« What the @#& is this book | Main | OBITER DICTA »

October 06, 2005

How a worldwide toast was born

Since the Hungarian TV reporter asked, the way this toast came about was not in fact a marketing plan but because so many people kept emailing me asking how they could contact Attila in the prison. I had told Attila I would have a toast for him on his birthday and when I mentioned this to a couple of people who had written me, they were also interested in saluting him. So I emailed some of the others who had written to me and some of them too wanted to take part. Gradually over the last several months it kept growing, including this band in Oregon who has named themselves The Whiskey Robbers, who are playing a special show tonight.

In any case, while there are a few locations where people I know organized the gatherings, mostly these people all over the world found the book and felt strongly enough about Attila to do something about it. I put up the cities and locations here, but they include NYC, SF, Chicago, Toronto, Calgary, London, Sydney, Berlin, Barcelona, Riga, Budapest, etc.

I think that his anti-establishment persona is in many ways particularly appealing now. Maybe that’s why, I don’t know.

I have to soon decide how many drinks I will allow myself before playing tonight. I think one should be the max, no? There is a special "whiskey robber" cocktail that's actually pretty good. The recipe is on my site, news page.

Posted at 03:16 PM in Guest Bloggers |

| | Pin It! | |

Comments

The comments to this entry are closed.

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."

Categories

Subscribe to this blog's feed