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There is little question that Amazon has radically changed publishing—in both the way readers read and writers deliver their work. But has Amazon’s digital platform changed literature itself? Stanford professor Mark McGurl believes it has. His probing new book, Everything and Less, offers an intriguing examination of Kindle Direct Publishing (KDP) as a tentacle of the larger megabeast that is Amazon and how the digital platform has been shaped by the business ethos of the Everything Store.

An award-winning literary critic scrutinizes how the novel may be forever changed by the age of Amazon.

Amazon, of course, started as an online bookstore, and while it’s now responsible for more than half of all book sales, those sales are a shrinking piece of the company’s ever-expanding pie of profits. But with KDP, which McGurl is careful to label as a platform rather than a publisher, the company has “partnered” with hundreds of thousands of writers, further increasing its stranglehold on the reading public.

Unlike a traditionally published writer, those who self-publish on KDP need to be entrepreneurs as much as, or perhaps even more than, artists. Their work, at least as assessed by Amazon, is a product. Readers are customers. The same principles that make customers click on a suggested product have been transferred to the selling of digital books. The result is a proliferation of series and a tilt toward genre fiction, which best accommodates serial storytelling. Literary fiction, McGurl finds, is not the bailiwick of the successful KDP writer-entrepreneur. Indeed, nowadays, the saga-inspired territory once confined to the fantasy and science fiction genres has taken root in unlikely places, especially romance novels and their kinkier erotica siblings. (One of McGurl’s most engaging sections looks at Fifty Shades of Grey and its seemingly millions of KDP imitators as heirs to the marriage plot novels of Jane Austen and Henry James.)

McGurl delivers the occasional sharp quip, but overall he is evenhanded in his assessment of the unimaginable amount of self-published KDP “product” he presumably had to slog through to write this book. He equitably includes examples of the reverse flow of KDP’s influence, as well, as when “serious” writers such as Colson Whitehead and Viet Thanh Nguyen infuse their work with genre tropes.

But the book is descriptive rather than prescriptive. It neither predicts nor condemns the future. The scholarly McGurl does not always wear his erudition lightly, and portions of the book require some heavy lifting on the part of the general reader. Still, Everything and Less will speak to those who submerge themselves—whether as writers or readers, entrepreneurs or customers—into the KDP landscape, while offering much to think about, a fair bit of it dire, for those who cherish traditional publishing and still place some value in the role that gatekeepers have long played in the book industry.

An award-winning literary critic scrutinizes how the novel may be forever changed by the age of Amazon.
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How many readers of books wish to be writers of them? Some actually go on to do so; others don’t. Regardless, many of them have in common an ardor for all details of writing and publishing that fix them on book signings, writing workshops, lives of authors, etc. (Need we say book reviewing?) There is a world of biblio groupies akin to would-be Babe Ruths immersed in baseball trivia. For those so involved in books, this work of Naked Truths and Provocative Curiosities about the Writing, Selling, and Reading of Books is for them. The tongue-in-cheek style throughout keeps a devotee’s sense of proportion even decorum in these matters of love. The take-offs on book blurbs listed on the back of the book tell the tale, including I laughed my head off! credited to Marie Antoinette, and It was for this? allegedly by Johannes Gutenberg. More conveniently read in snippets rather than straight through, Hamilton’s book displays his considerable literary erudition as lightly as it does entertainingly. He cunningly notes that the bookstore in Universal City, California, actually keeps only a small cache of books. These are stashed off behind an array of movie and non-movie paraphernalia and candy. On politicians who write books ( word filling may more accurately describe the process) he is devastating. For some this book may be too breezy, but you can control the velocity by reducing the volume. Regarding Casanova as a lover, one shouldn’t forget that among his varied occupations he was a librarian (in Bohemia of all places). Who, more than those under the spell of pursuing a life among books, knows better that the best place for love in the afternoon is the library stacks? For true lovers of the book and all its trappings, Hamilton has written an encyclopedia of a valentine.

Dr. Edward Riedinger is on the faculty at Ohio State University.

How many readers of books wish to be writers of them? Some actually go on to do so; others don't. Regardless, many of them have in common an ardor for all details of writing and publishing that fix them on book signings, writing workshops, lives…

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In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex By Nathaniel Philbrick Viking, $24.95 ISBN 0670891576 Viking Penguin Audio, $14.95, 0141802189 So many books these days are like Chinese cooking they’re a great meal, but they don’t stay with you very long. Books that endure tell us about lives we can only dream of. Austen, Dickens, and Twain all lived what they wrote about, and what they lived was radically different from what we know today.

Then there’s Herman Melville. In my humble opinion, Melville’s Moby Dick is the greatest novel ever written. As we learned in English class, Moby Dick is really about man’s struggle against death. Well, of course it is. Moby Dick is about death, but first and foremost it is about whaling. We no longer hunt whales; at least most nations don’t. This shouldn’t preclude readers from enjoying two books that are fascinating explorations into Melville’s world.

The first, In the Heart of the Sea by Nathaniel Philbrick, details the little-known incident that provided Melville with the foundation of his masterpiece. In 1820, the whaling ship Essex, out of Nantucket, was deliberately hit and sunk in the south Pacific by an enraged sperm whale. The ship’s stunned crew of 20 was forced to make their way across 3,000 miles of open ocean to the western coast of South America. It took three months, and along the way they faced death, dehydration, starvation, and ultimately, cannibalism.

Philbrick presents this horrifying tale in a direct, deliberate manner, detailing the culture of the New England whalers, how they fit into the wider world of the early 19th century, and why their fate considering what they had to do to survive was not what we in the 21st century would expect. A sailor as well as an historian, Philbrick’s richly detailed account of this tragedy stands on its own merits as a narrative; the fact that the story is the basis for one of the great novels of literature only adds to its attraction.

So, Melville had a historical basis for the sinking of the Pequod. What about Moby Dick himself? Was there a basis for this fish tale? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. Tim Severin’s forthcoming book, In Search of Moby Dick, explores the existence of a white whale from both an historical and a modern perspective. As Howard Schliemann searched for the gates of Troy by following Homer’s writings, Severin retraces the voyage of the Pequod as well as Melville’s travels through the south Pacific to get to the roots of the story. Was there a white whale? Does one exist today? He finds some surprising answers. Tropical island gods and legends lead to modern-day whale hunters who search for the great beasts much the same as their ancestors; gasoline motors attached to their outrigger canoes are their only modern innovations. Their physical daring is amazing, and their whispered stories will raise goosebumps. The vividness of Severin’s writing as well as his careless disregard for his own safety make In Search of Moby Dick compelling reading. With a major biography of Melville also on the way for summer, this promises to be a banner year for whaling or at least for the examination of it. If you are a fan of true adventure stories, snap up In Search of Moby Dick and In the Heart of the Sea.

James Neal Webb doesn’t go fishing that often, but when he does, he always throws ’em back.

In the Heart of the Sea: The Tragedy of the Whaleship Essex By Nathaniel Philbrick Viking, $24.95 ISBN 0670891576 Viking Penguin Audio, $14.95, 0141802189 So many books these days are like Chinese cooking they're a great meal, but they don't stay with you very long.…

Behind the Book by

For the first few months that I knew her, Becca Jannol existed merely as a stack of paper to me. I met her in the winter of 2000, when hers was one of nearly 7,000 applications for admission to the Class of 2004 at Wesleyan University, an excruciatingly selective liberal arts college in central Connecticut. The previous fall, Wesleyan had agreed to grant me an extraordinary opportunity: a close-up look at how a college with 10 times as many applicants as seats in its incoming class made the hard choices necessary to whittle down such a list.

I had approached Wesleyan in my capacity as a national education correspondent at <I>The New York Times</I> and was permitted by the university to read the applicants’ files and eavesdrop as their cases were debated. The only restrictions were that I not refer to the applicants by name in my articles or seek to talk to them, at least until they had received word from Wesleyan on whether they had been accepted, rejected or put on the waiting list. No one, certainly not me, wanted to telegraph a decision to an applicant prematurely via the front page of <I>The New York Times.</I> But when it came to Becca, a 17-year-old senior at the elite Harvard-Westlake School in Los Angeles, the details would be impossible to mask. Her essay was about being suspended during her sophomore year for accepting a brownie, laced with marijuana, from a fellow student.

As the admissions season was winding down in March 2000, Becca’s was one of the 400 applications that the admissions officers considered too close to call so much so that it was debated by the full 10-member committee, with the vote of the majority deemed to be binding. Though she had more A’s than B’s and had recovered from her suspension to be elected chair of the honor board, her SATs (in the high 1,200s) were low by Wesleyan standards. Nonetheless, it was the brownie that dominated much of the discussion.

Ralph Figueroa, a veteran admissions officer (and former lawyer) from Los Angeles who had met Becca, championed her case by saying she had been the only student, among the two dozen who had accepted the brownie, to turn herself in. But some of Ralph’s colleagues were skeptical. She may have turned <I>herself</I> in,” one officer said. But she didn’t turn in the brownie.” I knew as I listened to this debate that I wanted to write about it in the <I>Times</I>, not least because it showed how a momentary brush with drugs, even if owned up to in one’s essay, could taint an applicant. Never mind that some of the people in that room had no doubt sampled a pot brownie at Becca’s age, if not something stronger.

My dilemma was this: Even without her name or that of her school in the newspaper, Becca would surely recognize herself in this dialogue, as would many of her classmates. After the committee had decided Becca’s fate (which I’ll leave unspoken here, to preserve the suspense for those wishing to read about her in my new book, <B>The Gatekeepers: Inside the Admissions Process of a Premier College</B>) I let Wesleyan know that I was interested in her. I had not told anyone previously because I had not wanted to influence the decision, which was now final. It was decided by Wesleyan that Becca’s guidance counselor should be called, to relay the decision a few days early (this was not uncommon) and to give Becca a heads-up of the <I>Times'</I> plans. Her response was immediate.

“Not to hurt the feelings of <I>The New York Times</I>,” she reportedly said, “but I don’t know anyone at my school who reads it. They can write whatever they want about me.” I was far more relieved than hurt.

After Viking agreed to expand my series into a book, I knew I wanted to tell Becca’s story at length. Indeed, she was one of six especially compelling applicants each representing a different aspect of the admissions process whose files had crossed the desk of Ralph, my main character, as I looked over his shoulder that year.

Now it was Viking’s turn to be anxious. I was insistent that each of the applicants profiled in the book be referred to by name, which meant that I would be seeking Becca’s permission effectively to  “out” her first experience with drugs, however fleeting it was, in a work of narrative nonfiction. I felt that telling Becca’s story was so central to what I wanted to accomplish that, during the summer after she graduated from high school, I sent her a free plane ticket from Los Angeles to New York City, where I live and work. Her mother, who had been trained as a teacher, agreed to tag along, as suspicious of my intentions as Becca surely was.

When we finally met, over breakfast at a Midtown restaurant, Becca’s answer to my request was immediate: She wanted to tell her story as much as I did. She was proud of all she had learned from her experience with the brownie and still bruised by the way her application had been received by some of the admissions officers at Wesleyan, and elsewhere. We would spend the next six hours of that day on a bench and a boulder in Central Park, as Becca—who was both shorter (barely over five feet tall) and sunnier than in my mind’s eye—spoke, and I took notes. Like the five other applicants to Wesleyan profiled in the book, Becca came to trust me with the most intimate details of her life.

In the end, the process of getting to know her which had begun with a sheaf of papers containing her SAT scores, grade point average and essay came full circle, when Becca gave me unfettered access to her most guarded possession, the pages of her journal. She had saved everything she wrote during high school, including the entry from that fateful day in October when she took a few bites of that brownie, something she had attempted neither before or since, she assured me. Any teenager or anyone who had ever been a teenager or the parent of one could surely relate to the internal turmoil she had somehow captured on paper that day.

“How painful could it have been to just say no, or stop?” she wrote. The scariest part is that I thought I knew myself. I’m not who I thought I was. I should accept that I am not a leader.” Everyone wants to know, Why, Becca why?” she added. I don’t know.”

<I>A staff reporter for</I> The New York Times <I>for more than a decade, Jacques Steinberg is now the paper’s national education correspondent. Winner of the 1998 Education Writers Association grand prize, he lives in New York.</I> The Gatekeepers <I>is his first book.</I>

 

For the first few months that I knew her, Becca Jannol existed merely as a stack of paper to me. I met her in the winter of 2000, when hers was one of nearly 7,000 applications for admission to the Class of 2004 at Wesleyan…
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A tribute to Eudora Welty on her 90th birthday From her home in inconspicuous Jackson, Mississippi, Eudora Welty has written some of the funniest and most moving stuff of this century, with solid and elegant prose rather than the pyrotechnics of a noisily experimental style. One thing that has always been remarkable about her work is the affection she has for her characters, her deep-grained habit of love for the eccentric outsiders she depicts. Readers have picked up the habit of love for Ms. Welty herself as well, as is thoroughly demonstrated by Hill Street Press’s new volume of tributes, a 90th birthday present to her.

Eudora Welty: Writers’ Reflections upon First Reading Welty brings together a roster of 22 writers, editors, scholars, and friends to describe their first encounters with Ms. Welty’s work. Tributeers range from Richard Bausch to Richard Wilbur, from Alice Munro to Reynolds Price. Several credit their encounters with Welty for the realization that the Southern vernacular could be legitimately literary. Tony Earley writes, incredibly, the voice had the same accent I did. It was the first time I had realized that literature could speak in a language I recognized as my own. Others recall the shock of finding out that a nice lady in a print dress was making work more daring and more honest than their own. Some, like William Maxwell, recall shared experiences, and others describe the pleasure of first hearing Welty read. All are unflagging in their appreciation, overflowing with praise for the first lady of Southern letters.

After these accolades, it’s a sharp pleasure to turn back to Ms. Welty’s works, in crisp new Modern Library editions. Here are the achingly accurate descriptions of grief in The Optimist’s Daughter, the charm and delicacy of Delta Wedding, the hilarity of a story like Why I Live at the P.O., and the perceptiveness and kindness that runs through every sentence she has ever written. Welty has never been fond of the idea of biography, asking that her books be allowed to stand on their own. I thought of this while re-reading the fabulous One Writer’s Beginnings, in which Ms. Welty describes her childhood understanding of books: It had been startling and disappointing to me to find out that story books had been written by people, that books were not natural wonders, coming up of themselves like grass. A fresh reading of her books, wonders all, is a fitting way to celebrate her 90th, and to get to know, once again, the writer who draws such ardent reponse from so many talented admirers.

Anne Stringfield is on the staff of the New Yorker.

A tribute to Eudora Welty on her 90th birthday From her home in inconspicuous Jackson, Mississippi, Eudora Welty has written some of the funniest and most moving stuff of this century, with solid and elegant prose rather than the pyrotechnics of a noisily experimental style.…

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You cannot help but wonder if C. S. Lewis might not have been more at home in an earlier age. In his opposition to the relativistic and materialistic philosophy of our modern times, a philosophy that he believed was sapping the magic and the mystery out of literature and life, Lewis knew that he was out of step with modernity. In fact, he once referred to himself as a cultural dinosaur. But 35 years after his death, the influence of this unassuming British scholar shows no sign of abating. His numerous books continue to sell briskly, and he has been the subject of a Broadway play and two feature films, as well as the focus of countless biographies, literary studies, and religious reflections. One could make the argument that he is also the most oft-quoted religious writer of the 20th century, his work appealing across denominational and confessional lines. Lewis is best known as a writer of stylish and memorable books exploring Christian faith and practice (Mere Christianity, The Screwtape Letters) and the creator of the Chronicles of Narnia (which has achieved classic status in children’s literature). Less well-known are his fiction for adults (the Space Trilogy and the remarkable Till We Have Faces) and his highly readable volumes of literary history and criticism. This year marks the hundredth anniversary of Lewis’s birth and has brought forth the expected explosion of secondary works analyzing and celebrating the mind and imagination of this highly creative thinker. None of these compares in usefulness to the newly published The C. S. Lewis Reader’s Encyclopedia. The editors of this hefty volume have sought to summarize the scope of Lewis’s achievement by gathering essays from a wide range of Lewis experts. These short essays, set up in an encyclopedic format, provide an overview of the life, work, and ideas of Lewis, focusing on his literary output: all the books, poems, essays, book reviews, prefaces to the works of others, and even never-before-discussed letters to the editor. In addition, the volume offers a concise, yet penetrating biography of Lewis’s life and entries on his family and friends, as well as his literary and theological forebears. The writing is crisp and interesting, offering insights of value to the serious student of Lewis’s writing, while at the same time being easily accessible to the reader just discovering his work. Although a few essays veer perilously close to hagiography, most show an admirable critical balance, and the comprehensive nature of the whole project is very satisfying. Reading these valuable summaries of Lewis’s work, one is reminded again of his strengths: a vivid imagination, a sparkling wit, clear common-sense thinking, a gift for memorable analogies, and an unshakable faith in the reasonableness of the Christian view of existence. That he could synthesize these in ways that appealed to children as well as academics is probably what has kept this dinosaur from becoming extinct. The manner in which he combines intelligence with a soaring imagination still serves as a challenge to contemporary writers to break free from the usual modes of religious writing and forge creative new ways of communicating timeless ideas.

Terry Glaspey is the author of five books, including Not a Tame Lion: The Spiritual Legacy of C. S. Lewis. He lives in Eugene, Oregon.

You cannot help but wonder if C. S. Lewis might not have been more at home in an earlier age. In his opposition to the relativistic and materialistic philosophy of our modern times, a philosophy that he believed was sapping the magic and the mystery…

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Review by Eliza R. L. McGraw Unsurprisingly, Philip Hamburger’s collection of essays from his years at the New Yorker is dedicated to Harold Ross, the curmudgeonly and astute editor who presided over the tenures of such New Yorker writers as James Thurber, E.B. White, and, of course, Hamburger.

Hamburger is in many ways a true Ross production, the kind of writer that made the New Yorker legendary. Friends Talking in the Night delightfully collects his best and most varied moments, from profiles to movie reviews.

Ever the New Yorker himself, Hamburger comments on the mayors of Gotham from the vantage point of his apartment across the street from Gracie Mansion in his 1953 essay, Some People Watch Birds. He writes that Fiorello LaGuardia was the busiest of our recent mayors and he spent, for a mayor, an inordinate amount of time at City Hall. Thanks to this perversity, I didn’t see as much of him as I would have liked. Hamburger’s comments on world affairs are equally as detailed as those on Gracie Mansion, but naturally graver. In Milan during Northern Italy’s 1945 liberation from Fascism, Hamburger stood in the Piazza Loreto as war criminals were executed: There were no roars of bloodcurdling yells; there was only silence and then, suddenly, a sigh a deep, moaning sound, seemingly expressive of release from something dark and fetid. Such serious events evoke Hamburger’s more somber tone, providing balance in the collection between his lighter work and his comments on global events.

Any student or lover of writing who leafs through Friends Talking in the Night may have a similar response to the one Hamburger had while watching Jimmy Stewart’s 1955 performance in High Noon: The mules know that no ordinary actor has hold of the reins. They know when a star has hold of the reins, and their ears go up. I’ve seen it happen a hundred times.

Eliza McGraw is a graduate student in English in Nashville, Tennessee.

Review by Eliza R. L. McGraw Unsurprisingly, Philip Hamburger's collection of essays from his years at the New Yorker is dedicated to Harold Ross, the curmudgeonly and astute editor who presided over the tenures of such New Yorker writers as James Thurber, E.B. White, and,…

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Review by George Cowmeadow Bauman In 1997’s Booknotes, Brian Lamb collected a number of his interviews with writers who had appeared on his TV program of the same name. Now the man responsible for the oxymoronically named Book TV is at it again compiling irresistible reading for fans of C-SPAN’s Booknotes program, and for anyone interested in good writing and interesting lives.

Booknotes: Life Stories is being published to celebrate the program’s tenth anniversary, and it is Lamb at his finest. He’s collected 75 interviews with biographers who responded to Lamb’s questions about their subjects and the process of turning inspiration into print. Included are Susan Butler on Amelia Earhart, Taylor Branch on Martin Luther King, Jr., and Norman Mailer on Lee Harvey Oswald. Walter Cronkite, Frank McCourt, and Katharine Graham discuss their own lives, public and private. Lamb describes his interviewing style in the book’s Introduction: I’m not in that chair on behalf of intellectuals; my job is to ask questions on behalf of the average George and Jane, Cathy and Jim. In the interest of making the collection more readable, Lamb’s questions have been deleted. The biographers’ comments about their subjects are conversational.

An appendix lists all of the Booknotes interviews over the ten-year run of the program. It’s an impressive collection of the best nonfiction writers during that period.

Readers who enjoy American history will find a wealth of material here. Historical misunderstandings are corrected. For example, Paul Revere never said, The British are coming! The colonists still thought they were British. Instead, he shouted, The regulars are out! Whether Booknotes: Life Stories is read for enjoyment or is used as a reference, it will cause the reader to give thanks for the national literary treasure known as Brian Lamb.

George Cowmeadow Bauman is the co-owner of Acorn Bookshop in Columbus, Ohio.

Review by George Cowmeadow Bauman In 1997's Booknotes, Brian Lamb collected a number of his interviews with writers who had appeared on his TV program of the same name. Now the man responsible for the oxymoronically named Book TV is at it again compiling irresistible…

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Our foremost literary critic, Harold Bloom, is known for his influential and often controversial views, whether the subject is his theory of poetic influence or which authors and their works should comprise the Western canon. To distinguish his approach from the writings of other critics, several years ago Bloom wrote, I increasingly feel that criticism must be personal, must be experiential, must take the whole concern of men and women, including all its torments, very much into account, must offer a kind of testimony . . . [the great critics] remember always that high literature is written by suffering human beings and not by language, and is read by suffering human beings. Where do we get our present day understanding of what it is to be human? In his exhilarating new book, Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human, Bloom illuminates our understanding of the human, or human nature, or personality as we understand those terms in a secular sense. What Shakespeare invents is ways of representing human changes, alterations not only caused by flaws and by decay, but effected by the will as well, and by the will’s temporal vulnerabilities. Bloom notes that the representation of human character and personality remain always the supreme literary value. And Shakespeare did it better than anyone else. The work of Chaucer and others influenced him, but if we compare Shakespeare’s work with writers both before or contemporary with him, his understanding of the human experience far exceeds that of everyone else. He demonstrates this through many characters but, in particular, Falstaff and Hamlet are the invention of the human, the inauguration of personality as we have come to recognize it. For Bloom, Shakespeare went beyond psychologizing us. He extensively informs the language we speak, his principle characters have become our mythology, and he, rather than his involuntary follower Freud, is our psychologist. Bloom describes his book as a personal statement, the result of a lifetime of involvement with Shakespeare’s work. He guides us through each of the 39 plays, 24 of which he regards as masterpieces, in approximate chronological order as they were written and performed. The result is a dazzling performance by a major teacher. Passionate about his subject, immensely learned, strongly opinionated, he conveys a lot of information and provides provocative commentary in a most engaging way. There are generous passages from the plays, some quite well known, others not.

This extraordinary volume will be a treasured companion for anyone who enjoys the plays of Shakespeare.

Roger Bishop is a monthly contributor to BookPage.

Our foremost literary critic, Harold Bloom, is known for his influential and often controversial views, whether the subject is his theory of poetic influence or which authors and their works should comprise the Western canon. To distinguish his approach from the writings of other critics,…

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If you love books, you will love Literature Lover’s Book of Lists: Serious Trivia for the Bibliophile.

Judie L.H. Strouf has assembled a Brobdingnagian collection of all things literary and presented in the end-of-century format that is now so popular lists! It has serious lists to focus your reading, and it has whimsical lists to shake and stir a reader’s head.

A reference volume for bibliophiles, for teachers, for parents, this volume guides the user to best books in many fields of interest, in a format for browsing.

Literature Lover’s Book of Lists can guide your lifetime reading plan in a helpful, enjoyable, readable way.

If you love books, you will love Literature Lover's Book of Lists: Serious Trivia for the Bibliophile.

Judie L.H. Strouf has assembled a Brobdingnagian collection of all things literary and presented in the end-of-century format that is now so popular lists! It…

Behind the Book by

Last night my 19-year-old daughter’s friends were here for “prinks” (pre-going out drinks, much cheaper than buying them in a club). They all looked gorgeous. My daughter was in shorts and, I’m pleased to say, flat shoes. I can’t help but worry. They were all showing a lot of shoulder. The cold shoulder trend is really big in England at the moment.

 “Are you going to be ok, mum, all by yourself on Saturday night?” my daughter asked. Neither of my sons was home. One has just graduated and found a job in London. My little one (16 and just over six foot tall) was staying over at a friend’s, and my husband had already left to sing in a local pub, something he does a few times each week. I only go if I really feel like it.

Was I going to be ok, home alone on Saturday night?

“Of course,” I said, automatically.

After I’d waved them off I sat in the garden with my two cats. The chickens were already thinking about going to bed. I wondered if I minded that I wasn’t the one with something to do. I like going out, but the thought of exposing whichever body part is currently deemed the most important fills me with horror. It comforts me to know that once, my ancestor Jane Austen felt the same. She loved dancing and flirting when she was young, but settled happily into the life of the middle-aged writer.

We live in Southampton, England, where Jane Austen once lived. My 21st birthday party was at The Dolphin Hotel, where Jane Austen celebrated her 18th birthday. After a ball there in December 1808, Jane wrote to her sister, Cassandra:

“Our ball was rather more amusing than I expected. . . . The melancholy part was, to see so many dozen young women standing by without partners, and each of them with two ugly naked shoulders! It was the same room in which we danced fifteen years ago! I thought it all over, and in spite of the shame of being so much older, felt with thankfulness that I was quite as happy now as then.”

Here’s proof that fashions come round again and again: naked shoulders were de rigueur 208 years ago.

My favorite night out now is a trip to the theatre with my best friend, Alison. At the same ball where she pitied the girls with the naked shoulders, Jane said that she and her best friend Martha Lloyd “paid an additional shilling for our tea, which we took as we chose in an adjoining and very comfortable room.” Alison and I would find comfort in doing the same; it’s so much nicer to go out with a good friend than to be searching for The One. As Jane Austen wrote in November 1813:

“By the bye, as I must leave off being young, I find many Douceurs [sweet compensations] in being a sort of chaperon, for I am put on the Sofa near the Fire & can drink as much wine as I like.”

So the writer of the world’s favorite love stories was quite happy to sit things out, drinking as much as she liked, while her nieces got all the attention. There is such pleasure in not caring about being the belle of the ball and in being able to just please yourself.

“The writer of the world’s favorite love stories was quite happy to sit things out, drinking as much as she liked, while her nieces got all the attention.”

I love going to museums and galleries and shopping by myself, able to go as quickly or slowly as I want without having to worry if somebody else is bored or wants to take ages looking at things that don’t interest me. When you have children or are in charge of somebody else’s (as Jane Austen often was) trips out involve constant awareness of their needs. Now that my children are older, I love doing things alone. The bliss of not struggling with a stroller and having to bring all that stuff!

Earlier in the week I was at the Jane Austen House Museum. I’ve been there countless times, but will never tire of the magical house and ever-changing garden. I spent a happy few hours, only looking at my watch occasionally to check I wouldn’t be late to meet my son after his first day at college in Winchester, a few miles away. I’m a feeble non-driver, too busy looking out of windows, I guess, to ever pass my driving test. As I rode away from the Museum on the bus, I thought of Jane Austen visiting London in summer 1813 and looking for likenesses of Mrs Elizabeth Darcy and Mrs Jane Bingley among the portraits. She didn’t have to take a bus, but rode in a barouche, the 19th-century equivalent of a sports car. She told her sister:

“I had great amusement among the pictures; and the driving about, the carriage being open, was very pleasant. I liked my solitary elegance very much, and was ready to laugh all the time at my being where I was.”

Thinking of my daughter asking, on her way out, whether I was going to be ok by myself, I realized that the answer will always be yes, of course, whether I say it automatically or pause to think. I realized that, like Jane, I like my “solitary elegance” very much, and that I’m very lucky to be able to please myself and to sit alone in the garden with my cats and the chickens or on the sofa by the fire with a book.  Like Jane, I’m quite happy that I don’t have to stand about exposing my shoulders or anything else. Like Jane, I realized that I like being middle-aged. 

Rebecca Smith, a 5th-great-niece of Jane Austen, is the author of three novels and several nonfiction books. Her latest, The Jane Austen Writer’s Club, is a compilation of writing advice from the beloved English novelist. Smith teaches creative writing at the University of Southampton in England. 

Rebecca Smith, a great-niece of Jane Austen, writes about how her famous ancestor taught her to relish the pleasures of middle age in a behind-the-book essay.
Behind the Book by

Imagine being asked to cull 1,000 volumes from the shelves of a library to represent a lifetime of reading. Where would you start? What principles would govern your selection? How would you explain the reasons for your choices?

That thought experiment will give you some idea of why it took me 14 years to get 1,000 Books to Read Before You Die between covers. Since I have been a bookseller for most of my adult life, I knew from the start that my project could never be the last word on a reading life, nor should it attempt to be. What I most hoped it would convey are the pleasures of browsing and the serendipity that bookstores nourish—pleasures that are a preface to all the stories readers compose out of their own lives.

One of my first jobs was working in an independent bookstore in Briarcliff Manor, New York. I learned to listen to customers and, eventually, to make useful, interesting and potentially life-changing recommendations. That last hyphenated adjective may sound grandiose, but the truth is that devoted booksellers—as Roger Mifflin, the protagonist of Christopher Morley’s The Haunted Bookshop (one of my 1,000 books), put it—are missionaries who seek “to spread good books about, to sow them on fertile minds, to propagate understanding and a carefulness of life and beauty.”

With that mission in mind, in 1986 I co-founded a mail-order catalog called A Common Reader and spent the next two decades running that venture, which, luckily for me, consisted of writing about books old and new, of every subject and style—an occupation that prepared me as well as any could for the task of writing this book.

Still, that task was daunting: A book about 1,000 books could take so many different shapes. It could be a canon of classics; it could be a history of human thought and a tour of its significant disciplines; it might be a record of popular delights (or even delusions). But the crux of the difficulty was a less complicated truth: Readers read in so many different ways, any one standard of measure is inadequate. No matter their pedigree, inveterate readers read the way they eat: for pleasure as well as nourishment, indulgence as much as well-being, and sometimes for transcendence. Hot dogs one day, haute cuisine the next.

Keeping such diversity of appetite in mind, I wanted to make my book expansive in its tastes, encompassing revered classics and commercial favorites, flights of escapist entertainment and enlightening works of erudition. There had to be room for novels of imaginative reach and histories with intellectual grasp. And since the project in its title invoked a lifetime, there had to be room for books for children and adolescents. What criteria could I apply to accommodate such a menagerie, to give plausibility to the idea that Where the Wild Things Are belongs in the same collection as In Search of Lost Time, that Aeneas and Sherlock Holmes or Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Marple could be companions, that a persuasive collection could begin, in chronological terms, with The Epic of Gilgamesh, inscribed on Babylonian tablets some 4,000 years ago, and end with Ellen Ullman’s personal history of technology, Life in Code, published in 2017?

Readers read the way they eat: for pleasure as well as nourishment, indulgence as much as well-being.

I came upon the clue I needed in a passage written by the critic Edmund Wilson, describing “the miscellaneous learning of the bookstore, unorganized by any larger purpose, the undisciplined undirected curiosity of the indolent lover of reading.” There, I knew instinctively, was a workable framework: What if I had a bookstore that could hold only 1,000 volumes, and I wanted to ensure it held not only books to be savored but also books that could be devoured in a night? A shop where any reading inclination might find reward, and where a reader’s search for what to read next would be guided by serendipity as well as intent. I’d arrange my books alphabetically by author, so that readers could find their way easily but make unexpected discoveries as they turned the pages, from, for example, D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson’s magnificent work of scientific observation and imagination, On Growth and Form, to Flora Thompson’s celebration of life in an English country village, Lark Rise to Candleford, followed by Hunter S. Thompson’s Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and Kay Thompson’s marvelous children’s book Eloise at the Plaza.

For a long time as I labored over building my metaphorical bookstore, a thousand books felt like far too many to get my head around, but now that I’m done, it seems too few by several multiples. Which is to say 1,000 Books to Read Before You Die is neither comprehensive nor authoritative; it is meant to be an invitation to discovery and a tool to prompt conversations about books and authors that are missing as well as those that are included, because the question of what to read next is the best prelude to more important ones, like who to be and how to live. Happy reading!

 

Along with his experience as a bookseller, lifelong book lover James Mustich worked as an editorial and product development executive in the publishing industry. His popular mail-order book catalog, A Common Reader, ended publication in 2006. He has collected a sweeping compendium of significant books in 1,000 Books to Read Before You Die, a brilliant guidebook that’s filled with thoughtful essays and delightful asides. Mustich lives in Connecticut with his wife, Margot.

Author photo © Trisha Keeler Photography.

Imagine being asked to cull 1,000 volumes from the shelves of a library to represent a lifetime of reading. Where would you start? What principles would govern your selection? How would you explain the reasons for your choices?

Behind the Book by

As you may already know, it's Banned Books Week, during which the freedom to read is celebrated by those opposed to censorship.

There are certain books that have been creating a stir since they were first published, generating fusses because of their language, obscenity, age (in)appropriateness or some other aspect deemed "offensive." One such book is Mark Twain's Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, still controversial nearly 130 years after its publication.

We asked Benjamin Griffin, one of the editors of the Autobiography of Mark Twain (the second volume of which releases next month) to share his thoughts on the controversy.


United States v. Mark Twain

No such case as my title implies was ever brought, of course. The United States has no banning—that is, no centralized prohibition of books. Here, a ban has come to mean any decision to eliminate a book from a library or a school reading list.

It’s true that, until fairly recently, the Postal Service exercised a censoring function by enforcing laws against sending obscene matter through the mail. But Supreme Court decisions of the 1960s and ’70s have rendered obscenity pretty ungainly to work with as a criminal charge.

Huckleberry_Finn_bookHuckleberry Finn was “banned” several times in Mark Twain’s lifetime—always by librarians. In 1885, when the book was new, the public library in Concord, Massachusetts, withdrew it, citing the characters’ “low grade of morality” and “irreverence.” Huck lies, talks dialect, is friends with a black man, steals and fails to return stolen property (the black man).

Mark Twain’s response to the ban was immediate. He told his publisher, “That will sell 25,000 copies for us, sure.” The commercial blessings of banning, in this country, are well known. Howard Hughes campaigned to ban his own film, The Outlaw, in order to get it released.

The early 20th century saw some more Huck bans. They were short-lived; but Mark Twain’s Eve’s Diary, published in 1906 and banned by the Charlton, Massachusetts, public library, was restored to the shelves just two years ago. It was the illustrations (by Lester Ralph) that offended: They depicted Eve as a naked woman—stylized, but naked.

Today, Huckleberry Finn gets challenged not in the name of public morals but to protect something (the student, or the classroom atmosphere, or the school) against the unpredictable effects of the word nigger, which makes some students—I quote from a report by the Newsletter on Intellectual Freedom—“uncomfortable.”

Back in 1885, the book’s detractors feared that children would become too comfortable with Huck—with his “low” company and, I suspect, with Jim’s. Mark Twain’s response to this criticism, in his Autobiography, was that children were already routinely damaged by a book the library kept on open shelves—the Bible:

"The mind that becomes soiled in youth can never again be washed clean; I know this by my own experience, and to this day I cherish an unappeasable bitterness against the unfaithful guardians of my young life, who not only permitted but compelled me to read an unexpurgated Bible through before I was 15 years old."

Layout 1It was only right, he said, for librarians to escort Huck and Tom out of that book’s “questionable company.”

In my opinion, at the core of our contemporary debate over Huckleberry Finn in schools is a confusion between, on the school’s side, encountering racism and legitimating racism; and a confusion, on the students’ side, between reading words—even heavily ironized ones—and being attacked by words.

This is certain: Mark Twain wouldn’t understand our solicitousness about “comfort level.” He might have wondered what comfort had to do with school, the discomforts of which had caused him to pack out at age twelve. No “Stay in school, kids” for Mark Twain! 

Benjamin Griffin, one of the editors of the Autobiography of Mark Twain, shares his thoughts on the controversy of banned books.

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