The Fires by Joe Flood

At this point I've read a lot of books about the history of New York City, so much of the content of this book was nothing new to me (in fact, I recognized a lot of the material cited from Robert Caro's The Power Broker and Jane Jacobs' The Death and Life of Great American Cities). However, its main thesis was rather unique--that the majority of the fires ravaging parts of the Bronx, Brooklyn, and Manhattan in the '70s were caused by a flawed computer model, and not greedy landlords hoping to collect insurance money. In the '60s Mayor Lindsay teamed up with the RAND corporation, a think tank established to provide research and analysis to the U.S. army, to develop a way to govern the city more efficiently and statistically, starting with the fire department. But their methods were deeply flawed, resulting in severely reduced service in the neighborhoods that needed it desperately and new stations opening in sleepy suburban areas that really didn't need them at all. Added to that were lax building codes--it seems like most of the serious fires detailed in the book were made far worse because of illegal constructions the FDNY was unaware of--and firefighters' lack of proper training on how to approach a truss-style building.

The Fires doesn't really succeed much in painting a vivid picture of what conditions were like in the fire-ravaged neighborhoods. But maybe that's not really the point of the book. I'd never heard of the RAND corporation before, and found those aspects of the book to be pretty interesting.

In Cold Blood by Truman Capote

Here's one I should definitely re-read. In Cold Blood is widely considered to be the first non-fiction novel, the story of a 1959 murder of an entire family in rural Kansas and its aftermath. Some have challenged the authenticity of the story, accusing Capote of changing some of the details to suit the book that he wanted to write. Whatever the true story might be, it doesn't change the masterfully chilling and elegant writing. I bought this copy without a cover at a used bookstore in Nashville, not sure which one, shown here with the spine. I wish I'd found one with a dust jacket.

Novels in Three Lines by Felix Feneon

This is a collection of short news items that appeared anonymously in the French newspaper Le Matin in the year 1906, mostly about criminal activity and other strange occurrences. The anonymous writer proved to be Felix Feneon, a Parisian anarchist and art critic who, though he could have risen to greatness (he was the first French publisher of James Joyce and early promoter of Georges Seurat and the "Neo-impressionists," a term which he coined), preferred to preserve his anonymity, toiling away as an obscure clerk in the French War Department.

The book's introduction is written by Luc Sante, which, admittedly, is what first drew me to this book when I saw it on display in a store. Sante writes, "Feneon's three-line news items...are the poems and novel he never otherwise wrote...They demonstrate in miniature his epigrammatic flair, his exquisite timing, his pinpoint precision of language, his exceedingly dry humor." A few examples:

"Nurse Elise Bachmann, whose day off was yesterday, put on a public display of insanity."

A few articles down, the following appears: "A certain madwoman arrested downtown falsely claimed to be nurse Elise Bachmann. The latter is perfectly sane."

The bluntness employed here is almost comical: "'If my candidate loses, I will kill myself,' M. Belavoinne, of Fresquienne, Seine-Inferieure, had declared. He killed himself."

I love all the details that Feneon bothers to mention in the short amount of available space: "Weighed down with bronzes, with china, with linens, and with tapestries, two burglars were arrested, at night, in Bry-sur-Marne."

"With a four-tined pitchfork, farmhand David, of Courtemaux, Loiret, killed his wife, whom he, erroneously, thought unfaithful." So much is communicated in just one word, "erroneously"--it really changes the meaning of the statement.

Some of them really feel like poetry: "The schoolchildren of Niort were being crowned. The chandelier fell, and the laurels among them were spotted with a little blood." Who else would have described it in such a way?

There are so many more great ones. It is, however, not the type of book that you should read from cover to cover, in long sittings. After awhile they start to blur together, and the subtlety and artfulness begins to be lost as you quickly skim through them. Better to savor and ingest it a little at a time.

Of Walking in Ice by Werner Herzog

In November 1974, film director Werner Herzog learned that a friend of his, Lotte Eisner, was on her deathbed. Eisner, a concentration camp survivor, was a legendary German film critic who had worked with Henri Langlois, founder of the Cinemateque Francaise. Herzog avowed that "This must not be, not at this time; German cinema could not do without her now." He somehow became convinced that if he walked from Munich to Paris—about 500 miles—to visit her, she would be saved.

And so he decided to make the three week trek through Europe on foot, in early winter, armed with a small rucksack, a compass, and a new pair of boots, stating that "I want to be alone with myself." Which just seems so quintessentially Herzog.

He documented his experiences in a diary, published a few years ago as Of Walking in Ice. I love how austere the packaging is—the plain white cover (perhaps emblematic of the snow and ice he traveled through), the matte finish cover, the small understated type.

As one might guess, the journey was extremely physically unpleasant. Herzog endured rain, ice, snow, and wind, suspicious farmers, and of course fatigue: "Hail and storm, almost knocking me off my feet with the first gust...Along with the storm and snow and rain, leaves are falling as well, sticking to me and covering me completely. Away from here, onward."

At one point his thoughts turn to Eisner—"How is she? Is she alive?...If I actually make it, no one will know what this journey means." But mostly they are dark, gloomy, and a little bit existential. "Unimaginable stellar catastrophes take place, entire worlds collapse into a single point. Light can no longer escape, even the profoundest blackness would seem like light and the silence would seem like thunder. The universe is filled with Nothing, it is the Yawning Black Void."

With only one side trip, to the birthplace of Joan of Arc, Herzog did make it to Munich to see Eisner. And she went on to live nine more years until her death at the age of 83.

The Man in the Flying Lawn Chair by George Plimpton

At some point I became a little obsessed with The Paris Review, partly from literary nostalgia, and partly for their great interviews with writers, and began collecting back issues of the magazine.

The Paris Review is what led me to buy this collection of articles by the founding editor of the magazine, George Plimpton, who is also often credited as a pioneer of participatory journalism. This collection was published about a year after Plimpton died, and I get the impression that his earlier work is a bit more dramatic. It's not a bad collection, but the only one that really stuck in my memory is the title essay, about a man who strapped 42 helium balloons to a lawn chair and went for a ride.

Low Life by Luc Sante

Luc Sante's portrait of New York City in the 19th and early 20th centuries is quickly becoming a classic. It explores the city's, for lack of a better term, "seedy underbelly" in four parts, focusing on layout and topography, sources of illicit recreation, people in positions of power, and people living on the edges of society.

In his essay "My Lost City," which appears as an Afterword in this edition of Low Life, Sante says that "Instead of disappearing, local history has been preserved as a seasoning," which has always struck me as a pretty apt description. Vestiges of the city's past remain in the form of architectural details or old signs (like the faded ghost billboards you sometimes see on sides of buildings), so you can almost imagine what it might have been like. And at the same time, it seems unfathomable to imagine the New York depicted in this book.

There are a number of black and white photographs reproduced throughout--above depicts a lodging house situated on a barge, and hobos riding atop train cars. Ah, the good old days...

Where I Was From by Joan Didion

I can't believe it's been nearly a month since I last posted anything here. The days have just gotten away from me, I guess...

It's probably the fact that I've never lived there, but I've always harbored a bit of an obsession with California. While my own mental picture is more on the romantic side, Joan Didion, who grew up in Sacramento and lived in L.A. for years before moving to New York, looks to her home state with both fondness and discontent. Combining reportage, memoir, and literary criticism, she sharply examines her life and work, weaving together a narrative that touches on her pioneer ancestors (incredibly, she can trace her heritage back to the 1700s*), California’s debts to railroads and aerospace, the infamous Spur posse, California writers such as Jack London, Frank Norris, and herself, "painter of light" Thomas Kinkade, and more, to create a cohesive portrait. As always, her work is shrewd and insightful, both journalistic and very personal.

*"I know nothing else about [my great-great-great-great-great-grandmother] but I have her recipe for corn bread."

Once Again to Zelda by Marlene Wagman-Geller

This lovely paper-over-board book (kind of like a hardcover without the dust jacket) collects the stories behind the dedications at the beginning of a variety of books, both classic and contemporary. Sylvia Plath dedicated The Bell Jar to her friends who offered her refuge after the end of her marriage ("To Elizabeth and David"). Jacqueline Susann dedicated Valley of the Dolls to her poodle ("To Josephine, who sat at my feet, positive I was writing a sequel). And of course F. Scott Fitzgerald dedicated The Great Gatsby to his wife Zelda.

It's not exactly scholarly literature but it's an interesting concept and a breezy read, with a short chapter allotted to each story. It's somewhat troubling that most of the sources at the back of the book are from wikipedia, but if you can get past that, it's worth checking out.

The Colossus of Maroussi by Henry Miller

Just as war was breaking out in Europe, Henry Miller went to Greece, traveling around the country with the writer Lawrence Durrell, who lived there at the time. This account of his journey there is brilliant and intense with his feeling for the country and its people. As he describes it, "Greece is the home of the gods; they may have died but their presence still makes itself felt."

I love what he says he looks for in his travel accommodations: "I like hotels which are second or third rate, which are clean but shabby, which have seen better days, which have an aroma of the past." Words to live by!

Story by Robert McKee

I had to read this book for a screenwriting class, which was happening right around the same time that that awful movie Adaptation came out. In the movie Nicolas Cage goes to one of Robert McKee's screenwriting seminars (though it's not actually McKee; he's played by the actor Brian Cox) and manages to arrange a one-on-one with him. I'm not sure if that's why the teacher chose this book for the class—he specifically mentioned Adaptation when introducing the book—but it's actually a pretty great tool if you're trying to write a screenplay. I guess that's what I'm trying to say—even though the author is portrayed in a terrible movie (I realize a lot of people really like it—they're just misguided), his book is pretty useful for people who wish to avoid writing terrible movies.

The Atlas by William T. Vollmann

This is a collection of short vignettes that take place in every corner of the world, from Thailand to San Francisco to Bosnia to Cambodia, a sort of meandering travel journal of dissociated experiences. In Northern Canada he meets a woman being eaten alive by mosquitoes; in San Francisco he watches a prostitute build a crack pipe out of a broken car antenna and a Brillo pad. As in all the other books of his that I've read, he seeks out people living on the edges of society, finding beauty in ugliness.

The White Album by Joan Didion

I love Joan Didion. The White Album was the first of her books that I read and is definitely one that I should read again some day. This collection of essays touches on L.A. in the 60s, the Black Panther Party, a Doors recording session, prison meetings with Linda Kasabian, a former follower of Charles Manson (Didion had actually known Sharon Tate), Didion's own psychological issues, California politics, the John Paul Getty museum, second-wave feminism, traveling through Colombia, and so on. There's something about California in the 6os that is so fascinating, and Didion's spare and elegant prose style makes it all the more compelling.

Nickel and Dimed by Barbara Ehrenreich

It's been a number of years since I read this but I remember it really opened my eyes to the way many people live in this country. I was shocked to read about families living in motel rooms, or waitresses sleeping in vans in the parking lot of the fast food restaurant where they work. Many people ask why the homeless don't just get jobs (haha), not realizing that quite often the homeless do in fact have jobs, sometimes more than one.

This book has gotten a lot of criticism, due to the author's less than authentic journey into poverty. Yes, she allowed herself a safety net of a car and some starting money, not to mention a way out if things got too hard--all which she admits. And her experience might not be absolutely definitive of that of a truly poor person, as she makes decisions and purchases coming from the mindset of someone who is used to having money. Her conversations with co-workers--people who are actually in this situation, with no safety net or easy way out--are the real revelations. And I think that Ehrenreich ultimately makes her point--that wages are too low to meet the cost of living--quite effectively.

Reading Comics by Douglas Wolk

This is a collection of essays, some about comics in general, some about specific comic artists, from Steve Ditko to Los Bros Hernandez to Alan Moore to Chris Ware and so on. I bought a copy for my brother for Christmas last year and he pooh-poohed the gift, saying something like, "I bet I could have written this book," as he obviously already knew everything in its contents. Oh well, too bad for him. I know I learned a little bit, and it was great to read about the artists I was already familiar with as well. And it doesn't hurt that it has a great cover too.

I also love the back--the thought bubble, the different typeface for each author and series.

The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson

This account of the origin and spread of a severe cholera epidemic in London in the 1850s, as well as the efforts to stop it, is pretty fascinating. It really makes you appreciate modern science, and even moreso modern plumbing.

The front cover is awesome as it is (I have a thing for old maps), but when you turn it over and see the back and the spine it really kind of adds another level.

Travels with Charley in Search of America by John Steinbeck

A couple years ago while on vacation in San Francisco I made a little side trip to Salinas, California, home of John Steinbeck. There's not much there, besides a restaurant in Steinbeck's childhood home (I tried to go but it was closed for the week of Thanksgiving at the time), a small farmer's market (I had some delicious corn on the cob* and homemade root beer), and a few blocks of rundown, tired looking buildings (there was a pretty good Salvation Army). It seemed as though not much had changed architecturally since the 60s. I took a lot of pictures.

If you're a Steinbeck fan it's worth visiting Salinas though, if only to check out the National Steinbeck Center. (It's also not too far from Monterey and the gorgeous coastline.) It was there that I first heard of the book Travels with Charley. In the fall of 1960, Steinbeck took his pet poodle Charley on a 10,000 mile road trip around the outer border of the United States in a camper he called "Rocinante," after Don Quixote's horse. (The camper is on display at the Steinbeck Center.) The impetus for the trip was to answer the question "what are Americans like today?", though his son later hypothesized that his failing health was also a factor, that he wanted to see his country one last time. (Steinbeck died six years after the publication of Travels with Charley, and it was the last book he wrote.)

After leaving the center I was quite interested in reading this book, and not long after I got back home I found a copy on a shelf at work. It paints a picture of an aesthetically beautiful land, but there is a sadness below the surface, as Steinbeck discovers racism and ignorance throughout his travels. Definitely worth a read. I'm also remembering how much I loved reading East of Eden--I think I need to delve a little deeper into Steinbeck's oeuvre.

*My boyfriend has just pointed out that my memory has failed me—I did not eat corn on the cob in Salinas. It was a baked potato. Not sure how I confused the two.

The Accidental Masterpiece by Michael Kimmelman

This collection of essays from New York Times art critic Michael Kimmelman delve into the works of artists such as Robert Smithson and Walter De Maria, Pierre Bonard and Marcel Duchamp, and Hugh Francis Hicks, a Baltimore dentist who kept his lifelong collection of lightbulbs on display in his basement, which he dubbed the Museum of Incandescent Lighting, until his death.* Kimmelman explores the ways that art can be found almost anywhere if you look hard enough, or are open to seeing it, and how life can be enriched by seeing art in the unexpected, noticing the beauty of everyday life. This might sound a little cheesy but I assure you it's a fascinating and engrossing read.



*The lightbulbs are now on display at the Baltimore Museum of Industry, where I made it a point to visit after reading this book.

Gone to New York by Ian Frazier

In this collection of essays, New Yorker staff writer Ian Frazier, coming from the perspective of a Midwestern transplant, offers a more humanizing look at the city. Where many people are in such a rush that they don't even notice the glaring things, Frazier takes time to examine plastic bags caught in trees (a bit obsessed with this subject, he invents a bag snatcher to remove them; there are three essays about the bags), a makeshift shrine to a murdered school teacher, or the detritus strewn along Route 3 in New Jersey: "Scattered through the grass and weeds for miles were large, bright-colored plastic sequins. Oddly, I knew where they had come from. Once, while on the bus, I saw a parade float—probably from the Puerto Rican Day parade, held in the city—pull up alongside and then speed by. A car must have been towing it, though I don’t remember the car. The float was going at least seventy, shimmying and wobbling, banners flapping, and these sequins were blowing off it in handfuls and billowing behind." I should point out that the reason he notices the sequins is because he has attempted to walk fifteen miles along the highway, from his hometown to the Lincoln Tunnel, a feat that proves more complicated than he anticipated.

Funny, poignant, and graceful, these essays are reminders of the wonders that happen all the time in the city, and how often they are taken for granted, overlooked.

Love All the People by Bill Hicks

This collection of letters, lyrics, and routines from the late, legendary comedian Bill Hicks has recently been published as an expanded edition with a new cover* (thank God...err...hmm) and additional material. As for the latter, I hope it adds a little more variety to the text, as, while I love Bill Hicks, the book gets kind of repetitive. Much of it consists of transcripts of his comedy routines--and, no offense to Bill, but he told the same jokes often, and with little variation. So not only were they already familiar from hearing video and audio recordings of his standup, but I found myself reading over and over about rednecks and smoking and drugs and Satan.

Granted, not the worst read ever. I mean, this stuff is genius, even if it's the same genius printed up a bunch of times. Maybe it's best read a little at a time, rather than all at once. Yeah, that's it.

*Actually, I don't exactly love the new cover either but it's a step up from the muddy, slightly out of focus one on this edition.

The Ten-Cent Plague by David Hajdu

This book examines the rise of comic books in the 1940s, and then their downfall as right-wing parents and lawmakers sought to ban their sale to minors because they were believed to cause juvenile delinquency (in part perhaps because adults failed to take children seriously, considering them extremely impressionable and unable to form thoughts of their own--which, I think, is a mindset that still largely exists). Perhaps the most disturbing part is that in some cases the children themselves were leading the crusade against comics, organizing book burnings and chastising peers who refused to give up their favorite reading material. It all makes for a pretty interesting and often unsettling read into the extreme conservatism of the 50s. And what about the awesome cover art by Charles Burns?