where the tangent is the architecture
I'm an independent bookseller, so please forgive me if I chatter about books. They're almost all I have.
The stories are true. Mortal Instruments arrives tomorrow on Blu-ray Combo Pack & DVD!
Wait wait wait. Look at the symbol in that second GIF. Is this movie about Hott Majik Teenz a remake of Twin Peaks?
After I first read Dracula, for a time, I would kill and eat flies.
It was easier, even then, to imagine myself as the madman. There is a reality to Renfield, a sort of compassion, that cannot exist in any of the Men or Women or Beasts or Doctors in that marvelous book. Renfield, and later Woyzeck, later Pessoa’s bean counter, is outside of that book’s major lusts. He is no Lear, but some poor bastard seizing in the front row as Lear speaks. No Blake, a Clare. He is not mad in the grand sense—no young man growing up in a small American town can have access to, can imagine, anything that frees him entirely from the cage of the suburban around him. Madness is less possible than death, or sex, or undeath. Renfield is as far as I could get. Strange, disruptive, caged, an agent for unease. His subservience is disgusting. He is the way out of plot, is the way to something. If lust is subsumed by the novel, by the adult, then disgust is the way one survives the smell of a minivan.
I ate flies on hot summer afternoons in a kitchen.
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What? What? Something in my teeth? What are you staring at?
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You guys, I think a drone is just a remote control helicopter…
Well, maybe not just a toy.
“We were having tea and just eating a bit and then there were missiles… . When I gained consciousness, there was a bandage on my eye. I didn’t know what had happened to my eye and I could only see from one.”
Ｙｏｕ ｎｅｅｄ ｔｏ ｖｉｂｒａｔｅ ｈｉｇｈｅｒ ｓｏ ｙｏｕ ｃａｎ ｃａｐｔｕｒｅ ｔｈｅ ｏｐｅｎｉｎｇ ｏｆ ｔｈｅ ｐｏｒｔａｌ ｔｈａｔ ｃｏｎｎｅｃｔｓ ｔｈｉｓ ｅａｒｔｈ ｏｆ ３Ｄ ｔｏ ｏｎｅ ｅａｒｔｈ ｏｆ ４Ｄ ｏｒ ５Ｄ
Just read EMPTY SPACES by the great M John Harrison, the third in his wonderful Kefahuchi Tract series.
In it, among much much madness, there is a scene in which an old man is shoved into another dimension by means of the harnessed energies of three people masturbating, channeled through an infant skull in a tin box. I imagine that looked rather like this.
The good folks at this year’s 5-under-35 book awards at powerHouse had very nice goodie bags, including a handsome Kindle cover. Thanks, folks!
I decided to improve upon mine.
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Thrift store find.
Bruce Catton, incidentally, is the most famous Petosegan in history, though he mostly lived in New York. There was a plaque of him outside the public library in town, next to the drop box they didn’t use anymore, by the door they didnt use anymore, across the street from the phone company.
I had my first kiss in that library, around a corner, down some steps, in our winter boots.
Also please note: that cover photo is hilariously accurate.
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This is basically two work blog posts in a row now, but I had fun making this (crouched down, ass sticking out, in the sun outside our office) so what the hell, here you go.
My more-employed half is doing a crazy thing in Brooklyn on Sunday. He and whomever joins him (no one?) will be walking from a cafe in Windsor Terrace, up through Prospect Park, stopping at Terrace Books, a bookstore in Park Slope I forgot the name of, then somewhere else I forgot — the library? — then to Unnameable in Prospect Heights, then to Greenlight in Ft. Greene, all along the way reading a book about bookstores. Out loud. The logistics of this make me so nervous, but it probably won’t matter when it comes down to it (or so I’ve told him). We did a run-through (walk-through) of this on Saturday and I was prepared to hate it (as is my wont) but the book is actually nice to hear out loud, and while a few people gave him funny looks, it was pretty enjoyable. A little thrilling in its stubborn ridiculousness! If you feel like walking for four hours and reading out loud of an okay/cute/goofy/I mean I laughed book about bookselling, and visiting some bookstores, you should go! And can I advise you now that if you do go do not wear your Converse with holes in the bottom. Not that you would. And buy an artisanal pop tart at Lark if you know at all what’s good for you.
This is a thing I’m doing. Because I like this borough and this book and the bookstores at the heart of each. Come along. We’re beginning at LARK cafe in Windsor Terrace at noon and walking to Terrace Books, powerHouse on 8th, the Brooklyn Library, Unnameable, and ending at Greenlight at about 4:30. The map is here. It’s an insane project, granted, but what the hell, what else are you doing? Visit a bookstore, eat a cookie, stroll in the sun, and read a book from 1917 to a crowd of strangers. Come for as much or as little as you like. I’ll be tweeting our progress at @melvillehouse.
Seriously, come. It’s something to do.
New contender for Most Romantic Poem Ever Written. From Ben Mirov’s excellent Hider Roser, Octopus Books, 2012.
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Clark at Maple Street Book Shops in New Orleans in a direct challenge to the old guard porpoise hegemony of Skylight Bookstore.
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