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You mentioned the Edgar Allan Poe book having one of the best recent dustjacket designs, what are some others that are on that list?
If I spent a little more time digging through my library, I'm sure I could come up with a bigger list, but here are a few just off the top of my head (these all obviously look much better in person than in these digital images):
The Romanovs: 1613-1918 (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO) by Simon Sebag Montefiore [2016]
King of the World: The Life of Louis XIV (BOOK) by Philip Mansel [2019]
The Cigarette: A Political History (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO) by Sarah Milov [2019]
Arabs: A 3,000-Year History of Peoples, Tribes and Empires (BOOK | KINDLE | AUDIO) by Tim Mackintosh-Smith [2019]
The Ottomans: A Cultural Legacy (BOOK | KINDLE) by Diana Darke [2022]
This is me while trying out my travel bed. I am currently on a bearcation - I am visiting a group of other Build a Bear stuffies and there's lots and lots of adventures for a little bear. To make my journey as comfy as possible, Mommy helped me with the bed. ~ Knopf
Iâm always asking why Gore Vidal hasnât gotten his due, and why it doesnât seem to be on the horizon. Iâve cracked the case wide open and itâs devastating.
Everyone knows that after a celebrity dies, there is a window of time where the culture reflects on their life and decides how they will be remembered, thereâs eulogizing, young people learn about people they might of only had a vague name sense of before, there is the potential for someone to be noticed at the time of their death, as actually very cool and ahead of their time all along. How did this not happen to Gore Vidal when he died in 2012? He published an explicitly gay novel in 1948! He was anti-war his entire life! He was a class traitor! He was a man of letters! He was so hot! Myra fucking Breckenridge!
Well I blame Jay Parini. Jay Parini published the only posthumous biography of Gore Vidal in 2015 and Knopf publishers calls it âauthorizedâ even though Jay Parini says in his own introduction that he intentionally deceived Vidal for decades about his plans to publish after his death, he knows GV would consider Empire of Self a betrayal, and that âheâs not looking forward to our meeting on the other side.â Gore Vidalâs estate was litigated after his death and it all belongs to Harvard, perhaps theyâre allowed to call it authourized because Harvard authorized it, but thats not what theyâre trying to imply, obviously.
In the early 1990s Vidal asked Jay Parini to take over writing his biography but he didnt take the job. âMy wife, perceptively, insisted that I decline, saying that I would have to choose between the biography and my freindship. I couldn't have both. She understood that he would try to control what I wrote at every turn, driving us both insane. So I decided then to write a book that could only be published after his death.â He says he kind of fake wrote a book for years? And then on one of their last visits together GV wondered if he would ever follow through and finish and makes it clear he would still want him too. The quote really doesnt sell it to me that Gore authorized a posthumous biography. Parini says himself that he knows what he did end up publishing is explicitly against Goreâs wishes. Parini strung him along for 30 years knowing he would write a self serving salacious mean-spirited tear down after his "friend" died. He compliments himself for having the "patience" to "stick it out," with his plan because Gore is such a difficult person and it was expensive to travel to see his "friend" over the years. It's so mean. Right from the very first pages it's so mean.
One of the ways Jay Parini tries to make his splash is by casting a lot of doubt everywhere, on core narrative elements from Goreâs life he didnt waver about in 60 years. we will get into the examples of this as i develop this, but let me open up with casting a little doubt of my own.
Iâm sorry to make you do this, but please read these abridged opening paragraphs of the intro to Empire of Self:
My freindship with Gore Vidal began in the mid-eighties when i lived for a period on a sabbatical with my wife and young children in Atrani, a village on the coast of southern Italy. We rented a small stone villa on a cliff overlooking the sea, âŠâŠ.We had a rooftop terrace, above which rose a lemon grove and limestone cliffs. A massive villa - alabaster white....loomed above us, and we wondered who lived there in such opulence. Some Italian nobleman? A local mafia don? A film star?.........I admired his commentaries in Esquire and The New York Review of Books. I never forgot his fiery debates with William F BuckleyâŠ..Iâd read half a dozen of his novels,.......responding to a note I'd sent gore pounded on my door one afternoon not long after our arrival, inviting my wife and me to dinner. I was terrified, as his reputation preceded him, and thought he might be tricky
Ooooh, Big Jay, I think youâre lyinâ. I dont think there is one fucking chance in the entire universe you accidentally, unknowingly, rented a villa as close as you could possibly afford to Goreâs house in Italy when you were âon sabbaticalâ only a couple of years after you finished your PhD anyway. I think you targeted him. You have made your career riding coattails, your only recognized work is writer bios and your special spin on well trodden ground is revealing more than ever of their messy difficult private stuff and adding your little Freudian take on their personality.
Jay Parini is a lot of things: an unreliable narrator, a clout chaser, unethical, a climber/poser, extremely privileged, a professor emeritus at middlebury collegeâŠ..but he is not, and never was, a friend of Gore Vidal.
The whole fucking thing was based on a lie from the very begining. But im sure Gore knew this. I dont think he would be confused or taken by such a lie. He probably at best thought it was cute and flattering and enjoyed this young man moving his whole family to his front yard in Italy, immediately attaching himself to Gore, and pretending all the while it was happenstance. Unlike Parini himself, and unlike the epitaph hes tried to carve for GV, we know the truth, Gore was so classy.
Welcome to this many part series, where I go off on the vulgar homophobic pile of shit âEmpire of Selfâ by Jay Parini.
The Rose Field by Philip Pullman, with a griffin under the jacket cover

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25. Februar 2025
Ein neuer Knopf, zwei Minuten Hoffnung
In einem Hotel in Amsterdam finde ich zum ersten Mal innen im Zimmer einen "do not disturb"-Knopf neben der TĂŒr, der auĂen ein Lichtlein aufleuchten lĂ€sst. Normalerweise macht immer, wenn ich in einem Hotel bin, vormittags jemand die TĂŒr auf, egal, ob ich den "do not disturb"-PapieranhĂ€nger auĂen an die Klinke gehĂ€ngt habe oder nicht. Und es wird auch nicht angeklopft oder so. Plötzlich steht jemand im Zimmer und ich bin nackt und schĂ€me mich, weil ich keinen Beruf habe, bei dem man frĂŒh aufstehen und angezogen sein muss.
Ich verstehe das ja. Wenn ich selbst in einem Hotel putzen wĂŒrde, wĂŒrde ich auch spĂ€testens um neun alle TĂŒren aufreiĂen, sicher haben die GĂ€ste beim Auschecken nur den PapieranhĂ€nger abzunehmen vergessen, und wenn sie noch da sind, sollen sie jetzt mal aufstehen, andere Leute mĂŒssen arbeiten.
Ich habe an diesem Vormittag aber auch Arbeit zu erledigen, deshalb habe ich lange nach einem Hotelzimmer gesucht, das ich erst um 12 verlassen muss. Vielleicht wird der Knopf ja helfen.
Weil das Hotel diese Möglichkeit anbietet, habe ich mich am Vorabend bereits online fĂŒr 12 Uhr ausgecheckt. Das Hotel als System weiĂ also im Prinzip sowieso schon, dass ich bis 11:59 anwesend sein werde. Aber es redet wahrscheinlich nicht mit seinen PutzkrĂ€ften.
Das alles teile ich dem Techniktagebuch-Redaktionschat um 9:30 erwartungsvoll mit.
Um 9:32 reiĂt jemand die ZimmertĂŒr auf und möchte putzen.
(Kathrin Passig)
What Work Is
We stand in the rain in a long line waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work. You know what work isâif youâre old enough to read this you know what work is, although you may not do it. Forget you. This is about waiting, shifting from one foot to another. Feeling the light rain falling like mist into your hair, blurring your vision until you think you see your own brother ahead of you, maybe ten places. You rub your glasses with your fingers, and of course itâs someone elseâs brother, narrower across the shoulders than yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin that does not hide the stubbornness, the sad refusal to give in to rain, to the hours wasted waiting, to the knowledge that somewhere ahead a man is waiting who will say, âNo, weâre not hiring today,â for any reason he wants. You love your brother, now suddenly you can hardly stand the love flooding you for your brother, whoâs not beside you or behind or ahead because heâs home trying to sleep off a miserable night shift at Cadillac so he can get up before noon to study his German. Works eight hours a night so he can sing Wagner, the opera you hate most, the worst music ever invented. How long has it been since you told him you loved him, held his wide shoulders, opened your eyes wide and said those words, and maybe kissed his cheek? Youâve never done something so simple, so obvious, not because youâre too young or too dumb, not because youâre jealous or even mean or incapable of crying in the presence of another man, no, just because you donât know what work is.
85: The Living Sea of Waking Dreams [2020]
by: Richard Flanagan