So it’s been a while, and I have consumed some culture since last posting. A partial list:
In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote
Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band. Live.
Josh Ritter. Live.
Jon Dee Graham and Matthew Ryan. Live.
On Becoming a Novelist, by John Gardner
Into the Wild
Posted in movies, sloth
Tagged Alex Supertramp, Bruce Springsteen, George Clooney, John Gardner, Jon Dee Graham, Josh Ritter, Matthew Ryan, Music, Sean Penn, Truman Capote
Good story in the NY Times today about Richard Price. I particularly liked this quote by Price:
“I always like to hang out,” he said, “because, one, it’s a way of avoiding really writing; and, two, sometimes God is a crackerjack novelist and you can plagiarize the hell out of him.”
I haven’t even finished the article yet, but yes!:
What distinguishes the book from most debut efforts is the grandness of its ambition. It’s a first novel that wants to read like the work of someone at the peak of his career, and it has an almost Dickensian amplitude — overamplitude, some critics may say — of subplot and detail; it’s one of those novels that strive to be much more than the sum of their parts, and in which the writing is not always averse to showing off a little.
…was found dead in Iceland.
Iceland? How did Bobby Fischer end up in Iceland. There’s got to be a story in there somewhere. If only I wasn’t too lazy to find it.
Anyway, for reference, here’s an article.