Televisions and movies would have us believe that the time from late November to the new year is a run on love, togetherness, and eggnog sipped in front of an open fire, but real-life seldom plays out so nicely. There are a multitude of reasons to dread the holidays, but whom amongst us hasn’t inwardly groaned about the family visit? Between the awkward conversations around the dinner table, or the long played out family feud, the holidays can invoke dread in the best of us.
There are people who choose to take Jane Eyre or Great Expectations to their desert island, and then there are people who choose Machine Art, a 1933 catalog for an exhibition at New York’s MoMA featuring stark photographs of household and industrial objects. Toasters vs. Edward Rochester.
This Sunday marks the 152nd anniversary of Charles Dickens first visit to the United State, to read before a packed audience at Boston’s Tremont Temple. In a gushing story at the time, the New York Times reported that the hall was filled “by perhaps one of the most appreciative, fashionable, and brilliant audiences ever assembled in New England.” These days that kind of language is largely reserved for the peacock parade that is the annual Met Ball, or the Oscars red carpet. Try to imagine such a dandy crowd taking even a moment out of their self-absorption to listen, as they did in the Tremont Temple, to a recital of The Pickwick Papers (unless that person was Hugh Dancy, who chose the book for his bookshelf). Yet in 1867, such was the fervor for Dickens that police were drafted in to prevent, as the Times put it, “any confusion or disturbance attendant upon the grand rush into the hall.” Within three years the writer would be dead from a stroke, at the age of 58, brought on it was suggested, by an emotional reading he’d given of the death of Nancy in his novel, Oliver Twist. Even if apocryphal, it’s a fitting finale for one of the most enduring of all writers.
Roger Ebert called Bernardo Bertolucci one of the great painters of the screen. It’s a distinction the director—who has succumbed to cancer at 77—proved many times over, from his sprawling Oscar favorite The Last Emperor (1987) to the lush and undervalued Stealing Beauty (1996). In The Dreamers (2003), an audacious big screen adaptation of the novel by film critic Gilbert Adair, Bertolucci unleashes his painterly instincts right out of the gate with the graphic design of his opening credits. Scored to a guitar-rock soundtrack, the sequence sees the camera descend the Eiffel Tower, with arbitrary, architectural color blocking a la Mondrian. The names of cast and crew are alternately obscured and revealed amid the tower’s bolted beams, and the emergence of the title itself points to a definite ’60s Mod influence—the font suggesting it leapt from a Euro band’s vinyl album cover.
EVERYONE’S KIND OF STUPID ABOUT LOVE, OR ATTRACTION MAGIC
Your task is not to seek for love, but merely to seek and find all the barriers within yourself that you have built against it.
Can you believe I just quoted Rumi? What nerve! Who am I, Oprah? What is this, yoga? I’ve finally gone too far. But just because I had the chutzpah to bust out the ancient Persian mystic poetry doesn’t mean you don’t have to reckon with the realness of my Rumi quote, because that’s what the love chapter of this book is all about. If you’re here for the secret to getting cute Jane or hot Johnny to be obsessed with you, you’re probably not going to like what I have to say: your idea is a bad idea, and your plan is a bad plan. It’s an eminently doable sort of magic but also some of the most fuck-up-able. I’ll outline some better ideas and plans so that you can get what you actually want, which, it turns out, is not just more attention from the person who chooses not to spend their attention on you. This is a hard truth that a lot of us end up banging our heads against again and again, like a locker door in a 1980s rom-com, but that’s okay. We’re all burdened with juvenile-flavored fantasy when it comes to love and romance; there have been a lot of movies, you guys! So much bullshit messaging coming through and gumming up the works.
Aaron Hicklin reviews The Feral Detective, in which Jonathan Lethem conjures Burning Man if it was directed by Hitchcock.
On the penultimate page of his pacy 11th novel, The Feral Detective, slick-tongued protagonist, Phoebe Siegler, touches the umpteenth nerve ending of Lethem’s urbane, metropolitan readers. “I wasn’t going back to op-eds and conceptual art installations and Paris Review parties and scrolling outraged updates interspersed with pastry photographs,” she muses to herself. “Better no world than that one, sweet as it had been. It was gone.” It’s a neat coda to Lethem’s ambitious attempt to examine, and frequently eviscerate, the primitive call-response mechanism of the Trump presidency, and the sense of impotent rage it perpetually engenders. Phoebe, of course, is a stand-in for the reader—hollowed out by the outcome of an election she didn’t see coming, and left questioning the privileges she once took for granted. Read More Beware the Bear
Meghan Udell, a producer of the Deep Water Literary Fest, read over 120 books this year. She picks her ten favorites.
Every year on my birthday I set a personal goal for myself. For all intents and purposes, it’s exactly like a New Year’s resolution, except I get the distinct and petty pleasure of telling people, “I don’t do New Year’s resolutions.”
Cecil Beaton may be best known for his society portraits, but like Bill Brandt and Robert Capa, some of his most powerful photography was taken during the Second World War.
By Bella Bathurst
At the outbreak of war in 1939, the British establishment mistrusted photography almost as much as they mistrusted Nazis.“Snappers” were seen as vulgar and intrusive, and though the military benefits of the medium had already been proven during the First World War the armed services did their very best to avoid any connection with it.Their enemy had no such qualms: when war broke out, all professional German photographers were conscripted into a specialized unit known as the PK (Propaganda Kompanien) and instructed to “influence the course of the war by psychological control of the mood at home, abroad, at the Front and in enemy territory.”Those who did not – who failed to produce patriotic or compelling images, or who refused to shoot certain subjects – were reassigned to the Russian Front.
The specialized world of rare book sellers has come into focus again thanks to the Oscar-nominated movie, Can You Ever Forgive Me? But although diminished by Amazon, high end book buyers cling on.
In her best-selling memoir, 84 Charing Cross Road, the American writer Helene Hanff captured a vanished world in which an English book buyer, Frank Doel, would hunt down obscure rare books to send to Hanff in New York. She, in turn, sent back food parcels to offset the scarcities of Britain’s wartime rationing. The resulting friendship, bonded by a love of books, lasted decades, although Doel and Hanff never actually met. He was dead by the time she finally made it to Charing Cross Road in the summer of 1971.
It’s hard to imagine such an affecting and resonant memoir coming out of today’s book buying world — in which most bibliophiles simply type their wish lists into Amazon’s search engine. But remarkably a few book buyers still exist, usually at the higher end of a market that has somehow managed to retain a devoted collector clientele. One such buyer is Bernard Shapero, who got the book collecting bug as a child hunting down old editions of Baedeker travel guides. “I remember going to a book fair in the late 1970s and finding one of the rarest Baedekers on the stand for £10,” he recalls. “I sold it for £100, and that was it — the jackpot.”
Today, a jackpot for Shapero, who operates a shop in London’s ritzy Mayfair, would include a few more zeros. He sold a 1476 atlas for $3 million to one client in the USA, and an early Bible, published just after Guttenberg’s famous edition from 1454, for $2 million. Not many customers are looking for such rarities, of course. “If 10 people in the world want a particular book that’s a huge amount of demand, and if there’s 20 copies of the book on the market that’s a lot of supply,” said Shapero. “It’s not like a Rolex.” As with most things, the field can also be subject to political and economic upheavals. Because of its rich literary history, Russia was a very big market for rare booksellers, but recent financial upheavals have dampened some of that enthusiasm, says Shapero.
And then there’s the impact of technology. “The great bookshops are dying out,” lamented Shapero. “The internet has pushed everyone onto the Cloud.” Yet beautifully-curated bookstores, like Livraria Lello & Irmao in Porto, Portugal, still hold on in cities around the world. The neo-Gothic splendor of Lello, as it’s more commonly known, is such a tourist attraction that the store now charges admission, while Librería Bardón in Madrid is a time-traveler’s dream, with 50,000 volumes lining the walls floor-to-ceiling, including “incunabula,” or books published before 1501.
Meanwhile, Hollywood’s Mystery Pier Books caters to celebrities like Johnny Depp who is said to have first editions by Edgar Allan Poe and Jack Kerouac among others. As Mr. Shapero pointed out, in the world of collecting, books is the only field that covers all subjects. “You can collect any subject, any period, in any language,” he said. “The beauty of the book world is that we have the ability to cater for anyone’s taste.”
But in contrast to art collecting, the pursuit of books is less about status and more about pure passion. C.D. Ross, a Mystery Pier book seller, said a big part of the pleasure of working there is witnessing the joy books bring to browsers. “Part of what I’m focused on is matching the appropriate people to the appropriate volumes,” said Mr. Ross, whose shop recently sold two complete sets of The Strand magazine, in which Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes stories were first published. The 14 volumes dated from 1891 to 1909, and fetched a tidy $6,500. “I really want to see happy homes for books. We’re just a way station,” Ross said.
And Hollywood’s catapulting fortunes means that rare books might not stay hopelessly beyond someone’s price range forever. “We’ve seen people come in and look at a book and not be able to afford it, but then come back five years later as a writer of some renown, and say, ‘I’d like to buy that set over there.’”
The journey that books have made before reaching a place like Mystery Pier Books can tell a story, too. First folios of Shakespeare may show the marginalia of an 18th century actor. “One fellow who had seen our folio of Julius Caesar came to us a month or two ago,” says Ross. “Things were not going well for him, and he realized that he had not long to live, but he dearly wanted to give a gift to a friend of his who had always enjoyed that play.”
But should you trust that marginalia? In the tartly-observed Oscar-nominated movie, Can You Ever Forgive Me?, starring Melissa McCarthy and Richard E. Grant, the real-life writer Lee Israel finds a lucrative line in forging letters of famous authors such as Noël Coward and Dorothy Parker, and passing them off to gullible collectors. Although most of those forgeries were eventually found out, many are probably still in circulation. But then, who wouldn’t want an original Lee Israel?