Yes, that’s a ceramic lampshade in the shape and color of a flamingo’s head hovering over those books.
Of course it is.
And beneath that ‘shade, basking, as they say,
in the glow of its eco-friendly curly-bulb:
The current crop of what I edify & entertain myself with before sleep closes in like a pair of crushing, midnight-colored hands
on the throat of my consciousness.
[Note to self: Always, always create prose more purple
than that which is under discussion.]
So what’ve we got?
On top of the pile we’ve got Chip Kidd‘s
follow-up to his bestselling Cheese Monkeys.
This one’s called The Learners,
it was loaned to me by the Chronicle‘s Monica Riese,
it features a cover by Charles Burns (with display lettering by Chris Ware),
I’m two-thirds of the way through, and it’s annoying as hell.
Yes, annoying.
But what’s annoying – the only thing that’s annoying – is that Kidd’s about as good a writer as he is a graphic designer, and this doubling of goodness, as you know, depletes the amount of talent available in the universe and leaves so little for the rest of us. He’s also good looking and a snappy dresser. Fucker.
Aaaaaaand we’ve got Alain de Botton‘s The Pleasures and Sorrows of Work, which I reckon is a concept we can all sympathize with, hey? Here’s a terrific set of essays on the author’s explorations of different occupations – biscuit makers, rocket scientists, artists, accountants, and so on. Botton’s informative and witty, covering the subjects with an arch sense of reality, more considerate than damning, contemplative but not too dry or academic.
There’s that anthology of Contemporary Fiction, filled with many solid examples of the short-literary-fiction genre. Banks, Alexie, Atwood, Oates, and so on: The usual suspects. First time I scanned the table of contents, I patted myself on the back for having already read a few of the stories in their original magazine appearances or in other collections. Oh yeah, that’s me: So. Very. Erudite.
I also floss and recycle.
And hey, look: There’s a book about numbers, all about maths and such,
which I’m trying to fit a better understanding of into my skull;
the little volume’s standing against the wall, supported by a paperback copy of David Byrne’s Bicycle Diaries.
And, over in the corner, Samuel R. Delany’s novel Triton,
which is thick with bejeweled prose and explorations of the various
political and emotional and sexual relationships possible between humans.
In outer space, in the future.
Hell, yeah.
The flamingo’s name is Beaky, by the way.
This article appears in July 8 • 2011.