Reading Coetzee’s Youth has gotten me thinking about novels and memoirs, about the writer’s life as the stuff of novels, and about the writer’s tendency to fictionalize his or her own life. Two out of the three most recent literature Nobelists (Naipaul and Coetzee) say they no longer find the writing of fiction at all interesting. Another (Garcia Marquez) publishes a memoir which he confesses to be partially fictional, though doesn’t say which parts. One of the best contemporary novelists (Amis) writes an incandescent memoir, followed by an excrescent work of fiction. Although I’ve always been a fascinated reader of bio and memoir, and in fact tend to prefer the semiautobiographical novel to more purely fictional works, I have to wonder — what the hell is going on?

I should note that while I’ve been talking about Coetzee’s book as a memoir, it is classified by the publisher under category 823.914: English Fiction.

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As I mentioned a couple of days ago, Martin Amis’ new novel has received poor reviews in his native land. Now reviewers in the US are weighing in. The book was absolutely crushed by Kakutani today in the Times (”reads like a sendup of a Martin Amis novel written by someone intent on sabotaging his reputation”). Wonder how his tour is going — I’m looking forward to the 10th.

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So many events sold out already at the Humanities Fest, which begins on Saturday. But many good events (Hazzard, Hijuelos, Martel, Maxwell, Wideman) still available. The European Union Literary Panel is still open too.

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Somehow this escaped me — Edward P. Jones read at the Seminary Co-op Bookstore last week. I read the engaging profile of Jones today in the New York Times and remembered he was going to appear in Chicago, but now I see I missed it. Dang.

Couple of other readings coming up in the Sem Co-op Series, also missing from my list. (Did this recently go up on their site?) On October 23, Jonathan Raban is reading from his new novel Waxwings, which has gotten some favorable notices. And David Guterson is reading from Our Lady of the Forest on October 28. Details for all these events are listed here.

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Though Mark Strand’s appearance has been postponed, the reading at Danny’s next week looks especially strong, with poet Marcin Sendecki stepping in to join Matthew Zapruder and Andrew Zawacki. You know, I really appreciate series like Danny’s not just for the opportunity to see poets read, but for pointing out writers I don’t know about, but should.

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Need to catch up again, I know — I’ve been traveling too much. In addition to being book-and-author season, fall for me is also business conference season. It has its consolations: this year’s travels allowed me to visit the church where, on February 2, 1274, Dante first saw his beloved Beatrice. He was almost nine; she was eight. I know you are thinking of the goofy Henry Holiday painting with the Ponte Vecchio in the background, but that was the second meeting, many years later.

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Imaginary Chicagoan (see Night Train) Martin Amis is reading at Barbara’s next month, on a tour promoting his “not-knowing-where-to-look bad” new novel, Yellow Dog.

Nice thing is, the new book is going to be worth reading even if it is as bad as his detractors say. C’mon, what self-respecting reader of serious fiction doesn’t want to know what Amis is up to? And seeing him read it will be treat as well, especially if you missed the opportunity to see him at the Newberry in 2001.

Last Amis I read was Koba the Dread, a bad book which I savored more for the Hitchens interplay than anything else. (Every Amis book comes equipped with its own little uproar.) The last Amis I really enjoyed was the collection of essays, The War Against Cliche.

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Reading the New York Times Book Review this week I was reminded of how, in my aimless youth, I wrote a lot of letters. More specifically, I was reminded of how I used to enjoy clipping out blurbs from book ads and pasting them on the envelope as a kind of ironic commentary on the contents. A few from this week would have served nicely:

“A balm to the scared, lonely animal in us all.”
“The emphasis throughout is on the human drama of men at war.”
“Combines his tenacious detective skills with his gifts as a master storyteller.”
“A gossipy tell-all that goes behind the scenes of suburban life.”
“An inborn generosity that cannot be learned.”
“A Zelig-like romp through the 20th Century.”

And my favorite:

“It’s hard to read this work and not shout, “Guilty as hell!”

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Just came across the web site for the 13th Annual Gwendolyn Brooks Writers’ Conference, which will take place October 29 – November 1, 2003, at Chicago State. Pretty diverse group of speakers, encompassing fiction, non-fiction and poetry, and including a closing keynote by Ernest Gaines on Nov. 11.

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I have no idea whether tickets are still available, but it’s worth noting that Robert Benton’s film adaptation of Philip Roth’s novel The Human Stain kicks off the 39th Annual Chicago Film Festival tonight. Also of literary note is a completely superfluous remake of the late Dennis Potter’s The Singing Detective. My personal viewing list also includes Arcand’s The Barbarian Invasions, Greenaway’s latest, and the Nanni Moretti short, The Last Customer. But don’t let me influence you — if you want to attend just to observe the always reliable unintentional humor surrounding the fest — translators who can’t translate, introducers who won’t stop introducing — be my guest.

ADDITION 10/2: You know, it’s way too easy to be a smart aleck when you blog. Kudos to the people who get these kinds of events done, and shame on those of us who just stand on the sidelines and snipe!

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