And say that I think Malcolm Jones’s critique of the Library of America is pretty stupid. I wanted to write something more inflammatory and fun, but E.J. and Nate wisely advised against it.
In case you haven’t read this piece, Jones basically tees-off on the LOA, claiming they’ve “jumped the shark” by publishing sub-par writers and not adhering to their mission:
Here’s how the LOA describes itself and its mission: “The Library of America helps to preserve our nation’s literary heritage by publishing, and keeping in print, authoritative editions of America’s best and most significant writing. An independent nonprofit organization, it was founded in 1979 with seed money from the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Ford Foundation.”
What’s really at work in Jones’s diatribe is a filtered exposure of his own aesthetic concept of “best and most significant.” This is sooooooo Newsweek. Obviously, the Jones canon is as predictable as white toast (with special emphasis on white and male), and he’s not a big fan of Philip K. Dick (OK, my blood starts to boil), Nathaniel West, Lovecraft, Dawn Powell. But here’s the moment that really pissed me off:
And then, in May, here comes an entire volume dedicated to . . . Shirley Jackson? A writer mostly famous for one short story, “The Lottery.” Is LOA about to jump the shark?
It’s been a couple years, but I’ll totally stand by We Have Always Lived in the Castle. And I’ll make a random guess that Jones has never read this, or The Haunting of Hill House, both of which are in the prestigious Penguin Classics series . . .
Besides, every good publisher uses its platform to introduce audiences to authors they may not be aware of, or might enjoy being exposed to. What was the fastest selling LOA book in history? The first collection of PKD novels. Why? Perhaps because a lot of readers are sick of the predictable and unchanging “American Canon.” Preserve away LOA. Give me surprises, bind them in elegant black, matching volumes. And cheers to editor Geoffrey O’Brien for taking risks and modernizing an enterprise that could otherwise become insanely insular and staid.
“Rambling Jack—what’s that?”
“A novel. Novella, I guess.”
“Yeah, it looks short. What is it, a hundred pages?”
“Sorta. It’s a duel language book, so really, only about… 50 pages total.”
“And this—what. . .
Many authors are compared to Roberto Bolaño. However, very few authors have the privilege of having a Roberto Bolaño quote on the cover of their work; and at that, one which states, “Good readers will find something that can be. . .
In Josep Maria de Sagarra’s Private Life, a man harangues his friend about literature while walking through Barcelona at night:
When a novel states a fact that ties into another fact and another and another, as the chain goes on. . .
César Aira dishes up an imaginative parable on how identity shapes our sense of belonging with Dinner, his latest release in English. Aira’s narrator (who, appropriately, remains nameless) is a self-pitying, bitter man—in his late fifties, living again with. . .
Originally published in French in 2007, We’re Not Here to Disappear (On n’est pas là pour disparaître) won the Prix Wepler-Fondation La Poste and the Prix Pierre Simon Ethique et Réflexion. The work has been recently translated by Béatrice Mousli. . .
Even though the latest from Jean Echenoz is only a thin volume containing seven of what he calls “little literary objects,” it is packed with surprises. In these pieces, things happen below the surface, sometimes both literally and figuratively. As. . .
Who is this woman? This is the question that opens Xiao Bai’s French Concession, a novel of colonial-era Shanghai’s spies and revolutionaries, police and smugglers, who scoot between doorways, walk nonchalantly down avenues, smoke cigars in police bureaus, and lounge. . .