The Shadows Knows, but Refuses to Share
Dizzying deluge of book related stuff has to be relegated for a moment in digression. I’m sure other lit bloggers will have more to say about the National Book Awards than I. Why? They actually study literature whereas I do not. Coming so soon on the platform heels of the Man-Booker Prize, my head spins with the vast array of worthy titles I’ve not read. Besides, no sooner is Tom DeLay indicted for money-laundering, we have this mysterious candidate for the Supreme Court emerging from the raw assuring us with references to her deeply held beliefs. Born a Catholic, she converted to Evangelical Christianity. What a process that must have been. There’s a novel in there somewhere.
My area of expertise is the business of publishing, the nuts and bolts, the long hours of anguish. My fondness is for writers, although I do not study literature in the academic sense, I do revel in the sturm and drang of this doomed enterprise. Literature lacks some of the star power we associate with other forms of collective madness, yet the vernacular of glamor is seeping into the book world, gushing through the breaks here and there, sweeping us all toward a more elegant future, less tweed, certainly no pipe or cigar smoking, more dazzle, more glitz. If this were still a monarchy, does anyone doubt that many contemporary authors would be selected as peers of the realm? Lord Michael Chabon. Sir Dom DeLillo. Dame Pamela Anderson.
While it might present a challenge or two, I think the deliberations for the National Book Award should be televised. The judges sequestered, solemnly reading. Every twitch and scratch of the nose recorded for the viewing audience; there is no doubt in my mind that televising the award would lead to a broader spectrum of choice. And the winner is….Dame Pamela Anderson!