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David Perkins was a writer, editor, neighborhood activist and perennially provocative critic. He was a public intellectual in a place that has little use for the kind of argumentative opposition they often represent. I bring this up because Perkins died recently, about two weeks shy of his 69th birthday. A
Author in town “… I already know what I want to say in this speech. I’ve been thinking about it for almost 30 years. … I’ll work on this during downtime in the hotel room each night. Don’t worry. Even if I have to pull all-nighters, I can make this work.”
Because John Grisham has always produced novels as plentifully as peanuts, because his second novel, “The Firm,” sold a bazillion copies, or maybe because he’s handsome, well-behaved and decorous, “real” writers (whoever they may be) have traditionally held him in low esteem. “Real” writers tend to be cranky where other people’s success is concerned. It must be true, mustn’t it, that Grisham can’t write his way out of a paper bag.
Reading an Alice Munro short story is like sinking into a reverie. She expertly captures the shadings and byways of associative thought. The Canadian then shapes these interior tangents so they have the intuitive feel of a dream without a dream’s seeming randomness. In the title story of “Too Much Happiness,” Munro’s newest collection, a character thinks to herself: “What ugly and irksome thoughts could surface, if you didn’t keep a lid on them.”
Two new books, hitting stores shortly before Sarah Palin’s own “Going Rogue” memoir will come out Tuesday to record-setting advance orders, attempt to explain why the hockey mom from Wasilla, Alaska, drives detractors and fans alike to something approaching insanity. Each is serious, well-researched and well-written, but neither quite fully explains the oversize reaction to Palin.
