‘A writer drew a circle in the sand and stepping into it said “This is my novel,” but the circle, leaping, cut him clean through….’ —from The House of Hunger…
The last book I loved was Cruel Shoes by Steve Martin. Martin has always been interesting to me because of the way he teeters between hilarious and laughably unfunny. Take…
Read between Faulkner’s Collected Short Stories and the wonderful Martin Millar’s Lonely Werewolf Girl, it was time for prose that slapped me in the face and welcomed me with a…
I’m going to say something a reviewer should never say about a series still in development: Berlin is a great book. We’re only up to book two [Berlin Book One:…
I grabbed An African in Greenland by Tete-Michel Kpomassie from the fabulous New York travel bookstore, Idlewild, after my event with Stephen Elliott. I’d heard about the book for years…
I always blanch when someone tells me—and always so assuredly, it seems—“ I just don’t really like poetry.” It’s more people, more otherwise avid readers than I would like to think.
I ran away to Barcelona because of a girl. Also I’d been grumpy and mopey for the previous month or so, due to the whole uncertain future thing, so really…
I’m a promiscuous lover of books. I treat each one as if it’s the only—there will never be another after, there were none before. This is the last book I read and the last book I loved.