BOOKS THREAD

An excellent assignment, Moddy, because that was the last interview where anyone had access to the inside of Tiger's head.

I used to bring this up in my Intro to News Reporting class, during the week we discussed interviewing.

 

Just started reading my first Jonathan Lethem novel, "Motherless Brooklyn."

Holy mother of God is this guy a god among men.

After a steady diet of nonfiction and genre fiction (crime, suspense, horror) the last few months, the return to literary fiction feels like the day you finally reach your target weight and can hop off the diet wagon.

And the best part is that he's not one of those novelists who sacrifice story (Richard Ford, ahem) in service of wordplay and internal struggles. It's all there, story included.

 

Picked up Lehane's 8th novel today, "The Given Day." It's his first novel in a historical setting, which I'm looking forward to. Hopefully I'll get the chance to dive into it later.

 

I loved "Motherless Brooklyn". You've made me want to read it again.

 

I really think Motherless Brooklyn is overrated. As a crime novel, it's pretty meh. It's certainly no Lehane, Pelecanos or Leonard. As a literary novel, it's also pretty meh. The reason people get such a woody over it is because it happens to have a guy with tourette's as the main character in a crime story. Inventive, yes, but I seriously don't feel it rises to the level of genius it is so often awarded.

If you want to see a literary writer dipping into the suspense genre, Michael Chabon's "Yiddish Policeman's Union" is a much stronger effort.

 

DD, that's a good choice. I think Chabon provides more evidence that a "literary" writer can craft a page turner (also Kav and Clay).

 

So I started "Bright Lights Big City" after work last night. Got about 5 pages into it. Interesting so far. Some vivid imagery and terrific sentences.

 

Just started Pearlman's Boys Will Be Boys. A hundred or so pages in and it's already a hell of a read.

 

About 150 pages in and all I can say is what a bunch of assholes.

 

you're 32 pages into "bright lights, big city" and you can't believe you've gone so long without reading one of the best books you've ever clutched in your meat hooks. you realize you are the protagonist, and you can't help but chuckle at the references such as "a boatload of Marching Powder" et cetera. you're going to finish the book today in one foul swoop and head over to bleecker street to fuck around till showtime on cherry lane.