There is None Such as the Nonesuch Dickens

Christmas, as far as I am concerned, is officially here.  Why?  Because I've got exactly what I asked Santa to bring (by way of my dear, all-too-indulgent husband.)  Now, I did require the strength of two coworkers to get my gift to my car tonight (thank you, Ann & Jason,) but then my back is in a bad way.  And I am ever so grateful.  Truly, I am.

And what did I get?  Why the glorious, exquisite, all but perfect (and very heavy) boxed sets of The Nonesuch Dickens!  The esteemed publisher, Duckworth, and the resurrected Nonesuch Press, have reissued two sets to date, the second only recently, and today I took both home.  The Nonesuch Dickens was originally published in the 1930s and marked the high point of the 20th Century in the reproduction of Charles Dickens' work.  These reissues reproduce the beautiful binding, printing and detailed craftsmanship of the originals.  They are uniformly big, handsome volumes, with all the original illustrations happily in place, in all their pristine glory, finally to be seen by other than collectors of rare editions.

It's true, in my hoard at home I have already two complete sets of Dickens; my old, reliable, transportable, and frankly ugly Complete Oxford (no longer available, I understand, as a complete set,) and a lovely, if rather bumped and tatty American set from early in the last century.  The print -- presumably from old plates -- in the Oxford is troublesome, and the illustrations woefully reproduced in fading, reduced grays.  In the older American set, the illustrations are a hodgepodge of a later date than the originals, and while interesting of themselves, are not what Dickens himself commissioned and or approved.  I love both of my earlier sets.  I will never willingly part with either.  But The Nonesuch Dickens is everything they are not; a Rolls Royce to my earlier subcompact and barely repairable -- not to say unhorsed -- landau.  

Whatever my other plans might have been for reading over the Holidays (and I do need to reread Breakfast with Scot for the first selection of the Seattle Gay & Lesbian Book Club, starting January!) I am, as I write, eyeing the happy heft of the Nonesuch Martin Chuzzlewit before me on my desk.  Such a awesome object, such creamy pages, such lovely endpapers, such legible type!  And the illustrations!  So clear!  So big!  

Maybe just a chapter tonight, to ease the pain in my back with a bit of heavy, happy lifting...

I'd rather be reading...

I'd always rather be reading, but today more than usual. One of the undisputed masters of the short story form, the one and only William Trevor, has a new book called Cheating at Canasta.

What's to say, really. It's William Trevor. Of all living writers, he's the most direct descendant to the Anton Chekhov, the father of the short story. My opinion, anyway.

I'd rather be reading...

I think if I had the time to be reading right now, I'd be checking out the new collection of stories by Jim Shepard, Like You'd Understand, Anyway.

Can we all agree that Jim Shepard is one of the five best short story writers in America?

No? Yes? Maybe?

Well, I like him a whole lot, anyway.

I'd rather be reading...

But, no. I'm shelving. If I were reading, though, I might sit down with a copy a very odd book called I Shall Destroy All the Civilized Planets: The Comics of Fletcher Hanks.



Much like Guybrarian, I thought perhaps this collection of Fletcher Hanks work was a clever satire of old comics. I think the source of my trepidation was this: the Stardust the Super Wizard comics, for example, begin—as one would expect—with villains coming up with some horrible plot to gain wealth or power. (One criminal gang discovers a way to turn gravity off—the Anti-Solar Ray—sending the world's population into the atmosphere, leaving their valuables and planet for them.) Stardust foils these plots with little to no action, though. He does so in mere panels. The bulk of each story is the elaborate—and horrible—punishment Stardust tailors for each criminal.

Also, Stardust has a giant neck:



The collection, by the way, was gathered by Paul Karasik.

I'd rather be reading...

pia
Originally uploaded by ubs_blogger

But, instead, I am shelving.

If I was reading, I'd be sitting somewhere with Pia Ehrhardt's remarkable new book, Famous Fathers. This is Ehrhardt's first book, and it's as good a short story collection as I've read in a long time.

Ehrhardt allowed me to interview her here.

I'd rather be reading...

To be specific, today I would be reading for the purposes of finishing. Last night I went out to a reading at a rival bookstore. (This is not a Sharks/Jets, Cubs/Cardinals, Jonathan Franzen/Ben Marcus-type rivalry...more of a chess team/mathletes fight for brilliant new recruits sort of rivalry.)

I betrayed my University Book Store masters—and my legally questionable loyalty oath—to see Amy Fusselman read from her new book, 8.

Was it worth it? Was it worth the hairshirt they are making me wear as I shelve for the rest of the week? Heck yes!

Many years ago I worked in Events here at University Book Store, and Amy Fusselman was the very first person I ever introduced. I'm, therefore, partial to her work. It's been far too long since she published something, too, so this was a reading I just couldn't miss, possible reprisals or not.

Since last night, I've read about half of 8, and it's quite beautiful. It's a series of meditations on family, childhood, the healing of trauma, motorcycles, monster trucks, and the Beastie Boys. Fusselman writes with humor and grace, and has the deep observational powers of the domestic work of Nicholson Baker at its very best.

Here's a bit from a section I read waiting for the bus. It concerns Amy's attempts to sleep train her son. For those unfamiliar with the technique (as I was) sleep training involves taking a child who, after being put to bed (a real bed without the confining bars of a crib) celebrates their newfound bedtime freedom by getting up to play a game of "I'm awake and walking around, and I'm going to do it again after you return me to my room!", taking said child by the hand, not speaking to or looking at said child, walking said child to bedroom, putting said child to bed, and repeating every time said child leaves said bedroom. [Wow. How's that for a sentence? Internal Ed.] The ellipses are mine. The material that occurred between them is not superfluous, and I apologize for acting as editor. I am trying to save space and time—which, coincidentally, are two more issues addressed in the book.


"So he surprised me when, about half an hour into it, instead of coming all the way out into the light of the kitchen where I could see (though I chose not to) him, he kept his body in the shadows of the hallway and extended, into the light, his left hand, the one I had been taking in mine all these times...

"It was very moving to me because it showed how much he understood this strange thing we were doing: he knew that I was not looking at his face or body, but that I was permitting myself to look at his hand in order that I might hold it. His gesture not only said that he understood what I was doing, but that he wanted to take part in it, too—to withhold himself, as I was withholding my vision—and to present me with this smallified version of himself...It was such a beautiful mirroring gesture, and told me that he understood these strange rules we had cooked up and was willing to play along."

Here's a link to a video of the monster truck Grave Digger going ballistic. It comes up in the book.

I'd rather be reading...

But I'm not reading. I'm shelving.

But if I was reading I wouldn't really be reading. I'd be rereading.

I'd really like to be rereading Ben Greenman's book A Circle is a Balloon and Compass Both. Ben's a very funny writer, and a very talented one. There's always a lot more going on than you notice at first, too. They are human and humane comic tales.

Ben was nice enough to allow me to interview him for an online journal.

I'd rather be reading...

But how can I read when I have so much shelving to do? Above, you see an image of four titles available today.

1) Rant: An Oral Biography of Buster Casey by Chuck Palahniuk. Do we call Chuck Palahniuk a "cult" writer anymore? Sure, his fans are devoted, but doesn't the word also suggest that the number of people buying his books is small? I was working the night he signed copies of Choke until 1am. Devoted? Heck yes. Small? Not even close.

2) The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michael Chabon. I'm a sucker for anyone who mentions Matter-Eater Lad in a story. Stesha, our Events Coördinator, loved this book.

3) The Pesthouse by Jim Crace. The fact that the notorious, attention-seeking critic (and, to give him his due, really talented novelist) Dale Peck doesn't like Jim Crace's books makes me love them all the more. But I loved them from the first page of Being Dead.

4) Animal, Vegetable, Miracle: A Year of Food Life by Barbara Kingsolver. Kingsolver gets back to the land and she and family start growing their own food. She chronicles the experience in her new book.

I'd rather be reading...

Here's an interesting coincidence. This weekend I was going through on of my favorite Best American Short Stories collections—the one Richard Ford edited 1990—and I read a story I hadn't read before. It's called "The Reverse Bug" and it's by Lore Segal. It was recommended by another writer who I like very much.

When I finished Segal's story I thought, "Not bad. Wonder if she has a collection?" I did a quick, poor internet search, and didn't see anything on this bio. So I didn't search further.

This morning I was walking by the new hardcover fiction display when I saw Shakespeare's Kitchen—a new interconnected short story collection by Lore Segal that includes "The Reverse Bug"!

Pretty weird, huh? My hypothesis: I have somehow acquired the power to turn my desires into reality! I am now concentrating on getting a literary agent and winning the lottery. Wish me luck.

Needless to say, if I wasn't shelving, I'd be reading Lore Segal's new book.

I'd rather be reading...

I've been looking forward to this arrival: Nick Mamatas has a new, short novel called Under My Roof, and if I wasn't out in the stacks shelving, I'd be hiding in the stacks reading.

Here's a description:

Under My Roof, based on Archanians by Aristophanes, is the story of telepathic tween Herbert Weinberg, whose father Daniel decides to strike a blow for freedom by building a nuclear device, planting it in the lawn jockey in his front yard, and declaring independence from the United States.

The Long Island household is predictably turned upside down. Mother is out, a local weatherman is in, and he becomes both a hostage and Minister of Information. Though troops surround the belligerent ranch house-state, the appeal of independence becomes too much for many. A daring raid to kidnap Herb and bring him back to his mother snatches the boy prince from his ancestral home. Meanwhile, the house is filling up with former American refuseniks. Can the refrigerator hold out?

However, the seed has already been planted. All over America, people are declaring their independence, and simply by traveling from lawn to lawn across "the country", Herbert is able to reunite with his father and defeat American imperialism with a final burst of his telepathic powers.


Viva Soft Skull Press!

(Ahem. Please buy the book from us. Not from any one of the other links on that SSP page.)

I'd rather be reading...

Sometimes you'll get a book suggestion and the person will say, "Full disclosure, I know yadda yadda yadda."

Right now, I'd rather be reading Adria Bernardi's Openwork and, full disclosure, she is a teacher who I worked with at Warren Wilson. She's also a fine, fine writer with whom I was very lucky to work.

(And she can no longer send my homework back to me and ask me to redo it. So, really, I have no ulterior motive here. I just really like her books.)

Am I not good enough for you, recommendation-wise? Well, then:

"In prose as radiant and emotionally precise as Virginia Woolf's, Bernardi illuminates the working lives and longings of coal miners and wet-nurses, seamstresses, stonemasons, and housewives, brilliantly rendering a century in the life of an Italian American family. Like Michael Ondaatje's In the Skin of a Lion, this is a novel in which the sentences themselves capture the feel of human beings at work."

—Andrea Barrett

And one more for good measure:

"Openwork is glorious! The fine poetic intelligence that guides it, the humor, the sadness, and Bernardi's overarching knowledge of of so many times and places and peoples. A remarkable book. A beautiful book."

—Jane Hamilton

I'd rather be reading...

And if I was reading, I'd be reading the newest book by former Spy magazine journalist and satirist Louis Theroux: The Call of the Weird.

Louis, who has been documenting the odd in America for a number of years, revisits some of his most interesting subjects in this book. Included are such eccentric luminaries as Thor Templar, Lord Commander of the Earth Protectorate, and Prussian Blue, twin teen white supremacists who sing charming little white power folk songs, like a hate-group version of the Cowsills or the Partridge Family.

And after that, I'd go back to the man who inspired Louis (son of Paul, by the bye), the wonderful Jon Ronson. (His book The Men Who Stare at Goats is pictured just behind Louis's.)

I'd rather be reading...

EmbryoyoMove
Originally uploaded by ubs_blogger.

If today I was just sitting around reading, I think I'd be reading one of these two titles.

It would either be the new book of poems by Dean Young, Embryoyo. Here's a sample line from "Sean Penn Anti-Ode":

"Must Sean Penn always look like he's squeezing/the last drops out of a sponge and the sponge/is his face? Even the back of his head grimaces."

Dean Young is awesome. Even though he's not this Dean Young.

Or it would be Move Under Ground by Nick Mamatas. In Move Under Ground, Jack Kerouac and a ragtag band of beats must save the world from the Elder Gods of H.P. Lovecraft bizarre Cthulhu stories. I also eagerly await Under My Roof, the next Mamatas book, due any day now.

I'd rather be reading...

mortified
Originally uploaded by ubs_blogger.

Some days, that post title is truer than others. Stressed out with all the shelving, today I'd much rather be reading.

Something funny would do the trick. Probably Mortified: Real Words. Real People. Real Pathetic. by David Nadelberg would work like a charm.

It's a collection of true-life documents—notes, journal entries—introduced by their older, wiser authors. Here, for example, is a bit of 11-year-old wisdom from Stacey Grenrock Woods:

"Like most eleven-year-olds, I thought I was very deep. I thought I had a sparkling wit and a keen eye for observation—like a tween Garrison Keillor."

Stacey on...Time
"Tuesday is an okay day. Not great though. It's sort of like Monday. Only...a day later."


Stacey on...Science
"Noise is like the air being filled with sounds...that you hear."


Stacey on...Celebrity Endorsements
"Florence Henderson makes me sick with her 'Wessonality'."

I'd rather be reading.

Moffett, originally uploaded by ubs_blogger.

Given my druthers, I'd be reading right now. And if I was reading, I'd be reading Permanent Visitors by shaggy author Kevin Moffett.

I'd be reading it for two reasons. One is that is won the John Simmons Short Fiction Award from University of Iowa Press, and I am a Hawkeye through and through. The other is that the book is blurbed by one of my favorite writers, Padgett Powell. Here's what he says:

"Mr. Moffett writes with a precision when things get somber that suggests old John Fogerty's bad moon rising. It's the power of true things said truly, and I think this power will grow."