Andre Dubus III's The House of Sand and Fog was probably THE saddest, most wrenching book we ever read. We were hoping his latest, The Garden of Last Days, would be similar in its delicious soul-killing-ness. But Janet Maslin doesn't think so! In her Books of the Times review, she notes that:

“The Garden of Last Days” explores the cultural chasm between Bassam’s world and Spring’s. With a plot fueled by the certitude that something terrible will happen, this narrative may mean to recall the devastating forward motion of Russell Banks’s “Continental Drift.” But Mr. Dubus shows none of Mr. Banks’s anguished insight into such a clash of values and attitudes. Instead he often treats this book as an occasion for easy irony, as in the way April has left Franny to watch Disney videos. Thus the child can immerse herself in “The Little Mermaid” despite the smoke, loud music, raucous men and tawdry, real-life women surrounding her. Thus if Franny is to watch “The Lion King” in these last days before the 9/11 attacks, April insists that her daughter be shielded from the scary parts.

Maslin is disappointed that in this novel, Dubus's "forces of darkness are less subtle." Maybe Dubus wrote out all the baddies and doesn't have anything left to forward his sad muse. Kinda like Rivers Cuomo. But at least Dubus doesn't have a porn-stache. There are still some things to be grateful for.

A piece in the New York Times' business section today about author Ayn Rand and her economic legacy got us thinking.

We read all of Rand's fiction back in high school, when we were feeling rebellious and anti-establishment and hating on adolescent suburban sheep (even though, duh, we were one of them). And while we don't live by her philosophy, we've long been fans of her writing. This has gotten us into trouble before. People who deem themselves literary taste-makers have yelled themselves blue in our faces trying to explain why Rand is a horrible writer who deals in primarily in clichés. Plus, she has no morals, and how can we stand that? We try to defend her.

Well, we say. The Fountainhead is a beautiful book, and when we try to explain why, we wind up talking a lot about Rand's aptitude for description and her ability to zoom into the hearts of her characters. Yes, she makes people villains and heroes, and most people in the real world aren't all Bad or all Good, but if you sit down to read one of her books, it's just something you have to expect of her style. You accept that, and you can accept the liberties she takes. Then - for us, at least - you can really take pleasure in what she has to say, whether you agree with it or not. If you ask us, she earns that right in the way she can weave a plot and a mystery. The Fountainhead is a true thriller, as are most of her novels.

Oh, and let's skip all the scary-creepy stuff about her affair with her (former) intellectual heir Nathaniel Brandon. We know. We read her biography, The Passion of Ayn Rand (written by Brandon's ex-wife Barbara), and if you care to learn the gossip, you can read it too.

What's more interesting to us, though (more interesting than gossip - we must be turning over a new leaf!) is that tons of high-powered CEOs and government figures have been harboring this secret passion for Objectivism in the years that Rand's novels have continued to sell and sell and sell. Rand's philosophy is a controversial one, which could explain why they're secretive about it - although it's common knowledge that recently-shamed Alan Greenspan counts her as one of his mentors.

But beyond that, is it possible that the movers-and-shakers of the business world could ever get together - not just at informal meetings - and do what Rand envisioned in Atlas Shrugged? Pull back, stop the motor of the earth, trample self-sacrifice, and rule by self-interest? We think perhaps, yes, although it's also just as possible that they would be doing it for reasons that Rand would despise.

Here's Part I of a conversation Rand had with Mike Wallace in 1959. We think she sounds a bit shrill at times, although we're fascinated by the fervor and belief you can practically see burning through her eyes. Not so unlike the religious fanatics she derides, if you ask us, but form your own opinion:

The YouTube tags for this one are: Bukowski, poetry, beer, shit.

He uses the word "moxie" which is amazing in and of itself.

Watch. Rewind. Repeat.

Dear Oprah,

Please stop it.

Now when I recommed Jeffrey Eugenides's Middlesex to people as one of my favorite coming-of-age novels of all time, they're going to be like, Gag, wasn't that shit on Oprah? Soon you'll put your Oprah Seal of Approval on all the new book pressings. I'll walk into the bookstore and I'll see it. I'll feel depressed. I can't help it. Listen, before you start talking about the literary version of "scene cred," and how lame it is, let me cut you off right now. I really could care less about loving a book that isn't cool to love because you love it and you make America love it. Srsly. And, I'm really happy for Jeffrey Eugenides because I think he's an incredible talent. I adore all his work.

It's just that you have this way of popularizing things and discussing them in a manner that takes away the spark of what made me first fall for it. Does that make sense?

I don't know what it is with you. Or with me. I'm double-talking. You see how you affect people? Damn you, Winfrey!!

No. Ok. I'm not angry. I just feel this weird resentment. What you're doing is good because it will expose people to another wonderful novel. Although I can't imagine what Middle American Housewives will think of a book that is basically about a transgendered teenager who first becomes a lesbian and then becomes a boy. Cal is amazing, and I don't want anyone to hate him. They might, and they can, but I don't want them to.

I'm worried about that.

I don't know what else to say. It's not like you can stop. I just really don't like you right now.

Stop screaming so loud when you announce your guests's names because it's really annoying,
Sharon

P.S. Can I have a car?

Sharon, the more active half of Word Up, sent me an email this afternoon about literary hot shit Marisha Pessl, author of Special Topics in Calamity Physics, and her latest appearance in the New York Times, looking super-sultry in a photo accompanying a piece about, ummm, I guess the paint set her hedge fund manager husband gave her?

The first couple grafs attempt to provide some semblance of a literary/philosophical tone in frameworking why painting appeals to Pessl — “When things are not relative, we can’t say, know or grasp what they are…Why else has the word ‘like’ become an all-purpose teenage interjection of approximation and uncertainty?” — but the whole thing’s more of a… I’ll just transcribe the quick email exchange:

SHARON: I still love the book, but I’m starting to get really annoyed. I wonder how many people she knows at the NYT to get all this attention!

Is that fuckmeboot photo really necessary?

NINA: Gross me out the door! Honestly, I just said ewww outloud. For real, doesn’t it sort of belittle a “serious” writer to have a piece about some present her rich-ass husband gave her? I mean, I get it that it’s great to be, you know, all hot and stuff for selling books, but I wonder if she isn’t a little worried that people MIGHT take her a little less seriously as a writer. Despite everyone saying how great the book is, I don’t think I could open it now without picturing her languishing in an armchair in four-inch knee-high boots, or “slash painting” or whatever the fuck.

Marisha Pessl, literary hotshit of the moment (not according to the Dig) for her debut novel Special Topics in Calamity Physics, wrote an Op-Ed in today’s NYTimes that argues in favor of embracing the nefarious freshman 15. Pack it on, she says, because there’s plenty of time for rules and restraint after you graduate. College is all about excess and salads will make you sulky. It’s not a bad message. But she sure loves her literary devices, particularly alliteration. Here’s the piece, in an alliterative nutshell:

Pessl references cravings for “pizza, pasta, Twinkies and Tab” and suggests that the problem with “collegiate calorie counting” when studying “Kierkegaard or Conrad” after snacking on “seitan and soy chips” is “stomachs seasick, sometimes outright ill.” It’s not the time for dieting because college is “four fleeting years of free-spirited indulgence,” in which you might meet a French girl and “soon you’re specializing in Sartre.” It’s a time to be “a fool, fall flat, find out you . . . never really had a clue” and if you “gain a little gut studying Goethe,” don’t lose sleep, and eat cake while you can, because after you graduate, those study sessions with “beer, Byron, and buffalo wings” will feel like a sweet dream. In the words of Sharon, she's hot & high-rollin.

Chuck Klosterman: The Ultimate Indie-Yuppie

Ugh, Chuck Klosterman. You're a good writer, you're super-successful, you started out as a nerdy nobody, and you're more obsessed with the minutae of pop-culture ephemera than anyone on earth. We admire all of that. So why do we find you so fucking annoying? It's a dilemma, truly. 

We hear that the author of New York Times bestseller Sex, Drugs, and Coco Puffs: A Low Culture Manifesto, will speak about his new release, Chuck Klosterman IV: A Decade of Curious People and Danerous Ideas, at the Barnes & Noble at Boston University on Monday, September 25th, at 1 p.m. Following the program he will sign copies of his books.

Is he really "the new Hunter S. Thompson?" People says so, but they also put Britters on the cover every other week. Could he be "the reigning Kasparov of pop culture wits-matching?" Apparantly, according to The San Francisco Chronicle. "One of America's top cultural critics!" shrieks the mavens at Entertainment Weekly. Word Up doesn't have much of a taste for his books, but his sharp commentary in the NYTM and Esquire are usually to our liking. We had fun reading this piece about DJ Dangermouse, and this one about SoaP.

So here's the surprise factor: Chuck Klosterman IV comrpises a selection of Mr. Pop-Culture Ironic Anti-Hero Man's profiles and trend stories of the past decade in its first part. Part II is his opinions on new shit. Blah blah. In Part III, the Chuckster actually tries his hand at FICTION WRITING. Remember, that deals with actual emotions and character psychology, not just the finer points of the history of The Real World! (Which, to be frank, totally has it's own merit.) If we don't wind up enjoying his short stories, though, we hope the raving Klostie fans out there won't tell us to go die. *Hides* 

We're scared. And also ridiculously intrigued. Anyone spot Chuck in a fiction writing workshop lately?

How'd we miss this? On Wednesday The Guardian UK ran Lionel Shriver's infuriating diatribe on "vapid" computer-generated book covers. While we're not familiar with the author's work, we've decided to pre-judge and say that we pretty much hate her already. Especially for lines such as these:

Oh BULLY for you. What the fug kind of a girl's name is Lionel, anyway?

As luck would have it, there's a heated argument going on in the comments section of this article. One made us very happy:

"The thing that makes a book designers life a living hell is authors thinking they can do our job for us. Most times you will find that the author and publisher have in fact not briefed the designer properly. They will not have passed on the message that the author feels strongly about having an 'illustrated' cover."

Preach!

When we worked in publishing, the in-house designers at our company slaved nights, weekends, and many over-time hours to please authors who, upon suddenly growing massive, canyon-sized egos due to the fact that they were about to become "published," thought it appropriate to dictate to a professional how a marketable book should look. Sometimes, like old lady Shriver here, they'd even draw their own covers and submit them for approval. NO. No, no, no.

MEMORANDUM: To any author (seasoned, newbie, or otherwise) about to enter the marketing/publicity process: Kindly trash your romantic notions about delicate, Henri Rousseau-inspired watercolor paintings as dust jackets--along with your dreams of having Oprah shout in your ear about your overpowering narrative skill on Book Club Day. People don't want to buy novels with covers that closely resemble the ugly-ass free art calendar their grandmother gave them for Christmas. We don't, at any rate. Happy Friday!

Love and other indoor sports,
Word Up

This half of Word Up is a little bit consumed with the whole Harry Potter...everything. And we're having serious withdrawal issues this summer since there's no 19438328289 lb. new book to carry around and sink our teeth into. Really, we EAT Harry Potter books. They taste like crumpets. With jam. Jolly good!

One of our fellow HP-lovin' BFFs tipped us off to this CNN article: At a fundraiser on Tuesday, authors John Irving and Stephen King begged J.K. Rowling not to kill off Harry Potter in the next and final installment of the series. For anyone out there who hasn't yet discovered the series, read that far, or lives in a desolate region where media is not available, we won't completely spoil the big surprise of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, in which a beloved, major character was offed. However, we will say -- because it's so obvious -- that rumors have been swirling that Harry's next up on the chopping block. Fans are growing anxious and depressed. Rowling, of course, has made it all into some big "life lesson." Are you gonna be laughing about poor Harry on your way to the bank, biatch? Cause we'll be sobbing. Hysterically. For weeks.

"'When fans accuse me of sadism, which doesn't happen that often, I feel I'm toughening them up to go on and read John and Stephen's books,' she said. 'I think they've got to be toughened up somehow. It's a cruel literary world out there.'"

That's not at all comforting, J.K. And don't condescend. We know it's harsh, we just don't LIKE it. All we want is to see Harry marry Ginny and Hermione marry Ron so they can all get knocked up and spawn The Next Generation of Howgarts (Harry Potter: TNGH). Oh, and make it a double wedding. But classy. With The Weird Sisters -- played in the Goblet of Fire film by Johnny Greenwood and Phil Stelway of Radiohead; Jarvis Cocker and Steve Mackey of Pulp; and electronic artist Jason Buckle -- presiding as house band. Visions of the happy couples rocking out to "Do the Hippogriff," all grown up and triumphant and NOT DEAD...OMG please let it happen. Make it work, J.K. Or you'll be responsible for putting thousands of children on MAOI inhibitors next summer. And that's really gonna piss off Cruise.

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