Life in a Northern Virginia suburb of Washington, D.C. B.M.A.T.C., and Etruscan typewriter erasers. Blogged by David Gorsline.
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I'll read this later: André Aciman reviews Lydia Davis's translation of Swann's Way. (Thanks to robot wisdom.) posted: 9:28:49 AM |
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Happy birthday, Marianne Moore.
The lemur-student can see/that an aye-aye is not/an angwan-tíbo, potto, or loris.
—from "Four Quartz Crystal Clocks"
posted: 9:14:31 AM |
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Paul Collins writes a blurb to mark the reissue of Harry Stephen Keeler's The Riddle of the Traveling Skull. Keeler is, well,
... the best worst writer ever—the Ed Wood of the mystery genre. His plots consist of one jaw-droppingly unlikely coincidence after another; his writing reads like a drunken translation, filled with clangorous similes and characters spouting loopy "dialects" that, though they may be ostensibly German or Cockney, seem to originate primarily in Keeler's own cracked imagination.
Some years ago, prompted by a piece by John Marr, I picked up a vintage copy of The Travelling Skull (hard to say whether this is the same title: not even the Keeler Society has a comprehensive bibliography) but I bailed on it. Maybe I'll give it another try. Also check out William Poundstone's Keeler page. posted: 8:56:56 AM |
 D. Gorsline, Proprietor
   
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