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«Extreme Solitude», ολόκληρο στον New Yorker.

It was debatable whether or not Madeleine had fallen in love with Leonard the first moment she’d seen him. She hadn’t even known him then, and so what she’d felt was only sexual attraction, not love. Even after they’d gone out for coffee, she couldn’t say that what she was feeling was anything more than infatuation. But ever since the night they went back to Leonard’s place after watching “Amarcord” and started fooling around, when Madeleine found that instead of being turned off by physical stuff, as she often was with boys, instead of putting up with that or trying to overlook it, she’d spent the entire night worrying that she was turning Leonard off, worrying that her body wasn’t good enough, or that her breath was bad from the Caesar salad she’d unwisely ordered at dinner; worrying, too, about having suggested they order Martinis because of the way Leonard had sarcastically said, “Sure. Martinis. Let’s pretend we’re Salinger characters”; after having had, as a consequence of all this anxiety, pretty much no sexual pleasure, despite the perfectly respectable session they’d put together, and after Leonard (like every guy) had immediately fallen asleep, leaving her to lie awake stroking his head and vaguely hoping that she wouldn’t get a yeast infection, Madeleine asked herself if the fact that she’d just spent the whole night worrying wasn’t, in fact, a surefire sign that she was falling in love. And certainly after they’d spent the next three days at Leonard’s place having sex and eating pizza, after she’d relaxed enough to be able to come once in a while and finally to stop worrying so much about having an orgasm because her hunger for Leonard was in some way satisfied by his satisfaction, after she’d allowed herself to sit naked on his gross couch and to walk to the bathroom knowing that he was staring at her (imperfect) ass, to root for food in his disgusting refrigerator, to read the brilliant half page of philosophy paper sticking up out of his typewriter, and to hear him pee with taurine force into the toilet bowl, certainly, by the end of those three days, Madeleine knew she was in love.

But that didn’t mean she had to tell anyone. Especially Leonard.

Read more:

Ήρθε παραλαβή απ’ το Amazon χτες και έφερε πράγματα ακραία:

Το νέο μυθιστόρημα του Στίβεν Κινγκ «Under the Dome», hardcover, 1074 σελίδες. Το παρήγγειλα (πριν κυκλοφορήσει) με τιμή 9 δολάρια, δηλαδή περίπου 6 ευρώ (τώρα κάνει 14.50).

To διήγημα 2BR02B του Κερτ Βόνεγκατ, paperback, 20 σελίδες, 3 δολάρια (περίπου 2 ευρώ). Όχι, δεν είχα προσέξει ότι είναι μόνο 20 σελίδες. Νόμιζα ότι ήταν ευκαιρία.

O πάντα πρόθυμος στα τεχνολογικά Νιλ Γκέιμαν (θυμήσου τη βιβλιοθήκη του) με τη συνεργασία του BBC Audiobooks, ξεκίνησε το εξής project. Έγραψε αυτό το tweet ως πρώτη πρόταση μιας ιστορίας, και μετά περίμενε από τους Twitterers του κόσμου να τη συνεχίσουν, μέχρι να φτιαχτεί ένα κανονικότατο διήγημα. Τα tweets συγκεντρώνονται εδώ και, όταν φτάσουν τα 1000, θα ακολουθήσει editing. Διάβασε περισσότερα.

Μερικές καλές συμβουλές

• Starting the story as close to the end as you can. This will assist you in the timing of the story.. and hopefully keeping the word count down by cutting out unnecessary back story.
• Ensuring your story has a point and not a collection of actions. Most readers are looking to be entertained, informed or enriched by a short story. Gift them a message or an experience rather than waste their time with ‘boring bits.’
• Including at last one character they can strongly identify with – either negatively or positively.

Λέγεται «The Autobiography of JGB», δημοσιεύτηκε στον New Yorker, έχει θέμα φανταστικό, και είναι μικροσκοπικό (μόνο 1000 λέξεις) και πανέξυπνο. Διάβασέ το εδώ.

Οn waking one morning, B was surprised to see that Shepperton was deserted. He entered the kitchen at nine o’clock, annoyed to find that neither his post nor the daily newspapers had been delivered, and that a power failure prevented him from preparing his breakfast. He spent an hour staring at the melting ice that dripped from his refrigerator, and then went next door to complain to his neighbor.

Surprisingly, his neighbor’s house was empty. His car stood in the drive, but the entire family-husband, wife, children, and dog-had disappeared. Even more odd, the street was filled by an unbroken silence. No traffic moved along the nearby motorway, and not a single aircraft flew overhead toward London Airport. B crossed the road and knocked on several doors. Through the windows, he could see the empty interiors. Nothing in this peaceful suburb was out of place, except for its missing tenants.

Thinking that perhaps some terrible calamity was imminent-a nuclear catastrophe, or a sudden epidemic after a research-laboratory accident-and that by some unfortunate mishap he alone had not been warned, B returned home and switched on his transistor radio. The apparatus worked, but all the stations were silent, the Continental transmitters as well as those of the United Kingdom. Disconcerted, B returned to the street and gazed at the empty sky. It was a calm, sun-filled day, crossed by peaceful clouds that gave no hint of any natural disaster.

Να ένα θαυμάσιο (και μικρό) διήγημα επιστημονικής φαντασίας από τον New Yorker. Λέγεται «The Invasion From Outer Space», το ‘γραψε ο Στίβεν Μίλχαουζερ, και περιγράφει μια αλλόκοτη εισβολή εξωγήινων, πολύ ωραία και μελαγχολικά.

The story broke a little after ten in the morning. The TV anchors looked exactly the way we knew they’d look, their faces urgent, their hair neat, their shoulders tense, they were filling us with alarm but also assuring us that everything was under control, for they, too, had been prepared for this, in a sense had been waiting for it, already they were looking back at themselves during their great moment. The sighting was indisputable but, at the same time, inconclusive: something from out there had been detected, it appeared to be approaching our atmosphere at great speed, the Pentagon was monitoring the situation closely. We were urged to remain calm, to stay inside, to await further instructions. Some of us left work immediately and hurried home to our families, others stayed close to the TV, the radio, the computer, we were all talking into our cells. Through our windows we could see people at their windows, looking up at the sky.

O Ρομπέρτο Μπολάνιο είναι ο αγαπημένος μου συγγραφέας που δεν έχω διαβάσει. Δηλαδή, ένα βιβλίο του το ‘χω διαβάσει, το Μοναχικό Αστέρι, δεν με ενθουσίασε κι όλας, αλλά έχω διαβάσει κριτικές και σχόλια για τα καλύτερά του, το “Los Detectivos Salvages” και το «2666«, κι έχω διαβάσει και διηγήματά του στ’ αγγλικά που μου έχουν προκαλέσει το ενδιαφέρον. Δεν θέλω να διαβάσω αυτά τα βιβλία στα αγγλικά -μια χαρά μεταφράζεται η Ισπανική γλώσσα στη δική μας- οπότε είμαι αναγκασμένος να περιμένω τον Καστανιώτη. Κι αργεί, πανάθεμά τον.

Τέλος πάντων, στο θέμα μας, διάβασα χτες μετά από πολύ καιρό το διήγημά του στο περσινό Winter Fiction Issue του New Yorker (πρόσφατα χάρισα κι ένα αντίτυπο, το κέρδισε η αναγνώστρια Eleni) με τίτλο «Meeting With Enrique Lihn«, και το βρήκα εξαιρετικά καλογραμμένο. Μπορείς να το διαβάσεις εδώ.

Άντε, τελείωνε, Καστανιώτη!

Ξαφνικά οι εφημερίδες γέμισαν διθυράμβους γι’ αυτή τη συλλογή διηγημάτων μιας νεαρής Ελληνίδας. Ε, το διάβασα. Είναι έξι ιστοριούλες με αρχή, μέση και τέλος, που διαβάζονται ευχάριστα και δεν σε κάνουν να πιστεύεις πως πέταξες το χρόνο σου ανώφελα. Πράγμα καθόλου αυτονόητο στην Ελληνική λογοτεχνία. Διάβασε κριτικούλα εδώ.

Δεν είναι κακό (ποτέ δεν μπορείς να πεις «κακό» κάτι που γράφει ο Σεντάρις) αλλά αυτό δεν σημαίνει ότι αξίζει και τα λεφτά του. Όχι απαραίτητα. Το review.

Ακόμα: Ο Ντέιβιντ Σεντάρις παραδίδει πίτσα.

Σπάνια διαβάζω τα διηγήματα στον New Yorker (είναι συνήθως βαρετά), αλλά τις προάλλες έκανα μιαν εξαίρεση: Τζοναθαν Λέθεμ! Επιστημονική φαντασία!

Το Lostronauts λέει την ιστορία ενός πληρώματος διαστημικού σταθμού που είναι παγιδευμένοι σε τροχιά, ανήμποροι να επιστρέψουν. Η ιστορία είναι γραμμένη με τη μορφή επιστολών που στέλνει η μοναδική γυναίκα στο σταθμό στον αγαπημένο της κάτω στη Γη. Όχι τέλειο, αλλά όχι κι άσχημο.

We’re soaring atoms, Chase, that’s what orbit consists of, the inhuman hastening of infinitesimal specklike bodies through an awesome indifferent void, yet in our cramped homely craft, its rooms named to evoke childhood comforts, with our blobs of toothpaste drifting between our brushes and the mirror, our farts and halitosis filling the chambers with odor, we’ve defaulted to an illusion of substance. Inside Northern Lights, we’ve managed to kid ourselves that we exist, that we’re curvaceous or lumpy or angular, bristling with hair and snot, taking up a certain amount of room, and that space and time have generously accorded a margin in which we’re invited to operate these sizable greedy bodies of ours, a margin in which to dwell, to hang out and live our pale stinky stories. The space walk destroyed all that.