinking that, as I stated above, the cost of an MFA is just one of the things which reflect the person, and not the program. To go into debt for anything is a matter of cost/benefit analysis.

Columbia doesn't hide the fact that it's expensive to attend, or that it exists in one of the most expensive places to live in the US. Those who choose to go there must know they're either taking a big risk, or that, as must be the case for many of them, they have private funds available to mitigate the expense.

It sucks, Katherine, that you went into such debt for your MFA, but what concrete thing did you think you would get at the end besides a bill?

Gosh, with very much respect to Mr. Carey I would disagree with him on one point. Being deeply in debt shouldn't prevent anyone from being a writer. My goal is to die in a gutter like Poe, and I'm well on my way! And I don't even have an MFA. And neither did Poe, to my recollection. He preferred laudanum or something.

Unless you get a fellowship or can get help from your parents, I agree that some of these really expensive programs might not be worth the risk.

It seems like if you can get into one of hte top programs with full funding (through TAships or whatever) that is the best situation.


However, I am not so sure it makes more sense to go to a weak program over a top one if you have the choice. Outside of the name recognition and connections that come with an Iowa/Columbia/Irvine program, those programs get the pick of the incoming MFA class, which is to say your peer group will be far better than if you go to a no-name program.

From being in an MFA program and taking workshops in undergrad, I think I can say that your peer group is going to be the most important factor in your mfa experience most of the time.

To be frank, the number of truly great writers in MFA programs is low and even Iowa/Irvine/Columbia type programs have duds in them. I think the risk of being in a program entirely filled with writers who won't go anywhere might do a lot of damage to your writing in the long run.

"We want the Iowa/Irvine/Columbia label, but a place like UNLV makes a lot more sense."

Actually, Iowa and Irvine are both quite cheap compared to Columbia. The cost of living in Iowa City is next to nothing, and you can support yourself on a TAship. Irvine's a more expensive place to live, but the university gives you a full tuition waver if you teach. (Last year the grad student union at Iowa bargained for a waver as well, but it was denied; instead, tuition scholarships were increased.) I do know people at both programs who had to take out some loans, but I know others (including myself) who graduated debt free. My guess is that, in general, public universities are a better option than private ones, although I could be wrong.

I do agree with TBone, though - your peers (and professors) should be your first priority once you set a price range.

I like your blog way better than Ms. He's all check me out, while you're only slightly check me out and mostly salient. I am a third grade teacher, and I write plenty, in fact it was between an MFA or teaching the third grade. You still write the same, as long as you read correctly. Just my two cents. I am not famous.

" I am not famous."

Deservedly, it seems.

the point being none of the other people are famous either. how many copies of these people's books are sold? all this whining over ?

Dear Mr. or Ms. Cmoney... My goodness! I never claimed to be famous! In answer to your question about how many books I have sold... 12 at last count! I sold them out of my trunk, but I trust that counts. Mom tried to buy one, she's so sweet, but I insisted on giving her one at the wholesale price. That's just how I roll! So, to be truthful, 11. Or maybe we could say 11 1/2! There, does that seem fair to you, Mr. or Ms. Cmoney? Finally, I do not believe I was "whining," as you put it. I believe I am a very cheerful fellow as a matter of fact, and I think my tone was one of gentle wry witticism with a soupcon of jaded drollery. You can tell because I used the fancy word "laudanum" for extra fanciness! Hope this clears everything up! And if you have more questions, please let me know at once!

P.S. But I must say, Mr. or Ms. Speechless, that I'm not certain you should have provoked Mr. or Ms. Cmoney that way. It seems a little grouchy! But that is just my opinion. In fact, the more that I look at both comments, the sorrier I feel for that last thing I posted. I don't believe that Mr. or Ms. Cmoney would have been aggravated into his or her response without all this curmudgeonly sniping. No offense, Mr. or Ms. Speechless! I can tell you have a sharp way with a retort and I am not eager to be the recipient! In fact, now that I have bothered to read the post that got Mr. or Ms. Cmoney worked up, I would like to apologize to Mr. or Ms. Cmoney for going on at such length in my cutesy response. That was rather rude of me. I just try to goof around and it's always fun until someone gets hurt.

But, but, but...some of us already have graduate degrees and gainful employment and are not going to drop it all, lose the house, and go back to school for a MFA so we can start over poor. Yee ha. And some of us in those circumstances publish anyway.

This debate is like telling someone who hates a first or second job that they either have to, or must not, quit and go back for whatever graduate degree. The life circumstances and goals of the individual dictate the decision. Plenty of MFA grads never go anywhere literary and great, but so do plenty of non-MFA grads too. Americans are way too focused on checking all of the right boxes on our Applications for a Life. There are no magic bullets, or magic bullet degrees.

Don't bend yourselves into knots too much over these issues.

"I like your blog way better than Ms. He's all check me out, while you're only slightly check me out and mostly salient."

Still haven't worked out the bugs in that universal translating program, I see.

May I reiterate my point that plenty of MFA grads don't go anywhere? Because life is unfair, because life gets in the way, because the US doesn't read books anymore, because it ain't the degree so much as the sweat equity - for any number of reasons. Whatever. I think this little bit o' reality is forgotten in the bliding glare of Iowa glory.

Now, if my life circumstances were different or I were younger or less tied to paying a mortgage, auto insurance, remaining bit of professional school loans etc. I'd love to go to Iowa or Michigan or Columbia and get a MFA. Love to, it would probably be a highlight of my life. But the degree alone would not guarantee me a glorious life of fame, fortune and adulation so I'm not going to throw myself out of my office window over not getting it either.

MFA grads wait tables and teach, Stephanie Klein got published. And, God Help Us, will be again.

Knock yourselves out discussing the gross miscarriage of justice that is taste and publishing in the US today...

How did Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Miller, Kerouac, et al, do it without an MFA program?

Every graduate of an MFW program or creative writing program I've ever met writes almost exactly like every other graduate of an MFW program or creative writing program I've met. I've asked more than a few, "What did they do up there? Put you on a table and rip your heart out?" They're like clone factories, these programs.

Programs don't create artists. Programs create robots. Programs enforce conformity. Programs program. No good writer, and certainly no great writer, ever followed a program.

My debt is book bills and bar bills. My money lines the pockets of booksellers and bartenders, not university regents and administrators.

well, i don't know. i'm in a writing program right now, and i think whether it's a good or bad thing all depends on what you want to get out of it. if you want it as a guarantee for getting published, i don't recommend it. but for some of us it can be helpful, as it provides community, focus, and a kick in the pants to get us going... of course there are those who will say that if we need that kick in the pants then we are not "real writers" but that is debatable, i'm sure. at least, i will happily debate it, since i am one of the people who needs the kick!

i look at it like taking piano lessons. i studied piano for many years growing up, and a year ago i started taking lessons again, because i wanted to get better. people asked me, "why are you taking lessons if you already know how to play?" well, it's true i did not need to be taught how to play, but i needed help to find the weak areas in my playing (of which there were many!); to refine my techqnique. i needed someone who would push me to try new pieces, and not stick with the ones i was already comfortable with. and i guess that's the same reason i am in a writing program. i don't need to be taught how to write; but i do need some help with other aspects of honing my craft. the MFA seemed a good way (note that i don't say THE way) of getting what i needed.

now, this is just MY reason. i don't pretend to speak for anyone else. everyone has to decide for him/herself what works for them, whether it's an MFA or not, and act accordingly.

I was waiting for that, Godot.

Seriously now, MFAs aside I see the clone factor in folks who have gone workshop to workshop. Some get better and some get depleted of all personality and start to produce work that is beige with a twist. Inoffensive, pleasant, sounds nice, has a fabricated (fake) kick at the end....blah blah blah blah blah.

Whoever you are, you gots to keep your own voice and personality. Pleasing a committee is not the way to go.

And Oh Lord, I can't even deal with the Stephanie Klein factor. Where to start?

I earned my MA in journalism, pretty close to an MFA for nonfiction.

One of the most important things that happened to me during my year and a half in school was that I made friends with other writers. I went from being a kid in small town Michigan looking for somebody to talk about books to a struggling writer in New York with a very supportive circle of writing friends.

I don't know if I could have done that by myself. But literary community is one key thing a good MFA provides (for helping me find editors, reading my work, and supporting me when I need it), and nobody ever factors that into the equation.

"Every graduate of an MFW program or creative writing program I've ever met writes almost exactly like every other graduate of an MFW program or creative writing program I've met. I've asked more than a few, "What did they do up there? Put you on a table and rip your heart out?" They're like clone factories, these programs."


Hahaha. I'm sorry, I used to take these kinds of complaints seriously and argue with people, but it quickly became clear to me that people that say these kinds of things just have a) either no idea what they are talking about or b) don't care what the facts are, they have some grudge or ideological position and have no interest in reality (like arguing with a die-hard Bush supporter)

Lets face the facts: For good or bad, probably a majority of major contemporary american writers went to MFA programs. Are you really going to tell me that all these people winning awards and writing books that critics, readers and snobs alike enjoy are all clones?

You believe that Denis Johnson, Ben Marcus, David Foster Wallace, Maryline Robinson, Aimee Bender, MIcheal Chabon and Adam Haslett (to name merely a few MFA grads that pop into my head) all write alike? That they are all clones?

The claim just doesn't hold up to the tiniest bit of scrutiny.

I'm currently in an MFA program and while the bad writers do tend to write in a similar fashion, overall my workshops have been incredibly diverse both stylistically and subject wise. Hell, most people in my last workshop couldn't even be said to write in the same genres. One was a surrealist humorist, another was a southern gothic writer, another wrote political realist fiction, etc.

No good writer, and certainly no great writer, ever followed a program.

"followed a program" seems like some code phrase to allow yourself to wiggle out of your actual claim (that MFA programs produce clones and no good writers).

But if you don't think Flannery O'Connor, Raymond Carver, Denis Johnson, David Foster Wallace, Micheal Chabon or Ben Marcus are at the very least "good" writers what is left to say?

Raymond Carver is overrated. So is Foster Wallace.

"nyah"

Say you and your friend wanted to learn carpentry. You looked into a "carpentry school," where you build stuff for two years. There's not much actual instruction, but you're given assignments of things to build, over the course of two years.

You ask other people for their advice about whether or not you should enroll in the carpentry school. Nay-sayers say, "Don't do it, why would you pay yearly tuition to build things you could build on your own. Just work a job, and build the things yourself, and you will learn carpentry just as well as if you went to that expensive carpentry school."

So you decide not to enroll in the carpentry school. You continue working your job as an insurance salesman. You really meant to build stuff and become a carpenter, but you didn't do much. You were too tired at night.

Meanwhile, your friend enrolled in the carpentry school. He followed the program for two years and built a lot of things, and at the end of the two year program, he got his certificate and he was a skilled carpenter.

You realize that even though you COULD have built the very same stuff that was built in carpentry school, you didn't. You wish you had gone to carpentry school, as a way of forcing yourself to do certain exercises, learn certain skills, and become, in short a carpenter. But you're just a wanna-be carpenter.

Raymond Carver is overrated. So is Foster Wallace.

"nyah"

Posted by: MJ | June 08, 2007 at 11:43 AM

The debate over these individual artists worth isn't horribly interesting to me. You can dislike them or love them. Both have been celebrated and praised enough that I think they meet the minimum requirements of a "good" writer, at least for hte purposes of an informal conversation (sure, you may say praise and awards don't equal quality, but I"ve been in enough arguments were people tell me that Shakespeare was overrated and Bob Dylan was a hack that these kinds of discussions tend to be fruitless)...

However, while you are free to say Carver or Wallace or whoever you want are bad writers, you cannot tell me honestly that Wallace is a "clone" of Carver, that Micheal Chabon is a carbon copy of Denis Johnson or that Ben Marcus is identical to Flannery O'Connor. To make claims that is merely absurd or dishonest.

The quality of MFA grads is up for debate, but I really don't think the diversity is.

I also would like to briefly address the facetious rhetorical question above about "how did hemingway and all these famous artists of the past do it w/o MFA programs?"

Well, first off obviously you can be a writer without an MFA. No one has ever claimed an MFA is essential.

BUt putting that aside, how DID Hemingay and writers like that do it w/o MFA programs and workshops?

...

well... frankly they basically created defacto MFA programs. Hemingway was not in workshops at Iowa university, but he shared his work with a community of writers. Hemingway didn't enroll in classes to be taught by older professors, but he had Gertrude Stein to be his mentor and learned from older writers.

The MFA provides 2 main things in terms: Access to established writers who can be mentors and a literary community of peers.

Neither of these things is necessarily essential, but many writers need them and find them beneficial... and this has been the case for centuries. If Hemingway and Isaac Babel needed mentors and peers, why should one assume you are any different?

Certainly hanging out in Paris as an ex-pat is preferable to going to a two year university program, but the fact of the matter is the world of writing is very different today than in Hemingway's day. It is possible to get a group of writers together, but it is pretty hard and near impossible to get a group of GOOD writers unelss yo know them personally. Most writing groups open to people outside of MFA programs are frankly terrible. Unless you are lucky enough to be best friends with the next Beat poets, where else can you find a quality literary community? without stalking your favorite writers until they put a restrainging order on you, how are you going to get access to famous writers?

Again, I'm not claiming that MFA programs are essential to be a writer, but they do provide clear benefits for many people and benefits that are not readily accessible to most aspiring writers not in MFA programs.

Over Memorial Day weekend I had a chance to reunion with a few MFA friends out in the wilderness of Idaho. Since graduation some of my classmates have begun interbreeding with non–MFA people, so both groups were on hand for the weekend. Cognitive of the debate raging on the internet over MFAs, I decided to study the behavior of these distinct groups.

After 48 hours of intense and close contact, I've concluded that there are difference between the non–MFA and MFA races, but there are also many similarities. I haven't gotten these data points into an analyzable format, but here are my immediate notes. I'll send some charts over once I get this stuff into a database.

Notes: on the June 1st & 2nd at a campsite outside Stanley, ID with MFA and non–MFA people.

Environment: No computers. A few paperbacks, but no real time to read, because we drank and swam for most of the day. 3 days of sun. Nighttime temperatures dropped into 40s.

Notes: Among the non–MFA, both men and women were peaceful in temperament and neither men nor women made war, except one non–MFA guy who was kind of a shit–talker. Among the MFA people, the opposite was true: Both men and women were warlike in temperament and shit–talkers and could be defined as "catty motherfuckers". Both the MFA and non–MFA races enjoy beer, even if a little warm. One non–MFA (the shit–talker) could funnel tequila. Non–MFA people have coarser features but beer can help. MFA people aren't good at lighting fires, but appreciate fireworks. MFA people have bad hair. Two of the three non–MFA females could crap in the woods. Both groups can swim without swimming gear.

Non–MFA, as a race, are better suited for manual labor. They take direction better than give it. But if you give them too many tasks in too short a time period, they will respond with expletives, and later shove the direction–giver off a rock into the Salmon River. Non–MFA people seem to need more food than MFA people and were often super–concerned with who is in charge of the grill. The MFA grads were more suited for tube–floating and complaining about the food. Both groups suck at fishing, but MFA people have the capacity to catch small frogs. If drunk and offered 5 dollars, one non–MFA person will smoke an el Roncho (i.e., cigarette made from toilet paper and pine needles). Neither race will eat small poops from unknown mammal species for any amount of money. MFA people can eat a lemon in under a minute for 3 dollars. Both groups love ecstasy and 10 pm sunsets and think everyone should take ecstasy and watch 10 pm sunsets at least once in their lives.

Finally, interbreeding between the MFA and non–MFA races does not seem to result in messed–up uncute–as–hell little kids.

Amazing - maybe I should look into an MFA course and get amongst the writing elites and then mingle with some from the non-MFA race and get some real insight into writing. Wonderful insight, thanks for that!

Gee! Here's my idea. Pick up a book and read it. Did you like it? Good! I wonder if the writer had an MFA. Who cares? You're too tired to Google her and find out. Eat some ice cream and go to bed. Alternate: Pick up a book and start to read. Uh-oh, you don't like it! Set it on fire in a safe manner. I wonder if the writer had an MFA. Maybe! It doesn't say. I guess you'll never know. Oh, well. That's life! Once all the embers have died, eat some ice cream and go to bed. Hope this helps!

All this talk of the "glamour" of Columbia, Iowa and Irvine...

This conversation started off by debating the pragmatic benefits of MFA programs (and why not, considering that a conservative estimate of their costs is $60,000?)

Having volunteered at several National Magazine Award-caliber magazines, I can guarantee you this: an MFA from Columbia or Irvine on its lonesome is absolutely not going to get you out of the slush pile at any venue where one publication can significantly alter the status of your writing career. And, having read a great deal of said MFA material in order to determine whether or not it should come off of the slush pile, I'd have to say that almost all of it can be left there.

So that leaves Iowa. Well, there is Iowa. At one magazine, I recall an Iowa MFA who finished his cover letter by letting us know that, "even though I know you guys don't like cover letters, just so we knew, I have an MFA from Iowa." Wink-wink. The letter was addressed to our Managing Editor. Our Managing Editor read this, then put the manuscript back in the slush pile for the volunteers.

Mr. Pendarvis may be amused to know that I threw this manuscript directly in the trash can and used its return postage to mail off my water bill.

Hey, that Miles Newbold Clark is quoting the first story in my new book on the subject of trash cans and water bills. I'm not bragging. I just don't want people to get the impression that he's making some sly reference to a manuscript of mine that he threw in the trash can. But I'm sure many people have thrown my manuscripts in trash cans, and that's fine. That's the way it goes! I believe that's the ultimate point of this entire string or thread or whatever you call it. No matter where (or if) you went to school, sometimes your manuscript gets thrown in the trash can. Oh well! Try again! Over and over.

I have a fantastic community of writing buddies. We all attended MFA programs mostly modest ones though my partner went to the famed "Big Show" aka Iowa. Regardless of what people have said here, his Iowa degreee *does* open a lot of doors for him. His work is pitch perfect but then so is the work of a lot of non Iowa peeps. It is his Iowa status that gets his manuscripts out of the slush and because he knows the names to drop when sending out queries. It's such a different experience for him. He's been publishing since leaving school and has a pretty decent writing job. On the other hand I have struggled. His mentors are all marquee lit figures and mine while incredible were all one or two book midlisters who haven't really had any impact since they started teaching. There is a difference. People don't like to believe it but there is. That's why people kill themselves to get into one of the triniity schools.

MFA programs within universities, and workshops have great potential to help junior writers to hone their talents into an accepted literary form.

Creative genius comes from both isolationism, reflection, and brief glimpses into the many works of the world.

MFA programs would need to overhaul their instructional forums to create new and outstanding writers. The current heads of the departments are slaves to those above them expecting the same performance from every student and faculty member.

Creativity does not come from PLEASING the professor and getting good grades. One must rebel at conformity to retain genius, talent, and new ideas. And, one must be able to OWN their own ideas and not hand them passively over for a professor to use at will.

Universities and colleges are slaves to conformity, so it only stands to reason that writers are all conforming as they are taught.

One must not be afraid to stick to their own style. Just as Picaso rebelled to retain his.
The beauty of a flower is in its unique design, including what we might consider its flaws.


I chose not to conform - it cost me my teaching degree. But, the rebound effect has enhanced all my other talents that I so carefully mold into new forms of reason.

Take care all.. I'm in search of scholarships to get my MFA from Whidbey, hoping their program will be able to outdistance all others. I'm still retaining hope.

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  • Diary of a Bad Year by J. M. Coetzee

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    Now, on the one hand, you scarcely need us to alert you to the existence of a new J.M. Coetzee novel, or even to have us tell you it's worth reading. But we can tell you - we insist on telling you that Diary of a Bad Year is a triumph, easily Coetzee's most affecting and fully wrought work since Disgrace. Formally inventive, the book intertwines two narratives with the author's own Strong Opinions, a series of seemingly discrete philosophical and political essays. The cumulative effect of this strange trio is deeply moving and thought provoking. It's increasingly rare in this thoroughly post-post-modern age to raise the kind of questions in fiction Coetzee handles so masterfully - right down to what is it, exactly, that we expect (or need) from our novels. It's telling that, for all of his serious pronouncements on subjects ranging from censorship to pedophilia to the use of torture, it's finally a few pages from The Brothers Karamazov that brings him to tears. Moving, wise and - how's this for a surprise - funny and lightly self-mocking, Diary of a Bad Year might well be the book of the year and Coetzee is surely our essential novelist. We haven't stopped thinking about it since we set it down.
  • The Indian Clerk by David Leavitt

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    David Leavitt's magnificent new novel tells the story of the unlikely friendship between the British mathematician G.H. Hardy and Srinivasa Ramanujan, mathematical autodidact and prodigy who had been working as a clerk in Madras, and who would turn out to be one of the great mathematical minds of the century. Ramanujan reluctantly joined Hardy in England - a move that would ultimately prove to his detriment - and the men set to work on proving the Riemann Hypothesis, one of mathematics' great unsolved problems. The Indian Clerk, an epic and elegant work which spans continents and decades, encompasses a World War, and boasts a cast of characters that includes Bertrand Russell, Ludwig Wittgenstein and Lytton Strachey. Leavitt renders the complex mathematics in a manner that resonates emotionally as well as intellectually, and writes with crystalline elegance. The metaphor of the prime number – divisible only by one and itself – is beautifully apt for this tale of these two isolated geniuses. Leavitt's control of this dense, sprawling material is impressive – astonishing, at times – and yet despite its scope, he keeps us focused on his great themes of unknowability and identity. The Indian Clerk might be set in the past but it doesn't resemble most so-called "historical fiction." Rather, it's an ageless meditation on the quests for knowledge and for the self – and how frequently the two are intertwined – that is, finally, as timeless as the music of the primes. (View our full week of coverage here.)
  • Then We Came to the End by Joshua Ferris

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    Joshua Ferris' warm and funny debut novel is an antidote to the sneering likes of The Office and Max Barry's Company. Treating his characters with both affection and respect, Ferris takes us into a Chicago ad agency at the onset of the dot-bomb. Careers are in jeopardy, nerves are frayed and petty turf wars are fought. But there are bigger stakes in the balance, and Ferris' weirdly indeterminate point of view that's mostly first person plural, underscores the shared humanity of everyone who has ever had to sit behind a desk. It's a luminous, affecting debut and you can read the first chapter right here.
  • Christine Falls by Benjamin Black

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    Coming to these shores at last, John Banville's thriller, written under the nom de plume Benjamin Black, has drawn rave reviews across the pond since it first appeared last October. Those who feared Banville might turn in an overly literary effort needn't worry. Influenced by Simenon's romans durs (hard stories), Banville unspools a dark mystery set in 1950s Dublin concerning itself with, among other things, the church's trade in orphans. At the heart of the book is the coroner Quirke, a Banvillean creation on par with Alex Cleave and Freddie Montgomery. Dublin is rendered with a damp, creaky specificity – you can almost taste the whisky.
  • The Paris Review Interviews, I by The Paris Review and Philip Gourevitch

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    Scanning our Recommended selections, one might conclude we're addicted to interviews, and one would be correct. If author interviews are like crack to us, then the Paris Review author interviews must surely be the gold standard of crack (a comparison Plimpton might not have embraced). The newly issued The Paris Review Interviews, Volume I (Picador) rolls out the heavy hitters. Who can possibly turn away from the likes of Saul Bellow, T.S. Eliot, Ernest Hemingway, Jorge Luis Borges, Dorothy Parker, Robert Gottlieb and others? The interviews are formal and thoughtful but never dry and can replace any dozen "how-to" books on writing. What can be more comforting than hearing Bellow, answering a question on preparations and conception, admit "Well, I don't know exactly how it's done.” The best part of this collection? The "Volume I" in the title, with its promise of more volumes to come.
  • Above Paris

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    See, we’re not all literary fiction here. Princeton Architectural Press’s absolutely breathtaking Above Paris is very much the kind of thing we’re eager to bring to your attention. Between 1950 and 1972, pilot and photographer Roger Henrard recorded more than 350 images of Paris from the seat of a single-engine Piper cub, documenting Paris from its outskirts to its center. His photographs show not only Paris's famous landmarks - they also give you a sense of the way the city is interconnected: the tight-knit medieval districts as well as the expansive geometry of the grand boulevards. Maps at the beginning of each chapter and fine captions and essays by Jean-Louis Cohen help you navigate the City of Light as never before. Just glorious.
  • The Dead Fish Museum: Stories by Charles D'Ambrosio

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    The best short story collection we've read since ... well, certainly since we've started this blog. And we might even say "ever" if Dubliners didn't cast such a long shadow. The short story is not our preferred form but D'Ambrosio's eight brilliant stories are almost enough to convert us. Defy the conventional wisdom that short story collections don't sell and treat yourself to this marvel. (We're especially partial, naturally, to "Screenwriter".)
  • The Mystery Guest by Grégoire Bouillier
    *Now in Paperback*

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    What would you do if the woman who’d left you high and dry ten years ago called out of the blue to invite you to a party without any further explanation? If you’re French, you’d probably spend a lot of time pondering the Deeper Significance Of It All, which is exactly what Grégoire Bouillier does for the 120 hilarious pages of The Mystery Guest. This slim, witty memoir follows Bouillier through the party from hell, and is a case study in Gallic self-abasement. Before it’s all done, you’ll set fire to any turtleneck hanging in your closet and think twice before buying an expensive Bordeaux as a gift. But fear not – just when it seems that all is, indeed, random and pointless and there is no Deeper Significance, salvation arrives in the unlikely form of Virginia Woolf, and the tale ends on a note of unforced optimism. Parfait.
  • Ticknor by Sheila Heti

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    When George Ticknor's Life of William Hickling Prescott was published in 1864, it received rapturous notices, and reviewers were quick to point out that the long-standing friendship between Prescott and Ticknor made the latter an ideal Boswell. Sheila Heti has pulled this obscure leaf from the literary archives and fashioned a mordantly funny anti-history; a pungent and hilarious study of bitterness and promise unfulfilled. As a fretful Ticknor navigates his way through the rain-soaked streets of Boston to Prescott's house ("But I am not a late man. I hate to be late."), he recalls his decidedly one-sided lifelong friendship with his great subject. Unlike the real-life Ticknor, this one is an embittered also-ran, full of plans and intentions never realized, always alive to the fashionable whispers behind his back. Heti seamlessly inhabits Ticknor's fussy 19th-century diction with a feat of virtuoso ventriloquism that puts one in mind of The Remains of the Day. Heti's Ticknor would be insufferable if he weren't so funny, and in the end, the black humor brings a leavening poignancy to this brief tale. But don't let the size fool you — this 109-page first novel is small but scarcely slight; it is as dense and textured as a truffle.
  • The Believer Book of Writers Talking to Writers by Vendela Vida

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    No, your eyes aren't deceiving you and yes, we are recommending a Believer product. Twenty-three interviews (a third presented for the first time) pairing the likes of Zadie Smith with Ian McEwan, Jonathan Lethem with Paul Auster, Edward P. Jones and ZZ Packer, and Adam Thirwell with Tom Stoppard make this collection a must-read. Lifted out of the context of some of the magazine's worst twee excesses, the interviews stand admirably on their own as largely thoughtful dialogues on craft. A handful of interviewers seem more interested in themselves than in their subjects but in the main this collection will prove irresistible to writers of any stripe - struggling or established - and to readers seeking a window into the creative process.
  • The Sea by John Banville

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    John Banville's latest novel returns him to the Booker Prize shortlist for the first time since 1989's The Book of Evidence. In The Sea, we find Banville in transition, moving from the icy, restrained narrators of The Untouchable, Eclipse and Shroud toward warmer climes. Max Morden has returned to the vacation spot of his youth as he grieves the death of his wife. Remembering his first, fatal love, Morden works to reconcile himself to his loss. Banville's trademark linguistic virtuosity is everpresent but some of the chilly control is relinquished and Max mourns and rages in ways that mark a new direction for Banville - and there's at least one great twist which you'll never see coming. Given the politicized nature of the British literary scene, Banville's shot at the prize might be hobbled by his controversial McEwan review but we're rooting for our longtime favorite to go all the way at last. UPDATE: Our man won!
  • Here Is Where We Meet by John Berger

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    We've been fans of Booker Prize winner John Berger for ages, and we're delighted to have received an early copy of his latest work, Here is Where We Meet. In this lovely, elliptical, melancholy "fictional memoir," Berger traverses European cities from Libson to Geneva to Islington, conversing with shades from his past – He encounters his dead mother on a Lisbon tram, a beloved mentor in a Krakow market. Along the way, we're treated to marvelous and occasionally heart-rending glimpses of an extraordinary life, a lyrical elegy to the 20th century from a man who - in his eighth decade - remains committed to his political beliefs and almost childlike in his openness to people, places and experiences. There's no conventional narrative here, and those seeking plot are advised to look elsewhere. But Here is Where We Meet offers a wise, moving and poetic look at the life of an artist traversing the European century from a novelist whose talent remains undimmed in his twilight years.
  • Home Land by Sam Lipsyte

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    In his recent TEV guest review of Home Land, Jim Ruland called Sam Lipsyte the "funniest writer of his generation," and we're quite inclined to agree.  We tore through Home Land in two joyful sittings and can't remember the last time we've laughed so hard.   Lipsyte's constellation of oddly sympathetic losers is rendered with a sparkling, inspired prose style that's sent us off in search of all his prior work. In Lewis Miner's (a.k.a Teabag) woeful epistolary dispatches to his high school alumni newsletter ("I did not pan out."), we find an anti-hero for the age.  Highly, highly recommended.

SECOND LOOK

  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald

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    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

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    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."

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