Beginner’s Greek
$Beginner\'s Greek$ If I ever inaugurate an unintentionally dirty-sounding e-review series called “Straight to the author’s inbox,” the first one will be to James Collins, and it will read, “Hey James, how’s it going? LOVED THE FIRST HALF OF YOUR NOVEL! xo talk soon L.” (Note to all the publications who’ve cut their book reviews of late: I will provide these under your institutional umbrella for a reasonable fee.) Because while Beginner’s Greek contains some of the most devastating, vivid characterizations (and character assassinations) I’ve read in the past few years, its lovely prose is marred by the fact that the central characters, Holly and Peter–who meet on a flight, lose contact, and spend the next few years (and remainder of the novel) seeking the lost soulmate–are, compared to the surrounding cast, relatively anodyne constructions. While a bullying husband speculates about his ex-wife, visualizing the clotted hairbrush left out for guests that sums up her pitiable circumstances, Peter chases a veritable ghost, a lovely cipher with whom everyone is immediately enchanted, although all we know about Holly is that when Peter met her, she was reading The Magic Mountain. (“She’s a dead ringer for Garbo. She always beats me at chess. She’s first on every punchline. Her drink is Absolut.”) One of the things I love about Larry McMurtry is that he’s one of the few male writers who can portray difficult, irritating women whom men still manage to like. Collins crushes the women in his novel admirably, but his satire can’t hold up against someone who only gives other people crushes. James: EVERYONE is worthy of crushing. Leave the bewitching, blank siren for Roth. He’s probably trademarked her by now, anyway.
Eat, Pray, Love
A sad truth for those of you out there seeking greater ones: Nothing is more boring than your epiphanies. (Even worse, sojourners–the more particular they are to you, the more they sound exactly like everyone else’s.) Such is the problem with Elizabeth Gilbert’s journey through the particulars of her digestive, spiritual and moral humors–located, for your corporeal information, in the regions of Italy, India and Indonesia, respectively. It’s a bit of a punt to say the book is self-aggrandizing–how could a book focused on one’s spiritual well-being not be?–but it’s the grand the Richard Bachian strokes that provoke the reader beyond speech: “Simply put, I got pulled through the wormhole of the Absolute, and in that rush I suddenly understood the workings of the universe completely.” (Simply put.) However, we’re a girl! Fish-in-barrel elements aside, of course we loved that someone would eat pasta, meditate and tool around Indonesia for a year to get over a broken heart. There’s a lot to be said for pasta in general. P.S. we leave the 16th.
Never Let Me Go
If all butlers from England sound robotic and all English clones sound like butlers, does Kazuo Ishiguro need to stop giving characters affects flatter than a freshly ironed newspaper? These and other points of information plagued me upon my “completion” — you’ll get it — of the author’s sixth novel, wherein a prep-school love triangle worthy of a great piece of teen chick-lit is inexplicably ruined by the fact that the characters all have to give up their organs afterwards. Much has been made of this great “secret” — and, oops, spoiler alert and all — but it’s no more a secret than the fact that, if a girl tells you her boyfriend thinks you’re a slut, it’s a sure bet he has a huge crush on you. HUGE, Kathy, HUGE. Even a butler could see it.

“I think it’s clocks.” [The Bat Segundo Show, mp3]

“Has done just about everything you can and should do to remain gainfully employed” [WYPR's The Signal, 88.1 in Baltimore, MP3]

“A very busy person” [MBToolbox]

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Old Hag is the work of Lizzie Skurnick, critic, blogger, writer, teacher. Don't talk about Jersey. more...

That Should Be a Word (The New York Times Magazine)
Click for entire list and links of Smalumns. And call them Sniglets if you must, but you’re dating yourself, friend!

State of Wonder (Barnes & Noble Review, 6/14/2011)
If the greatest compliment you can give an author is to ask if her book is “really true,” then our digital era’s version may be to skip the author entirely and go straight to Google to separate fact from fiction.

Self Sells: Bethenny Frankel: From Housewives Star to Thriving Mogul (Time, 5/9/2011)
Vulgar, vulnerable, wise and neurotic, Bethenny Frankel, Bravo’s last-minute addition to its blockbuster series The Real Housewives of New York City, was a poor mans Housewife from the first. Not a wife (single Frankel was expanding her catering business) nor a homeowner (she rented her Upper East Side one-bedroom), she weathered patronizing barbs from older, wealthier castmates for these and other deficiencies with a captivating mix of insouciance and insecurity.

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If the back page were “Local Shootings,” we’d be golden

Posted by Lizzie on 02/09/05

Blogger Rachel Kramer Bussel discusses her “conflicted” relationship with Lucky, a favorite of some people we know:

The last page is actually the most helpful, and features quickie guides to local spas and shops, which I have actually used to find a good manicure. For me, Lucky is a little bit of late-night escapism, because the truth is, even with all the money in the world, I could never pull off being a true Lucky girl, wearing the best in office casual, knowing when to wear a ruffled blouse and having a daytime and nighttime outfit. I still like to dabble in every kind of color at Sephora, consider purple fishnets a fashion statement, and am thrilled when I can match my skirt to my shoes, so perhaps I’m beyond Lucky’s help.

We were deeply pleased to Lucky called out yesterday for shameless Gladwellizing. (We weren’t that upset about the Holocaust/concealer analogy. Six million, six shmillion, THERE’S A GOOD CONCEALER OUT THERE?) Our main problem with Lucky is their back page on local delights, which says “D.C. and Baltimore,” then SHAMELESSLY lists fifty spas in D.C. and one old taco stand in Annapolis or something. We know we have to chew our toenails instead of getting good manicure service out in the rat-packed alleys of Charm City; we don’t need a weekly reminder.

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