Man, some awesome book recommendations. Thanks everyone!
It’s been a while since I read a book for fun…
Looking to break my six month nonfiction streak and settle down with some fiction. Favorite fiction authors include Douglas Adams, Arthur C Clarke, Nick Hornby, Christopher Moore, and George R. R, Martin - though I’m genuinely having a bitch of a time getting through A Feast for Crows.
Other books and series I greatly enjoyed were the Harry Potter series, the Ishmael series, most of the Ender’s series, Childhood’s End, The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time, and Dean Koontz’s likely never to be finished Moonlight Bay Trilogy.
I’m considering beginning Asimov’s Foundation series, giving Cloud Atlas a shot, or jumping into some of McCarthy’s works like The Road or Blood Meridian. Also on the table is going through some of the classics I either missed or was too young to appreciate like Pride and Prejudice, Crime and Punishment, and the Sherlock Holmes series.
Any thoughts or suggestions?
So, this is a thing you can preorder now.
So here’s a thing I did and worked really hard on and now it’s real and I don’t even.
Preordering the shit out of this.
Dear Mr. Elliott:
I have discovered that I have been writing you under false pretenses, although stealing from myself more than from you. I have stolen from myself the opportunity of seeing the dream of every rejected author come true. The dream of every rejected author must be to see, like sugar plums dancing in his head, please-can’t-we-see-your-next-manuscript letters standing in piles on his desk, all coming from publishing companies that rejected his previous manuscript, especially from the more pompous of the fatted cows grazing contentedly in the publishing field. I am sure that, under the influence of those dreams, some of the finest fuck-you prose in the English language has been composed but, alas, never published. And to think that the rare moment in history came to me when I could in actuality have written the prose masterpiece for all rejected authors – and I didn’t even see that history had swung wide its doors to me.
You must have known that Alfred A. Knopf turned down my first collection of stories after playing games with it, or at least the game of cat’s-paw, now rolling it over and saying they were going to publish it and then rolling it on its back when the president of the company announced it wouldn’t sell. So I can’t understand how you could ask if I’d submit my second manuscript to Alfred A. Knopf, unless you don’t know my race of people. And I can’t understand how it didn’t register on me – ‘Alfred A. Knopf’ is clear enough on your stationery.
But, although I let the big moment elude me, it has given rise to little pleasures. For instance, whenever I receive a statement of the sales of ‘A River Runs Through It’ from the University of Chicago Press, I see that someone has written across the bottom of it, ‘Hurrah for Alfred A. Knopf.’ However, having let the great moment slip by unrecognized and unadorned, I can now only weakly say this: if the situation ever arose when Alfred A. Knopf was the only publishing house remaining in the world and I was the sole remaining author, that would mark the end of the world of books.
Or, as John Waters put it:
If you go home with somebody, and they don’t have books, don’t fuck ‘em!
Random House: You’re fucking doing it wrong.
Exclusive sneak peek of Michele Bachmann’s new book cover.
There’s something about this that’s quite uncanny. Michele! Put down the Photoshop!
She’s not smiling, she’s baring her teeth. Neither her eyes nor her mouth are upturned, just pulled back. It’s the same look my dog used to give me when he was irritated.