Monday, April 28, 2003

HE'S FORTY-ONE? LIKE, WHOA: On all other weekends, there are no strong reasons to seek out the LA Times Book Review. Last weekend, ma nishtana ha'lailah hazeh, there were two:

1. A David Foster Wallace sighting. The noted metafictionist with Pynchonesque literary productivity of late is now teaching at Pomona now, in a course so obscure you can't find it on the department's website.

The syllabus for "Eclectic/Obscure Fictions for Writers"? "The Man Who Loved Children," by Christina Stead; "Play It As It Lays," by Joan Didion; "The Moviegoer," by Walker Percy; "The Golden Notebook," by Doris Lessing; "Desperate Characters," by Paula Fox; "Giovanni's Room," by James Baldwin; "In Watermelon Sugar," by Richard Brautigan; "Nightwood," by Djuna Barnes; and "Speedboat," by Renata Adler.

2. My wife showed up. Who knew? Hey, Prof. Volokh -- when a newspaper wants to republish significant portions of a blog, must they ask first? (Or, to Randy Cohen: should they?) (Not that we care -- it's a cute piece.)

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