the book scene
weekly wrap up of the book scene (twenty fourth day
of june in the year of our lord two thousand and ten):
davidar books a one-way ticket back to india
after tonguing the natives.
the independent bookstores couldn’t care less
because they continue to collapse.
who knew that anne frank had tits?
laugh uncomfortably as the ipad sells 3 million units
in 80 days.
this is your world (drink more and plump up a vein).
yann martel and his menagerie of animals poised in a fableland built out of the cartoon squeaks of a much higher-brow disneyfication. must we see the world through the eyes of an animal to learn that we are human? second only to the precocious voice of a literary adolescent filled with a startlingly unbelievable wisdom that touches us beyond repair with each flip of a page.
shrinking books coverage
is it any wonder that books are receiving less and less media attention in recent years?
the boring fall line-ups produce eloquent carbon copies meant to lull the dreamy reader to sleep.
whatever happened to books that stormed the palace, and stomped the flowers to slap the shit out of everyone?
it has been decades since literature suffered the sort of gear-grinding damage that might derail it, and thus– through the spill of carnage– attract a more youthful readership that actually gives a fuck in its longing to see things come apart.
whatever happened to books that could whisper a slice along the line of a throat?
death by e-book
a few years ago, the e-book gargled in death. now, it rises from its coma to snatch a crown from new york.
isn’t this the sort of contemporary plague that we adore: the stream-lined technological antidote to sensual touch. please forget how to feel.
as has been the case throughout history, the gadgetry of youth will continue to annihilate the aesthetic.
or am i simply an anachronism, waiting to be e-asized?
remember, the piano was killed by radio.
the book will be killed by something called digital that we don’t even quite understand yet.
atwood continues to drag her skinny ass around the globe on an eternal promotional tour that she hopes will lead her to the great nobel mecca.
while other authors of her crusty years sit back, having already recited every self-serving platitude until their ears are plugged numb, she desperately flaps her arms in a ‘look at me’ squawk that hopes to shed a ray of nobel-queen light upon her grinning facade.
unfortunately, as we all know, she will never see the day.
canada reads 2009
as usual, the cbc bores me to death. an interbred national broadcast voice trumpeting the mellow sublime, forever blind and feigning up-to-the-minute intelligence in the name of a country of snoozing mediocrity.
vastly impressive to a neutered sloth.