Ten Random Observations from the National Book Awards
Jonathan Lethem & Christopher Sorrentino + British and Irish accents respectively = Mark Billingham & John Connolly. It’s that BFF thing, I tell you.
I scored a copy of OCTAVIAN NOTHING but I can’t wait to read all five of the Young People’s nominees.
John Freeman: still looks like Nick Lachey.
How is it that Fran Leibowitz can be so funny and so unfunny at the same time?
I want to get poetry (to Craig T. for suggesting W.S. Merwin as a way in, thank you) but I’m not sure tonight’s representatives did the job.
The award itself is damn heavy. I wouldn’t want to carry one home. Or take it through customs.
Press food: exactly the same as last year, even down to the placement and selection of desserts. Freaky.
Will I ever know what Hillel Italie looks like?
And yes, the shriek heard in the balcony when Richard Powers won was moi. Because even though it turned out to be a bit of a double-edged sword, this is such a victory for what the National Book Awards are all about: the excitement and passion that results from reading a truly amazing book that stretches boundaries beyond one’s capabilities. And even though this is another rant – or essay – for another time, why on earth would you get involved in book criticism or literary journalism of any kind if you don’t care what you cover? So I do think last night was an indication of people caring a great deal. And that makes me happy.