Category: books
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 We had miraculously scored two seats at a table in the food court, but our conversation was being superseded by a band playing Latin jazz.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.
If technology destroys the book, what will become of the bookish?
In Coral Gables last night the Taipei Economic and Cultural Office was celebrating the Centennial of the Republic of China while, a few blocks away, Stacy Schiff was reading at Books & Books. I chose to hang with the Taiwanese, which meant I missed my chance to ask the author of Cleopatra about her recent review of a collection by one of my favorite authors. On the off chance that Ms. Schiff reads this blog, I am copying the letter I wrote to the New York Times Book Review (which chose not to publish it):
I hope that Stacy Schiff’s complaint of occasional staleness in Jonathan Raban’s essay collection “Driving Home” (Sept. 18) doesn’t discourage potential readers, especially since the charge, in at least one instance, is grossly unjustified.
Considering Raban’s account of the Mississippi floods of 1993, Schiff writes that it is “closely observed” but “difficult to appreciate” in the aftermath of Katrina. Yet the two disasters have almost no connection; Raban, on this trip, never ventured south of Missouri.
And “closely observed” is faint praise for a masterpiece of literary nonfiction that combines exhaustive reportage with brilliant interpretation. In it, Raban captured not only the news of rising water but also the essence of a Midwestern ethos – and, breathtakingly, tied the two together. “Flying to Minneapolis from the West, you see it as a theological problem,” the piece begins, and then goes on to compare the unruly river, in this “right-angled, right-thinking Lutheran country,” to “John Calvin’s bad temper ... the wild beast in the heart of the heartland.” For nearly two decades I have read aloud the first page of “Mississippi Water” to travel writing students, and no one has ever complained of a lack of freshness. Great writing has no sell-by date.
Wandering around Manhattan last week I was struck by the large number of businesses devoted to food. There were blocks with only these, restaurants next to pizzerias next to fast-food franchises. There were the familiar - Chipotle seemed almost as prevalent as Starbucks - and some that were new to me, like Maoz (wonderful falafel with a fresh salad bar). One day in midtown I walked past the soup place made famous by Seinfeld (and now selling T-shirts printed with the words "No Soup For You"). Then of course there were all the street carts grilling kabobs and sausages.
It was hard to walk a block without seeing or smelling something to eat. It didn't seem so much a health problem - people generally looked pretty fit - as a psychological one. New Yorkers, like other Americans, have become obsessed with food.
I stayed in a friend's apartment on the Upper West Side, and was disappointed to see that the Barnes & Noble at 66th and Broadway had closed since my last visit. Walking around the neighborhood I found a choice of edibles from around the world - many of them temptingly displayed and ready to eat - but no store where I could buy a book. On the Upper West Side, one of America's intellectual enclaves. There seemed no clearer sign that in the national battle between the mind and the stomach, the stomach has won.