NYT and me

Sunday's New York Times Book Review will include their list of 100 notable books from 2005.

Fiction books (excluding poetry): 34
I have read: 1
I have in my to-be-read bookshelf: 1
Authors I've met whose book appears, but I do not own: 1

Obviously, I am a failure as a reader. At least I'm not the only one.

The fiction authors are overwhelming from (surprise!) New York, with jolly olde England following up a close second. This is my (approimate) writers' residence tally:
NY: 7.5
England: 7
CA: 2.5
Australia: 2
MA: 2
1 each: CT, NJ, Washington DC, Wisconsin, Michigan, Minnesota, Montana, New Mexico, Japan, Ireland, Latin America, Albania
1/2 each: Maine and Florida

As an Angeleno, I am disturbed by the fact that the only LA writer splits his time with NY: Bret Easton Ellis. But I'm sure the LA Times list will be equally costally prejudiced.

Nonfiction books on the list by people employed by the NY Times: 7
(includes former executive editor Joseph Lelyveld's memoir)

Notes on the NYTBR

The cover review, entitled Hero and Heroin, was not, as LA-centric me thought, about Jerry Stahl's I Fatty. In fact, it's a balanced review of Brett Easton Ellis' Lunar Park. Film critic AO Scott manages to avoid the likely me-n-Brett intro that I imagine almost anyone on the NY literary scene could write. Instead, he acknowledges hype and prejudice, gives the book a fair shake, and finds it good to ok.

In her review of The Prophet of Zongo Street, the debut short story collection by Mohammed Naseehu Ali, Elizabeth Schmidt delivers a spoiler, revealing the end of the final story and explaining how it gives meaning to the whole. So if you're interested, stop before the third column.

Ada Calhoun, who does the fiction round-up this week, can't stand Man Camp by Adrienne Brodeur, which she calls "fantasy ficiton for wealthy, young, soulless Manhattan-dwelling women with Lady Chatterly tendencies." Nor can she stand Kingston By Starlight by Christopher John Farley, a  "goofy" gender-bending pirate novel: "the only thing one might empathize with in the course of reading this grog is the apostrophe key—  beaten to a pulp to yield ye-olde speak like 'glitter'd,' 'weather'd'...." Maybe it's just because I'm reading this before 7am, but I think she could have backed off the nastiness a bit and still made her point. She liked a few things, tho: The Hill Road by Patrick O'Keefe and Sky Burial by Xinran.

I would have appreciated a bigger dose of nastiness in Barbara Ehrenreich's back-page essay that, ever so mildly, takes down biz-world self-help books like Who Moved My Cheese. (Full disclosure: I worked at a dot-com that went public the day the bubble burst; when, months later, it came apparent just how screwed we all were, we each were given our very own copy of Who Moved My Cheese and were instructed to read it very, very carefully).

For me, the surprisingly interesting book of the week is the nonfiction A Woman in Berlin by Anonymous. A diary of a 30-year-old woman living in the German capital as it fell to the Russian army, it is now out in a new translation. It chronicles the details of her days and her neighbors, including a series of brutal rapes by the liberating soldiers. Reviewer Joseph Kannon writes that, more than just a diary, it is "a work of literature, rich in character and perception."

NYTBR: Shappell rocks

Once again the NY Times is packed full of nonfiction reviews, which I've decided to skim, leaving a bare whisper of fiction to check out after removing their take on the latest Harry Potter (big, highly edible, no surprise).

Then, happy surprise, Elissa Schappell bitchslaps Tilly Bagshawe's Adored. Sure, it's easy to take down a slutty, flighty beach read. But for being not tawdry enough?

To my mind, books of this kind exist largely to provide teenage girls with illicit, mostly faulty information that will completely warp their ideas about what sex will be like. Really, I'll hear waves crashing and bands of angels singing hallelujah?

Meow! I'm not going to run out and buy Jackie Collins or Jacquelyn Susann, who she lauds for their "literary flows of sordid sex, suicide and drug orgies," but if I see The Stud in a thrift store I might now be tempted to bring it home.  In the meantime, I've added Schappel's Use Me to my to-be-read pile.

NYTBR: the Pollack version

One-time Pinky guest Neal Pollack has the back page of the NY Times Book Review today, where he tries to do away with his half-alter ego Neal Pollack once and for all. I imagine you would get sick of yourself, or the attention-grabbing, obnoxious, oversize version of yourself, after getting some of the negative response he has.

Me, I quite enjoyed Never Mind the Pollacks, which took the piss out of the punk canon and rock criticism. I don't know if I got more of a kick out of his not-serious worshipping at The Altar of Iggy or the raw take on critics like Greil Marcus. I was still cranky about the ex-boyfriend who had kept a photo of one of his ex-girlfriends on our fridge for months after I moved in; months later, as we were visiting my family for a holiday during which my parents were decidedly un-charming, did the then-boyfriend happen to mention that his ex-girlfriend's father happened to be Greil Marcus (brilliant/pretentious rock critic, one of the "idealistic friends" who helped Alice Waters open Chez Panisse). Which I could have forgiven if we never talked about music, or music criticism, but being as I was employed as a music journalist there had been, oh, only hundreds of times he could have mentioned it. Instead he saved it up for a moment when it could be wielded as a weapon, meant to make me and my family small by comparison. So I was cranky, and Neal Pollack let me snicker beside him, tasting revenge.

In any case, my own obnoxious, oversize ego aside, Neal Pollack can compose some clean, clever prose, and he hopes to  push the Pollack Persona into the shadows in time for the 2006 release of his next book.

Elsewhere in the review, Philip Caputo's fictional story of aid workers in Sudan, Acts of Faith, is apparently a tome but has its high points: be tempted by hearing him read from it on the Times' site. Lord Byron's Novel by John Crowley gets a mixed review from Christopher Benfy.

In reviewing Imagined Cities by Robert Alter, Jed Perl can't seem to crawl out of a quagmire of acadmic language: "city life offers modes of experience from which it is possible to forge analytical tools or stylistic principles." OK, take out the word "city." Is the sentence any less true? So if the point is about cities, what exactly is the point?

I am indeed cranky. Maybe the well-reviewed Linda Ellerbee (!) memoir Taking Big Bites will cheer me up.

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