October 1, 2012 Arts & Culture Shades of Red: On Indian Summer By Maria Konnikova Babie leto. The summer of old women. Even today, years after leaving Russia, that’s what I always call Indian summer in my head. The stress on the first syllable, the second merging seamlessly into that bright le of false warmth. The time of year I’m happiest to live where I do, forgiving for once the winter cold that lasts just a little too long, the days that grow just a little too short a little too quickly—and then seem to stay there indefinitely. The summer of the old women. I’ve often wondered why it is that some elderly hags should get special claim to these days of deceptive warmth, what it is in the ember of reds and honeyed yellows of the leaves that calls to them above everyone else. It seems somehow unfair, that privileged ownership. A falling spindle of fine thread, catching the rays of the sun on its way down from the sky, letting the light play off its gossamer thinness. The flower crab spider’s web carried through the air by the autumn wind. It’s the finely spun yarn of a young girl who has been weaving without rest for days and nights on end. Long, long ago she was kidnapped by the sun, and now, she must spend her endless lifetime spinning fine thread for his pleasure. On the bright, clear days of babie leto, you can see her handiwork spiraling through the air. She is the woman of the second summer. And she may be timeless, but old she most certainly is not. A lumbering long-haired creature of mythological proportions who comes out of hiding with the first notes of warmth that follow the early fall cold. His name is Baba. His hair is like a collection of finely spun spider’s webs—and he can use it to tickle people to their deaths. He is the true owner of those waning days of warmth, old women be damned. They’d better watch out for his deceptively inviting hair. There are the more prosaic explanations, of course. Read More
October 1, 2012 Books Memoir of Memoir of a Gambler By Lary Wallace There were few places on the ship less conducive to reading than the library. In the summer of 2000, in my early twenties, I was stationed aboard an aircraft carrier. The library sat directly beneath the flight deck, which means that in addition to the thump, rattle, and screech of the planes as they landed, there was the heat from the catapults and their fuel, a heat so thick it invaded your respiration like some perniciously odorless fume, trespassing on your psyche and then inhabiting it. Reading there was out of the question, but we weren’t on the ship to read. Which is why it always surprised me how many great books they had in that library. I found one of the greatest purely by chance. I knew neither the book, Memoir of a Gambler, nor its author, Jack Richardson. It was the title that hooked me. Our ship would soon be returning to San Diego, after a six-month cruise throughout the Pacific Ocean and Arabian Sea, and so I knew I would soon be gambling again. Having already become a devotee of the sports-gambling culture of San Diego—or, more specifically, its adjunct playground of Tijuana—I needed little encouragement. But in the book I now held in my hands, I would find plenty of encouragement anyway. On the cover, this Jack Richardson struck a classically arch pose, arms crossed in a subdued brown sport coat and vest, staring self-importantly into the camera; beside him, on a circular bar-table sat a gleaming, thickly cut glass ashtray, a lone cigarillo perched on its edge. The back cover featured a blurb from William Styron (a notoriously selective blurber, even on behalf of friends), proclaiming, “Jack Richardson is a wonderful writer and his book is a powerful portrayal of one man’s obsession—sad, hilarious, erotic, and, above all, pitilessly honest. I read Memoir of a Gambler with fascination and delight.” The bio inside the back flap revealed that the author was a distinguished playwright who had also written for many of the magazines I cherished most, and then, on the copyright page, a partial explanation for why I did not recognize him from any of those magazines: “Copyright ©1979.” Read More
October 1, 2012 On the Shelf Hobbit Mythology, Classics Reinvented By Sadie Stein Artists from all over the world reinterpret covers for The Observer’s list of the hundred greatest novels. The Ransom Center’s Pale King archive is now open to the public. Look through some of DFW’s extensive notes. Good news for Louie C.K.: the Puzo estate can’t prevent any future Godfather films. “The Hobbit, published seventy-five years ago, is not a fantasy-adventure as it is being described, but a myth, or part of a mythology.” On the novel’s scholarly underpinnings. [tweetbutton] [facebook_ilike]
September 28, 2012 Arts & Culture Song of Roland: An Illustrated Panorama By Jason Novak La Chanson de Roland is one of the major epic poems of the Middle Ages. It centers around one of Charlemagne’s adjutants, a prefect named Roland. Though billed as a “song,” it is a blood-soaked screed against paganism. What strikes me most about this story is how truly medieval the medieval courts were. I would patch this up with a happy ending—but how? The happy ending is that we don’t live in medieval France! Pause Play Play Prev | Next Jason Novak works at a grocery store in Berkeley, California, and changes diapers in his spare time.
September 28, 2012 This Week’s Reading What We’re Loving: Simultaneity, Latin Lovers By The Paris Review I’m not really a fan of family-drama novels—I make exceptions for Lionel Shriver and Jane Smiley—but when one is set in your home state and the author teaches at your alma mater, it seems like required reading. Now I can make Andrew Porter’s In Between Days an exception, too. This story of a family’s collapse begins after the falling apart—infidelity, divorce, coming out, leaving for college—has already taken place. There’s more dysfunction to come, but the real treat is Porter’s plainspoken treatment of his characters, quiet and intense, and the revelation of fine but substantive fractures that are impossible to repair. —Nicole Rudick Blaise Cendrars and Sonia Delauney published The Prose of the Trans-Siberian and of Little Jeanne of France in 1913, calling it “The First Book of Simultaneity.” Cendrars’s poem, recounting a journey he may or may not have taken from Moscow to Manchuria, was accompanied by Delauney’s scroll of abstract forms in bright colors. The idea was that the reader should take in the text and painting simultaneously, and the poem strives gamely toward the same goal: “So many associations images I can’t get into my poem / Because I’m still such a really bad poet / Because the universe rushes over me / And I didn’t bother to insure myself against train wreck.” A facsimile edition of the original book—a gorgeous, unfolding paper accordion—has been published by Yale, and I’ve been staring at it all afternoon. —Robyn Creswell Read More
September 28, 2012 On the Shelf Tiny Books, Wuthering Napa By Sadie Stein Behold! The world’s smallest book! Teeny Ted from Tunip Town was etched on a microchip with an ion beam and can only be read via scanning electron microscope. Presented without comment: “This time, we’ll be finding the dapper but doomed lovebirds, Heathcliff and Catherine (or will it be Heath and Kate?) in modern day Napa Valley. Greg Berlanti, the creator and writer of Everwood, Jack & Bobby, and Arrow, and Tom Donaghy of The Whole Truth are developing a pilot for the hour-long drama, currently titled Napa.” Barnes & Noble goes … paperless? The reviews for J. K. Rowling are in, and they’re … tepid. Except when they’re not. Except when the reviewer hasn’t actually read the book. “A Chicago high school guidance counselor and former girls’ basketball coach filed a lawsuit against his school district for firing him after the release of his graphic book on relationship advice. He claims that his First Amendment rights have been violated and is seeking $1 million from the district.” Enough said, really. [tweetbutton] [facebook_ilike]