First Line Friday!

"Mother Died Today."



What novel is it? Start the guessing, and NO Googling!

The Writer's Voice

Sometimes we become so immersed in the distinctive literary voice of an author, that when we hear that same author's actual speaking voice, it can be a little jolting. Have a listen below, and try to tell me that Virginia Woolf doesn't remind you just a little bit of Dame Edna:

So You Wanna Be A Writer? Join the Merchant Marines!

Who among us hasn’t felt the urge to chip paint, swab the poop deck, or keep the midnight watch over a commercial shipping vessel at one time or another? Who can honestly say he’s never heard the call of the sea?

One thing’s for sure, many a great author has been groomed on the high seas. The literary world is replete with writers who have tackled a stint in the merchant marines: Joseph Conrad, Ralph Ellison, Herman Melville, Allen Ginsburg, Jack Kerouac, Alex Haley, Saul Bellow, Langston Hughes, Louis L’Amour, Eugene O’Neill, there are simply too many to name… One could throw in Jack London, who worked a sealing vessel, Arthur Conan Doyle, who was a ship's surgeon, or Ernest Hemingway, who hunted U-boats in the Caribbean. They probably all dreamed, like Conrad’s Lord Jim, of a life filled with adventure:

“He could see the big ships departing, the broad-beamed ferries constantly on the move, the little boats floating far below his feet with the hazy splendor of the sea in the distance and the hope of a stirring life in the world of adventure.

“On the lower deck, in the Babel of two-hundred voices, he would forget himself and beforehand live in his mind the sea life of light literature. He saw himself saving people from sinking ships, cutting away masts in a hurricane, swimming through a surf with a line, or as a lonely castaway, barefooted and half-naked, walking on uncovered reefs in search of shellfish to stave off starvation. He confronted savages on tropical shores, quelled mutinies on the high seas and in a small boat upon the ocean kept up the hearts of despairing men. Always an example of devotion to duty, and as unflinching as a hero in a book.”

What’s not to love about any of that? Sign me up! But Conrad quickly follows that passage with this dampening dose of reality:

“After two years of training he went to sea, and entering the region so well known to his imagination, found them strangely barren of adventure. He made many voyages. He knew the magical monotony of existence between sky and water. He had to bear the criticism of men, the exactions of the sea, and the prosaic severity of the daily task that gives bread, but whose only reward is in the perfect love of the work. This reward eluded him. Yet, he could not go back, because there is nothing more enticing, disenchanting and enslaving than the life at sea.”

So, it’s not all rainbows and butterflies. So what? It still sounds like a nice gig, if you can get it. And the literary merits have been proven time and time again. Like the great authors named above, you could pluck your ideas and experiences from exotic foreign ports and use the long hours at sea to let your material marinate and develop for our benefit. 

So go ahead. Set sail for literary distinction. Be a writer, be a merchant marine.

What do Tom Joad, Darl Bundren and Macon “Milkman” Dead III all have in common?

Yes, all three are famous literary characters, and each is the tragic protagonist of the story he inhabits. But there’s something more… They all have sisters with crazy-ass names.

Rose of Sharon? Dewey Dell? First Corinthians and Magdelena Called Lena? What is it with these families? What is it about 20^th Century American fiction that requires the injudicious and reckless naming of baby girls?

Now, sometimes it’s the guys who get a profligate christening (Soaphead Church and Tea Cake come to mind), but by and large, it is the fairer sex that gets saddled with awkward handles. Scout? Skeeter? Idgie? Sabbath Lily? I could go on and on...

What does all of this mean to you and me? Well, that depends. If your sister’s name is Sarah or Emily or Anne or Jane, it probably means nothing at all.

On the other hand, if you have a sister named “Gypsy Sunrise” or “Heaven’s Own Rays” or something absurd like that- I don't mean to get all Stranger than Fiction on you, but there’s a decent chance that your reality- your entire life as you know it- is nothing more than the figment of some author’s imagination.

The nice thing about this scenario is that your story will be taught to high school students and revered by serious readers for generations. The flip side of that coin is that you're probably headed for some great calamity.    So, you know... be careful.

See Venice! Read a novel!

Image from Gerald Brimacombe Photography

If Levar Burton has taught me anything, it's that when I pick up a book, "I can go anywhere." If you're an intrepid mental traveler like me, you'll enjoy trotting across the globe with our See The World series. We kick things off in one of the most beautiful locations on the globe: Venice, Italy. Here are some excerpts from three great books that will take you there:

Death in Venice, by Thomas Mann

“And so he saw it once again. The most amazing of landing places, the dazzling composition of fantastic architecture that the Republic presented to the worshipful gazes of approaching mariners. The airy magnificence of the Doge’s Palace and the Bridge of Sighs, the columns depicting lions and saints on the shore, the splendid and projected flank of the fairy tale temple, the view of the gateway and the gigantic clock. And while contemplating this scene, he mused that arriving by the Venice railroad station by land, was like entering a palace through a back door, and that one could only do as he had done, sail across the high seas in order to reach the most improbable of cities.”

The Aspern Papers, by Henry James

"The gondola stopped, the old palace was there; it was a house of the class which in Venice carries even in extreme dilapidation the dignified name. “How charming! It’s grey and pink!” my companion exclaimed; and that is the most comprehensive description of it. It was not particularly old, only two or three centuries; and it had an air not so much of decay as of quiet discouragement, as if it had rather missed its career. But its wide front, with a stone balcony from end to end of the piano nobile, or most important floor, was architectural enough, with the aid of various pilasters and arches; and the stucco with which in the intervals it had long ago been endued was rosy in the April afternoon. It overlooked a clean melancholy rather lonely canal, which had a narrow riva or convenient footway on either side."

"…I spent the late hours either on the water- the moonlights of Venice are famous- or in the splendid square which serves as a vast forecourt to the strange old church of Saint Mark. I sat in from of Florian’s café eating ices, listening to music, talking with acquaintances: the traveler will remember how the immense cluster of tables and little chairs stretches like a promontory into the smooth lake of the Piazza. The whole place, of a summer’s evening, under the stars and with all the lamps, all the voices and light footsteps on marble- the only sounds of the immense arcade that encloses it- is an open-air saloon dedicated to cooling drinks and to a still finer degustation, that of the splendid impressions received during the day."

Across the River and Into the Trees, by Ernest Hemingway

"He penetrated into the far side of the city, the side that finally fronted the Adriatic, and that he liked the best. He was going in by a very narrow street, and he was going to not keep track of the number of more or less north and south streets that he crossed, nor count the bridges, and then try and orient himself so he would come out at the market without getting up any dead ends.

"It was a game you play, as some people used to play double Canfield or any solitary card games. But it had the advantage of you moving while you do it and that you look at the houses, the minor vistas, the shops and the trattorias and at old palaces of the city of Venice while you are walking. If you loved the city of Venice it was an excellent game. 

"It is a sort of solitaire ambulante and what you win is the happiness of your eye and heart. If you made the market, on this side of town, without ever being stymied, you won the game. But you must not make it too easy and you must not count."

Which other books bring the City of Canals to life for readers?

Poet's Corner

If literary fiction is misunderstood and ignored by Joe Sixpack, what hope does poetry have of reaching the unwashed masses? Not much. Not much at all.

Unless you can find just the right poem, that is.

This is the first look at a new feature we're calling Poet's Corner, a series aimed to prove that not only is poetry not dead, but that it isn't all flowers and butterflies and unrequited love anymore. We hope you enjoy it.



Short-order Cook

by Jim Daniels

An average joe comes in

and orders thirty cheeseburgers and thirty fries.

I wait for him to pay before I start cooking.
He pays.
He ain't no average joe.

The grill is just big enough for ten rows of three.
I slap the burgers down
throw two buckets of fries in the deep frier
and they pop pop spit spit . . .
pss . . .

The counter girls laugh.
I concentrate.
It is the crucial point—
they are ready for the cheese:
my fingers shake as I tear off slices
toss them on the burgers/fries done/dump/
refill buckets/burgers ready/flip into buns/
beat that melting cheese/wrap burgers in plastic/
into paper bags/fries done/dump/fill thirty bags/
bring them to the counter/wipe sweat on sleeve
and smile at the counter girls.
I puff my chest out and bellow:
"Thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries!"
They look at me funny.
I grab a handful of ice, toss it in my mouth
do a little dance and walk back to the grill.
Pressure, responsibility, success,
thirty cheeseburgers, thirty fries.

First Line Friday!

This week, we are returning to a good first line, as opposed to a bad one. This week’s stellar first line is from a novel that is obviously a standout. It’s brief, just 14 words. But is says a lot . . . and that’s the sign of a good first line.

“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”

Why is this line so great? Simply because as you read it, everything flows nicely, until you slam your face into the last word. Thirteen? The clocks were striking thirteen?

That one profound word, “Thirteen,” immediately proposes to the reader that some sort of alternative reality is at hand. Why? Because we don’t have clocks that strike thirteen. It’s genius. One word throws us for an extreme loop. You are only 14 words into the novel, and you’ve already had to stop and reassess the reality of what you’re reading.

What novel is blessed with this first line?

Orwell’s 1984, of course.

On Plot Twists

In the minds of some people, literary fiction is often synonymous with plotless, boring, navel-gazing fiction. We don't pretend to speak for everything published under the lit-fic rubric, but we obviously don’t share that view about the time-honored classics, and we’re happy to stand-up and myth-bust it for you whenever we get a chance.

Yesterday there was a post at BookRiot listing generic plot twists that have kind of run their course and become eyeroll-inducing clichés. I definitely agree with their list, but it also got me thinking about some classic plot twists that have been done really well- those that have caught me off guard, anyway. Here are three that I can think of right off the top of my head. (Major spoiler warning!) Add your own in the comments.

Mistaken identity in The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald:

Tom drives Gatsby’s car as their little group heads into town and he stops to fill the tank at Wilson’s station. From the window, Tom’s illicit lover Myrtle makes the tragic association that will kill her later in the day. The group then makes the return trip back to West Egg, only this time an upset Daisy is driving Gatsby’s Rolls Royce and when Myrtle runs out to greet Tom, she is inadvertently struck and killed by the yellow car, which flees the scene.

Meanwhile, Mr. Wilson learns the runaway car belongs to Gatsby and goes looking for revenge while Tom and Daisy run off scot-free. This allows Fitzgerald to make a powerful statement about the reckless decadence of the roaring twenties, and the book becomes a classic for that reason.

Poetic coincidence in Cry, the Beloved Country, by Alan Paton:

Anglican pastor Stephen Kumalo tries in vain to work with tribal leaders to rejuvenate and save his barren village of Ixopo. But upon receiving a request for his own help, he uses all his savings to go to Johannesburg and aid his sister. While there he sets out to find Absalom, his long lost son. But just as he gets close to locating Absalom, he learns that he has been arrested for murder.

The man he killed is a white, racial justice activist whose estranged father just happens to be Mr. Jarvis, an aloof, but wealthy landowner living in the verdant hills above Ixopo. It is because of this tragic event that Jarvis posthumously comes to know his own long lost son through his political writings. He resolves to do what little he can to bring his son’s vision of racial justice to fruition. Despite losing his own child at the hands of a former Ixopo villager, he becomes the benefactor that the village always needed. Beautiful. Poetic. Read it.

Missing the forest for the trees in Around the World in 80 Days, by Jules Verne:

In order to win a £15,000 bet, Phileas Fogg and his hapless French valet set off on an adventure-filled journey around the world. Fogg’s stoic calm and Passpartout’s skills as an erstwhile acrobat pull them out of one tragic set-back after another on their unbelievable journey. Still, as they near England on the 80th day, it becomes clear that they will not arrive back at the Reform Club in time to win the bet, and Fogg has resigned himself to failure and bankruptcy.

It is then that Passpartout learns that they had not taken the International Date Line into account, and that Fogg still has a few minutes to race to the Reform Club and win the bet. Verne definitely jumped the shark at a couple points in this novel, but I have to say I didn’t see that final twist coming.


Huxley’s Brave New World and Orwell’s 1984 are two others that deliver interesting twists, but since those two books are soon to square off as our first Literary Deathmatch contestants, we’ll leave them for another day. What other works of literary fiction have delivered amazing twists?

Ummm... What?

I've been very kind to Faulkner lately, so before I give him a well-deserved rest, I thought it might be a good time to thump him on the head just once. You tell me: What recreational drug was he abusing when he penned the following literary lemon:

In a strange room you must empty yourself for sleep, and before you are emptied for sleep, what are you? And when you are emptied for sleep, you are not, and when you are filled with sleep you never were. I don’t know what I am. I don’t know if I am or not. Jewel knows he is, because he does not know that he does not know whether he is or not. He cannot empty himself for sleep because he is not what he is, and he is what he is not… And since sleep is is not, and rain and wind are was, it is not. Yet the wagon is, because when the wagon is was, Addy Bundren will not be. And Jewel is, so Addy bundren must be, and then I must be, or I could not empty myself for sleep in a strange room. And so, if I am not emptied yet, I am is.

Unbearable Lightness?

We all have a handful of unread books that sit in the far corners of our minds simply waiting to be read. Books that beg to be read. Books that hit our consciousness from time to time, when we hear the book mentioned in conversation, or see someone reading the book on the subway. And in those moments, we think again "I have to read that book."

One such book for me was The Unbearable Lightness of Being, by the Czech writer Milan Kundera. I vaguely remember that the first time I learned of this book was on a train the north of Spain. That title alone grabbed me from the outset. It's perhaps one of the best titles I have ever stumbled across: The Unbearable Lightness of Being.

Unfortunately though, for me the novel didn't stand up to the ecstasy of the title. I was disappointed. The plot was endlessly circular (Tomas sleeps with Woman A, then Woman B, but feeling bad, returns to Woman A, but then is drawn again to Woman B . . . and then repeat a dozen times). And the writing was too sparse, and not 'sparse' in an artistic way, but sparse in a very non-interesting way. Supposedly, the book is rife with philosophical themes, but against the backdrop of uninteresting writing and an even more uninteresting plot, the themes fell by the wayside.

So here is the tragedy of the situation: I looked forward for well over 5 years to finally reading this book. Whenever I heard it mentioned, I'd think "yes, that has to be a solid novel." My forbearance would pay off when I could finally dive deep into the text. But you know how the story ends. The book didn't do anything for me.

It's like telling a child that you'll take him to Disneyland next year, and he savors it for 12 solid months, he imagines what it will be like, he ponders the adventures he'll have, the storybook food he'll eat, and the magic day he'll have. And then the day arrives, and the lines are long and the weather is hot and humid and Disneyland is crowded as hell.

Does this ever happen to anyone else? Or am I alone in my misery?