At a book party last night I witnessed what I’m tempted to call the New York media version of an Abbott and Costello routine — except it was an actual conversation, and I was a participant. Here’s how it went. Critic: [Upon introduction.] Maud Newton… Wasn’t there a novel called that this year? Me: I don’t think so. Critic: . . .
Allan Gurganus says the first chapter of Housekeeping contains “enough dramatic incident to stock any three other novels.”
It amuses me to picture Roland Barthes drunk-dialing Robbe-Grillet at midnight to say, “But Alain, I’m a fake, aren’t I?”
“My father said I wasn’t going to be a man until I got comfortable lying to the women in my life.” Please read Baird Harper’s Intermodal.
Iran’s culture minister warned writers yesterday to self-censor their books or face banning.