I’m returned home only very slightly closer to reading this new and exciting thing you voted on. (Looks like it will be Autobiography of Red. Also, Iris Murdoch is universally rejected despite my suspicion that she’s awesome.) Instead, I caught up on my New Yorker subscription. I scanned maybe four issues, not including the most recent one-at-the-time,-two-now. I don’t think I’ve ever looked at one the week it came out, which leads me to read about a third of each when I’m traveling to justify having them in the first place. Maybe this year when the renewal notice comes, I will resist the urge to write a check. But until then, this is everything I gathered, as recorded by my brain in no particular order and with no reference to anything else:
I’d like Joe Biden to be my friend.
Conservatives have babies at earlier ages than liberals and frequently conceive premaritally, but are possibly okay with that. (I definitely already knew that. The article seemed strangely boilerplate, Bristol Palin notwithstanding.)
Roseanna Warren wrote some sonnet-shaped poem about food and God that shifted focus niftily a few times.
Gary Snyder is a Buddhist to the extent that it should’ve already been evident to me, if I retained any knowledge of who he is in between reading his stuff.
Norman Mailer ran for mayor of New York.
Norman Mailer identified as a leftist conservative or something else seemingly paradoxical.
Norman Mailer wrote a letter to Don DeLillo congratulating him on Libra, with thoughtful feeling and seemingly no previous acquaintance.
There was a movie that I possibly wanted to see that I possibly don’t want to see anymore by a director I recognize as having an oeuvre. (That one’s going to kill me.)
I’m a fan of short stories being really short.
You can’t burn down rocks, and this makes the cartoon with the cowboys crouching behind rocks laughing at their unseen opponents for setting their arrows on fire less funny.
Wow, and that is it! I do vaguely recall a couple other poems, the plot of the short story in question, and the R. Crumb comic I read yesterday, but still. Someone feel free and chime in with the fact that it’s not actually Norman Mailer at all; I wouldn’t be surprised.
And I’m back to my book. Voting is open until I pick up the winner, so if you want to recruit your friends to stack the race in the meantime (or give Iris Murdoch some love), feel free.