Tuesday, March 31, 2015

the last book I ever read (The Sound of Music Story, excerpt three)

from The Sound of Music Story: How A Beguiling Young Novice, A Handsome Austrian Captain, and Ten Singing von Trapp Children Inspired the Most Beloved Film of All Time by Tom Santopietro:

Bounding from one locale to another in her missionary work, Maria would arrive in a new port only to find yet another letter from the pesky Hallidays. Having no idea who Mary Martin and Richard Halliday were, Maria would tear up their impassioned letters with nary a second thought. Refusing to take no for an answer, Richard Halliday finally hit upon the strategy of meeting Maria’s ship in San Francisco when she returned from New Guinea. Maria granted permission for a theatrical version of her life story, but even after Mary and Maria struck up a friendship, obtaining Maria’s final signature still proved difficult; the papers were finally signed only when Maria was recovering in an Innsbruck, Austria, hospital from the malaria she had contracted in Papua New Guinea.

With Maria’s signature procured, the producers were able to obtain permission from the remaining von Trapps more readily, and by the end of 1957, they had succeeded in persuading all remaining family members to say yes to the production. To sweeten the deal producer Hayward granted Maria three-eighths of one percent of the royalties; when the sale of the film rights was negotiated by agent Swifty Lazar, 20th Century-Fox was coerced into granting Maria the same arrangement. Fifty years after the film’s release, that clause still generates approximately $100,000 per year in royalties for the family.



Monday, March 30, 2015

the last book I ever read (The Sound of Music Story, excerpt two)

from The Sound of Music Story: How A Beguiling Young Novice, A Handsome Austrian Captain, and Ten Singing von Trapp Children Inspired the Most Beloved Film of All Time by Tom Santopietro:

Thanks to the stage and screen versions of The Sound of Music, Maria ultimately came to be viewed as an all-loving, benevolent earth mother, but perhaps because of the tribulations she and her family had experienced, she also possessed a moralistic worldview that pointed to a firm belief in the concept of hell: “the complete absence, and also forever and ever, of everything heaven is.” It is no incidental point that in her autobiography Maria emphasizes the fact that Jesus mentions hell thirty-seven times in the Gospels: “One can go to hell not only for what one has done, but also for what one has not done.”

Such a fire-and-brimstone view of hell was certainly not what had attracted the attention of filmmakers to the story of Maria’s life. No, it was the sheer trajectory of her story, the trip from abbey to instant motherhood and singing stardom, that made her life seem tailor-made for the movies. According to family publicist Alix Williamson, Hollywood had first expressed interest in Maria’s life story when The Story of the Trapp Family Singers was published in 1949, but Maria firmly turned down the offers, dictating that the film could only be made if she played herself. When, six years later, the German film industry came calling, Maria wanted an infusion of cash for the family coffers, and without ever consulting her lawyer, sold the rights for her life story to Wolfgang Reinhardt for $9,000—with no royalties. In Johannes’s understated take on the sale: “My mother was never very good at business deals. She was too impatient and didn’t like having an agent. It was a very bad deal.”



Sunday, March 29, 2015

the last book I ever read (The Sound of Music Story, excerpt one)

from The Sound of Music Story: How A Beguiling Young Novice, A Handsome Austrian Captain, and Ten Singing von Trapp Children Inspired the Most Beloved Film of All Time by Tom Santopietro:

Given the family’s real-life escape to Italy, the film’s lushly filmed finale of their brave climb over the mountains into the safety of Switzerland was, of course, a complete fiction. As many have pointed out, most particularly Maria herself, if they had climbed over the Austrian mountain peaks, they would have ended up in Germany, not Switzerland, and very close to the führer’s retreat at Berchtesgaden at that. In Maria’s typically blunt statement, “Don’t they know geography in Hollywood? Salzburg does not border on Switzerland!” In fact, Salzburg lies 150 miles from Switzerland, but as canny old pro Robert Wise analyzed: “In Hollywood you make your own geography.”



Friday, March 27, 2015

the last book I ever read (Linn Ullmann's The Cold Song, excerpt five)

from The Cold Song by Linn Ullmann:

It is impossible to act as if everything is fine, when the dog is straining at the leash and setting the pace and won’t sit when you say Sit or heel when you say Heel. It is there for everyone to see: You’ve got no control over your dog, you’re a spineless little man. Ulysses’s dog didn’t question Ulysses’s authority. Argos didn’t tug and strain at the leash, but waited patiently for his owner for ten long years, while Ulysses himself fought and won a lengthy war and then slowly wended his way home to Ithaca. Homer, Shakespeare, Kafka, Pynchon, Jules Verne, Poe, Steinbeck. They all wrote about dogs. Literary dogs. Click click click. But Jon’s dog just strained at his leash and had no idea how to be a literary dog. Jon’s dog had no idea of how to be a dog, period.



Thursday, March 26, 2015

the last book I ever read (Linn Ullmann's The Cold Song, excerpt four)

from The Cold Song by Linn Ullmann:

“Well, I think it’s time I took matters in hand,” she said with a smile to old Mrs. Julia Herman, who was swanning around, talking to everybody and dressed in a rather odd-looking green caftan that emphasized her old, skinny, blue-tinged, varicose-veined legs. Had Julia Herman perhaps forgotten to put on her trousers?

“Right, now I’m going to take matter in hand,” Siri said. “I’ll go and get her. Mama has to come down now, of course she must. We can’t wait any longer.”



Wednesday, March 25, 2015

the last book I ever read (Linn Ullmann's The Cold Song, excerpt three)

from The Cold Song by Linn Ullmann:

On a threadbare blanket on the threadbare couch lay Jon’s dog, with his relish for the inner organs of beasts and fowls, hence his name, Leopold, after Leopold Bloom; regular dog food was out of the question, he’d rather starve than eat regular dog food. He was a big, black Lab mix with a white patch on his chest and a doleful look in his eyes. Leopold knew that John was never going to finish his book and this worried him. The reason that this worried him—he was, after all, a dog and not a particularly pensive dog—was that Jon had stopped taking him for long walks. Jon was incapable of doing anything until the book was finished—apart, of course, from not writing, not beginning, and not finishing.

What Jon Dreyer said to himself and also to Leopold was that once the summer was over and the book was finished, everything would return to normal and then they could go for long walks. It was still possible to finish it this summer. It was only the end of June. If he wrote ten pages a day, he would have sixty new pages every week—he’d take Sunday off and spend quality time with his children—which meant that he would have about three hundred pages by the end of August. Three hundred pages was a book. It had worked before, it could work again. Ten pages a day starting tomorrow. So day after day Jon sat at his laptop intending to write, either that or he lay on the floor next to his dog and tried to sleep, or he gazed out the window, or he read newspapers online and wrote text messages to women who might or might not reply, and after a lot of all that he ate peanuts and drank beer.



Tuesday, March 24, 2015

the last book I ever read (Linn Ullmann's The Cold Song, excerpt two)

from The Cold Song by Linn Ullmann:

Two years had passed since Milla disappeared and even back then Simen and his bike were as one, that was how he thought of himself, as a boy on wheels, a bike with a body, a heart, and a tongue, and if his parents had let him, he would have taken his bike to bed with him when, much against his will, he was told to go to sleep. From early morning he was out, zooming and skidding and swerving up and down the narrow dirt tracks around the white-painted church or screeched to a halt at the very end of the wooden jetties alongside the ferry wharf, inside the long breakwater; his handlebars flashed in the sunlight and he breathed in the sharp reek of shrimp shells and fish ends from the two fishermen who hadn’t yet called it quits and chosen some other line of work.



Monday, March 23, 2015

the last book I ever read (Linn Ullmann's The Cold Song, excerpt one)

from The Cold Song by Linn Ullmann:

And that was the moment when Christian came up with the idea of burying treasure instead—as a symbol of true and everlasting friendship. It was simple: All three of them would have to offer up one thing, and that thing had to be precious, it had to be a sacrifice. No mingling of blood, no cuts or grazes, but stuff, valuable stuff, buried deep in the ground, as a symbol of their commitment to each other, to friendship, and to Liverpool F.C.



Sunday, March 22, 2015

the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt seven)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

If the good Lord had decided that John Calipari needed a season in which he was thoroughly humbled, the final act in our season was the topper. (And please, don’t get me wrong, I’m pretty sure God had no hand in postseason scheduling.) We got picked for the National Invitation Tournament. Rupp Arena was being used for the first two rounds of the NCAA tournament, so we got sent off to play Robert Morris—in my hometown of Moon Township, Pennsylvania. A homecoming.

They scored the first ten points of the game. We lost at the end, 59-57, when they hit two foul shots with eight seconds left. I think it’s fair to say we were put out of our misery.

But it was good TV. You never get to see the national champs from the previous year get taken out in the first round of the NIT. You don’t ever get to see them in the NIT at all. It was a highly rated game—the highest-rated of the whole NIT—and people stayed with it and then even watched my press conference afterward. (My funeral will be large just from the people who come to make sure I’m dead.)



Saturday, March 21, 2015

the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt six)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

My primary failure was that I did not put together a roster that made my kids compete against one another. They were too comfortable from the moment they got to campus. I had my reasons for letting the roster take the shape it did. In hindsight I can tell you what they were.

One is that I thought Marquis Teague might be with us a second year because he wouldn’t be quite ready for the NBA. I certainly hoped he would stay, for his own sake—and maybe I hoped a little too hard. That following season I was hoping the Harrison twins, point guard and shooting guard, would be with us. I didn’t want to do anything to mess up their recruitment. And I didn’t want whatever point guard I brought in to get caught between the Marquis and Andrew Harrison eras and maybe never really get a chance.

Clever, right? But I paid for it. And if I’m being 100 percent honest with myself, my team paid for it. I am not absolving them of responsibility for how they played, but nothing in my Players First philosophy says that I should protect kids from competition. It’s just the opposite. I serve them by giving them competition.

I know better than anybody that just having a group of talented guys in not enough. In college basketball you absolutely must have good guard play—and especially at the point guard position. It’s what makes everything else tick.



Friday, March 20, 2015

First Day of Spring (March 20, 2015), Long Island City, New York, 5:02 p.m.













the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt five)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

Basketball fans of a certain age remember the name Spencer Haywood. He graduated from high school in 1967, then played a year in junior college followed by one season at the University of Detroit. After that, he signed with the Denver Rockets, at the time part of the old American Basketball Association. He was really good right away, averaging thirty points and almost twenty rebounds a game in his rookie year.

That next season, the NBA’s Seattle SuperSonics signed him, but the league tried to block it because back then, an incoming player had to play four years of college ball (or had to be four years past his high school graduation). The Sonics owner sued, and the case went all the way up to the Supreme Court.

The justices ruled that Haywood should be allowed to play, and that was the end of pro basketball’s ability to keep players in college—or, for a time, even make sure they went at all. Moses Malone went straight from high school to the ABA in 1974, then two years later (after the leagues merged) to the NBA. He’s in the Hall of Fame and was voted into the NBA’s list of top fifty all-time players. Two other players—Darryl Dawkins and Bill Willoughby—came straight out of high school in 1975. They had decent pro careers but probably would have been better off if they’d spent some time playing in college.



Thursday, March 19, 2015

the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt four)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

Steve Kerr, the former Chicago Bulls player, was doing commentary for CBS. Somebody told me later what he said about me. “He’s been so loose, but I think it’s been a little bit of an act.” He was right. Part of coaching is acting. It’s true of any kind of leadership, whether you’re a CEO, an army general, or a father. Part of the job is that you don’t reveal your apprehensions. I don’t ever go into games thinking we’re going to lose, but of course I get anxious.



Wednesday, March 18, 2015

the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt three)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

If you play for Kentucky, you’re a target. You’re a mark. It’s one of the things you have to deal with. The bright spotlight on us means that as a player you will be exposed for what you are, whatever it is. Good or bad. I can’t hide you. There’s no hiding at Kentucky. Your opponent wanted your scholarship. He’s got something to prove. He’s playing to beat you, not just Kentucky.



Tuesday, March 17, 2015

the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt two)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

The art of coaching at this level is about convincing great athletes to change. First we have to get them to accept what they’re not good at. My assistant coaches and I use the word “surrender.” Surrender to our instruction. Surrender to physical conditioning. If you’re delusional and see yourself one way while the rest of the world sees something else, let it go. Believe what we’re telling you.

Players arrive here from a culture in which they have played mostly for themselves. They’ve always had their eye on the next step up the ladder and the one above that. Lots of times they’ve been coddled by family members or by a coach or by people around them. Some of them come into college basketball believing that they have to get a certain number of minutes and shots. They’re entitled. They feel it’s owed to them.

I’ve won more than five hundred college games and coached thirty players who went on to play in the NBA. I coached in the league myself. I evaluated players and I drafted them. I know what happens in the predraft workouts and what’s on the psychological tests the NBA gives to players.

You want to know what delusional is? I’ve had to say to kids: “You’re listening to your barber instead of listening to me. Does that really make sense? When we play, you’re showing off what you want to show and not what they want to see. As a matter of fact, you’re showing them stuff that’s hurting you. I keep telling you that, but you still do it.”



Monday, March 16, 2015

the last book I ever read (John Calipari's Players First, excerpt one)

from Players First: Coaching from the Inside Out by John Calipari and Michael Sokolove:

I go to Mass every morning. It’s how I start my day and it’s my moment of peace, almost meditation. If I’m struggling with a player, it’s where I ask myself: How would I want my own son treated?

But I’m also a sinner, as we all are. If you come after one of my players, I come after you twice as hard. If you kill one of mine, I burn your village. It’s the Italian in me. I’m not proud of that, but it’s who I am.



Thursday, March 12, 2015

the last book I ever read (Exorcism: A Play in One Act by Eugene O'Neill, excerpt two)

from Exorcism: A Play in One Act by Eugene O'Neill:

NED
Exasperated—throwing away the lighted match with which he has not yet lit his cigarette.

Stop! Stop right there, Jimmy!

He loses control over himself and rages hysterically at the astounded and frightened Jimmy.


I’ll be damned if I’ll stand for listening to that story again! No! Oh, I know you too well! I can see it coming, that story you’ve told me a thousand times. You always start in that way. But you’re not drunk now and you’ve no excuse for telling it; and I’m not drunk and so I won’t endure listening to it! You’re worse than Major Andrews downstairs who insists on showing me the scar on his leg when he’s on his pension drunk every month. I supposed you think yours is a wound, too, you sentimental rabbit! Of all the abject illusions! Listen to me! I’ll tell you the truth for once in your life. By your own story, a thousand times retold, you prove that that wife who ran away from you seven years ago was a worthless nonentity—and guilty in the bargain!



Wednesday, March 11, 2015

the last book I ever read (Exorcism: A Play in One Act by Eugene O'Neill, excerpt one)

from Exorcism: A Play in One Act by Eugene O'Neill:

JIMMY

You have got the blues all right. I don’t blame you. It’s this devilish weather. It’s enough to—Well, cheer up! It’s the middle of March now. Spring will soon be here.



NED
Sardonically.

That’ll be a blessing!



JIMMY
Taking this at its face value.

Yes, won’t it? Do you know, Ned, spring is my favorite season of the year.



Tuesday, March 10, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt twelve)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

I must do something. I walk out of the bathroom to my reading room, to the compact disc player. I search for Chopin, find one of Richter’s recordings. My head slowly clears. Richter’s Chopin is inspiring.

Sviatoslav Richter refused to give a concert if his pink plastic lobster was not with him. I used to think it was red—I read it somewhere, a red plastic lobster—but then I saw a picture of it. It certainly looked like a crustacean, oversized pincers, but not like a lobster, or at least not like any lobster I’d recognize. And it was pink, a rose pink, not red.

“I find things confusing,” he said on film.

In this film, Richter: The Enigma, he looked baffled and bewildered, befuddled by life. Bald, bony, ragged, and old, a face that couldn’t face the camera, a face that full understood what had been lost, what had been given up. He looked real to me. I don’t know if he was a virgin, but he was a homosexual.

Richter spoke to this plastic lobster and felt lost without his companion. If you talked to him without his lobster, he sounded autistic. When he played, though—when he played he could liquefy your soul. He walked on water—well, his fingers did—liquid supple and fluid smooth, running, dripping, flowing.

“I do not like myself,” he said on film.



Monday, March 9, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt eleven)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

Samir Kassir, in his wonderful book about Beirut, differentiates them thus: Arab nationalists who converted to socialism and socialists newly alert to the mobilizing virtues of nationalism.

Decipher that.

Need I tell you that Baathists and Nasserites have killed each other by the busload?

One’s first response is that these Beirutis must be savagely insane to murder each other for such trivial divergences. Don’t judge us too harshly. At the heart of most antagonisms are irreconcilable similarities. Hundred-year wars were fought over whether Jesus was human in divine form or divine in human form. Belief is murderous.



Sunday, March 8, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt ten)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

I don’t want to give my mother a pedicure. Apart from the fact that I’ve never trimmed anybody else’s nails, I find it—how shall I put it?—demeaning. I am not Jesus washing the feet of his disciples. I don’t wish to be crucified tomorrow. I am not Mary of Bethany. If I dry my mother’s feet with my hair, will they turn blue?

I am not the Magistrate. I am not the Magistrate. I am not the Magistrate.



Saturday, March 7, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt nine)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

I come to the museum to be by myself in the world; I am out of the apartment but not in a crowd. It’s one of the rare spaces left in Beirut that is not plagued by background music. In the supermarket, along the corniche, in hospitals, on the street, in stores, elevators, everywhere in the city, insipid music erupts from tiny nooks to scramble and deaden Beiruti brain waves—a catastrophe to rival the civil war, if you ask me. In the museum, I am able to think. In one of his novels, the rancorous and ever ornery Thomas Bernhard has a character who sits three mornings a week on a settee before the same painting. Tintoretto’s Portrait of a White-Bearded Man, at the Kunsthistorisches Museum, because the room has the ideal temperature for thinking, a constant eighteen degrees centigrade maintained all year round to preserve the canvases. I don’t know what the temperature in my museum is, but it’s pleasant.

People, visitors, are beginning to crowd me out. I sincerely believe that I’m going to be crushed, mashed to a pulp, as if I am in a mortar and the crowd is the pestle. As you know, I avoid assemblages, eschew accumulations of people. I’m reaching the point when I’ll no longer enjoy spending slow time in here.



Friday, March 6, 2015

Snowbirds, Long Island City, New York, March 5, 2015





the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt eight)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

I consider it a shame that most contemporary American writing seems informed more by Hemingway, the hero of adolescent boys of all ages and genders, than by the sui generis genius of letters, Faulkner. A phalanx of books about boredom in the Midwest is lauded (where the Midwest lies is a source of constant puzzlement to me, somewhere near Iowa, I presume), as are books about unexplored angst in New Jersey or couples unable to communicate in Connecticut. It was Camus who asserted that American novelists are the only ones who think they need not be intellectuals.

One of the things I have in common with the incredible Faulkner is that he didn’t like having his reading interrupted. He was dismissed from his job as a post office clerk at a university (a position his father obtained for him) because professors complained that the only way they could get their letters was by rummaging through the garbage cans, where unopened mailbags all too often ended up. He is said to have told his father that he wasn’t prepared to keep getting up to wait on customers at the window and to be beholden to “any son-of-a-bitch who had two cents to buy a stamp.”

I didn’t like having my reading interrupted when I worked either, but I was beholden to every son of a bitch and his mother who walked into the bookstore, whether or not they had two cents to buy a book. I couldn’t afford any complaints. Most days I had few customers, and I spent my time sitting behind my desk reading. I was conscientious. I did earn my measly salary.



Thursday, March 5, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt seven)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

There are images that remain with me. I remember reading an essay—I believe it was by Nuruddin Farah, but I can’t be sure—where the writer says that all we remember from novels are scenes or, more precisely, images. I don’t know if that’s the case, but a number of authors seem to write their novels in one image after another—Michael Ondaatje is probably the best practitioner of the form, as his novels seem to be not so much plot as a series of discrete divine images. I still can’t remember who wrote that essay. Maybe it was Ondaatje, but I doubt it.

I’m not a proponent of the above idea, because if all we retain from a novel is an image, then the obvious conclusion is that photography, painting, or film would be a better medium of communication and a higher art form. Not a satisfying conclusion. Also, I loved The English Patient as a novel, but the movie, with the exception of the lovely Juliette Binoche, is much too syrupy.



Wednesday, March 4, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt six)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

Nothing could explain the hunger, however.

Hannah ate and ate, anything and everything that was before her. She couldn’t stop, nor did it occur to her to. As a child, she had a fondness for fruit. Apparently, her mother realized there was a problem when Hannah single-handedly ate an entire cluster of bananas that her father had brought home and placed on the kitchen table. That’s about twenty-five bananas in one sitting. She was four.



Tuesday, March 3, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt five)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

I did live for art, though. It wasn’t a conscious decision, I don’t think. I didn’t sit down one day and plan on a life devoted to aesthetic beauty. I’m not berating myself for that. I slipped into art to escape life. I sneaked off into literature.

The forbidden aspects of this life may have seduced me. I don’t think anyone approved of my reading when I was a child. My mother certainly didn’t, and my stepfather made sure to criticize when he noticed: “Reading is bad for your eyes. You’ll soon need glasses, which will make you even less attractive.” My family would have been incontrovertibly hostile to art had they known that such a thing existed—if you showed them a grand piano, they probably wouldn’t have known what manner of beast it was. Of course I received various permutations of the “Who will want to marry you if you read so much?” lecture, but I also had to endure the chilly “Don’t try to be so different from normal people.”

Different from normal people? When I first heard that, I was sorely offended. I thought every person should live for art, not just me, and furthermore, why would I want to be normal? Why would I want to be stupid like everyone else?



Monday, March 2, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt four)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

Ever the autodidact, I used his store to teach myself. When he opened for business, I knew little about music. I kept track of mentions in the novels I read. For example, I first heard of Mozart’s Sinfonia Concertante in Styron’s book Sophie’s Choice—a beautiful if somewhat soppy novel, and an unbearable film. I heard of Kathleen Ferrier when Thomas Bernhard mentioned her uplifting rendition of Mahler’s Das Lied von der Erde in Old Masters.

In my thirties all I understood was Chopin, glorious Frédéric. To thank me for finding a rare book, a college student offered me an invaluable gift, a double album of Artur Rubinstein playing Chopin. I didn’t have a record player at the time and had to save up before I was able to listen to it. Once I did, Artur’s spirit wafted through my home. I played my record over and over and over and over. I bought a cleaning and care kit for albums. Once a week I delicately wiped the damp cloth across the disc to ensure it remained playable for eternity. It was the only album I had for years, and the only music I listened to. To this day, I can probably whistle the melody of Ballade no. 1 in G Minor without having to think about it. I became a Chopinophile.

Even now, I think that if I’d never listened to anything else, I’d still consider myself a lucky human being. This was Rubinstein. This was Chopin. Pole playing Pole. But I had a yearning. Sometime in the early eighties, while my city was self-immolating, while everyone around me was either killing or making sure he wasn’t going to be killed, I decided it was time I taught myself how to listen to music.



Sunday, March 1, 2015

the last book I ever read (Rabih Alameddine's An Unnecessary Woman, excerpt three)

from 2014 National Book Award Finalist for Fiction An Unnecessary Woman by Rabih Alameddine:

Beirut is the Elizabeth Taylor of cities: insane, beautiful, tacky, falling apart, aging, and forever drama laden. She’ll also marry any infatuated suitor who promises to make her life more comfortable, no matter how inappropriate he is.