Monthly Archives: April 2005

Eating between the lines: Feast tonight!

Do roasted-pear-and-honey crepes sound like a good idea? What about a really good wine list? OK, I give up—how do you feel about four of the most charismatic people you’re likely to meet, reading their witty and inventive poems as you test the hot chocolate with your tongue? I thought so. Susan Brennan (aah), John Cotter (mmm), Shafer Hall (wow), and Marion Wrenn (rrrr) will all be at CamaJe bistro at 85 MacDougal St. (between Bleecker and Houston) tonight from 5-7 to show you what they got. Meanwhile, you can order from a special Feast menu, which features your favorite (for those who are already regulars) and soon-to-be-favorite (for regulars in waiting) dishes and some awfully good deals. See you there!

The Delicious [short film, Scott Prendergast. Hilarious.]

Jonathans Are Illuminated: Resentniks

New feature! A periodic update on the lives (professional, that is, with perhaps the occasional emphasis on personal style) of the Jonathans, defined at present as Franzen, Lethem, Safran Foer, and Ames. For today’s Illuminated, courtesy of the always worthwhile L.A. Weekly, Safran Foer talks to Brendan Bernhard about the vast internet conspiracy against him. Throughout the interview, Bernhard notes, the novelist is inexplicably “not wearing an outrageously expensive suit, designer sunglasses and a silk T-shirt bearing the legend ‘Brooklyn’s Richest and Most Critically Acclaimed Young Novelist.’ ” Among other tidbits:

If Foer sounds a bit paranoid about the social status of art and artists, one can more or less understand. True, his paychecks are handsome and he was recently the subject of an adoring profile in The New York Times magazine, but he was also the object of a withering parody in the New York Observer [archived, sorry!], and he claims to be a regular punching bag for envious literati on the Internet.

“I get made fun of very widely,” he says. “I’m a favorite target of bloggers. I mean, really. I don’t look for it, but my little brother is generous enough to forward me the meanest stuff! What can you say? It’s fine. Somebody once said the world is full of petty ‘resentniks’—I love that word, ‘resentniks.’ There are a lot of angry people, and thank God they don’t get their voices out there too much.”

The movie rights to Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close have already been sold, but Foer says he has no interest in adapting his novel for the screen. “I did it. I have nothing more to say about it, and I certainly don’t want to get involved in a process with 4,000 shitheads who’ll think everything I do and say is stupid,” he says firmly. “I don’t like committees.”

Some Stuff, Illuminated [L.A. Weekly]
Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close [Meghan O’Rourke and Ruth Franklin, Slate Book Club]

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Outside the Magazine

Philip Gourevitch on James Nachtwey’s startling photos of Indonesian street kids, in the May/June issue of Mother Jones:

The children Nachtwey came to know over the last six years at the Mangga Besar (Big Mango) train station forged their own society. They survived by begging and, when that failed, by stealing—on a small-time, subsistence level—and they sniffed glue not only to get high but also to allay their constant hunger. “They were truly outcasts, surviving on the narrowest of margins, and as such were virtually invisible,” Nachtwey says. In exposing themselves to his camera, they made themselves seen. They were not, however, looking to return to the society that had abandoned them. When shopkeepers complained of their presence on the sidewalk, the police would round them up and send them to social services homes for street kids, but, Nachtwey says, “Despite the guarantee of security, a clean, relatively comfortable place to sleep, and a couple of decent meals each day, the children dreaded such places. The kids had become essentially wild, and as addicted to freedom as they were to glue.”

Ghost Children of Big Mango [Mother Jones]
Witness [Nachtwey homepage with photo gallery]

Back From the Old World

And boy are my arms controlled. Incredible time, incredible place. To come: the new regular cartoon-caption contest on the Back Page, and I attempt to time the complete reading of a single issue (the new one). Three hours? Six? I have no idea. But we’ll all know soon!

By the way, I have the dynamics of group travel on the brain after reading the sprightly Tad Friend piece about Lonely Planet in last week’s issue, and having just zipped around myself. This brings to mind A Room With a View, in this case the movie. I’ve been worrying over Daniel Day-Lewis’ performance in The Ballad of Jack and Rose, because it’s so curiously prissy considering his character’s supposed anarchic oneness with nature. Or maybe it’s all right because it would take a fairly fussy person to build a perfectly environmentally harmonic house and guard it like a cave-dweller, not to mention protect his adolescent daughter from pretty much the entire world until it’s Too Late. Anyway, I took another look at the 1985 movie, and wouldn’t you know it, Cecil “the sort who can’t know anyone intimately” Vyse’s superior smirk returns with a vengeance to Day-Lewis’ face in Jack and Rose. I’m only a little alarmed because I’m not used to seeing his characters crop up again, since he’s so famously versatile. Who could forget him as the canny, ardent punk Johnny in My Beautiful Laundrette—which, remarkably, opened the same year as A Room With a View? And all the rest. I just don’t want to see him narrowing. As his father, the poet Cecil Day-Lewis, once wrote of something entirely different,

A frost came in the night and stole my world
And left this changeling for it…

Still, I have faith. Johnny is still there, and Christy Brown and Tomas and Hamlet and Gerry Conlon, and so on. I’ll be all right as long as I don’t have to see that unchangingly haughty cast of face too often. I feel too much warmth for him to be iced out like that.

A Room With a View Is Everywhere and A Little Peek: Male Nudity in the Movies [Bjørn Smestad]
Two Travellers [Cecil Day-Lewis, via Old Poetry]

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The Russians love their children too

They do. I’ve seen it.

In all seriousness—and contrary to appearances, I am often serious—what I’ve seen so far of Russia (Moscow, Volgograd/Stalingrad—somewhat astonishingly, there’s a movement to change back the name) has been overpowering. Everyone I’ve met here seems to be bearing the weight of the country’s cumulative tragedies and madness and manifesting its famous determination, and I know I risk falling into the cliche of the noble Russian soul, but there’s a heaviness of spirit here that’s not about economic turmoil or alcohol or politics or even war. It’s heavy like crystal. I can’t be eloquent in a fluorescent business center on scant sleep, but I am so glad I’m here. Hope you’re enjoying the travel issue—I am! So much to discuss when I return. Keep sending those letters to the editor; it is very good and useful to know what you’re thinking and what you’d like to see covered more or, God knows, better.

Start the next issue without me

I’m going to the land of the last scene of The Queen’s Gambit (a country also featured in the travel issue), and will return on the 22nd. Till then, I encourage you to cook up and send some letters to the editor (that’s me, not David Remnick—those should be directed here). What would you like to see me cover? Did you go to a magazine-related event recently, or not at all recently, and have a tasty anecdote? Is there a New Yorker writer you consider underappreciated, or overrated? I’ll print everything but unsubstantiated and/or potentially harmful gossip, and pointless snipes. Oh, and I never use private correspondence without permission. That leaves lots of room for you to create. Go to it!

Speaking of the travel issue, here’s Nick Paumgarten on NPR talking about that crazy ski thing. See you soon!

Faith McNulty, 1918-2005

From today’s Washington Post:

Faith McNulty, 86, author of the 1980 bestseller The Burning Bed, which focused national attention on domestic violence, died April 10 at her farm in South Kingstown, R.I. No cause of death was reported.

Ms. McNulty also wrote for the “Talk of the Town” section in the New Yorker magazine for four decades and wrote wildlife and children’s books, including How to Dig a Hole to the Other Side of the World.

The Burning Bed told the story of Francine Hughes, an abused woman who killed her husband by setting him afire as he slept and who was acquitted on self-defense. The book became a TV movie in 1984 and starred Farrah Fawcett.

Ms. McNulty, a native of New York, began her news career as a copy girl at the New York Daily News. She also was a reporter and researcher for Life magazine and wrote for Audubon magazine.

And from the Providence Journal, McNulty’s local paper:

She and her second husband, John McNulty—whom she met at the Daily News and who later wrote for The New Yorker—kept company with such literary luminaries as Joseph Mitchell, James Thurber, E.B. White, John Cheever, A.J. Leibling and S.J. Perelman.

Her heart’s work was writing wildlife articles and books, on such topics as whales, black-footed ferrets and whooping cranes. The book on black-footed ferrets, Must They Die?, was instrumental in getting a pesticide banned.
…
Mrs. McNulty was a slight woman, demure of speech, bright of gaze, and refreshingly innocent of fashion. She preferred old pants, long skirts, baggy sweaters (pilled), and Birkenstocks. Her cocktail garb was often a blue jean skirt, and a necklace—with Birkenstocks.

She was a first-rate raconteur who delivered stories with dry, sometimes biting wit. She often recounted her early life in New York City, or writing adventures such as her 2,000-mile Jeep ride through Madagascar, or her face-to-face meeting with Koko the gorilla. “We met and after an exchange of gifts, Koko the gorilla kissed me. She smelled sweet, like new-mown hay, and we looked into each other’s eyes with almost equal curiosity.”
…
Gerry Goldstein, former longtime chief of The Journal‘s South County bureau in Wakefield said, “To sum her up, she always amazed me. She led this really romantic and Runyonesque life in New York City, with her second husband, who was the best friend of James Thurber. She was probably as sophisticated a mind as you can ever run across.”

And yet, Goldstein said, “there was something very gentle and maternal about her, and that’s what produced all these dozens of children’s stories. She could write a story about a delicate little field mouse and always retain the hard edge of a journalist, and that’s maybe why she could produce something like The Burning Bed.”
…
Mrs. McNulty published her first fiction piece for The New Yorker in 1943, “a teeny tiny little story” that happened to be about South County.

In 1953, Mrs. McNulty signed on as a “Talk of the Town” reporter, writing regularly about South County. She turned to wildlife writing after her third husband, Richard Martin, found a mouse on the doorstep and she was inspired to write about the little creature.

Obituaries: Of Note [WaPo]
Burning Bed author McNulty loved her life in South County [Providence Journal, login]
Lasting Faith: Better times live on in Faith McNulty’s elegant prose [2001 interview, Providence Journal]
A Journalist Joins the War Effort From London: Faith McNulty Martin [Oral history, via WKCD: “In those days a city room was a very fast-moving place where pieces of paper had to go from one desk to another, and they used to use copy boys to carry the stuff. I was hired because the boys had gone to war. It was a very good break for me, and I was crazy about it…”]
Adopt a black-footed ferret [Smithsonian National Zoological Park; they’re in trouble, and wicked cute.]

Update: I did adopt one. (Virtually, I mean.) I’ll post the very fuzzy picture at some point and see if I can badger the zoo into giving me some news about the little nipper. I named it McNulty.

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Big winners: Sierra, Brown, Huang, Remnick, Power, Gopnik, Hersh, staff

There’s so much to celebrate this week! May I have the envelopes, please?

This year’s winners of the E.B. White Read Aloud Award, presented by the Association of Booksellers for Children: Judy Sierra and Marc Brown.

Wild About Books (Knopf) by Judy Sierra and illustrated by Marc Brown, famous for his Arthur the aardvark series, is the second recipient of the award, which honors books that reflect the “universal read-aloud standards” created by White, the author of Charlotte’s Web, Stuart Little, and The Trumpet of the Swan.

In Wild About Books, Molly the librarian introduces animals at the zoo to reading—and then finds the perfect book for each animal. For example, giraffes get tall books and hyenas get joke books.

Equally impressive is Una Huang of Maine for her silver medal in the national essay contest Letters About Literature, beating out more than 700 other students:

Una Huang from Readfield received second place for grades 4 through 6 for her letter to E.B. White about The Trumpet of the Swan. A timeless classic, The Trumpet of the Swan portrays the eventful life of Louis, a voiceless trumpeter swan, with humor, beauty and the strength of the human spirit. In her letter, Una expresses her connection with the main character and the inspiration that Louis has provided to faces life’s challenges and develop self-confidence.

If only White were around to answer it! I once knew someone who had a framed letter from him hanging in her bathroom; it was the house’s treasure, quite rightly.

Oh yes, and The New Yorker, for kicking ass at the National Magazine Awards. From the Times:

But the big victor of the day was The New Yorker, which won the most awards—five—including the prize for general excellence among magazines with circulations of one million to two million. It also won in reporting, for an article by Samantha Power, Dying in Darfur; in profile writing, for an article by Ian Parker about a man determined to donate his kidney; in reviews and criticism, for three articles by Adam Gopnik [Times Regained, March 22; The Big One, August 23; Will Power, September 13] on subjects including Times Square; and in public interest, for three articles by Seymour M. Hersh, including “Torture at Abu Ghraib.”

David Remnick, editor at The New Yorker, noted that investigative journalism like that practiced by Mr. Hersh is lonely work. “Sy is the loneliest of the wolves,” he added.

The New Yorker has won 44 National Magazine Awards in the competition’s 40 years, the most of any magazine.

Well, of course it has. Hersh has been getting some heat lately (to be covered in due time), but there’s little question that a side effect of his noble task is a state that out-lonely-guys Steve Martin in The Lonely Guy. Back in February when the New York Post reported on Jeff Goldberg’s appointment as Washington correspondent, there was this offhand note: “Seymour Hersh will keep his dusty old office by himself in a separate location.” I called then for an Aeron chair and some Pledge, but in light of Remnick’s triumph I respectfully suggest, for all the winners, a Swiffer.

One last winner: Print, which won for General Excellence in the Under 100,000 Circulation category, and which keeps new New Yorker writer Todd Pruzan in dollar signs. May you all have offices free of dust. That goes for Una, too. Let’s hope she keeps on reading White and friends till she’s old enough to win an Ellie for herself.

Book answers Passover questions [Pittsburgh Tribune-Review]
Local Students Receive Maine Humanities Council Letters About Literature Awards [Keep ME Current]
Winners and Finalists [ASME]
New Yorker Wins Awards, and Martha Stewart Wins Applause [NYT]
‘New Yorker’ Staff Gobbles Up National Magazine Awards [Gawker]

Hair at The New Yorker

Blogger Dana Blankenhorn takes issue with Jim Surowiecki’s scalp management and with his stance on the falling dollar:

I’m a big James Surowiecki fan. (Not a Truly Handsome Man yet, like I am, but don’t you think his barber is starting to get creative?)

When I got into journalism, nearly three decades ago, I harbored a secret dream of writing for The New Yorker. I never got a sniff. But I harbor no grudges because Surowiecki did. And he’s run with it.

All this praise, naturally, is a prelude to my taking issue with his latest column, which covers the subject of the collapsing dollar, the subtext for my novel The Chinese Century.

He goes on, “As I noted in my novel the Chinese can squash us like a bug and effectively kill our democracy simply by selling our currency,” etc. But back to the question of hair. Veteran business journalist Blankenhorn is little burdened with excess foliage, and justly pleased; with his salt-and-pepper beard and smart-guy glasses he looks like a psychiatrist or professor, or both. Still, is he implying Jim is losing it? Last I looked, he was a man of hair. I think his cut is merely raffish, not compensatory. Either way, he’s got bone structure on his side. Jim, I wouldn’t change barbers for all the tea in China.


Be Very Afraid [Corante; photos of both on page]