During the onslaught of the academic year, many students forgo newly released books for required reading or problem sets, making summer the perfect time to catch up on leisure reading. In a menial attempt to recapture the spirit of the literary salons during the 17th and 18th century, Bwog is introducing a book club for the summer. Though the internet pales in comparison with actual conversation, we are hoping to create an open space to foster thought and discussion.

All Bwog readers are welcome to participate. There will be a post in advance announcing the next selection. Generally, the works will be either contemporary fiction or nonfiction. The actual Book Club will take form as a dialogue between our two reviewers, Lucy Tang and Pierce Stanley, and the comments thread will allow readers to contribute to with questions or criticism or even a book suggestion. Because the book club is still in its nascence, nothing is concrete, and the more feedback, the better.

We have chosen The Mayor's Tongue to inaugurate this summer. The Mayor's Tongue is the debut from Nathaniel Rich, an editor at The Paris Review. There's been a lot of hubbub surrounding The Mayor's Tongue, because Rich hails from a literary lineage--his father is Frank Rich, the New York Times columnist, and brother Simon Rich is a well-established humor writer--and The Mayor's Tongue will determine if the legacy lives on. The book offers two narratives, related but never intertwined. The first sees Eugene Brentani, a young man obsessed with renowned author Constance Eakins, running off to Italy for the daughter of Eakins' biographer. The second narrative features Mr. Schmitz, a much older man, who loses his wife and struggles to maintain normalcy with his best friend Rutherford.

Take some time this weekend to open up The Mayor's Tongue and join us in a few days for our discussion. It's a fast read, we promise.

Though most of us are bogged down with midterms and papers, Bwog writer Hannah Goldfield provides some alternative reading.

Ducking your head and barreling through the cloud of cigarette smoke outside Butler might be worth it tonight. Act fast and you can snag a copy of poli-lit-culture journal n+1's latest pamphlet, distributed, guerrilla-style, throughout the library a few hours ago.

Titled "What We Should Have Known," the unassuming, slim, blue volume is targeted at college freshmen, meant to help them traverse the intellectual spiderweb in which they're bound to get caught over the next four years. It consists specifically of transcripts of two panel discussions (which took place this past summer at the n+1 headquarters) about books, mostly: the books you're assigned to read and the books the panel members, a mix of n+1 editors and contributors, think you should read, on your own, sooner rather than later. If you get lost in the sea of titles, don't fret--the ones that truly changed their lives are conveniently compiled into lists on the last few pages.

After tonight, "What We Should Have Known" will set you back $10--unless you're a freshman, in which case you might find a copy slipped under your door tomorrow, or, if not, your student ID will get you one for free. Because saving untainted souls from the Western Canon--or at least guiding them through it--is priceless.

Can the apocalypse be funny? Ashraya Gupta, Bwog's Blue Notebooks correspondent (and member herself), summarizes novelist Matthew Sharpe's recent visit to Morningside and reviews his latest, Jamestown.

Not the ex-bassist for Weezer, but Matthew Sharpe, author of the best post-annihilation novel this side of the Book of Revelations—well, maybe.

Matthew Sharpe has the kind of acerbic yet winsome humor you'd expect of someone capable of writing dialog like this:

"Like you're so happy, Rolfe. Hope you don't get murdered in your sleep. Good night. Up yours."
"Where do you think Smith is?"
"Also up yours, I would guess."

The Rolfe in question would be John Rolfe, the English colonist, who died sometime around 1622. Smith, of course, is John Smith, whom you probably remember from Pocahontas, the Disney movie. Sharpe's new novel, Jamestown (Soft Skull, 2007), succeeds in all the ways Disney failed: it stays true to the story. At least, as true as you can stay when you're shifting everything forwards about half a millennium and adding a devastating war between the city-states of Manhattan and Brooklyn.

Last Thursday, during an event sponsored by the Blue Notebooks, Sharpe spoke about the new novel, his process as a writer, and why violence (think lots of arrows, in excruciating places) makes for the best comedy (ditto).

Bethany Rower conducted the interview. After a short introduction from Rower, Sharpe opened by saying, "I'm glad I haven't been subjected to the new Columbia tradition of being denounced before I speak."

Yesterday, Bwog staffer Lucy Tang sat in on the Future of Book Reviews panel and realized that all Columbia arguments center around elitism.

Panelists:

Steve Wasserman (former editor of the Los Angeles Book Review)
Peter Osnos (founder and editor at large of PublicAffairs)
Elizabeth Sifton (editor and senior vice president of Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
Carlin Romano (books editor for The Philadelphia Inquirer)
Mark Sarvas (literary blog The Elegant Variation).

In the cover story of this month's Columbia Journalism Review, Steve Wasserman laments the disappearance of book reviews in today's newspapers. To further explore this conundrum, the panel featured him alongside four other renowned names in book and journalism circles. Evan Cornog played both moderator and pacifier for the night.

Steve Wasserman opened the debate by blaming the United States for its aversion to books. He bemoaned the secondary nature of pieces relegated to book review sections, citing newspapers' continual emphasis on advertising, an area where book review sections often limp behind. Accusations of an "anti-intellectual ethos" were bandied about as he criticized the U.S.'s "general contempt for the bookish," asking the audience whether there was still room for "serious criticism in a mass society" (I could guess what he thought).

In which Bwog freelancer Rob Trump, who brought you a Chabon review and enlightened July 4 commentary, learns to love America.

Forgive me if this seems insensitive, but for the last few years I have been thoroughly sick of hearing, talking, and thinking about 9/11. I was tired of pop-sociology articles and works of art still cropping up that explained just how we were changed forever. I was done with post-9/11 America and declared to many people that I was ready for the post-post-9/11 era. (As an aside, I would like to take this moment, on a blog, to coin this era the "double post.") Many sympathized with my viewpoint on this, and even more would probably support an expanded-scope restatement by a character in Don DeLillo's new book Falling Man: "We're all sick of America and Americans. The subject nauseates us."

There has been, in the last few years, a massive artistic output—fictional and not—that has some grounding in the September 11 terrorist attacks. Of all these, the only moderately successful one I've consumed is Jonathan Safran Foer's Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close, about a nine-year-old boy's adventures around New York City after losing his father in the attacks. Foer's take, however, didn't really engage the attacks on more than a personally tragic level, even going somewhat out of its way to avoid them. DeLillo pulls no such punches. Falling Man is a novel about 9/11 and what it did to people.

Knowing this fully, and having never read any DeLillo before, I approached Falling Man cautiously. The very first pages concern Keith, a lawyer, walking out of the wreckage of the towers and home to his separated wife Lianne. DeLillo sketches out his characters slowly, and to be honest, nothing about any of them really grabbed me right from the start. It took me almost a week to get through the first 50 or 60 pages, but past that point the previously subdued quirks of the characters come to the fore, and the latter 200 pages went by in a couple days. Keith is a risk-taker, but in a painfully calculated way; Lianne is chronically passive-aggressive; their young son is paranoid and spends his days searching the skies for more planes. Other peripheral characters show up, and in every single character there is an interesting battle between several forces: how they were before the attacks, the changing effect that the attacks have had on them, and -- perhaps most intruiguingly -- how they want to believe the attacks have changed them and their lives.

Previously, on the Joy Luck Book Club: Marisha Pessl's merits as author and as hottie were debated. In this week's episode, certified hottie Dave Eggers presents What is the What, and the J.L.B.C. convenes, gin cocktails in hand, to their secret clubhouse somewhere in the outer boroughs...

Reading Rainbow!

Dan: Dave Eggers is famous for two things: the painfully earnest magazine McSweeney's and A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, a wonderful book that I can barely recall. (That's the one with the brother and The Real World audition, right?) What is the What represents both a return to the literary spotlight and something of a return to form for Eggers - after two little-read works of fiction, he's once again bending genres with a novelized autobiography told by Valentino Achak Deng, a Sudanese refugee.

In which Bwog freelancer Justin Goncalves reviews the newest egg from an odd duck.

Before reading No one belongs here more than you, I fell in love with Miranda July. I was prepared to steal her away from her boyfriend (Thumbsucker director Mike Millis) and live with her in Portland. She would stay upstairs, working on her short stories or her performance art or even some new movie script; I would be downstairs, being Miranda July's husband. The world would be a genuinely better place. Sure, this is kind of weird, but it wasn't until I started reading her recently published collection that I realized that this fantasy fits right alongside July's other short stories—except I would have to be a woman, she would have to be a lesbian, and anything sexual would be completely and unequivocally apocalyptic.

Much like her 2006 award-winning film Me and You and Everyone We Know, July fosters a relationship between the audience and characters that is as disturbing as it is heartwarming. July's strength, and ultimately the most compelling aspect of No one, is her ability to imagine people. Each personality, from the swim-instructor giving lessons in her kitchen to the wig-wearing lesbian who makes a living through peep shows, is created as a full blooded person, not just a set of attributes. The complexities and nuances of even the most bizarre characters allow for an effortless suspension of disbelief. You'll find yourself personally invested in a character, even when you're sure that you would never root for a failed author as she attempts to woo the sixteen year-old boy/man of her dreams (you say that now).

In which recovering V-Show writer Rob Trump reflects on Michael Chabon's latest effort.

In 2002, Michael Chabon lashed out against the modern short story, claiming that publications like The New Yorker are filled with nothing but the "quotidian, plotless, moment-of-truth revelatory story." He did this in a McSweeney's compendium, no less, giving the hipster literati two things to think about: 1) What the hell does "quotidian" mean? and 2) Whatever it is, it sounds pretty bad, so what should be done? The answers to these, via the internet and Chabon, respectively, are "everyday or commonplace," and "learn something from genre fiction." Genre fiction, if you can't guess, is fiction that conforms to an established genre—science fiction, fantasy, mystery, horror, etc. To paraphrase: your Tuesdays with Morrie would be a lot more interesting if the old fart's death turned him into a flesh-eating zombie, and you and a double-barreled shotgun were the only things between his bloodlust and your family. Put this way, I think we can all agree.

For most, summer is a season for skimpy bikinis and cold Coronas, or whatever those zany teenagers do these days. Along with such activities, Bwog staffers Lucy Tang and Daniel D'Addario will while away these months of freedom in (partial) devotion to literary pursuits, and then discussing these books in a nifty little feature called "Joy Luck Book Club."

Now what makes these two qualified for literary criticism? Absolutely nothing. How regular will these discussions be? The frequency will be inversely proportional to the number of open bars we find each week.

First victim: Barnard alumna Marisha Pessl's much-lauded Special Topics in Calamity Physics.

Reading Rainbow!

Lucy: It's impossible to have a discussion about Special Topics in Calamity Physics without mentioning all its hype.
1. Marisha Pessl's huge (and undisclosed) advance. (Great for her!)
2. Marisha Pessl is hot! (She's no Zadie Smith)
3. The New York Times's "The 10 Best Books of 2006"

Needless to say, I am one of those mindless drones who take the Times's recommendation as gospel, so after seeing that prestigious title placed upon it, I was extremely eager to actually read the book, and five months later, I did. After I finished skimming the last fifty pages, I was left unsatisfied and disappointed, but on a second consideration, it was a good book.

Looking to pick up some summer reading? The woman at the desk of Partners and Crime, in the East Village, told Bwog reporter Emma Jacobs that Manhattan's bookshop scene's just not what it used to be--but we didn't believe her. You can still find some of the best bookshops around hanging in on Manhattan to serve every taste. Click here for a map of the bookshops, and happy browsing!

Three Lives & Co.
154 West 10th Street, Greenwich Village

Wooden shelves and red brick. This one's a classic, traditional bookshop in a cozy space in the West Village.

Unoppressive, Non-Imperialist Bargain Books
34 Carmine Street, West Village

In an incredible corner of the Village, you'll find amazing prices on remainders focused around politics and art. Children's bookshop is next door. Also, the name is awesome.

Housing Works Used Bookstore Café
126 Crosby Street, Soho

Beautiful Soho space sells used books and coffee, with proceeds going to help homeless New Yorkers living with AIDS. Great monthly concert series too.

Partners & Crime
44 Greenwich Ave

This place has exclusive mysteries and detective novels. The staff know their stuff inside and out.

Alabaster Bookshop
122 4th Avenue, East Village

Another small-scale classic with used books and rare titles. It has a cat and amazing bargain carts outside.

Sometimes, when you feel like everything in life is passing its judgment on you, it helps to do a little judging yourself. The following is Bwog correspondent CML's pilgrimage to the Bookstore in search of superficial literary gratification.

Putting an iPod through the wash and receiving one of those "What are you doing with your life?" e-mails from my grandmother—as I did, one steely gray day in March—puts one in the mood to have absolute control over something. What I needed was books, and what I was going to do was judge them by their covers. Fired by the spirit of my grandmother and my own discontent, I walked the 100 feet from Carman to Lerner and strolled through the door, down the escalator and into the depths of the Columbia University Barnes and Noble.

As I stepped off the landing, I felt myself drawn towards the flashy colors of the New Arrivals section. One volume in particular caught my eye: Women & Money (by Suze Orman, $24.95). The cover's defining feature is Suze herself: amidst a bold white background, there she was, wearing a hideous pinstripe jacket, Winfreyesque quantities of makeup, and a lagomorphic smile that would put Brer Rabbit's dentist to shame. I was repulsed. Searching for one redeeming quality this book might have, I turned it over and instead unearthed this gem: "Why is it that women, who are so competent in all other areas of their lives, cannot find the same competence when it comes to money?" Clearly the answer, Suze, is because they don't buy your ugly, overpriced, blue-and-vomit-yellow book.

First, find a partner and align the soles of your feet together in Bokononist ritual: Kurt Vonnegut dies at age 84.

"Blessed are the merciful" in a courtroom? "Blessed are the peacemakers" in the Pentagon? Give me a break!"- Cold Turkey

"Before you kill somebody, make absolutely sure he isn't well connected." - Slaughterhouse V

"I will say too, that lovemaking, if sincere, is one of the best ideas Satan put in the apple she gave to the serpent to give to Eve. The best idea in that apple, though, is making jazz." - Timequake

"There is a tragic flaw in our precious Constitution, and I don't know what can be done to fix it. This is it: Only nut cases want to be president." - Cold Turkey

"We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be." - Mother Night

Last night in London, it was announced that Kiran Desai, a creative writing MFA student at our fair University, has won the Man Booker Prize for fiction. From the press release: "Her winning book, The Inheritance of Loss, is a radiant, funny and moving family saga and has been described by reviewers as 'the best, sweetest, most delightful novel.'"

Desai, at 35, is the youngest woman to ever win the Man. In a bit of a twisted coincidence, it turns out that Desai's mother, Anita, "has been shortlisted for the prize three times since 1980 but has never won"...which is going to make dinner tonight reeeeeealy awkward. Especially since, rumor has it, they're planning on inviting Jhumpa Lahiri.

More stuff you shouldn't have saved on public computers.

When the buzz gets a little throat, a little brass, a little sass—now we know it's becoming a man. Not like a cheesy, wheezy clarinetist typing the Hora at the day's third Bar Mitzvah reception. It's starting to burst, like a cavalry's accompaniment, sans jingoism.

Some of my Engineering friends from the SEAS were telling me how they do not understand the concept of interpretation at all.

Bwogger Anna Corke reports from work-study in the Art History department...

There is a stack of give-away fine art posters on a table by the girl's bathroom on the 8th floor of Schermerhorn. Picasso, Renoir, Matisse, others. Some are ripped, but would still make good editions to boring dorm rooms.

And Izumi Devalier chimes in from SIPA...

In front of the 7th floor IAB elevators you can find a huge box full of free poli sci books discarded by some professor who, from a cursory content analysis, looks like he specializes in post-colonial Algerian agro-economic policy with a modest side of Korean security issues.