David Gutowski's largehearted boy has The Ex up in its Book Notes section this week. If anyone out there reading this has read the book, and liked the Tulip character, but wished there was more of her, there are some tidbits on her in what I did for this.

One of the best things I've read in ages is Joanna Howard's In the Colorless Round, a chapbook of short-shorts with illustrations by Rikki Ducornet. It's an amazing thing, sort of baffles description. I kept thinking Jean Follain as I read it -- strange, quiet, haunting -- but also not Jean Follain at all. I've long held that the chapbook is the perfect length for collections of poetry, and I rather think that this may also be true for prose (that said, ahem, in an age of endless big fat books). At any rate, it's something to stalk and get hold of -- it's really marvelous.

Bud Parr, my new hero (very nice, very smart, plus he's a fellow father), has put up this fabulous little movie inspired by The Exquisite, on his fab blog.

You know you're really on your way when...

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Reading
Laird Hunt

The Exquisite is her latest novel"

!!

Another day in New York, a sense of sowhat sets in, it's too hot for the jacket there's no room for in your bag and the streets are endless and there's another fucking event to attend to in the evening, the city could give a shit, a book, sowhat, the city is out doing its business, the business is everywhere, it takes cabs, it sits down at the French Roast on 6th ave. and bitches about the service while the service bitches about it, it buys a bag at the crumpler store in the West Village and sets up a card table with some old ladies on Elizabeth street. The business drives a Lincoln Town car and spits on books as it splashes through another ugly puddle, then has a drink at the horse shoe bar near Tompkin's Square, a Cape Cod, thank you very fucking much, then has another. The business, subset of the city, could care less as it sips its soy chai somewhere or other near the Natural History Museum and slaps its three cards down on the pavement and stirs up some action, while the sun hits everything a little too hot because you are travelling light and there is no room to stow your brown velvet jacket purchased at Target and looking travel stained but still pretty good. This city, with its business, which cares so little, while conjuring up so much caring, positive and negative, so much fuckyouverymuchmydarlingetc, as if it mattered, for a second, which it does, despite everything, whatthefuck. A cup of coffee with friends on 4th Street, a meeting at the Bergen Street F stop, 5 ft of pizza on Allen, early bird sushi at Esashi, sowhat isn'tsobad, the slice of ricotta cheese cake bread isn'tsobad, yeah, the smell of coffee spilling out of Porto Rico, sowhat

3 days in New York a walk through Harlem past the Alexander Hamilton house closed to the public while its structure is investigated -- it's not safe -- a woman serving roti on 125th street taking care to put together a nice portion across the street from Modells and close to the Apollo then tumblers on the subway like it was 1981 when they hit their break dance moves very polite very professional and fucking amazing paint flaking everywhere stuck out on the tarmac at laguardia doner kebab on houston pizza at two boots (got the newman and the cleopatra jones)saw my dear pals jackhammers on 8th ave at 2 a.m. not my problem so sleeping like a baby drinking the Macallan with Garrett the low grade horrors of bookstores indie and not who don't carry or barely carry the brand new book cool folks like Bud Parr at the Brooklyn Book thingamajig bumped into the awesome Lance and Andi Olsen on Houston saw some model guy ate at Rice (just okay) coveted a bag rescued a galley copy of The Ex from Housing Works (yeah right someone's going to buy it) feet smoking in my shoes brown velvet jacket too warm for this Indian summer thing or whatever that's happening time out at my grandfather's in Connecticut back to town tomorrow maybe a movie probably just more pavement smacking can't beat it not at all

After years of putting it off (maybe because postage is so ghastly), I finally ordered something from Amazon.fr. It came yesterday -- L'Invité mystère by Grégoire Bouillier, the English version of which has been getting a lot of love at various good sites. I was delighted to discover that the marvelous Editions Allia (who publish Oliver Rohe, a writer I've translated) is behind it. Worth noting that Allia brings out its books in a very small, elegant paperback (of course -- it's France) format. The English edition is handsome too, but of course it's hardback and bigger. At any rate, Bouillier's book, in its original incarnation, which will fit very neatly in my jacket pocket, is my reading for this New York/Providence trip, which starts tomorrow and ends next Thursday.

I'll see if I can't drop in a couple of trip posts along the way -- though I won't have a computer with me (thank god) as I plan to take just a daypack and a totebag.

This article, by Sara Gran, whose novel Dope I am currently in the middle of and enjoying a great deal, is good fun.

A filmic teaser for The Exquisite, put together in a heartbeat by Tom Henwood and Daniel Brothers, is now up on YouTube. If you have 2 minutes and 17 seconds to spare, pay a visit to the world of Henry and Mr. Kindt...

As The Exquisite is now officially out and about (I would love to hear about sightings of it), I will be dropping in notes about its doings and what I'm doing with it a little more frequently.

If you can make it to either of the New York launch events, which will include this guaranteed super-fun soiree, that would be very swell.

Very excited today to drop by The Elegant Variation and see that the book is the Friday give away.

And am extremely pleased to report that highly effective machinations are underway to put together a very short film around the book -- more on that soon.

From a Brooklyn Rail interview with Grégoire Bouillier, author of The Mystery Guest.

"In a world where being young is valued above all else, I wouldn’t have liked to be labeled a young writer, with the emphasis falling on “young” not “writer.” In my opinion the writer has to place himself or herself in a time outside societal time, and in this sense, it seems to me, writing a book when you’re 40 could even be called a vaguely—very vaguely—political act. Plus, I still think that to write something worth reading you have to have lived. You need to have been up against things and beings, love, death, etc. Living deflowers the eyes and the mind. It tests our mettle. Cioran said that no philosophy survives a bout of seasickness; he could never have written that sentence if he hadn’t spent a day being seasick."

The new issue of Poets and Writers has a feature on the great Alice Notley -- whose work, if you haven't explored it yet, is major. The Descent of Alette has a permanent spot on my short shelf of books and her new selected, Grave of Light, will be in our household shortly.

What boggles my little mind about it is that Poets and Writers chose to put Jennifer Egan on the cover of the mag rather than Notley (P Roth also is featured -- I'm sorry, but whatever, how many features does the guy need). It's a silly thing, and I'm sure Egan is on her way to being a great writer, etc., but Notley is amazing, has won major awards (if that's what counts) and looks fantastic (check out the photos in the feature). I had it in mind to write in a letter to the ed about it -- but it was just too silly and I didn't know how to do it without making it sound like I thought Jennifer Egan wasn't deserving.

But come on!