Youmans (pronounced like 'yeoman' with an 's' added) is the best-kept secret among contemporary American writers. --John Wilson, editor, Books and Culture

Saturday, April 28, 2012

Camellia courtesy

Thanks to Oregon poet Dale Favier for his mid-way read and post, in which he has a number of interesting things to say, including this: "People will inevitably call it Faulknerian – it's Deep South, it's hot, it's told through the lens of a boy who's neurologically atypical. And it's got fruit and blood. But if you have any spiritual antennae at all, you'll quickly grasp that it's anti-Faulkner. There's fullness, not emptiness, in back of everything." That comment reminded me of how my father, the sharecropper's boy who became a WWII tail gunner and then a professor of analytical chemistry, detested the very name of Faulkner and thought that he had gotten the deep South and poverty entirely wrong.

Thanks to GalleyCat for "handpicking" A Death at the White Camellia Orphanage and posting a clip and jacket image... and to poet Robbi Nester for telling me about it.

Thanks to the Cooperstown Crier for news about the new book and also about the NBA panel for young people's literature.

Upcoming:  an expansion of readings in North Carolina, tba on the Events page.

2 comments:

  1. You're welcome Marly. I think that's the first time I've ever beaten you to something online!
    RE: Faulkner, influence is a funny thing. Sometimes one hates something and reacts to it, and that's also a sort of influence.

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  2. Oh, I read about everything Faulkner wrote in high school. Even the weird, peculiar bits. Think only "Soldier's Pay" was put off until later--read it with Cleanth Brooks in school.'

    Father's and daughters are different, especially when one was a sharecropper's child and one was a professor's child. But I loved those comments...

    When I have a new book out, I try and peek daily to see if there's something new. But yep, you beat me!

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Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.