Category: books
Paul Clement was interviewed for Download, the weekly feature in the New York Times' Sunday Review.
Asked what he was reading, the former U.S. solicitor general said "mostly briefs, old Supreme Court cases and the Federalist Papers." He added, however, that "to unwind" he reads novels, humor and travel writing, "like a bunch of Norman Lewis classics."
I'm thrilled at the thought of a Beltway lawyer settling down in the evening with A Dragon Apparent. I'd be even more thrilled if it became a trend and was followed by politicians.
Saturday night, leaving Tuyo in downtown Miami, I noticed a paperback book sitting atop the valet podium. Walking closer I saw that it was Fahrenheit 451.
"That's a good book," I said. "Are you reading it for school?"
"No," the valet said. "I'm trying to improve my vocabulary. For my music."
"What kind of music?" I asked.
"Rap. R&B."
Ray Bradbury would have been pleased.
A padded envelope arrived in the mail the other day, from my friend Bibi in Amsterdam, and opening it up I found her new book Soldier Bear.
Bibi writes children's books about animals. In Soldier Bear, her first book translated into English, she tells the true story of a bear cub that was adopted by a group of Polish soldiers stationed in Iran during World War II. Voytek, as they named him, traveled with the soldiers to Egypt, Italy and eventually Scotland.
The book is engagingly written, not just the sections on Voytek but those about the war: "Poor Poland! From that day on, the country as everyone knew it no longer existed. It was a divided country with a 'peace border' running right through its heart. That was what the Germans called the new border. It was a funny kind of peace, though."
There are numerous maps - of Poland, the Middle East, the Mediterranean - and charming illustrations. (One full-page drawing shows Voytek chasing a monkey up a palm tree.) And the story is so good that children reading it will not even be aware that they're learning history and geography as they go.
A great American bookseller died this week: George Whitman, who reigned at Paris' Shakespeare & Co. for over half a century, passed away at the age of 98 in his apartment above his store, with its view across the Seine onto Notre Dame Cathedral. For book lovers, there is no better way to go.
Though a long-time Parisian, Whitman was born in New Jersey and educated at Harvard. I remember once browsing in his store and hearing three young backpackers ask about beds. (Whitman not only sold books, he offered free lodging, usually in exchange for help in the store. One of these boarder-workers, Jeremy Mercer, wrote a memoir of the experience, "Time Was Soft There," published in 2005). Whitman told the young men that he was completely full until they mentioned they were Harvard students; in that case, he said, they could stay. (Giving them perhaps the first of many Crimson-inspired perks.)
The community of great American booksellers is not very large. There are great American bookstores - Portland's Powell's stands out - but not that many that are associated with an individual (at least in the mind of the reading public). There is Whitman's friend and contemporary Lawrence Ferlinghetti at City Lights in San Francisco; Larry McMurtry (best known as a writer) at Booked Up in Archer City, Texas; and Mitchell Kaplan at Books & Books in Coral Gables, Florida. Ferlinghetti is in his 90's, McMurtry in his 70's. Which means that the youthful, middle-aged Miamian will probably, sadly, take on the title of Last Great American Bookseller.
Andy Borowitz wearing a T-shirt that on the back read "Posada" and James Hall wearing a cap that on the back read "James Hall."
"This is the loudest book fair yet," I yelled across the table to David. We had miraculously scored two seats at a table in the food court, but our conversation was being superseded by a band playing Latin jazz. Though this allowed me to give full attention to the worst gyro I had ever eaten, a lavishly but hideously constructed sandwich which, minutes before I threw it away, dripped cooked onion juice - cooked onion juice! - on my jeans.
It was so loud I couldn't tell David my favorite George Bernard Shaw story. Sitting near a band at an outdoor cafe, he was asked by the bandleader what he would like them to play. "Chess," he replied.
David headed off to work and I wandered over to hear Roger Rosenblatt in the Presentation Pavilion. There was a constant hum of air-conditioning vents, and strains of music - not Latin jazz - occasionally penetrated the tent. The previous panel - on the Port Huron Statement - was still going on, and when told they had to wrap it up, Tom Hayden insisted they had five more minutes. He jokingly told the crowd to link arms and sit in.
Instead of reading, Rosenblatt talked. ("Never read at a reading," Julian Barnes once advised a fellow author. "People would rather hear what you had for breakfast.") His topic was writing. "Imagination is more important than invention," he said. "Mr. Ed was an invention."
At 3:30 I made a rare appearance in the auditorium to hear a friend read with three other novelists. Without exception, the introductions to their readings were more interesting than their readings. Wouldn't it be more rewarding, I thought, to hear a moderator lead them all in a discussion of fiction writing?
Sunday I arrived in the Authors' Lounge a little before noon and grabbed some hummus and wraps. Sitting at a table with Lyn Millner and Lynne Barrett, I threw out my proposal that authors should talk and not read. Lynne vehemently disagreed, saying people won't buy a book if they don't know what's in it. She said she went to a reading once where the author went on and on until someone in the audience called out for her to cut the chatter and read her book.
I found Peter Godwin, whom I was to introduce, and we found two chairs near the entrance. During our chat, Susan Orlean walked by and started a conversation with Peter. She apologized for interrupting; we introduced ourselves; my name didn't ring a bell. Though she had read at least one of my stories, "Heaven to Bavarians," when she was guest editor of The Best American Travel Writing 2007. She didn't include it; I didn't mention it.
Peter and I walked over to the Batten building. His book was The Fear: Robert Mugabe and the Martyrdom of Zimbabwe, and I feared a low turnout. But over 100 people were gathered in Room 2106. Peter gave a succinct and riveting overview of the country's tragic fate, artfully weaving in personal history (he was born in the country) and harrowing tales of bearing witness (he has worked there as a journalist). After he read a short passage from the book (giving the crowd a small, perfect taste of the work, an amuse-oreille), he answered questions, which were appreciative, well-informed and numerous. I felt proud of South Florida.
We headed over, with a few eager listeners in tow, to the signing area, where Peter sat for the next half hour, autographing books and talking to interested readers. Waiting, I complimented a young woman on her Granta bag.
"They had a booth here last year," she explained, then introduced me to her friends. They were all from Missouri, now living in Miami, working (with the exception of Hannah) for New Times.
I said goodbye to Peter and headed up to hear Sean Sexton, a rancher-poet whom I met a few years ago while writing a story about Vero Beach. After two days of listening to authors it was extremely pleasant to hear one get up and read: "In my life, there have always been cattle." I also liked the poem about pulling from the womb a stillborn calf. Mud is to Sexton what daffodils were to Wordsworth.
There was one more friend to see, T.M. Shine, so I took the escalator down to the first floor, arriving too late. Though I did hear one of Terry's co-readers read of flying to Miami and gazing down from the plane and seeing people on the beach who looked "like ants." At the signing, a line formed for her autograph, while no one bought Terry's book. Watching mediocrity get rewarded and originality ignored is, sadly, another part of book fairs.