Posts Tagged ‘New York Review of Books’

Tim Parks in the New York Review of Books Blog has lost all hope, just by stating what is on all of our minds.


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Charles Simic clearly cannot stand America, so my reaction is that he should go and try Arabia.

In the above connected article Charles wrings the almost dry hatred-towel of its’ Anti-Americana dew and places it on the NYRB blog for us to gawk at. The article is nominally about the loss of secondhand book stores and his apparent mourning sums to a base elegy which only cloaks an un-seething hatred for America the Brave. Triteness abounds in this fillet of shite. I’d have been better off reading a flier for a charity handed to me in the street than this blogged scroll of putrescence. For Charles is not aiming his spears with a Luddite aim, he is apparently better than that and presumably smarter than most, hence the NYRB association, he is just a blither blathering snob cloaked in the ruminative garb of the ‘smart set.’ A set which has let the petrol run out, stopped the car and is clearly suffocating on the fumes and plumes of an older mentality and enjoying every damn minute of their demise. 

But Chollie, I must agree, ’tis a shame to see the dearth of physical, real property secondhand bookshops in this country and others.  The smell of must alone is worth the trip, it is the sort of smell I imagine when i read your ‘words-you-mean-to-string together-in-place-of-thought.’

Adooby dooby doo…

Evan Kerry

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To read a review by Helen Vendler on Kay Ryan’s new dreck, is tantamount to being lowered into a vat of acid that will not kill one, only scald till one’s eyes bleed. Who selected this most unworthy poet as the Poet Laureate? I should have his job/head delivered to the local morgue for inspection. Anyways, Vendler selects snippets of Ryan’s writings and panders them with glee. I swear I could not make it through this ghastly review, without the usual self-doubt accorded slop, of a substance less viscous than plain air. Suffice to say a review hardly worth anyones time.


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This is an excellent reissue by the New York Review of Books, but really though the NYRB does have some taste to share. Jean Renoir, acclaimed director, gives a life of his father, the estimable Impressionist painter Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Jean’s anecdotal style and laissez-faire remembrances are quite a treat. For the most part Renoir was against the constant change in fin-de-siecle France which is funny because he was dead-set on changing the world of painting. Please read this book.

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Michael Wood’s essay on Zadie Smith’s new collection of essays is depressing in its’ sprightliness. I guess only in the NYRB can one find the phrase “ideological inconsistency” used in a positive context. Saying that you should read bad literature to know what good is, is like saying I should drink Schlitz malted liquor instead of a decent local IPA just so I can enjoy the IPA that much more. Zadie Smith is obviously accepted by the sort  of people who don’t mind what they are reading so long as it attempts to be funny or displays some act of horrible atrocity. Which could sum up most contemporary literature. Skimming through this article it is obvious that Michael Wood cares little for what Zadie Smith writes. From the quoted passages in the article it is clear that Mrs. Smith doesn’t even care what content is there so long as there are enough words to fill the page with a certain sense that she has decided to make her own. Bravo! I salute you for hacking a path for yourself in the jungle of lit. Though that path may not be belgian block, asphalt or concrete, and it might be over grown for another to hack through,  it will get you where you want to go.

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