Amazing things happen in the book world, and sometimes we don’t know how they really happened. When you’re reading Tory’s next novel, and it’s on the cover of the NYTBR, or it’s picked as a top ten book of the year by the New York Times, then you’ll know the path it took to get there. This is much deserved praise, and we’re very happy for Tory, now go out and buy TVP, it’s on sale wherever books are sold.
My mom used to pay me a penny a page to read books over the summer. I was never the kind of kid who needed economic incentive to learn, but I have to admit it was a better summer job than bussing tables, mowing lawns, or working in the coal factory.
Kate Christensen’s fiction is therapeutic. She sets up a great confusion in a character’s head. Then like a master code breaker with an impossible puzzle on her hands, she tries to solve it. As a reader you care because KC cares. Her characters are as well-wrought as Victorian literature’s ladies and gentlemen.
It reads like an Gallic version of Woody Allen. It’s Woody Allen-like, the humor maybe a bit drier, as if the human comedy of falling in love is funny enough in itself without having to make jokes about it. Woody’s new movie takes place in Paris, by the way.
Daniel Orozco forces the vertigo on you, the wind holds you up, just long enough to have the life torn out of you. Life, it’s a sharp thing when you don’t have much of it left. You’ll feel the pain of being fat, defecating in the tarp that you’ve put down in your bathroom because you can’t sit on your toilet. You haven’t seen your penis in years. You eat when you aren’t hungry. Neighbors bring you food, they make you fat, and you love it.
I think The Astral is the best Brooklyn novel that I have ever read. So I’d like to say to the 100K of Brooklyn writers, who are expending about a million kilowatts of New York City’s power grid, that you can power down your laptops now. You don’t have bother anymore. Thanks anyway.