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March 21, 2010

EMBARRASSMENT OF RICHES

Well, isn't this always the way?  You can go weeks without a compelling reading around here, and then - WHAM - not one, but, of course, two fantastic readings on the same night.  And, in a possible TEV first, both writers are long term residents of my Recommended sidebar.

For you guys way out east, Sam Lipsyte touches down briefly to discuss his new novel, The Ask, at Vromans.  Details are here.

Over here in the 310, Sheila Heti, author of TEV favorite Ticknor, appears at the Hammer Museum as part of the New American Writing series.  Details are here.

It makes the head spin.  Flip a coin, get your passport stamped, but make sure you are at one of these.  If you're not,  I'll hear about it.

Posted at 08:17 PM in Events |

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Comments

Niall

I remember Sam from his days at Feed. I also went to see him introduce Houellebecq at the Hammer - what was it? - four years ago? It's a pity he'll be far away in Pasadena. I'd like to hear him read. And it looks as though "The Ask" is going to be a big breakthrough for him.

Posted by: Niall | March 22, 2010 at 11:01 AM

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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."

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