morgan leigh.

new york city girl. 23. narrative junkie. writer.

Q
Meme-related, 1, 11, 12, 32, 39! Or just all of them, really...I love learning about other people's reading habits.
A

1. Favorite childhood book: Gosh, this is hard! Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban and The Golden Compass, probably. The childhood book I still read regularly is Fire & Hemlock, by Diana Wynne Jones, though I read it for the first time at around 13.

11. How often do you read out of your comfort zone? I don’t know that I really have a “comfort zone,” per se. I read a lot of different kinds of books. The one thing I really wish I did more was read more international literature, which I am not great about - I tend to read a lot of British Isles stuff, with some American books thrown in, although some of my favorite books are things I read in translation (or in French, which is also something I need to get back to speed on - I am a total nut for French literature, UNLIKE YOURSELF, heh).

12. What is your reading comfort zone?  Insofar as I have one: English & Irish literature, typically more on the literary fiction end of the spectrum, with a soft spot for the 19th century and certain pockets of the 20th century.

32. If you could read in a foreign language, which language would you chose? Well, I can read French quite well but haven’t been doing it recently, so really: French, fluently. And, secondarily, Spanish, primarily for Bolaño and Paz and Neruda.

39. Favourite fictional villain? GILBERT OSMOND. I will never be as frightened of any character as I am of Gilbert Osmond. I bow down to Henry James’ genius in creating him. I also have a soft spot for Mrs. Coulter.

Q
14, 15, 23
A

14. Favorite place to read: I don’t know that I really have one! I will read anywhere, anytime. I like reading outside on vacation, and I used to sit in the cafe in the bookstore in Oxford and read all afternoon.

15. What is your policy on book lending? ANYTHING AT ANY TIME. So long as people give them back. I have a million books, so it feels appropriate to me to make more use of them out of just me reading something once or twice and mostly not touching it. (Possible exception for my Victorian novels that are marked up to the point of insanity, and that I will be using a lot in future for academic purposes, and really cannot live without.)

23. Genre you rarely read (but wish you did): Mystery novels. I love me a good mystery novel, but it’s an effort to find the really good ones (and I hate the bad ones), so I rarely do. But then I get totally into them when I do make the effort.

millionsmillions:

After waking us up to their favorite Brazilian novelists, the editorial board at Granta is turning its gaze to Norway. In the first issue of Norwegian Granta, you’ll find a slew of stories by illustrious contributors (among them Jennifer Egan, Roberto Bolano and Alice Munro) alongside new stories from authors native to the country. At Granta’s website, you can read an interview with the magazine’s online editor, Ted Hodgkinson.

Ooooh.

millionsmillions:

After waking us up to their favorite Brazilian novelists, the editorial board at Granta is turning its gaze to Norway. In the first issue of Norwegian Granta, you’ll find a slew of stories by illustrious contributors (among them Jennifer Egan, Roberto Bolano and Alice Munro) alongside new stories from authors native to the country. At Granta’s website, you can read an interview with the magazine’s online editor, Ted Hodgkinson.

Ooooh.

In the end, what makes a book valuable is not the paper it’s printed on, but the thousands of hours of work by dozens of people who are dedicated to creating the best possible reading experience for you.
There is a type of reader for whom fiction is a substitute for life, not merely an additional means to its understanding. For readers of this type fiction must be exciting, bright, “wholesome.” What they really want is material for the daydreams with which they fill out empty days and months and years. These are the voracious readers of fiction in America. Is it any wonder that writers and publishers should cater to their demands? And with the prevailing literature adjusted in quality and strength to a demand of this kind, is it any wonder that men and women who are not lying intellectually and emotionally fallow, should read little fiction except in their rare periods of ennui, on railway journeys or in summer hotels? […] the American of practical ability is likely to prove one of the worst counsellors in the world when a situation arises that is incapable of resolution into matters of simple right or wrong. He is likely to prove almost Prussian in his incapacity to pass in imagination the bounds of class or race and to perceive the motives that animate the opposition he arouses. To be efficient not only in routine affairs, but in the whole of life, he needs to study character, not in the elementary school of the sweet, optimistic writer for boys and girls, but in the school of writers whose direct appeal is to men and women of maturity of mind.
— Alvin Johnson, reviewing Chekhov for The New Republic, November 17, 1917

Literary Revolution in the Supermarket Aisle: Genre Fiction Is Disruptive Technology

But the heart of Krystal’s argument, as I see it, is less about style than it is about plot. When we read genre fiction, Krystal writes, “it’s plot we want and plenty of it.” In Christie’s books, he says, nothing comes between us and the story. But what exactly does plot do? If nothing comes between us and the story, what exactly are we left with? Krystal alludes to, and honors, the power of story at the end of the essay — “if the story moves, we, almost involuntarily, move with it” — but he doesn’t appear to be willing to grant that a great story can mean somethingNot the way literary fiction does.

This, most fundamentally, is where I disagree with Krystal. It’s hard to talk about what plot does, but that’s not the fault of genre fiction. If anything it’s because criticism has failed the genre novel. Most of the critical vocabulary we have for talking about books is geared to dealing with dense, difficult texts like the ones the modernists wrote. It’s designed for close-reading, for translating thick, worked prose into critical insights, sentence by sentence and quote by quote, not for the long view that plot requires. But plot is an extraordinarily powerful tool for creating emotion in readers. It can be used crudely, but it’s also capable of fine nuance and even intellectual power, even in the absence of serious, Fordian prose. The emotions and ideas plot evokes can be huge and dramatic but also complex and subtle and intimate. The things that writers like Raymond Chandler or Philip Pullman or Joe Abercrombie do with plot are utterly exquisite. I often find that the complexity of the narratives in genre fiction makes the narratives in literary novels look almost amateur by comparison. Look at George R.R. Martin: no literary novelist now writing could orchestrate a plot the way he does. Even if you grant that the standards for writing and characterization in genre fiction are lower than in literary fiction, the standards for plotting are far, far higher.

I think a lot of you folks will love this. I agree with around 95% of it, which is pretty good. I guess my only sticking point is that for me reading genre fiction definitely is a comforting form of escapism (not that there’s anything wrong with that!). I don’t use my critical brain in exactly the same way when I read a fantasy novel (not that I do that very often anymore), or go watch an action movie, etc. But that doesn’t mean that crafting a genre novel (or film) isn’t an enormous amount of work and worthy of serious artistic consideration and admiration. I do not think, for instance, that The Avengers is a perfect movie, but I will be damned if I see a movie with a more technically impressive screenplay this year. That was a fucking accomplished piece of work, and it deserves to be recognized as such - just as all genre fiction does, even if it’s not asking to be considered in the same hyperintellectual way that highbrow works of art are.

Mid-length works suffer from a koan-like criticism: They’re too short and they’re also too long. Novellas hog too much space to appear in magazines and literary journals, but they’re usually too slight to release as books. If a reader’s going to spend 16 bucks, the notion goes, he wants to take home a Franzen-size tome—not a slim volume he can slip in a jacket pocket. 
As a result, a broad canyon yawns between the viable long story (10,000 words) and the short novel (60,000 words). This is the 50,000-Word Abyss, and anything that falls within it is generally considered untouchable. Most novellas—when they’re published at all—are snuck into short story collections. That, or they’re consigned to novella ghettoes: three or four mid-length tales forced to live in close quarters, bound and sold as a curiosity.
Via The Return of the Novella, the Original #Longread - The Atlantic.
This article was excellent, highly recommended. View high resolution

Mid-length works suffer from a koan-like criticism: They’re too short and they’re also too long. Novellas hog too much space to appear in magazines and literary journals, but they’re usually too slight to release as books. If a reader’s going to spend 16 bucks, the notion goes, he wants to take home a Franzen-size tome—not a slim volume he can slip in a jacket pocket.

As a result, a broad canyon yawns between the viable long story (10,000 words) and the short novel (60,000 words). This is the 50,000-Word Abyss, and anything that falls within it is generally considered untouchable. Most novellas—when they’re published at all—are snuck into short story collections. That, or they’re consigned to novella ghettoes: three or four mid-length tales forced to live in close quarters, bound and sold as a curiosity.

Via The Return of the Novella, the Original #Longread - The Atlantic.

This article was excellent, highly recommended.

I had no one to help me, but the T. S. Eliot helped me. So when people say that poetry is a luxury, or an option, or for the educated middle classes, or that it shouldn’t be read at school because it is irrelevant, or any of the strange stupid things that are said about poetry and its place in our lives, I suspect that the people doing the saying have had things pretty easy. A tough life needs a tough language – and that is what poetry is. That is what literature offers – a language powerful enough to say how it is. It isn’t a hiding place. It is a finding place.
— Jeanette Winterson, Why Be Happy When You Could Be Normal? (via junkycosmonaut)

(via thefirstgentleman)

There is quaint humour, and sometimes wild humour, on the middle island, but never this half-sensual ecstasy of laughter. Perhaps a man must have a sense of intimate misery, not known there, before he can set himself to jeer and mock at the world. These strange men with receding foreheads, high cheek-bones, and ungovernmable eyes seem to represent some old type found on these few acres at the extreme border of Europe, where it is only in wild jests and laughter that they can express their loneliness and desolation.
— J. M. Synge, The Aran Islands (1907)
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