April 06, 2005


Jimmy Beck

Thanks for an excellent compendium. I might add Philip Roth's rereading of Bellow's novels that appeared in The New Yorker a few years ago and can be found in his collection of essays on writing and writers, Shop Talk.


Thanks for collecting this stuff, Mark. Hitch's intro to the 50th anniversary edition of Augie, and Amis's essay in The War Against Cliche, are worth reading too.

Bellow really cleared the table re British critics, didn't he? Wood, Bradbury, Amis, Hitchens all wrote over-the-top appreciations. You wonder what Bellow's reputation might be today without those guys.


There's no such thing as an over-the-top appreciation of a writer who went over the top of the fictonal trenches. The best essay I've read on him is by another British writer: Gabriel Josipovici's in "The Portable Bellow".

That James Wood TNR essay is reprinted in shorter form at the beginning of the Bellow's "Collected Stories". It's more than a review of a biography!

r zanic

June 10, '05

Too bad Saul Bellow didn't get the opportunity to read his son Adam's letter in the N.Y. Times.

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  • 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."


  • The Bookshop by Penelope Fitzgerald


    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


    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."