There are many books that Miss Edith hears about, and she gets all worked up – nearly can’t sit still until pub date arrives and the book can fall into her sweaty little hands.
None of the Harry Potter titles have fallen into this category.
So don’t ask me if I’m excited about the new Harry Potter. I truly, truly, do not care. I read the first one a few years back and was bored to tears.
(I’m the child who didn’t like Narnia, either. I slept through the Star Wars movies my mother dragged me to as a child – yes, Miss Edith was once a child, though there is a legend that tells of her being hatched at the age of 14, holding an amber cigarette holder – and I’ve never read a word of Tolkien. Not a fan of “magic realism,” either, by and large. (There are a couple of exceptions to this, but I can’t remember any of them off the top of my head.) I like my fiction to be about real people I can identify with. And if that makes me small-minded, or limited, so be it. I never claimed to have catholic tastes.)
I felt bad because one of these kids’ fantasy book series that actually didn’t horrify me to my core recently led me to try to read a book for which I had moderately high expectations that were dashed on the rocks like so many clamshells dropped by seagulls on the Cape Cod coast. Daniel Handler, aka Lemony Snicket, author of all those books about the Baudelaire tykes, published a novel entitled Adverbs. I actually enjoyed the first of the Baudelaire books when I read it a ways back. I didn’t read Adverbs when it first came out, but I noticed it at the library recently so I thought, “Oh what the hell” and took it out.
The fact that I didn’t open it within three hours of borrowing it was a bad sign, to be sure. But I eventually did open it, and I read the first 50 or so pages. Today I intend to return it, unfinished, and I intend to not waste any guilty energy on that subject. I think it’s actually an accomplishment of sorts that I’ve reached a point where I can get rid of an unread book without feeling bad about it. Why should I spend time reading things I don’t want to read? I’m not in school. I have free will. I can re-read Paul Rudnick’s I’ll Take It over and over again – and do – and will choose that piece of clever fluff, any day, over Daniel Handler.
I did read Handler’s novel of opera and incest, Watch Your Mouth I believe it’s called, and wondered vaguely why this wasn’t a more recognized cult novel. But maybe I was thinking about it too hard. All I can say is, if you have no interest in Adverbs, don’t feel bad, but if you liked the Lemony Snicket books but want to go further with it, try Watch Your Mouth. Even if you don’t love it, at least it’s short. And there are no sequels.
Has anyone ever pondered how books with too many sequels might be sort of a bad idea? Like movies with too many sequels? This brings me to one grand literary exception I’d make to this proposal: the works of Eric Kraft, which are all marvelous in their own way. But Mr. Kraft is a subject for another day. In the meantime, I suggest that someone start work on a dissertation doing a close contextual comparison of the Harry Potter books and movies to the oeuvre of Sylvester Stallone.
Miss Edith thanks you for your time.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Monday, June 25, 2007
The Perils of...something or other... to do with props and the 4th Indiana Jones movie...
Over the weekend, Miss Edith and Notarius had occasion to amble down Chapel Street, one of the central retail areas of downtown New Haven. It’s a bit atizzy right now because the 4th Indiana Jones movie is using the area as a set for a few days this week. To this end, a number of storefronts are being reworked and staged.
One such storefront, which is really a newsstand, is dressed up as a little bookstore/newsstand. One of the two window displays is stocked with actual magazines from 1957, the year in which the movie is set. The other window display is books. There are some kids books – old editions of things like Robinson Crusoe, editions that anyone who ever spent time in a used bookstore would recognize – and there’s a Norman Vincent Peale chestnut, but what caught my eye was a copy of Julia Child and Lousiette Bertholle, and Simone Beck’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking.
This book did not come out until 1961.
This should be a source of embarrassment for the prop supply people, and I hope someone says something before they go to film. I’d say something to someone myself, but I don’t know who to say it to but you, dear reader*.
*I know that the odds that anyone will notice this book, or any other specific book, in this movie are extremely slim. I don’t care. It’s the principle of the thing. All the magazines are obviously there because someone meticulously selected 1957 issues. Could no one check the copyright dates of the books – especially such easily recognized books as Mastering the Art of French Cooking – to make sure that the books actually existed in the year that the film is set? This is just sloppiness, my dears…
Miss Edith on Woody Allen, Robert Benchley, and S.J. Perelman: Very Briefly
Miss Edith is pleased to see that the press have finally relented and decided that Woody Allen is an ok guy. The weekend brought a veritable flurry of reviews of his new books, The Insanity Defense and Mere Anarchy. The first title is really an anthology of his previous books of comic essays; the latter title is new material, and his first new work published in book form in decades. If only The Insanity Defense were being published, you’d say, “Man, Woody must need money if he’s recycling this stuff, good as it is,” but with the new material also being released, I think it’s more significant. The publishing and media industries must feel that they gave Woody a hard enough time in the ‘80s and ‘90s, and the guy’s not getting any younger, and, after all, he is still married to Soon-yi, so… Ok, Woody. Accolades to you.
I read all of Woody Allen’s books of essays over and over again when I was a kid. I also grew up watching episodes of Your Show of Shows every summer, when they were screened at a movie revival festival that was held every summer at Dartmouth College. So you could say I’m predisposed to think well of these new books. I am, and I intend to enjoy them when I get around to reading them.
There was one review – and for the life of me I cannot recall where I read it – it might have been the New York Times, the New York Observer, or the Wall Street Journal, and I’m too lazy to hunt for the source right now – that pointed out an obvious truth, which is that Woody Allen’s writing is a synthesis of the work of S.J. Perelman and Robert Benchley. The reviewer then said, and I’m paraphrasing, “But no one reads Benchley anymore.”
This incensed me. Miss Edith reads Robert Benchley. Oh, yes she does. She owns quite a few titles by Robert Benchley, and occasionally these volumes grace her book-laden bedside table and the floor next to the bed (also crowded with books). And if Miss Edith reads Benchley from time to time, there must be at least six other people out there who also read Benchley.
I don’t understand why Benchley was the one singled out as the one no one reads anymore. The truth is, I don’t know that anyone under the age of 60 would read Perelman anymore, either, if they wouldn’t read Benchley. But people do read Dorothy Parker, no matter what. It seems to me likely that Parker would be a direct road toward Benchley, but that to land at Perelman would take a little more effort. If the company that keeps Perelman in print (Modern Library, an imprint of Random House, I believe) would like to get in touch with Miss Edith and let me know, How well does S.J. Perelman really sell, I’d be most interested. Certainly more Perelman is available via Amazon than Benchley (an anthology is available, published by the University of Chicago press – what the fuck is that about?) but really folks. Who’s reading this stuff besides me? I would really, really like to know.
And in the meantime, reviewers at the WSJ, NYT, NY Observer: don’t try to insult Mr. Benchley by lightly brushing him off. He was a better man than you’ll ever be. And a hell of a lot funnier. I’m sure Woody Allen would agree with me.
I read all of Woody Allen’s books of essays over and over again when I was a kid. I also grew up watching episodes of Your Show of Shows every summer, when they were screened at a movie revival festival that was held every summer at Dartmouth College. So you could say I’m predisposed to think well of these new books. I am, and I intend to enjoy them when I get around to reading them.
There was one review – and for the life of me I cannot recall where I read it – it might have been the New York Times, the New York Observer, or the Wall Street Journal, and I’m too lazy to hunt for the source right now – that pointed out an obvious truth, which is that Woody Allen’s writing is a synthesis of the work of S.J. Perelman and Robert Benchley. The reviewer then said, and I’m paraphrasing, “But no one reads Benchley anymore.”
This incensed me. Miss Edith reads Robert Benchley. Oh, yes she does. She owns quite a few titles by Robert Benchley, and occasionally these volumes grace her book-laden bedside table and the floor next to the bed (also crowded with books). And if Miss Edith reads Benchley from time to time, there must be at least six other people out there who also read Benchley.
I don’t understand why Benchley was the one singled out as the one no one reads anymore. The truth is, I don’t know that anyone under the age of 60 would read Perelman anymore, either, if they wouldn’t read Benchley. But people do read Dorothy Parker, no matter what. It seems to me likely that Parker would be a direct road toward Benchley, but that to land at Perelman would take a little more effort. If the company that keeps Perelman in print (Modern Library, an imprint of Random House, I believe) would like to get in touch with Miss Edith and let me know, How well does S.J. Perelman really sell, I’d be most interested. Certainly more Perelman is available via Amazon than Benchley (an anthology is available, published by the University of Chicago press – what the fuck is that about?) but really folks. Who’s reading this stuff besides me? I would really, really like to know.
And in the meantime, reviewers at the WSJ, NYT, NY Observer: don’t try to insult Mr. Benchley by lightly brushing him off. He was a better man than you’ll ever be. And a hell of a lot funnier. I’m sure Woody Allen would agree with me.
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