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Better read than dead. Or vice versa. I think.

Maybe I’m misreading the signs, but it looks like we’re due for a round of worlds-enough-and-time! In this case, the publication of Pierre Bayard’s How To Talk About Books You Haven’t Read opens the door for literary types to name the “great books” that they’ve never read (and likely will never get around to).

In this case, Slate has followed up 2001’s Literary Critic’s Shelf of Shame with a new piece: The Great Novel I Never Read. While the former canvassed critics (duh), this new feature garners responses from contemporary authors.

I’m usually leery of this sort of exercise, as it can degenerate into people disparaging some legitimately great novels because they’ve never gotten around to reading them. I used to think that I keep that gigantic list of all the books I’ve finished since I began college in 1989 just to scare people out of asking my opinion about any particular book. After looking over this article, I’m starting to think that my real reason is to justify not having read some of those great books, myself: “Ferchrissakes! Look at how many other books I’ve read! There are only so many hours in a day!”

(Of course, I’m guilty of disparaging great books on flimsy grounds, most recently in my rant about the immediate sense of alienness (not alienation) I got when starting Middlemarch earlier this month. Of course, now that I’m around 500 pages in, I’m wondering how I managed to get this far in life without reading it. And, sure, maybe I felt more sympathy for Casaubon than the average Middlemarch reader, but I’m a sucker for a classically trained scholar who can’t bring himself to start writing his great work. Go figure.)

Fortunately, that snide attitude isn’t on display in the new Slate piece. Instead, I noticed something funnier: while I’ve read a number of the books cited in this article, I’ve actually read only one book by any of these contemporary authors (Little, Big by John Crowley).

Now back to Raffles & Bulstrode! (which means I’m just about to finish book five)

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Treadmilling

I tellya, dear readers: I’ve been in overdrive at the office for about 5 months now, and it’s been burning me out something fierce. I’ve been facing one big issue of the magazine after another, plus a ton of responsibilities for our annual conference. I think it reached a point where I didn’t know how to slow down. But I figure that’s a lot better than being unemployed.

On the plus side, it means I actually hammered the crap out of our November/December issue, wrapping it up today even though it’s not due at the printer till Tuesday. Our issues have been running late all year for a variety of reasons, so I was just hoping to get this one ish out by deadline. Even though I was early, I still sprinted to the finish line, working on news pages last night and spending the early morning gathering photos for the features.

The upshot? I got the last few files to my production manager by noon, which meant I could take a half-day and chill the heck out.

In my world, that means driving down to Montclair, picking up some coffee over at Bean’s, walking around town a little (cold and drizzly today, but hey), and hitting the Book Center for a little stochastic research!

Within a minute, I opened a book to a page that provided all sorts of grist for the imagination-mill. You can expect my novel sometime around 2020.

After that score, I browsed for books on my wishlist, and ended up finding a bunch of little treasures on the cheap —

Waiting for the Weekend – Witold Rybczynski

Elvis Costello’s Armed Forces – Frank Bruno (from the 33 1/3 series of books-about-albums)

Prince’s Sign O’ the Times – Michelangelos Matos (ditto)

Master of the Senate: The Years of Lyndon Johnson, Vol. 3 – Robert Caro

The Great Game: The Struggle for Empire in Central Asia – Peter Hopkirk

— for a grand total of $35!

Now it’s on to a nice, relaxing weekend of wrapping up the annual NBA preview, reading Middlemarch, and, um, sleeping.

So don’t call, is what I’m saying.

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Penn Paul

Driving to Pennsylvania yesterday (for this news event), I was reminded of what it’s like to live in a swing state. In presidential elections, NJ’s firmly in the Democratic camp, so we tend not to get much (any) outdoor political advertising.

In fall of 2004, I drove on Rt. 95 into Philadelphia and was amazed by the sheer volume of election signs as I approached the city. My favorite enormous billboards were the ones that complained about the loss of our freedom of speech.

Now, the general election is more than a year away and the state’s primaries are six months off, but Pennsylvania reminded me of its swing state status almost instantly. Moments after I entered the state, I saw yard signs for Ron Paul. As I drove below overpasses, I looked up to see banners for the guy.

No other candidates had any presence, so I’m not sure if this means that Paul’s got an iron grip on the Rt. 78/22 corridor of Pennsylvania or if his supporters are jumping the gun by a few months.

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Commute of Death

I killed a chipmunk and a squirrel during the drive to the office: way to start the week off.

I have a press event down in Pennsylvania later today, so you all better be on your toes.

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Springboks Supreme

I watched the finals of the Rugby World Cup this afternoon, and was disappointed to see South Africa’s Springboks knock off England 15-6, esp. after a British try that got overturned by the blind video-judge. Considering South Africa blanked England 36-0 earlier in the tournament, I guess this loss could be considered a little more palatable, particularly since England got to defeat France to get to this point.

I’m not sure why I was rooting against South Africa. Maybe it was an apartheid hangover, maybe it was because they tried to kill Joe Pesci in that Lethal Weapon movie. Or maybe it was the Aryan weirdness and unmoving hair of Percy Montgomery.

Amy & I never did get around to figuring out all the rules, but the games we watched here and in Milan were pretty entertaining. As a contrast, I also got to attend the Jets/Giants game a few Sundays ago, and that got me to thinking about the rugby vs. U.S. football debate. (Here’s a slideshow from that game, tickets courtesy of my buddy Jon-Eric.)

When I was in New Zealand in 2003, some of the antipodeans goofed on me because NFL players wear pads, while rugby players are, um, unprotected (and adventuresome!). I pointed out that NFL linemen are probably 6-10 inches taller than rugby players, a hundred lbs. heavier, and only a step or so slower. Or, as official VM buddy Tom Spurgeon put it, “Would your rather crash full speed into a wall on your bicycle or in a car?”

Anyway, having watched a few matches, I can see that top rugby players are in better shape than NFL players, since there’s really no break in the action (I think halftime is only 10 minutes long), very few substitutions, and lots of ugly hits that these guys keep managing to get up from.

For me, that was a big factor that made rugby fun to watch: no one takes a dive. One guy went down during this match, and the medico ran over to treat him while the game kept going on. There’s none of the flopping that characterizes soccer (and now the NBA), none of the “I’ll never walk again” writhing that ends 15 seconds later with the player getting up and running downfield.

Of course, most of the rugby players also have cauliflower ears, swollen brows, and cognitive impairment, but I’m pretty sure that last one was what led them into rugby to begin with.

* * *

Virtual Memories bonus! When I visited New Zealand (see enormous slideshow), my flight into Auckland landed the morning after the finals of the 2003 Rugby World Cup. The pilot spent a good five minutes describing the action from the game, in which England beat Australia in overtime. After 12 hours in the air (this followed a 6-hour flight from EWR to LAX), I wasn’t exactly in the mood for the George Michael Sports Machine, but he made it entertaining while we taxi’d to the gate.

Days later, on a Saturday morning, we cruised along in our tour bus. I watched the countryside and small towns roll by, and then I saw something that I never bothered to share with anyone. In the front yard of a house, at 8 o’clock in the morning, a kid (he had to be under 10) was marching back and forth carrying a large sign that read, “POMMY RUGBY IS BORING!”

I can only assume the kid lost a bet on the finals.