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Monday, October 25
Normals Interview
Newsday manuevers a moment of childhood trauma into its interview with David Gilbert, author of The Normals.
Early on, Gilbert resolved not to follow his father and grandfather into investment banking at J.P. Morgan. By the age of 10, he reports, he had informed the old man of his literary aspirations. The response? "You don't know enough words to be a writer." Scrapbook
No All-Stars for this NBA
New York Magazine gives GC yet another opp. to post about the National Book Awards and NBA finalist Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum (Madeleine is Sleeping):
Yes, the five finalists in fiction for the National Book Awards seem a little obscure this year. (Then again, they owe their sudden renown to an NBA nominating committee headed by die-hard experimental novelist Rick Moody, whom some wags are doubtless now decrying as the worst awards administrator of his generation.) But to be fair, the five novelists do all live in the capital of books. This year, the National Book Foundation decided for the first time in 55 years to go outside New York (all the way to St. Paul, Minnesota) to announce the finalists. "And what do we do?" asks foundation director Harold Augenbraum. "We end up with a parochial lineup. Who would expect that all five would be women from New York?" Certainly not Sarah Shun-lien Bynum, a first-time novelist living in Fort Greene. "Three Novelists," a Sunday Night Reading at P.S.122 ![]() Left to right: Jill Bauerle reads from Liechtensteining, a work-in-progress; John Haskell reads "Dream of a Clean Slate," from the collection, I Am Not Jackson Pollock; Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum reads from Madeleine Is Sleeping, a finalist for the National Book Award in fiction. If I wanted to approach a favorite film celebrity or musician, I'd probably have to sacrifice some teeth to their bodyguards' elbows. If I wanted to approach a favorite writer, however, I'd do what I did last night: take a train into Manhattan, sit with 15 other fans, and, after the reading, exchange email addresses with a personal lit idol. Actually, in this case, two writers I admire were reading: John Haskell (who I first learned about last year, from an article by Ben Marcus in The Believer) and Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum (whose work I'll discuss in more detail sometime next week). Both were surprisingly good readers (and I say this as a person who attends readings the way children down cough syrup: squirming, making faces we can't help, but also pleased at our own bravery). While other writers read their stories no better than any reader could, Haskell, like the best readers, acted out his story with his voice. Long and lean, seeming simultaneously manic and gentle, he had the appearance and energy of an American Benigni -- and sometimes he read so quickly, his voice became a chorus: his character's thoughts overlapping, looping back, falling forward. At one point, his story had a character pointing, and Haskell, caught up in the character, pointed, too -- without thinking about it, or as if he, himself, had just been asked directions. His sense of responsibility to his story was moving. Sarah Shun-Lien Bynum, likewise, read her story in a manner no one else could ever emulate, but mainly because she, by nature, has a rare and strange and disorienting voice -- somewhere between the sound of a bird cooing and a young girl playing, and over-acting, a wise and wizened woman. Pitched high and tremulous, it sounds Disney-sweet but also panicked, and always faintly out of breath. Delightfully, Bynum announced at the start of her reading that the room's classroom-like furniture prompted a mischevious urge to "read the most sctalogical and lewd parts" of her novel. And so, her girlish, warbling voice read lines like these: "When M. Jouy placed his cock in her palm, it looked accusingly despondent and she was ashamed, for other girls had spoken of its liveliness. But when she wrapped her sturdy fingers around its girth, it shuddered in her grip like an infant bird." And if the the text was both lewd and lyrical, it now was also perversely innocent, and innocent by way of its straightforward enthusiasm for the perverse. Atlast
Some highlights from eye weekly's interview with David Mitchell:
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The First Word On the Book Publishing Industry
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