Tag Archives: George Saunders

The Year in Stuff We Liked: George Saunders’ Short Stories

This week, in lieu of a BEST OF 2011 series, we’re running five stories focused on Stuff We Liked in 2011.

If we cheat a little bit and include December 2010 as part of  2011 — and who would really call us on it anyway, as we all know the Committee to Insure (sic) Accuracy in Literary Blog Postings (CI(sic)ALBP) only investigates blogs with much higher circulations than DBC — then George Saunders published three (!) notable short stories in The New Yorker this year. That’s quite the figure.

And these were wildly diverse stories, content-wise, that dovetailed in the way that individual writers’ works tend to dovetail, which is to say: they dealt with the same themes, those being death and suffering. In “Escape from Spiderhead,” there’s a bleak prison where the inmates are subjected to stimulants that alter an individual’s mood, language patterns, or general capacity. In “Home,” there’s a returning veteran trying to exist in a post-combat world. And in “Tenth of December,” (which we wrote about on DBC) there are two protagonists whose fates switch back and forth, one trying to leave the world and one trying to create his own. Continue reading

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Some Passing Thoughts on George Saunders’ “Tenth of December”

Writing about books in the way we do, that is subjectively — hopefully not superficially — has some distinct disadvantages versus the academic alternative, that is some methodological critique rooted firmly in a (hopefully) tried-and-true objective form of analysis. Primarily, that the DBC form sometimes boils down to an uncomfortable and difficult-to-write-about reality: I don’t like this and it’s kind of difficult to articulate why. See: The Funny Man. There was no pre-Ford (either one, actually) critic in my holster to reach for; it came down to arguments that, upon re-reading, seem mean and petty and difficult to defend. I stand by the fact that that book was egregious in its miserable deployment of humor, relentless in its inability to make me crack a smile; it sucked.

But someone could ask why? And I could say to that someone, “It’s not funny.” And someone — maybe not that someone but another someone — could say it’s funny. Some people must think so; John Warner’s a well-known, respected dude. He works for McSweeney’s. He just led a two-day bootcamp on humor writing. All this despite the fact I don’t find him funny. Come on, America! Rise up! Continue reading

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#fridayreads

I’ve been watching a good deal more TV than usual. This could have something to do with the return of AMC’s The Walking Dead, or my discovery of MeTV with its five-nights-a-week Dick Van Dyke Show, or perhaps it’s plain ol’ laziness induced by the onset of cold Chicago weather…but we’ll ignore the latter. In any case, watching so much TV—and feeling heartily guilty about it—has got me thinking a lot about the act of watching, the cheapest form of voyeurism that basic cable sustains. In that vein, our #fridayreads will involve writing on the topic of television.

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#fridayreads

What we’re reading, and what you should be reading too:

Bonnie Nadzam’s LAMB

Review for this will be up sometime next week. Story of an inappropriate relationship—quite inappropriate, actually.

David Grann’s “Trial by Fire”

Well, what do you know? The death penalty is in the news again! Shocking. Here’s one of the best pieces of reporting ever, one that will break your heart regardless of your politics.

Taylor Branch’s “The Shame of College Sports”

The pile-on of the NCAA continues, this time by a noted civil rights historian.

Robert Darnton’s THE GREAT CAT MASSACRE: AND OTHER EPISODES IN FRENCH CULTURAL HISTORY

I always return to this when I want enthralling, well-written cultural history; this sets the standard.

George Saunders’ “Bohemians”

Because no matter how much George Saunders you’re reading, you’re not reading enough George Saunders.

She’s on a bit of a getting-ready-to-give-birth kick at the moment, but normally the Lazy Self-indulgent Book Reviewer has really honest, witty things to say about all kinds of literature. Including romance novels. Check her out, unless you are against Tumblr, or Canadians (which would make you a crazy, crazy person).

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A Summer of David Foster Wallace

A page of Wallace's handwritten draft of "Tense Present"

It started before the summer, actually. With “Tense Present,” David Foster Wallace’s painstaking work of genius, a treatise on the “usage wars” in the form of a review of Bryan Garner’s Dictionary of Modern American Usage. 

Two things are obvious in “Tense Present”: one, that Wallace is an extremely intelligent man (an understatement on par with “Usain Bolt is fast” or “Facebook is far-reaching”); and that, in “Tense Present,” Wallace is having such an unquantifiable amount of fun it simply defies description. He is in his element, performing at an incredibly high level, so confident that his relaxed cockiness would be grating if the reader was able to contemplate anything but the greatness of the piece.

He is Ali dancing around the ring. Seve Ballesteros yucking up the crowd at Royal Lytham & St. Annes.

His prose is sharp and his wit acerbic. His tone casually academic or academically casual; he cites his favorite philosopher—Wittgenstein—in the footnotes, while accusing one particular argument of being “so stupid it drools” in the main text. Wallace does everything in “Tense Present” in a way that both reveals his immense genius and says, simultaneously, Yes, I know this is an incredibly intelligent and fun piece—about a usage dictionary and the different factions in the fight about how dictionaries should be compiled, no less—and I want you to know, reader, that I too am enjoying it, not least because it’s a topic for which I possess a true and earnest love.

It is meta-genius. And it’s a flourish, really. Read it.

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