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August 24, 2004

Comments

Kevin Holtsberry

Official Right Wing Watchdog here again! I can understand your disagreement with Brookhiser's politics but he is anything but an "right-wing clown." He is a respected and talented historical biographer and essayist. There are plenty of conservative pundits and talking heads for whom I have little respect even if I am largely in agreement with their political positions, but Richard Brookhiser is a scholar and writer with a great deal of talent and intelligenece.

As to your question about the line between editors and contributors, I think it is up to readers and fellow writers to determine if the quality is there. If a journal or magazine becomes simply a place for the same old ideas to be trotted out or if editorial standards seem to slip and this allows less talented writers to get published at the expense of those with talent but without connections then readers and critics should point that out. I don't think there is a greal deal to be gained by a legalistic approach, rather quality and intelligence should be the guide.

Again, lit blogs can play a role here. They can be a communication tool that allows readers and writers to discuss these issues and help shape reputations and set standards.

CAAF

If I were Sam Tanenhaus for a day, I would assign the review to Ryan Lizza. Is he a leftie? I suspect he may be but don't know -- I just always enjoy his articles in The New Republic. He's wry and funny and yet ever so scrutinizing.

Your second question: A problem with publishing one's colleagues would be editing one's colleagues. It seems like that would call for strength of mind, to say, "Sorry, F.R. It's back to the drawing board for you." And I think we've all seen publications where a certain amount of slackness has crept in there.

Another pitfall of this type of venture seems to be the potential for a sameness of voice to creep in -- as the writers begins to identify a group voice and (unconsciously or consciously) ape its style. I seem to remember an anecdote about the early days of the New Yorker and Ross fulminating about the high neurotic tone that had become de rigeur for the Talk of the Town pieces. Does anyone else recall this story? Someone had written a piece about going to the theater and getting fainty at the event and Ross drew the line there.

My point is, that this is perhaps one of the roots of the distrust of the blurring of lines: Sameness of voice?

Ron

Seconding Kevin's first point--I'm no fan of the right, but Richard Brookhiser is hardly in the same league as, say, George Will or even Leon Wieseltier as far as "clownish" writing is concerned.

But I'd have tried to assign the review to Hunter S. Thompson anyway.

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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."