Here are the November books that captured our fancies. Before you dig in,
keep in mind that publication dates are notoriously shifty — a book that’s
promised in September often doesn’t arrive until December, or sometimes
until the following March. Titles, too, often change in the months prior to
publication.

N O V E M B E R _ F I C T I O N :

Bainbridge, Beryl: “Master Georgie” (Carroll & Graf). The Crimean
War, as seen through eyes of participants. Nominated for Booker Prize;
didn’t win.

Boyle, T. C.: “Stories” (Viking). His collected short fiction.

Chekhov, Anton: “The Undiscovered Chekhov” (Seven Stories).
Newly found youthful writings.

Clark, Joseph: “Jungle Wedding” (Norton). Short stories — first
published in GQ, Playboy, etc. — about yearning to break free of American
numbness.

Cunningham, Michael: “The Hours” (FSG). Loosely based on the life
and work of Virginia Woolf.

Driscoll, Jack: “Lucky Man, Lucky Woman” (Norton). About a marriage
in crisis; winner of several small press awards.

Foden, Giles: “The Last King of Scotland” (Knopf). About Uganda in
the 1970s, from author who has been editor of the Times Literary
Supplement.

Follett, Ken: “The Hammer of Eden” (Crown). Thriller.

Gorey, Edward: “The Haunted Tea Cozy: A Dispirited and Distasteful
Diversion for Christmas” (Harcourt Brace).

Greenberg, Alvin: “How the Dead Live” (Graywolf). Short stories
about American middle-class life.

Grimes, Martha: “The Stargazey” (Holt). Mystery novel.

Kingsolver, Barbara: “The Poisonwood Bible” (HarperFlamingo).
Evangelical Baptist minister’s family goes to the Congo in the 1950s.

Kohout, Pavel: “The Widow Killer” (St. Martin’s). Translated from
Czech; suspenseful novel set in World War II-era Prague.

Krantz, Judith: “The Jewels of Tessa Kent” (Crown).

Lish, Gordon: “Arcade or How to Write a Novel” (Four Walls).

Mahony, Philip (editor): “From Both Sides Now: The Poetry of Vietnam and
Its Aftermath” (Scribner).

Maraini, Dacia: “The Silent Duchess” (Feminist Press). Translated
from the Italian; much-praised novel about a young duchess, sexually abused
as a child, who loses her ability to see and hear.

Maurensig, Paolo: “Canone Inverso” (Holt). Story of violin, from
Holocaust family to New York City; translated from the Italian by Jenny McPhee.

Munro, Alice: “The Love of a Good Woman” (Knopf). New stories.

Nesmith, Michael: “The Long, Sandy Hair of Neftoon Zamora” (St.
Martin’s). The search for a mythic musician, by former member of the
Monkees.

O’Barr, James (editor): “The Crow: Shattered Lives and Broken Dreams”
(Del Ray). Stories and essays about — and inspired by — the cult
movie.

O’Donnell, Mark: “Let Nothing You Dismay” (Knopf). From talented
comic writer, novel about holiday parties.

Patterson, James: “When the Wind Blows” (Little, Brown). Mega-thriller.

Pelevin, Victor: “A Werewolf Problem in Central Russia: And Other
Stories” (New Directions). New collection from the author of “Omon Ra.”

Sharpe, Matthew: “Stories from the Tube” (Villard). Short stories,
inspired by TV commercials.

Shelley, Mary: “Maurice, Or the Fisher’s Cot” (Knopf). Long-lost,
thus-far-unpublished story — a morality tale for children — by the author
of “Frankenstein.”

Steel, Danielle: “Mirror Image” (Delacourt). Twins and their
discontents.

Wolfe, Tom: “A Man in Full” (FSG). Long-awaited follow-up to
“Bonfire of the Vanities,” set in Atlanta.

Wright, Charles: “Appalachia” (FSG). Poems.

Alexander, Caroline: “Endurance: Shackleton’s Legendary Antarctic
Expedition” (Knopf).

Apted, Michael: “42 Up” (New Press). Based on new installment of his
documentary series.

Auster, Paul and Sophie Calle: “Double Game and the Gotham Handbook”
(DAP). Writer and artist collaboration, about New York City.

Batterberry, Michael: “On the Town in New York” (Routledge). 25th
anniversary edition of acclaimed study of American eating habits.

Baudrillard, Jean: “The Cool Provocateur” (Verso). Interviews with
the French social critic.

Beck, James: “Three Worlds of Michelangelo” (Norton). On his influences.

Bennahum, David: “Extra Life: Coming of Age in Cyberspace” (Basic).
Wired writer’s memoir.

Bennett, Tony: “The Good Life” (Pocket). Crooner’s memoir.

Betchel, John: “Harvard Observed: An Illustrated History of Harvard in
the 20th Century” (Harvard).

Blackman, Ann: “Seasons of Her Life” (Scribner). Biography of Madeleine
Albright.

Bowie, David: “21 Talk” (DAP). Rocker interviews visual artists.

Brightman, Carol: “Sweet Chaos: The Greatful Dead’s American Adventure”
(Potter). Author won NBCC award for Mary McCarthy bio.

Bugliosi, Vincent: “Final Verdict: The True Account of the Murder of
John F. Kennedy” (Norton).

Burrough, Bryan: “Dragonfly: NASA and the Crisis Aboard Mir”
(HarperCollins).

Burrows, Edwin: “Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898″ (Oxford).

Busch, Frederick: “A Dangerous Profession: Writing as Risk” (St.
Martin’s).

Canby, Vincent and Janet Maslin: “The New York Times Guide to the Best
1,000 Movies Ever Made” (Times).

Carter, Jimmy: “On Aging” (Ballantine/Library of Contemporary Thought
series).

Ceruzzi, Paul: “A History of Modern Computing” (MIT).

Cher: “The First Time” (Simon & Schuster). Memoir; Chastity Bono’s
memoir was published last month.

Cohen, Anthony Michael: “The Underground Railroad: A Personal Journey
Through History” (Hyperion). Black historian retraces trail.

Cook, Anne Mariah: “Running North: A Yukon Adventure” (Algonquin).
On dogsled trek.

Daniels, Les: “Superman: The Complete History” (Chronicle).

Davis, Ossie and Ruby Dee: “With Ossie and Ruby: In This Life Together”
(Morrow). Marks their 50th wedding anniversary.

Dawkins, Richard: “Unweaving the Rainbow: Science, Delusion and the
Appetite for Wonder” (Houghton Mifflin). By Oxford professor.

Derber, Charles: “Corporation Nation” (St. Martin’s). How Americans
are losing control to a “hidden government” — corporations.

Diamant, Anita: “Saying Kaddish: How to Comfort the Dying, Bury the Dead and Mourn As a Jew” (Schocken).

Doonan, Simon: “Confessions of a Window Dresser: Tales from a Life in
Fashion” (Viking).

Downs, Linda: “Diego Rivera: The Detroit Industry Murals” (Norton).

Dozier, Rush: “Fear Itself” (St. Martin’s). On origin and nature of
fear.

Du Plessix Gray, Francine: “At Home with the Marquis de Sade” (Simon &
Schuster). Bio.

Edmunds, Lowell: “Martini, Straight Up: The Classic American Cocktail”
(Johns Hopkins University).

Fenton, James: “Leonardo’s Nephew: Essays in the History of Art and
Artists” (FSG). New York Review of Books contributor.

Fernandez, Alina: “Not in My Father’s House” (St. Martin’s). Memoir
by Fidel Castro’s daughter; now lives in U.S.

Ferraro, Geraldine: “Framing a Life: A Family Memoir” (Scribner).
Politician, on four generations of her family.

Follain, John: “Jackal: The Complete Story of the Legendary Terrorist,
Carlos the Jackal” (Arcade).

Franklin, Lynn: “May the Circle Be Unbroken: An Intimate Journey into
the Heart of Adoption” (Harmony).

Gabler, Neal: “Life the Movie: How Entertainment Conquered Reality”
(Knopf).

Gallagher, Nora: “Things Seen and Unseen: A Year Lived in Faith”
(Knopf). Writer spends year with church in Santa Barbara.

Gibson, Ian: “The Shameful Life of Salvador Dali” (Norton). His
greed, ambivalence toward fascism, etc.

Gottfried, Martin: “Balancing Act: Bio of Angela Lansbury” (Little,
Brown).

Greider, William: “Fortress America: The American Military and the
Consequences of Peace” (Public Affairs).

Gussow, Adam: “Mister Satan’s Apprentice: A Blues Memoir” (Pantheon).

Heimel, Cynthia: “The Call of the Wild Girl: Crucial New Sex Tips”
(Simon & Schuster).

Holden, Anthony: “Charles at Fifty” (Random House). On Prince Charles.

Holmes, Larry: “Larry Holmes: Against the Odds” (St. Martin’s).
Boxer’s memoir.

Horwitz, Richard: “Hog Ties: Pigs, Manure, and Mortality in American
Culture” (St. Martin’s). Author is American Studies professor.

Hughes, Robert: “On Fishing” (Ballantine/Library of Contemporary Thought
series). Time magazine’s art critic.

Ignatieff, Michael: “Isaiah Berlin: A Life” (Metropolitan). Based on
tape recorded conversations during last 10 years of Berlin’s life.

Jones, Nancy: “Nashville Wives: Intimate Interviews with the Wives of
Today’s Country Superstars” (Cliff St./HarperCollins).

Jones, Stephen: “Others Unknown: The Oklahoma City Bombing Conspiracy”
(Public Affairs). By Timothy McVeigh’s lawyer.

Kalins, Dorothy (editor): “Saveur Cooks Authentic American” (Chronicle).

Karpin, Michael: “Murder in the Name of God: The Plot to Kill Yitzhak
Rabin” (Holt).

Kempton, Murray: “Part of Our Time: Some Ruins and Monuments of the
Thirties” (Modern Library). Intro by David Remnick.

Kennedy, Diana: “My Mexico: Half a Lifetime of Culinary Adventures”
(Clarkson/Potter). Famed cook’s autobiography, recipes.

Kingsbury, Paul: “The Encyclopedia of Country Music” (Oxford).

Kirsch, Jonathan: “Moses: A Life” (Ballantine).

Klemperer, Victor: “I Will Bear Witness: A Diary of the Nazi Years,
1933-1941″ (Random House). From a professor of French literature at
Dresden University and a veteran of World War II.

Krebs, Peter: “Red Hook: Beer Pioneer” (Four Walls). Story of indie
brewery.

Leaming, Barbara: “Marilyn Monroe” (Crown).

Lopate, Phillip: “Totally, Tenderly, Tragically: Essays and Criticism from a Lifelong Love Affair with the Movies” (Anchor).

Lovell, Mary S.: “A Rage to Live: A Biography of Richard and Isabel
Burton” (Norton).

Lynch, David: “Lynch on Lynch” (Faber). Interviews with director.

Magnusenzensberger, Hans: “Zig Zag: The Politics of Culture and Vice
Versa” (New Press). Essays by German social critic.

Marnham, Patrick: “Dreaming with His Eyes Open: The Life of Diego
Rivera” (Knopf).

Marwick, Arthur: “The Sixties: Cultural Revolution in Britain, France,
Italy and the United States, 1958-1974″ (Oxford). British historian.

McDougal, Dennis: “The Last Mogul: Lew Wasserman, MCA, and the Hidden
History of Hollywood” (Crown).

Miles, Barry: “Jack Kerouac: King of the Beats” (Holt).

Milosz, Czeslaw: “Road-Side Dog” (FSG). Essays, poems, parables.

Moeller, Susan: “Compassion Fatigue: How the Media Sell Disease, Famine,
War and Death” (Routledge).

Moravec, Hans: “Robot: Mere Machine to Transcendent Mind” (Oxford).

Mort, Jo-Ann (editor): “Not Your Father’s Union Movement: Inside the
AFL-CIO” (Verso).

Musil, Robert: “Diaries” (Basic). From author of “Man Without Qualities.”

Nachman, Gerald: “Raised on Radio” (Pantheon). History of radio.

Neville-Sington, Pamela: “Fanny Trollope: The Life and Adventures of a
Clever Woman” (Viking).

Newman, Paul: “Newman’s Own Cookbook” (Simon & Schuster).

Nobokov, Dominique: “New York Living Rooms” (Overlook). Photos, with
intro by James Fenton.

Olalquiaga, Celeste: “The Artificial Kingdom: A Treasury of the Kitsch
Experience” (Pantheon). On theory and practice of kitsch.

Ortega, Bob: “In Sam We Trust: The Untold Story of Sam Walton and How
Wal-Mart is Devouring America” (Times).

Patterson, Orlando: “Rituals of Blood: Redefining the Color Line in
Modern America” (Counterpoint). Harvard professor.

Paternostro, Silvana: “In the Land of God and Man: Confronting Our
Sexual Culture” (Dutton). Analysis of Latin American culture.

Paulos, John Allen: “Once Upon a Number: A Mathematician Bridges Stories
and Statistics” (Basic). On link between narrative and numbers.

Preston, Diana: “A First-Rate Tragedy: Robert Falcon Scott and the Race
for the South Pole” (Houghton Mifflin).

Rabe, John: “The Good Man of Nanking: The Diaries of John Rabe”
(Knopf). Author now known as “the Oskar Schindler of Nanking.”

Remnick, David: “King of the World: The Creation of Muhammad Ali”
(Random House). New editor of the New Yorker, on boxer’s early days.

Romano, Ray: “Everything and a Kite” (Bantam). Star of sitcom
“Everybody Loves Rymond.”

Rosengarten, David: “Taste: One Palate’s Journey Through the World’s
Greatest Dishes” (Random House).

Rymer, Russ: “American Beach: A Saga of Race, Wealth and Memory”
(HarperCollins). Race relations, as seen through a Florida town that is
America’s first black seaside resort

Saffian, Sarah: “Ithaka: A Daughter’s Memoir of Being Found”
(Basic). Young author was tracked down by her biological parents.

Sanders, Deion: “Power, Money & Sex: How Success Almost Ruined My Life”
(Word). Athlete on shedding his wicked ways.

Sanders, Larry: “Confessions of a Late-Night Talk-Show Host: The
Autobiography of Larry Sanders” (S&S).

Santiago, Esmerelda (editor): “Las Christmas: Favorite Latino Authors
Share Their Holiday Memories” (Knopf).

Scovell, Jane: “Oona: Living in the Shadows” (Warner). Bio of
daughter of Eugene O’Neill, wife of Charlie Chaplin.

Sennett, Richard: “The Corrosion of Character: The Personal Consequences
of Work in the New Capitalism” (Norton).

Seward, Desmond: “Caravaggio: A Passionate Life” (Morrow).

Sikov, Ed: “On Sunset Boulevard: The Life and Times of Billy Wilder”
(Hyperion).

Sis, Peter: “Tibet: Through the Red Box” (FSG). Son’s portrait of father’s life in 1950s Tibet.

Sokal, Alan: “Fashionable Nonsense: Postmodern Philosophers’ Abuse of
Science” (Picador USA). Debunking Lacan, Virilio, etc.

Sperber, Murray: “Onward to Victory: The Creation of Modern College
Sports” (Holt).

Spurling, Hilary: “The Unknown Matisse” (Knopf). Biography.

Steadman, Ralph: “Gonzo the Art” (Harcourt Brace). Career retrospective.

Vendler, Helen: “Seamus Heaney” (Harvard). Close readings of Nobel
laureate’s poems.

Von Furstenberg, Diane: “A Signature Life: My Adventures in Fashion,
Business and Life” (Simon & Schuster).

Waldron, Ann: “Eudora: A Writer’s Life” (Doubleday). Biography of
Eudora Welty.

Walcott, Derek: “What the Twilight Says” (FSG). Essays.

Wallach, Janet: “Chanel: Her Style and Her Life” (Doubleday).

Watson, Steven: “Prepare for Saints: Gertrude Stein, Virgil Thompson,
and the Mainstreaming of American Modernism” (Random House).

Weaver, Mary Anne: “A Portrait of Egypt: A Journey Through the World of
Militant Islam” (FSG).

Winfrey, Oprah: “Journey to Beloved” (Hyperion). On making of film
version of Toni Morrison’s novel.

Here are the October books that captured our fancies. Before you dig in,
keep in mind that publication dates are notoriously shifty — a book that’s
promised in September often doesn’t arrive until December, or sometimes
until the following March. Titles, too, often change in the months prior to
publication.

O C T O B E R _ F I C T I O N :

Anderson, Scott: “Triage” (Scribner). First novel, about war
photographer’s recovery from severe head injury — film rights sold to
Paramount.

Baer, Will Christopher: “Kiss Me, Judas” (Viking). First novel, noir
thriller about ex-cop just released from psych hospital.

Berry, Wendell: “The Selected Poems” (Counterpoint).

Boyd, William: “Armadillo” (Knopf). Dark comedy about British
insurance adjuster whose life unravels, spectacularly.

Brown, Charles Brockden: “Three Gothic Novels” (Library of
America/Viking).

Chang, Lan Samantha: “Hunger” (Norton). A novella and short stories,
from heralded young writer, about Chinese immigrants in U.S.

Gilchrist, Ellen: “Flights of Angels” (Little, Brown). 18 eccentric
stories, set mostly in the South.

Gunesekera, Romesh: “The Sandglass” (New Press). Feuding families in
Sri Lanka, acclaimed in U.K.

Harrison, Jim: “The Road Home” (Atlantic Monthly). Continues story
of “Dalva,” spans three generations.

Heaney, Seamus: “Opened Ground: Poems 1966-1996″ (FSG). From the
Nobel laureate.

Haley, Alex: “Mama Flora’s Family” (Scribner). Haley’s last book,
completed by a screenwriter. Will be CBS miniseries epic set in Tennessee.

Hawley, Ellen: “Trip Sheets” (Milkweed). Strong first novel about
young female cab driver and her decision to stop sleeping with men.

Havazelet, Ehud: “Like Never Before” (FSG). Linked stories, three
generations of Jews (some Orthodox); great advance word.

Hill, Mars: “The Moaner’s Bench” (HarperFlamingo). African-American
boy’s coming of age in Depression-era South.

Houston, Pam: “Waltzing the Cat” (Norton). Author of “Cowboys Are My
Weakness,” on a woman who’s prone to disaster.

Isaacs, Susan: “Red, White and Blue” (HarperCollins). “Strangers
drawn together by ugly crime.”

Kihn, Greg: “Big Rock Beat” (Forge). The former rocker’s new novel
is about a B-movie director who makes a rock film.

Kincaid, Nanci: “Balls” (Algonquin). Inside the mind of a college
football coach.

Krysl, Marilyn: “How to Accommodate Men” (Coffee House). Stories.

Lehrer, Jim: “Purple Dots” (Random House). Political novel about CIA
nominee, from PBS news reader.

Mantel, Hilary: “The Giant, O’Brien” (Holt). Giant in 18th century
London.

Merwin, W.S.: “The Folding Cliffs: A Narrative in Verse” (Knopf).
Epic about leprosy in 19th century Hawaii.

Minot, Susan: “Evening” (Knopf). Dying woman relives life and love
affairs, from author of “Monkeys” and “Folly.”

Modern Library: First installment of the “Best 100 Novels of the 20th
Century” paperback series: Samuel Butler, “The Way of All Flesh”; Jack
London, “The Call of the Wild”; Booth Tarkington, “The Magnificent
Ambersons”; Joseph Conrad, “The Secret Agent”; Max Beerbohm, “Zuleka
Dobson.”

Mosely, Walter: “Blue Light” (Little, Brown). In a departure for
Mosely, this is a sci-fi-ish novel about characters in 1960s San Francisco
whose DNA “quickens.”

O’Brien, Patrick: “The Hundred Days” (Norton). Nautical adventure;
the title refers to Napoleon’s escape from Elba and brief return to power.

Packer, George: “Central Square” (Graywolf). African man in Boston.

Parks, Tim: “Europa” (Arcade). Shortlisted for ’97 Booker Prize,
about a middle-aged academic and his grim romantic life.

Pietryzk, Leslie: “Pears on a Willow Tree” (Bard). Tangled
relationships in Polish-American family.

Restrepo, Laura: “The Angel of Galilea” (Crown). Reporter delves
into religious hallucinations; praise from Gárcia-Márquez.

Rettenmund, Matthew: “Blind Items” (St. Martin’s). Travails of a gay
magazine editor in NYC.

Rice, Anne: “The Vampire Armand” (Knopf). Revives character who died
in “Memnoch the Devil.”

Roth, Philip: “I Married a Communist” (Houghton Mifflin). Radio
actor brought down during McCarthy era, with echoes of writer’s
relationship with actress Claire Bloom.

Robotham, Rosemarie: “Zacharey’s Wings” (Scribner). From Essence
magazine editor.

Salter, James: “The Arm of Flesh” (Counterpoint). Reissue of long
out-of-print novel.

Schine, Cathleen: “The Evolution of Jane” (Houghton Mifflin). Lost
friendship between two women, rekindled on trip to Galapagos.

Slim, Iceberg: “Doom Fox” (Grove). Ghetto farce from late author.

Solzhenitsyn, Aleksandr: “November 1916: The Second Knot of the Red
Wheel” (FSG). First U.S. publication.

Stark, Marisa Kantor: “Bring Us the Old People” (Coffee House). From
turn-of-century Poland to NYC nursing home; praise from Russell Banks.

Thompson, Hunter S.: “The Rum Diary” (Simon & Schuster). His
long-buried novel, about a journalist in the tropics.

Tyree, Omar: “Single Mom” (Simon & Schuster). A self-made black
businesswoman raises kids solo, meets new man.

Updike, John: “Bech at Bay” (Knopf). Return of Updike’s Jewish
alter-ego; includes funny sniping at critics.

Walker, Alice: “By the Light of My Father’s Smile” (Random House).

Weldon, Fay: “Big Girls Don’t Cry” (Atlantic Monthly). Early days of
feminism, seen through lives of four Londoners in 1970s.

Welty, Eudora: “Stories, Essays, and Memoir” (Library of
America/Viking). For people who don’t know how the e-mail program got
its name.

Welty, Eudora: “Complete Novels” (Library of America/Viking).

O C T O B E R _ N O N F I C T I O N :

Adams, Scott: “The Joy of Work: How to Find Happiness at the Expense of
Your Co-Workers” (HarperBusiness). Dilbert guy — on pranks, etc.

Avedon, Richard: “Versace: The Naked and the Dressed” (Random
House). Photographs.

Bagemihl, Bruce: “Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuality and
Natural Diversity” (St. Martin’s). Yep, animals are often gay.

Baldwin, Neil: “Legends of the Plumed Serpent: Biography of a Mexican
God” (Public Affairs). On myth of Quetzalcoatl.

Barry, Dave: “Dave Barry Turns 50″ (Crown).

Bazell, Robert: “Her-2: The Making of a Revolutionary Treatment for
Breast Cancer” (Random House).

de Beauvoir, Simone: “A Transatlantic Love Affair: Simone de Beauvoir’s
Letters to Nelson Algren” (New Press).

Bergner, Daniel: “God of the Rodeo: The Search for Hope, Faith, and a
Six-Second Ride in Louisiana’s Angola Prison” (Crown).

Berlin, Ira (editor): “Remembering Slavery” (New Press). Based on
only known taped interviews with former slaves.

Bird, Kai: “The Color of Truth: McGeorge and William Bundy: Brothers in
Arms” (Simon & Schuster).

Bly, Robert with Marion Woodman: “The Maiden King: The Triumph of the
Feminine” (Holt). “Reuniting masculine and feminine.”

Bloom, Harold: “Shakespeare: The Invention of the Human”
(Riverhead). Sweeping and oddly moving — maybe Bloom’s best.

Bono, Chastity: “Family Outing” (Little, Brown). Sonny & Cher’s spawn.

Bradley, Bill: “Values of the Game” (Artisan). Essays on basketball.

Branson, Richard: “Losing My Virginity: How I’ve Had Fun and Made a
Fortune Doing Business My Way” (Times).

Brown, Lyn Mikel: “Raising Their Voices: The Politics of Girl’s Anger”
(Harvard).

Burleigh, Nina: “A Very Private Woman: The Life and Unresolved Murder of
Presidential Mistress Mary Meyer” (Bantam). From writer who played
“footsies” with Clinton on Air Force One, account of JFK mistress.

Burns, Bobby: “Shelter: One Man’s Journey from Homelessness to Hope”
(Univ. of Arizona).

Burrows, William E.: “This New Ocean: A History of the First Space Age”
(Random House).

Carson, Rachel: “Lost Woods: The Discovered Writings of Rachel Carson”
(Beacon).

Chase, John: “Glitter, Stucco & Dumpster Diving: Reflections on Building
Production in the Vernacular City” (Verso). On California architecture.

Colbert, David (editor): “Eyewitness to the American West: From the
First Explorers to the New Age Seekers” (Viking).

Collins, Judy: “Singing Lessons” (Pocket). Memoir of “healing,” with CD!

Conterio, Karen: “Bodily Harm: A Healing Program for Self-Injurers”
(Hyperion). One of several new books on this topic.

Cox, Meg: “The Heart of a Family: Searching America for New Traditions
that Fulfill Us” (Random House).

Curott, Phyllis: “Book of Shadows” (Broadway). “True story” of Ivy
League woman’s discovery of Wiccan spirituality.

Davenport, Guy: “Objects on a Table: Harmonious Display in Art and
Literature” (Counterpoint).

David, Elizabeth: “South Wind Through the Kitchen: The Best of Elizabeth
David” (North Point). Famed British food writer.

Davis, Erik: “Techgnosis: Myth, Magic and Religion in the Information
Age” (Harmony). Technopaganism.

Dominick, Andie: “Needles: A Memoir” (Scribner). Sister with diabetes.

Donoghue, Denis: “The Practice of Reading” (Yale). Literary essays.

Dornenburg, Andrew and Karen Page: “Dining Out: Secrets from America’s
Leading Critics, Chefs and Restauranteurs” (Wiley). Great gossip about
the restaurant biz; authors won James Beard award for previous book.

Drew, Bettina: “Crossing the Expendable Landscape” (Graywolf). On
America’s rootless places — Stamford, Hilton Head, etc. Praise from Robert
Stone.

Editor unknown: “Going Down: Great Writing on Oral Sex” (Chronicle).
Selections from Updike, Nin, Jong, Zappa, etc.

Ellis, Richard: “The Search for the Giant Squid” (Lyons).

Evans, Harold: “The American Century” (Knopf). In words and pix,
from former Random House head.

Fadiman, Anne: “Ex Libris: Confessions of a Common Reader” (FSG).
Author of last year’s great “The Spirit Catches You and You Fall Down.”

Feinberg, Leslie: “Trans Liberation: Beyond Pink or Blue” (Beacon).
Gender studies.

Foner, Eric: “The Story of American Freedom” (Norton). History of U.S.

Fradkin, Philip: “Magnitude 8: Life Along San Andreas Fault” (Holt).

French, Marilyn: “A Season in Hell: A Memoir” (Knopf). An angry rant
about surviving esophageal cancer.

Gay, Peter: “My German Question: Growing Up in Nazi Berlin” (Yale).
Freud biographer.

Gehr, Richard: “The Phish Book” (Villard). Trippy band bio, from
Salon contributor.

Geller, Judith: “Titanic: Women and Children First” (Norton). Billed
as first book to “commemorate women & children on board the ship.”

George, Nelson: “Hip-Hop America” (Viking). Our debt to the black Gen X.

Goody, Jack: “Food and Love: A Cultural History of East and West”
(Verso).

Gould, Stephen Jay: “Leonardo’s Mountain of Clams and the Diet of Worms”
(Harmony). Essays.

Hamill, Pete: “Why Sinatra Matters” (Little, Brown). Hamill knew
Sinatra; book described as “not fawning.”

Hickam, Homer: “Rocket Boys” (Delacourt). Memoir of W.Va. youth, from
retired NASA engineer; movie rights to Universal.

Hillis, Daniel: “The Pattern on the Stone: The Simple Ideas That Make
Computers Work” (Basic). From head of Disney’s Imagineering Works.

Hoffman, Donald D.: “Visual Intelligence: How We Create What We See”
(Norton). From UC-Irvine prof.

Humphrey, Derek: “Freedom to Die: People, Politics and the Right to Die
Movement” (St. Martin’s). “Final Exit” author, with co-writer.

Johnstone, Bob: “We Were Burning: Japanese Entrepreneurs and the
Electronic Revolution” (Basic). Wired writer.

Jordan, Michael: “For the Love of the Game: My Story” (Crown).
Autobiography of basketball hero.

Kaufman, Margo: “Clara, The Early Years: The Story of the Pug Who Ruled
My Life” (Villard). Author is “Hollywood correspondent” for Pug Talk
magazine.

Klein, Edward: “Just Jackie: Her Private Years” (Ballantine).

Klemperer, Victor: “I Will Bear Witness: The Diaries of Victor
Klemperer, 1934-1941″ (Random House). WWII journals.

Lambert, Craig: “Mind Over Water: Lessons of Life from the Art of
Rowing” (Houghton Mifflin). Author is staff writer for Harvard
magazine.

Landro, Laura: “Survivor: My Fight Against Leukemia” (Simon &
Schuster). Wall Street Journal editor.

Leaming, Barbara: “Marilyn Monroe: A Biography” (Crown).

Lehman, David: “The Last Avant-Guard: The Making of the New York School
of Poets” (Doubleday).

Levy, Naomi: “To Begin Again” (Knopf). Memoir by that rarity, a
female rabbi.

Lewis, Charles: “The Buying of the Congress” (Avon). How special
interests have screwed democracy, by former “60 Minutes” producer.

Library of America: “Reporting Vietnam: American Journalism,
1959-1975″ (Viking). Two-volume anthology.

Loewenstien, Dora (editor): “The Rolling Stones: A Life on the Road”
(Viking).

Lopate, Phillip (editor): “Writing New York: A Literary Anthology”
(Library of America/Viking).

Lorenz, Lee: “The World of William Steig” (Artisan). New Yorker artist.

Madigan, Carol (editor): “When They Were Kids” (Times).
Childhood stories of 400 or so famous people.

Marsh, Robert C.: “Dialogues and Discoveries: James Levine: His Life and
Music” (Scribner).

Massing, Michael: “The Fix: Solving the Nation’s Drug Problem” (Simon &
Schuster). Author is contributor to the New York Review of Books and a
MacArthur fellow. Argument in a nutshell: Nixon had great drug policy.
Who knew?

Masumoto, David Mas: “Harvest Son: Planting Roots in American Soil”
(Norton). Japanese-American farmer’s meditation on land, family.

Mawson, Douglas: “The Home of the Blizzard” (St. Martin’s). True
story of Antarctic derring-do, originally published in 1915.

Mayer, Henry: “All on Fire: William Lloyd Garrison and the Abolition of
American Slavery” (St. Martin’s).

McBrien, William: “Cole Porter: A Biography” (Knopf). Good advance word.

McClanahan, Ed: “My Vita, If You Will” (Counterpoint). Stories and
journalism from Southern writer, former Merry Prankster.

McElheny, Victor: “Insisting on the Impossible: The Life of Edward Land”
(Perseus). Founder of Polaroid.

McGrath, Chip (editor): “Books of the Century” (Times). Collection
of important reviews from New York Times Book Review editors.

Michaelis, David: “N.C. Wyeth: A Biography” (Knopf). Andrew’s
larger-than-life father, who died in a mysterious car accident.

Miller, Alice: “Paths of Life: Seven Scenarios” (Pantheon). How we
become who we are.

Morris, Edmund: “Dutch: A Memoir of Ronald Reagan” (Random House).
Unusual-looking book by Reagan’s official biographer.

O’Brien, Timothy: “Bad Bet: The Inside Story of the Glamour, Glitz and
Danger of America’s Gambling Industry” (Times Business).

O’Toole, Fintan: “A Traitor’s Kiss: The Life of Richard Brinsley
Sheridan, 1751-1816″ (FSG). Bio of dramatist and politician, by smart
drama critic.

Page, Tim: “Dawn Powell: A Biography” (Holt). Bio of recently
rediscovered NYC novelist, by Washington Post classical music critic.

Panek, Richard: “Seeing and Believing” (Viking). History of the
telescope.

Pantaeva, Irina: “Siberian Dream” (Bard). Memoir, from childhood in
remote Siberian town to success as Asian supermodel!

Phillips, Anita: “In Defense of Masochism” (St. Martin’s). Writer
is editor of literary journal called “Interstice.”

Pritchard, David: “The Beatles: An Oral History” (Hyperion).

Puttnam, David: “Movies and Money” (Knopf). From former head of
Columbia Pictures; about history of Hollywood and commerce.

Ragas, Meg Cohen: “Read My Lips: A Cultural History of Lipstick”
(Chronicle).

Ramsland, Katherine: “Piercing the Darkness: Undercover with Vampires in
America Today” (HarperPrism). Borderline gonzo journalist and Anne Rice
biographer on the U.S. vampire cult.

Renquist, William H.: “All the Laws But One: Civil Liberties in Wartime”
(Knopf). Supreme Court justice autobiography.

Rich, Frank: “Hot Seat: Theater Criticism for the New York Times,
1980-93″ (Random House). Curtain call for the Butcher of Broadway.

Ridgeway, Rick: “The Shadow of Kilimanjaro: On Foot Across East Africa”
(Holt).

Rohm, Wendy: “The Microsoft File: The Secret Case Against Bill Gates”
(Times).

Rolling Stone (editors): “The Seventies” (Little, Brown).
History of decade.

Roszak, Theodore: “America the Wise: Longetivity and the Culture of
Compassion” (Houghton Mifflin). On the unsung resources of the aging.

Roth, Michael (editor): “Freud: Conflict and Culture” (Knopf).
Essays on occasion of Library of Congress exhibition.

Siegel, Bernie: “Prescription for Living” (HarperCollins).
Inspiration for “joyful life.”

Sgubin, Marta: “Cooking for Madam” (Scribner). Jackie O’s chef, recipes.

Smith, Lissa (editor): “Nike is a Goddess: The History of Women in
Sports” (Atlantic Monthly). Essay collection.

Smith, Patricia and Charles Johnson: “Africans in America: America’s
Journey Through Slavery” (Harcourt Brace). Companion to PBS series;
this is the same Patricia Smith who was recently fired from Boston Globe.

Solotaroff, Ted: “Truth Comes in Blows” (Norton). Memoir about
writer and his overbearing writer father.

Soyinka, Wole: “The Burden of Memory, the Muse of Forgiveness”
(Oxford). On contemporary Africa.

Spoto, Donald: “The Hidden Jesus” (St. Martin’s). Bio.

Steele, Shelby: “A Dream Deferred: A Second Betrayal of Black Freedom in
America” (HarperCollins). How 1960s activism wanted to assuage liberal
guilt, not cure genuine racial divides.

Steinhardt, Arnold: “Indivisible By Four: A String Quartet in Search of
Harmony” (FSG). On Guarneri Quartet.

Strong, Marilee: “A Bright Red Scream: Self-Mutilation and the Language
of Pain” (Viking). Why people cut themselves up.

Strumpf, Bill: “The Ice Palace That Melted Away: Restoring Civility and
Other Lost Virtues” (Pantheon). On evils of techno-culture.

Stuart, Sarah Payne: “My First Cousin Once Removed: Money, Madness, and
the Family of Robert Lowell” (HarperCollins). On poet’s crack-up,
billed as somewhat humorous.

Sullivan, Andrew: “Love Undetectable: Notes on Friendship, Sex and
Survival” (Knopf). After AIDS, from former New Republic editor.

Theroux, Paul: “Sir Vidia’s Shadow: A Friendship Across Five Continents”
(Houghton Mifflin). How to end a friendship with V.S. Naipaul.

Wasler, Robert: “Keeping Time: Readings in Jazz History” (Oxford).

Waterfield, Robin: “Prophet: The Life and Times of Kahlil Gibran” (St.
Martin’s).

Watkins, Elizabeth: “On the Pill: A Social History of Oral
Contraceptives, 1950-1970″ (Johns Hopkins).

Williams, Juan: “Thurgood Marshall: American Revolutionary” (Times).

Wills, Christopher: “Children of Prometheus: The Accelerating Pace of
Human Evolution” (Perseus).

Yau, John (editor): “Fetish” (Four Walls, Eight Windows). Essays,
Bukowski to Lethem

Zimmerman, Robert: “Genesis: The Story of Apollo 8, the First Manned
Flight to Another World” (Four Walls, Eight Windows).

To read “Birds of America” is to plug yourself into that kind of electric current. Moore’s crackling wit and exacting eye make her America’s sexiest writer; she seems incapable of putting a dull sentence to paper. What makes her one of America’s most important writers, however, is the way her comedy bubbles up — the way it does so often in life — through discomfort, tragedy, awkwardness and loss.

Moore’s gifts were apparent from her first story collection, “Self-Help” (1985), a book she wrote while enrolled in the Cornell M.F.A. program. She has since published two novels, “Anagrams” (1986) and “Who Will Run the Frog Hospital” (1994), plus another story collection, “Like Life” (1990). Since 1984 she has taught creative writing at the University of Wisconsin campus in Madison — she is now a full professor of English — where she lives with her husband, Mark, a lawyer, and their 4-year-old son, Benjamin.

Moore, 41, has long been disinclined to talk about her private life (“I’m just a very boring, not very funny person,” she says, lying). But at least one story in “Birds of America,” “People Like That Are the Only People Here,” hints at an ordeal her family recently endured. First published in the New Yorker, the story is about a young boy who’s been diagnosed with kidney cancer. Moore acknowledges a slight autobiographical element in the story but says she was not writing a memoir. “It was fiction … Things did not happen exactly that way; I re-imagined everything. And that’s what fiction does. Fiction can come from real-life events and still be fiction.”

Moore spoke with Salon about that story and many other subjects — the perils of academic satire, the difficulties of writing while child rearing, why she’s fearing her upcoming trip to the U.K. — in the New York offices of Knopf, her publisher.

How did all the bird imagery fly into these stories — was it planned, or did you just realize at some point that the images had collected?

It’s the latter. It was something I noticed as I was completing the last two stories. And then when I went back and read all the way through, every single story had the word bird in it, for some reason. Sometimes it’s actual birds, sometimes metaphorical birds. I was a little worried about birds as in the British slang “birds.” But it’s there for the taking, I guess.

That never occurred to me — the British usage.

Birds as women. I guess it’s on my mind because I have to go to England in two weeks. And that’s what they think in England, that this is Women of America. “Birds of America.” When I was finishing up [the story] “What You Want To Do Fine,” especially when they go to the Audubon Museum and there’s a mention of how Audubon killed his birds and propped them up in his study and painted them, at that point I was thinking I might consider calling the whole book “Birds of America.” Not thinking of the Mary McCarthy novel [which is also titled "Birds of America"] at all. But thinking of the Audubon book, which is “Birds of North America.” I took the north out; it just rhythmically wasn’t right. But it’s meant to refer to the Audubon book.

What are the rules, or the etiquette, on publishing a book with the same title as an earlier book?

Titles aren’t copyrightable. My joke answer, when people ask me about this title, is: “Well, it was either ‘Birds of America’ or ‘The Group.’” Because some people have made too much of the Mary McCarthy thing.

I haven’t read her “Birds of America” — what is that book?

It’s out of print. You know, frankly, I haven’t read it either. It’s not one of her most famous books; apparently it’s not even one of her best. And so I went ahead and named the book despite the fact that there was another work of fiction with the title. There are lots of books that have the same titles. I think? Right? Aren’t there are a lot of “Lives of the Saints”? And aren’t there a couple of “Continental Drifts”? My very first book of stories also had the same title as a famous 19th-century book, “Self Help.” Samuel Smiles. That doesn’t really qualify as a pattern, but obviously titles are there to refer to each other.

You’re a professor of English who likes to poke fun at academia. In this collection a character describes academic publishing as “a big Circle Jerk”; another deplores the use of the word “text”; another calls theory “the vocabulary of arson.” Does this land you in hot water with your colleagues?

Besides the hate mail and the low salary? No, everything’s fine. Academics, of course, are the first to satirize academia.

All of them?

Well, a lot of them are, I think. Academic life, I suppose, is already in a condition of satire, pre-satire, or something. Most people in English departments read Alison Lurie and David Lodge, and they love that kind of academic novel that’s done lightly and sharply. And so I haven’t been nervous about that until just now. You’ve made me nervous. [Laughs] But who knows? There’s another issue about writers among any group of people. People get nervous. “Ooh, there’s a writer.” It’s like having a photographer in the group or something. You just don’t know what they’re taking in, what’s going to happen, how it’s going to show up.

In a similar vein, there’s a story in “Birds of America” that satirizes Wisconsin’s aging lefties. That group must see you as a spy, too.

Who knows? That story is called “Community Life,” and it has a character in it who couldn’t ever, in a literal way, exist. Someone who was a radical bomber who is suddenly running a campaign, a platform for which includes tort reform. But you know, the work of a writer is never sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce; one will offend. I offended people, I just learned, at the local hospital with the story “People Like That Are the Only People Here.” I got mail from other hospitals praising the same story from doctors and nurses and patient advocacy groups. But the local hospital apparently felt quite accused.

What made them feel that way?

I don’t know. This came to me sort of secondhand. My feeling is just that nobody likes to feel as if they’re being criticized. Obviously in fiction, the idea is not to refer to the world but to take from the world. You use it to make this other thing that incorporates and embodies the world. But it’s not meant like journalism is meant, to refer to something out there and to direct your attention to something out there. Nonetheless, obviously, people read more journalism than fiction, so when they read fiction they feel it might be doing the same thing that journalism is doing, like “look at over here, at us or at them.” So it makes people nervous. What can you do? Every fiction writer knows this feeling and has had some experience with it.

Well, maybe more so with that story, which seemed to straddle the line between fiction and nonfiction.

No, it didn’t straddle a line. It was fiction. It is autobiographical, but it’s not straddling a line. Things did not happen exactly that way; I re-imagined everything. And that’s what fiction does. Fiction can come from real-life events and still be fiction. It can still have that connection, that germ. It came from something that happened to you. That doesn’t mean it’s straddling a line between nonfiction and fiction. And the whole narrative strategy is obviously fictional. It’s not a nonfiction narrative strategy.

I think I got the impression that the story — which is about a writer not unlike yourself whose young son has cancer — was autobiographical from the New Yorker. When they ran it, didn’t they more or less bill it as nonfiction?

No, it was always a story. The way the New Yorker originally published it, they may not have emphasized that. They may have been trying to emphasize the autobiographical element there. The story itself talks about that; in the course of its narrative it talks about itself as an autobiographical piece, so I didn’t feel that it needed all that other apparatus of the layout.

Did it surprise you, the way the New Yorker played it?

I was in an airport when I first saw it. I picked it up off the stand and looked at it, and I put it back on the stand and then dashed for my plane. But you know, those are the hazards of publishing short stories, that things get published in ways that you might not have done yourself. But you have to trust magazines and you have to try to expect that it’s not going to be perfect. Frankly, I don’t think a commercial magazine other than the New Yorker would have published it at all.

There’s a moment in that story where the husband says to his wife, the writer, something like, “Isn’t this just like something out of your fiction?” Did you ever feel that way during this experience with your child?

Oh, no. The life event that gave birth to this story, I did not recognize anywhere from anything. I had no equipment or familiarity, mental or psychological equipment or experience with this. So it felt completely unfamiliar in every way. The character in that story is a teacher and a writer because I was interested in the absurdities that would be particular to someone who was a writer and a teacher. I made the character a writer and a teacher because some of the things I was interested in including in the story could only have been experienced by someone who was a writer and a teacher.

I assume the character spoke for you a bit when she said that she hates “the whole memoir thing”?

I just had her say that. That’s not true to how I feel. If you want to talk about memoirs, I have some opinions. But hatred is not one of them. I had her say that as part of a conversation.

But no one should hold their breath for a memoir from you anytime soon?

Oh, no. Oh, no. No.

We were talking a moment ago about your satire of academia and I was wondering if you ever went through a theory-head stage.

Well, you know, I’m familiar with it. I never got really completely immersed. I was at Cornell where Jonathan Culler is, and where Derrida was a visiting professor for a bit, and so it was really very much, you know, in the corridors and in the conversation at Cornell. And as writers we couldn’t stay away from it because the writing program was so tiny that we were part of this English department. It wasn’t like Iowa where all you know is writers. We hung out with all the other graduate students who were clearly immersed in theory. I did take a couple of courses and read the books and I did find it interesting initially. Although the complete removal of the author from every single text was always a little alarming to me. You know, going back home and trying to write your own. On the other hand I thought it was a useful way of talking about work too, sometimes. And sometimes I thought it was a wasteful and ridiculous way depending upon which theory and which critic you’re talking about. And I think my first novel, “Anagrams,” has a little bit of that sort of jokingly running through it. The idea of shifting realities and parallel narratives and all of that. It’s a kind of cubist structure, but perhaps it owes something to a little bit of exposure to that at Cornell. But in general, I, like most writers, am not that interested in it.

Are there Lorrie Moore theorists out there? Do you come across academic writing about your work?

People don’t, by and large, send it to me. If they’re doing it I don’t know. I have received a couple of things which alarmed me a little. I’ve become such a lowbrow now that I just go through this criticism and say, “Well, did they like the book or not? I can’t tell.”

What about criticism in general — do you read your reviews?

I do. I guess I would be lying to say I never read them. There is at some point a moment where you’ve read enough. But I read whatever comes my way, by and large. Or else my husband reads it out loud, and I’ve got my hands over my ears or something. At some point my eyes glaze over.

Does it bother you when the occasional critic says, “Lorrie Moore’s too funny for her own good”?

I don’t know, there is that prejudice against humor as somehow mucking up the seriousness of your endeavor. I don’t really quite get that. I don’t think it’s a very sympathetic opinion. But whatever, everybody’s entitled to it. I do feel that when you look out into the world, the world is funny. And people are funny. And that people always try to make each other laugh. I’ve never been to a dinner party where everyone at the dinner table didn’t say something funny. If you’re going to ignore that, what are you doing? You’re just saying that part of the world, and that part of human nature, and that particular texture and vein that runs through human discourse, doesn’t exist. And of course it exists.

Do you think humor is underrated as a literary virtue?

Oh, I don’t know. It’s certainly undervalued, obviously, by the people you’ve [just mentioned]. Do I think it’s undervalued by readers? Not really. People are so eager for it.

Is it a burden writing such funny work, in the sense that people expect you to be witty 24 hours a day?

Or I have to be depressed. You know, I’m just a very boring, not very funny person in person. I don’t feel pressured to be otherwise.

Are you as quick with smart comebacks as your characters often are — unlike most of us, who think of the perfect retort a week later?

Most of the responses you’re referring to, though, are not these sort of elegant, clever quips. Most of them come out of some sense of estrangement and awkwardness.

I would agree, but they’re still very apt.

But it’s not the thing that you would say if you could do it over again, I don’t think. I think those remarks usually embody the awkwardness and discomfort of the situation and the character instead of smoothing it over and rescuing the character — it actually kind of buries them further, I think. So, I don’t think these are really things that you would say in a perfect world.
Is it hard to be funny on the page? Is it something you labor over?

The humor is more the texture of the situation and the texture of the conversation. Which is not to say it’s not deeply tied to the heart of the story. Because it is. But the things that are harder to do are the sadder things. It’s harder to get that. Everything’s hard. But I am a sucker for silliness sometimes. And when someone says something silly to me, I find it wildly funny. So I’m often given to having my characters say completely silly things and I think this is wonderful. So I have to be careful, because silliness is another thing you have to worry about — a little goes a long way.
That humor, that silliness, is certainly tied to the darker elements in the stories. There’s that line in one of the stories about “flipping death the bird.” Is humor one of the ways the characters in the stories deal with difficult situations?

That is a classic theme in fiction — that humor is used to sort of fend off the nightmarish facts. And, of course, that’s true. That is at the center of almost all those stories. People being funny with each other is also a kind of generosity between people. And I’m interested in that, those little moments of generosity, where someone really does want to make someone laugh. Of course laugh, vis-à-vis this horrible stuff that is out there in the world that we all have to deal with. But those moments where we help each other out are interesting to me. And they’re theatrical. And some of them are possessed of great silliness, but they are connected to an impulse that is interesting to me. So, it’s also not just the awkwardness that creates the humor, but sometimes it’s generosity.

Speaking of awkwardness, two things that are almost always somewhat hellish in these stories are car trips and holidays. There’s a lot of both. What is it about them that resonates for you?

Well, it’s the obvious — people are thrown together in close proximity when in fact they don’t ordinarily live their lives that way. And so you throw these people together and all the extremes of their character really start to emerge. And in a short period of time. Because the proximity, or the propinquity, is too intense. And everybody knows that feeling of going home for the holidays, the family’s all together and these old grievances emerge so fast. Usually it’s the second day, but sometimes it’s the first.

When you start out writing about these car trips and holidays, do you know that these are going to be short stories instead of novels?

Yeah, all of these stories began as short stories. A novel’s a different project entirely. Each of these began as a short story. I wasn’t always sure how long the story would be — some of them turned out to be longer or shorter than I originally would have guessed. But they all were definitely short stories from the beginning.

I read somewhere that you’re maybe working on a novel now?

I am. “Maybe’s” the key word there. I’m trying. I’m taking notes mostly and I’ve done a couple of pages. It’s really at the beginning.

Do you have a preference? Do you find that one comes more naturally than the other? Do you try to alternate?

There has, in fact, been a kind of de facto alternation between the two that was not by design. That’s just the natural way things came. I would, of course, say that I am primarily a short story writer — I have more experience with short stories. I’ve written so many more of them than I have written novels. But I will also add, now is not the time for me to say I’m not a novelist since I’m working on a novel. So I don’t want to lose faith now. I would like to see myself as both.

Some observers have called you a “natural” short story writer, as if that was somehow your truer calling. Does that ever bother you?

No. Maybe I should be bothered. I try not to get bothered by anything that’s said like that. People have said it right to my face about my two novels, “Oh, those are novels?” And that doesn’t even bother me. So I must have a thick skin about that. My first novel, obviously, was a short novel with some stories attached to it. I was experimenting with form, which invited a lot of criticism. And then my second novel, which I had intended to be 2,000 pages long, turned out to be only 147, much to my surprise. So it would be natural for someone to say, “Oh, the short story is her natural form.” But I’m working on a novel now.

You grew up in Glens Falls, New York. Was your family bookish?

Yes. They were readers. My father was the child of academics and was probably destined to become an academic himself but vetoed that idea. Bailed, dropped out of graduate school and just went to work for an insurance company. But the house was full of books and music and all of that. And my mother has always been a reader. Both of them have been — they read nonfiction more than fiction. They weren’t ever big fiction readers, and they also didn’t read trash. They never were reading thrillers and romances; they were always serious readers, but they tended to read nonfiction, as I think most readers in the world do.

Were they encouraging about your writing?

They were admirably neutral. Which, when you have a child who says, “You know, I’m writing some short stories and I want to go to graduate school to continue this habit of writing short stories,” you have to be a little worried, I suppose. They were neither particularly encouraging, because it’s a worrisome decision, but they were never discouraging. They were just witnesses. And in many ways, after I got started, they were very pleased for me and were nice about it.

What did winning that Seventeen magazine contest mean to you?

Well, I don’t know. I got 500 dollars — I just thought I was rich. I thought I’d never get a rejection ever in my life. It was the first time I’d ever sent anything out.

They didn’t care that you were 19 and not 17 at the time?

No, you can be actually 21, I guess — even 21-year-olds have won this. And then I proceeded to send Seventeen magazine everything I ever wrote. They couldn’t get rid of me. I was like a stalker. I sent them everything, and of course they didn’t want anything more from me. I accumulated some rejections, then I got to some normal place where I thought I should think of something else to do for a living. So there was a big high and then kind of an adjustment — a “correction,” as stock market people say.

I know you lived briefly in Manhattan. Do you ever think of packing up and moving back?

No, not really. But I dream about it. I think about it as a kind of fantasy all the time.

Has having had a child made it more difficult to find time to write?

Oh yes.

How do you manage now?

I don’t know — it’s a struggle, it’s a daily struggle. I haven’t figured it out completely yet. Just when you think you have it, your child becomes a completely different sort of person and needs different things. So it’s hard. Initially, when I had a baby, and he took naps, I was pretty good at seizing that hour or two that he was napping, but now things have gotten kind of … I don’t know. So we’ll see. You have to be very careful with your time, you have to not waste it. I can’t tolerate now going to a movie that’s bad. This is two hours of babysitting time, and I’m watching a bad movie? I get too upset. Whereas I used to go to anything, I didn’t care. A bad movie, who cared? But now, I’m just tense about things, about time. There is also the issue where, when you have a child, this is the biggest love of your life. Perhaps when you were a writer and not a mother, just a writer, writing was the biggest love of your life. So now you have someone who’s competing for your emotional center … and winning. Do you have children?
I do, a 1-year-old.

So you know this.

Yeah, not as many movies, not as much reading …

But meanwhile, you’re madly in love. Exhausted, but madly in love, the way being madly in love exhausts you. It does. Two lovers in a romance stay up all night and don’t get any sleep, too. It’s the same idea, having a baby.

It seems like music has always played a large role in your fiction. Your characters are very in touch with that. How important is that to you personally?

I’m surrounded by music, I always was when I was growing up and continue to be. And I love music. And when I imagine a fictional world, I imagine there’s music in it for those people too.

Does it play a role in your writing?

I never play music when I’m writing — it would be too distracting. I’m too interested in music to have it be playing while I’m writing. On the other hand, there are always effects and emotions and internal states of ecstasy that you feel with music that in some way you’re hoping to re-create in prose. So music is an inspiration and an idea.

Do you keep current with music?

Unfortunately, I don’t. But I have students who keep me informed and tell me about all these various rock bands I’ve never heard of. But you know, Madison right now is home to the band Garbage …

They’re from Madison?

See, yeah.

I thought they were British.

No, Shirley, is that her name, Shirley Manson? She’s Scottish, but she lives in Madison now and all the other people in the band are native Madisonians. That’s as cool as I get.

There’s a question that one of the characters gets asked in “Birds of America”: If there was a gun to your head, what song would you sing?

If there was a gun to my head? I wouldn’t be able to sing at all.

Andrew Dornenburg and Karen Page’s new book, “Dining Out,” promises to deliver the dish on the restaurant world circa 1998. The authors fanned out across the country, interviewing dozens of prominent critics (Ruth Reichl, Patricia Unterman), chefs (Alice Waters, Daniel Boulud) and owners (Danny Meyer, Sirio Maccioni), and they’ve returned with a book that’s like a giant and slightly undercooked cassoulet — the tasty bits are in there, but you’ve got to work to dig them out.

“Food has become our national obsession,” the authors write, and thanks to the proliferating number of city magazines, Web sites, Zagat guides and grungy zines, there’s no escaping restaurant criticism — everywhere you turn, somebody’s pushing a steaming bowl of adjectives in your face. (Steve Forbes tosses in a few reviews at the close of his monthly columns; Consumer Reports now rates chain restaurants.) But as “Dining Out” makes clear, a handful of critics — usually those at major daily newspapers — continue to wield an almost monopolistic power. “The King of Spain is waiting in the bar,” Le Cirque owner Maccioni is reported to have said to Times critic Reichl, “but your table is ready.”

“Dining Out” is crammed with anecdotes about critics’ lives and methods, and about the lengths restaurants go to in order to spot them and, ideally, make them happy. Reichl talks about her outsize wig collection (she’s the lady in black on “Dining Out’s” cover, by the way), and the authors report that more than one restaurant has offered a reward to any employee who spots her at a table. Outside of New York, most critics say disguises aren’t necessary. As long as you make the reservation under another name, and don’t draw undue attention to yourself, there’s little chance you’ll be identified. Once a critic is spotted, Dornenburg and Page write, chefs leave little to chance — most cook two versions of everything the reviewer has ordered, and bring out the most successful plate.

Sometimes even that’s not enough. Bad reviews happen, and a particularly negative one can put a restaurant out of business. San Francisco Chronicle critic Unterman has been threatened at knife point by a disgruntled chef; Houston Sidewalk’s Alison Cook was once burned in effigy; the Philadelphia Inquirer’s Elaine Tate has had rocks hurled through her windows. You may have noticed that all of the critics mentioned thus far are women; the authors note the current predominance of women in the field, as well as the odd fact that an unusually large number of food critics are both Jewish and musically inclined. Dornenburg and Page have an eye for this kind of stray detail. One sidebar is a list of the weirdest things critics have eaten. L.A. Weekly critic Jonathan Gold’s weird list includes “braised goat penis” and, hopefully not in the same dish, “testicles of a bull that had fallen in the ring to the matador.”

As enjoyable as “Dining Out” can be to browse through, it’s a chore to read cover to cover. In lieu of a shapely narrative, the authors appear to have simply dumped out the contents of their tape recorders. A typical section begins with a few breathless questions (“Is there anyone out there who hasn’t, at some time or another, fantasized about being a restaurant critic? … And is the reality of their jobs as wonderful as our illusions?”) and ends with critic after critic giving opinions, often at numbing length. Worse is the authors’ disinclination to jump into the fray themselves. Unlike Nora Ephron in her 1968 article on “The Food Establishment,” Dornenburg and Page draw few conclusions and offer little in the way of synthesis. The pair bring fresh ingredients to the table; you’re left wishing only that “Dining Out” weren’t quite so al dente.

This month Alvarez publishes her first nonfiction book, a collection of essays titled “Something to Declare” (Algonquin). Part memoir and part how-to text for aspiring writers, it’s a lucid, light-as-a-butterfly book that pencils in the real stories behind Alvarez’s fictions. Alvarez writes here about her large, boisterous and politically active family; her difficult move to the United States and her attempts to learn a new language; her years of bouncing from teaching job to teaching job, wondering if her fiction would ever see the light of day. She also delves into deeper, more personal subjects, like her decision not to have children.

The great thing about Alvarez’s fiction has always been this: Even when she’s probing difficult themes, she doesn’t have a pretentious bone in her body. Her work is rich, funny, full of feeling. Talking to Alvarez, who is now 48 and lives with her husband on their farm in Middlebury, Vt., you feel a similar vibe — here’s a serious woman who refuses to take herself, or anything else, too seriously.

Your new essay collection is largely about cultural differences, so I have to ask: What was the deal with those drinks called engrudos that your parents forced on you and your sisters as a child?

An engrudo is what you get when you take all the food that somebody has left on their plate — and that somebody was usually me — and you mix it in with milk and maybe some chocolate powder to disguise the fact that it’s all this stuff. Then you put it in a big tall glass and the person has to drink it before they can do anything else.

Yuck!

I knew the word engrudo from my family, but when I looked it up I realized that it means gruel. Gruel, engrudo. Remember in all those horrible fairy tales, where stepmothers make little kids eat their gruel?

Was this punishment — or just a trick to get you to eat your spinach?

There was nothing appetizing about it. It was what we were threatened with if we didn’t eat our vegetables, if we didn’t eat our food. It was nothing like, “Here’s a little chocolate drink for you!” It was big and it was mighty evil looking.

A more important cultural difference between the United States and the Dominican Republic, where you were born, is the way that each culture views its writers — particularly its women writers. You’ve said that after your first novel, “How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents,” was published, your mother didn’t talk to you for several months. Why was that?

I think it was for a variety of reasons. A lot had to do with the fact that I come from a culture in which women were not encouraged to speak up. Maxine Hong Kingston was very helpful to me. She begins “The Woman Warrior” by saying: “My mother told me never, ever to repeat this story.” That was such an eye-opener, because that’s the way with many of my stories. No “once upon a time” or any of those catch phrases. I come from a culture where women are not encouraged to speak. [Instead, they are encouraged] to keep their mouths shut, to keep things in the family, to be the guardian of the stories and to be very careful who they’re released to. It’s a way of understanding that stories are powerful. You know, in the world we lived in, people “got disappeared” for saying the wrong thing. What people said mattered. I was raised in that world, and suddenly here I am — a woman with a voice in another language, one that we’re supposed to keep things from, you know, the gringos and the Americans. And I have a voice and I’m saying things about women and women’s experience which are not nice. That women have mouths and needs and bodies and problems and breakdowns and all of the stuff that is not nice to admit and certainly not to the [Americans].

Was your mother shocked that you were telling family secrets, or just that you were writing about such intimate things?

I think it’s a combination of both. They would say to me when I was little, “Don’t think you’re a woman, talking like that. What do you know about woman stuff?” It was the way a mother always feels about a child, you know. “How can you talk about those things? People will think things actually happened to you if you write them down.” So for my mother, part was just shock that a woman should speak up, and part was “What will people think of us?” And all of what that means when you’re an immigrant and you’re so prickly about how other people are perceiving you.

Writers clearly need to draw from their own experience. But can they go too far in terms of exposing the people around them?

You can’t censor yourself when you’re writing or the play — the real freedom to say and to bear witness — would shrivel up. But once it’s written, once you’ve got it down on paper, once you haven’t curbed it as it’s coming out, you revise and you also make decisions about what you will publish. You know, there are certain essays I’ve written that aren’t in the book because I didn’t think they were helpful to put out there. You have to be careful to take care of the people in your life at the same time that you have to be careful not to compromise that sense of seeing things clearly and setting them down. I really agree with Conrad, who said it was important to “render the highest kind of justice to the visible universe.” You know, to see things clearly and to try as clearly as possible to set that down. But we’re also human beings in connection with each other; we know the tender hearts of the people we love. So it’s always a balance. What did Faulkner say? You know, kill your grandmothers, it doesn’t matter, a good passage of prose is worth anybody’s grandmother. Well, I don’t think so.

As a novelist writing a collection of personal essays, did you ever worry about frittering away material that you might want to draw on for your fiction?

That’s an interesting question. For me, writing is about draining the cup and hoping it’ll fill up again. And you can’t safeguard that in any way. My experience is that each thing you write, you learn so much that it fills you up for the next thing. And each thing you experience does that, and fills you up for the next thing. Not that I don’t go through
writer’s block, because I do. But I think that’s more about needing gestation time and needing to understand and take in, more than it’s because I’ve used up something that I shouldn’t have used up.

You mentioned earlier that becoming a writer went against your family’s — or the Dominican Republic’s — conception of what a woman should be. Has your family come to terms with what you are?

I think so. I think one of the things I’ve learned about being alive — not just being a writer — is that it’s a process. Just as you’re learning things from what you write, the people who are your readers forget they’re even your families, finally decide whether or not they have faith in your vision and in your skill and they’ll go along with you. With
family, too, it’s a process for them of trying to understand what it is to have a storyteller in the family — a storyteller who’s gone public with the storytelling. I think that they’ve learned that judgments are not going to be made about them. “Yo” was about some of this. Part of what happens is that a storyteller tells the story and then people around her story seem somehow circumvented by that story that’s gotten the attention. “In the Time of the Butterflies” was really wonderfully received, especially in the Dominican Republic, and the family feared what might be thought about them, and about this kooky woman in their family. But here she was having written something that was getting this kind of national praise, and then they thought, “Well, maybe she’s OK.” And remember that the country, too, is changing from the country of my childhood or my adolescence.

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It seems like your parents had very strong ideas about the kind of woman they wanted you and your sisters to be.

Well, I don’t think it’s just my parents, I think it’s our culture. I was growing up in the ’50s and ’60s in America, and the women’s movement really didn’t get started until the ’70s. There were very definite ideas about what a nice woman did, what a good girl did. But I think it was especially strong in my own native culture, which was probably 50 years behind what this culture was.

Your essay here about the Miss America pageant is fascinating. When you watched the pageant with your parents as a girl, you saw it as a liberating force in many ways — it helped you envision freedom and options. For many American women, the pageant has long meant the opposite.

It’s funny. I have this friend who is trying to get funding for a series that she wants to do. It’s about different aspects of women’s history, and one of the episodes is on the Miss America Pageant. Her theory is that the Miss America Pageant represents a real marker in our culture of women having brains and getting scholarships and talking about who they were besides being good looking women, though that always was included with
it. In some ways it was a much more surprising force for change than we think. And imagine for us, coming from the Dominican Republic … the fact that these women were going to college! And were out there talking and did talent shows and things like that! For us it represented, gosh, the advancement of these women.

Your family, you write, wasn’t particularly literary. Yet wasn’t your grandfather a cultural attaché to the United Nations?

Oh, yeah, but what was that? I don’t want to undermine my poor papito, but I mean, at one point one of the people sent [by the Dominican Republic] to France as an ambassador had never worn shoes on a regular basis. Do you know what I mean? These titles don’t mean the same thing. I think that my grandfather probably was given the post because he was identified as one of the people that did love poetry and music and so forth. And that is in the book. But we were not a reading family. We were not a literary family. It was more like we knew that there was such a thing as opera, as opposed to not knowing that there was such a thing, but we didn’t know a thing about it. We knew that Michelangelo’s Sistine Chapel was a great work of art, but we didn’t know why. It wasn’t a literary family, but it was within a culture where 80 percent of the people couldn’t read at all. So to have once read Shakespeare was a big deal. To know what Shakespeare meant and to have aspirations. So you have to put it in a different plane.

When did you begin to know that books and writing were important to you?

It was really coming to this culture. And coming to another language and losing everything and looking for an anchor somewhere. I found it in books. And you know how it is: Read a wonderful book that stirs you and then you want to try to do that too. And having to learn a language, of course, really makes you pay attention to why people are saying things one way as opposed to another. Why they’re using one word as opposed to another. And that’s what we do when we’re writers — we have to relearn the language and do that kind of listening to the language that happens when you’re also learning a new language in order to survive. Because you know that if you say something one way, you get the stern look or you get a bad reaction — and then you wonder why this instead of that.

You moved to America at age 10, and at the time your family was facing political persecution in the Dominican Republic. How real did that persecution feel to you?

It’s interesting, you know, because I didn’t grow up feeling terrified. I think my parents really kept a lid on what was going on. But I sensed a kind of tension and nervousness and I knew that certain things couldn’t be talked about. And I remember that whatever we wrote to anybody, the letters were carefully looked at and we had to rewrite them. I thought often it was because of spelling or something like that, but it was my parents’ monitoring because there was very bad censorship and a police state surrounding whatever was written, whatever was said. And so I remember that kind of monitoring, but you know, it’s funny, you just think of it as “That’s the way it is.” That’s what parents do to kids or that’s the world we live in.

When you moved to the U.S., you write that you faced a different kind of
persecution — from boys on the schoolyard who mocked your accent.

It was terribly hurtful, the way things are big and hurtful when you’re young. This kind of rejection was hurtful and scary. At one point it involved kids throwing stones at us. It was a school that I was finally removed from because it was not a great place for us to be. I don’t know how I responded. All I can say is that one of the reasons that I really felt this need and this desire to find a belongingness in books, in the world that I got through just opening a book, was because of that experience.

You say in “Something to Declare” that you wanted to become a writer, at least in some small part, to say the things you didn’t have the language to say back on the schoolyard.

In part, it was the desire for revenge. To show them that I had a story, that I deserved to be alive and that I was just as good as them. But as I say in the essay, that soon turned into something else. I think that if you’re going to love a craft and devote yourself to it, it’s got to be more than out of petty vengeance. So who knows what fills the tank that gets us started?

You’ve been writing for a long time, but your success came relatively late, didn’t it?

Yeah, I was 41 when my first novel was published.

You led a nomadic life, moving between teaching jobs. Did your confidence ever waiver that you’d eventually make it?

Oh come on, of course. All the time. And it still does. It’s a craft where you always have to keep a beginner’s mind to write the next book, or you’re just going to be writing the old book again. So you never know. If you do have a beginner’s mind and you want that freshness and you want to get at the cutting edge of what you know, then you don’t know if you’re going to do it, because you’re not going to do the same thing again. And you don’t know if your skill, your talent, your energy, your character extends that far.

Was your first novel, “How the Garcia Girls Lost Their Accents,” a book that you had had with you for a long time?

Oh, absolutely. And being so nomadic and having no stability, it was a book that I wrote the way many women write their first books. So many of them get up at 5 a.m., before the baby gets up. I didn’t have that kind of family, but I had those kinds of jobs. It was really a book that I wrote when there was time to write. And though there was more time to write for me because I didn’t have the complications and the demands, I also didn’t have the kind of nurture that comes from having a family. So I was really writing it out there on blank air.

Are you glad, in retrospect, that your life was as topsy-turvy as it was, with all that moving around and being divorced twice by the time you were 30?

I don’t know what to say. I think of the Chinese curse, “May you live in interesting times.” The tumultuousness of not finding a steady job and the moving around and the not quite knowing how to put all the pieces together wasn’t so bad, because I was part of a whole time in our culture where everybody was questioning those things. And I had a very complicated combination of impulses coming from being neither this nor that. So at
the time I certainly didn’t feel it was a great thing to be experiencing and I didn’t think it was the greatest thing for my work because I wasn’t getting it done. But you make out of your life whatever it needs to be. Your work, if it kicks you around and bangs you around a bit, then that’s what you make into what you create. Other writers who’ve had very sane
and simple lives make something of that. I think it’s more about the desire to make something of it, than it is about the content of what you’ve had. And I’m talking now about fiction and poetry, not necessarily memoir writing or something like that.

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You write very eloquently in this book about weighing your career vs. having children, and you chose not to have any. Does that decision loom large in your life these days?

Yeah, but first of all it’s never a decision. Maybe some women make these decisions where they sit down and make it very clear-cut. But your life leads you in certain directions and certain things don’t happen in time. And certainly, certain basic things — like if I had never fallen in love — if they hadn’t happened, it would feel like a loss to me. The idea of never having been a mother to a child, that is certainly one of those things. Because of the time I grew up in, I thought that it had to be an either/or. I didn’t know that you could try to do it all. And the kind of men that I was seeing also believed you couldn’t have it all. It was hard. A lot of my friends who chose to have children are not in their original marriages, as they found out that it didn’t have to be either/or and they and their spouses or partners struggled to figure out what that meant. One of the things that has happened with being a teacher is that I feel that I’ve had some of that feeling of nurturing and mothering and taking care of students over time. And certain students remain in my life over time. The other thing is that now, especially with being in the Dominican Republic, with this project that we’ve started up in the mountains, I have a lot of kids there that I feel a responsibility toward. All of a sudden I have this whole crew of kids. It’s not the same as raising them, but I’m connected to the future.

What project is this?

We bought some land, Bill and I, in the mountains and we have an organic coffee farm there. We’ve joined a cooperative that’s growing organic coffee. It’s a very, very special community of farmers up there. And we bought land in the cooperative and we started a foundation there. We’re hoping that the coffee will take off and help fund an arts foundation for Dominicans. Dominicans don’t have things like Yaddo, they don’t have fellowships they can apply to at colleges. And if there’s a writer or painter or musician, there really isn’t that center where they could go and maybe get a month or two months off and a stipend and work on their work. We’ve had it now for about a year and a half, getting it started. I became the godparent to one child and that became a relationship, and all of a sudden it started to spread — that Julia was out there as a potential godmother.

How often do you get back there?

This year I’ve been three times. And Bill’s been five times, I think, because he’s the farmer in the family and so he’s really involved in the coffee project part of it.

When you go back, are you claimed as a Dominican writer?

Absolutely. I can’t believe it. I’ve said, “But I write in English. I come so much out of this other experience.” But I think part of it is just that your roots are always your roots. It’s like if you leave Middlebury, Vt., and you grew up here, everybody always thinks of you as a kid who grew up in Middlebury, Vt. Even if you’re in California. There’s that sense that you’re theirs. Their Dominican blood is in your veins. It’s an important topic now, especially in these so-called third world cultures that have had a lot of immigration. And the Dominican Diaspora is huge. There’s a real dialogue going on now about what it means. I mean, if Naipaul lives in London but he grew up where, in Trinidad? What happens if you also change language? It’s odd. And yet you’re definitely writing out of a Dominican focus and background and maybe even a lot of your themes come from there, but it’s another language and you’ve also gone through this other experience and sensibilities.

Do you feel a kinship with other Latin American writers? Both men and women?

I think I feel a kinship particularly with USA Latinos. Because I think we’re not easily defined. I’m not a Dominican writer, and I’m not an American writer if we’re going to define an American writer in a traditional sense of somebody who grew up here and has roots here and, you know, had a certain formation. And I think that’s no longer the way we think about American writers at all. That’s been exploded by the literature of the last 20 years. But I’m not a writer of these places — I’m that mixed breed. I’m that hybrid. I think of myself very much as someone who is putting together different kinds of worlds and a different understanding of language from having those two worlds. I think that being American, of this hemisphere, is about that encounter. America’s a place where worlds collided and languages and experiences collided. I think that in a way it’s more and more the experience of the whole globe, as you get, say, someone from Bosnia who lives in San Francisco and marries a Japanese-American — what are their kids? With these great shifts of population and mobility and immigration of this late 20th century we are more and more these hybrids.

You offer quite a bit of advice in this new book to young writers. Among other things, you counsel them to avoid self-importance in literature. You say you realized the importance of the vernacular partly by talking to maids.

In the Dominican Republic we have a society where class is important, and growing up I was raised by maids. They were the ones whose stories I heard as a kid. They were the ones whose view of the world I absorbed. So the idea that literature comes only from a certain pure, canonical entity, and that’s what literature’s all about — that’s the education I received in the United States, it was about the canon and certain literary subjects, the big subjects that mostly male writers wrote about. And until I started to believe that other voices or possibilities were also part of literature or could be part of literature … that’s where Maxine Hong Kingston was so important for me. You know, to discover this Asian-American woman with a very different experience from mine as a Latina, but that this could be made into fiction and into wonderfully lyrical, wonderfully written fiction. I thought, wow, I didn’t know that. Maybe I should have known it but I didn’t know it. This was my first encounter with it. So it’s about paying attention and finding those moments of magic in what is out there, that might not have a big sign on it that says, “This is literature.”

When you talk about avoiding self-importance, are you talking about style or theme or both?

It’s hard to separate in a work what is one and what is the other. It’s all of a piece. The writers who always surprise us and start us thinking in new ways about literature always break those molds anyhow. You get a James Joyce doing something totally different than what was done before. You get Virginia Woolf. Those writers were listening to something else than what were the canonical, right ways to do things. But on the other hand, and this is what I tell my students, they knew what those forms were. It wasn’t just rebelling to rebel, but it was an understanding and knowing of that form and that kind of thinking. And moving beyond it. And that’s more when you get to the level of craft. That you have to understand what you’re going to explode, what you’re going to do differently. You have to understand that tradition that you’re working against.

I was fascinated to read about your daily writing rituals. Can you talk to me about the clean bowl of water you put on your desk every day?

There’s nothing to say. Except that I do it.

You also avoid newspapers in the morning. Why is that?

Well, I think I want that beginner’s mind which you have when you wake up in the morning. Like no other time. And if you start filling it with what’s happening to Clinton today, or a year ago Lady Di died or all those things that become ripe in your head with images, then you lose it. Or at least I do. Other people are better at concentrating. It’s just
something about my focus and wanting to hone it on what I’m working on.