If you’re in New York—for BEA, or simply because you live there—you should definitely come out to tonight’s party in honor of Alejandro Zambra, author of Bonsai (Melville House, finalist for 2009 Best Translated Book Award) and The Private Lives of Trees (Open Letter).
The event is at Melville House’s office in DUMBO (145 Plymouth St, at Pearl St) and starts at 7pm.
I’m off to New York to make the rounds the next two days, and to log in a couple hours of tough “work” at Friday night’s 2666 launch party that’s taking place at Plan B (10th and B) from 8 to 10. I hear there will be some finished copies on sale, and a lot of people involved with the book (like editor Lorin Stein) will be in attendance. And a lot of die-hard Bolano fans . . .
If you’re in the area and/or desperate to see a finished copy, feel free to swing by.
Randall Jarrell once argued a point that I will now paraphrase and, in doing so, over-simplify: As a culture, we need book criticism, not book reviews. I sort of agree, but let’s not get into all of that. Having finished. . .
Like any good potboiler worth its salt, Fuminori Nakamura’s The Gun wastes no time setting up its premise: “Last night, I found a gun. Or you could say I stole it, I’m not really sure. I’ve never seen something so. . .
Heiner Resseck, the protagonist in Monika Held’s thought-provoking, first novel, This Place Holds No Fear, intentionally re-lives his past every hour of every day. His memories are his treasures, more dear than the present or future. What wonderful past eclipses. . .
If you’ve ever worked in a corporate office, you’ve likely heard the phrase, “Perception is reality.” To Björn, the office worker who narrates Jonas Karlsson’s novel The Room, the reality is simple: there’s a door near the bathroom that leads. . .
I recently listened to Three Percent Podcast #99, which had guest speaker Julia Berner-Tobin from Feminist Press. In addition to the usual amusement of finally hearing both sides of the podcast (normally I just hear parts of Chad’s side. . .
Let’s not deceive ourselves, man is nothing very special. In fact, there are so many of us that our governments don’t know what to do with us at all. Six billion humans on the planet and only six or seven. . .
“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. . .