The Roaring 20s

How to Write a Sentence

Ohhh this was a challenge.  Over on Slate, there's a contest to submit "the best sentence in the history of English," in honor of Stanley Fish's new book, How to Write a Sentence.  If you're like me, and dog-ear the pages of your favorite books, compulsively typing out your favorite quotes...the following activity might prove problematic, even frustrating.  Like many of the commenters on Slate, I would quickly point to James Joyce's Ulysses--Molly Bloom's soliloquy is exactly as ecstatic as it is meant to feel.  Or the last line of Joyce's "The Dead": "His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."

Or how about this beauty, from Joseph Conrad's Heart of Darkness? "We live, as we dream—alone." I love the way "alone" is structurally isolated here, proving Conrad's point.     

For something more modern, there are always the hard-boiled bon mots of Raymond Chandler's The Long Goodbye ("There is no trap so deadly as the trap you set for yourself").  And this isn't even counting Henry Miller, Anais Nin, or poetry on the whole. 

Eventually, here's what I landed on, from a love scene in D.H. Lawrence's Lady Chatterley's Lover:

"Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite and melting her all molten inside."      

The orgasm is made tactile, inarguably visceral, by words and the order in which they are arranged.  For me, it's always been about the assonance and consonance of a sentence--the feelings stirred by these sounds in tandem, and the way a perfect phrase mirrors its own content.  It's why I read, and it is most definitely why I write.  How about you? Submit your own sentence and join the conversation!  

Ask a Heroine...the Elizabeth Bennet Edition

I know it's Monday and we're all either suffering from head colds or allergies...but this might perk you up! A reader sent myself, and Elizabeth Bennet, a question regarding an alltogether sticky situation of dinner party etiquette.  Read on, and check back for more Heroine's Bookshelf-inspired advice columns... 

Dear Lizzy,
As you have so much experience with dinner parties and etiquette, what would you have done in this instance?

I have two girlfriends, close in age, who move in the very same social circles. They are seemingly great friends, but one of them often leaves the other out when she sends out invitations to dinner parties and the like.

Another friend of mine is friends with both of these ladies as well, but we feel awkward when we know the other is not invited. Should we protect our friend from finding out that her "frenemy" didn't invite her, or should we be open about all our dealings in this matter? Your sage advice is greatly appreciated.

Yours,
H
 
From the desk of Elizabeth Bennet:

Dear H,
I know not what you mean by “frenemy,” but I should think that a friend so fickle is none at all. Though Duty demands you defer to the wishes of your hostess, Common Sense necessitates your wariness. Be all discretion, that is, if you can.

Yours faithfully,
Elizabeth Bennet

There you have it! For more from Lizzy, Scarlett, and Jo, be sure to check out Erin Blakemore's The Heroine's Bookshelf which hits stores, and shelves, tomorrow!

The Sexiest Banned Books

It seems like my mind is always in the gutter.  So, taking advantage of this--and in honor of Banned Books Week--here are my picks for the five sexiest classics from the ALA's list.  Remember, it's not smut--it's literature.

Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.  Coarse, filthy, and transcendent.  Or better yet: rough, masculine, naughty, and unspeakably beautiful. If I quote this one, I might get banned from the office.   

Lady Chatterley's Lover by D.H. Lawrence.  There's no way to avoid the languid sensuality of Lawrence's writing: "Rippling, rippling, rippling, like a flapping overlapping of soft flames, soft as feathers, running to points of brilliance, exquisite, exquisite and melting her all molten inside."

The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway.  Sure, the protagonist can't really have traditional intercourse...but the sense of dampened desire permeates this classic: a slow-burn. 

Lolita by Vladimir Nabokov.  Nabokov pulls off the ultimate tour de force, arousing his readers enough to make them wonder if they, too, are perverts like Humbert Humbert.

Ulysses by James Joyce.  Molly Bloom's soliloquy is famous for a reason.  Here's a taste: "I put my arms around him yes and drew him down to me so he could feel my breasts all perfume yes and his heart was going like mad and yes I said yes I will Yes."

What do you think? Am I crazy? Kinky? Worse--did I miss an unmissably sexy classic?

Palate cleansers, quick-reads, and a Fall preview

Remember when I called 19th century Brit-lit a guilty pleasure? Even I have limits.  Dense, unapologetically ambiguous, and rife with gender issues, Villette was the troubled, dark sister text to Bronte's Jane Eyre.  Understandably, I needed a palate cleanser or two upon completion. And so, I promptly went on a quick-reads jag.  I went through One Day in...well...one day, and now I'm nearing the end of the first Sookie Stackhouse book, Dead Until Dark.  Once I'm ready, I'll be tackling The Particular Sadness of Lemon Cake, and then Pushcart Prize-nominee Susan Henderson's Up from the Blue (book trailer below).  What about you? Any last-ditch summer reads?  

Comfort Reads

I was actually going to title this post "When the Going Gets Tough, the Tough Read Emma," but I thought that was a bit fey, even for me.  But let's face it, stress can make people do strange, even embarrassing things.  I saw the first Twilight movie under such circumstances, I bake when I'm frustrated, I take weekend walks along the Gowanus, and while we're at it, sometimes I drink soy milk from the carton on nights when procuring and then cleaning a fresh glass is too much effort. After some research, I've concluded that it's a particular yet imparticular variety of 20something angst-- an unnameable anxiety about our careers, our love lives, our friendships, our apartments--that makes us turn to our guilty pleasures for comfort.  For me, the complete and unequivocal cure-all is a BBC miniseries or a classic novel, complete with corsets, bustles, and English accents.  I melt away into the countryside and let the gentility, the sonorous and round syllables of a Mr. Darcy, wash away the dank heat of summer, the smell of garbage day, the train re-routes and cancellations.  So you won't be surprised when I confess that this week has been bad enough to make me turn to Charlotte Bronte's Villette and the stellar 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries starring Colin Firth.  Villette started off pretty drily, even for my taste, but after 100 patient pages, I've been entirely sucked in.  So it got me to thinking...what are your comfort reads? After all, as Mr. Darcy says, "I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours."

Six-Word Memoir Winners!

Apologies for the delay in posting! After a few intense days (and sleepless nights) at ALA Midwinter in Boston, I came down with a horrible cold.  The only thing to do was drink fluids, eat soup, watch 30 Rock, listen to Grizzly Bear, and read this month's modern classic, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (more on that soon!).

Now that I'm back at my usual post, here are the winners of our six-word memoir contest! I chose five submissions that I thought spoke to 20somethings, so be aware, it was a bit subjective. 

From Dana: I've fallen in love with everyone.
From Bridget: I never felt I belonged here.
From Gabrielle: I'm exactly how I imagined myself.
From Jen: Turns out I'm "not-so-gifted."
From Katy: I thought I would be different.  

Email me at roaring20s AT harpercollins DOT com to receive your copy of It All Changed in an Instant!

Introducing English 101: Our New Classics Book Club

Remember when we talked about the classic novels you can't stand? Well, Erica and I have started a book club for the classics, and you'll be happy to know, there is not a single work by Melville or Steinbeck on the list. For our new book club, we'll be focusing on reading and re-reading some kickass modern classics.  First up is A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, the coming-of-age story of young, idealistic Francie Nolan in turn-of-the-century Williamsburg.  As someone pretty familiar with the hipster/yuppie Brooklyn enclave circa 2010, I can't wait to read about the neighborhood as it was in the last century. 

Erica and I would love, love, love it if you'd read along with us.  And if you visit The Olive Reader now, you can enter to win your own copy.  Our tentative schedule is after the jump.  What do you think? Any of these you're dying to read?

New Year and a New Take on Sherlock Holmes

Apologies for the hiatus from posting-- I was busy with holiday parties, cookie baking, book swapping, and preparations for ALA Midwinter.  I did come across a free slice of time yesterday and managed to check out Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes.  Overall, I thought it was a pretty enjoyable way to spend a Sunday afternoon (I especially liked the somewhat steampunk vision of Victorian London).  And as you might remember, I'm a sucker for anything involving Rachel McAdams.  If you saw the movie and/or are interested in notable takes on this 19th century detective, nj.com has a fabulous list of books--including our very own Michael Chabon.  They write:

"Michael Chabon is among the very best American writers, and his essay on the genius of Conan Doyle — contained in his anthology Maps & Legends (Harper Perennial 2008, 210 pp., $14.99) — is as good an analysis of the mechanics of popular fiction as you’re likely to find. The facile Chabon also offers an homage in The Final Solution: A Story of Detection (Harper Perennial 2005, 131 pp., $12.99), in which we find an aging Holmes battling the diminishing of his powers while taking on one last case."

Happy reading, and Happy New Year! 

The Bell Jar, Revisited

Would you believe it if I said I'd never read Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar until now? I almost don't believe it.  Part of the reason I always shied away from The Bell Jar was the idea that reading about a protagonist like Esther Greenwood would hit too close to home.  After all, just like Esther, I was an English major in the Honors program at a Northeast liberal arts school, I loved poetry and D.H. Lawrence, and had a similarly charged, challenging experience interning in Manhattan.  And like Esther, I often contemplated the conflicts of being a young woman with competing ambitions and desires.  There's one beautiful passage in which Plath writes:

"I saw my life branching out before me like the green fig tree in the story. From the tip of every branch, like a fat purple fig, a wonderful future beckoned and winked. One fig was a husband and a happy home and children, and another fig was a famous poet and another fig was a brilliant professor, and another fig was Ee Gee, the amazing editor, and another fig was Europe and Africa and South America, and another fig was Constantin and Socrates and Attila and a pack of other lovers with queer names and offbeat professions, and another fig was an Olympic lady crew champion, and beyond and above these figs were many more figs I couldn't quite make out. I saw myself sitting in the crotch of this fig tree, starving to death, just because I couldn't make up my mind which of the figs I would choose. I wanted each and every one of them, but choosing one meant losing all the rest, and, as I sat there, unable to decide, the figs began to wrinkle and go black, and, one by one, they plopped to the ground at my feet."

Esther's observations sum up this acutely quarterlife uncertainty better than anything I've read as a 20something.  Plath wrote The Bell Jar nearly 50 years ago, but it is as fresh and relevant as a piece of new fiction.  Her voice is bravely, unerringly honest and the writing itself is direct and visceral--gorgeous language paired down to its essential parts.  

Have you read The Bell Jar? What was your impression of it? If you're a 20something who would like to review the book, shoot me an email at roaring20s at harpercollins dot com and I'll send you a complimentary copy.    

What's the Best Sex Scene in Literature?

Short of bad sex itself, is there anything worse than a bad sex scene? Luckily for us, the UK's Literary Review has come up with this year's shortlist for the worst sex scene of 2009.  (Just a sidenote, I love how The Guardian wrote about the "stiff competition.") Anyway, the shortlist is out, and author Sarah Duncan is blogging about the difficulty of writing good sex scenes: passages that transport you, arouse you, and/or deal with the logistics of making love successfully.  My highbrow choice is this excerpt from Lady Chatterley's Lover.  My low-brow choice is one steamy sex-act in a stairwell from Linda Howard's Son of the Morning.  What's your favorite sex scene in literature? Don't worry, I won't judge.